{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27200/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27200","id":"gutenberg_27200","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27200","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Children's stories, Danish -- Translations into English","Fairy tales","Fairy tales -- Denmark","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\nFAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  A Story\n  By the Almshouse Window\n  The Angel\n  Anne Lisbeth\n\n  Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind\n  The Beetle who went on his Travels\n  The Bell\n  The Bell-deep\n  The Bird of Popular Song\n  The Bishop of Borglum and his Warriors\n  The Bottle Neck\n  The Buckwheat\n  The Butterfly\n\n  A Cheerful Temper\n  The Child in the Grave\n  Children's Prattle\n  The Farm-yard Cock and the Weather-cock\n\n  The Daisy\n  The Darning-Needle\n  Delaying is not Forgetting\n  The Drop of Water\n  The Dryad\n  Jack the Dullard\n  The Dumb Cook\n\n  The Elf of the Rose\n  The Elfin Hill\n  The Emperor's New Suit\n\n  The Fir Tree\n  The Flax\n  The Flying Trunk\n  The Shepherd's Story of the Bond of Friendship\n\n  The Girl Who Trod on the Loaf\n  The Goblin and the Huckster\n  The Golden Treasure\n  The Goloshes of Fortune\n  She was Good for Nothing\n  Grandmother\n  A Great Grief\n\n  The Happy Family\n  A Leaf from Heaven\n  Holger Danske\n\n  Ib and Little Christina\n  The Ice Maiden\n\n  The Jewish Maiden\n  The Jumper\n\n  The Last Dream of the Old Oak\n  The Last Pearl\n  Little Claus and Big Claus\n  The Little Elder-tree Mother\n  Little Ida's Flowers\n  The Little Match-seller\n  The Little Mermaid\n  Little Tiny or Thumbelina\n  Little Tuk\n  The Loveliest Rose in the World\n\n  The Mail-coach Passengers\n  The Marsh King's Daughter\n  The Metal Pig\n  The Money-box\n  What the Moon Saw\n\n  The Neighbouring Families\n  The Nightingale\n  There is no Doubt about it\n  In the Nursery\n\n  The Old Bachelor's Nightcap\n  The Old Church Bell\n  The Old Grave-stone\n  The Old House\n  What the Old Man Does is Always Right\n  The Old Street Lamp\n  Ole-Luk-Oie, the Dream God\n  Ole the Tower-keeper\n  Our Aunt\n\n  The Garden of Paradise\n  The Pea Blossom\n  The Pen and the Inkstand\n  The Philosopher's Stone\n  The Phoenix Bird\n  The Portuguese Duck\n  The Porter's Son\n  Poultry Meg's Family\n  The Princess and the Pea\n  The Psyche\n  The Puppet-show Man\n\n  The Races\n  The Red Shoes\n  Everything in the Right Place\n  A Rose from Homer's Grave\n  The Snail and the Rose-tree\n\n  A Story from the Sand-hills\n  The Saucy Boy\n  The Shadow\n  The Shepherdess and the Sheep\n  The Silver Shilling\n  The Shirt-collar\n  The Snow Man\n  The Snow Queen\n  The Snowdrop\n  Something\n  Soup from a Sausage Skewer\n  The Storks\n  The Storm Shakes the Shield\n  The Story of a Mother\n  The Sunbeam and the Captive\n  The Swan's Nest\n  The Swineherd\n\n  The Thistle's Experiences\n  The Thorny Road of Honor\n  In a Thousand Years\n  The Brave Tin Soldier\n  The Tinder-box\n  The Toad\n  The Top and Ball\n  The Travelling Companion\n  Two Brothers\n  Two Maidens\n\n  The Ugly Duckling\n  Under the Willow Tree\n  In the Uttermost Parts of the Sea\n\n  What One Can Invent\n  The Wicked Prince\n  The Wild Swans\n  The Will-o-the-Wisp in the Town, Says the Wild Woman\n  The Story of the Wind\n  The Windmill\n\n  The Story of the Year\n\n\n\n\nA STORY\n\nIn the garden all the apple-trees were in blossom.  They had\nhastened to bring forth flowers before they got green leaves, and in\nthe yard all the ducklings walked up and down, and the cat too: it\nbasked in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws.  And\nwhen one looked at the fields, how beautifully the corn stood and\nhow green it shone, without comparison! and there was a twittering and\na fluttering of all the little birds, as if the day were a great\nfestival; and so it was, for it was Sunday.  All the bells were\nringing, and all the people went to church, looking cheerful, and\ndressed in their best clothes.  There was a look of cheerfulness on\neverything.  The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have\nsaid: \"God's kindness to us men is beyond all limits.\"  But inside\nthe church the pastor stood in the pulpit, and spoke very loudly and\nangrily.  He said that all men were wicked, and God would punish them\nfor their sins, and that the wicked, when they died, would be cast\ninto hell, to burn for ever and ever.  He spoke very excitedly,\nsaying that their evil propensities would not be destroyed, nor\nwould the fire be extinguished, and they should never find rest.\nThat was terrible to hear, and he said it in such a tone of\nconviction; he described hell to them as a miserable hole where all\nthe refuse of the world gathers.  There was no air beside the hot\nburning sulphur flame, and there was no ground under their feet; they,\nthe wicked ones, sank deeper and deeper, while eternal silence\nsurrounded them!  It was dreadful to hear all that, for the preacher\nspoke from his heart, and all the people in the church were terrified.\nMeanwhile, the birds sang merrily outside, and the sun was shining\nso beautifully warm, it seemed as though every little flower said:\n\"God, Thy kindness towards us all is without limits.\"  Indeed,\noutside it was not at all like the pastor's sermon.\n\nThe same evening, upon going to bed, the pastor noticed his wife\nsitting there quiet and pensive.\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\" he asked her.\n\n\"Well, the matter with me is,\" she said, \"that I cannot collect my\nthoughts, and am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said to-day\nin church--that there are so many wicked people, and that they\nshould burn eternally.  Alas! eternally--how long!  I am only a woman\nand a sinner before God, but I should not have the heart to let even\nthe worst sinner burn for ever, and how could our Lord to do so, who\nis so infinitely good, and who knows how the wickedness comes from\nwithout and within?  No, I am unable to imagine that, although you\nsay so.\"\n\n\nIt was autumn; the trees dropped their leaves, the earnest and\nsevere pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person.  A pious,\nfaithful soul closed her eyes for ever; she was the pastor's wife.\n\n...\"If any one shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our\nLord you shall certainly do so,\" said the pastor.  He folded her\nhands and read a psalm over the dead woman.\n\nShe was buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the\nearnest man, and in the parsonage it was empty and still, for its\nsun had set for ever.  She had gone home.\n\nIt was night.  A cold wind swept over the pastor's head; he\nopened his eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining\ninto his room.  It was not so, however; there was a being standing\nbefore his bed, and looking like the ghost of his deceased wife.  She\nfixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression, just as\nif she wished to say something to him.  The pastor raised himself in\nbed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, \"Not even you can find\neternal rest!  You suffer, you best and most pious woman?\"\n\nThe dead woman nodded her head as if to say \"Yes,\" and put her\nhand on her breast.\n\n\"And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the answer.\n\n\"And how?\"\n\n\"Give me one hair--only one single hair--from the head of the\nsinner for whom the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner\nwhom God will condemn to eternal punishment in hell.\"\n\n\"Yes, one ought to be able to redeem you so easily, you pure,\npious woman,\" he said.\n\n\"Follow me,\" said the dead woman.  \"It is thus granted to us.  By my\nside you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go.\nInvisible to men, we shall penetrate into their most secret\nchambers; but with sure hand you must find out him who is destined\nto eternal torture, and before the cock crows he must be found!\"  As\nquickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great\ncity, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming\nletters: pride, avarice, drunkenness, wantonness--in short, the\nwhole seven-coloured bow of sin.\n\n\"Yes, therein, as I believed, as I knew it,\" said the pastor, \"are\nliving those who are abandoned to the eternal fire.\"  And they were\nstanding before the magnificently illuminated gate; the broad steps\nwere adorned with carpets and flowers, and dance music was sounding\nthrough the festive halls.  A footman dressed in silk and velvet\nstood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.\n\n\"Our ball can compare favourably with the king's,\" he said, and\nturned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street.  What he\nthought was sufficiently expressed in his features and movements:\n\"Miserable beggars, who are looking in, you are nothing in\ncomparison to me.\"\n\n\"Pride,\" said the dead woman; \"do you see him?\"\n\n\"The footman?\" asked the pastor.  \"He is but a poor fool, and not\ndoomed to be tortured eternally by fire!\"\n\n\"Only a fool!\"  It sounded through the whole house of pride: they\nwere all fools there.\n\nThen they flew within the four naked walls of the miser.  Lean as a\nskeleton, trembling with cold, and hunger, the old man was clinging\nwith all his thoughts to his money.  They saw him jump up feverishly\nfrom his miserable couch and take a loose stone out of the wall; there\nlay gold coins in an old stocking.  They saw him anxiously feeling over\nan old ragged coat in which pieces of gold were sewn, and his clammy\nfingers trembled.\n\n\"He is ill!  That is madness--a joyless madness--besieged by fear\nand dreadful dreams!\"\n\nThey quickly went away and came before the beds of the\ncriminals; these unfortunate people slept side by side, in long\nrows.  Like a ferocious animal, one of them rose out of his sleep and\nuttered a horrible cry, and gave his comrade a violent dig in the ribs\nwith his pointed elbow, and this one turned round in his sleep:\n\n\"Be quiet, monster--sleep!  This happens every night!\"\n\n\"Every night!\" repeated the other.  \"Yes, every night he comes\nand tortures me!  In my violence I have done this and that.  I was\nborn with an evil mind, which has brought me hither for the second\ntime; but if I have done wrong I suffer punishment for it.  One\nthing, however, I have not yet confessed.  When I came out a little\nwhile ago, and passed by the yard of my former master, evil thoughts\nrose within me when I remembered this and that.  I struck a match a\nlittle bit on the wall; probably it came a little too close to the\nthatched roof.  All burnt down--a great heat rose, such as sometimes\novercomes me.  I myself helped to rescue cattle and things, nothing\nalive burnt, except a flight of pigeons, which flew into the fire, and\nthe yard dog, of which I had not thought; one could hear him howl\nout of the fire, and this howling I still hear when I wish to sleep;\nand when I have fallen asleep, the great rough dog comes and places\nhimself upon me, and howls, presses, and tortures me.  Now listen to\nwhat I tell you!  You can snore; you are snoring the whole night, and I\nhardly a quarter of an hour!\"  And the blood rose to the head of the\nexcited criminal; he threw himself upon his comrade, and beat him with\nhis clenched fist in the face.\n\n\"Wicked Matz has become mad again!\" they said amongst\nthemselves.  The other criminals seized him, wrestled with him, and\nbent him double, so that his head rested between his knees, and they\ntied him, so that the blood almost came out of his eyes and out of all\nhis pores.\n\n\"You are killing the unfortunate man,\" said the pastor, and as\nhe stretched out his hand to protect him who already suffered too\nmuch, the scene changed.  They flew through rich halls and wretched\nhovels; wantonness and envy, all the deadly sins, passed before\nthem.  An angel of justice read their crimes and their defence; the\nlatter was not a brilliant one, but it was read before God, Who\nreads the heart, Who knows everything, the wickedness that comes\nfrom within and from without, Who is mercy and love personified.  The\npastor's hand trembled; he dared not stretch it out, he did not\nventure to pull a hair out of the sinner's head.  And tears gushed from\nhis eyes like a stream of mercy and love, the cooling waters of\nwhich extinguished the eternal fire of hell.\n\nJust then the cock crowed.\n\n\"Father of all mercy, grant Thou to her the peace that I was\nunable to procure for her!\"\n\n\"I have it now!\" said the dead woman.  \"It was your hard words,\nyour despair of mankind, your gloomy belief in God and His creation,\nwhich drove me to you.  Learn to know mankind!  Even in the wicked one\nlives a part of God--and this extinguishes and conquers the flame of\nhell!\"\n\n\nThe pastor felt a kiss on his lips; a gleam of light surrounded\nhim--God's bright sun shone into the room, and his wife, alive,\nsweet and full of love, awoke him from a dream which God had sent him!\n\n\n\n\nBY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW\n\nNear the grass-covered rampart which encircles Copenhagen lies a\ngreat red house.  Balsams and other flowers greet us from the long rows\nof windows in the house, whose interior is sufficiently\npoverty-stricken; and poor and old are the people who inhabit it.\nThe building is the Warton Almshouse.\n\nLook! at the window there leans an old maid.  She plucks the\nwithered leaf from the balsam, and looks at the grass-covered rampart,\non which many children are playing.  What is the old maid thinking\nof?  A whole life drama is unfolding itself before her inward gaze.\n\n\"The poor little children, how happy they are--how merrily they\nplay and romp together!  What red cheeks and what angels' eyes! but\nthey have no shoes nor stockings.  They dance on the green rampart,\njust on the place where, according to the old story, the ground always\nsank in, and where a sportive, frolicsome child had been lured by\nmeans of flowers, toys and sweetmeats into an open grave ready dug for\nit, and which was afterwards closed over the child; and from that\nmoment, the old story says, the ground gave way no longer, the mound\nremained firm and fast, and was quickly covered with the green turf.\nThe little people who now play on that spot know nothing of the old\ntale, else would they fancy they heard a child crying deep below the\nearth, and the dewdrops on each blade of grass would be to them\ntears of woe.  Nor do they know anything of the Danish King who here,\nin the face of the coming foe, took an oath before all his trembling\ncourtiers that he would hold out with the citizens of his capital, and\ndie here in his nest; they know nothing of the men who have fought\nhere, or of the women who from here have drenched with boiling water\nthe enemy, clad in white, and 'biding in the snow to surprise the\ncity.\n\n\"No! the poor little ones are playing with light, childish\nspirits.  Play on, play on, thou little maiden!  Soon the years will\ncome--yes, those glorious years.  The priestly hands have been laid\non the candidates for confirmation; hand in hand they walk on the\ngreen rampart.  Thou hast a white frock on; it has cost thy mother much\nlabor, and yet it is only cut down for thee out of an old larger\ndress!  You will also wear a red shawl; and what if it hang too far\ndown?  People will only see how large, how very large it is.  You are\nthinking of your dress, and of the Giver of all good--so glorious is\nit to wander on the green rampart!\n\n\"And the years roll by; they have no lack of dark days, but you\nhave your cheerful young spirit, and you have gained a friend--you\nknow not how.  You met, oh, how often!  You walk together on the rampart\nin the fresh spring, on the high days and holidays, when all the world\ncome out to walk upon the ramparts, and all the bells of the church\nsteeples seem to be singing a song of praise for the coming spring.\n\n\"Scarcely have the violets come forth, but there on the rampart,\njust opposite the beautiful Castle of Rosenberg, there is a tree\nbright with the first green buds.  Every year this tree sends forth\nfresh green shoots.  Alas!  It is not so with the human heart!  Dark\nmists, more in number than those that cover the northern skies,\ncloud the human heart.  Poor child! thy friend's bridal chamber is a\nblack coffin, and thou becomest an old maid.  From the almshouse\nwindow, behind the balsams, thou shalt look on the merry children at\nplay, and shalt see thine own history renewed.\"\n\nAnd that is the life drama that passes before the old maid while\nshe looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny rampart, where the\nchildren, with their red cheeks and bare shoeless feet, are\nrejoicing merrily, like the other free little birds.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ANGEL\n\n\"Whenever a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from\nheaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great\nwhite wings, and flies with him over all the places which the child\nhad loved during his life.  Then he gathers a large handful of flowers,\nwhich he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more brightly\nin heaven than they do on earth.  And the Almighty presses the\nflowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him\nbest, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the\nchorus of bliss.\"\n\nThese words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead\nchild up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream.  Then they\npassed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played,\nand through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.\n\n\"Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted\nthere?\" asked the angel.\n\nClose by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked\nhand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded\nand withered on the trailing branches.\n\n\"Poor rose-bush!\" said the child, \"let us take it with us to\nheaven, that it may bloom above in God's garden.\"\n\nThe angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the\nlittle one half opened his eyes.  The angel gathered also some\nbeautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and\nheart's-ease.\n\n\"Now we have flowers enough,\" said the child; but the angel only\nnodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.\n\nIt was night, and quite still in the great town.  Here they\nremained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in\nwhich lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the\nhouses of people who had removed.  There lay fragments of plates,\npieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to\nsee.  Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a\nbroken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of\nit.  The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a\nwithered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.\n\n\"We will take this with us,\" said the angel, \"I will tell you\nwhy as we fly along.\"\n\nAnd as they flew the angel related the history.\n\n\"Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy;\nhe had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he\ncould just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or\ntwice, but no more.  During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie\non the floor of the cellar for about half an hour.  In this spot the\npoor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and\nwatching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them\nbefore his face.  Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew\nnothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor's\nson brought him a green bough from a beech-tree.  This he would place\nover his head, and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun\nshone, and the birds carolled gayly.  One spring day the neighbor's boy\nbrought him some field-flowers, and among them was one to which the\nroot still adhered.  This he carefully planted in a flower-pot, and\nplaced in a window-seat near his bed.  And the flower had been\nplanted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots,\nand blossomed every year.  It became a splendid flower-garden to the\nsick boy, and his little treasure upon earth.  He watered it, and\ncherished it, and took care it should have the benefit of every\nsunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest\nmorning ray to the evening sunset.  The flower entwined itself even\nin his dreams--for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume.  And\nit gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death,\nwhen the Lord called him.  He has been one year with God.  During that\ntime the flower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten,\ntill at length cast out among the sweepings into the street, on the\nday of the lodgers' removal.  And this poor flower, withered and\nfaded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more\nreal joy than the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen.\"\n\n\"But how do you know all this?\" asked the child whom the angel was\ncarrying to heaven.\n\n\"I know it,\" said the angel, \"because I myself was the poor sick\nboy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well.\"\n\nThen the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious\nhappy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found\nthemselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy.  And\nGod pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so\nthat he could fly with the angel, hand in hand.  Then the Almighty\npressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered\nfield-flower, and it received a voice.  Then it joined in the song of\nthe angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a\ndistant circle, but all equally happy.  They all joined in the chorus\nof praise, both great and small,--the good, happy child, and the\npoor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of\nrubbish in a narrow, dark street.\n\n\n\n\nANNE LISBETH\n\nAnne Lisbeth was a beautiful young woman, with a red and white\ncomplexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes; and her\nfootstep was light in the dance, but her mind was lighter still.  She\nhad a little child, not at all pretty; so he was put out to be\nnursed by a laborer's wife, and his mother went to the count's castle.\nShe sat in splendid rooms, richly decorated with silk and velvet;\nnot a breath of air was allowed to blow upon her, and no one was\nallowed to speak to her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's\nchild.  He was fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an\nangel; and how she loved this child!  Her own boy was provided for by\nbeing at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently than\nthe pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home to take care\nof the child.  Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares\nfor; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and\nwhile we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst.  Ah, yes;\nsleep is a capital invention.\n\nAs years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like weeds,\nalthough they said his growth had been stunted.  He had become quite\na member of the family in which he dwelt; they received money to\nkeep him, so that his mother got rid of him altogether.  She had become\nquite a lady; she had a comfortable home of her own in the town; and\nout of doors, when she went for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she\nnever walked out to see the laborer: that was too far from the town,\nand, indeed, she had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to\nthese laboring people.  He had food, and he could also do something\ntowards earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he\nknew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.\n\nThe great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion sits\nproudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and barks at\nevery one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps into his house,\nand there he is warm and dry.  Anne Lisbeth's boy also sat in the\nsunshine on the top of the fence, cutting out a little toy.  If it\nwas spring-time, he knew of three strawberry-plants in blossom,\nwhich would certainly bear fruit.  This was his most hopeful thought,\nthough it often came to nothing.  And he had to sit out in the rain\nin the worst weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind\ndry the clothes on his back afterwards.  If he went near the farmyard\nbelonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked about, for the men\nand the maids said he was so horrible ugly; but he was used to all\nthis, for nobody loved him.  This was how the world treated Anne\nLisbeth's boy, and how could it be otherwise.  It was his fate to be\nbeloved by no one.  Hitherto he had been a land crab; the land at\nlast cast him adrift.  He went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat\nat the helm, while the skipper sat over the grog-can.  He was dirty and\nugly, half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never\nhad enough to eat, which was really the case.\n\nLate in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and wet,\nand the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing, especially at\nsea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only two men on board, or,\nmore correctly, a man and a half, for it was the skipper and his\nboy.  There had only been a kind of twilight all day, and it soon\ngrew quite dark, and so bitterly cold, that the skipper took a dram to\nwarm him.  The bottle was old, and the glass too.  It was perfect in the\nupper part, but the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been\nfixed upon a little carved block of wood, painted blue.  A dram is a\ngreat comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while\nthe boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed\nhands.  He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked crippled\nand stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy, though in the\nchurch register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son.  The wind cut\nthrough the rigging, and the boat cut through the sea.  The sails,\nfilled by the wind, swelled out and carried them along in wild career.\nIt was wet and rough above and below, and might still be worse.\nHold!  what is that?  What has struck the boat?  Was it a waterspout,\nor a heavy sea rolling suddenly upon them?\n\n\"Heaven help us!\" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat heeled\nover and lay on its beam ends.  It had struck on a rock, which rose\nfrom the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like an old shoe in a\npuddle.  \"It sank at once with mouse and man,\" as the saying is.\nThere might have been mice on board, but only one man and a half,\nthe skipper and the laborer's boy.  No one saw it but the skimming\nsea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not\nsee it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled\nwith water and sank.  There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the\nsurface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten.  The\nglass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,\nfor the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the\nshore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence.  It\nhad served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's\nboy had not been.  But in heaven no soul will be able to say, \"Never\nloved.\"\n\nAnne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was\ncalled \"Madame,\" and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the\nold, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had\nassociated with countess and baroness.  Her beautiful, noble child\nhad been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved\nher so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and\nloved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life.  Now\nhe was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever.  She had\nnot seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been\nfor years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from\nthe town.\n\n\"I must make one effort to go,\" said Anne Lisbeth, \"to see my\ndarling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my heart.  Certainly\nhe must long to see me, too, the young count; no doubt he thinks of me\nand loves me, as in those days when he would fling his angel-arms\nround my neck, and lisp 'Anne Liz.' It was music to my ears.  Yes, I\nmust make an effort to see him again.\"  She drove across the country in\na grazier's cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot,\nand thus reached the count's castle.  It was as great and magnificent\nas it had always been, and the garden looked the same as ever; all the\nservants were strangers to her, not one of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor\nof what consequence she had once been there; but she felt sure the\ncountess would soon let them know it, and her darling boy, too: how\nshe longed to see him!\n\nNow that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was kept\nwaiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes slowly.  But\nbefore the great people went in to dinner, she was called in and\nspoken to very graciously.  She was to go in again after dinner, and\nthen she would see her sweet boy once more.  How tall, and slender, and\nthin he had grown; but the eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still\nbeautiful.  He looked at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did\nnot know who she was.  He turned round and was going away, but she\nseized his hand and pressed it to her lips.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he said; and with that he walked out of the room.  He\nwho filled her every thought!  he whom she loved best, and who was\nher whole earthly pride!\n\nAnne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public road,\nfeeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and night, and\neven now carried about in her dreams, had been cold and strange, and\nhad not a word or thought respecting her.  A great black raven darted\ndown in front of her on the high road, and croaked dismally.\n\n\"Ah,\" said she, \"what bird of ill omen art thou?\"  Presently she\npassed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the door, and the two\nwomen spoke to each other.\n\n\"You look well,\" said the woman; \"you're fat and plump; you are\nwell off.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" answered Anne Lisbeth.\n\n\"The boat went down with them,\" continued the woman; \"Hans the\nskipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end of them.  I\nalways thought the boy would be able to help me with a few dollars.\nHe'll never cost you anything more, Anne Lisbeth.\"\n\n\"So they were drowned,\" repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she said no\nmore, and the subject was dropped.  She felt very low-spirited, because\nher count-child had shown no inclination to speak to her who loved him\nso well, and who had travelled so far to see him.  The journey had cost\nmoney too, and she had derived no great pleasure from it.  Still she\nsaid not a word of all this; she could not relieve her heart by\ntelling the laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not\nenjoy her former position at the castle.  Then the raven flew over her,\nscreaming again as he flew.\n\n\"The black wretch!\" said Anne Lisbeth, \"he will end by frightening\nme today.\"  She had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she\nthought it would be a charity to the poor woman to give them to her to\nboil a cup of coffee, and then she would take a cup herself.\n\nThe woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth\nseated her in a chair and fell asleep.  Then she dreamed of something\nwhich she had never dreamed before; singularly enough she dreamed of\nher own child, who had wept and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had\nbeen knocked about in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the\ndepths of the sea, in a spot only known by God.  She fancied she was\nstill sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing the\ncoffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting.  But\nsuddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the threshold a\nbeautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child, and this\napparition said to her, \"The world is passing away; hold fast to me,\nfor you are my mother after all; you have an angel in heaven, hold\nme fast;\" and the child-angel stretched out his hand and seized her.\nThen there was a terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces,\nand the angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by\nthe sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the ground;\nbut, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her feet and dragged\nher down, and it seemed as if hundreds of women were clinging to\nher, and crying, \"If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too.\nHold fast, hold fast.\"  And then they all hung on her, but there were\ntoo many; and as they clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell\ndown in horror, and awoke.  Indeed she was on the point of falling over\nin reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so startled\nand alarmed that she could not remember what she had dreamed, only\nthat it was something very dreadful.\n\nThey drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then Anne\nLisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the\ncarrier, who was to drive her back to her own home.  But when she\ncame to him she found that he would not be ready to start till the\nevening of the next day.  Then she began to think of the expense, and\nwhat the distance would be to walk.  She remembered that the route by\nthe sea-shore was two miles shorter than by the high road; and as\nthe weather was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to\nmake her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might reach\nhome the next day.\n\nThe sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the air\nfrom the tower of the village church, but to her it was not the bells,\nbut the cry of the frogs in the marshes.  Then they ceased, and all\naround became still; not a bird could be heard, they were all at rest,\neven the owl had not left her hiding place; deep silence reigned on\nthe margin of the wood by the sea-shore.  As Anne Lisbeth walked on she\ncould hear her own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea\nwere at rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence.\nThere was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea.  Anne\nLisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say, or\nrather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for thought is\nnever absent from us, it only slumbers.  Many thoughts that have lain\ndormant are roused at the proper time, and begin to stir in the mind\nand the heart, and seem even to come upon us from above.  It is\nwritten, that a good deed bears a blessing for its fruit; and it is\nalso written, that the wages of sin is death.  Much has been said and\nmuch written which we pass over or know nothing of.  A light arises\nwithin us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and\nthus it was with Anne Lisbeth.  The germ of every vice and every virtue\nlies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie like little grains\nof seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the touch of an evil hand, or\nyou turn the corner to the right or to the left, and the decision is\nmade.  The little seed is stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours\nits sap into your blood, directing your course either for good or\nevil.  Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting\nthere, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it were\nslumbering; but still they are there.  Anne Lisbeth walked on thus with\nher senses half asleep, but the thoughts were fermenting within her.\n\nFrom one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to weigh down\nthe heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year; much may be forgotten,\nsins against heaven in word and thought, sins against our neighbor,\nand against our own conscience.  We are scarcely aware of their\nexistence; and Anne Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors.  She\nhad committed no crime against the law of the land; she was an\nhonorable person, in a good position--that she knew.\n\nShe continued her walk along by the margin of the sea.  What was it\nshe saw lying there?  An old hat; a man's hat.  Now when might that have\nbeen washed overboard?  She drew nearer, she stopped to look at the\nhat; \"Ha!  what was lying yonder?\" She shuddered; yet it was nothing\nsave a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone,\nbut it looked like a corpse.  Only tangled grass, and yet she was\nfrightened at it.  As she turned to walk away, much came into her\nmind that she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of\nspectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied\npeople, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate beach.  The\nbody, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but the spirit could\npursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to him, and demand to be\ncarried to the churchyard, that it might rest in consecrated ground.\n\"Hold fast!  hold fast!\" the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth\nmurmured these words to herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly\nrecalled to her memory, when the mother had clung to her, and\nuttered these words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had\nbeen torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who wanted\nto hold her up in that terrible hour.  Her child, her own child,\nwhich she had never loved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise\nup, like a spectre, from the waters, and cry, \"Hold fast; carry me\nto consecrated ground!\"\n\nAs these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to\nher feet, so that she walked faster and faster.  Fear came upon her\nas if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her heart, so that she\nalmost fainted.  As she looked across the sea, all there grew darker; a\nheavy mist came rolling onwards, and clung to bush and tree,\ndistorting them into fantastic shapes.  She turned and glanced at the\nmoon, which had risen behind her.  It looked like a pale, rayless\nsurface, and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs.  \"Hold,\"\nthought she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the\nmoon.  A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist, hanging\nlike a garment from its shoulders.  \"Stop!  carry me to consecrated\nearth,\" sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow tones.  The sound did\nnot come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures.  \"A\ngrave!  dig me a grave!\" was repeated quite loud.  Yes, it was indeed\nthe spectre of her child.  The child that lay beneath the ocean, and\nwhose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the\nchurchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated\nground.  She would go there at once, and there she would dig.  She\nturned in the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart\nseemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she\nturned to go home by the shortest way, it returned.  \"Stop!  stop!\"\nand the words came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a\nfrog, or the wail of a bird.  \"A grave!  dig me a grave!\"\n\nThe mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist and\nclammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and clung to\nher, her mind became clear for thoughts that had never before been\nthere.\n\nIn these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a single\nnight and appears in the morning sunlight in its full glory of\nyouthful green.  So, in a single instant, can the consciousness of\nthe sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our\npast life, be unfolded to us.  When once the conscience is awakened, it\nsprings up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the\nconscience when we least expect it.  Then we can find no excuse for\nourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us.  The\nthoughts seem to become words, and to sound far out into the world.  We\nare horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us, and at\nthe consciousness that we have not overcome the evil which has its\norigin in thoughtlessness and pride.  The heart conceals within\nitself the vices as well as the virtues, and they grow in the\nshallowest ground.  Anne Lisbeth now experienced in thought what we\nhave clothed in words.  She was overpowered by them, and sank down\nand crept along for some distance on the ground.  \"A grave!  dig me a\ngrave!\" sounded again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried\nherself, if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her\nactions.\n\nIt was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish and\nhorror.  Superstition made her alternately shudder with cold or burn\nwith the heat of fever.  Many things, of which she had feared even to\nspeak, came into her mind.  Silently, as the cloud-shadows in the\nmoonshine, a spectral apparition flitted by her; she had heard of it\nbefore.  Close by her galloped four snorting steeds, with fire flashing\nfrom their eyes and nostrils.  They dragged a burning coach, and within\nit sat the wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred\nyears before.  The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock,\nhe drove into his castleyard and out again.  He was not as pale as dead\nmen are, but black as a coal.  He nodded, and pointed to Anne\nLisbeth, crying out, \"Hold fast!  hold fast!  and 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 black\ncrosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and she could not\ndistinguish one from the other.  The ravens croaked as the raven had\ndone which 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 felt that the name also applied to her;\nand she fancied she should be transformed into a black bird, and\nhave to cry as they cried, if she did not dig the grave.  And she threw\nherself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the hard\nground, so that the blood ran from her fingers.  \"A grave!  dig me a\ngrave!\" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful that the cock might\ncrow, and the first red streak appear in the east, before she had\nfinished her work; and then she would be lost.  And the cock crowed,\nand the day dawned in the east, and the grave was only half dug.  An\nicy hand passed over her head and face, and down towards her heart.\n\"Only half a grave,\" a voice wailed, and fled away.  Yes, it fled\naway over the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and\noverpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses left her.\n\nIt was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men were\nraising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard, but on the\nsea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the sand, and cut her hand\nwith a piece of broken glass, whose sharp stern was stuck in a\nlittle block of painted wood.  Anne Lisbeth was in a fever.\nConscience had roused the memories of superstitions, and had so\nacted upon her mind, that she fancied she had only half a soul, and\nthat her child had taken the other half down into the sea.  Never would\nshe be able to cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered\nthis other half which was now held fast in the deep water.\n\nAnne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer the woman\nshe had been.  Her thoughts were like a confused, tangled skein; only\none thread, only one thought was clear to her, namely that she must\ncarry the spectre of the sea-shore to the churchyard, and dig a\ngrave for him there; that by so doing she might win back her soul.\nMany a night she was missed from her home, and was always found on the\nsea-shore waiting for the spectre.\n\nIn this way a whole year passed; and then one night she vanished\nagain, and was not to be found.  The whole of the next day was spent in\na useless search after her.\n\nTowards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll the\nvesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had spent the whole\nday there.  Her powers of body were almost exhausted, but her eyes\nflashed brightly, and on her cheeks was a rosy flush.  The last rays of\nthe setting sun shone upon her, and gleamed over the altar upon the\nshining clasps of the Bible, which lay open at the words of the\nprophet Joel, \"Rend your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto\nthe Lord.\"\n\n\"That was just a chance,\" people said; but do things happen by\nchance?  In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by the evening sun,\ncould be seen peace and rest.  She said she was happy now, for she\nhad conquered.  The spectre of the shore, her own child, had come to\nher the night before, and had said to her, \"Thou hast dug me only half\na grave: but thou hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether\nin thy heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!\" And\nthen he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the\nchurch.  \"Now I am in the house of God,\" she said, \"and in that house\nwe are happy.\"\n\nWhen the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that region\nwhere there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's troubles were at an\nend.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONCEITED APPLE-BRANCH\n\nIt was the month of May.  The wind still blew cold; but from bush\nand tree, field and flower, came the welcome sound, \"Spring is\ncome.\"  Wild-flowers in profusion covered the hedges.  Under the\nlittle apple-tree, Spring seemed busy, and told his tale from one of\nthe branches which hung fresh and blooming, and covered with\ndelicate pink blossoms that were just ready to open.  The branch well\nknew how beautiful it was; this knowledge exists as much in the leaf\nas in the blood; I was therefore not surprised when a nobleman's\ncarriage, in which sat the young countess, stopped in the road just\nby.  She said that an apple-branch was a most lovely object, and an\nemblem of spring in its most charming aspect.  Then the branch was\nbroken off for her, and she held it in her delicate hand, and\nsheltered it with her silk parasol.  Then they drove to the castle,\nin which were lofty halls and splendid drawing-rooms.  Pure white\ncurtains fluttered before the open windows, and beautiful flowers\nstood in shining, transparent vases; and in one of them, which\nlooked as if it had been cut out of newly fallen snow, the\napple-branch was placed, among some fresh, light twigs of beech.  It\nwas a charming sight.  Then the branch became proud, which was very\nmuch like human nature.\n\nPeople of every description entered the room, and, according to\ntheir position in society, so dared they to express their\nadmiration.  Some few said nothing, others expressed too much, and\nthe apple-branch very soon got to understand that there was as much\ndifference in the characters of human beings as in those of plants and\nflowers.  Some are all for pomp and parade, others have a great deal to\ndo to maintain their own importance, while the rest might be spared\nwithout much loss to society.  So thought the apple-branch, as he stood\nbefore the open window, from which he could see out over gardens and\nfields, where there were flowers and plants enough for him to think\nand reflect upon; some rich and beautiful, some poor and humble\nindeed.\n\n\"Poor, despised herbs,\" said the apple-branch; \"there is really\na difference between them and such as I am.  How unhappy they must\nbe, if they can feel as those in my position do!  There is a difference\nindeed, and so there ought to be, or we should all be equals.\"\n\nAnd the apple-branch looked with a sort of pity upon them,\nespecially on a certain little flower that is found in fields and in\nditches.  No one bound these flowers together in a nosegay; they were\ntoo common; they were even known to grow between the paving-stones,\nshooting up everywhere, like bad weeds; and they bore the very ugly\nname of \"dog-flowers\" or \"dandelions.\"\n\n\"Poor, despised plants,\" said the apple-bough, \"it is not your\nfault that you are so ugly, and that you have such an ugly name; but\nit is with plants as with men,--there must be a difference.\"\n\n\"A difference!\" cried the sunbeam, as he kissed the blooming\napple-branch, and then kissed the yellow dandelion out in the\nfields.  All were brothers, and the sunbeam kissed them--the poor\nflowers as well as the rich.\n\nThe apple-bough had never thought of the boundless love of God,\nwhich extends over all the works of creation, over everything which\nlives, and moves, and has its being in Him; he had never thought of\nthe good and beautiful which are so often hidden, but can never remain\nforgotten by Him,--not only among the lower creation, but also among\nmen.  The sunbeam, the ray of light, knew better.\n\n\"You do not see very far, nor very clearly,\" he said to the\napple-branch.  \"Which is the despised plant you so specially pity?\"\n\n\"The dandelion,\" he replied.  \"No one ever places it in a\nnosegay; it is often trodden under foot, there are so many of them;\nand when they run to seed, they have flowers like wool, which fly away\nin little pieces over the roads, and cling to the dresses of the\npeople.  They are only weeds; but of course there must be weeds.  O, I\nam really very thankful that I was not made like one of these\nflowers.\"\n\nThere came presently across the fields a whole group of\nchildren, the youngest of whom was so small that it had to be\ncarried by the others; and when he was seated on the grass, among\nthe yellow flowers, he laughed aloud with joy, kicked out his little\nlegs, rolled about, plucked the yellow flowers, and kissed them in\nchildlike innocence.  The elder children broke off the flowers with\nlong stems, bent the stalks one round the other, to form links, and\nmade first a chain for the neck, then one to go across the\nshoulders, and hang down to the waist, and at last a wreath to wear\nround the head, so that they looked quite splendid in their garlands\nof green stems and golden flowers.  But the eldest among them\ngathered carefully the faded flowers, on the stem of which was grouped\ntogether the seed, in the form of a white feathery coronal.  These\nloose, airy wool-flowers are very beautiful, and look like fine\nsnowy feathers or down.  The children held them to their mouths, and\ntried to blow away the whole coronal with one puff of the breath.  They\nhad been told by their grandmothers that who ever did so would be sure\nto have new clothes before the end of the year.  The despised flower\nwas by this raised to the position of a prophet or foreteller of\nevents.\n\n\"Do you see,\" said the sunbeam, \"do you see the beauty of these\nflowers?  do you see their powers of giving pleasure?\"\n\n\"Yes, to children,\" said the apple-bough.\n\nBy-and-by an old woman came into the field, and, with a blunt\nknife without a handle, began to dig round the roots of some of the\ndandelion-plants, and pull them up.  With some of these she intended to\nmake tea for herself; but the rest she was going to sell to the\nchemist, and obtain some money.\n\n\"But beauty is of higher value than all this,\" said the apple-tree\nbranch; \"only the chosen ones can be admitted into the realms of the\nbeautiful.  There is a difference between plants, just as there is a\ndifference between men.\"\n\nThen the sunbeam spoke of the boundless love of God, as seen in\ncreation, and over all that lives, and of the equal distribution of\nHis gifts, both in time and in eternity.\n\n\"That is your opinion,\" said the apple-bough.\n\nThen some people came into the room, and, among them, the young\ncountess,--the lady who had placed the apple-bough in the\ntransparent vase, so pleasantly beneath the rays of the sunlight.\nShe carried in her hand something that seemed like a flower.  The\nobject was hidden by two or three great leaves, which covered it\nlike a shield, so that no draught or gust of wind could injure it, and\nit was carried more carefully than the apple-branch had ever been.\nVery cautiously the large leaves were removed, and there appeared\nthe feathery seed-crown of the despised dandelion.  This was what the\nlady had so carefully plucked, and carried home so safely covered,\nso that not one of the delicate feathery arrows of which its mist-like\nshape was so lightly formed, should flutter away.  She now drew it\nforth quite uninjured, and wondered at its beautiful form, and airy\nlightness, and singular construction, so soon to be blown away by\nthe wind.\n\n\"See,\" she exclaimed, \"how wonderfully God has made this little\nflower.  I will paint it with the apple-branch together.  Every one\nadmires the beauty of the apple-bough; but this humble flower has been\nendowed by Heaven with another kind of loveliness; and although they\ndiffer in appearance, both are the children of the realms of beauty.\"\n\nThen the sunbeam kissed the lowly flower, and he kissed the\nblooming apple-branch, upon whose leaves appeared a rosy blush.\n\n\n\n\nBEAUTY OF FORM AND BEAUTY OF MIND\n\nThere was once a sculptor, named Alfred, who having won the\nlarge gold medal and obtained a travelling scholarship, went to Italy,\nand then came back to his native land.  He was young at that\ntime--indeed, he is young still, although he is ten years older than he\nwas then.  On his return, he went to visit one of the little towns in\nthe island of Zealand.  The whole town knew who the stranger was; and\none of the richest men in the place gave a party in his honor, and all\nwho were of any consequence, or who possessed some property, were\ninvited.  It was quite an event, and all the town knew of it, so that\nit was not necessary to announce it by beat of drum. Apprentice-boys,\nchildren of the poor, and even the poor people themselves, stood\nbefore the house, watching the lighted windows; and the watchman\nmight easily fancy he was giving a party also, there were so many\npeople in the streets.  There was quite an air of festivity about\nit, and the house was full of it; for Mr. Alfred, the sculptor, was\nthere.  He talked and told anecdotes, and every one listened to him\nwith pleasure, not unmingled with awe; but none felt so much respect\nfor him as did the elderly widow of a naval officer. She seemed, so\nfar as Mr.  Alfred was concerned, to be like a piece of fresh\nblotting-paper that absorbed all he said and asked for more.  She\nwas very appreciative, and incredibly ignorant--a kind of female\nGaspar Hauser.\n\n\"I should like to see Rome,\" she said; \"it must be a lovely\ncity, or so many foreigners would not be constantly arriving there.\nNow, do give me a description of Rome.  How does the city look when you\nenter in at the gate?\"\n\n\"I cannot very well describe it,\" said the sculptor; \"but you\nenter on a large open space, in the centre of which stands an obelisk,\nwhich is a thousand years old.\"\n\n\"An organist!\" exclaimed the lady, who had never heard the word\n'obelisk.' Several of the guests could scarcely forbear laughing,\nand the sculptor would have had some difficulty in keeping his\ncountenance, but the smile on his lips faded away; for he caught sight\nof a pair of dark-blue eyes close by the side of the inquisitive lady.\nThey belonged to her daughter; and surely no one who had such a\ndaughter could be silly.  The mother was like a fountain of\nquestions; and the daughter, who listened but never spoke, might\nhave passed for the beautiful maid of the fountain.  How charming she\nwas!  She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to\nconverse with; for she did not speak, or, at least, very seldom.\n\n\"Has the pope a great family?\" inquired the lady.\n\nThe young man answered considerately, as if the question had\nbeen a different one, \"No; he does not come from a great family.\"\n\n\"That is not what I asked,\" persisted the widow; \"I mean, has he a\nwife and children?\"\n\n\"The pope is not allowed to marry,\" replied the gentleman.\n\n\"I don't like that,\" was the lady's remark.\n\nShe certainly might have asked more sensible questions; but if she\nhad not been allowed to say just what she liked, would her daughter\nhave been there, leaning so gracefully on her shoulder, and looking\nstraight before her, with a smile that was almost mournful on her\nface?\n\nMr.  Alfred again spoke of Italy, and of the glorious colors in\nItalian scenery; the purple hills, the deep blue of the Mediterranean,\nthe azure of southern skies, whose brightness and glory could only\nbe surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden; and he\nsaid this with a peculiar intonation; but she who should have\nunderstood his meaning looked quite unconscious of it, which also\nwas charming.\n\n\"Beautiful Italy!\" sighed some of the guests.\n\n\"Oh, to travel there!\" exclaimed others.\n\n\"Charming!  Charming!\" echoed from every voice.\n\n\"I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery,\"\nsaid the naval officer's widow; \"and if I do, we will travel--I and my\ndaughter; and you, Mr.  Alfred, must be our guide.  We can all three\ntravel together, with one or two more of our good friends.\"  And she\nnodded in such a friendly way at the company, that each imagined\nhimself to be the favored person who was to accompany them to Italy.\n\"Yes, we must go,\" she continued; \"but not to those parts where\nthere are robbers.  We will keep to Rome.  In the public roads one is\nalways safe.\"\n\nThe daughter sighed very gently; and how much there may be in a\nsigh, or attributed to it!  The young man attributed a great deal of\nmeaning to this sigh.  Those deep-blue eyes, which had been lit up this\nevening in honor of him, must conceal treasures, treasures of heart\nand mind, richer than all the glories of Rome; and so when he left the\nparty that night, he had lost it completely to the young lady.  The\nhouse of the naval officer's widow was the one most constantly visited\nby Mr.  Alfred, the sculptor.  It was soon understood that his visits\nwere not intended for that lady, though they were the persons who kept\nup the conversation.  He came for the sake of the daughter.  They called\nher Kaela.  Her name was really Karen Malena, and these two names had\nbeen contracted into the one name Kaela.  She was really beautiful; but\nsome said she was rather dull, and slept late of a morning.\n\n\"She has been accustomed to that,\" her mother said.  \"She is a\nbeauty, and they are always easily tired.  She does sleep rather\nlate; but that makes her eyes so clear.\"\n\nWhat power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes!  The\nyoung man felt the truth of the proverb, \"Still waters run deep:\"\nand his heart had sunk into their depths.  He often talked of his\nadventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions\nas on the first evening they met.  It was a pleasure to hear Alfred\ndescribe anything.  He showed them colored plates of Naples, and\nspoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and the eruptions of fire\nfrom it.  The naval officer's widow had never heard of them before.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed.  \"So that is a burning mountain; but\nis it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?\"\n\n\"Whole cities have been destroyed,\" he replied; \"for instance,\nHerculaneum and Pompeii.\"\n\n\"Oh, the poor people!  And you saw all that with your own eyes?\"\n\n\"No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in\nthose pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own, which\nrepresents an eruption I once saw.\"\n\nHe placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma, who had been\nover-powered with the appearance of the colored plates, threw a glance\nat the pale drawing and cried in astonishment, \"What, did you see it\nthrow up white fire?\"\n\nFor a moment, Alfred's respect for Kaela's mamma underwent a\nsudden shock, and lessened considerably; but, dazzled by the light\nwhich surrounded Kaela, he soon found it quite natural that the old\nlady should have no eye for color.  After all, it was of very little\nconsequence; for Kaela's mamma had the best of all possessions;\nnamely, Kaela herself.\n\nAlfred and Kaela were betrothed, which was a very natural\nresult; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little\ntown.  Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut\nout the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances.  The\nbetrothed pair were very happy, and the mother was happy too.  She said\nit seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.\n\n\"You are a true successor of Thorwalsden,\" she said to Alfred; and\nit seemed to him as if, in this instance, mamma had said a clever\nthing.  Kaela was silent; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every\nmovement was graceful,--in fact, she was beautiful; that cannot be\nrepeated too often.  Alfred decided to take a bust of Kaela as well\nas of her mother.  They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he\nmoulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.\n\n\"I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this\ncommon-place work yourself, instead of leaving it to your servant to\ndo all that sticking together.\"\n\n\"It is really necessary that I should mould the clay myself,\" he\nreplied.\n\n\"Ah, yes, you are always so polite,\" said mamma, with a smile; and\nKaela silently pressed his hand, all soiled as it was with the clay.\n\nThen he unfolded to them both the beauties of Nature, in all her\nworks; he pointed out to them how, in the scale of creation, inanimate\nmatter was inferior to animate nature; the plant above the mineral,\nthe animal above the plant, and man above them all.  He strove to\nshow them how the beauty of the mind could be displayed in the outward\nform, and that it was the sculptor's task to seize upon that beauty of\nexpression, and produce it in his works.  Kaela stood silent, but\nnodded in approbation of what he said, while mamma-in-law made the\nfollowing confession:--\n\n\"It is difficult to follow you; but I go hobbling along after\nyou with my thoughts, though what you say makes my head whirl round\nand round.  Still I contrive to lay hold on some of it.\"\n\nKaela's beauty had a firm hold on Alfred; it filled his soul,\nand held a mastery over him.  Beauty beamed from Kaela's every feature,\nglittered in her eyes, lurked in the corners of her mouth, and\npervaded every movement of her agile fingers.  Alfred, the sculptor,\nsaw this.  He spoke only to her, thought only of her, and the two\nbecame one; and so it may be said she spoke much, for he was always\ntalking to her; and he and she were one.  Such was the betrothal, and\nthen came the wedding, with bride's-maids and wedding presents, all\nduly mentioned in the wedding speech.  Mamma-in-law had set up\nThorwalsden's bust at the end of the table, attired in a\ndressing-gown; it was her fancy that he should be a guest.  Songs\nwere sung, and cheers given; for it was a gay wedding, and they were a\nhandsome pair.  \"Pygmalion loved his Galatea,\" said one of the songs.\n\n\"Ah, that is some of your mythologies,\" said mamma-in-law.\n\nNext day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were\nto live; mamma-in-law accompanied them, to attend to the \"coarse\nwork,\" as she always called the domestic arrangements.  Kaela looked\nlike a doll in a doll's house, for everything was bright and new,\nand so fine.  There they sat, all three; and as for Alfred, a proverb\nmay describe his position--he looked like a swan amongst the geese.\nThe magic of form had enchanted him; he had looked at the casket\nwithout caring to inquire what it contained, and that omission often\nbrings the greatest unhappiness into married life.  The casket may be\ninjured, the gilding may fall off, and then the purchaser regrets\nhis bargain.\n\nIn a large party it is very disagreeable to find a button giving\nway, with no studs at hand to fall back upon; but it is worse still in\na large company to be conscious that your wife and mother-in-law are\ntalking nonsense, and that you cannot depend upon yourself to\nproduce a little ready wit to carry off the stupidity of the whole\naffair.\n\nThe young married pair often sat together hand in hand; he would\ntalk, but she could only now and then let fall a word in the same\nmelodious voice, the same bell-like tones.  It was a mental relief when\nSophy, one of her friends, came to pay them a visit.  Sophy was not,\npretty.  She was, however, quite free from any physical deformity,\nalthough Kaela used to say she was a little crooked; but no eye,\nsave an intimate acquaintance, would have noticed it.  She was a very\nsensible girl, yet it never occurred to her that she might be a\ndangerous person in such a house.  Her appearance created a new\natmosphere in the doll's house, and air was really required, they\nall owned that.  They felt the want of a change of air, and\nconsequently the young couple and their mother travelled to Italy.\n\n\"Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls,\"\nsaid mamma-in-law and daughter both, on their return after a year's\nabsence.\n\n\"There is no real pleasure in travelling,\" said mamma; \"to tell\nthe truth, it's very wearisome; I beg pardon for saying so.  I was soon\nvery tired of it, although I had my children with me; and, besides,\nit's very expensive work travelling, very expensive.  And all those\ngalleries one is expected to see, and the quantity of things you are\nobliged to run after!  It must be done, for very shame; you are sure to\nbe asked when you come back if you have seen everything, and will most\nlikely be told that you've omitted to see what was best worth seeing\nof all.  I got tired at last of those endless Madonnas; I began to\nthink I was turning into a Madonna myself.\"\n\n\"And then the living, mamma,\" said Kaela.\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" she replied, \"no such a thing as a respectable meat\nsoup--their cookery is miserable stuff.\"\n\nThe journey had also tired Kaela; but she was always fatigued,\nthat was the worst of it.  So they sent for Sophy, and she was taken\ninto the house to reside with them, and her presence there was a great\nadvantage.  Mamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy was not only a\nclever housewife, but well-informed and accomplished, though that\ncould hardly be expected in a person of her limited means.  She was\nalso a generous-hearted, faithful girl; she showed that thoroughly\nwhile Kaela lay sick, fading away.  When the casket is everything,\nthe casket should be strong, or else all is over.  And all was over\nwith the casket, for Kaela died.\n\n\"She was beautiful,\" said her mother; \"she was quite different\nfrom the beauties they call 'antiques,' for they are so damaged.  A\nbeauty ought to be perfect, and Kaela was a perfect beauty.\"\n\nAlfred wept, and mamma wept, and they both wore mourning.  The\nblack dress suited mamma very well, and she wore mourning the longest.\nShe had also to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry again,\nmarry Sophy, who was nothing at all to look at.  \"He's gone to the very\nextreme,\" said mamma-in-law; \"he has gone from the most beautiful to\nthe ugliest, and he has forgotten his first wife.  Men have no\nconstancy.  My husband was a very different man,--but then he died\nbefore me.\"\n\n\"'Pygmalion loved his Galatea,' was in the song they sung at my\nfirst wedding,\" said Alfred; \"I once fell in love with a beautiful\nstatue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul, which is\na gift from heaven, the angel who can feel and sympathize with and\nelevate us, I have not found and won till now.  You came, Sophy, not in\nthe glory of outward beauty, though you are even fairer than is\nnecessary.  The chief thing still remains.  You came to teach the\nsculptor that his work is but dust and clay only, an outward form made\nof a material that decays, and that what we should seek to obtain is\nthe ethereal essence of mind and spirit.  Poor Kaela!  our life was\nbut as a meeting by the way-side; in yonder world, where we shall know\neach other from a union of mind, we shall be but mere acquaintances.\"\n\n\"That was not a loving speech,\" said Sophy, \"nor spoken like a\nChristian.  In a future state, where there is neither marrying nor\ngiving in marriage, but where, as you say, souls are attracted to each\nother by sympathy; there everything beautiful develops itself, and\nis raised to a higher state of existence: her soul will acquire such\ncompleteness that it may harmonize with yours, even more than mine,\nand you will then once more utter your first rapturous exclamation\nof your love, 'Beautiful, most beautiful!'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEETLE WHO WENT ON HIS TRAVELS\n\nThere was once an Emperor who had a horse shod with gold.  He had a\ngolden shoe on each foot, and why was this?  He was a beautiful\ncreature, with slender legs, bright, intelligent eyes, and a mane that\nhung down over his neck like a veil.  He had carried his master through\nfire and smoke in the battle-field, with the bullets whistling round\nhim; he had kicked and bitten, and taken part in the fight, when the\nenemy advanced; and, with his master on his back, he had dashed over\nthe fallen foe, and saved the golden crown and the Emperor's life,\nwhich was of more value than the brightest gold.  This is the reason of\nthe Emperor's horse wearing golden shoes.\n\nA beetle came creeping forth from the stable, where the farrier\nhad been shoeing the horse.  \"Great ones, first, of course,\" said he,\n\"and then the little ones; but size is not always a proof of\ngreatness.\"  He stretched out his thin leg as he spoke.\n\n\"And pray what do you want?\" asked the farrier.\n\n\"Golden shoes,\" replied the beetle.\n\n\"Why, you must be out of your senses,\" cried the farrier.\n\"Golden shoes for you, indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly; golden shoes,\" replied the beetle.  \"Am I not just\nas good as that great creature yonder, who is waited upon and brushed,\nand has food and drink placed before him?  And don't I belong to the\nroyal stables?\"\n\n\"But why does the horse have golden shoes?\" asked the farrier; \"of\ncourse you understand the reason?\"\n\n\"Understand!  Well, I understand that it is a personal slight to\nme,\" cried the beetle.  \"It is done to annoy me, so I intend to go\nout into the world and seek my fortune.\"\n\n\"Go along with you,\" said the farrier.\n\n\"You're a rude fellow,\" cried the beetle, as he walked out of\nthe stable; and then he flew for a short distance, till he found\nhimself in a beautiful flower-garden, all fragrant with roses and\nlavender.  The lady-birds, with red and black shells on their backs,\nand delicate wings, were flying about, and one of them said, \"Is it\nnot sweet and lovely here?  Oh, how beautiful everything is.\"\n\n\"I am accustomed to better things,\" said the beetle.  \"Do you\ncall this beautiful?  Why, there is not even a dung-heap.\"  Then he went\non, and under the shadow of a large haystack he found a caterpillar\ncrawling along.  \"How beautiful this world is!\" said the caterpillar.\n\"The sun is so warm, I quite enjoy it.  And soon I shall go to sleep,\nand die as they call it, but I shall wake up with beautiful wings to\nfly with, like a butterfly.\"\n\n\"How conceited you are!\" exclaimed the beetle.  \"Fly about as a\nbutterfly, indeed!  what of that.  I have come out of the Emperor's\nstable, and no one there, not even the Emperor's horse, who, in\nfact, wears my cast-off golden shoes, has any idea of flying,\nexcepting myself.  To have wings and fly!  why, I can do that\nalready;\" and so saying, he spread his wings and flew away.  \"I don't\nwant to be disgusted,\" he said to himself, \"and yet I can't help\nit.\"  Soon after, he fell down upon an extensive lawn, and for a time\npretended to sleep, but at last fell asleep in earnest.  Suddenly a\nheavy shower of rain came falling from the clouds.  The beetle woke\nup with the noise and would have been glad to creep into the earth for\nshelter, but he could not.  He was tumbled over and over with the rain,\nsometimes swimming on his stomach and sometimes on his back; and as\nfor flying, that was out of the question.  He began to doubt whether he\nshould escape with his life, so he remained, quietly lying where he\nwas.  After a while the weather cleared up a little, and the beetle was\nable to rub the water from his eyes, and look about him.  He saw\nsomething gleaming, and he managed to make his way up to it.  It was\nlinen which had been laid to bleach on the grass.  He crept into a fold\nof the damp linen, which certainly was not so comfortable a place to\nlie in as the warm stable, but there was nothing better, so he\nremained lying there for a whole day and night, and the rain kept on\nall the time.  Towards morning he crept out of his hiding-place,\nfeeling in a very bad temper with the climate.  Two frogs were\nsitting on the linen, and their bright eyes actually glistened with\npleasure.\n\n\"Wonderful weather this,\" cried one of them, \"and so refreshing.\nThis linen holds the water together so beautifully, that my hind\nlegs quiver as if I were going to swim.\"\n\n\"I should like to know,\" said another, \"If the swallow who flies\nso far in her many journeys to foreign lands, ever met with a better\nclimate than this.  What delicious moisture!  It is as pleasant as lying\nin a wet ditch.  I am sure any one who does not enjoy this has no\nlove for his fatherland.\"\n\n\"Have you ever been in the Emperor's stable?\" asked the beetle.\n\"There the moisture is warm and refreshing; that's the climate for me,\nbut I could not take it with me on my travels.  Is there not even a\ndunghill here in this garden, where a person of rank, like myself,\ncould take up his abode and feel at home?\" But the frogs either did\nnot or would not understand him.\n\n\"I never ask a question twice,\" said the beetle, after he had\nasked this one three times, and received no answer.  Then he went on\na little farther and stumbled against a piece of broken crockery-ware,\nwhich certainly ought not to have been lying there.  But as it was\nthere, it formed a good shelter against wind and weather to several\nfamilies of earwigs who dwelt in it.  Their requirements were not many,\nthey were very sociable, and full of affection for their children,\nso much so that each mother considered her own child the most\nbeautiful and clever of them all.\n\n\"Our dear son has engaged himself,\" said one mother, \"dear\ninnocent boy; his greatest ambition is that he may one day creep\ninto a clergyman's ear.  That is a very artless and loveable wish;\nand being engaged will keep him steady.  What happiness for a mother!\"\n\n\"Our son,\" said another, \"had scarcely crept out of the egg,\nwhen he was off on his travels.  He is all life and spirits, I expect\nhe will wear out his horns with running.  How charming this is for a\nmother, is it not Mr.  Beetle?\" for she knew the stranger by his\nhorny coat.\n\n\"You are both quite right,\" said he; so they begged him to walk\nin, that is to come as far as he could under the broken piece of\nearthenware.\n\n\"Now you shall also see my little earwigs,\" said a third and a\nfourth mother, \"they are lovely little things, and highly amusing.\nThey are never ill-behaved, except when they are uncomfortable in\ntheir inside, which unfortunately often happens at their age.\"\n\nThus each mother spoke of her baby, and their babies talked\nafter their own fashion, and made use of the little nippers they\nhave in their tails to nip the beard of the beetle.\n\n\"They are always busy about something, the little rogues,\" said\nthe mother, beaming with maternal pride; but the beetle felt it a\nbore, and he therefore inquired the way to the nearest dung-heap.\n\n\"That is quite out in the great world, on the other side of the\nditch,\" answered an earwig, \"I hope none of my children will ever go\nso far, it would be the death of me.\"\n\n\"But I shall try to get so far,\" said the beetle, and he walked\noff without taking any formal leave, which is considered a polite\nthing to do.\n\nWhen he arrived at the ditch, he met several friends, all them\nbeetles; \"We live here,\" they said, \"and we are very comfortable.\nMay we ask you to step down into this rich mud, you must be fatigued\nafter your journey.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the beetle, \"I shall be most happy; I have\nbeen exposed to the rain, and have had to lie upon linen, and\ncleanliness is a thing that greatly exhausts me; I have also pains\nin one of my wings from standing in the draught under a piece of\nbroken crockery.  It is really quite refreshing to be with one's own\nkindred again.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you came from a dung-heap,\" observed the oldest of them.\n\n\"No, indeed, I came from a much grander place,\" replied the\nbeetle; \"I came from the emperor's stable, where I was born, with\ngolden shoes on my feet.  I am travelling on a secret embassy, but\nyou must not ask me any questions, for I cannot betray my secret.\"\n\nThen the beetle stepped down into the rich mud, where sat three\nyoung-lady beetles, who tittered, because they did not know what to\nsay.\n\n\"None of them are engaged yet,\" said their mother, and the\nbeetle maidens tittered again, this time quite in confusion.\n\n\"I have never seen greater beauties, even in the royal stables,\"\nexclaimed the beetle, who was now resting himself.\n\n\"Don't spoil my girls,\" said the mother; \"and don't talk to\nthem, pray, unless you have serious intentions.\"\n\nBut of course the beetle's intentions were serious, and after a\nwhile our friend was engaged.  The mother gave them her blessing, and\nall the other beetles cried \"hurrah.\"\n\nImmediately after the betrothal came the marriage, for there was\nno reason to delay.  The following day passed very pleasantly, and\nthe next was tolerably comfortable; but on the third it became\nnecessary for him to think of getting food for his wife, and, perhaps,\nfor children.\n\n\"I have allowed myself to be taken in,\" said our beetle to\nhimself, \"and now there's nothing to be done but to take them in, in\nreturn.\"\n\nNo sooner said than done.  Away he went, and stayed away all day\nand all night, and his wife remained behind a forsaken widow.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the other beetles, \"this fellow that we have received\ninto our family is nothing but a complete vagabond.  He has gone away\nand left his wife a burden upon our hands.\"\n\n\"Well, she can be unmarried again, and remain here with my other\ndaughters,\" said the mother.  \"Fie on the villain that forsook her!\"\n\nIn the mean time the beetle, who had sailed across the ditch on\na cabbage leaf, had been journeying on the other side.  In the\nmorning two persons came up to the ditch.  When they saw him they\ntook him up and turned him over and over, looking very learned all the\ntime, especially one, who was a boy.  \"Allah sees the black beetle in\nthe black stone, and the black rock.  Is not that written in the\nKoran?\" he asked.\n\nThen he translated the beetle's name into Latin, and said a\ngreat deal upon the creature's nature and history.  The second\nperson, who was older and a scholar, proposed to carry the beetle\nhome, as they wanted just such good specimens as this.  Our beetle\nconsidered this speech a great insult, so he flew suddenly out of\nthe speaker's hand.  His wings were dry now, so they carried him to a\ngreat distance, till at last he reached a hothouse, where a sash of\nthe glass roof was partly open, so he quietly slipped in and buried\nhimself in the warm earth.  \"It is very comfortable here,\" he said to\nhimself, and soon after fell asleep.  Then he dreamed that the\nemperor's horse was dying, and had left him his golden shoes, and also\npromised that he should have two more.  All this was very delightful,\nand when the beetle woke up he crept forth and looked around him.  What\na splendid place the hothouse was!  At the back, large palm-trees\nwere growing; and the sunlight made the leaves--look quite glossy; and\nbeneath them what a profusion of luxuriant green, and of flowers red\nlike flame, yellow as amber, or white as new-fallen snow!  \"What a\nwonderful quantity of plants,\" cried the beetle; \"how good they will\ntaste when they are decayed!  This is a capital store-room.  There\nmust certainly be some relations of mine living here; I will just\nsee if I can find any one with whom I can associate.  I'm proud,\ncertainly; but I'm also proud of being so.\"  Then he prowled about in\nthe earth, and thought what a pleasant dream that was about the\ndying horse, and the golden shoes he had inherited.  Suddenly a hand\nseized the beetle, and squeezed him, and turned him round and round.\nThe gardener's little son and his playfellow had come into the\nhothouse, and, seeing the beetle, wanted to have some fun with him.\nFirst, he was wrapped, in a vine-leaf, and put into a warm trousers'\npocket.  He twisted and turned about with all his might, but he got a\ngood squeeze from the boy's hand, as a hint for him to keep quiet.\nThen the boy went quickly towards a lake that lay at the end of the\ngarden.  Here the beetle was put into an old broken wooden shoe, in\nwhich a little stick had been fastened upright for a mast, and to this\nmast the beetle was bound with a piece of worsted.  Now he was a\nsailor, and had to sail away.  The lake was not very large, but to\nthe beetle it seemed an ocean, and he was so astonished at its size\nthat he fell over on his back, and kicked out his legs.  Then the\nlittle ship sailed away; sometimes the current of the water seized it,\nbut whenever it went too far from the shore one of the boys turned\nup his trousers, and went in after it, and brought it back to land.\nBut at last, just as it went merrily out again, the two boys were\ncalled, and so angrily, that they hastened to obey, and ran away as\nfast as they could from the pond, so that the little ship was left\nto its fate.  It was carried away farther and farther from the shore,\ntill it reached the open sea.  This was a terrible prospect for the\nbeetle, for he could not escape in consequence of being bound to the\nmast.  Then a fly came and paid him a visit.  \"What beautiful\nweather,\" said the fly; \"I shall rest here and sun myself.  You must\nhave a pleasant time of it.\"\n\n\"You speak without knowing the facts,\" replied the beetle;\n\"don't you see that I am a prisoner?\"\n\n\"Ah, but I'm not a prisoner,\" remarked the fly, and away he flew.\n\n\"Well, now I know the world,\" said the beetle to himself; \"it's an\nabominable world; I'm the only respectable person in it.  First, they\nrefuse me my golden shoes; then I have to lie on damp linen, and to\nstand in a draught; and to crown all, they fasten a wife upon me.\nThen, when I have made a step forward in the world, and found out a\ncomfortable position, just as I could wish it to be, one of these\nhuman boys comes and ties me up, and leaves me to the mercy of the\nwild waves, while the emperor's favorite horse goes prancing about\nproudly on his golden shoes.  This vexes me more than anything.  But\nit is useless to look for sympathy in this world.  My career has been\nvery interesting, but what's the use of that if nobody knows\nanything about it?  The world does not deserve to be made acquainted\nwith my adventures, for it ought to have given me golden shoes when\nthe emperor's horse was shod, and I stretched out my feet to be\nshod, too.  If I had received golden shoes I should have been an\nornament to the stable; now I am lost to the stable and to the\nworld.  It is all over with me.\"\n\nBut all was not yet over.  A boat, in which were a few young girls,\ncame rowing up.  \"Look, yonder is an old wooden shoe sailing along,\"\nsaid one of the younger girls.\n\n\"And there's a poor little creature bound fast in it,\" said\nanother.\n\nThe boat now came close to our beetle's ship, and the young\ngirls fished it out of the water.  One of them drew a small pair of\nscissors from her pocket, and cut the worsted without hurting the\nbeetle, and when she stepped on shore she placed him on the grass.\n\"There,\" she said, \"creep away, or fly, if thou canst.  It is a\nsplendid thing to have thy liberty.\"  Away flew the beetle, straight\nthrough the open window of a large building; there he sank down, tired\nand exhausted, exactly on the mane of the emperor's favorite horse,\nwho was standing in his stable; and the beetle found himself at home\nagain.  For some time he clung to the mane, that he might recover\nhimself.  \"Well,\" he said, \"here I am, seated on the emperor's favorite\nhorse,--sitting upon him as if I were the emperor himself.  But what\nwas it the farrier asked me?  Ah, I remember now,--that's a good\nthought,--he asked me why the golden shoes were given to the horse.\nThe answer is quite clear to me, now.  They were given to the horse\non my account.\"  And this reflection put the beetle into a good temper.\nThe sun's rays also came streaming into the stable, and shone upon\nhim, and made the place lively and bright.  \"Travelling expands the\nmind very much,\" said the beetle.  \"The world is not so bad after\nall, if you know how to take things as they come.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BELL\n\nIn the narrow streets of a large town people often heard in the\nevening, when the sun was setting, and his last rays gave a golden\ntint to the chimney-pots, a strange noise which resembled the sound of\na church bell; it only lasted an instant, for it was lost in the\ncontinual roar of traffic and hum of voices which rose from the\ntown.  \"The evening bell is ringing,\" people used to say; \"the sun is\nsetting!\"  Those who walked outside the town, where the houses were\nless crowded and interspersed by gardens and little fields, saw the\nevening sky much better, and heard the sound of the bell much more\nclearly.  It seemed as though the sound came from a church, deep in the\ncalm, fragrant wood, and thither people looked with devout feelings.\n\nA considerable time elapsed: one said to the other, \"I really\nwonder if there is a church out in the wood.  The bell has indeed a\nstrange sweet sound!  Shall we go there and see what the cause of it\nis?\"  The rich drove, the poor walked, but the way seemed to them\nextraordinarily long, and when they arrived at a number of willow\ntrees on the border of the wood they sat down, looked up into the\ngreat branches and thought they were now really in the wood.  A\nconfectioner from the town also came out and put up a stall there;\nthen came another confectioner who hung a bell over his stall, which\nwas covered with pitch to protect it from the rain, but the clapper\nwas wanting.\n\nWhen people came home they used to say that it had been very\nromantic, and that really means something else than merely taking tea.\nThree persons declared that they had gone as far as the end of the\nwood; they had always heard the strange sound, but there it seemed\nto them as if it came from the town.  One of them wrote verses about\nthe bell, and said that it was like the voice of a mother speaking\nto an intelligent and beloved child; no tune, he said, was sweeter\nthan the sound of the bell.\n\nThe emperor of the country heard of it, and declared that he who\nwould really find out where the sound came from should receive the\ntitle of \"Bellringer to the World,\" even if there was no bell at all.\n\nNow many went out into the wood for the sake of this splendid\nberth; but only one of them came back with some sort of explanation.\nNone of them had gone far enough, nor had he, and yet he said that the\nsound of the bell came from a large owl in a hollow tree.  It was a\nwisdom owl, which continually knocked its head against the tree, but\nhe was unable to say with certainty whether its head or the hollow\ntrunk of the tree was the cause of the noise.\n\nHe was appointed \"Bellringer to the World,\" and wrote every year a\nshort dissertation on the owl, but by this means people did not become\nany wiser than they had been before.\n\nIt was just confirmation-day.  The clergyman had delivered a\nbeautiful and touching sermon, the candidates were deeply moved by it;\nit was indeed a very important day for them; they were all at once\ntransformed from mere children to grown-up people; the childish soul\nwas to fly over, as it were, into a more reasonable being.\n\nThe sun shone most brightly; and the sound of the great unknown\nbell was heard more distinctly than ever.  They had a mind to go\nthither, all except three.  One of them wished to go home and try on\nher ball dress, for this very dress and the ball were the cause of her\nbeing confirmed this time, otherwise she would not have been allowed\nto go.  The second, a poor boy, had borrowed a coat and a pair of boots\nfrom the son of his landlord to be confirmed in, and he had to\nreturn them at a certain time.  The third said that he never went\ninto strange places if his parents were not with him; he had always\nbeen a good child, and wished to remain so, even after being\nconfirmed, and they ought not to tease him for this; they, however,\ndid it all the same.  These three, therefore did not go; the others\nwent on.  The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the\nconfirmed children sang too, holding each other by the hand, for\nthey had no position yet, and they were all equal in the eyes of\nGod.  Two of the smallest soon became tired and returned to the town;\ntwo little girls sat down and made garlands of flowers, they,\ntherefore, did not go on.  When the others arrived at the willow trees,\nwhere the confectioner had put up his stall, they said: \"Now we are\nout here; the bell does not in reality exist--it is only something\nthat people imagine!\"\n\nThen suddenly the sound of the bell was heard so beautifully and\nsolemnly from the wood that four or five made up their minds to go\nstill further on.  The wood was very thickly grown.  It was difficult to\nadvance: wood lilies and anemones grew almost too high; flowering\nconvolvuli and brambles were hanging like garlands from tree to\ntree; while the nightingales were singing and the sunbeams played.\nThat was very beautiful!  But the way was unfit for the girls; they\nwould have torn their dresses.  Large rocks, covered with moss of\nvarious hues, were lying about; the fresh spring water rippled forth\nwith a peculiar sound.  \"I don't think that can be the bell,\" said\none of the confirmed children, and then he lay down and listened.\n\"We must try to find out if it is!\"  And there he remained, and let the\nothers walk on.\n\nThey came to a hut built of the bark of trees and branches; a\nlarge crab-apple tree spread its branches over it, as if it intended\nto pour all its fruit on the roof, upon which roses were blooming; the\nlong boughs covered the gable, where a little bell was hanging.  Was\nthis the one they had heard?  All agreed that it must be so, except one\nwho said that the bell was too small and too thin to be heard at\nsuch a distance, and that it had quite a different sound to that which\nhad so touched men's hearts.\n\nHe who spoke was a king's son, and therefore the others said\nthat such a one always wishes to be cleverer than other people.\n\nTherefore they let him go alone; and as he walked on, the solitude\nof the wood produced a feeling of reverence in his breast; but still\nhe heard the little bell about which the others rejoiced, and\nsometimes, when the wind blew in that direction, he could hear the\nsounds from the confectioner's stall, where the others were singing at\ntea.  But the deep sounds of the bell were much stronger; soon it\nseemed to him as if an organ played an accompaniment--the sound came\nfrom the left, from the side where the heart is.  Now something rustled\namong the bushes, and a little boy stood before the king's son, in\nwooden shoes and such a short jacket that the sleeves did not reach to\nhis wrists.  They knew each other: the boy was the one who had not been\nable to go with them because he had to take the coat and boots back to\nhis landlord's son.  That he had done, and had started again in his\nwooden shoes and old clothes, for the sound of the bell was too\nenticing--he felt he must go on.\n\n\"We might go together,\" said the king's son.  But the poor boy with\nthe wooden shoes was quite ashamed; he pulled at the short sleeves\nof his jacket, and said that he was afraid he could not walk so\nfast; besides, he was of opinion that the bell ought to be sought at\nthe right, for there was all that was grand and magnificent.\n\n\"Then we shall not meet,\" said the king's son, nodding to the poor\nboy, who went into the deepest part of the wood, where the thorns tore\nhis shabby clothes and scratched his hands, face, and feet until\nthey bled.  The king's son also received several good scratches, but\nthe sun was shining on his way, and it is he whom we will now\nfollow, for he was a quick fellow.  \"I will and must find the bell,\" he\nsaid, \"if I have to go to the end of the world.\"\n\nUgly monkeys sat high in the branches and clenched their teeth.\n\"Shall we beat him?\" they said.  \"Shall we thrash him?  He is a king's\nson!\"\n\nBut he walked on undaunted, deeper and deeper into the wood, where\nthe most wonderful flowers were growing; there were standing white\nstar lilies with blood-red stamens, sky-blue tulips shining when the\nwind moved them; apple-trees covered with apples like large glittering\nsoap bubbles: only think how resplendent these trees were in the\nsunshine!  All around were beautiful green meadows, where hart and hind\nplayed in the grass.  There grew magnificent oaks and beech-trees;\nand if the bark was split of any of them, long blades of grass grew\nout of the clefts; there were also large smooth lakes in the wood,\non which the swans were swimming about and flapping their wings.  The\nking's son often stood still and listened; sometimes he thought that\nthe sound of the bell rose up to him out of one of these deep lakes,\nbut soon he found that this was a mistake, and that the bell was\nringing still farther in the wood.  Then the sun set, the clouds were\nas red as fire; it became quiet in the wood; he sank down on his\nknees, sang an evening hymn and said: \"I shall never find what I am\nlooking for!  Now the sun is setting, and the night, the dark night, is\napproaching.  Yet I may perhaps see the round sun once more before he\ndisappears beneath the horizon.  I will climb up these rocks, they\nare as high as the highest trees!\"  And then, taking hold of the\ncreepers and roots, he climbed up on the wet stones, where\nwater-snakes were wriggling and the toads, as it were, barked at\nhim: he reached the top before the sun, seen from such a height, had\nquite set.  \"Oh, what a splendour!\"  The sea, the great majestic sea,\nwhich was rolling its long waves against the shore, stretched out\nbefore him, and the sun was standing like a large bright altar and\nthere where sea and heaven met--all melted together in the most\nglowing colours; the wood was singing, and his heart too.  The whole of\nnature was one large holy church, in which the trees and hovering\nclouds formed the pillars, the flowers and grass the woven velvet\ncarpet, and heaven itself was the great cupola; up there the flame\ncolour vanished as soon as the sun disappeared, but millions of\nstars were lighted; diamond lamps were shining, and the king's son\nstretched his arms out towards heaven, towards the sea, and towards\nthe wood.  Then suddenly the poor boy with the short-sleeved jacket and\nthe wooden shoes appeared; he had arrived just as quickly on the\nroad he had chosen.  And they ran towards each other and took one\nanother's hand, in the great cathedral of nature and poesy, and\nabove them sounded the invisible holy bell; happy spirits surrounded\nthem, singing hallelujahs and rejoicing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BELL-DEEP\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\nFunen, knows the Au, which washes the gardens round about the town,\nand flows on under the wooden bridges from the dam to the\nwater-mill.  In the Au grow the yellow water-lilies and brown\nfeathery reeds; the dark velvety flag grows there, high and thick; old\nand decayed willows, slanting and tottering, hang far out over the\nstream beside the monk's meadow and by the bleaching ground; but\nopposite there are gardens upon gardens, each different from the rest,\nsome with pretty flowers and bowers like little dolls' pleasure\ngrounds, often displaying cabbage and other kitchen plants; and here\nand there the gardens cannot be seen at all, for the great elder trees\nthat spread themselves out by the bank, and hang far out over the\nstreaming waters, which are deeper here and there than an oar can\nfathom.  Opposite the old nunnery is the deepest place, which is called\nthe \"bell-deep,\" and there dwells the old water spirit, the \"Au-mann.\"\nThis spirit sleeps through the day while the sun shines down upon\nthe water; but in starry and moonlit nights he shows himself.  He is\nvery old.  Grandmother says that she has heard her own grandmother tell\nof him; he is said to lead a solitary life, and to have nobody with\nwhom he can converse save the great old church Bell.  Once the Bell\nhung in the church tower; but now there is no trace left of the\ntower or of the church, which was called St.  Alban's.\n\n\"Ding-dong! ding-dong!\" sounded the Bell, when the tower still\nstood there; and one evening, while the sun was setting, and the\nBell was swinging away bravely, it broke loose and came flying down\nthrough the air, the brilliant metal shining in the ruddy beam.\n\n\"Ding-dong! ding-dong!  Now I'll retire to rest!\" sang the Bell,\nand flew down into the Odense-Au, where it is deepest; and that is why\nthe place is called the \"bell-deep.\"\n\nBut the Bell got neither rest nor sleep.  Down in the Au-mann's\nhaunt it sounds and rings, so that the tones sometimes pierce upward\nthrough the waters; and many people maintain that its strains forebode\nthe death of some one; but that is not true, for the Bell is only\ntalking with the Au-mann, who is now no longer alone.\n\nAnd what is the Bell telling?  It is old, very old, as we have\nalready observed; it was there long before grandmother's grandmother\nwas born; and yet it is but a child in comparison with the Au-mann,\nwho is quite an old quiet personage, an oddity, with his hose of\neel-skin, and his scaly Jacket with the yellow lilies for buttons, and\na wreath of reed in his hair and seaweed in his beard; but he looks\nvery pretty for all that.\n\nWhat the Bell tells?  To repeat it all would require years and\ndays; for year by year it is telling the old stories, sometimes\nshort ones, sometimes long ones, according to its whim; it tells of\nold times, of the dark hard times, thus:\n\n\"In the church of St.  Alban, the monk had mounted up into the\ntower.  He was young and handsome, but thoughtful exceedingly.  He\nlooked through the loophole out upon the Odense-Au, when the bed of\nthe water was yet broad, and the monks' meadow was still a lake.  He\nlooked out over it, and over the rampart, and over the nuns' hill\nopposite, where the convent lay, and the light gleamed forth from\nthe nun's cell.  He had known the nun right well, and he thought of\nher, and his heart beat quicker 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;\nand when I, the Bell, who am made of metal, rang hard and loud, and\nswung to and fro, I might have beaten out his brains.  He sat down\nclose under me, and played with two little sticks as if they had\nbeen a stringed instrument; and he sang to it.  'Now I may sing it\nout aloud, though at other times I may not whisper it.  I may sing of\neverything that is kept concealed behind lock and bars.  Yonder it is\ncold and wet.  The rats are eating her up alive!  Nobody knows of it!\nNobody hears of it!  Not even now, for the bell is ringing and\nsinging its loud Ding-dong, ding-dong!'\n\n\"There was a King in those days.  They called him Canute.  He\nbowed himself before bishop and monk; but when he offended the free\npeasants with heavy taxes and hard words, they seized their weapons\nand put him to flight like a wild beast.  He sought shelter in the\nchurch, and shut gate and door behind him.  The violent band surrounded\nthe church; I heard tell of it.  The crows, ravens and magpies\nstarted up in terror at the yelling and shouting that sounded\naround.  They flew into the tower and out again, they looked down\nupon the throng below, and they also looked into the windows of the\nchurch, and screamed out aloud what they saw there.  King Canute\nknelt before the altar in prayer; his brothers Eric and Benedict stood\nby him as a guard with drawn swords; but the King's servant, the\ntreacherous Blake, betrayed his master.  The throng in front of the\nchurch knew where they could hit the King, and one of them flung a\nstone through a pane of glass, and the King lay there dead!  The\ncries and screams of the savage horde and of the birds sounded through\nthe air, and I joined in it also; for I sang 'Ding-dong! ding-dong!'\n\n\"The church bell hangs high, and looks far around, and sees the\nbirds around it, and understands their language.  The wind roars in\nupon it through windows and loopholes; and the wind knows\neverything, for he gets it from the air, which encircles all things,\nand the church bell understands his tongue, and rings it out into\nthe world, 'Ding-dong! ding-dong!'\n\n\"But it was too much for me to hear and to know; I was not able\nany longer to ring it out.  I became so tired, so heavy, that the\nbeam broke, and I flew out into the gleaming Au, where the water is\ndeepest, and where the Au-mann lives, solitary and alone; and year\nby year 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\nOdense-Au.  That is what grandmother told us.\n\nBut the schoolmaster says that there was not any bell that rung\ndown there, for that it could not do so; and that no Au-mann dwelt\nyonder, for there was no Au-mann at all!  And when all the other church\nbells are sounding sweetly, he says that it is not really the bells\nthat are sounding, but that it is the air itself which sends forth the\nnotes; and grandmother said to us that the Bell itself said it was the\nair who told it to him, consequently they are agreed on that point,\nand this much is sure.\n\n\"Be cautious, cautious, and take good heed to thyself,\" they\nboth say.\n\nThe air knows everything.  It is around us, it is in us, it talks\nof our thoughts and of our deeds, and it speaks longer of them than\ndoes the Bell down in the depths of the Odense-Au where the Au-mann\ndwells.  It rings it out in the vault of heaven, far, far out,\nforever and ever, till the heaven bells sound \"Ding-dong! ding-dong!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIRD OF POPULAR SONG\n\nIn is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy garment, and looks like\nmarble hewn out of the rock; the air is bright and clear; the wind\nis sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the trees stand like branches\nof white coral or blooming almond twigs, and here it is keen as on the\nlofty Alps.\n\nThe night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights, and\nin the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.\n\nBut we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk about\nthe old times. And we listen to this story:\n\nBy the open sea was a giant's grave; and on the grave-mound sat at\nmidnight the spirit of the buried hero, who had been a king. The\ngolden circlet gleamed on his brow, his hair fluttered in the wind,\nand he was clad in steel and iron. He bent his head mournfully, and\nsighed in deep sorrow, as an unquiet spirit might sigh.\n\nAnd a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered the\nanchor and landed. Among them was a singer, and he approached the\nroyal spirit, and said,\n\n\"Why mournest thou, and wherefore dost thou suffer thus?\"\n\nAnd the dead man answered,\n\n\"No one has sung the deeds of my life; they are dead and\nforgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands, nor into the\nhearts of men; therefore I have no rest and no peace.\"\n\nAnd he spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which his\ncontemporaries had known, but which had not been sung, because there\nwas no singer among his companions.\n\nThen the old bard struck the strings of his harp, and sang of\nthe youthful courage of the hero, of the strength of the man, and of\nthe greatness of his good deeds. Then the face of the dead one gleamed\nlike the margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and of good\ncourage, the form arose in splendor and in majesty, and vanished\nlike the glancing of the northern light. Nought was to be seen but the\ngreen turfy mound, with the stones on which no Runic record has been\ngraven; but at the last sound of the harp there soared over the\nhill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little bird, a\ncharming singing-bird, with ringing voice of the thrush, with the\nmoving voice pathos of the human heart, with a voice that told of\nhome, like the voice that is heard by the bird of passage. The\nsinging-bird soared away, over mountain and valley, over field and\nwood--he was the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies.\n\nWe hear his song--we hear it now in the room while the white\nbees are swarming without, and the storm clutches the windows. The\nbird sings not alone the requiem of heroes; he sings also sweet gentle\nsongs of love, so many and so warm, of Northern fidelity and truth. He\nhas stories in words and in tones; he has proverbs and snatches of\nproverbs; songs which, like Runes laid under a dead man's tongue,\nforce him to speak; and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his\nbirth.\n\nIn the old heathen days, in the times of the Vikings, the\npopular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.\n\nIn the days of knightly castles, when the strongest fist held\nthe scales of justice, when only might was right, and a peasant and\na dog were of equal importance, where did the Bird of Song find\nshelter and protection? Neither violence nor stupidity gave him a\nthought.\n\nBut in the gabled window of the knightly castle, the lady of the\ncastle sat with the parchment roll before her, and wrote down the\nold recollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old\nwoman from the wood, and the travelling peddler who went wandering\nthrough the country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around\nthem, with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never\ndies so long as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.\n\nAnd now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night and\nthe snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we know the\nland of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue, in the\nvoice of the Bird of Popular Song. The old remembrances awake, the\nfaded colors glow with a fresh lustre, and story and song pour us a\nblessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so that the\nevening becomes as a Christmas festival.\n\nThe snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the storm\nrules without, for he has the might, he is lord--but not the LORD OF\nALL.\n\nIt is winter time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the\nsnow-flakes chase each other; it seems as though it had been snowing\nfor days and weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the\nwhole town, like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on\nthe earth is hidden away, only the golden cross of the church, the\nsymbol of faith, arises over the snow grave, and gleams in the blue\nair and in the bright sunshine.\n\nAnd over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the small and\nthe great; they twitter and they sing as best they may, each bird with\nhis beak.\n\nFirst comes the band of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle in the\nstreets and lanes, in the nests and the houses; they have stories to\ntell about the front buildings and the back buildings.\n\n\"We know the buried town,\" they say; \"everything living in it is\npiep! piep! piep!\"\n\nThe black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.\n\n\"Grub, grub!\" they cried. \"There's something to be got down there;\nsomething to swallow, and that's most important. That's the opinion of\nmost of them down there, and the opinion is goo-goo-good!\"\n\nThe wild swans come flying on whirring pinions, and sing of the\nnoble and the great, that will still sprout in the hearts of men, down\nin the town which is resting beneath its snowy veil.\n\nNo death is there--life reigns yonder; we hear it on the notes\nthat swell onward like the tones of the church organ, which seize us\nlike sounds from the elf-hill, like the songs of Ossian, like the\nrushing swoop of the wandering spirits' wings. What harmony! That\nharmony speaks to our hearts, and lifts up our souls! It is the Bird\nof Popular Song whom we hear.\n\nAnd at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the\nsky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains, the sun shines into the\nclefts; spring is coming, the birds are returning, and new races are\ncoming with the same home sounds in their hearts.\n\nHear the story of the year: \"The night of the snow-storm, the\nheavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved, all shall\nrise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song, who\nnever dies!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS\n\nOur scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called \"wild\nmoor.\"  We hear what is called the \"Wester-wow-wow\"--the peculiar\nroar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of\nJutland.  It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for\nmiles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring.  Before us\nrises a great mound of sand--a mountain we have long seen, and towards\nwhich we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep\nsand.  On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building--the convent of\nBorglum.  In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church.\nAnd at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the\nweather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can\nrange far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath\nand meadow, and far across the deep 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 luxuriantly that their\ntwigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.\n\nWe mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the\nlong passages under the heavy roof-beams.  The wind moans very\nstrangely here, both within and without.  It is hardly known how, but\nthe people say--yes, people say a great many things when they are\nfrightened or want to frighten others--they say that the old dead\nchoir-men glide silently past us into the church, where mass is\nsung.  They can be heard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing\nbrings up strange thoughts in the hearers--thoughts of the old times\ninto which we are carried back.\n\nOn the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are\nthere, and spare not those whom the sea has spared.  The sea washes\naway the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls.  The stranded\ngoods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here.  The\nsea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the\nconvent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and\nmead.  There is plenty in the kitchen--dead game and poultry, hams\nand sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.\n\nThe Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord.  He has great\npossessions, but still he longs for more--everything must bow before\nthe mighty Olaf Glob.  His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his\nwidow is to have the rich inheritance.  But how comes it that one\nrelation is always harder towards another than even strangers would\nbe?  The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland, with the\nexception of the church property.  Her son was not at home.  In his\nboyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see\nforeign lands and strange people.  For years there had been no news\nof him.  Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never\ncome back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.\n\n\"What has a woman to do with rule?\" said the bishop.\n\nHe summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain\nthereby?  The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was\nstrong in her just rights.\n\nBishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose?  What writest\nthou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and\nintrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away,\nto the city of the Pope?\n\nIt is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon\nicy winter will come.\n\nTwice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the\nhorsemen and servants back to their home.  They came from Rome with a\npapal decree--a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to\noffend the pious bishop.  \"Cursed be she and all that belongs to her.\nLet her be expelled from the congregation and the Church.  Let no man\nstretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations\navoid her as a plague and a pestilence!\"\n\n\"What will not bend must break,\" said the Bishop of Borglum\n\nAnd all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God.  He is\nher helper and defender.\n\nOne servant only--an old maid--remained faithful to her; and\nwith the old servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the\ncrop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the\nbishop.\n\n\"Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose!\"\ncried the Bishop of Borglum.  \"Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon\nthee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee!\"\n\nThen did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her\nto a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and\ntravelled away across the heath out of the Danish land.  As a\nstranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was\nspoken and where new customs prevailed.  Farther and farther she\njourneyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine\nclothes their sides.  Strange merchants drive by her, and they look\nanxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise.  They fear an\nattack from the armed followers of the robber-knights.  The two poor\nwomen, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel\nfearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the\ndarksome forest.  And now they were in Franconia.  And there met them\na stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers.  He\npaused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to\nthe goal of their journey and the place whence they came.  Then one\nof them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her\nwoes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed\nit.  For the stranger knight is the widow's son!  He seized her hand, he\nembraced her, and the mother wept.  For years she had not been able\nto weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.\n\n\nIt is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon\nwill icy winter come.\n\nThe sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar.\nIn the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire.  At\nBorglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold\nwinter raged without, when a piece of news was brought to the\nbishop.  \"Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back, and his mother with\nhim.\"  Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop, and summoned\nhim before the temporal and the spiritual court.\n\n\"That will avail him little,\" said the bishop.  \"Best leave off thy\nefforts, knight Jens.\"\n\n\nAgain it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships.  Icy\nwinter comes 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\nthe skirt of his wide garment.\n\n\"Thou Borglum bishop,\" he exclaims, \"I shall subdue thee after\nall!  Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens\nGlob shall 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 Borglum to Thyland; and\nthis is known to Jens Glob.\n\nMoorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow.  The marsh\nwill bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests and armed\nmen.  They ride the shortest way, through the waving reeds, where the\nwind moans sadly.\n\nBlow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin!  it\nsounds merrily 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.\nHe blows 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\nBorglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce\ndo so, however hard he may ride.  He journeys with his warriors on\nthe farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,\nnow that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of\nthe Highest.\n\nThe church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.\nThe lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra.  The storm reads\nout the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor\nand heath, and over the rolling waters.  No ferry-boat can sail over\nthe bay in such weather as this.\n\nOlaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde.  There he dismisses his\nwarriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives\nthem leave to ride home and greet his wife.  He intends to risk his\nlife alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him\nthat it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement\nin the church at Widberg.  The faithful warriors will not leave him,\nbut follow him out into the deep waters.  Ten of them are carried away;\nbut Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side.  They\nhave still four miles to ride.\n\nIt is past midnight.  It is Christmas.  The wind has abated.  The\nchurch is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the\nwindow-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath.  The mass has\nlong been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard\ndropping from the candles to the stone pavement.  And now Olaf Hase\narrives.\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\nbishop shall quit this church alive.\"\n\nAnd the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a\nblow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob\nhastily closes between them, fly in fragments.\n\n\"Hold, brother!  First hear what the agreement was that I made.  I\nhave slain the bishop and his warriors and priests.  They will have\nno word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the\nwrong that my mother has endured.\"\n\nThe long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a\nredder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven\nskull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy\nChristmas night.\n\nAnd four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the\nconvent of Borglum.  The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and\npriests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra\ndecked with crape.  There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought\nwith silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so\nmighty.  The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral\nhymn.  It sounds 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\ntime this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew.  It is\nheard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in\nthe heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum.  It is heard by the\nsleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum.  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\nopen, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the\nfragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient\nsplendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop,\nwho lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the\ncrozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams\nthe red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and the\nwicked thoughts.\n\nSink down into his grave--into oblivion--ye terrible shapes of the\ntimes of old!\n\n\nHark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling\nsea!  A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives.  The\nsea has not put on a new mind with the new time.  This night it is a\nhorrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a\nglassy mirror--even as in the old time that we have buried.  Sleep\nsweetly, if thou canst sleep!\n\nNow it is morning.\n\nThe new time flings sunshine into the room.  The wind still keeps\nup mightily.  A wreck is announced--as in the old time.\n\nDuring the night, down yonder by Lokken, the little fishing\nvillage with the red-tiled roofs--we can see it up here from the\nwindow--a ship has come ashore.  It has struck, and is fast embedded in\nthe sand; but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board, and\nformed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board are\nsaved, and reach the land, and are wrapped in warm blankets; and\nto-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum.  In\ncomfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces.\nThey are addressed in the language of their country, and the piano\nsounds for them with melodies of their native land; and before these\nhave died away, the chord has been struck, the wire of thought that\nreaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are\nrescued.  Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join\nin the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Borglum.\nWaltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and\nmelodies of foreign lands in these modern times.\n\nBlessed be thou, new time!  Speak thou of summer and of purer\ngales!  Send 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 BOTTLE NECK\n\nClose to the corner of a street, among other abodes of poverty,\nstood an exceedingly tall, narrow house, which had been so knocked\nabout by time that it seemed out of joint in every direction. This\nhouse was inhabited by poor people, but the deepest poverty was\napparent in the garret lodging in the gable. In front of the little\nwindow, an old bent bird-cage hung in the sunshine, which had not even\na proper water-glass, but instead of it the broken neck of a bottle,\nturned upside down, and a cork stuck in to make it hold the water with\nwhich it was filled. An old maid stood at the window; she had hung\nchickweed over the cage, and the little linnet which it contained\nhopped from perch to perch and sang and twittered merrily.\n\n\"Yes, it's all very well for you to sing,\" said the bottle neck:\nthat is, he did not really speak the words as we do, for the neck of a\nbottle cannot speak; but he thought them to himself in his own mind,\njust as people sometimes talk quietly to themselves.\n\n\"Yes, you may sing very well, you have all your limbs uninjured;\nyou should feel what it is like to lose your body, and only have a\nneck and a mouth left, with a cork stuck in it, as I have: you\nwouldn't sing then, I know. After all, it is just as well that there\nare some who can be happy. I have no reason to sing, nor could I\nsing now if I were ever so happy; but when I was a whole bottle, and\nthey rubbed me with a cork, didn't I sing then? I used to be called\na complete lark. I remember when I went out to a picnic with the\nfurrier's family, on the day his daughter was betrothed,--it seems\nas if it only happened yesterday. I have gone through a great deal\nin my time, when I come to recollect: I have been in the fire and in\nthe water, I have been deep in the earth, and have mounted higher in\nthe air than most other people, and now I am swinging here, outside\na bird-cage, in the air and the sunshine. Oh, indeed, it would be\nworth while to hear my history; but I do not speak it aloud, for a\ngood reason--because I cannot.\"\n\nThen the bottle neck related his history, which was really\nrather remarkable; he, in fact, related it to himself, or, at least,\nthought it in his own mind. The little bird sang his own song merrily;\nin the street below there was driving and running to and fro, every\none thought of his own affairs, or perhaps of nothing at all; but\nthe bottle neck thought deeply. He thought of the blazing furnace in\nthe factory, where he had been blown into life; he remembered how\nhot it felt when he was placed in the heated oven, the home from which\nhe sprang, and that he had a strong inclination to leap out again\ndirectly; but after a while it became cooler, and he found himself\nvery comfortable. He had been placed in a row, with a whole regiment\nof his brothers and sisters all brought out of the same furnace;\nsome of them had certainly been blown into champagne bottles, and\nothers into beer bottles, which made a little difference between them.\nIn the world it often happens that a beer bottle may contain the\nmost precious wine, and a champagne bottle be filled with blacking,\nbut even in decay it may always be seen whether a man has been well\nborn. Nobility remains noble, as a champagne bottle remains the\nsame, even with blacking in its interior. When the bottles were packed\nour bottle was packed amongst them; it little expected then to\nfinish its career as a bottle neck, or to be used as a water-glass\nto a bird's-cage, which is, after all, a place of honor, for it is\nto be of some use in the world. The bottle did not behold the light of\nday again, until it was unpacked with the rest in the wine\nmerchant's cellar, and, for the first time, rinsed with water, which\ncaused some very curious sensations. There it lay empty, and without a\ncork, and it had a peculiar feeling, as if it wanted something it knew\nnot what. At last it was filled with rich and costly wine, a cork\nwas placed in it, and sealed down. Then it was labelled \"first\nquality,\" as if it had carried off the first prize at an\nexamination; besides, the wine and the bottle were both good, and\nwhile we are young is the time for poetry. There were sounds of song\nwithin the bottle, of things it could not understand, of green sunny\nmountains, where the vines grow and where the merry vine-dressers\nlaugh, sing, and are merry. \"Ah, how beautiful is life.\" All these\ntones of joy and song in the bottle were like the working of a young\npoet's brain, who often knows not the meaning of the tones which are\nsounding within him. One morning the bottle found a purchaser in the\nfurrier's apprentice, who was told to bring one of the best bottles of\nwine. It was placed in the provision basket with ham and cheese and\nsausages. The sweetest fresh butter and the finest bread were put into\nthe basket by the furrier's daughter herself, for she packed it. She\nwas young and pretty; her brown eyes laughed, and a smile lingered\nround her mouth as sweet as that in her eyes. She had delicate\nhands, beautifully white, and her neck was whiter still. It could\neasily be seen that she was a very lovely girl, and as yet she was not\nengaged. The provision basket lay in the lap of the young girl as\nthe family drove out to the forest, and the neck of the bottle\npeeped out from between the folds of the white napkin. There was the\nred wax on the cork, and the bottle looked straight at the young\ngirl's face, and also at the face of the young sailor who sat near\nher. He was a young friend, the son of a portrait painter. He had\nlately passed his examination with honor, as mate, and the next\nmorning he was to sail in his ship to a distant coast. There had\nbeen a great deal of talk on this subject while the basket was being\npacked, and during this conversation the eyes and the mouth of the\nfurrier's daughter did not wear a very joyful expression. The young\npeople wandered away into the green wood, and talked together. What\ndid they talk about? The bottle could not say, for he was in the\nprovision basket. It remained there a long time; but when at last it\nwas brought forth it appeared as if something pleasant had happened,\nfor every one was laughing; the furrier's daughter laughed too, but\nshe said very little, and her cheeks were like two roses. Then her\nfather took the bottle and the cork-screw into his hands. What a\nstrange sensation it was to have the cork drawn for the first time!\nThe bottle could never after that forget the performance of that\nmoment; indeed there was quite a convulsion within him as the cork\nflew out, and a gurgling sound as the wine was poured forth into the\nglasses.\n\n\"Long life to the betrothed,\" cried the papa, and every glass\nwas emptied to the dregs, while the young sailor kissed his\nbeautiful bride.\n\n\"Happiness and blessing to you both,\" said the old people-father\nand mother, and the young man filled the glasses again.\n\n\"Safe return, and a wedding this day next year,\" he cried; and\nwhen the glasses were empty he took the bottle, raised it on high, and\nsaid, \"Thou hast been present here on the happiest day of my life;\nthou shalt never be used by others!\" So saying, he hurled it high in\nthe air.\n\nThe furrier's daughter thought she should never see it again,\nbut she was mistaken. It fell among the rushes on the borders of a\nlittle woodland lake. The bottle neck remembered well how long it\nlay there unseen. \"I gave them wine, and they gave me muddy water,\" he\nhad said to himself, \"but I suppose it was all well meant.\" He could\nno longer see the betrothed couple, nor the cheerful old people; but\nfor a long time he could hear them rejoicing and singing. At length\nthere came by two peasant boys, who peeped in among the reeds and\nspied out the bottle. Then they took it up and carried it home with\nthem, so that once more it was provided for. At home in their wooden\ncottage these boys had an elder brother, a sailor, who was about to\nstart on a long voyage. He had been there the day before to say\nfarewell, and his mother was now very busy packing up various things\nfor him to take with him on his voyage. In the evening his father\nwas going to carry the parcel to the town to see his son once more,\nand take him a farewell greeting from his mother. A small bottle had\nalready been filled with herb tea, mixed with brandy, and wrapped in a\nparcel; but when the boys came in they brought with them a larger\nand stronger bottle, which they had found. This bottle would hold so\nmuch more than the little one, and they all said the brandy would be\nso good for complaints of the stomach, especially as it was mixed with\nmedical herbs. The liquid which they now poured into the bottle was\nnot like the red wine with which it had once been filled; these were\nbitter drops, but they are of great use sometimes-for the stomach. The\nnew large bottle was to go, not the little one: so the bottle once\nmore started on its travels. It was taken on board (for Peter Jensen\nwas one of the crew) the very same ship in which the young mate was to\nsail. But the mate did not see the bottle: indeed, if he had he\nwould not have known it, or supposed it was the one out of which\nthey had drunk to the felicity of the betrothed and to the prospect of\na marriage on his own happy return. Certainly the bottle no longer\npoured forth wine, but it contained something quite as good; and so it\nhappened that whenever Peter Jensen brought it out, his messmates gave\nit the name of \"the apothecary,\" for it contained the best medicine to\ncure the stomach, and he gave it out quite willingly as long as a drop\nremained. Those were happy days, and the bottle would sing when rubbed\nwith a cork, and it was called a great lark, \"Peter Jensen's lark.\"\n\nLong days and months rolled by, during which the bottle stood\nempty in a corner, when a storm arose--whether on the passage out or\nhome it could not tell, for it had never been ashore. It was a\nterrible storm, great waves arose, darkly heaving and tossing the\nvessel to and fro. The main mast was split asunder, the ship sprang\na leak, and the pumps became useless, while all around was black as\nnight. At the last moment, when the ship was sinking, the young mate\nwrote on a piece of paper, \"We are going down: God's will be done.\"\nThen he wrote the name of his betrothed, his own name, and that of the\nship. Then he put the leaf in an empty bottle that happened to be at\nhand, corked it down tightly, and threw it into the foaming sea. He\nknew not that it was the very same bottle from which the goblet of joy\nand hope had once been filled for him, and now it was tossing on the\nwaves with his last greeting, and a message from the dead. The ship\nsank, and the crew sank with her; but the bottle flew on like a\nbird, for it bore within it a loving letter from a loving heart. And\nas the sun rose and set, the bottle felt as at the time of its first\nexistence, when in the heated glowing stove it had a longing to fly\naway. It outlived the storms and the calm, it struck against no rocks,\nwas not devoured by sharks, but drifted on for more than a year,\nsometimes towards the north, sometimes towards the south, just as\nthe current carried it. It was in all other ways its own master, but\neven of that one may get tired. The written leaf, the last farewell of\nthe bridegroom to his bride, would only bring sorrow when once it\nreached her hands; but where were those hands, so soft and delicate,\nwhich had once spread the table-cloth on the fresh grass in the\ngreen wood, on the day of her betrothal? Ah, yes! where was the\nfurrier's daughter? and where was the land which might lie nearest\nto her home?\n\nThe bottle knew not, it travelled onward and onward, and at last\nall this wandering about became wearisome; at all events it was not\nits usual occupation. But it had to travel, till at length it\nreached land--a foreign country. Not a word spoken in this country\ncould the bottle understand; it was a language it had never before\nheard, and it is a great loss not to be able to understand a language.\nThe bottle was fished out of the water, and examined on all sides. The\nlittle letter contained within it was discovered, taken out, and\nturned and twisted in every direction; but the people could not\nunderstand what was written upon it. They could be quite sure that the\nbottle had been thrown overboard from a vessel, and that something\nabout it was written on this paper: but what was written? that was the\nquestion,--so the paper was put back into the bottle, and then both\nwere put away in a large cupboard of one of the great houses of the\ntown. Whenever any strangers arrived, the paper was taken out and\nturned over and over, so that the address, which was only written in\npencil, became almost illegible, and at last no one could\ndistinguish any letters on it at all. For a whole year the bottle\nremained standing in the cupboard, and then it was taken up to the\nloft, where it soon became covered with dust and cobwebs. Ah! how\noften then it thought of those better days--of the times when in the\nfresh, green wood, it had poured forth rich wine; or, while rocked\nby the swelling waves, it had carried in its bosom a secret, a letter,\na last parting sigh. For full twenty years it stood in the loft, and\nit might have stayed there longer but that the house was going to be\nrebuilt. The bottle was discovered when the roof was taken off; they\ntalked about it, but the bottle did not understand what they said--a\nlanguage is not to be learnt by living in a loft, even for twenty\nyears. \"If I had been down stairs in the room,\" thought the bottle, \"I\nmight have learnt it.\" It was now washed and rinsed, which process was\nreally quite necessary, and afterwards it looked clean and\ntransparent, and felt young again in its old age; but the paper\nwhich it had carried so faithfully was destroyed in the washing.\nThey filled the bottle with seeds, though it scarcely knew what had\nbeen placed in it. Then they corked it down tightly, and carefully\nwrapped it up. There not even the light of a torch or lantern could\nreach it, much less the brightness of the sun or moon. \"And yet,\"\nthought the bottle, \"men go on a journey that they may see as much\nas possible, and I can see nothing.\" However, it did something quite\nas important; it travelled to the place of its destination, and was\nunpacked.\n\n\"What trouble they have taken with that bottle over yonder!\"\nsaid one, \"and very likely it is broken after all.\" But the bottle\nwas not broken, and, better still, it understood every word that was\nsaid: this language it had heard at the furnaces and at the wine\nmerchant's; in the forest and on the ship,--it was the only good old\nlanguage it could understand. It had returned home, and the language\nwas as a welcome greeting. For very joy, it felt ready to jump out\nof people's hands, and scarcely noticed that its cork had been\ndrawn, and its contents emptied out, till it found itself carried to a\ncellar, to be left there and forgotten. \"There's no place like home,\neven if it's a cellar.\" It never occurred to him to think that he\nmight lie there for years, he felt so comfortable. For many long years\nhe remained in the cellar, till at last some people came to carry away\nthe bottles, and ours amongst the number.\n\nOut in the garden there was a great festival. Brilliant lamps hung\nin festoons from tree to tree; and paper lanterns, through which the\nlight shone till they looked like transparent tulips. It was a\nbeautiful evening, and the weather mild and clear. The stars twinkled;\nand the new moon, in the form of a crescent, was surrounded by the\nshadowy disc of the whole moon, and looked like a gray globe with a\ngolden rim: it was a beautiful sight for those who had good eyes.\nThe illumination extended even to the most retired of the garden\nwalks, at least not so retired that any one need lose himself there.\nIn the borders were placed bottles, each containing a light, and among\nthem the bottle with which we are acquainted, and whose fate it was,\none day, to be only a bottle neck, and to serve as a water-glass to\na bird's-cage. Everything here appeared lovely to our bottle, for it\nwas again in the green wood, amid joy and feasting; again it heard\nmusic and song, and the noise and murmur of a crowd, especially in\nthat part of the garden where the lamps blazed, and the paper lanterns\ndisplayed their brilliant colors. It stood in a distant walk\ncertainly, but a place pleasant for contemplation; and it carried a\nlight; and was at once useful and ornamental. In such an hour it is\neasy to forget that one has spent twenty years in a loft, and a good\nthing it is to be able to do so. Close before the bottle passed a\nsingle pair, like the bridal pair--the mate and the furrier's\ndaughter--who had so long ago wandered in the wood. It seemed to the\nbottle as if he were living that time over again. Not only the\nguests but other people were walking in the garden, who were allowed\nto witness the splendor and the festivities. Among the latter came\nan old maid, who seemed to be quite alone in the world. She was\nthinking, like the bottle, of the green wood, and of a young betrothed\npair, who were closely connected with herself; she was thinking of\nthat hour, the happiest of her life, in which she had taken part, when\nshe had herself been one of that betrothed pair; such hours are\nnever to be forgotten, let a maiden be as old as she may. But she\ndid not recognize the bottle, neither did the bottle notice the old\nmaid. And so we often pass each other in the world when we meet, as\ndid these two, even while together in the same town.\n\nThe bottle was taken from the garden, and again sent to a wine\nmerchant, where it was once more filled with wine, and sold to an\naeronaut, who was to make an ascent in his balloon on the following\nSunday. A great crowd assembled to witness the sight; military music\nhad been engaged, and many other preparations made. The bottle saw\nit all from the basket in which he lay close to a live rabbit. The\nrabbit was quite excited because he knew that he was to be taken up,\nand let down again in a parachute. The bottle, however, knew nothing\nof the \"up,\" or the \"down;\" he saw only that the balloon was\nswelling larger and larger till it could swell no more, and began to\nrise and be restless. Then the ropes which held it were cut through,\nand the aerial ship rose in the air with the aeronaut and the basket\ncontaining the bottle and the rabbit, while the music sounded and\nall the people shouted \"Hurrah.\"\n\n\"This is a wonderful journey up into the air,\" thought the bottle;\n\"it is a new way of sailing, and here, at least, there is no fear of\nstriking against anything.\"\n\nThousands of people gazed at the balloon, and the old maid who was\nin the garden saw it also; for she stood at the open window of the\ngarret, by which hung the cage containing the linnet, who then had\nno water-glass, but was obliged to be contented with an old cup. In\nthe window-sill stood a myrtle in a pot, and this had been pushed a\nlittle on one side, that it might not fall out; for the old maid was\nleaning out of the window, that she might see. And she did see\ndistinctly the aeronaut in the balloon, and how he let down the rabbit\nin the parachute, and then drank to the health of all the spectators\nin the wine from the bottle. After doing this, he hurled it high\ninto the air. How little she thought that this was the very same\nbottle which her friend had thrown aloft in her honor, on that happy\nday of rejoicing, in the green wood, in her youthful days. The\nbottle had no time to think, when raised so suddenly; and before it\nwas aware, it reached the highest point it had ever attained in its\nlife. Steeples and roofs lay far, far beneath it, and the people\nlooked as tiny as possible. Then it began to descend much more rapidly\nthan the rabbit had done, made somersaults in the air, and felt itself\nquite young and unfettered, although it was half full of wine. But\nthis did not last long. What a journey it was! All the people could\nsee the bottle; for the sun shone upon it. The balloon was already far\naway, and very soon the bottle was far away also; for it fell upon a\nroof, and broke in pieces. But the pieces had got such an impetus in\nthem, that they could not stop themselves. They went jumping and\nrolling about, till at last they fell into the court-yard, and were\nbroken into still smaller pieces; only the neck of the bottle\nmanaged to keep whole, and it was broken off as clean as if it had\nbeen cut with a diamond.\n\n\"That would make a capital bird's glass,\" said one of the\ncellar-men; but none of them had either a bird or a cage, and it was\nnot to be expected they would provide one just because they had\nfound a bottle neck that could be used as a glass. But the old maid\nwho lived in the garret had a bird, and it really might be useful to\nher; so the bottle neck was provided with a cork, and taken up to her;\nand, as it often happens in life, the part that had been uppermost was\nnow turned downwards, and it was filled with fresh water. Then they\nhung it in the cage of the little bird, who sang and twittered more\nmerrily than ever.\n\n\"Ah, you have good reason to sing,\" said the bottle neck, which\nwas looked upon as something very remarkable, because it had been in a\nballoon; nothing further was known of its history. As it hung there in\nthe bird's-cage, it could hear the noise and murmur of the people in\nthe street below, as well as the conversation of the old maid in the\nroom within. An old friend had just come to visit her, and they\ntalked, not about the bottle neck, but of the myrtle in the window.\n\n\"No, you must not spend a dollar for your daughter's bridal\nbouquet,\" said the old maid; \"you shall have a beautiful little\nbunch for a nosegay, full of blossoms. Do you see how splendidly the\ntree has grown? It has been raised from only a little sprig of\nmyrtle that you gave me on the day after my betrothal, and from\nwhich I was to make my own bridal bouquet when a year had passed:\nbut that day never came; the eyes were closed which were to have\nbeen my light and joy through life. In the depths of the sea my\nbeloved sleeps sweetly; the myrtle has become an old tree, and I am\na still older woman. Before the sprig you gave me faded, I took a\nspray, and planted it in the earth; and now, as you see, it has become\na large tree, and a bunch of the blossoms shall at last appear at a\nwedding festival, in the bouquet of your daughter.\"\n\nThere were tears in the eyes of the old maid, as she spoke of\nthe beloved of her youth, and of their betrothal in the wood. Many\nthoughts came into her mind; but the thought never came, that quite\nclose to her, in that very window, was a remembrance of those olden\ntimes,--the neck of the bottle which had, as it were shouted for joy\nwhen the cork flew out with a bang on the betrothal day. But the\nbottle neck did not recognize the old maid; he had not been\nlistening to what she had related, perhaps because he was thinking\nso much about her.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BUCKWHEAT\n\nVery often, after a violent thunder-storm, a field of buckwheat\nappears blackened and singed, as if a flame of fire had passed over\nit. The country people say that this appearance is caused by\nlightning; but I will tell you what the sparrow says, and the\nsparrow heard it from an old willow-tree which grew near a field of\nbuckwheat, and is there still. It is a large venerable tree, though\na little crippled by age. The trunk has been split, and out of the\ncrevice grass and brambles grow. The tree bends for-ward slightly, and\nthe branches hang quite down to the ground just like green hair.\nCorn grows in the surrounding fields, not only rye and barley, but\noats,-pretty oats that, when ripe, look like a number of little golden\ncanary-birds sitting on a bough. The corn has a smiling look and the\nheaviest and richest ears bend their heads low as if in pious\nhumility. Once there was also a field of buckwheat, and this field was\nexactly opposite to old willow-tree. The buckwheat did not bend like\nthe other grain, but erected its head proudly and stiffly on the stem.\n\"I am as valuable as any other corn,\" said he, \"and I am much\nhandsomer; my flowers are as beautiful as the bloom of the apple\nblossom, and it is a pleasure to look at us. Do you know of anything\nprettier than we are, you old willow-tree?\"\n\nAnd the willow-tree nodded his head, as if he would say, \"Indeed I\ndo.\"\n\nBut the buckwheat spread itself out with pride, and said,\n\"Stupid tree; he is so old that grass grows out of his body.\"\n\nThere arose a very terrible storm. All the field-flowers folded\ntheir leaves together, or bowed their little heads, while the storm\npassed over them, but the buckwheat stood erect in its pride. \"Bend\nyour head as we do,\" said the flowers.\n\n\"I have no occasion to do so,\" replied the buckwheat.\n\n\"Bend your head as we do,\" cried the ears of corn; \"the angel of\nthe storm is coming; his wings spread from the sky above to the\nearth beneath. He will strike you down before you can cry for mercy.\"\n\n\"But I will not bend my head,\" said the buckwheat.\n\n\"Close your flowers and bend your leaves,\" said the old\nwillow-tree. \"Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts; even\nmen cannot do that. In a flash of lightning heaven opens, and we can\nlook in; but the sight will strike even human beings blind. What\nthen must happen to us, who only grow out of the earth, and are so\ninferior to them, if we venture to do so?\"\n\n\"Inferior, indeed!\" said the buckwheat. \"Now I intend to have a\npeep into heaven.\" Proudly and boldly he looked up, while the\nlightning flashed across the sky as if the whole world were in flames.\n\nWhen the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the corn\nraised their drooping heads in the pure still air, refreshed by the\nrain, but the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, burnt to\nblackness by the lightning. The branches of the old willow-tree\nrustled in the wind, and large water-drops fell from his green leaves\nas if the old willow were weeping. Then the sparrows asked why he was\nweeping, when all around him seemed so cheerful. \"See,\" they said,\n\"how the sun shines, and the clouds float in the blue sky. Do you not\nsmell the sweet perfume from flower and bush? Wherefore do you weep,\nold willow-tree?\" Then the willow told them of the haughty pride of\nthe buckwheat, and of the punishment which followed in consequence.\n\nThis is the story told me by the sparrows one evening when I\nbegged them to relate some tale to me.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BUTTERFLY\n\nThere was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may\nbe supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the\nflowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds,\nand found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their\nstalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; but\nthere was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search\nwould become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too\nmuch trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French\ncall this flower \"Marguerite,\" and they say that the little daisy\ncan prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each\nleaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: \"Does he or she\nlove me?--Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?\"\nand so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The\nbutterfly came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off\nher leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there\nwas always more to be done by kindness.\n\n\"Darling Marguerite daisy,\" he said to her, \"you are the wisest\nwoman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall\nchoose for my wife. Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly\ndirectly to her, and propose.\"\n\nBut Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should\ncall her a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great\ndifference. He asked her a second time, and then a third; but she\nremained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he would wait no\nlonger, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in the\nearly spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.\n\n\"They are very pretty,\" thought the butterfly; \"charming little\nlasses; but they are rather formal.\"\n\nThen, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder\ngirls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his\ntaste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too\nsmall, and besides, there was such a large family of them. The\napple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but\nmight fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he\nthought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a\ntime. The pea-blossom pleased him most of all; she was white and\nred, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens\nwho have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He\nwas just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw\na pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.\n\n\"Who is that?\" he asked.\n\n\"That is my sister,\" replied the pea-blossom.\n\n\"Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day,\" said he; and he\nflew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.\n\nA honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but\nthere were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow\ncomplexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did he like?\n\nSpring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came;\nbut he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most\ngorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant\nair of youth. For the heart asks for fragrance, even when it is no\nlonger young; and there is very little of that to be found in the\ndahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to\nthe mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is\nsweetness all over,--full of fragrance from head to foot, with the\nscent of a flower in every leaf.\n\n\"I will take her,\" said the butterfly; and he made her an offer.\nBut the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last\nshe said,--\n\n\"Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are\nold, but we may live for each other just the same; as to marrying--no;\ndon't let us appear ridiculous at our age.\"\n\nAnd so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had\nbeen too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the\nbutterfly became what is called an old bachelor.\n\nIt was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold\nwind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked\nagain. It was not the weather for flying about in summer clothes;\nbut fortunately the butterfly was not out in it. He had got a\nshelter by chance. It was in a room heated by a stove, and as warm\nas summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.\n\n\"But it is not enough merely to exist,\" said he, \"I need\nfreedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion.\"\n\nThen he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired\nby those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box\nof curiosities. They could not do more for him.\n\n\"Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers,\" said the\nbutterfly. \"It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is\nsomething like being married; for here I am stuck fast.\" And with this\nthought he consoled himself a little.\n\n\"That seems very poor consolation,\" said one of the plants in\nthe room, that grew in a pot.\n\n\"Ah,\" thought the butterfly, \"one can't very well trust these\nplants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind.\"\n\n\n\n\nA CHEERFUL TEMPER\n\nFrom my father I received the best inheritance, namely a \"good\ntemper.\"  \"And who was my father?\" That has nothing to do with the good\ntemper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat;\nhe was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to\nhis profession.  \"And pray what was his profession and his standing\nin respectable society?\" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a\nbook these were written and printed, many, when they read it, would\nlay the book down and say, \"It seems to me a very miserable title, I\ndon't like things of this sort.\"  And yet my father was not a\nskin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employment\nplaced him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and it\nwas his place by right.  He had to precede the bishop, and even the\nprinces of the blood; he always went first,--he was a hearse driver!\nThere, now, the truth is out.  And I will own, that when people saw\nmy father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in\nhis long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat\non his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as\nthe sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave.  That face\nsaid, \"It is nothing, it will all end better than people think.\"  So\nI have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of\ngoing often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper\nhumor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used to\ndo.\n\nI am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a\nlibrary, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for\nme; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father.  It\nis of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know;\nthe names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which\nare published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions may\nbe obtained.  And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and\nwhat innocent verses!  Persons seeking interviews and engagements,\nall so plainly and naturally stated.  Certainly, a man who takes in the\nIntelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the\nend of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can\nlie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his\nresting-place.  The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting\nobjects to me.  My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my\ngood humor.  Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come\nwith me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are\ngreen, and let us wander among the graves.  Each of them is like a\nclosed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title\nof what the book contains, but nothing more.  I had a great deal of\ninformation from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself.\nI keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure\na history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.\n\nNow we are in the churchyard.  Here, behind the white iron\nrailings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of\nevergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils,\nand makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet\nwhile he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position.  He had\nenough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his\nrefined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him.  If he went to\na theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite\nannoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of\nthe moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the scenes\nwhen they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree was\nintroduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin,\nor a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of\nNorway.  As if these things were of any consequence!  Why did he not\nleave them alone?  Who would trouble themselves about such trifles?\nespecially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused.  Then\nsometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him.\n\"They are like wet wood,\" he would say, looking round to see what sort\nof people were present, \"this evening; nothing fires them.\"  Then he\nwould vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right\ntime, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted\nand worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself\ninto the grave.\n\nHere rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth and\nposition, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have been\nscarcely worth notice.  It is beautiful to observe how wisely nature\norders these things.  He walked about in a coat embroidered all over,\nand in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those rich\npearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind\nthem always hangs a good thick cord for use.  This man also had a\nstout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and\nperformed all his dirty work.  And there are still, even now, these\nserviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes.  It is all so\nwisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.\n\nHere rests,--ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him!--but\nhere rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was never\nremembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope of\nhaving a good idea.  At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, that\nhe really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joy\nat the thought of having at last caught an idea.  Nobody got anything\nby it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was.  Now I can\nimagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in\nhis grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is\nnecessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can only\nmake his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believed\ngenerally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour,\nand the man would have to carry it down again with him into the\ngrave--that must be a troubled grave.\n\nThe woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that during\nher life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighbors\nmight think she kept a cat.  What a miser she was!\n\nHere rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always make\nher voice heard in society, and when she sang \"Mi manca la voce,\"[1]\nit was the only true thing she ever said in her life.\n\nHere lies a maiden of another description.  She was engaged to be\nmarried,--but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave her\nto rest in the grave.\n\nHere rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall in\nher heart.  She used to go round among the families near, and search\nout their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and malice\nof her nature.  This is a family grave.  The members of this family held\nso firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in no\nother.  If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain\nsubject, \"It is so-and-so;\" and a little schoolboy declared he had\nlearned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the only\ntrue one, because he belonged to the family.  And it is well known that\nif the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow at\nmidnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman and\nall the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve at\nnight.\n\nThe great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, \"may\nbe continued;\" so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued.\nI come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not my\nfriends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of ground\nin which to bury him or her.  Then I bury them, as it were; there\nthey lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and better\ncharacters.  Their lives and their deeds, looked at after my own\nfashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do.  Then,\nif any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about\nit.  Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good\ntemper.  They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper written\nby the people, with their hands guided.  When the time comes for the\nhistory of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will write\nupon it as my epitaph--\n\n  \"The man with a cheerful temper.\"\n\nAnd this is my story.\n\n\n[1] \"I want a voice,\" or, \"I have no voice.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHILD IN THE GRAVE\n\nIt was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt the\ndeepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years old, the\njoy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters, the elder of\nwhom was going to be confirmed, still remained: they were both good,\ncharming girls; but the lost child always seems the dearest; and\nwhen it is youngest, and a son, it makes the trial still more heavy.\nThe sisters mourned as young hearts can mourn, and were especially\ngrieved at the sight of their parents' sorrow. The father's heart\nwas bowed down, but the mother sunk completely under the deep grief.\nDay and night she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying\nit in her bosom, as a part of herself. She could not realize the\nfact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin to rest\nin the ground. She thought God could not take her darling little one\nfrom her; and when it did happen notwithstanding her hopes and her\nbelief, and there could be no more doubt on the subject, she said in\nher feverish agony, \"God does not know it. He has hard-hearted\nministering spirits on earth, who do according to their own will,\nand heed not a mother's prayers.\" Thus in her great grief she fell\naway from her faith in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind\nrespecting death and a future state. She tried to believe that man was\nbut dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these doubts\nwere no support to her, nothing on which she could rest, and she\nsunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In her darkest hours she\nceased to weep, and thought not of the young daughters who were\nstill left to her. The tears of her husband fell on her forehead,\nbut she took no notice of him; her thoughts were with her dead\nchild; her whole existence seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of\nthe little one and of every innocent word it had uttered.\n\nThe day of the little child's funeral came. For nights\npreviously the mother had not slept, but in the morning twilight of\nthis day she sunk from weariness into a deep sleep; in the mean time\nthe coffin was carried into a distant room, and there nailed down,\nthat she might not hear the blows of the hammer. When she awoke, and\nwanted to see her child, the husband, with tears, said, \"We have\nclosed the coffin; it was necessary to do so.\"\n\n\"When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be better?\"\nshe said with groans and tears.\n\nThe coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate mother\nsat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but she saw them\nnot; for her thoughts were far away from the domestic hearth. She gave\nherself up to her grief, and it tossed her to and fro, as the sea\ntosses a ship without compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral\npassed away, and similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain.\nWith tearful eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and\nthe afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their words\nof comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could they speak,\nwhen they were themselves so full of grief? It seemed as if she\nwould never again know sleep, and yet it would have been her best\nfriend, one who would have strengthened her body and poured peace into\nher soul. They at last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would\nlie as still as if she slept.\n\nOne night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to her\nbreathing, he quite believed that she had at length found rest and\nrelief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and soon sunk\nhimself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not notice that his\nwife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided silently from the\nhouse, to go where her thoughts constantly lingered--to the grave of\nher child. She passed through the garden, to a path across a field\nthat led to the churchyard. No one saw her as she walked, nor did\nshe see any one; for her eyes were fixed upon the one object of her\nwanderings. It was a lovely starlight night in the beginning of\nSeptember, and the air was mild and still. She entered the\nchurchyard, and stood by the little grave, which looked like a large\nnosegay of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over\nthe grave, as if she could see her child through the earth that\ncovered him--her little boy, whose smile was so vividly before her,\nand the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on his sick-bed, she\ncould not forget. How full of meaning that glance had been, as she\nleaned over him, holding in hers the pale hand which he had no longer\nstrength to raise! As she had sat by his little cot, so now she sat\nby his grave; and here she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon\nit.\n\n\"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child,\" said a\nvoice quite close to her,--a voice that sounded so deep and clear,\nthat it went to her heart.\n\nShe looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a black\ncloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her keen glance\ncould distinguish the face under the hood. It was stern, yet\nawakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with youthful radiance.\n\n\"Down to my child,\" she repeated; and tones of despair and\nentreaty sounded in the words.\n\n\"Darest thou to follow me?\" asked the form. \"I am Death.\"\n\nShe bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it appeared\nas if all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon on\nthe many-colored flowers that decked the grave. The earth that covered\nit was drawn back like a floating drapery. She sunk down, and the\nspectre covered her with a black cloak; night closed around her, the\nnight of death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could\npenetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then the cloak\nwas removed, and she found herself in a large hall, of wide-spreading\ndimensions, in which there was a subdued light, like twilight,\nreigning, and in a moment her child appeared before her, smiling,\nand more beautiful than ever; with a silent cry she pressed him\nto her heart. A glorious strain of music sounded--now distant, now\nnear. Never had she listened to such tones as these; they came from\nbeyond a large dark curtain which separated the regions of death\nfrom the land of eternity.\n\n\"My sweet, darling mother,\" she heard the child say. It was the\nwell-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in boundless\ndelight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain. \"There is nothing\nso beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother, do you not see them\nall? Oh, it is happiness indeed.\"\n\nBut the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out, only the\ndark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the\nchild saw,--he whom God has called to be with Himself. She could\nhear the sounds of music, but she heard not the words, the Word in\nwhich she was to trust.\n\n\"I can fly now, mother,\" said the child; \"I can fly with other\nhappy children into the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly\naway now; but if you weep for me as you are weeping now, you may never\nsee me again. And yet I would go so gladly. May I not fly away? And\nyou will come to me soon, will you not, dear mother?\"\n\n\"Oh, stay, stay!\" implored the mother; \"only one moment more; only\nonce more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss thee, and press thee to\nmy heart.\"\n\nThen she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name was\ncalled from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in a plaintive\nvoice.\n\n\"Hearest thou?\" said the child. \"It is my father who calls\nthee.\" And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of children\nweeping. \"They are my sisters,\" said the child. \"Mother, surely you\nhave not forgotten them.\"\n\nAnd then she remembered those she left behind, and a great\nterror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night. Dim\nforms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as they\nfloated through the regions of death towards the dark curtain, where\nthey vanished. Would her husband and her daughters flit past? No;\ntheir sighs and lamentations still sounded from above; and she had\nnearly forgotten them, for the sake of him who was dead.\n\n\"Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing,\" said the child;\n\"mother, the sun is going to rise.\"\n\nAn overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had\nvanished, and she was being borne upwards. All around her became cold;\nshe lifted her head, and saw that she was lying in the churchyard,\non the grave of her child. The Lord, in a dream, had been a guide to\nher feet and a light to her spirit. She bowed her knees, and prayed\nfor forgiveness. She had wished to keep back a soul from its\nimmortal flight; she had forgotten her duties towards the living who\nwere left her. And when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt\nlighter. The sun burst forth, over her head a little bird carolled his\nsong, and the church-bells sounded for the early service. Everything\naround her seemed holy, and her heart was chastened. She\nacknowledged the goodness of God, she acknowledged the duties she\nhad to perform, and eagerly she returned home. She bent over her\nhusband, who still slept; her warm, devoted kiss awakened him, and\nwords of heartfelt love fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle\nand strong as a wife can be; and from her lips came the words of\nfaith: \"Whatever He doeth is right and best.\"\n\nThen her husband asked, \"From whence hast thou all at once derived\nsuch strength and comforting faith?\"\n\nAnd as she kissed him and her children, she said, \"It came from\nGod, through my child in the grave.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHILDREN'S PRATTLE\n\nAt a rich merchant's house there was a children's party, and the\nchildren of rich and great people were there. The merchant was a\nlearned man, for his father had sent him to college, and he had passed\nhis examination. His father had been at first only a cattle dealer,\nbut always honest and industrious, so that he had made money, and\nhis son, the merchant, had managed to increase his store. Clever as he\nwas, he had also a heart; but there was less said of his heart than of\nhis money. All descriptions of people visited at the merchant's house,\nwell born, as well as intellectual, and some who possessed neither\nof these recommendations.\n\nNow it was a children's party, and there was children's prattle,\nwhich always is spoken freely from the heart. Among them was a\nbeautiful little girl, who was terribly proud; but this had been\ntaught her by the servants, and not by her parents, who were far too\nsensible people.\n\nHer father was groom of the Chambers, which is a high office at\ncourt, and she knew it. \"I am a child of the court,\" she said; now she\nmight just as well have been a child of the cellar, for no one can\nhelp his birth; and then she told the other children that she was\nwell-born, and said that no one who was not well-born could rise in\nthe world. It was no use to read and be industrious, for if a person\nwas not well-born, he could never achieve anything. \"And those whose\nnames end with 'sen,'\" said she, \"can never be anything at all. We\nmust put our arms akimbo, and make the elbow quite pointed, so as to\nkeep these 'sen' people at a great distance.\" And then she stuck out\nher pretty little arms, and made the elbows quite pointed, to show how\nit was to be done; and her little arms were very pretty, for she was a\nsweet-looking child.\n\nBut the little daughter of the merchant became very angry at\nthis speech, for her father's name was Petersen, and she knew that the\nname ended in \"sen,\" and therefore she said as proudly as she could,\n\"But my papa can buy a hundred dollars' worth of bonbons, and give\nthem away to children. Can your papa do that?\"\n\n\"Yes; and my papa,\" said the little daughter of the editor of a\npaper, \"my papa can put your papa and everybody's papa into the\nnewspaper. All sorts of people are afraid of him, my mamma says, for\nhe can do as he likes with the paper.\" And the little maiden looked\nexceedingly proud, as if she had been a real princess, who may be\nexpected to look proud.\n\nBut outside the door, which stood ajar, was a poor boy, peeping\nthrough the crack of the door. He was of such a lowly station that\nhe had not been allowed even to enter the room. He had been turning\nthe spit for the cook, and she had given him permission to stand\nbehind the door and peep in at the well-dressed children, who were\nhaving such a merry time within; and for him that was a great deal.\n\"Oh, if I could be one of them,\" thought he, and then he heard what\nwas said about names, which was quite enough to make him more unhappy.\nHis parents at home had not even a penny to spare to buy a\nnewspaper, much less could they write in one; and worse than all,\nhis father's name, and of course his own, ended in \"sen,\" and\ntherefore he could never turn out well, which was a very sad\nthought. But after all, he had been born into the world, and the\nstation of life had been chosen for him, therefore he must be content.\n\nAnd this is what happened on that evening.\n\n\nMany years passed, and most of the children became grown-up\npersons.\n\nThere stood a splendid house in the town, filled with all kinds of\nbeautiful and valuable objects. Everybody wished to see it, and people\neven came in from the country round to be permitted to view the\ntreasures it contained.\n\nWhich of the children whose prattle we have described, could\ncall this house his own? One would suppose it very easy to guess.\nNo, no; it is not so very easy. The house belonged to the poor\nlittle boy who had stood on that night behind the door. He had\nreally become something great, although his name ended in \"sen,\"--for\nit was Thorwaldsen.\n\nAnd the three other children--the children of good birth, of\nmoney, and of intellectual pride,--well, they were respected and\nhonored in the world, for they had been well provided for by birth and\nposition, and they had no cause to reproach themselves with what\nthey had thought and spoken on that evening long ago, for, after\nall, it was mere \"children's prattle.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE FARM-YARD COCK AND THE WEATHER-COCK\n\nThere were two cocks--one on the dung-hill, the other on the roof.\nThey were both arrogant, but which of the two rendered most service?\nTell us your opinion--we'll keep to ours just the same though.\n\nThe poultry yard was divided by some planks from another yard in\nwhich there was a dung-hill, and on the dung-hill lay and grew a large\ncucumber which was conscious of being a hot-bed plant.\n\n\"One is born to that,\" said the cucumber to itself. \"Not all can\nbe born cucumbers; there must be other things, too. The hens, the\nducks, and all the animals in the next yard are creatures too. Now I\nhave a great opinion of the yard cock on the plank; he is certainly of\nmuch more importance than the weather-cock who is placed so high and\ncan't even creak, much less crow. The latter has neither hens nor\nchicks, and only thinks of himself and perspires verdigris. No, the\nyard cock is really a cock! His step is a dance! His crowing is music,\nand wherever he goes one knows what a trumpeter is like! If he would\nonly come in here! Even if he ate me up stump, stalk, and all, and I\nhad to dissolve in his body, it would be a happy death,\" said the\ncucumber.\n\nIn the night there was a terrible storm. The hens, chicks, and\neven the cock sought shelter; the wind tore down the planks between\nthe two yards with a crash; the tiles came tumbling down, but the\nweather-cock sat firm. He did not even turn round, for he could not;\nand yet he was young and freshly cast, but prudent and sedate. He\nhad been born old, and did not at all resemble the birds flying in the\nair--the sparrows, and the swallows; no, he despised them, these\nmean little piping birds, these common whistlers. He admitted that the\npigeons, large and white and shining like mother-o'-pearl, looked like\na kind of weather-cock; but they were fat and stupid, and all their\nthoughts and endeavours were directed to filling themselves with food,\nand besides, they were tiresome things to converse with. The birds\nof passage had also paid the weather-cock a visit and told him of\nforeign countries, of airy caravans and robber stories that made one's\nhair stand on end. All this was new and interesting; that is, for\nthe first time, but afterwards, as the weather-cock found out, they\nrepeated themselves and always told the same stories, and that's\nvery tedious, and there was no one with whom one could associate,\nfor one and all were stale and small-minded.\n\n\"The world is no good!\" he said. \"Everything in it is so stupid.\"\n\nThe weather-cock was puffed up, and that quality would have made\nhim interesting in the eyes of the cucumber if it had known it, but it\nhad eyes only for the yard cock, who was now in the yard with it.\n\nThe wind had blown the planks, but the storm was over.\n\n\"What do you think of that crowing?\" said the yard cock to the\nhens and chickens. \"It was a little rough--it wanted elegance.\"\n\nAnd the hens and chickens came up on the dung-hill, and the cock\nstrutted about like a lord.\n\n\"Garden plant!\" he said to the cucumber, and in that one word\nhis deep learning showed itself, and it forgot that he was pecking\nat her and eating it up. \"A happy death!\"\n\nThe hens and the chickens came, for where one runs the others\nrun too; they clucked, and chirped, and looked at the cock, and were\nproud that he was of their kind.\n\n\"Cock-a-doodle-doo!\" he crowed, \"the chickens will grow up into\ngreat hens at once, if I cry it out in the poultry-yard of the world!\"\n\nAnd hens and chicks clucked and chirped, and the cock announced\na great piece of news.\n\n\"A cock can lay an egg! And do you know what's in that egg? A\nbasilisk. No one can stand the sight of such a thing; people know\nthat, and now you know it too--you know what is in me, and what a\nchampion of all cocks I am!\"\n\nWith that the yard cock flapped his wings, made his comb swell up,\nand crowed again; and they all shuddered, the hens and the little\nchicks--but they were very proud that one of their number was such a\nchampion of all cocks. They clucked and chirped till the\nweather-cock heard; he heard it; but he did not stir.\n\n\"Everything is very stupid,\" the weather-cock said to himself.\n\"The yard cock lays no eggs, and I am too lazy to do so; if I liked, I\ncould lay a wind-egg. But the world is not worth even a wind-egg.\nEverything is so stupid! I don't want to sit here any longer.\"\n\nWith that the weather-cock broke off; but he did not kill the yard\ncock, although the hens said that had been his intention. And what\nis the moral? \"Better to crow than to be puffed up and break off!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DAISY\n\nNow listen! In the country, close by the high road, stood a\nfarmhouse; perhaps you have passed by and seen it yourself. There\nwas a little flower garden with painted wooden palings in front of it;\nclose by was a ditch, on its fresh green bank grew a little daisy; the\nsun shone as warmly and brightly upon it as on the magnificent\ngarden flowers, and therefore it thrived well. One morning it had\nquite opened, and its little snow-white petals stood round the\nyellow centre, like the rays of the sun. It did not mind that nobody\nsaw it in the grass, and that it was a poor despised flower; on the\ncontrary, it was quite happy, and turned towards the sun, looking\nupward and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air.\n\nThe little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great\nholiday, but it was only Monday. All the children were at school,\nand while they were sitting on the forms and learning their lessons,\nit sat on its thin green stalk and learnt from the sun and from its\nsurroundings how kind God is, and it rejoiced that the song of the\nlittle lark expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own feelings. With\na sort of reverence the daisy looked up to the bird that could fly and\nsing, but it did not feel envious. \"I can see and hear,\" it thought;\n\"the sun shines upon me, and the forest kisses me. How rich I am!\"\n\nIn the garden close by grew many large and magnificent flowers,\nand, strange to say, the less fragrance they had the haughtier and\nprouder they were. The peonies puffed themselves up in order to be\nlarger than the roses, but size is not everything! The tulips had\nthe finest colours, and they knew it well, too, for they were standing\nbolt upright like candles, that one might see them the better. In\ntheir pride they did not see the little daisy, which looked over to\nthem and thought, \"How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the\npretty bird will fly down and call upon them. Thank God, that I\nstand so near and can at least see all the splendour.\" And while the\ndaisy was still thinking, the lark came flying down, crying \"Tweet,\"\nbut not to the peonies and tulips--no, into the grass to the poor\ndaisy. Its joy was so great that it did not know what to think. The\nlittle bird hopped round it and sang, \"How beautifully soft the\ngrass is, and what a lovely little flower with its golden heart and\nsilver dress is growing here.\" The yellow centre in the daisy did\nindeed look like gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as\nsilver.\n\nHow happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea. The bird\nkissed it with its beak, sang to it, and then rose again up to the\nblue sky. It was certainly more than a quarter of an hour before the\ndaisy recovered its senses. Half ashamed, yet glad at heart, it looked\nover to the other flowers in the garden; surely they had witnessed its\npleasure and the honour that had been done to it; they understood\nits joy. But the tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces were\npointed and red, because they were vexed. The peonies were sulky; it\nwas well that they could not speak, otherwise they would have given\nthe daisy a good lecture. The little flower could very well see that\nthey were ill at ease, and pitied them sincerely.\n\nShortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a large sharp\nknife. She went to the tulips and began cutting them off, one after\nanother. \"Ugh!\" sighed the daisy, \"that is terrible; now they are done\nfor.\"\n\nThe girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad that it was\noutside, and only a small flower--it felt very grateful. At sunset\nit folded its petals, and fell asleep, and dreamt all night of the sun\nand the little bird.\n\nOn the following morning, when the flower once more stretched\nforth its tender petals, like little arms, towards the air and\nlight, the daisy recognised the bird's voice, but what it sang sounded\nso sad. Indeed the poor bird had good reason to be sad, for it had\nbeen caught and put into a cage close by the open window. It sang of\nthe happy days when it could merrily fly about, of fresh green corn in\nthe fields, and of the time when it could soar almost up to the\nclouds. The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage. The\nlittle daisy would have liked so much to help it, but what could be\ndone? Indeed, that was very difficult for such a small flower to\nfind out. It entirely forgot how beautiful everything around it was,\nhow warmly the sun was shining, and how splendidly white its own\npetals were. It could only think of the poor captive bird, for which\nit could do nothing. Then two little boys came out of the garden;\none of them had a large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had\ncut the tulips. They came straight towards the little daisy, which\ncould not understand what they wanted.\n\n\"Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark,\" said one of the boys,\nand began to cut out a square round the daisy, so that it remained\nin the centre of the grass.\n\n\"Pluck the flower off,\" said the other boy, and the daisy\ntrembled for fear, for to be pulled off meant death to it; and it\nwished so much to live, as it was to go with the square of turf into\nthe poor captive lark's cage.\n\n\"No let it stay,\" said the other boy, \"it looks so pretty.\"\n\nAnd so it stayed, and was brought into the lark's cage. The poor\nbird was lamenting its lost liberty, and beating its wings against the\nwires; and the little daisy could not speak or utter a consoling word,\nmuch as it would have liked to do so. So the forenoon passed.\n\n\"I have no water,\" said the captive lark, \"they have all gone out,\nand forgotten to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and\nburning. I feel as if I had fire and ice within me, and the air is\nso oppressive. Alas! I must die, and part with the warm sunshine,\nthe fresh green meadows, and all the beauty that God has created.\" And\nit thrust its beak into the piece of grass, to refresh itself a\nlittle. Then it noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed\nit with its beak and said: \"You must also fade in here, poor little\nflower. You and the piece of grass are all they have given me in\nexchange for the whole world, which I enjoyed outside. Each little\nblade of grass shall be a green tree for me, each of your white petals\na fragrant flower. Alas! you only remind me of what I have lost.\"\n\n\"I wish I could console the poor lark,\" thought the daisy. It\ncould not move one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its delicate\npetals streamed forth, and was much stronger than such flowers usually\nhave: the bird noticed it, although it was dying with thirst, and in\nits pain tore up the green blades of grass, but did not touch the\nflower.\n\nThe evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a\ndrop of water; it opened its beautiful wings, and fluttered about in\nits anguish; a faint and mournful \"Tweet, tweet,\" was all it could\nutter, then it bent its little head towards the flower, and its\nheart broke for want and longing. The flower could not, as on the\nprevious evening, fold up its petals and sleep; it dropped\nsorrowfully. The boys only came the next morning; when they saw the\ndead bird, they began to cry bitterly, dug a nice grave for it, and\nadorned it with flowers. The bird's body was placed in a pretty red\nbox; they wished to bury it with royal honours. While it was alive and\nsang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage; now, they\ncried over it and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf, with the\nlittle daisy in it, was thrown out on the dusty highway. Nobody\nthought of the flower which had felt so much for the bird and had so\ngreatly desired to comfort it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DARNING-NEEDLE\n\nThere was once a darning-needle who thought herself so fine that\nshe fancied she must be fit for embroidery. \"Hold me tight,\" she would\nsay to the fingers, when they took her up, \"don't let me fall; if\nyou do I shall never be found again, I am so very fine.\"\n\n\"That is your opinion, is it?\" said the fingers, as they seized\nher round the body.\n\n\"See, I am coming with a train,\" said the darning-needle,\ndrawing a long thread after her; but there was no knot in the thread.\n\nThe fingers then placed the point of the needle against the cook's\nslipper. There was a crack in the upper leather, which had to be\nsewn together.\n\n\"What coarse work!\" said the darning-needle, \"I shall never get\nthrough. I shall break!--I am breaking!\" and sure enough she broke.\n\"Did I not say so?\" said the darning-needle, \"I know I am too fine for\nsuch work as that.\"\n\n\"This needle is quite useless for sewing now,\" said the fingers;\nbut they still held it fast, and the cook dropped some sealing-wax\non the needle, and fastened her handkerchief with it in front.\n\n\"So now I am a breast-pin,\" said the darning-needle; \"I knew\nvery well I should come to honor some day: merit is sure to rise;\" and\nshe laughed, quietly to herself, for of course no one ever saw a\ndarning-needle laugh. And there she sat as proudly as if she were in a\nstate coach, and looked all around her. \"May I be allowed to ask if\nyou are made of gold?\" she inquired of her neighbor, a pin; \"you\nhave a very pretty appearance, and a curious head, although you are\nrather small. You must take pains to grow, for it is not every one who\nhas sealing-wax dropped upon him;\" and as she spoke, the\ndarning-needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the\nhandkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was cleaning. \"Now\nI am going on a journey,\" said the needle, as she floated away with\nthe dirty water, \"I do hope I shall not be lost.\" But she really was\nlost in a gutter. \"I am too fine for this world,\" said the\ndarning-needle, as she lay in the gutter; \"but I know who I am, and\nthat is always some comfort.\" So the darning-needle kept up her\nproud behavior, and did not lose her good humor. Then there floated\nover her all sorts of things,--chips and straws, and pieces of old\nnewspaper. \"See how they sail,\" said the darning-needle; \"they do\nnot know what is under them. I am here, and here I shall stick. See,\nthere goes a chip, thinking of nothing in the world but himself--only\na chip. There's a straw going by now; how he turns and twists\nabout! Don't be thinking too much of yourself, or you may chance to\nrun against a stone. There swims a piece of newspaper; what is written\nupon it has been forgotten long ago, and yet it gives itself airs. I\nsit here patiently and quietly. I know who I am, so I shall not move.\"\n\nOne day something lying close to the darning-needle glittered so\nsplendidly that she thought it was a diamond; yet it was only a\npiece of broken bottle. The darning-needle spoke to it, because it\nsparkled, and represented herself as a breast-pin. \"I suppose you\nare really a diamond?\" she said.\n\n\"Why yes, something of the kind,\" he replied; and so each believed\nthe other to be very valuable, and then they began to talk about the\nworld, and the conceited people in it.\n\n\"I have been in a lady's work-box,\" said the darning-needle,\n\"and this lady was the cook. She had on each hand five fingers, and\nanything so conceited as these five fingers I have never seen; and yet\nthey were only employed to take me out of the box and to put me back\nagain.\"\n\n\"Were they not high-born?\"\n\n\"High-born!\" said the darning-needle, \"no indeed, but so\nhaughty. They were five brothers, all born fingers; they kept very\nproudly together, though they were of different lengths. The one who\nstood first in the rank was named the thumb, he was short and thick,\nand had only one joint in his back, and could therefore make but one\nbow; but he said that if he were cut off from a man's hand, that man\nwould be unfit for a soldier. Sweet-tooth, his neighbor, dipped\nhimself into sweet or sour, pointed to the sun and moon, and formed\nthe letters when the fingers wrote. Longman, the middle finger, looked\nover the heads of all the others. Gold-band, the next finger, wore a\ngolden circle round his waist. And little Playman did nothing at\nall, and seemed proud of it. They were boasters, and boasters they\nwill remain; and therefore I left them.\"\n\n\"And now we sit here and glitter,\" said the piece of broken\nbottle.\n\nAt the same moment more water streamed into the gutter, so that it\noverflowed, and the piece of bottle was carried away.\n\n\"So he is promoted,\" said the darning-needle, \"while I remain\nhere; I am too fine, but that is my pride, and what do I care?\" And so\nshe sat there in her pride, and had many such thoughts as these,--\"I\ncould almost fancy that I came from a sunbeam, I am so fine. It\nseems as if the sunbeams were always looking for me under the water.\nAh! I am so fine that even my mother cannot find me. Had I still my\nold eye, which was broken off, I believe I should weep; but no, I\nwould not do that, it is not genteel to cry.\"\n\nOne day a couple of street boys were paddling in the gutter, for\nthey sometimes found old nails, farthings, and other treasures. It was\ndirty work, but they took great pleasure in it. \"Hallo!\" cried one, as\nhe pricked himself with the darning-needle, \"here's a fellow for you.\"\n\n\"I am not a fellow, I am a young lady,\" said the darning-needle;\nbut no one heard her.\n\nThe sealing-wax had come off, and she was quite black; but black\nmakes a person look slender, so she thought herself even finer than\nbefore.\n\n\"Here comes an egg-shell sailing along,\" said one of the boys;\nso they stuck the darning-needle into the egg-shell.\n\n\"White walls, and I am black myself,\" said the darning-needle,\n\"that looks well; now I can be seen, but I hope I shall not be\nsea-sick, or I shall break again.\" She was not sea-sick, and she did\nnot break. \"It is a good thing against sea-sickness to have a steel\nstomach, and not to forget one's own importance. Now my sea-sickness\nhas past: delicate people can bear a great deal.\"\n\nCrack went the egg-shell, as a waggon passed over it. \"Good\nheavens, how it crushes!\" said the darning-needle. \"I shall be sick\nnow. I am breaking!\" but she did not break, though the waggon went\nover her as she lay at full length; and there let her lie.\n\n\n\n\nDELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING\n\nThere was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a\ndrawbridge which was but seldom let down:--not all guests are good\npeople. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour\ndown boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he\napproach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings\nof beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke\nwhich rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood\nsmouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and\nproud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about\nalive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house,\nto her belonged the castle.\n\nTowards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her\npeople and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennel\nby the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and\ndrank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was now\non the chain, she could not even bark.\n\nBut lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;\nthey must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.\n\n\"Mrs. Meta Mogen,\" said the fellow, \"do you still remember how\nmy father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on the\nwooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride\nuntil his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as I\nsteal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of his\nfeet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretended\nnot to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. My\nfather has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will\nfree you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!\"\n\nThen they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain\nand wind to obtain the assistance of friends.\n\n\"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly\nrewarded!\" said Meta Mogen.\n\n\"Delaying is not forgetting,\" said the fellow.\n\nThe robbers were hanged.\n\n\nThere was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong\nto Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.\n\nWe are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt\nknob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the\nwater, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow\nroses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she\nbeams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide\nworld, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.\nDelaying is not forgetting!\n\nNow she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the\nfield. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little\nroom looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only\nsee a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But\nto-day the sun shines here--the warm, beautiful sun of God is within\nthe little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where\nformerly the wall was.\n\nThe paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the\nwood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and\nonly through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.\n\n\"The word was so easy, the deed so small,\" she said, \"the joy it\nafforded me was infinitely great and sweet!\"\n\nAnd therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in the\nhumble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are also\nafflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forget\nit. Delayed is not forgotten!\n\n\nAn old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busy\ntraffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, we\nremain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; the\ncopper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;\nthe sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single\nservant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go\nto church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifies\nmourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,\nneither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day she\nwas engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.\n\nOne day he came to her and said:\n\n\"We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basement\nhas made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in my\nheart; what do you advise me to do?\"\n\n\"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your\nhappiness,\" said the girl. \"Be kind and good to her, but remember\nthis; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again.\"\n\nYears passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart\nin the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not help\nasking him, \"How are you?\"\n\n\"Rich and prospering in every respect,\" he said; \"the woman is\nbrave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,\nit will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now until\nwe meet before God!\"\n\nA week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,\nthat is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old sweetheart is\ndead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;\nit sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.\n\nThe black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points to the\nsame in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and will\nnever be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!\n\n\nThese are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.\nDo you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbook\nare many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!\n\n\n\n\nTHE DROP OF WATER\n\nOf course you know what is meant by a magnifying glass--one of\nthose round spectacle-glasses that make everything look a hundred\ntimes bigger than it is? When any one takes one of these and holds\nit to his eye, and looks at a drop of water from the pond yonder, he\nsees above a thousand wonderful creatures that are otherwise never\ndiscerned in the water. But there they are, and it is no delusion.\nIt almost looks like a great plateful of spiders jumping about in a\ncrowd. And how fierce they are! They tear off each other's legs and\narms and bodies, before and behind; and yet they are merry and\njoyful in their way.\n\nNow, there once was an old man whom all the people called\nKribble-Krabble, for that was his name. He always wanted the best of\neverything, and when he could not manage it otherwise, he did it by\nmagic.\n\nThere he sat one day, and held his magnifying-glass to his eye,\nand looked at a drop of water that had been taken out of a puddle by\nthe ditch. But what a kribbling and krabbling was there! All the\nthousands of little creatures hopped and sprang and tugged at one\nanother, and ate each other up.\n\n\"That is horrible!\" said old Kribble-Krabble. \"Can one not\npersuade them to live in peace and quietness, so that each one may\nmind his own business?\"\n\nAnd he thought it over and over, but it would not do, and so he\nhad recourse to magic.\n\n\"I must give them color, that they may be seen more plainly,\" said\nhe; and he poured something like a little drop of red wine into the\ndrop of water, but it was witches' blood from the lobes of the ear,\nthe finest kind, at ninepence a drop. And now the wonderful little\ncreatures were pink all over. It looked like a whole town of naked\nwild men.\n\n\"What have you there?\" asked another old magician, who had no\nname--and that was the best thing about him.\n\n\"Yes, if you can guess what it is,\" said Kribble-Krabble, \"I'll\nmake you a present of it.\"\n\nBut it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.\n\nAnd the magician who had no name looked through the\nmagnifying-glass.\n\nIt looked really like a great town reflected there, in which all\nthe people were running about without clothes. It was terrible! But it\nwas still more terrible to see how one beat and pushed the other,\nand bit and hacked, and tugged and mauled him. Those at the top were\nbeing pulled down, and those at the bottom were struggling upwards.\n\n\"Look! look! his leg is longer than mine! Bah! Away with it! There\nis one who has a little bruise. It hurts him, but it shall hurt him\nstill more.\"\n\nAnd they hacked away at him, and they pulled at him, and ate him\nup, because of the little bruise. And there was one sitting as still\nas any little maiden, and wishing only for peace and quietness. But\nnow she had to come out, and they tugged at her, and pulled her about,\nand ate her up.\n\n\"That's funny!\" said the magician.\n\n\"Yes; but what do you think it is?\" said Kribble-Krabble. \"Can you\nfind that out?\"\n\n\"Why, one can see that easily enough,\" said the other. \"That's Paris,\nor some other great city, for they're all alike. It's a great city!\"\n\n\"It's a drop of puddle water!\" said Kribble-Krabble.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DRYAD\n\nWe are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.\n\nNow we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We\nflew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land.\n\nYes, our time is the time of fairy tales.\n\nWe are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers\nornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.\n\nOur room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door\nwe have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come\nto Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the\nshape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly\nopened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all\nthe other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck\nout of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots\nexposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be\nplanted, and to flourish.\n\nIt still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has\nbrought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For\nyears it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree,\nunder which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children\nlistening to his stories.\n\nThe young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for\nthe Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time\nwhen the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above\nthe grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever\nbe; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the\nsunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also,\nas it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a\npart of education.\n\nThe Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine,\nand the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human\nvoices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood\nthat of animals.\n\nButterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could\nfly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the\nvillage, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its\nparks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living\nbeings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one\nplace to another--beings with knowledge and delineation. They said\nnothing at all; they were so clever!\n\nAnd the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little\ngoldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The\nswallow could describe all that very well, but, \"Self is the man,\" she\nsaid. \"One ought to see these things one's self.\" But how was the\nDryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with\nbeing able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy\nindustry of men.\n\nIt was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman\nsat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of\nher sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with\nadmiration through all time.\n\nThen the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of\nCharlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the\nFirst; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.\n\nThe village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less\nattentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds\nthat went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that\nshe heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.\n\nShe felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of\ngenius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting\nremained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much\nbetter off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the\nworld, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.\n\nFrance was so great and so glorious, but she could only look\nacross a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide,\nwith vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the\nmost splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she,\nnever!\n\nAmong the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a\npretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and\ntwining red flowers in her black hair.\n\n\"Don't go to Paris!\" the old clergyman warned her. \"Poor child! if\nyou go there, it will be your ruin.\"\n\nBut she went for all that.\n\nThe Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish, and\nfelt the same longing for the great city.\n\n\nThe Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; the\nbirds were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.\nThen a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a\ngrand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat\na little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and\nthe old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw\nher, and said:\n\n\"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor Mary!\"\n\n\"That one poor?\" thought the Dryad. \"No; she wears a dress fit for\na countess\" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). \"Oh, if\nI were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up\ninto the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what\ndirection the town lies.\"\n\nTowards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw\nin the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear\nmoonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her\npictures of the city and pictures from history.\n\nThe child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the\ncloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a\nblank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before\nher.\n\nIt was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the\nglowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were\ntorpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.\n\nThen the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the\ngleaming mist announced \"Here lies Paris.\"\n\nThe clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,\nhurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the\nwhole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.\n\nLike enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over\none another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.\n\n\"These also are the servants of the Lord God,\" the old clergyman\nhad said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a\nlighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of\nrock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old\nvenerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were\nstretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.\n\nNo bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal\nchild as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain\nstreamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,\nand there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman\nspoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a\ndrawing, as a lasting record of the tree.\n\n\"Everything passes away,\" said the Dryad, \"passes away like a\ncloud, and never comes back!\"\n\nThe old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his\nschool was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did\nnot come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In\nall this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where,\nat night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.\n\nForth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train,\nwhistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening,\ntowards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the\ntrains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the\ncountry of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them\nto Paris.\n\nIn what form did this wonder exhibit itself?\n\n\"A splendid blossom of art and industry,\" said one, \"has\nunfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose\npetals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as\nwise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and\npoetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands.\"\n\n\"A fairy tale flower,\" said another, \"a many-colored\nlotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet\nover the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer\nwill see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it\naway, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain.\"\n\n\nIn front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena\nof war--a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe,\nas if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her\nwondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars,\nhowever, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in\nthe East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into\nreality.\n\n\"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built,\" it was said.\n\"Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor.\"\n\nThe endless halls shine in marble and many colors. \"Master\nBloodless\" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great\ncircular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in\nGobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in\nevery land. Halls of paintings, splendor of flowers, everything that\nmind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been\nplaced here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old\ngraves and turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.\n\nThe overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small\nportions, and pressed together like a plaything, if it is to be\nunderstood and described.\n\nLike a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a\nwonder-castle of industry and art, and around this knickknacks from\nall countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale, for every\nnation found some remembrance of home.\n\nHere stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of\nthe desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his sunny country, and\nhastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the\nfiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple\nstraw-thatched dwelling of the Danish peasant, with the Dannebrog\nflag, next to Gustavus Vasa's wooden house from Dalarne, with its\nwonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions,\nkiosks, theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the\nfresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes, rare\ntrees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self transported into\nthe tropical forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming\nunder one roof. What colors, what fragrance!\n\nArtificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water,\nand gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the visitor seemed\nto wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.\n\n\"All this,\" they said, \"the Champ de Mars offers;\" and around\nthe great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings moves like a\nbusy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all feet\nare equal to such a fatiguing journey.\n\nHither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer\nafter steamer, crowded with people, glides down the Seine. The\nnumber of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm of\npeople on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages\nand omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All\nthese tributary streams flow in one direction--towards the Exhibition.\nOn every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the\nworld's bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a\nmurmuring from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of\nthe chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the churches\nmingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the East. It is a\nkingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!\n\nIn very truth it was. That's what all the reports said, and who\ndid not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is told here of\nthe new wonder in the city of cities.\n\n\"Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back and\ntell me,\" said the Dryad.\n\nThe wish became an intense desire--became the one thought of a\nlife. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full moon was\nshining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's disc, and fall\nlike a shooting star. And before the tree, whose leaves waved to and\nfro as if they were stirred by a tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and\ngrand figure. In tones that were at once rich and strong, like the\ntrumpet of the Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to\nthe great account, it said:\n\n\"Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root there,\nand enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the sunshine\nthere. But the time of thy life shall then be shortened; the line of\nyears that awaited thee here amid the free nature shall shrink to\nbut a small tale. Poor Dryad! It shall be thy destruction. Thy\nyearning and longing will increase, thy desire will grow more\nstormy, the tree itself will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit\nthy cell and give up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men.\nThen the years that would have belonged to thee will be contracted\nto half the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one\nnight, and thy life-taper shall be blown out--the leaves of the tree\nwill wither and be blown away, to become green never again!\"\n\nThus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but not the\nlonging of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever of expectation.\n\n\"I shall go there!\" she cried, rejoicingly. \"Life is beginning and\nswells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is hastening.\"\n\nWhen the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the clouds\nwere tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words of promise were\nfulfilled.\n\nPeople appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the roots of\nthe tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon was brought\nout, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted up, with its\nroots and the lumps of earth that adhered to them; matting was\nplaced around the roots, as though the tree had its feet in a warm\nbag. And now the tree was lifted on the wagon and secured with chains.\nThe journey began--the journey to Paris. There the tree was to grow as\nan ornament to the city of French glory.\n\nThe twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in the\nfirst moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled in the\npleasurable feeling of expectation.\n\n\"Away! away!\" it sounded in every beat of her pulse. \"Away!\naway\" sounded in words that flew trembling along. The Dryad forgot\nto bid farewell to the regions of home; she thought not of the\nwaving grass and of the innocent daisies, which had looked up to her\nas to a great lady, a young Princess playing at being a shepherdess\nout in the open air.\n\nThe chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his branches;\nwhether this meant \"farewell\" or \"forward,\" the Dryad knew not; she\ndreamed only of the marvellous new things, that seemed yet so\nfamiliar, and that were to unfold themselves before her. No child's\nheart rejoicing in innocence--no heart whose blood danced with\npassion--had set out on the journey to Paris more full of\nexpectation than she.\n\nHer \"farewell\" sounded in the words \"Away! away!\"\n\nThe wheels turned; the distant approached; the present vanished.\nThe region was changed, even as the clouds change. New vineyards,\nforests, villages, villas appeared--came nearer--vanished!\n\nThe chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with it.\nSteam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up into the air\nvapory clouds, that formed figures which told of Paris, whence they\ncame, and whither the Dryad was going.\n\nEverything around knew it, and must know whither she was bound. It\nseemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched out its leaves\ntowards her, with the prayer--\"Take me with you! take me with you!\"\nfor every tree enclosed a longing Dryad.\n\nWhat changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be rising out of\nthe earth--more and more--thicker and thicker. The chimneys rose\nlike flower-pots ranged side by side, or in rows one above the\nother, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in letters a yard long, and\nfigures in various colors, covering the walls from cornice to\nbasement, came brightly out.\n\n\"Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?\" asked the\nDryad.\n\nThe crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle increased;\ncarriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and people on\nhorseback were mingled together; all around were shops on shops, music\nand song, crying and talking.\n\nThe Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The great\nheavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square planted with trees.\nThe high houses around had all of them balconies to the windows,\nfrom which the inhabitants looked down upon the young fresh chestnut\ntree, which was coming to be planted here as a substitute for the dead\ntree that lay stretched on the ground.\n\nThe passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its pure\nvernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still closed,\nwhispered with their waving branches, \"Welcome! welcome!\" The\nfountain, throwing its jet of water high up in the air, to let it fall\nagain in the wide stone basin, told the wind to sprinkle the new-comer\nwith pearly drops, as if it wished to give him a refreshing draught to\nwelcome him.\n\nThe Dryad felt how her tree was being lifted from the wagon to\nbe placed in the spot where it was to stand. The roots were covered\nwith earth, and fresh turf was laid on top. Blooming shrubs and\nflowers in pots were ranged around; and thus a little garden arose\nin the square.\n\nThe tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the steam of\nkitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon the wagon and\ndriven away. The passers-by looked on. Children and old men sat upon\nthe bench, and looked at the green tree. And we who are telling this\nstory stood upon a balcony, and looked down upon the green spring\nsight that had been brought in from the fresh country air, and said,\nwhat the old clergyman would have said, \"Poor Dryad!\"\n\n\"I am happy! I am happy!\" the Dryad cried, rejoicing; \"and yet I\ncannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything is as I\nfancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it.\"\n\nThe houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight shone\non only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over with bills and\nplacards, before which the people stood still; and this made a crowd.\n\nCarriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones and heavy\nones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded moving houses,\ncame rattling by; horsemen galloped among them; even carts and\nwagons asserted their rights.\n\nThe Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which stood so\nclose around her, would not remove and take other shapes, like the\nclouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that she might cast a glance\ninto Paris, and over it. Notre Dame must show itself, the Vendome\nColumn, and the wondrous building which had called and was still\ncalling so many strangers to the city.\n\nBut the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet day when\nthe lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the shops, and shone\neven into the branches of the trees, so that it was like sunlight in\nsummer. The stars above made their appearance, the same to which the\nDryad had looked up in her home. She thought she felt a clear pure\nstream of air which went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up\nand strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through\nevery leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the noise and\nthe turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew herself watched by\nmild eyes.\n\nFrom the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles and\nwind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to jollity and\npleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it was, that horses,\ncarriages, trees, and houses would have danced, if they had known how.\nThe charm of intoxicating delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.\n\n\"How glorious, how splendid it is!\" she cried, rejoicingly. \"Now I\nam in Paris!\"\n\nThe next day that dawned, the next night that fell, offered the\nsame spectacle, similar bustle, similar life; changing, indeed, yet\nalways the same; and thus it went on through the sequence of days.\n\n\"Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I know\nevery house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow cut-off\ncorner, where I am denied the sight of this great mighty city. Where\nare the arches of triumph, the Boulevards, the wondrous building of\nthe world? I see nothing of all this. As if shut up in a cage, I stand\namong the high houses, which I now know by heart, with their\ninscriptions, signs, and placards; all the painted confectionery, that\nis no longer to my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard,\nfor which I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what\nhave I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt before; I\nfeel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and to experience.\nI must go out into the ranks of living men, and mingle among them. I\nmust fly about like a bird. I must see and feel, and become human\naltogether. I must enjoy the one half-day, instead of vegetating for\nyears in every-day sameness and weariness, in which I become ill,\nand at last sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will\ngleam like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over the\nwhole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one knoweth whither.\"\n\nThus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:\n\n\"Take from me the years that were destined for me, and give me but\nhalf of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me from my prison! Give\nme human life, human happiness, only a short span, only the one night,\nif it cannot be otherwise; and then punish me for my wish to live,\nmy longing for life! Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the\nfresh young tree, wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and\nscattered to all the winds!\"\n\nA rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was a\ntrembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire streamed through\nit. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and from the midst of that\ncrown a female figure came forth. In the same moment she was sitting\nbeneath the brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful\nto behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, \"The\ngreat city will be thy destruction.\"\n\nThe Dryad sat at the foot of the tree--at her house door, which\nshe had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young! so fair!\nThe stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps saw her, and\ngleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she was, and yet how\nblooming!--a child, and yet a grown maiden! Her dress was fine as\nsilk, green as the freshly-opened leaves on the crown of the tree;\nin her nut-brown hair clung a half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked\nlike the Goddess of Spring.\n\nFor one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang up,\nand, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and sprang like the\nreflection from the mirror that, carried by the sunshine, is cast, now\nhere, now there. Could any one have followed her with his eyes, he\nwould have seen how marvellously her dress and her form changed,\naccording to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened\nto shine upon her.\n\nShe reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth\nfrom the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafes. Here\nstood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its\nDryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast\npavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood\nladen with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse\ndown to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues,\nbooks, and colored stuffs.\n\nFrom the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the\nterrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of\nrolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among\nthem riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite\nshore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now\nlanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand;\nsuddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?\n\nHere are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs\nare sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of\nall, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the\nmoment, the exciting \"Can-Can\" music, which Orpheus never knew, and\nwhich was never heard by the \"Belle Helene.\" Even the barrow was\ntempted to hop upon one of its wheels.\n\nThe Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every\nmoment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the\nworld belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.\n\nAs the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away\nby the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she\nwas another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize\nher, or to look more closely at her.\n\nLike cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a\nthousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a\nsingle form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She\nthought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red\nflowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city,\nrich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of\nthe old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.\n\nHere she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps\nshe had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in\nwaiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen\nin silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all\nrichly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended\nthe broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble\npillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There\nMary would certainly be found.\n\n\"Sancta Maria!\" resounded from the interior. Incense floated\nthrough the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight\nreigned.\n\nIt was the Church of the Madeleine.\n\nClad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned\naccording to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris\nglided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were\nengraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and\nembroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with\nBrussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer\nbefore the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.\n\nAnxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if\nshe had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the\nabode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in\nwhispers, every word was a mystery.\n\nThe Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women\nof wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of\nthem a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?\n\nA deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some\nconfessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad?\nShe drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not the\nfresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.\n\nAway! away--a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knows\nnot repose, for her existence is flight.\n\nShe was out again among the gas candelabra, by a magnificent\nfountain.\n\n\"All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocent\nblood that was spilt here.\"\n\nSuch were the words spoken. Strangers stood around, carrying on\na lively conversation, such as no one would have dared to carry on\nin the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.\n\nA heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not\nunderstand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. The\nstrangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and the cheerful\nlife of the upper world behind them.\n\n\"I am afraid,\" said one of the women who stood around, to her\nhusband, \"I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for the wonders\ndown yonder. You had better stay here with me.\"\n\n\"Indeed, and travel home,\" said the man, \"and quit Paris without\nhaving seen the most wonderful thing of all--the real wonder of the\npresent period, created by the power and resolution of one man!\"\n\n\"I will not go down for all that,\" was the reply.\n\n\"The wonder of the present time,\" it had been called. The Dryad\nhad heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing had\nthus been reached, and here was the entrance to it. Down into the\ndepths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now she\nheard it said, and saw the strangers descending, and went after them.\n\nThe staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy. Below\nthere burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They stood in a\nlabyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all communicating with\neach other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen here\nagain, as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every\nhouse above had its number down here also, and struck its roots\nunder the macadamized quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water\nflowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on\narches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes and\ntelegraph-wires.\n\nIn the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the\nworld-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. This\ncame from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.\n\nWhither had the Dryad come?\n\nYou have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishing\npoints in that new underground world--that wonder of the present\nday--the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and not in the\nworld's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.\n\nShe heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.\n\n\"From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousands\nup yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with its manifold\nblessings.\"\n\nSuch was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of those\ncreatures who had been born here, and who built and dwelt here--of the\nrats, namely, who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of a\ncrumbling wall, quite plainly, and in a way the Dryad understood well.\n\nA big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was relieving\nhis feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute of\nconcurrence to every word he said:\n\n\"I am disgusted with this man-mewing,\" he cried--\"with these\noutbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all made up of gas\nand petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that. Everything here is so\nfine and bright now, that one's ashamed of one's self, without exactly\nknowing why. Ah, if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! and\nit does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as\none may say.\"\n\n\"What are you talking of there?\" asked the Dryad. \"I have never\nseen you before. What is it you are talking about?\"\n\n\"Of the glorious days that are gone,\" said the Rat--\"of the\nhappy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then it\nwas a great thing to get down here. That was a rat's nest quite\ndifferent from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killed\npeople, but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely\nhere. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages,\nwhom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act\nmelodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat's\nnest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in.\"\n\nThus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old time,\nwhen Mother Plague was still alive.\n\nA carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift horses.\nThe company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard de\nSebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over which\nthe well-known crowded street of that name extended.\n\nThe carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared,\nlifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and not below in the\nvaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the wonder work must be found\nwhich she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighter\nthan all the gas-flames, stronger than the moon that was just\ngliding past.\n\nYes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it gleamed\nbefore her, and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in the\nsky.\n\nShe saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little garden,\nwhere all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surrounded\nlittle lakes, in which were water-plants of colored metal, from\nwhose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows,\nreal products of spring, hung their fresh branches over these lakes\nlike a fresh, green, transparent, and yet screening veil. In the\nbushes burnt an open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts\nof branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated--an ear\ntickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing through the\nveins.\n\nBeautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on their\nlips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts--\"Marys,\" with\nroses in their hair, but without carriage and postilion--flitted to\nand fro in the wild dance.\n\nWhere were the heads, where the feet? As if stung by tarantulas,\nthey sprang, laughed, rejoiced, as if in their ecstacies they were\ngoing to embrace all the world.\n\nThe Dryad felt herself torn with them into the whirl of the dance.\nRound her delicate foot clung the silken boot, chestnut brown in\ncolor, like the ribbon that floated from her hair down upon her bare\nshoulders. The green silk dress waved in large folds, but did not\nentirely hide the pretty foot and ankle.\n\nHad she come to the enchanted Garden of Armida? What was the\nname of the place?\n\nThe name glittered in gas-jets over the entrance. It was\n\"Mabille.\"\n\nThe soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of fountains, and\nthe popping of champagne corks accompanied the wild bacchantic\ndance. Over the whole glided the moon through the air, clear, but with\na somewhat crooked face.\n\nA wild joviality seemed to rush through the Dryad, as though she\nwere intoxicated with opium. Her eyes spoke, her lips spoke, but the\nsound of violins and of flutes drowned the sound of her voice. Her\npartner whispered words to her which she did not understand, nor do we\nunderstand them. He stretched out his arms to draw her to him, but\nhe embraced only the empty air.\n\nThe Dryad had been carried away, like a rose-leaf on the wind.\nBefore her she saw a flame in the air, a flashing light high up on a\ntower. The beacon light shone from the goal of her longing, shone from\nthe red lighthouse tower of the Fata Morgana of the Champ de Mars.\nThither she was carried by the wind. She circled round the tower;\nthe workmen thought it was a butterfly that had come too early, and\nthat now sank down dying.\n\nThe moon shone bright, gas-lamps spread light around, through\nthe halls, over the all-world's buildings scattered about, over the\nrose-hills and the rocks produced by human ingenuity, from which\nwaterfalls, driven by the power of \"Master Bloodless,\" fell down.\nThe caverns of the sea, the depths of the lakes, the kingdom of the\nfishes were opened here. Men walked as in the depths of the deep pond,\nand held converse with the sea, in the diving-bell of glass. The water\npressed against the strong glass walls above and on every side. The\npolypi, eel-like living creatures, had fastened themselves to the\nbottom, and stretched out arms, fathoms long, for prey. A big turbot\nwas making himself broad in front, quietly enough, but not without\ncasting some suspicious glances aside. A crab clambered over him,\nlooking like a gigantic spider, while the shrimps wandered about in\nrestless haste, like the butterflies and moths of the sea.\n\nIn the fresh water grew water-lilies, nymphaea, and reeds; the\ngold-fishes stood up below in rank and file, all turning their heads\none way, that the streaming water might flow into their mouths. Fat\ncarps stared at the glass wall with stupid eyes. They knew that they\nwere here to be exhibited, and that they had made the somewhat\ntoilsome journey hither in tubs filled with water; and they thought\nwith dismay of the land-sickness from which they had suffered so\ncruelly on the railway.\n\nThey had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated it\nfrom their fresh or salt-water position. They looked attentively at\nthe crowds of people who passed by them early and late. All the\nnations in the world, they thought, had made an exhibition of their\ninhabitants, for the edification of the soles and haddocks, pike and\ncarp, that they might give their opinions upon the different kinds.\n\n\"Those are scaly animals\" said a little slimy Whiting. \"They put\non different scales two or three times a day, and they emit sounds\nwhich they call speaking. We don't put on scales, and we make\nourselves understood in an easier way, simply by twitching the corners\nof our mouths and staring with our eyes. We have a great many\nadvantages over mankind.\"\n\n\"But they have learned swimming of us,\" remarked a well-educated\nCodling. \"You must know I come from the great sea outside. In the\nhot time of the year the people yonder go into the water; first they\ntake off their scales, and then they swim. They have learnt from the\nfrogs to kick out with their hind legs, and row with their fore\npaws. But they cannot hold out long. They want to be like us, but they\ncannot come up to us. Poor people!\"\n\nAnd the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of people\nwhom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving around\nthem; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had first\ncaught their attention.\n\nA pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round back,\ndeclared that the \"human fry\" were still there.\n\n\"I can see a well set-up human figure quite well,\" said the\nBarbel. \"She was called 'contumacious lady,' or something of that\nkind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and a great balloon\nat the back of her head, and something like a shut-up umbrella in\nfront; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her.\nShe ought to take all the rubbish off, and go as we do; then she would\nlook something like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible for\na person to look like one!\"\n\n\"What's become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? He\nsat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote\ndown everything. They called him a 'writer.'\"\n\n\"They're going about with him still,\" said a hoary old maid of a\nCarp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so that she was quite\nhoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook, and still swam\npatiently about with it in her gullet. \"A writer? That means, as we\nfishes describe it, a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men.\"\n\nThus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the\nartificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged to\ntake advantage of the hours of night to get their work done by\ndaybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and with\nsongs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad.\n\n\"So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty gold-fishes,\" she\nsaid. \"Yes, I know you;\" and she waved her hand to them. \"I have known\nabout you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. How\nbeautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kiss\nevery one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do not\nknow me.\"\n\nThe fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a\nword of it.\n\nThe Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the\nopen air, where the different countries--the country of black bread,\nthe codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks of\neau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil--exhaled their perfumes\nfrom the world-wonder flower.\n\nWhen, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep and\nhalf awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear\nthem, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the\nmurdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to it\nfor a time like a photographic picture.\n\nSo it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet\ndisappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew,\nthus it will be repeated tomorrow.\n\nThe Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knew\nthem, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red\npomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in her\ndark hair.\n\nRemembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her\nthoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, and\nfeverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.\n\nA weariness that increased continually, took possession of her.\nShe felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within, or\nto lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for\nthe ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had\ncompleted its circle.\n\nHer thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down on the\ngrass by the bubbling water.\n\n\"Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth,\" she said\nmournfully. \"Moisten my tongue--bring me a refreshing draught.\"\n\n\"I am no living water,\" was the answer. \"I only spring upward when\nthe machine wills it.\"\n\n\"Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass,\" implored\nthe Dryad; \"give me one of thy fragrant flowers.\"\n\n\"We must die if we are torn from our stalks,\" replied the\nFlowers and the Grass.\n\n\"Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air--only a single\nlife-kiss.\"\n\n\"Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red,\" answered the Wind;\n\"then thou wilt be among the dead--blown away, as all the splendor\nhere will be blown away before the year shall have ended. Then I can\nplay again with the light loose sand on the place here, and whirl\nthe dust over the land and through the air. All is dust!\"\n\nThe Dryad felt a terror like a woman who has cut asunder her\npulse-artery in the bath, but is filled again with the love of life,\neven while she is bleeding to death. She raised herself, tottered\nforward a few steps, and sank down again at the entrance to a little\nchurch. The gate stood open, lights were burning upon the altar, and\nthe organ sounded.\n\nWhat music! Such notes the Dryad had never yet heard; and yet it\nseemed to her as if she recognized a number of well-known voices among\nthem. They came deep from the heart of all creation. She thought she\nheard the stories of the old clergyman, of great deeds, and of the\ncelebrated names, and of the gifts that the creatures of God must\nbestow upon posterity, if they would live on in the world.\n\nThe tones of the organ swelled, and in their song there sounded\nthese words:\n\n\"Thy wishing and thy longing have torn thee, with thy roots,\nfrom the place which God appointed for thee. That was thy destruction,\nthou poor Dryad!\"\n\nThe notes became soft and gentle, and seemed to die away in a\nwail.\n\nIn the sky the clouds showed themselves with a ruddy gleam. The\nWind sighed:\n\n\"Pass away, ye dead! now the sun is going to rise!\"\n\nThe first ray fell on the Dryad. Her form was irradiated in\nchanging colors, like the soap-bubble when it is bursting and\nbecomes a drop of water; like a tear that falls and passes away like a\nvapor.\n\nPoor Dryad! Only a dew-drop, only a tear, poured upon the earth,\nand vanished away!\n\n\n\n\nJACK THE DULLARD\n\nAN OLD STORY TOLD ANEW\n\nFar in the interior of the country lay an old baronial hall, and\nin it lived an old proprietor, who had two sons, which two young men\nthought themselves too clever by half. They wanted to go out and woo\nthe King'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\nwhat every corporation ought to know; and accordingly he thought he\ncould talk of affairs of state, and put his spoke in the wheel in\nthe council. And he knew one thing more: he could embroider suspenders\nwith roses 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\nold papa gave to each of them a handsome horse. The youth who knew the\ndictionary and newspaper by heart had a black horse, and he who knew\nall about the corporation laws received a milk-white steed. Then\nthey rubbed the corners of their mouths with fish-oil, so that they\nmight become very smooth and glib. All the servants stood below in the\ncourtyard, and looked on while they mounted their horses; and just\nby chance the third son came up. For the proprietor had really three\nsons, though nobody counted the third with his brothers, because he\nwas not so learned as they, and indeed he was generally known as \"Jack\nthe Dullard.\"\n\n\"Hallo!\" said Jack the Dullard, \"where are you going? I declare\nyou have put on your Sunday clothes!\"\n\n\"We're going to the King's court, as suitors to the King's\ndaughter. Don't you know the announcement that has been made all\nthrough the country?\" And they told him all about it.\n\n\"My word! I'll be in it too!\" cried Jack the Dullard; and his\ntwo brothers burst out laughing at him, and rode away.\n\n\"Father, dear,\" said Jack, \"I must have a horse too. I do feel\nso desperately inclined to marry! If she accepts me, she accepts me;\nand if 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\nhave no horse from me. You don't know how to speak--you can't\narrange your words. Your brothers are very different fellows from\nyou.\"\n\n\"Well,\" quoth Jack the Dullard, \"If I can't have a horse, I'll\ntake the Billy-goat, who belongs to me, and he can carry me very\nwell!\"\n\nAnd so said, so done. He mounted the Billy-goat, pressed his heels\ninto its sides, and galloped down the high street like a hurricane.\n\n\"Hei, houp! that was a ride! Here I come!\" shouted Jack the\nDullard, and he sang till his voice echoed far and wide.\n\nBut his brothers rode slowly on in advance of him. They spoke\nnot a word, for they were thinking about the fine extempore speeches\nthey would have to bring out, and these had to be cleverly prepared\nbeforehand.\n\n\"Hallo!\" shouted Jack the Dullard. \"Here am I! Look what I have\nfound on the high road.\" And he showed them what it was, and it was\na dead crow.\n\n\"Dullard!\" exclaimed the brothers, \"what are you going to do\nwith that?\"\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\"Dullard!\" they cried, \"that is only an old wooden shoe, and the\nupper part is missing into the bargain; are you going to give that\nalso to the Princess?\"\n\n\"Most certainly I shall,\" replied Jack the Dullard; and again\nthe brothers laughed and rode on, and thus they got far in advance\nof him; but--\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\nthe Princess will be!\"\n\n\"Bah!\" said the brothers; \"that is nothing but clay out of the\nditch.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly it is,\" said Jack the Dullard; \"and clay of the\nfinest sort. See, it is so wet, it runs through one's fingers.\" And he\nfilled his pocket with the clay.\n\nBut his brothers galloped on till the sparks flew, and\nconsequently they arrived a full hour earlier at the town gate than\ncould Jack. Now at the gate each suitor was provided with a number,\nand all were placed in rows immediately on their arrival, six in\neach row, and so closely packed together that they could not move\ntheir arms; and that was a prudent arrangement, for they would\ncertainly have come to blows, had they been able, merely because one\nof them stood before the other.\n\nAll the inhabitants of the country round about stood in great\ncrowds around the castle, almost under the very windows, to see the\nPrincess receive the suitors; and as each stepped into the hall, his\npower of speech seemed to desert him, like the light of a candle\nthat is blown out. Then the Princess would say, \"He is of no use! Away\nwith him out of the hall!\"\n\nAt last the turn came for that brother who knew the dictionary\nby heart; 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,\nand they had, moreover, made such a fire in the stove, that the room\nseemed quite 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 today.\"\n\n\"Baa!\" there he stood like a baa-lamb. He had not been prepared\nfor a speech of this kind, and had not a word to say, though he\nintended to say 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\ncame in.\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\nhis goat.\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\nyou'll let 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\ntin handle.\"\n\nAnd he brought out the old wooden shoe, and put the crow into it.\n\n\"Well, that is a famous dish!\" said the Princess. \"But what\nshall we do for sauce?\"\n\n\"Oh, I have that in my pocket,\" said Jack; \"I have so much of it\nthat I can afford to throw some away;\" and he poured some of the\nclay out of 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.\"\n\nBut she only said this to frighten Jack the Dullard; and the\nclerks gave a great crow of delight, and each one spurted a blot out\nof his pen on to the floor.\n\n\"Oh, those are the gentlemen, are they?\" said Jack; \"then I will\ngive the best I have to the head clerk.\" And he turned out his\npockets, and flung 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\ncrown and a wife, and sat upon a throne. And this report we have wet\nfrom the press of the head clerk and the corporation of printers--but\nthey are not to be depended upon in the least.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DUMB BOOK\n\nIn the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary\nfarm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The sun was\nshining and all the windows were open; within the house people were\nvery busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed by lilac bushes in full\nbloom, stood an open coffin; thither they had carried a dead man,\nwho was to be buried that very afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him;\nhis face was covered over with a white cloth, under his head they\nhad placed a large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded\nsheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between them; it\nwas the herbarium which he had gathered in various places and was to\nbe buried with him, according to his own wish. Every one of the\nflowers in it was connected with some chapter of his life.\n\n\"Who is the dead man?\" we asked.\n\n\"The old student,\" was the reply. \"They say that he was once an\nenergetic young man, that he studied the dead languages, and sang\nand even composed many songs; then something had happened to him,\nand in consequence of this he gave himself up to drink, body and mind.\nWhen at last he had ruined his health, they brought him into the\ncountry, where someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentle\nas a child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; but\nwhen it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and ran about\nin the wood like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringing\nhim home, and prevailed upon him to open the book with the dried-up\nplants in it, he would sometimes sit for a whole day looking at this\nor that plant, while frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks.\nGod knows what was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book\ninto his coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will\nbe placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the grave!\"\n\nThe cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man's\nface expressed peace--a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew with\nthe swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning in its flight,\nand twittered over the dead man's head.\n\nWhat a strange feeling it is--surely we all know it--to look\nthrough old letters of our young days; a different life rises up out\nof the past, as it were, with all its hopes and sorrows. How many of\nthe people with whom in those days we used to be on intimate terms\nappear to us as if dead, and yet they are still alive--only we have\nnot thought of them for such a long time, whom we imagined we should\nretain in our memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow with\nthem.\n\nThe withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend, the\nschoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life. He fixed the leaf\nto the student's cap in the green wood, when they vowed eternal\nfriendship. Where does he dwell now? The leaf is kept, but the\nfriendship does no longer exist. Here is a foreign hothouse plant, too\ntender for the gardens of the North. It is almost as if its leaves\nstill smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden--a\nnobleman's daughter.\n\nHere is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and watered with\nsalt tears--a lily of sweet water. And here is a nettle: what may\nits leaves tell us? What might he have thought when he plucked and\nkept it? Here is a little snowdrop out of the solitary wood; here is\nan evergreen from the flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simple\nblade of grass.\n\nThe lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead man's\nhead; the swallow passes again--\"twit, twit;\" now the men come with\nhammer and nails, the lid is placed over the dead man, while his\nhead rests on the dumb book--so long cherished, now closed for ever!\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELF OF THE ROSE\n\nIn the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full blossom, and in\nthe prettiest of all the roses lived an elf. He was such a little\nwee thing, that no human eye could see him. Behind each leaf of the\nrose he had a sleeping chamber. He was as well formed and as beautiful\nas a little child could be, and had wings that reached from his\nshoulders to his feet. Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his\nchambers! and how clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were\nthe blushing leaves of the rose.\n\nDuring the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew\nfrom flower to flower, and danced on the wings of the flying\nbutterflies. Then he took it into his head to measure how many steps\nhe would have to go through the roads and cross-roads that are on\nthe leaf of a linden-tree. What we call the veins on a leaf, he took\nfor roads; ay, and very long roads they were for him; for before he\nhad half finished his task, the sun went down: he had commenced his\nwork too late. It became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew;\nso he thought the best thing he could do would be to return home. He\nhurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses all closed\nup, and he could not get in; not a single rose stood open. The poor\nlittle elf was very much frightened. He had never before been out at\nnight, but had always slumbered secretly behind the warm\nrose-leaves. Oh, this would certainly be his death. At the other end\nof the garden, he knew there was an arbor, overgrown with beautiful\nhoney-suckles. The blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he\nthought to himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the\nmorning. He flew thither; but \"hush!\" two people were in the arbor,--a\nhandsome young man and a beautiful lady. They sat side by side, and\nwished that they might never be obliged to part. They loved each other\nmuch more than the best child can love its father and mother.\n\n\"But we must part,\" said the young man; \"your brother does not\nlike our engagement, and therefore he sends me so far away on\nbusiness, over mountains and seas. Farewell, my sweet bride; for so\nyou are to me.\"\n\nAnd then they kissed each other, and the girl wept, and gave him a\nrose; but before she did so, she pressed a kiss upon it so fervently\nthat the flower opened. Then the little elf flew in, and leaned his\nhead on the delicate, fragrant walls. Here he could plainly hear\nthem say, \"Farewell, farewell;\" and he felt that the rose had been\nplaced on the young man's breast. Oh, how his heart did beat! The\nlittle elf could not go to sleep, it thumped so loudly. The young\nman took it out as he walked through the dark wood alone, and kissed\nthe flower so often and so violently, that the little elf was almost\ncrushed. He could feel through the leaf how hot the lips of the\nyoung man were, and the rose had opened, as if from the heat of the\nnoonday sun.\n\nThere came another man, who looked gloomy and wicked. He was the\nwicked brother of the beautiful maiden. He drew out a sharp knife, and\nwhile the other was kissing the rose, the wicked man stabbed him to\ndeath; then he cut off his head, and buried it with the body in the\nsoft earth under the linden-tree.\n\n\"Now he is gone, and will soon be forgotten,\" thought the wicked\nbrother; \"he will never come back again. He was going on a long\njourney over mountains and seas; it is easy for a man to lose his life\nin such a journey. My sister will suppose he is dead; for he cannot\ncome back, and she will not dare to question me about him.\"\n\nThen he scattered the dry leaves over the light earth with his\nfoot, and went home through the darkness; but he went not alone, as he\nthought,--the little elf accompanied him. He sat in a dry rolled-up\nlinden-leaf, which had fallen from the tree on to the wicked man's\nhead, as he was digging the grave. The hat was on the head now,\nwhich made it very dark, and the little elf shuddered with fright\nand indignation at the wicked deed.\n\nIt was the dawn of morning before the wicked man reached home;\nhe took off his hat, and went into his sister's room. There lay the\nbeautiful, blooming girl, dreaming of him whom she loved so, and who\nwas now, she supposed, travelling far away over mountain and sea.\nHer wicked brother stopped over her, and laughed hideously, as\nfiends only can laugh. The dry leaf fell out of his hair upon the\ncounterpane; but he did not notice it, and went to get a little\nsleep during the early morning hours. But the elf slipped out of the\nwithered leaf, placed himself by the ear of the sleeping girl, and\ntold her, as in a dream, of the horrid murder; described the place\nwhere her brother had slain her lover, and buried his body; and told\nher of the linden-tree, in full blossom, that stood close by.\n\n\"That you may not think this is only a dream that I have told\nyou,\" he said, \"you will find on your bed a withered leaf.\"\n\nThen she awoke, and found it there. Oh, what bitter tears she\nshed! and she could not open her heart to any one for relief.\n\nThe window stood open the whole day, and the little elf could\neasily have reached the roses, or any of the flowers; but he could not\nfind it in his heart to leave one so afflicted. In the window stood\na bush bearing monthly roses. He seated himself in one of the flowers,\nand gazed on the poor girl. Her brother often came into the room,\nand would be quite cheerful, in spite of his base conduct; so she dare\nnot say a word to him of her heart's grief.\n\nAs soon as night came on, she slipped out of the house, and went\ninto the wood, to the spot where the linden-tree stood; and after\nremoving the leaves from the earth, she turned it up, and there\nfound him who had been murdered. Oh, how she wept and prayed that\nshe also might die! Gladly would she have taken the body home with\nher; but that was impossible; so she took up the poor head with the\nclosed eyes, kissed the cold lips, and shook the mould out of the\nbeautiful hair.\n\n\"I will keep this,\" said she; and as soon as she had covered the\nbody again with the earth and leaves, she took the head and a little\nsprig of jasmine that bloomed in the wood, near the spot where he\nwas buried, and carried them home with her. As soon as she was in\nher room, she took the largest flower-pot she could find, and in\nthis she placed the head of the dead man, covered it up with earth,\nand planted the twig of jasmine in it.\n\n\"Farewell, farewell,\" whispered the little elf. He could not any\nlonger endure to witness all this agony of grief, he therefore flew\naway to his own rose in the garden. But the rose was faded; only a few\ndry leaves still clung to the green hedge behind it.\n\n\"Alas! how soon all that is good and beautiful passes away,\"\nsighed the elf.\n\nAfter a while he found another rose, which became his home, for\namong its delicate fragrant leaves he could dwell in safety. Every\nmorning he flew to the window of the poor girl, and always found her\nweeping by the flower pot. The bitter tears fell upon the jasmine\ntwig, and each day, as she became paler and paler, the sprig\nappeared to grow greener and fresher. One shoot after another sprouted\nforth, and little white buds blossomed, which the poor girl fondly\nkissed. But her wicked brother scolded her, and asked her if she was\ngoing mad. He could not imagine why she was weeping over that\nflower-pot, and it annoyed him. He did not know whose closed eyes were\nthere, nor what red lips were fading beneath the earth. And one day\nshe sat and leaned her head against the flower-pot, and the little elf\nof the rose found her asleep. Then he seated himself by her ear,\ntalked to her of that evening in the arbor, of the sweet perfume of\nthe rose, and the loves of the elves. Sweetly she dreamed, and while\nshe dreamt, her life passed away calmly and gently, and her spirit was\nwith him whom she loved, in heaven. And the jasmine opened its large\nwhite bells, and spread forth its sweet fragrance; it had no other way\nof showing its grief for the dead. But the wicked brother considered\nthe beautiful blooming plant as his own property, left to him by his\nsister, and he placed it in his sleeping room, close by his bed, for\nit was very lovely in appearance, and the fragrance sweet and\ndelightful. The little elf of the rose followed it, and flew from\nflower to flower, telling each little spirit that dwelt in them the\nstory of the murdered young man, whose head now formed part of the\nearth beneath them, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister. \"We\nknow it,\" said each little spirit in the flowers, \"we know it, for\nhave we not sprung from the eyes and lips of the murdered one. We know\nit, we know it,\" and the flowers nodded with their heads in a peculiar\nmanner. The elf of the rose could not understand how they could rest\nso quietly in the matter, so he flew to the bees, who were gathering\nhoney, and told them of the wicked brother. And the bees told it to\ntheir queen, who commanded that the next morning they should go and\nkill the murderer. But during the night, the first after the\nsister's death, while the brother was sleeping in his bed, close to\nwhere he had placed the fragrant jasmine, every flower cup opened, and\ninvisibly the little spirits stole out, armed with poisonous spears.\nThey placed themselves by the ear of the sleeper, told him dreadful\ndreams and then flew across his lips, and pricked his tongue with\ntheir poisoned spears. \"Now have we revenged the dead,\" said they, and\nflew back into the white bells of the jasmine flowers. When the\nmorning came, and as soon as the window was opened, the rose elf, with\nthe queen bee, and the whole swarm of bees, rushed in to kill him. But\nhe was already dead. People were standing round the bed, and saying\nthat the scent of the jasmine had killed him. Then the elf of the rose\nunderstood the revenge of the flowers, and explained it to the queen\nbee, and she, with the whole swarm, buzzed about the flower-pot. The\nbees could not be driven away. Then a man took it up to remove it, and\none of the bees stung him in the hand, so that he let the flower-pot\nfall, and it was broken to pieces. Then every one saw the whitened\nskull, and they knew the dead man in the bed was a murderer. And the\nqueen bee hummed in the air, and sang of the revenge of the flowers,\nand of the elf of the rose and said that behind the smallest leaf\ndwells One, who can discover evil deeds, and punish them also.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELFIN HILL\n\nA few large lizards were running nimbly about in the clefts of\nan old tree; they could understand one another very well, for they\nspoke the lizard language.\n\n\"What a buzzing and a rumbling there is in the elfin hill,\" said\none of the lizards; \"I have not been able to close my eyes for two\nnights on account of the noise; I might just as well have had the\ntoothache, for that always keeps me awake.\"\n\n\"There is something going on within there,\" said the other lizard;\n\"they propped up the top of the hill with four red posts, till\ncock-crow this morning, so that it is thoroughly aired, and the\nelfin girls have learnt new dances; there is something.\"\n\n\"I spoke about it to an earth-worm of my acquaintance,\" said a\nthird lizard; \"the earth-worm had just come from the elfin hill, where\nhe has been groping about in the earth day and night. He has heard a\ngreat deal; although he cannot see, poor miserable creature, yet he\nunderstands very well how to wriggle and lurk about. They expect\nfriends in the elfin hill, grand company, too; but who they are the\nearth-worm would not say, or, perhaps, he really did not know. All the\nwill-o'-the-wisps are ordered to be there to hold a torch dance, as it\nis called. The silver and gold which is plentiful in the hill will\nbe polished and placed out in the moonlight.\"\n\n\"Who can the strangers be?\" asked the lizards; \"what can the\nmatter be? Hark, what a buzzing and humming there is!\"\n\nJust at this moment the elfin hill opened, and an old elfin\nmaiden, hollow behind, came tripping out; she was the old elf king's\nhousekeeper, and a distant relative of the family; therefore she\nwore an amber heart on the middle of her forehead. Her feet moved very\nfast, \"trip, trip;\" good gracious, how she could trip right down to\nthe sea to the night-raven.\n\n\"You are invited to the elf hill for this evening,\" said she; \"but\nwill you do me a great favor and undertake the invitations? you\nought to do something, for you have no housekeeping to attend to as\nI have. We are going to have some very grand people, conjurors, who\nhave always something to say; and therefore the old elf king wishes to\nmake a great display.\"\n\n\"Who is to be invited?\" asked the raven.\n\n\"All the world may come to the great ball, even human beings, if\nthey can only talk in their sleep, or do something after our\nfashion. But for the feast the company must be carefully selected;\nwe can only admit persons of high rank; I have had a dispute myself\nwith the elf king, as he thought we could not admit ghosts. The merman\nand his daughter must be invited first, although it may not be\nagreeable to them to remain so long on dry land, but they shall have a\nwet stone to sit on, or perhaps something better; so I think they will\nnot refuse this time. We must have all the old demons of the first\nclass, with tails, and the hobgoblins and imps; and then I think we\nought not to leave out the death-horse, or the grave-pig, or even\nthe church dwarf, although they do belong to the clergy, and are not\nreckoned among our people; but that is merely their office, they are\nnearly related to us, and visit us very frequently.\"\n\n\"Croak,\" said the night-raven as he flew away with the\ninvitations.\n\nThe elfin maidens we're already dancing on the elf hill, and\nthey danced in shawls woven from moonshine and mist, which look very\npretty to those who like such things. The large hall within the elf\nhill was splendidly decorated; the floor had been washed with\nmoonshine, and the walls had been rubbed with magic ointment, so\nthat they glowed like tulip-leaves in the light. In the kitchen were\nfrogs roasting on the spit, and dishes preparing of snail skins,\nwith children's fingers in them, salad of mushroom seed, hemlock,\nnoses and marrow of mice, beer from the marsh woman's brewery, and\nsparkling salt-petre wine from the grave cellars. These were all\nsubstantial food. Rusty nails and church-window glass formed the\ndessert. The old elf king had his gold crown polished up with powdered\nslate-pencil; it was like that used by the first form, and very\ndifficult for an elf king to obtain. In the bedrooms, curtains were\nhung up and fastened with the slime of snails; there was, indeed, a\nbuzzing and humming everywhere.\n\n\"Now we must fumigate the place with burnt horse-hair and pig's\nbristles, and then I think I shall have done my part,\" said the elf\nman-servant.\n\n\"Father, dear,\" said the youngest daughter, \"may I now hear who\nour high-born visitors are?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose I must tell you now,\" he replied; \"two of my\ndaughters must prepare themselves to be married, for the marriages\ncertainly will take place. The old goblin from Norway, who lives in\nthe ancient Dovre mountains, and who possesses many castles built of\nrock and freestone, besides a gold mine, which is better than all,\nso it is thought, is coming with his two sons, who are both seeking\na wife. The old goblin is a true-hearted, honest, old Norwegian\ngraybeard; cheerful and straightforward. I knew him formerly, when\nwe used to drink together to our good fellowship: he came here once to\nfetch his wife, she is dead now. She was the daughter of the king of\nthe chalk-hills at Moen. They say he took his wife from chalk; I shall\nbe delighted to see him again. It is said that the boys are\nill-bred, forward lads, but perhaps that is not quite correct, and\nthey will become better as they grow older. Let me see that you know\nhow to teach them good manners.\"\n\n\"And when are they coming?\" asked the daughter.\n\n\"That depends upon wind and weather,\" said the elf king; \"they\ntravel economically. They will come when there is the chance of a\nship. I wanted them to come over to Sweden, but the old man was not\ninclined to take my advice. He does not go forward with the times, and\nthat I do not like.\"\n\nTwo will-o'-the-wisps came jumping in, one quicker than the other,\nso of course, one arrived first. \"They are coming! they are coming!\"\nhe cried.\n\n\"Give me my crown,\" said the elf king, \"and let me stand in the\nmoonshine.\"\n\nThe daughters drew on their shawls and bowed down to the ground.\nThere stood the old goblin from the Dovre mountains, with his crown of\nhardened ice and polished fir-cones. Besides this, he wore a\nbear-skin, and great, warm boots, while his sons went with their\nthroats bare and wore no braces, for they were strong men.\n\n\"Is that a hill?\" said the youngest of the boys, pointing to the\nelf hill, \"we should call it a hole in Norway.\"\n\n\"Boys,\" said the old man, \"a hole goes in, and a hill stands\nout; have you no eyes in your heads?\"\n\nAnother thing they wondered at was, that they were able without\ntrouble to understand the language.\n\n\"Take care,\" said the old man, \"or people will think you have\nnot been well brought up.\"\n\nThen they entered the elfin hill, where the select and grand\ncompany were assembled, and so quickly had they appeared that they\nseemed to have been blown together. But for each guest the neatest and\npleasantest arrangement had been made. The sea folks sat at table in\ngreat water-tubs, and they said it was just like being at home. All\nbehaved themselves properly excepting the two young northern goblins;\nthey put their legs on the table and thought they were all right.\n\n\"Feet off the table-cloth!\" said the old goblin. They obeyed,\nbut not immediately. Then they tickled the ladies who waited at table,\nwith the fir-cones, which they carried in their pockets. They took off\ntheir boots, that they might be more at ease, and gave them to the\nladies to hold. But their father, the old goblin, was very\ndifferent; he talked pleasantly about the stately Norwegian rocks, and\ntold fine tales of the waterfalls which dashed over them with a\nclattering noise like thunder or the sound of an organ, spreading\ntheir white foam on every side. He told of the salmon that leaps in\nthe rushing waters, while the water-god plays on his golden harp. He\nspoke of the bright winter nights, when the sledge bells are\nringing, and the boys run with burning torches across the smooth\nice, which is so transparent that they can see the fishes dart forward\nbeneath their feet. He described everything so clearly, that those who\nlistened could see it all; they could see the saw-mills going, the\nmen-servants and the maidens singing songs, and dancing a rattling\ndance,--when all at once the old goblin gave the old elfin maiden a\nkiss, such a tremendous kiss, and yet they were almost strangers to\neach other.\n\nThen the elfin girls had to dance, first in the usual way, and\nthen with stamping feet, which they performed very well; then followed\nthe artistic and solo dance. Dear me, how they did throw their legs\nabout! No one could tell where the dance begun, or where it ended, nor\nindeed which were legs and which were arms, for they were all flying\nabout together, like the shavings in a saw-pit! And then they spun\nround so quickly that the death-horse and the grave-pig became sick\nand giddy, and were obliged to leave the table.\n\n\"Stop!\" cried the old goblin, \"is that the only house-keeping they\ncan perform? Can they do anything more than dance and throw about\ntheir legs, and make a whirlwind?\"\n\n\"You shall soon see what they can do,\" said the elf king. And then\nhe called his youngest daughter to him. She was slender and fair as\nmoonlight, and the most graceful of all the sisters. She took a\nwhite chip in her mouth, and vanished instantly; this was her\naccomplishment. But the old goblin said he should not like his wife to\nhave such an accomplishment, and thought his boys would have the\nsame objection. Another daughter could make a figure like herself\nfollow her, as if she had a shadow, which none of the goblin folk ever\nhad. The third was of quite a different sort; she had learnt in the\nbrew-house of the moor witch how to lard elfin puddings with\nglow-worms.\n\n\"She will make a good housewife,\" said the old goblin, and then\nsaluted her with his eyes instead of drinking her health; for he did\nnot drink much.\n\nNow came the fourth daughter, with a large harp to play upon;\nand when she struck the first chord, every one lifted up the left\nleg (for the goblins are left-legged), and at the second chord they\nfound they must all do just what she wanted.\n\n\"That is a dangerous woman,\" said the old goblin; and the two sons\nwalked out of the hill; they had had enough of it. \"And what can the\nnext daughter do?\" asked the old goblin.\n\n\"I have learnt everything that is Norwegian,\" said she; \"and I\nwill never marry, unless I can go to Norway.\"\n\nThen her youngest sister whispered to the old goblin, \"That is\nonly because she has heard, in a Norwegian song, that when the world\nshall decay, the cliffs of Norway will remain standing like monuments;\nand she wants to get there, that she may be safe; for she is so afraid\nof sinking.\"\n\n\"Ho! ho!\" said the old goblin, \"is that what she means? Well, what\ncan the seventh and last do?\"\n\n\"The sixth comes before the seventh,\" said the elf king, for he\ncould reckon; but the sixth would not come forward.\n\n\"I can only tell people the truth,\" said she. \"No one cares for\nme, nor troubles himself about me; and I have enough to do to sew my\ngrave clothes.\"\n\nSo the seventh and last came; and what could she do? Why, she\ncould tell stories, as many as you liked, on any subject.\n\n\"Here are my five fingers,\" said the old goblin; \"now tell me a\nstory for each of them.\"\n\nSo she took him by the wrist, and he laughed till he nearly\nchoked; and when she came to the fourth finger, there was a gold\nring on it, as if it knew there was to be a betrothal. Then the old\ngoblin said, \"Hold fast what you have: this hand is yours; for I\nwill have you for a wife myself.\"\n\nThen the elfin girl said that the stories about the ring-finger\nand little Peter Playman had not yet been told.\n\n\"We will hear them in the winter,\" said the old goblin, \"and\nalso about the fir and the birch-trees, and the ghost stories, and\nof the tingling frost. You shall tell your tales, for no one over\nthere can do it so well; and we will sit in the stone rooms, where the\npine logs are burning, and drink mead out of the golden\ndrinking-horn of the old Norwegian kings. The water-god has given me\ntwo; and when we sit there, Nix comes to pay us a visit, and will sing\nyou all the songs of the mountain shepherdesses. How merry we shall\nbe! The salmon will be leaping in the waterfalls, and dashing\nagainst the stone walls, but he will not be able to come in. It is\nindeed very pleasant to live in old Norway. But where are the lads?\"\n\nWhere indeed were they? Why, running about the fields, and blowing\nout the will-o'-the-wisps, who so good-naturedly came and brought\ntheir torches.\n\n\"What tricks have you been playing?\" said the old goblin. \"I\nhave taken a mother for you, and now you may take one of your aunts.\"\n\nBut the youngsters said they would rather make a speech and\ndrink to their good fellowship; they had no wish to marry. Then they\nmade speeches and drank toasts, and tipped their glasses, to show that\nthey were empty. Then they took off their coats, and lay down on the\ntable to sleep; for they made themselves quite at home. But the old\ngoblin danced about the room with his young bride, and exchanged boots\nwith her, which is more fashionable than exchanging rings.\n\n\"The cock is crowing,\" said the old elfin maiden who acted as\nhousekeeper; \"now we must close the shutters, that the sun may not\nscorch us.\"\n\nThen the hill closed up. But the lizards continued to run up and\ndown the riven tree; and one said to the other, \"Oh, how much I was\npleased with the old goblin!\"\n\n\"The boys pleased me better,\" said the earth-worm. But then the\npoor miserable creature could not see.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EMPEROR'S NEW SUIT\n\nMany, many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much of\nnew clothes that he spent all his money in order to obtain them; his\nonly ambition was to be always well dressed. He did not care for his\nsoldiers, and the theatre did not amuse him; the only thing, in\nfact, he thought anything of was to drive out and show a new suit of\nclothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day; and as one would say\nof a king \"He is in his cabinet,\" so one could say of him, \"The\nemperor is in his dressing-room.\"\n\nThe great city where he resided was very gay; every day many\nstrangers from all parts of the globe arrived. One day two swindlers\ncame to this city; they made people believe that they were weavers,\nand declared they could manufacture the finest cloth to be imagined.\nTheir colours and patterns, they said, were not only exceptionally\nbeautiful, but the clothes made of their material possessed the\nwonderful quality of being invisible to any man who was unfit for\nhis office or unpardonably stupid.\n\n\"That must be wonderful cloth,\" thought the emperor. \"If I were to\nbe dressed in a suit made of this cloth I should be able to find out\nwhich men in my empire were unfit for their places, and I could\ndistinguish the clever from the stupid. I must have this cloth woven\nfor me without delay.\" And he gave a large sum of money to the\nswindlers, in advance, that they should set to work without any loss\nof time. They set up two looms, and pretended to be very hard at work,\nbut they did nothing whatever on the looms. They asked for the\nfinest silk and the most precious gold-cloth; all they got they did\naway with, and worked at the empty looms till late at night.\n\n\"I should very much like to know how they are getting on with\nthe cloth,\" thought the emperor. But he felt rather uneasy when he\nremembered that he who was not fit for his office could not see it.\nPersonally, he was of opinion that he had nothing to fear, yet he\nthought it advisable to send somebody else first to see how matters\nstood. Everybody in the town knew what a remarkable quality the\nstuff possessed, and all were anxious to see how bad or stupid their\nneighbours were.\n\n\"I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers,\" thought\nthe emperor. \"He can judge best how the stuff looks, for he is\nintelligent, and nobody understands his office better than he.\"\n\nThe good old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat\nbefore the empty looms. \"Heaven preserve us!\" he thought, and opened\nhis eyes wide, \"I cannot see anything at all,\" but he did not say\nso. Both swindlers requested him to come near, and asked him if he did\nnot admire the exquisite pattern and the beautiful colours, pointing\nto the empty looms. The poor old minister tried his very best, but\nhe could see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. \"Oh dear,\"\nhe thought, \"can I be so stupid? I should never have thought so, and\nnobody must know it! Is it possible that I am not fit for my office?\nNo, no, I cannot say that I was unable to see the cloth.\"\n\n\"Now, have you got nothing to say?\" said one of the swindlers,\nwhile he pretended to be busily weaving.\n\n\"Oh, it is very pretty, exceedingly beautiful,\" replied the old\nminister looking through his glasses. \"What a beautiful pattern,\nwhat brilliant colours! I shall tell the emperor that I like the cloth\nvery much.\"\n\n\"We are pleased to hear that,\" said the two weavers, and described\nto him the colours and explained the curious pattern. The old minister\nlistened attentively, that he might relate to the emperor what they\nsaid; and so he did.\n\nNow the swindlers asked for more money, silk and gold-cloth, which\nthey required for weaving. They kept everything for themselves, and\nnot a thread came near the loom, but they continued, as hitherto, to\nwork at the empty looms.\n\nSoon afterwards the emperor sent another honest courtier to the\nweavers to see how they were getting on, and if the cloth was nearly\nfinished. Like the old minister, he looked and looked but could see\nnothing, as there was nothing to be seen.\n\n\"Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?\" asked the two swindlers,\nshowing and explaining the magnificent pattern, which, however, did\nnot exist.\n\n\"I am not stupid,\" said the man. \"It is therefore my good\nappointment for which I am not fit. It is very strange, but I must not\nlet any one know it;\" and he praised the cloth, which he did not\nsee, and expressed his joy at the beautiful colours and the fine\npattern. \"It is very excellent,\" he said to the emperor.\n\nEverybody in the whole town talked about the precious cloth. At\nlast the emperor wished to see it himself, while it was still on the\nloom. With a number of courtiers, including the two who had already\nbeen there, he went to the two clever swindlers, who now worked as\nhard as they could, but without using any thread.\n\n\"Is it not magnificent?\" said the two old statesmen who had been\nthere before. \"Your Majesty must admire the colours and the\npattern.\" And then they pointed to the empty looms, for they\nimagined the others could see the cloth.\n\n\"What is this?\" thought the emperor, \"I do not see anything at\nall. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor? That\nwould indeed be the most dreadful thing that could happen to me.\"\n\n\"Really,\" he said, turning to the weavers, \"your cloth has our\nmost gracious approval;\" and nodding contentedly he looked at the\nempty loom, for he did not like to say that he saw nothing. All his\nattendants, who were with him, looked and looked, and although they\ncould not see anything more than the others, they said, like the\nemperor, \"It is very beautiful.\" And all advised him to wear the new\nmagnificent clothes at a great procession which was soon to take\nplace. \"It is magnificent, beautiful, excellent,\" one heard them\nsay; everybody seemed to be delighted, and the emperor appointed the\ntwo swindlers \"Imperial Court weavers.\"\n\nThe whole night previous to the day on which the procession was to\ntake place, the swindlers pretended to work, and burned more than\nsixteen candles. People should see that they were busy to finish the\nemperor's new suit. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom,\nand worked about in the air with big scissors, and sewed with\nneedles without thread, and said at last: \"The emperor's new suit is\nready now.\"\n\nThe emperor and all his barons then came to the hall; the\nswindlers held their arms up as if they held something in their\nhands and said: \"These are the trousers!\" \"This is the coat!\" and\n\"Here is the cloak!\" and so on. \"They are all as light as a cobweb,\nand one must feel as if one had nothing at all upon the body; but that\nis just the beauty of them.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said all the courtiers; but they could not see anything,\nfor there was nothing to be seen.\n\n\"Does it please your Majesty now to graciously undress,\" said\nthe swindlers, \"that we may assist your Majesty in putting on the\nnew suit before the large looking-glass?\"\n\nThe emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put the\nnew suit upon him, one piece after another; and the emperor looked\nat himself in the glass from every side.\n\n\"How well they look! How well they fit!\" said all. \"What a\nbeautiful pattern! What fine colours! That is a magnificent suit of\nclothes!\"\n\nThe master of the ceremonies announced that the bearers of the\ncanopy, which was to be carried in the procession, were ready.\n\n\"I am ready,\" said the emperor. \"Does not my suit fit me\nmarvellously?\" Then he turned once more to the looking-glass, that\npeople should think he admired his garments.\n\nThe chamberlains, who were to carry the train, stretched their\nhands to the ground as if they lifted up a train, and pretended to\nhold something in their hands; they did not like people to know that\nthey could not see anything.\n\nThe emperor marched in the procession under the beautiful\ncanopy, and all who saw him in the street and out of the windows\nexclaimed: \"Indeed, the emperor's new suit is incomparable! What a\nlong train he has! How well it fits him!\" Nobody wished to let\nothers know he saw nothing, for then he would have been unfit for\nhis office or too stupid. Never emperor's clothes were more admired.\n\n\"But he has nothing on at all,\" said a little child at last. \"Good\nheavens! listen to the voice of an innocent child,\" said the father,\nand one whispered to the other what the child had said. \"But he has\nnothing on at all,\" cried at last the whole people. That made a deep\nimpression upon the emperor, for it seemed to him that they were\nright; but he thought to himself, \"Now I must bear up to the end.\" And\nthe chamberlains walked with still greater dignity, as if they carried\nthe train which did not exist.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIR TREE\n\nFar down in the forest, where the warm sun and the fresh air\nmade a sweet resting-place, grew a pretty little fir-tree; and yet\nit was not happy, it wished so much to be tall like its companions--the\npines and firs which grew around it. The sun shone, and the soft\nair fluttered its leaves, and the little peasant children passed by,\nprattling merrily, but the fir-tree heeded them not. Sometimes the\nchildren would bring a large basket of raspberries or strawberries,\nwreathed on a straw, and seat themselves near the fir-tree, and say,\n\"Is it not a pretty little tree?\" which made it feel more unhappy than\nbefore. And yet all this while the tree grew a notch or joint taller\nevery year; for by the number of joints in the stem of a fir-tree we\ncan discover its age. Still, as it grew, it complained, \"Oh! how I\nwish I were as tall as the other trees, then I would spread out my\nbranches on every side, and my top would over-look the wide world. I\nshould have the birds building their nests on my boughs, and when\nthe wind blew, I should bow with stately dignity like my tall\ncompanions.\" The tree was so discontented, that it took no pleasure in\nthe warm sunshine, the birds, or the rosy clouds that floated over\nit morning and evening. Sometimes, in winter, when the snow lay\nwhite and glittering on the ground, a hare would come springing along,\nand jump right over the little tree; and then how mortified it would\nfeel! Two winters passed, and when the third arrived, the tree had\ngrown so tall that the hare was obliged to run round it. Yet it\nremained unsatisfied, and would exclaim, \"Oh, if I could but keep on\ngrowing tall and old! There is nothing else worth caring for in the\nworld!\" In the autumn, as usual, the wood-cutters came and cut down\nseveral of the tallest trees, and the young fir-tree, which was now\ngrown to its full height, shuddered as the noble trees fell to the\nearth with a crash. After the branches were lopped off, the trunks\nlooked so slender and bare, that they could scarcely be recognized.\nThen they were placed upon wagons, and drawn by horses out of the\nforest. \"Where were they going? What would become of them?\" The\nyoung fir-tree wished very much to know; so in the spring, when the\nswallows and the storks came, it asked, \"Do you know where those trees\nwere taken? Did you meet them?\"\n\nThe swallows knew nothing, but the stork, after a little\nreflection, nodded his head, and said, \"Yes, I think I do. I met\nseveral new ships when I flew from Egypt, and they had fine masts that\nsmelt like fir. I think these must have been the trees; I assure you\nthey were stately, very stately.\"\n\n\"Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea,\" said the\nfir-tree. \"What is the sea, and what does it look like?\"\n\n\"It would take too much time to explain,\" said the stork, flying\nquickly away.\n\n\"Rejoice in thy youth,\" said the sunbeam; \"rejoice in thy fresh\ngrowth, and the young life that is in thee.\"\n\nAnd the wind kissed the tree, and the dew watered it with tears;\nbut the fir-tree regarded them not.\n\nChristmas-time drew near, and many young trees were cut down, some\neven smaller and younger than the fir-tree who enjoyed neither rest\nnor peace with longing to leave its forest home. These young trees,\nwhich were chosen for their beauty, kept their branches, and were also\nlaid on wagons and drawn by horses out of the forest.\n\n\"Where are they going?\" asked the fir-tree. \"They are not taller\nthan I am: indeed, one is much less; and why are the branches not\ncut off? Where are they going?\"\n\n\"We know, we know,\" sang the sparrows; \"we have looked in at the\nwindows of the houses in the town, and we know what is done with them.\nThey are dressed up in the most splendid manner. We have seen them\nstanding in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with all sorts of\nbeautiful things,--honey cakes, gilded apples, playthings, and many\nhundreds of wax tapers.\"\n\n\"And then,\" asked the fir-tree, trembling through all its\nbranches, \"and then what happens?\"\n\n\"We did not see any more,\" said the sparrows; \"but this was enough\nfor us.\"\n\n\"I wonder whether anything so brilliant will ever happen to me,\"\nthought the fir-tree. \"It would be much better than crossing the\nsea. I long for it almost with pain. Oh! when will Christmas be\nhere? I am now as tall and well grown as those which were taken away\nlast year. Oh! that I were now laid on the wagon, or standing in the\nwarm room, with all that brightness and splendor around me!\nSomething better and more beautiful is to come after, or the trees\nwould not be so decked out. Yes, what follows will be grander and more\nsplendid. What can it be? I am weary with longing. I scarcely know how\nI feel.\"\n\n\"Rejoice with us,\" said the air and the sunlight. \"Enjoy thine own\nbright life in the fresh air.\"\n\nBut the tree would not rejoice, though it grew taller every day;\nand, winter and summer, its dark-green foliage might be seen in the\nforest, while passers by would say, \"What a beautiful tree!\"\n\nA short time before Christmas, the discontented fir-tree was the\nfirst to fall. As the axe cut through the stem, and divided the\npith, the tree fell with a groan to the earth, conscious of pain and\nfaintness, and forgetting all its anticipations of happiness, in\nsorrow at leaving its home in the forest. It knew that it should never\nagain see its dear old companions, the trees, nor the little bushes\nand many-colored flowers that had grown by its side; perhaps not\neven the birds. Neither was the journey at all pleasant. The tree\nfirst recovered itself while being unpacked in the courtyard of a\nhouse, with several other trees; and it heard a man say, \"We only want\none, and this is the prettiest.\"\n\nThen came two servants in grand livery, and carried the fir-tree\ninto a large and beautiful apartment. On the walls hung pictures,\nand near the great stove stood great china vases, with lions on the\nlids. There were rocking chairs, silken sofas, large tables, covered\nwith pictures, books, and playthings, worth a great deal of money,--at\nleast, the children said so. Then the fir-tree was placed in a large\ntub, full of sand; but green baize hung all around it, so that no\none could see it was a tub, and it stood on a very handsome carpet.\nHow the fir-tree trembled! \"What was going to happen to him now?\" Some\nyoung ladies came, and the servants helped them to adorn the tree.\nOn one branch they hung little bags cut out of colored paper, and each\nbag was filled with sweetmeats; from other branches hung gilded apples\nand walnuts, as if they had grown there; and above, and all round,\nwere hundreds of red, blue, and white tapers, which were fastened on\nthe branches. Dolls, exactly like real babies, were placed under the\ngreen leaves,--the tree had never seen such things before,--and at the\nvery top was fastened a glittering star, made of tinsel. Oh, it was\nvery beautiful!\n\n\"This evening,\" they all exclaimed, \"how bright it will be!\"\n\"Oh, that the evening were come,\" thought the tree, \"and the tapers\nlighted! then I shall know what else is going to happen. Will the\ntrees of the forest come to see me? I wonder if the sparrows will peep\nin at the windows as they fly? shall I grow faster here, and keep on\nall these ornaments summer and winter?\" But guessing was of very\nlittle use; it made his bark ache, and this pain is as bad for a\nslender fir-tree, as headache is for us. At last the tapers were\nlighted, and then what a glistening blaze of light the tree presented!\nIt trembled so with joy in all its branches, that one of the candles\nfell among the green leaves and burnt some of them. \"Help! help!\"\nexclaimed the young ladies, but there was no danger, for they\nquickly extinguished the fire. After this, the tree tried not to\ntremble at all, though the fire frightened him; he was so anxious\nnot to hurt any of the beautiful ornaments, even while their\nbrilliancy dazzled him. And now the folding doors were thrown open,\nand a troop of children rushed in as if they intended to upset the\ntree; they were followed more silently by their elders. For a moment\nthe little ones stood silent with astonishment, and then they\nshouted for joy, till the room rang, and they danced merrily round the\ntree, while one present after another was taken from it.\n\n\"What are they doing? What will happen next?\" thought the fir.\nAt last the candles burnt down to the branches and were put out.\nThen the children received permission to plunder the tree.\n\nOh, how they rushed upon it, till the branches cracked, and had it\nnot been fastened with the glistening star to the ceiling, it must\nhave been thrown down. The children then danced about with their\npretty toys, and no one noticed the tree, except the children's maid\nwho came and peeped among the branches to see if an apple or a fig had\nbeen forgotten.\n\n\"A story, a story,\" cried the children, pulling a little fat man\ntowards the tree.\n\n\"Now we shall be in the green shade,\" said the man, as he seated\nhimself under it, \"and the tree will have the pleasure of hearing\nalso, but I shall only relate one story; what shall it be?\nIvede-Avede, or Humpty Dumpty, who fell down stairs, but soon got up\nagain, and at last married a princess.\"\n\n\"Ivede-Avede,\" cried some. \"Humpty Dumpty,\" cried others, and\nthere was a fine shouting and crying out. But the fir-tree remained\nquite still, and thought to himself, \"Shall I have anything to do with\nall this?\" but he had already amused them as much as they wished. Then\nthe old man told them the story of Humpty Dumpty, how he fell down\nstairs, and was raised up again, and married a princess. And the\nchildren clapped their hands and cried, \"Tell another, tell\nanother,\" for they wanted to hear the story of \"Ivede-Avede;\" but they\nonly had \"Humpty Dumpty.\" After this the fir-tree became quite\nsilent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the forest told such\ntales as \"Humpty Dumpty,\" who fell down stairs, and yet married a\nprincess.\n\n\"Ah! yes, so it happens in the world,\" thought the fir-tree; he\nbelieved it all, because it was related by such a nice man. \"Ah!\nwell,\" he thought, \"who knows? perhaps I may fall down too, and\nmarry a princess;\" and he looked forward joyfully to the next evening,\nexpecting to be again decked out with lights and playthings, gold\nand fruit. \"To-morrow I will not tremble,\" thought he; \"I will enjoy\nall my splendor, and I shall hear the story of Humpty Dumpty again,\nand perhaps Ivede-Avede.\" And the tree remained quiet and thoughtful\nall night. In the morning the servants and the housemaid came in.\n\"Now,\" thought the fir, \"all my splendor is going to begin again.\" But\nthey dragged him out of the room and up stairs to the garret, and\nthrew him on the floor, in a dark corner, where no daylight shone, and\nthere they left him. \"What does this mean?\" thought the tree, \"what am\nI to do here? I can hear nothing in a place like this,\" and he had\ntime enough to think, for days and nights passed and no one came\nnear him, and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put\naway large boxes in a corner. So the tree was completely hidden from\nsight as if it had never existed. \"It is winter now,\" thought the\ntree, \"the ground is hard and covered with snow, so that people cannot\nplant me. I shall be sheltered here, I dare say, until spring comes.\nHow thoughtful and kind everybody is to me! Still I wish this place\nwere not so dark, as well as lonely, with not even a little hare to\nlook at. How pleasant it was out in the forest while the snow lay on\nthe ground, when the hare would run by, yes, and jump over me too,\nalthough I did not like it then. Oh! it is terrible lonely here.\"\n\n\"Squeak, squeak,\" said a little mouse, creeping cautiously towards\nthe tree; then came another; and they both sniffed at the fir-tree and\ncrept between the branches.\n\n\"Oh, it is very cold,\" said the little mouse, \"or else we should\nbe so comfortable here, shouldn't we, you old fir-tree?\"\n\n\"I am not old,\" said the fir-tree, \"there are many who are older\nthan I am.\"\n\n\"Where do you come from? and what do you know?\" asked the mice,\nwho were full of curiosity. \"Have you seen the most beautiful places\nin the world, and can you tell us all about them? and have you been in\nthe storeroom, where cheeses lie on the shelf, and hams hang from\nthe ceiling? One can run about on tallow candles there, and go in thin\nand come out fat.\"\n\n\"I know nothing of that place,\" said the fir-tree, \"but I know the\nwood where the sun shines and the birds sing.\" And then the tree\ntold the little mice all about its youth. They had never heard such an\naccount in their lives; and after they had listened to it attentively,\nthey said, \"What a number of things you have seen? you must have\nbeen very happy.\"\n\n\"Happy!\" exclaimed the fir-tree, and then as he reflected upon\nwhat he had been telling them, he said, \"Ah, yes! after all those were\nhappy days.\" But when he went on and related all about Christmas-eve,\nand how he had been dressed up with cakes and lights, the mice\nsaid, \"How happy you must have been, you old fir-tree.\"\n\n\"I am not old at all,\" replied the tree, \"I only came from the\nforest this winter, I am now checked in my growth.\"\n\n\"What splendid stories you can relate,\" said the little mice.\nAnd the next night four other mice came with them to hear what the\ntree had to tell. The more he talked the more he remembered, and\nthen he thought to himself, \"Those were happy days, but they may\ncome again. Humpty Dumpty fell down stairs, and yet he married the\nprincess; perhaps I may marry a princess too.\" And the fir-tree\nthought of the pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest, which\nwas to him a real beautiful princess.\n\n\"Who is Humpty Dumpty?\" asked the little mice. And then the tree\nrelated the whole story; he could remember every single word, and\nthe little mice was so delighted with it, that they were ready to jump\nto the top of the tree. The next night a great many more mice made\ntheir appearance, and on Sunday two rats came with them; but they\nsaid, it was not a pretty story at all, and the little mice were\nvery sorry, for it made them also think less of it.\n\n\"Do you know only one story?\" asked the rats.\n\n\"Only one,\" replied the fir-tree; \"I heard it on the happiest\nevening of my life; but I did not know I was so happy at the time.\"\n\n\"We think it is a very miserable story,\" said the rats. \"Don't you\nknow any story about bacon, or tallow in the storeroom.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the tree.\n\n\"Many thanks to you then,\" replied the rats, and they marched off.\n\nThe little mice also kept away after this, and the tree sighed,\nand said, \"It was very pleasant when the merry little mice sat round\nme and listened while I talked. Now that is all passed too. However, I\nshall consider myself happy when some one comes to take me out of this\nplace.\" But would this ever happen? Yes; one morning people came to\nclear out the garret, the boxes were packed away, and the tree was\npulled out of the corner, and thrown roughly on the garret floor; then\nthe servant dragged it out upon the staircase where the daylight\nshone. \"Now life is beginning again,\" said the tree, rejoicing in\nthe sunshine and fresh air. Then it was carried down stairs and\ntaken into the courtyard so quickly, that it forgot to think of\nitself, and could only look about, there was so much to be seen. The\ncourt was close to a garden, where everything looked blooming. Fresh\nand fragrant roses hung over the little palings. The linden-trees were\nin blossom; while the swallows flew here and there, crying, \"Twit,\ntwit, twit, my mate is coming,\"--but it was not the fir-tree they\nmeant. \"Now I shall live,\" cried the tree, joyfully spreading out\nits branches; but alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it\nlay in a corner amongst weeds and nettles. The star of gold paper\nstill stuck in the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine. In\nthe same courtyard two of the merry children were playing who had\ndanced round the tree at Christmas, and had been so happy. The\nyoungest saw the gilded star, and ran and pulled it off the tree.\n\"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir-tree,\" said the child,\ntreading on the branches till they crackled under his boots. And the\ntree saw all the fresh bright flowers in the garden, and then looked\nat itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the\ngarret. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, of the merry\nChristmas evening, and of the little mice who had listened to the\nstory of \"Humpty Dumpty.\" \"Past! past!\" said the old tree; \"Oh, had\nI but enjoyed myself while I could have done so! but now it is too\nlate.\" Then a lad came and chopped the tree into small pieces, till\na large bundle lay in a heap on the ground. The pieces were placed\nin a fire under the copper, and they quickly blazed up brightly, while\nthe tree sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a pistol-shot.\nThen the children, who were at play, came and seated themselves in\nfront of the fire, and looked at it and cried, \"Pop, pop.\" But at each\n\"pop,\" which was a deep sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in\nthe forest; and of Christmas evening, and of \"Humpty Dumpty,\" the only\nstory it had ever heard or knew how to relate, till at last it was\nconsumed. The boys still played in the garden, and the youngest wore\nthe golden star on his breast, with which the tree had been adorned\nduring the happiest evening of its existence. Now all was past; the\ntree's life was past, and the story also,--for all stories must come\nto an end at last.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLAX\n\nThe flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as\ndelicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and\nthe showers watered it; and this was just as good for the flax as it\nis for little children to be washed and then kissed by their mother.\nThey look much prettier for it, and so did the flax.\n\n\"People say that I look exceedingly well,\" said the flax, \"and\nthat I am so fine and long that I shall make a beautiful piece of\nlinen. How fortunate I am; it makes me so happy, it is such a pleasant\nthing to know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine\ncheers me, and how sweet and refreshing is the rain; my happiness\noverpowers me, no one in the world can feel happier than I am.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, no doubt,\" said the fern, \"but you do not know the world\nyet as well as I do, for my sticks are knotty;\" and then it sung quite\nmournfully--\n\n  \"Snip, snap, snurre,\n   Basse lurre:\n   The song is ended.\"\n\n\n\"No, it is not ended,\" said the flax. \"To-morrow the sun will\nshine, or the rain descend. I feel that I am growing. I feel that I am\nin full blossom. I am the happiest of all creatures.\"\n\nWell, one day some people came, who took hold of the flax, and\npulled it up by the roots; this was painful; then it was laid in water\nas if they intended to drown it; and, after that, placed near a fire\nas if it were to be roasted; all this was very shocking. \"We cannot\nexpect to be happy always,\" said the flax; \"by experiencing evil as\nwell as good, we become wise.\" And certainly there was plenty of\nevil in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken,\nand combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it. At last it\nwas put on the spinning wheel. \"Whirr, whirr,\" went the wheel so\nquickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts. \"Well, I have\nbeen very happy,\" he thought in the midst of his pain, \"and must be\ncontented with the past;\" and contented he remained till he was put on\nthe loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen. All the flax,\neven to the last stalk, was used in making this one piece. \"Well, this\nis quite wonderful; I could not have believed that I should be so\nfavored by fortune. The fern was not wrong with its song of\n\n  'Snip, snap, snurre,\n  Basse lurre.'\n\nBut the song is not ended yet, I am sure; it is only just beginning.\nHow wonderful it is, that after all I have suffered, I am made\nsomething of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world--so strong\nand fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something\ndifferent to being a mere plant and bearing flowers. Then I had no\nattention, nor any water unless it rained; now, I am watched and taken\ncare of. Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a\nshower-bath from the watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the\nclergyman's wife noticed me, and said I was the best piece of linen in\nthe whole parish. I cannot be happier than I am now.\"\n\nAfter some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed\nunder the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked\nwith needles. This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made\ninto twelve garments of that kind which people do not like to name,\nand yet everybody should wear one. \"See, now, then,\" said the flax; \"I\nhave become something of importance. This was my destiny; it is\nquite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as everyone\nought to be; it is the only way to be happy. I am now divided into\ntwelve pieces, and yet we are all one and the same in the whole dozen.\nIt is most extraordinary good fortune.\"\n\nYears passed away, and at last the linen was so worn it could\nscarcely hold together. \"It must end very soon,\" said the pieces to\neach other; \"we would gladly have held together a little longer, but\nit is useless to expect impossibilities.\" And at length they fell into\nrags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they were\ntorn to shreds, and steeped in water, and made into a pulp, and dried,\nand they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves\nbeautiful white paper. \"Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious\nsurprise too,\" said the paper. \"I am now finer than ever, and I\nshall be written upon, and who can tell what fine things I may have\nwritten upon me. This is wonderful luck!\" And sure enough the most\nbeautiful stories and poetry were written upon it, and only once was\nthere a blot, which was very fortunate. Then people heard the\nstories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all\nthat was written had a good and sensible meaning, and a great blessing\nwas contained in the words on this paper.\n\n\"I never imagined anything like this,\" said the paper, \"when I was\nonly a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I fancy\nthat I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to\nman? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. Heaven\nknows that I have done nothing myself, but what I was obliged to do\nwith my weak powers for my own preservation; and yet I have been\npromoted from one joy and honor to another. Each time I think that the\nsong is ended; and then something higher and better begins for me. I\nsuppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that\npeople may read me. It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than\nprobable; for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me, than I\nhad pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever.\"\n\nBut the paper did not go on its travels; it was sent to the\nprinter, and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to\nmake a book, or rather, many hundreds of books; for so many more\npersons could derive pleasure and profit from a printed book, than\nfrom the written paper; and if the paper had been sent around the\nworld, it would have been worn out before it had got half through\nits journey.\n\n\"This is certainly the wisest plan,\" said the written paper; \"I\nreally did not think of that. I shall remain at home, and be held in\nhonor, like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new\nbooks. They will do some good. I could not have wandered about as they\ndo. Yet he who wrote all this has looked at me, as every word flowed\nfrom his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.\"\n\nThen the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and\nthrown into a tub that stood in the washhouse.\n\n\"After work, it is well to rest,\" said the paper, \"and a very good\nopportunity to collect one's thoughts. Now I am able, for the first\ntime, to think of my real condition; and to know one's self is true\nprogress. What will be done with me now, I wonder? No doubt I shall\nstill go forward. I have always progressed hitherto, as I know quite\nwell.\"\n\nNow it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken\nout, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be\nsold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been\nwritten upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for\nthey wanted to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily,\nand afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen\nrunning one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.\nThey called it seeing the children come out of school, and the last\nspark was the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had\ncome; and one would cry, \"There goes the schoolmaster;\" but the next\nmoment another spark would appear, shining so beautifully. How they\nwould like to know where the sparks all went to! Perhaps we shall find\nout some day, but we don't know now.\n\nThe whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was\nsoon alight. \"Ugh,\" cried the paper, as it burst into a bright\nflame; \"ugh.\" It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but\nwhen the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the\nair, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little\nblue flower, and they glistened as the white linen never could have\nglistened. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and\nall the words and thoughts turned to fire.\n\n\"Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,\" said a voice in the\nflames; and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the\nflames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Then\na number of tiny beings, as many in number as the flowers on the\nflax had been, and invisible to mortal eyes, floated above them.\nThey were even lighter and more delicate than the flowers from which\nthey were born; and as the flames were extinguished, and nothing\nremained of the paper but black ashes, these little beings danced upon\nit; and whenever they touched it, bright red sparks appeared.\n\n\"The children are all out of school, and the schoolmaster was\nthe last of all,\" said the children. It was good fun, and they sang\nover the dead ashes,--\n\n  \"Snip, snap, snurre,\n  Basse lure:\n  The song is ended.\"\n\n\nBut the little invisible beings said, \"The song is never ended;\nthe most beautiful is yet to come.\"\n\nBut the children could neither hear nor understand this, nor\nshould they; for children must not know everything.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLYING TRUNK\n\nThere was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved\nthe whole street with gold, and would even then have had enough for\na small alley. But he did not do so; he knew the value of money better\nthan to use it in this way. So clever was he, that every shilling he\nput out brought him a crown; and so he continued till he died. His son\ninherited his wealth, and he lived a merry life with it; he went to\na masquerade every night, made kites out of five pound notes, and\nthrew pieces of gold into the sea instead of stones, making ducks\nand drakes of them. In this manner he soon lost all his money. At last\nhe had nothing left but a pair of slippers, an old dressing-gown,\nand four shillings. And now all his friends deserted him, they could\nnot walk with him in the streets; but one of them, who was very\ngood-natured, sent him an old trunk with this message, \"Pack up!\"\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"it is all very well to say 'pack up,'\" but he had\nnothing left to pack up, therefore he seated himself in the trunk.\nIt was a very wonderful trunk; no sooner did any one press on the lock\nthan the trunk could fly. He shut the lid and pressed the lock, when\naway flew the trunk up the chimney with the merchant's son in it,\nright up into the clouds. Whenever the bottom of the trunk cracked, he\nwas in a great fright, for if the trunk fell to pieces he would have\nmade a tremendous somerset over the trees. However, he got safely in\nhis trunk to the land of Turkey. He hid the trunk in the wood under\nsome dry leaves, and then went into the town: he could so this very\nwell, for the Turks always go about dressed in dressing-gowns and\nslippers, as he was himself. He happened to meet a nurse with a little\nchild. \"I say, you Turkish nurse,\" cried he, \"what castle is that near\nthe town, with the windows placed so high?\"\n\n\"The king's daughter lives there,\" she replied; \"it has been\nprophesied that she will be very unhappy about a lover, and\ntherefore no one is allowed to visit her, unless the king and queen\nare present.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the merchant's son. So he went back to the wood,\nseated himself in his trunk, flew up to the roof of the castle, and\ncrept through the window into the princess's room. She lay on the sofa\nasleep, and she was so beautiful that the merchant's son could not\nhelp kissing her. Then she awoke, and was very much frightened; but he\ntold her he was a Turkish angel, who had come down through the air\nto see her, which pleased her very much. He sat down by her side and\ntalked to her: he said her eyes were like beautiful dark lakes, in\nwhich the thoughts swam about like little mermaids, and he told her\nthat her forehead was a snowy mountain, which contained splendid halls\nfull of pictures. And then he related to her about the stork who\nbrings the beautiful children from the rivers. These were delightful\nstories; and when he asked the princess if she would marry him, she\nconsented immediately.\n\n\"But you must come on Saturday,\" she said; \"for then the king\nand queen will take tea with me. They will be very proud when they\nfind that I am going to marry a Turkish angel; but you must think of\nsome very pretty stories to tell them, for my parents like to hear\nstories better than anything. My mother prefers one that is deep and\nmoral; but my father likes something funny, to make him laugh.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" he replied; \"I shall bring you no other marriage\nportion than a story,\" and so they parted. But the princess gave him a\nsword which was studded with gold coins, and these he could use.\n\nThen he flew away to the town and bought a new dressing-gown,\nand afterwards returned to the wood, where he composed a story, so\nas to be ready for Saturday, which was no easy matter. It was ready\nhowever by Saturday, when he went to see the princess. The king, and\nqueen, and the whole court, were at tea with the princess; and he\nwas received with great politeness.\n\n\"Will you tell us a story?\" said the queen,--\"one that is\ninstructive and full of deep learning.\"\n\n\"Yes, but with something in it to laugh at,\" said the king.\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, and commenced at once, asking them to\nlisten attentively. \"There was once a bundle of matches that were\nexceedingly proud of their high descent. Their genealogical tree, that\nis, a large pine-tree from which they had been cut, was at one time\na large, old tree in the wood. The matches now lay between a\ntinder-box and an old iron saucepan, and were talking about their\nyouthful days. 'Ah! then we grew on the green boughs, and were as\ngreen as they; every morning and evening we were fed with diamond\ndrops of dew. Whenever the sun shone, we felt his warm rays, and the\nlittle birds would relate stories to us as they sung. We knew that\nwe were rich, for the other trees only wore their green dress in\nsummer, but our family were able to array themselves in green,\nsummer and winter. But the wood-cutter came, like a great\nrevolution, and our family fell under the axe. The head of the house\nobtained a situation as mainmast in a very fine ship, and can sail\nround the world when he will. The other branches of the family were\ntaken to different places, and our office now is to kindle a light for\ncommon people. This is how such high-born people as we came to be in a\nkitchen.'\n\n\"'Mine has been a very different fate,' said the iron pot, which\nstood by the matches; 'from my first entrance into the world I have\nbeen used to cooking and scouring. I am the first in this house,\nwhen anything solid or useful is required. My only pleasure is to be\nmade clean and shining after dinner, and to sit in my place and have a\nlittle sensible conversation with my neighbors. All of us, excepting\nthe water-bucket, which is sometimes taken into the courtyard, live\nhere together within these four walls. We get our news from the\nmarket-basket, but he sometimes tells us very unpleasant things\nabout the people and the government. Yes, and one day an old pot was\nso alarmed, that he fell down and was broken to pieces. He was a\nliberal, I can tell you.'\n\n\"'You are talking too much,' said the tinder-box, and the steel\nstruck against the flint till some sparks flew out, crying, 'We want a\nmerry evening, don't we?'\n\n\"'Yes, of course,' said the matches, 'let us talk about those\nwho are the highest born.'\n\n\"'No, I don't like to be always talking of what we are,'\nremarked the saucepan; 'let us think of some other amusement; I will\nbegin. We will tell something that has happened to ourselves; that\nwill be very easy, and interesting as well. On the Baltic Sea, near\nthe Danish shore'--\n\n\"'What a pretty commencement!' said the plates; 'we shall all\nlike that story, I am sure.'\n\n\"'Yes; well in my youth, I lived in a quiet family, where the\nfurniture was polished, the floors scoured, and clean curtains put\nup every fortnight.'\n\n\"'What an interesting way you have of relating a story,' said\nthe carpet-broom; 'it is easy to perceive that you have been a great\ndeal in women's society, there is something so pure runs through\nwhat you say.'\n\n\"'That is quite true,' said the water-bucket; and he made a spring\nwith joy, and splashed some water on the floor.\n\n\"Then the saucepan went on with his story, and the end was as good\nas the beginning.\n\n\"The plates rattled with pleasure, and the carpet-broom brought\nsome green parsley out of the dust-hole and crowned the saucepan,\nfor he knew it would vex the others; and he thought, 'If I crown him\nto-day he will crown me to-morrow.'\n\n\"'Now, let us have a dance,' said the fire-tongs; and then how\nthey danced and stuck up one leg in the air. The chair-cushion in\nthe corner burst with laughter when she saw it.\n\n\"'Shall I be crowned now?' asked the fire-tongs; so the broom\nfound another wreath for the tongs.\n\n\"'They were only common people after all,' thought the matches.\nThe tea-urn was now asked to sing, but she said she had a cold, and\ncould not sing without boiling heat. They all thought this was\naffectation, and because she did not wish to sing excepting in the\nparlor, when on the table with the grand people.\n\n\"In the window sat an old quill-pen, with which the maid generally\nwrote. There was nothing remarkable about the pen, excepting that it\nhad been dipped too deeply in the ink, but it was proud of that.\n\n\"'If the tea-urn won't sing,' said the pen, 'she can leave it\nalone; there is a nightingale in a cage who can sing; she has not been\ntaught much, certainly, but we need not say anything this evening\nabout that.'\n\n\"'I think it highly improper,' said the tea-kettle, who was\nkitchen singer, and half-brother to the tea-urn, 'that a rich\nforeign bird should be listened to here. Is it patriotic? Let the\nmarket-basket decide what is right.'\n\n\"'I certainly am vexed,' said the basket; 'inwardly vexed, more\nthan any one can imagine. Are we spending the evening properly?\nWould it not be more sensible to put the house in order? If each\nwere in his own place I would lead a game; this would be quite another\nthing.'\n\n\"'Let us act a play,' said they all. At the same moment the door\nopened, and the maid came in. Then not one stirred; they all\nremained quite still; yet, at the same time, there was not a single\npot amongst them who had not a high opinion of himself, and of what he\ncould do if he chose.\n\n\"'Yes, if we had chosen,' they each thought, 'we might have\nspent a very pleasant evening.'\n\n\"The maid took the matches and lighted them; dear me, how they\nsputtered and blazed up!\n\n\"'Now then,' they thought, 'every one will see that we are the\nfirst. How we shine; what a light we give!' Even while they spoke\ntheir light went out.\n\n\"What a capital story,\" said the queen, \"I feel as if I were\nreally in the kitchen, and could see the matches; yes, you shall marry\nour daughter.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the king, \"thou shalt have our daughter.\" The\nking said thou to him because he was going to be one of the family.\nThe wedding-day was fixed, and, on the evening before, the whole\ncity was illuminated. Cakes and sweetmeats were thrown among the\npeople. The street boys stood on tiptoe and shouted \"hurrah,\" and\nwhistled between their fingers; altogether it was a very splendid\naffair.\n\n\"I will give them another treat,\" said the merchant's son. So he\nwent and bought rockets and crackers, and all sorts of fire-works that\ncould be thought of, packed them in his trunk, and flew up with it\ninto the air. What a whizzing and popping they made as they went\noff! The Turks, when they saw such a sight in the air, jumped so\nhigh that their slippers flew about their ears. It was easy to believe\nafter this that the princess was really going to marry a Turkish\nangel.\n\nAs soon as the merchant's son had come down in his flying trunk to\nthe wood after the fireworks, he thought, \"I will go back into the\ntown now, and hear what they think of the entertainment.\" It was\nvery natural that he should wish to know. And what strange things\npeople did say, to be sure! every one whom he questioned had a\ndifferent tale to tell, though they all thought it very beautiful.\n\n\"'I saw the Turkish angel myself,\" said one; \"he had eyes like\nglittering stars, and a head like foaming water.\"\n\n\"He flew in a mantle of fire,\" cried another, \"and lovely little\ncherubs peeped out from the folds.\"\n\nHe heard many more fine things about himself, and that the next\nday he was to be married. After this he went back to the forest to\nrest himself in his trunk. It had disappeared! A spark from the\nfireworks which remained had set it on fire; it was burnt to ashes! So\nthe merchant's son could not fly any more, nor go to meet his bride.\nShe stood all day on the roof waiting for him, and most likely she\nis waiting there still; while he wanders through the world telling\nfairy tales, but none of them so amusing as the one he related about\nthe matches.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHEPHERD'S STORY OF THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP\n\nThe little dwelling in which we lived was of clay, but the\ndoor-posts were columns of fluted marble, found near the spot on which\nit stood. The roof sloped nearly to the ground. It was at this time\ndark, brown, and ugly, but had originally been formed of blooming\nolive and laurel branches, brought from beyond the mountains. The\nhouse was situated in a narrow gorge, whose rocky walls rose to a\nperpendicular height, naked and black, while round their summits\nclouds often hung, looking like white living figures. Not a singing\nbird was ever heard there, neither did men dance to the sound of the\npipe. The spot was one sacred to olden times; even its name recalled a\nmemory of the days when it was called \"Delphi.\" Then the summits of\nthe dark, sacred mountains were covered with snow, and the highest,\nmount Parnassus, glowed longest in the red evening light. The brook\nwhich rolled from it near our house, was also sacred. How well I can\nremember every spot in that deep, sacred solitude! A fire had been\nkindled in the midst of the hut, and while the hot ashes lay there red\nand glowing, the bread was baked in them. At times the snow would be\npiled so high around our hut as almost to hide it, and then my\nmother appeared most cheerful. She would hold my head between her\nhands, and sing the songs she never sang at other times, for the\nTurks, our masters, would not allow it. She sang,--\n\n\"On the summit of mount Olympus, in a forest of dwarf firs, lay an\nold stag. His eyes were heavy with tears, and glittering with colors\nlike dewdrops; and there came by a roebuck, and said, 'What ailest\nthee, that thou weepest blue and red tears?' And the stag answered,\n'The Turk has come to our city; he has wild dogs for the chase, a\ngoodly pack.' 'I will drive them away across the islands!' cried the\nyoung roebuck; 'I will drive them away across the islands into the\ndeep sea.' But before evening the roebuck was slain, and before\nnight the hunted stag was dead.\"\n\nAnd when my mother sang thus, her eyes would become moist; and\non the long eyelashes were tears, but she concealed them and watched\nthe black bread baking in the ashes. Then I would clench my fist,\nand cry, \"We will kill these Turks!\" But she repeated the words of the\nsong, \"I will drive them across the islands to the deep sea; but\nbefore evening came the roebuck was slain, and before the night the\nhunted stag was dead.\"\n\nWe had been lonely in our hut for several days and nights when\nmy father came home. I knew he would bring me some shells from the\ngulf of Lepanto, or perhaps a knife with a shining blade. This time he\nbrought, under his sheep-skin cloak, a little child, a little\nhalf-naked girl. She was wrapped in a fur; but when this was taken\noff, and she lay in my mother's lap, three silver coins were found\nfastened in her dark hair; they were all her possessions. My father\ntold us that the child's parents had been killed by the Turks, and\nhe talked so much about them that I dreamed of Turks all night. He\nhimself had been wounded, and my mother bound up his arm. It was a\ndeep wound, and the thick sheep-skin cloak was stiff with congealed\nblood. The little maiden was to be my sister. How pretty and bright\nshe looked: even my mother's eyes were not more gentle than hers.\nAnastasia, as she was called, was to be my sister, because her\nfather had been united to mine by an old custom, which we still\nfollow. They had sworn brotherhood in their youth, and the most\nbeautiful and virtuous maiden in the neighborhood was chosen to\nperform the act of consecration upon this bond of friendship. So now\nthis little girl was my sister. She sat in my lap, and I brought her\nflowers, and feathers from the birds of the mountain. We drank\ntogether of the waters of Parnassus, and dwelt for many years\nbeneath the laurel roof of the hut, while, winter after winter, my\nmother sang her song of the stag who shed red tears. But as yet I\ndid not understand that the sorrows of my own countrymen were mirrored\nin those tears.\n\nOne day there came to our hut Franks, men from a far country,\nwhose dress was different to ours. They had tents and beds with\nthem, carried by horses; and they were accompanied by more than twenty\nTurks, all armed with swords and muskets. These Franks were friends of\nthe Pacha, and had letters from him, commanding an escort for them.\nThey only came to see our mountain, to ascend Parnassus amid the\nsnow and clouds, and to look at the strange black rocks which raised\ntheir steep sides near our hut. They could not find room in the hut,\nnor endure the smoke that rolled along the ceiling till it found its\nway out at the low door; so they pitched their tents on a small\nspace outside our dwelling. Roasted lambs and birds were brought\nforth, and strong, sweet wine, of which the Turks are forbidden to\npartake.\n\nWhen they departed, I accompanied them for some distance, carrying\nmy little sister Anastasia, wrapped in a goat-skin, on my back. One of\nthe Frankish gentlemen made me stand in front of a rock, and drew us\nboth as we stood there, so that we looked like one creature. I did not\nthink of it then, but Anastasia and I were really one. She was\nalways sitting on my lap, or riding in the goat-skin on my back; and\nin my dreams she always appeared to me.\n\nTwo nights after this, other men, armed with knives and muskets,\ncame into our tent. They were Albanians, brave men, my mother told me.\nThey only stayed a short time. My sister Anastasia sat on the knee\nof one of them; and when they were gone, she had not three, but two\nsilver coins in her hair--one had disappeared. They wrapped tobacco in\nstrips of paper, and smoked it; and I remember they were uncertain\nas to the road they ought to take. But they were obliged to go at\nlast, and my father went with them. Soon after, we heard the sound\nof firing. The noise continued, and presently soldiers rushed into our\nhut, and took my mother and myself and Anastasia prisoners. They\ndeclared that we had entertained robbers, and that my father had acted\nas their guide, and therefore we must now go with them. The corpses of\nthe robbers, and my father's corpse, were brought into the hut. I\nsaw my poor dead father, and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke, I\nfound myself in a prison; but the room was not worse than our own in\nthe hut. They gave me onions and musty wine from a tarred cask; but we\nwere not accustomed to much better fare at home. How long we were kept\nin prison, I do not know; but many days and nights passed by. We\nwere set free about Easter-time. I carried Anastasia on my back, and\nwe walked very slowly; for my mother was very weak, and it is a long\nway to the sea, to the Gulf of Lepanto.\n\nOn our arrival, we entered a church, in which there were beautiful\npictures in golden frames. They were pictures of angels, fair and\nbright; and yet our little Anastasia looked equally beautiful, as it\nseemed to me. In the centre of the floor stood a coffin filled with\nroses. My mother told me it was the Lord Jesus Christ who was\nrepresented by these roses. Then the priest announced, \"Christ is\nrisen,\" and all the people greeted each other. Each one carried a\nburning taper in his hand, and one was given to me, as well as to\nlittle Anastasia. The music sounded, and the people left the church\nhand-in-hand, with joy and gladness. Outside, the women were\nroasting the paschal lamb. We were invited to partake; and as I sat by\nthe fire, a boy, older than myself, put his arms round my neck, and\nkissed me, and said, \"Christ is risen.\" And thus it was that for the\nfirst time I met Aphtanides.\n\nMy mother could make fishermen's nets, for which there was a great\ndemand here in the bay; and we lived a long time by the side of the\nsea, the beautiful sea, that had a taste like tears, and in its colors\nreminded me of the stag that wept red tears; for sometimes its\nwaters were red, and sometimes green or blue. Aphtanides knew how to\nmanage our boat, and I often sat in it, with my little Anastasia,\nwhile it glided on through the water, swift as a bird flying through\nthe air. Then, when the sun set, how beautifully, deeply blue, would\nbe the tint on the mountains, one rising above the other in the far\ndistance, and the summit of mount Parnassus rising above them all like\na glorious crown. Its top glittered in the evening rays like molten\ngold, and it seemed as if the light came from within it; for long\nafter the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, the mountain-top would\nglow in the clear, blue sky. The white aquatic birds skimmed the\nsurface of the water in their flight, and all was calm and still as\namid the black rocks at Delphi. I lay on my back in the boat,\nAnastasia leaned against me, while the stars above us glittered more\nbrightly than the lamps in our church. They were the same stars, and\nin the same position over me as when I used to sit in front of our hut\nat Delphi, and I had almost begun to fancy I was still there, when\nsuddenly there was a splash in the water--Anastasia had fallen in; but\nin a moment Aphtanides has sprung in after her, and was now holding\nher up to me. We dried her clothes as well as we were able, and\nremained on the water till they were dry; for we did not wish it to be\nknown what a fright we had had, nor the danger which our little\nadopted sister had incurred, in whose life Aphtanides had now a part.\n\nThe summer came, and the burning heat of the sun tinted the leaves\nof the trees with lines of gold. I thought of our cool mountain-home,\nand the fresh water that flowed near it; my mother, too, longed\nfor if, and one evening we wandered towards home. How peaceful\nand silent it was as we walked on through the thick, wild thyme,\nstill fragrant, though the sun had scorched the leaves. Not a\nsingle herdsman did we meet, not a solitary hut did we pass;\neverything appeared lonely and deserted--only a shooting star showed\nthat in the heavens there was yet life. I know not whether the\nclear, blue atmosphere gleamed with its own light, or if the\nradiance came from the stars; but we could distinguish quite plainly\nthe outline of the mountains. My mother lighted a fire, and roasted\nsome roots she had brought with her, and I and my little sister\nslept among the bushes, without fear of the ugly smidraki, from\nwhose throat issues fire, or of the wolf and the jackal; for my mother\nsat by us, and I considered her presence sufficient protection.\n\nWe reached our old home; but the cottage was in ruins, and we\nhad to build a new one. With the aid of some neighbors, chiefly women,\nthe walls were in a few days erected, and very soon covered with a\nroof of olive-branches. My mother obtained a living by making\nbottle-cases of bark and skins, and I kept the sheep belonging to\nthe priests, who were sometimes peasants, while I had for my\nplayfellows Anastasia and the turtles.\n\nOnce our beloved Aphtanides paid us a visit. He said he had been\nlonging to see us so much; and he remained with us two whole happy\ndays. A month afterwards he came again to wish us good-bye, and\nbrought with him a large fish for my mother. He told us he was going\nin a ship to Corfu and Patras, and could relate a great many\nstories, not only about the fishermen who lived near the gulf of\nLepanto, but also of kings and heroes who had once possessed Greece,\njust as the Turks possess it now.\n\nI have seen a bud on a rose-bush gradually, in the course of a few\nweeks, unfold its leaves till it became a rose in all its beauty; and,\nbefore I was aware of it, I beheld it blooming in rosy loveliness. The\nsame thing had happened to Anastasia. Unnoticed by me, she had\ngradually become a beautiful maiden, and I was now also a stout,\nstrong youth. The wolf-skins that covered the bed in which my mother\nand Anastasia slept, had been taken from wolves which I had myself\nshot.\n\nYears had gone by when, one evening, Aphtanides came in. He had\ngrown tall and slender as a reed, with strong limbs, and a dark, brown\nskin. He kissed us all, and had so much to tell of what he had seen of\nthe great ocean, of the fortifications at Malta, and of the marvellous\nsepulchres of Egypt, that I looked up to him with a kind of\nveneration. His stories were as strange as the legends of the\npriests of olden times.\n\n\"How much you know!\" I exclaimed, \"and what wonders you can\nrelate?\"\n\n\"I think what you once told me, the finest of all,\" he replied;\n\"you told me of a thing that has never been out of my thoughts--of the\ngood old custom of 'the bond of friendship,'--a custom I should like\nto follow. Brother, let you and I go to church, as your father and\nAnastasia's father once did. Your sister Anastasia is the most\nbeautiful and most innocent of maidens, and she shall consecrate the\ndeed. No people have such grand old customs as we Greeks.\"\n\nAnastasia blushed like a young rose, and my mother kissed\nAphtanides.\n\nAt about two miles from our cottage, where the earth on the hill\nis sheltered by a few scattered trees, stood the little church, with a\nsilver lamp hanging before the altar. I put on my best clothes, and\nthe white tunic fell in graceful folds over my hips. The red jacket\nfitted tight and close, the tassel on my Fez cap was of silver, and in\nmy girdle glittered a knife and my pistols. Aphtanides was clad in the\nblue dress worn by the Greek sailors; on his breast hung a silver\nmedal with the figure of the Virgin Mary, and his scarf was as\ncostly as those worn by rich lords. Every one could see that we were\nabout to perform a solemn ceremony. When we entered the little,\nunpretending church, the evening sunlight streamed through the open\ndoor on the burning lamp, and glittered on the golden picture\nframes. We knelt down together on the altar steps, and Anastasia\ndrew near and stood beside us. A long, white garment fell in\ngraceful folds over her delicate form, and on her white neck and bosom\nhung a chain entwined with old and new coins, forming a kind of\ncollar. Her black hair was fastened into a knot, and confined by a\nheaddress formed of gold and silver coins which had been found in an\nancient temple. No Greek girl had more beautiful ornaments than these.\nHer countenance glowed, and her eyes were like two stars. We all three\noffered a silent prayer, and then she said to us, \"Will you be friends\nin life and in death?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" we replied.\n\n\"Will you each remember to say, whatever may happen, 'My brother\nis a part of myself; his secret is my secret, my happiness is his;\nself-sacrifice, patience, everything belongs to me as they do to\nhim?'\"\n\nAnd we again answered, \"Yes.\" Then she joined out hands and kissed\nus on the forehead, and we again prayed silently. After this a\npriest came through a door near the altar, and blessed us all three.\nThen a song was sung by other holy men behind the altar-screen, and\nthe bond of eternal friendship was confirmed. When we arose, I saw\nmy mother standing by the church door, weeping.\n\nHow cheerful everything seemed now in our little cottage by the\nDelphian springs! On the evening before his departure, Aphtanides\nsat thoughtfully beside me on the slopes of the mountain. His arm\nwas flung around me, and mine was round his neck. We spoke of the\nsorrows of Greece, and of the men of the country who could be trusted.\nEvery thought of our souls lay clear before us. Presently I seized his\nhand: \"Aphtanides,\" I exclaimed, \"there is one thing still that you\nmust know,--one thing that till now has been a secret between myself\nand Heaven. My whole soul is filled with love,--with a love stronger\nthan the love I bear to my mother and to thee.\n\n\"And whom do you love?\" asked Aphtanides. And his face and neck\ngrew red as fire.\n\n\"I love Anastasia,\" I replied.\n\nThen his hand trembled in mine, and he became pale as a corpse.\nI saw it, I understood the cause, and I believe my hand trembled\ntoo. I bent towards him, I kissed his forehead, and whispered, \"I have\nnever spoken of this to her, and perhaps she does not love me.\nBrother, think of this; I have seen her daily, she has grown up beside\nme, and has become a part of my soul.\"\n\n\"And she shall be thine,\" he exclaimed; \"thine! I may not wrong\nthee, nor will I do so. I also love her, but tomorrow I depart. In a\nyear we will see each other again, but then you will be married; shall\nit not be so? I have a little gold of my own, it shall be yours. You\nmust and shall take it.\"\n\nWe wandered silently homeward across the mountains. It was late in\nthe evening when we reached my mother's door. Anastasia held the\nlamp as we entered; my mother was not there. She looked at\nAphtanides with a sweet but mournful expression on her face.\n\"To-morrow you are going to leave us,\" she said. \"I am very sorry.\"\n\n\"Sorry!\" he exclaimed, and his voice was troubled with a grief\nas deep as my own. I could not speak; but he seized her hand and said,\n\"Our brother yonder loves you, and is he not dear to you? His very\nsilence now proves his affection.\"\n\nAnastasia trembled, and burst into tears. Then I saw no one,\nthought of none, but her. I threw my arms round her, and pressed my\nlips to hers. As she flung her arms round my neck, the lamp fell to\nthe ground, and we were in darkness, dark as the heart of poor\nAphtanides.\n\nBefore daybreak he rose, kissed us all, and said \"Farewell,\" and\nwent away. He had given all his money to my mother for us. Anastasia\nwas betrothed to me, and in a few days afterwards she became my wife.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF\n\nThere was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling her\nshoes, and the misfortunes that happened to her in consequence are\nwell known. Her name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and\npresuming, and with a bad and cruel disposition. When quite a little\nchild she would delight in catching flies, and tearing off their\nwings, so as to make creeping things of them. When older, she would\ntake cockchafers and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she\npushed a green leaf, or a little scrap of paper towards their feet,\nand when the poor creatures would seize it and hold it fast, and\nturn over and over in their struggles to get free from the pin, she\nwould say, \"The cockchafer is reading; see how he turns over the\nleaf.\" She grew worse instead of better with years, and,\nunfortunately, she was pretty, which caused her to be excused, when\nshe should have been sharply reproved.\n\n\"Your headstrong will requires severity to conquer it,\" her mother\noften said to her. \"As a little child you used to trample on my apron,\nbut one day I fear you will trample on my heart.\" And, alas! this fear\nwas realized.\n\nInge was taken to the house of some rich people, who lived at a\ndistance, and who treated her as their own child, and dressed her so\nfine that her pride and arrogance increased.\n\nWhen she had been there about a year, her patroness said to her,\n\"You ought to go, for once, and see your parents, Inge.\"\n\nSo Inge started to go and visit her parents; but she only wanted\nto show herself in her native place, that the people might see how\nfine she was. She reached the entrance of the village, and saw the\nyoung laboring men and maidens standing together chatting, and her own\nmother amongst them. Inge's mother was sitting on a stone to rest,\nwith a fagot of sticks lying before her, which she had picked up in\nthe wood. Then Inge turned back; she who was so finely dressed she\nfelt ashamed of her mother, a poorly clad woman, who picked up wood in\nthe forest. She did not turn back out of pity for her mother's\npoverty, but from pride.\n\nAnother half-year went by, and her mistress said, \"you ought to go\nhome again, and visit your parents, Inge, and I will give you a\nlarge wheaten loaf to take to them, they will be glad to see you, I am\nsure.\"\n\nSo Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, drew her dress\nup around her, and set out, stepping very carefully, that she might be\nclean and neat about the feet, and there was nothing wrong in doing\nso. But when she came to the place where the footpath led across the\nmoor, she found small pools of water, and a great deal of mud, so\nshe threw the loaf into the mud, and trod upon it, that she might pass\nwithout wetting her feet. But as she stood with one foot on the loaf\nand the other lifted up to step forward, the loaf began to sink\nunder her, lower and lower, till she disappeared altogether, and\nonly a few bubbles on the surface of the muddy pool remained to show\nwhere she had sunk. And this is the story.\n\nBut where did Inge go? She sank into the ground, and went down\nto the Marsh Woman, who is always brewing there.\n\nThe Marsh Woman is related to the elf maidens, who are well-known,\nfor songs are sung and pictures painted about them. But of the Marsh\nWoman nothing is known, excepting that when a mist arises from the\nmeadows, in summer time, it is because she is brewing beneath them. To\nthe Marsh Woman's brewery Inge sunk down to a place which no one can\nendure for long. A heap of mud is a palace compared with the Marsh\nWoman's brewery; and as Inge fell she shuddered in every limb, and\nsoon became cold and stiff as marble. Her foot was still fastened to\nthe loaf, which bowed her down as a golden ear of corn bends the stem.\n\nAn evil spirit soon took possession of Inge, and carried her to\na still worse place, in which she saw crowds of unhappy people,\nwaiting in a state of agony for the gates of mercy to be opened to\nthem, and in every heart was a miserable and eternal feeling of\nunrest. It would take too much time to describe the various tortures\nthese people suffered, but Inge's punishment consisted in standing\nthere as a statue, with her foot fastened to the loaf. She could\nmove her eyes about, and see all the misery around her, but she\ncould not turn her head; and when she saw the people looking at her\nshe thought they were admiring her pretty face and fine clothes, for\nshe was still vain and proud. But she had forgotten how soiled her\nclothes had become while in the Marsh Woman's brewery, and that they\nwere covered with mud; a snake had also fastened itself in her hair,\nand hung down her back, while from each fold in her dress a great toad\npeeped out and croaked like an asthmatic poodle. Worse than all was\nthe terrible hunger that tormented her, and she could not stoop to\nbreak off a piece of the loaf on which she stood. No; her back was too\nstiff, and her whole body like a pillar of stone. And then came\ncreeping over her face and eyes flies without wings; she winked and\nblinked, but they could not fly away, for their wings had been\npulled off; this, added to the hunger she felt, was horrible torture.\n\n\"If this lasts much longer,\" she said, \"I shall not be able to\nbear it.\" But it did last, and she had to bear it, without being\nable to help herself.\n\nA tear, followed by many scalding tears, fell upon her head, and\nrolled over her face and neck, down to the loaf on which she stood.\nWho could be weeping for Inge? She had a mother in the world still,\nand the tears of sorrow which a mother sheds for her child will always\nfind their way to the child's heart, but they often increase the\ntorment instead of being a relief. And Inge could hear all that was\nsaid about her in the world she had left, and every one seemed cruel\nto her. The sin she had committed in treading on the loaf was known on\nearth, for she had been seen by the cowherd from the hill, when she\nwas crossing the marsh and had disappeared.\n\nWhen her mother wept and exclaimed, \"Ah, Inge! what grief thou\nhast caused thy mother\" she would say, \"Oh that I had never been born!\nMy mother's tears are useless now.\"\n\nAnd then the words of the kind people who had adopted her came\nto her ears, when they said, \"Inge was a sinful girl, who did not\nvalue the gifts of God, but trampled them under her feet.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" thought Inge, \"they should have punished me, and driven\nall my naughty tempers out of me.\"\n\nA song was made about \"The girl who trod on a loaf to keep her\nshoes from being soiled,\" and this song was sung everywhere. The story\nof her sin was also told to the little children, and they called her\n\"wicked Inge,\" and said she was so naughty that she ought to be\npunished. Inge heard all this, and her heart became hardened and\nfull of bitterness.\n\nBut one day, while hunger and grief were gnawing in her hollow\nframe, she heard a little, innocent child, while listening to the tale\nof the vain, haughty Inge, burst into tears and exclaim, \"But will she\nnever come up again?\"\n\nAnd she heard the reply, \"No, she will never come up again.\"\n\n\"But if she were to say she was sorry, and ask pardon, and promise\nnever to do so again?\" asked the little one.\n\n\"Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon,\" was the\nanswer.\n\n\"Oh, I wish she would!\" said the child, who was quite unhappy\nabout it. \"I should be so glad. I would give up my doll and all my\nplaythings, if she could only come here again. Poor Inge! it is so\ndreadful for her.\"\n\nThese pitying words penetrated to Inge's inmost heart, and\nseemed to do her good. It was the first time any one had said, \"Poor\nInge!\" without saying something about her faults. A little innocent\nchild was weeping, and praying for mercy for her. It made her feel\nquite strange, and she would gladly have wept herself, and it added to\nher torment to find she could not do so. And while she thus suffered\nin a place where nothing changed, years passed away on earth, and\nshe heard her name less frequently mentioned. But one day a sigh\nreached her ear, and the words, \"Inge! Inge! what a grief thou hast\nbeen to me! I said it would be so.\" It was the last sigh of her\ndying mother.\n\nAfter this, Inge heard her kind mistress say, \"Ah, poor Inge!\nshall I ever see thee again? Perhaps I may, for we know not what may\nhappen in the future.\" But Inge knew right well that her mistress\nwould never come to that dreadful place.\n\nTime-passed--a long bitter time--then Inge heard her name\npronounced once more, and saw what seemed two bright stars shining\nabove her. They were two gentle eyes closing on earth. Many years\nhad passed since the little girl had lamented and wept about \"poor\nInge.\" That child was now an old woman, whom God was taking to\nHimself. In the last hour of existence the events of a whole life\noften appear before us; and this hour the old woman remembered how,\nwhen a child, she had shed tears over the story of Inge, and she\nprayed for her now. As the eyes of the old woman closed to earth,\nthe eyes of the soul opened upon the hidden things of eternity, and\nthen she, in whose last thoughts Inge had been so vividly present, saw\nhow deeply the poor girl had sunk. She burst into tears at the\nsight, and in heaven, as she had done when a little child on earth,\nshe wept and prayed for poor Inge. Her tears and her prayers echoed\nthrough the dark void that surrounded the tormented captive soul,\nand the unexpected mercy was obtained for it through an angel's tears.\nAs in thought Inge seemed to act over again every sin she had\ncommitted on earth, she trembled, and tears she had never yet been\nable to weep rushed to her eyes. It seemed impossible that the gates\nof mercy could ever be opened to her; but while she acknowledged\nthis in deep penitence, a beam of radiant light shot suddenly into the\ndepths upon her. More powerful than the sunbeam that dissolves the man\nof snow which the children have raised, more quickly than the\nsnowflake melts and becomes a drop of water on the warm lips of a\nchild, was the stony form of Inge changed, and as a little bird she\nsoared, with the speed of lightning, upward to the world of mortals. A\nbird that felt timid and shy to all things around it, that seemed to\nshrink with shame from meeting any living creature, and hurriedly\nsought to conceal itself in a dark corner of an old ruined wall; there\nit sat cowering and unable to utter a sound, for it was voiceless. Yet\nhow quickly the little bird discovered the beauty of everything around\nit. The sweet, fresh air; the soft radiance of the moon, as its\nlight spread over the earth; the fragrance which exhaled from bush and\ntree, made it feel happy as it sat there clothed in its fresh,\nbright plumage. All creation seemed to speak of beneficence and\nlove. The bird wanted to give utterance to thoughts that stirred in\nhis breast, as the cuckoo and the nightingale in the spring, but it\ncould not. Yet in heaven can be heard the song of praise, even from\na worm; and the notes trembling in the breast of the bird were as\naudible to Heaven even as the psalms of David before they had\nfashioned themselves into words and song.\n\nChristmas-time drew near, and a peasant who dwelt close by the old\nwall stuck up a pole with some ears of corn fastened to the top,\nthat the birds of heaven might have feast, and rejoice in the happy,\nblessed time. And on Christmas morning the sun arose and shone upon\nthe ears of corn, which were quickly surrounded by a number of\ntwittering birds. Then, from a hole in the wall, gushed forth in\nsong the swelling thoughts of the bird as he issued from his hiding\nplace to perform his first good deed on earth,--and in heaven it was\nwell known who that bird was.\n\nThe winter was very hard; the ponds were covered with ice, and\nthere was very little food for either the beasts of the field or the\nbirds of the air. Our little bird flew away into the public roads, and\nfound here and there, in the ruts of the sledges, a grain of corn, and\nat the halting places some crumbs. Of these he ate only a few, but\nhe called around him the other birds and the hungry sparrows, that\nthey too might have food. He flew into the towns, and looked about,\nand wherever a kind hand had strewed bread on the window-sill for\nthe birds, he only ate a single crumb himself, and gave all the rest\nto the rest of the other birds. In the course of the winter the bird\nhad in this way collected many crumbs and given them to other birds,\ntill they equalled the weight of the loaf on which Inge had trod to\nkeep her shoes clean; and when the last bread-crumb had been found and\ngiven, the gray wings of the bird became white, and spread\nthemselves out for flight.\n\n\"See, yonder is a sea-gull!\" cried the children, when they saw the\nwhite bird, as it dived into the sea, and rose again into the clear\nsunlight, white and glittering. But no one could tell whither it\nwent then although some declared it flew straight to the sun.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOBLIN AND THE HUCKSTER\n\nThere was once a regular student, who lived in a garret, and had\nno possessions. And there was also a regular huckster, to whom the\nhouse belonged, and who occupied the ground floor. A goblin lived with\nthe huckster, because at Christmas he always had a large dish full\nof jam, with a great piece of butter in the middle. The huckster could\nafford this; and therefore the goblin remained with the huckster,\nwhich was very cunning of him.\n\nOne evening the student came into the shop through the back door\nto buy candles and cheese for himself, he had no one to send, and\ntherefore he came himself; he obtained what he wished, and then the\nhuckster and his wife nodded good evening to him, and she was a\nwoman who could do more than merely nod, for she had usually plenty to\nsay for herself. The student nodded in return as he turned to leave,\nthen suddenly stopped, and began reading the piece of paper in which\nthe cheese was wrapped. It was a leaf torn out of an old book, a\nbook that ought not to have been torn up, for it was full of poetry.\n\n\"Yonder lies some more of the same sort,\" said the huckster: \"I\ngave an old woman a few coffee berries for it; you shall have the rest\nfor sixpence, if you will.\"\n\n\"Indeed I will,\" said the student; \"give me the book instead of\nthe cheese; I can eat my bread and butter without cheese. It would\nbe a sin to tear up a book like this. You are a clever man; and a\npractical man; but you understand no more about poetry than that\ncask yonder.\"\n\nThis was a very rude speech, especially against the cask; but\nthe huckster and the student both laughed, for it was only said in\nfun. But the goblin felt very angry that any man should venture to say\nsuch things to a huckster who was a householder and sold the best\nbutter. As soon as it was night, and the shop closed, and every one in\nbed except the student, the goblin stepped softly into the bedroom\nwhere the huckster's wife slept, and took away her tongue, which of\ncourse, she did not then want. Whatever object in the room he placed\nhis tongue upon immediately received voice and speech, and was able to\nexpress its thoughts and feelings as readily as the lady herself could\ndo. It could only be used by one object at a time, which was a good\nthing, as a number speaking at once would have caused great confusion.\nThe goblin laid the tongue upon the cask, in which lay a quantity of\nold newspapers.\n\n\"Is it really true,\" he asked, \"that you do not know what poetry\nis?\"\n\n\"Of course I know,\" replied the cask: \"poetry is something that\nalways stand in the corner of a newspaper, and is sometimes cut out;\nand I may venture to affirm that I have more of it in me than the\nstudent has, and I am only a poor tub of the huckster's.\"\n\nThen the goblin placed the tongue on the coffee mill; and how it\ndid go to be sure! Then he put it on the butter tub and the cash\nbox, and they all expressed the same opinion as the waste-paper tub;\nand a majority must always be respected.\n\n\"Now I shall go and tell the student,\" said the goblin; and with\nthese words he went quietly up the back stairs to the garret where the\nstudent lived. He had a candle burning still, and the goblin peeped\nthrough the keyhole and saw that he was reading in the torn book,\nwhich he had brought out of the shop. But how light the room was! From\nthe book shot forth a ray of light which grew broad and full, like the\nstem of a tree, from which bright rays spread upward and over the\nstudent's head. Each leaf was fresh, and each flower was like a\nbeautiful female head; some with dark and sparkling eyes, and others\nwith eyes that were wonderfully blue and clear. The fruit gleamed like\nstars, and the room was filled with sounds of beautiful music. The\nlittle goblin had never imagined, much less seen or heard of, any\nsight so glorious as this. He stood still on tiptoe, peeping in,\ntill the light went out in the garret. The student no doubt had\nblown out his candle and gone to bed; but the little goblin remained\nstanding there nevertheless, and listening to the music which still\nsounded on, soft and beautiful, a sweet cradle-song for the student,\nwho had lain down to rest.\n\n\"This is a wonderful place,\" said the goblin; \"I never expected\nsuch a thing. I should like to stay here with the student;\" and the\nlittle man thought it over, for he was a sensible little spirit. At\nlast he sighed, \"but the student has no jam!\" So he went down stairs\nagain into the huckster's shop, and it was a good thing he got back\nwhen he did, for the cask had almost worn out the lady's tongue; he\nhad given a description of all that he contained on one side, and\nwas just about to turn himself over to the other side to describe what\nwas there, when the goblin entered and restored the tongue to the\nlady. But from that time forward, the whole shop, from the cash box\ndown to the pinewood logs, formed their opinions from that of the\ncask; and they all had such confidence in him, and treated him with so\nmuch respect, that when the huckster read the criticisms on\ntheatricals and art of an evening, they fancied it must all come\nfrom the cask.\n\nBut after what he had seen, the goblin could no longer sit and\nlisten quietly to the wisdom and understanding down stairs; so, as\nsoon as the evening light glimmered in the garret, he took courage,\nfor it seemed to him as if the rays of light were strong cables,\ndrawing him up, and obliging him to go and peep through the keyhole;\nand, while there, a feeling of vastness came over him such as we\nexperience by the ever-moving sea, when the storm breaks forth; and it\nbrought tears into his eyes. He did not himself know why he wept,\nyet a kind of pleasant feeling mingled with his tears. \"How\nwonderfully glorious it would be to sit with the student under such\na tree;\" but that was out of the question, he must be content to\nlook through the keyhole, and be thankful for even that.\n\nThere he stood on the old landing, with the autumn wind blowing\ndown upon him through the trap-door. It was very cold; but the\nlittle creature did not really feel it, till the light in the garret\nwent out, and the tones of music died away. Then how he shivered,\nand crept down stairs again to his warm corner, where it felt\nhome-like and comfortable. And when Christmas came again, and\nbrought the dish of jam and the great lump of butter, he liked the\nhuckster best of all.\n\nSoon after, in the middle of the night, the goblin was awoke by\na terrible noise and knocking against the window shutters and the\nhouse doors, and by the sound of the watchman's horn; for a great fire\nhad broken out, and the whole street appeared full of flames. Was it\nin their house, or a neighbor's? No one could tell, for terror had\nseized upon all. The huckster's wife was so bewildered that she took\nher gold ear-rings out of her ears and put them in her pocket, that\nshe might save something at least. The huckster ran to get his\nbusiness papers, and the servant resolved to save her blue silk\nmantle, which she had managed to buy. Each wished to keep the best\nthings they had. The goblin had the same wish; for, with one spring,\nhe was up stairs and in the student's room, whom he found standing\nby the open window, and looking quite calmly at the fire, which was\nraging at the house of a neighbor opposite. The goblin caught up the\nwonderful book which lay on the table, and popped it into his red cap,\nwhich he held tightly with both hands. The greatest treasure in the\nhouse was saved; and he ran away with it to the roof, and seated\nhimself on the chimney. The flames of the burning house opposite\nilluminated him as he sat, both hands pressed tightly over his cap, in\nwhich the treasure lay; and then he found out what feelings really\nreigned in his heart, and knew exactly which way they tended. And yet,\nwhen the fire was extinguished, and the goblin again began to reflect,\nhe hesitated, and said at last, \"I must divide myself between the two;\nI cannot quite give up the huckster, because of the jam.\"\n\nAnd this is a representation of human nature. We are like the\ngoblin; we all go to visit the huckster \"because of the jam.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOLDEN TREASURE\n\nThe drummer's wife went into the church. She saw the new altar\nwith the painted pictures and the carved angels. Those upon the canvas\nand in the glory over the altar were just as beautiful as the carved\nones; and they were painted and gilt into the bargain. Their hair\ngleamed golden in the sunshine, lovely to behold; but the real\nsunshine was more beautiful still. It shone redder, clearer through\nthe dark trees, when the sun went down. It was lovely thus to look\nat the sunshine of heaven. And she looked at the red sun, and she\nthought about it so deeply, and thought of the little one whom the\nstork was to bring, and the wife of the drummer was very cheerful, and\nlooked and looked, and wished that the child might have a gleam of\nsunshine given to it, so that it might at least become like one of the\nshining angels over the altar.\n\nAnd when she really had the little child in her arms, and held\nit up to its father, then it was like one of the angels in the\nchurch to behold, with hair like gold--the gleam of the setting sun\nwas upon it.\n\n\"My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine!\" said the mother; and\nshe kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like music and song in\nthe room of the drummer; and there was joy, and life, and movement.\nThe drummer beat a roll--a roll of joy. And the Drum said--the\nFire-drum, that was beaten when there was a fire in the town:\n\n\"Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the drum, and\nnot what your mother says! Rub-a dub, rub-a dub!\"\n\nAnd the town repeated what the Fire-drum had said.\n\nThe boy was taken to church, the boy was christened. There was\nnothing much to be said about his name; he was called Peter. The whole\ntown, and the Drum too, called him Peter the drummer's boy with the\nred hair; but his mother kissed his red hair, and called him her\ngolden treasure.\n\nIn the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched their\nnames as a remembrance.\n\n\"Celebrity is always something!\" said the drummer; and so he\nscratched his own name there, and his little son's name likewise.\n\nAnd the swallows came. They had, on their long journey, seen\nmore durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the walls of the\ntemples in Hindostan, mighty deeds of great kings, immortal names,\nso old that no one now could read or speak them. Remarkable celebrity!\n\nIn the clayey bank the martens built their nest. They bored\nholes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and the thin\nmist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and the drummer's\nname also, and that of his little son.\n\n\"Peter's name will last a full year and a half longer!\" said the\nfather.\n\n\"Fool!\" thought the Fire-drum; but it only said, \"Dub, dub, dub,\nrub-a-dub!\"\n\nHe was a boy full of life and gladness, this drummer's son with\nthe red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and he sang like a\nbird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet no melody.\n\n\"He must become a chorister boy,\" said his mother. \"He shall\nsing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded angels who\nare like him!\"\n\n\"Fiery cat!\" said some of the witty ones of the town.\n\nThe Drum heard that from the neighbors' wives.\n\n\"Don't go home, Peter,\" cried the street boys. \"If you sleep in\nthe garret, there'll be a fire in the house, and the fire-drum will\nhave to be beaten.\"\n\n\"Look out for the drumsticks,\" replied Peter; and, small as he\nwas, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a punch in the\nbody with his fist, that the fellow lost his legs and tumbled over,\nand the others took their legs off with themselves very rapidly.\n\nThe town musician was very genteel and fine. He was the son of the\nroyal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and would sometimes\ntake him to his home; and he gave him a violin, and taught him to play\nit. It seemed as if the whole art lay in the boy's fingers; and he\nwanted to be more than a drummer--he wanted to become musician to\nthe town.\n\n\"I'll be a soldier,\" said Peter; for he was still quite a little\nlad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world to carry a\ngun, and to be able to march one, two--one, two, and to wear a uniform\nand a sword.\n\n\"Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!\" said\nthe Drum.\n\n\"Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!\" observed\nhis father; \"but before he can do that, there must be war.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid!\" said his mother.\n\n\"We have nothing to lose,\" remarked the father.\n\n\"Yes, we have my boy,\" she retorted.\n\n\"But suppose he came back a general!\" said the father.\n\n\"Without arms and legs!\" cried the mother. \"No, I would rather\nkeep my golden treasure with me.\"\n\n\"Drum, dum, dum!\" The Fire-drum and all the other drums were\nbeating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and the son of\nthe drummer followed them. \"Red-head. Golden treasure!\"\n\nThe mother wept; the father in fancy saw him \"famous;\" the town\nmusician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war, but should\nstay at home and learn music.\n\n\"Red-head,\" said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed; but\nwhen one of them sometimes said to another, \"Foxey,\" he would bite his\nteeth together and look another way--into the wide world. He did not\ncare for the nickname.\n\nThe boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored; that\nis the best canteen, said his old comrades.\n\nAnd many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet through\nwith the driving rain or the falling mist; but his good humor never\nforsook him. The drum-sticks sounded, \"Rub-a-dub, all up, all up!\"\nYes, he was certainly born to be a drummer.\n\nThe day of battle dawned. The sun had not yet risen, but the\nmorning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot; there was mist\nin the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The bullets and shells\nflew over the soldiers' heads, and into their heads--into their bodies\nand limbs; but still they pressed forward. Here or there one or\nother of them would sink on his knees, with bleeding temples and a\nface as white as chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthy\ncolor; he had suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog of\nthe regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole thing\nhad been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets were only\nflying about that he might have a game of play with them.\n\n\"March! Forward! March!\" This, was the word of command for the\ndrum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though they\nmight have done so, and perhaps there would have been much sense in\nit; and now at last the word \"Retire\" was given; but our little\ndrummer beat \"Forward! march!\" for he had understood the command thus,\nand the soldiers obeyed the sound of the drum. That was a good roll,\nand proved the summons to victory for the men, who had already begun\nto give way.\n\nLife and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore away the\nflesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a terrible glow the\nstrawheaps to which the wounded had dragged themselves, to lie\nuntended for many hours, perhaps for all the hours they had to live.\n\nIt's no use thinking of it; and yet one cannot help thinking of\nit, even far away in the peaceful town. The drummer and his wife\nalso thought of it, for Peter was at the war.\n\n\"Now, I'm tired of these complaints,\" said the Fire-drum.\n\nAgain the day of battle dawned; the sun had not yet risen, but\nit was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They had been\ntalking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost every night,\nfor he was out yonder in God's hand. And the father dreamt that the\nwar was over, that the soldiers had returned home, and that Peter wore\na silver cross on his breast. But the mother dreamt that she had\ngone into the church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carved\nangels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden treasure\nof her heart, who was standing among the angels in white robes,\nsinging so sweetly, as surely only the angels can sing; and that he\nhad soared up with them into the sunshine, and nodded so kindly at his\nmother.\n\n\"My golden treasure!\" she cried out; and she awoke. \"Now the\ngood God has taken him to Himself!\" She folded her hands, and hid\nher face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept. \"Where does he\nrest now? among the many in the big grave that they have dug for the\ndead? Perhaps he's in the water in the marsh! Nobody knows his\ngrave; no holy words have been read over it!\" And the Lord's Prayer\nwent inaudibly over her lips; she bowed her head, and was so weary\nthat she went to sleep.\n\n\nAnd the days went by, in life as in dreams!\n\nIt was evening. Over the battle-field a rainbow spread, which\ntouched the forest and the deep marsh.\n\nIt has been said, and is preserved in popular belief, that where\nthe rainbow touches the earth a treasure lies buried, a golden\ntreasure; and here there was one. No one but his mother thought of the\nlittle drummer, and therefore she dreamt of him.\n\n\nAnd the days went by, in life as in dreams!\n\nNot a hair of his head had been hurt, not a golden hair.\n\n\"Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum! there he is!\" the Drum might have said,\nand his mother might have sung, if she had seen or dreamt it.\n\nWith hurrah and song, adorned with green wreaths of victory,\nthey came home, as the war was at an end, and peace had been signed.\nThe dog of the regiment sprang on in front with large bounds, and made\nthe way three times as long for himself as it really was.\n\nAnd days and weeks went by, and Peter came into his parents' room.\nHe was as brown as a wild man, and his eyes were bright, and his\nface beamed like sunshine. And his mother held him in her arms; she\nkissed his lips, his forehead, and his red hair. She had her boy\nback again; he had not a silver cross on his breast, as his father had\ndreamt, but he had sound limbs, a thing the mother had not dreamt. And\nwhat a rejoicing was there! They laughed and they wept; and Peter\nembraced the old Fire-drum.\n\n\"There stands the old skeleton still!\" he said.\n\nAnd the father beat a roll upon it.\n\n\"One would think that a great fire had broken out here,\" said\nthe Fire-drum. \"Bright day! fire in the heart! golden treasure! skrat!\nskr-r-at! skr-r-r-r-at!\"\n\n\nAnd what then? What then!--Ask the town musician.\n\n\"Peter's far outgrowing the drum,\" he said. \"Peter will be greater\nthan I.\"\n\nAnd yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer; but all that he\nhad learned in half a lifetime, Peter learned in half a year.\n\nThere was something so merry about him, something so truly\nkind-hearted. His eyes gleamed, and his hair gleamed too--there was no\ndenying that!\n\n\"He ought to have his hair dyed,\" said the neighbor's wife.\n\"That answered capitally with the policeman's daughter, and she got\na husband.\"\n\n\"But her hair turned as green as duckweed, and was always having\nto be colored up.\"\n\n\"She knows how to manage for herself,\" said the neighbors, \"and so\ncan Peter. He comes to the most genteel houses, even to the\nburgomaster's where he gives Miss Charlotte piano-forte lessons.\"\n\nHe could play! He could play, fresh out of his heart, the most\ncharming pieces, that had never been put upon music-paper. He played\nin the bright nights, and in the dark nights, too. The neighbors\ndeclared it was unbearable, and the Fire-drum was of the same opinion.\n\nHe played until his thoughts soared up, and burst forth in great\nplans for the future:\n\n\"To be famous!\"\n\nAnd burgomaster's Charlotte sat at the piano. Her delicate fingers\ndanced over the keys, and made them ring into Peter's heart. It seemed\ntoo much for him to bear; and this happened not once, but many\ntimes; and at last one day he seized the delicate fingers and the\nwhite hand, and kissed it, and looked into her great brown eyes.\nHeaven knows what he said; but we may be allowed to guess at it.\nCharlotte blushed to guess at it. She reddened from brow to neck,\nand answered not a single word; and then strangers came into the room,\nand one of them was the state councillor's son. He had a lofty white\nforehead, and carried it so high that it seemed to go back into his\nneck. And Peter sat by her a long time, and she looked at him with\ngentle eyes.\n\nAt home that evening he spoke of travel in the wide world, and\nof the golden treasure that lay hidden for him in his violin.\n\n\"To be famous!\"\n\n\"Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum!\" said the Fire-drum. \"Peter\nhas gone clear out of his wits. I think there must be a fire in the\nhouse.\"\n\nNext day the mother went to market.\n\n\"Shall I tell you news, Peter?\" she asked when she came home. \"A\ncapital piece of news. Burgomaster's Charlotte has engaged herself\nto the state councillor's son; the betrothal took place yesterday\nevening.\"\n\n\"No!\" cried Peter, and he sprang up from his chair. But his mother\npersisted in saying \"Yes.\" She had heard it from the baker's wife,\nwhose husband had it from the burgomaster's own mouth.\n\nAnd Peter became as pale as death, and sat down again.\n\n\"Good Heaven! what's the matter with you?\" asked his mother.\n\n\"Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself,\" he answered but the\ntears were running down his cheeks.\n\n\"My sweet child, my golden treasure!\" cried the mother, and she\nwept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but inwardly.\n\n\"Charlotte's gone! Charlotte's gone! and now the song is done.\"\n\nBut the song was not done; there were many more verses in it, long\nverses, the most beautiful verses, the golden treasures of a life.\n\n\n\"She behaves like a mad woman,\" said the neighbor's wife. \"All the\nworld is to see the letters she gets from her golden treasure, and\nto read the words that are written in the papers about his violin\nplaying. And he sends her money too, and that's very useful to her\nsince she has been a widow.\"\n\n\"He plays before emperors and kings,\" said the town musician. \"I\nnever had that fortune, but he's my pupil, and he does not forget\nhis old master.\"\n\nAnd his mother said,\n\n\"His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with a silver\ncross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is still more\ndifficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the cross of honor. If\nhis father had only lived to see it!\"\n\n\"He's grown famous!\" said the Fire-drum, and all his native town\nsaid the same thing, for the drummer's son, Peter with the red\nhair--Peter whom they had known as a little boy, running about in\nwooden shoes, and then as a drummer, playing for the dancers--was\nbecome famous!\n\n\"He played at our house before he played in the presence of\nkings,\" said the burgomaster's wife. \"At that time he was quite\nsmitten with Charlotte. He was always of an aspiring turn. At that\ntime he was saucy and an enthusiast. My husband laughed when he\nheard of the foolish affair, and now our Charlotte is a state\ncouncillor's wife.\"\n\nA golden treasure had been hidden in the heart and soul of the\npoor child, who had beaten the roll as a drummer--a roll of victory\nfor those who had been ready to retreat. There was a golden treasure\nin his bosom, the power of sound; it burst forth on his violin as if\nthe instrument had been a complete organ, and as if all the elves of a\nmidsummer night were dancing across the strings. In its sounds were\nheard the piping of the thrush and the full clear note of the human\nvoice; therefore the sound brought rapture to every heart, and carried\nhis name triumphant through the land. That was a great firebrand--the\nfirebrand of inspiration.\n\n\"And then he looks so splendid!\" said the young ladies and the old\nladies too; and the oldest of all procured an album for famous locks\nof hair, wholly and solely that she might beg a lock of his rich\nsplendid hair, that treasure, that golden treasure.\n\nAnd the son came into the poor room of the drummer, elegant as a\nprince, happier than a king. His eyes were as clear and his face was\nas radiant as sunshine; and he held his mother in his arms, and she\nkissed his mouth, and wept as blissfully as any one can weep for\njoy; and he nodded at every old piece of furniture in the room, at the\ncupboard with the tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He nodded at the\nsleeping-bench, where he had slept as a little boy; but the old\nFire-drum he brought out, and dragged it into the middle of the\nroom, and said to it and to his mother:\n\n\"My father would have beaten a famous roll this evening. Now I\nmust do it!\"\n\nAnd he beat a thundering roll-call on the instrument, and the Drum\nfelt so highly honored that the parchment burst with exultation.\n\n\"He has a splendid touch!\" said the Drum. \"I've a remembrance of\nhim now that will last. I expect that the same thing will happen to\nhis mother, from pure joy over her golden treasure.\"\n\nAnd this is the story of the Golden Treasure.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOLOSHES OF FORTUNE\n\nA BEGINNING\n\nIn a house in Copenhagen, not far from the king's new market, a\nvery large party had assembled, the host and his family expecting,\nno doubt, to receive invitations in return. One half of the company\nwere already seated at the card-tables, the other half seemed to be\nwaiting the result of their hostess's question, \"Well, how shall we\namuse ourselves?\"\n\nConversation followed, which, after a while, began to prove very\nentertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon the events of the\nmiddle ages, which some persons maintained were more full of\ninterest than our own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so\nwarmly that the lady of the house immediately went over to his side,\nand both exclaimed against Oersted's Essays on Ancient and Modern\nTimes, in which the preference is given to our own. The counsellor\nconsidered the times of the Danish king, Hans, as the noblest and\nhappiest.\n\nThe conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a moment\nby the arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however, contain much\nworth reading, and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to\nthe ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks, and goloshes were carefully\nplaced. Here sat two maidens, one young, and the other old, as if they\nhad come and were waiting to accompany their mistresses home; but on\nlooking at them more closely, it could easily be seen that they were\nno common servants. Their shapes were too graceful, their\ncomplexions too delicate, and the cut of their dresses much too\nelegant. They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune herself,\nbut the chambermaid of one of Fortune's attendants, who carries\nabout her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who was named Care,\nlooked rather gloomy; she always goes about to perform her own\nbusiness in person; for then she knows it is properly done. They\nwere telling each other where they had been during the day. The\nmessenger of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant matters;\nfor instance, she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain,\nand obtained for an honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so\non; but she had something extraordinary to relate, after all.\n\n\"I must tell you,\" said she, \"that to-day is my birthday; and in\nhonor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of goloshes, to\nintroduce amongst mankind. These goloshes have the property of\nmaking every one who puts them on imagine himself in any place he\nwishes, or that he exists at any period. Every wish is fulfilled at\nthe moment it is expressed, so that for once mankind have the chance\nof being happy.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Care; \"you may depend upon it that whoever puts on\nthose goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the moment in which\nhe can get rid of them.\"\n\n\"What are you thinking of?\" replied the other. \"Now see; I will\nplace them by the door; some one will take them instead of his own,\nand he will be the happy man.\"\n\nThis was the end of their conversation.\n\n\nWHAT HAPPENED TO THE COUNSELLOR\n\nIt was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in thought about the times\nof King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so ordered it that he\nput on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own, and walked out into\nthe East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes, he was at\nonce carried back three hundred years, to the times of King Hans,\nfor which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he\nimmediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in\nthose days possessed no pavement.\n\n\"Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is!\" said the\ncounsellor; \"and the whole pavement has vanished, and the lamps are all\nout.\"\n\nThe moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick\nfoggy air, and all the objects around him were confused together in\nthe darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of\nthe Madonna; but the light it gave was almost useless, for he only\nperceived it when he came quite close and his eyes fell on the painted\nfigures of the Mother and Child.\n\n\"That is most likely a museum of art,\" thought he, \"and they\nhave forgotten to take down the sign.\"\n\nTwo men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.\n\n\"What odd figures!\" thought he; \"they must be returning from\nsome masquerade.\"\n\nSuddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a\nblazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared\nwith astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before\nhim. First came a whole troop of drummers, beating their drums very\ncleverly; they were followed by life-guards, with longbows and\ncrossbows. The principal person in the procession was a\nclerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it\nall meant, and who the gentleman might be.\n\n\"That is the bishop of Zealand.\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" he exclaimed; \"what in the world has happened\nto the bishop? what can he be thinking about?\" Then he shook his\nhead and said, \"It cannot possibly be the bishop himself.\"\n\nWhile musing on this strange affair, and without looking to the\nright or left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge\nPlace. The bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere\nto be found; but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and\ntwo people, who sat in a boat.\n\n\"Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm?\" asked one.\n\n\"To the Holm!\" exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in what age\nhe was now existing; \"I want to go to Christian's Haven, in Little\nTurf Street.\" The men stared at him. \"Pray tell me where the bridge\nis!\" said he. \"It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here, and\nit is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh.\" But the more he\ntalked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.\n\n\"I don't understand your outlandish talk,\" he cried at last,\nangrily turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find the\nbridge nor any railings.\n\n\"What a scandalous condition this place is in,\" said he; never,\ncertainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening.\n\"I think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are\nthey?\" There was not one to be seen! \"I shall be obliged to go back to\nthe king's new market,\" said he, \"where there are plenty of\ncarriages standing, or I shall never reach Christian's Haven.\" Then he\nwent towards East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the\nmoon burst forth from a cloud.\n\n\"Dear me, what have they been erecting here?\" he cried, as he\ncaught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand at\nthe end of East Street. However, he found an opening through which\nhe passed, and came out upon where he expected to find the new market.\nNothing was to be seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes,\nthrough which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking\nwooden booths, for the accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the\nopposite shore.\n\n\"Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy,\" groaned\nthe counsellor. \"What can it be? What is the matter with me?\" He\nturned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking\nthrough the street this time, he examined the houses more closely;\nhe found that most of them were built of lath and plaster, and many\nhad only a thatched roof.\n\n\"I am certainly all wrong,\" said he, with a sigh; \"and yet I only\ndrank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that, and it was very\nfoolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak about it to our\nhostess, the agent's lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how\nill I feel, I fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very\nlikely that I should find any one up.\" Then he looked for the house,\nbut it was not in existence.\n\n\"This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East Street.\nNot a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down\nhouses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must\nbe ill! It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is\nthe agent's house. There is a house, but it is not his; and people\nstill up in it, I can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer.\" As he\nreached the half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a\ntavern of the olden times, and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had\nthe appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people, consisting\nof seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few scholars, sat in deep\nconversation over their mugs, and took very little notice of the new\ncomer.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said the counsellor, addressing the landlady, \"I do\nnot feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you will send for\na fly to take me to Christian's Haven.\" The woman stared at him and\nshook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor\nsupposed from this that she did not understand Danish; he therefore\nrepeated his request in German. This, as well as his singular dress,\nconvinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood,\nhowever, that he did not find himself quite well, and therefore\nbrought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater,\ncertainly, although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then\nthe counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep breath, and\npondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.\n\n\"Is that to-day's number of the Day?\" he asked, quite\nmechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper.\nShe did not understand what he meant, but she handed him the sheet; it\nwas a woodcut, representing a meteor, which had appeared in the town\nof Cologne.\n\n\"That is very old,\" said the counsellor, becoming quite cheerful\nat the sight of this antique drawing. \"Where did you get this singular\nsheet? It is very interesting, although the whole affair is a fable.\nMeteors are easily explained in these days; they are northern\nlights, which are often seen, and are no doubt caused by electricity.\"\n\nThose who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at him in\ngreat astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat\nrespectfully, and said in a very serious manner, \"You must certainly\nbe a very learned man, monsieur.\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" replied the counsellor; \"I can only discourse on topics\nwhich every one should understand.\"\n\n\"Modestia is a beautiful virtue,\" said the man. \"Moreover, I\nmust add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case I would\nsuspend my judicium.\"\n\n\"May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?\"\n\n\"I am a Bachelor of Divinity,\" said the man. This answer satisfied\nthe counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.\n\n\"This is surely,\" thought he, \"an old village schoolmaster, a\nperfect original, such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland.\"\n\n\"This is not certainly a locus docendi,\" began the man; \"still I\nmust beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in\nancient lore.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" replied the counsellor; \"I am very fond of reading\nuseful old books, and modern ones as well, with the exception of\nevery-day stories, of which we really have more than enough.\n\n\"Every-day stories?\" asked the bachelor.\n\n\"Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present day.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied the man, with a smile; \"and yet they are very witty,\nand are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of\nMesseurs Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his\nknights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen\nof his Court.\"\n\n\"Well, I have certainly not read that,\" replied the counsellor. \"I\nsuppose it is quite new, and published by Heiberg.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the man, \"it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von\nGehman brought it out.\"\n\n\"Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name,\" said the\ncounsellor; \"was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark?\"\n\n\"Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now,\" replied\nthe scholar.\n\nSo far all had passed off very well; but now one of the citizens\nbegan to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few\nyears before, meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he\nreferred to the cholera, and they could discuss this without finding\nout the mistake. The war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The\nEnglish pirates had taken some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the\ncounsellor, supposing they referred to these, agreed with them in\nfinding fault with the English. The rest of the talk, however, was not\nso agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other. The good\nbachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark of the\ncounsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared\nat each other, and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin,\nin the hope of being better understood; but it was all useless.\n\n\"How are you now?\" asked the landlady, pulling the counsellor's\nsleeve.\n\nThen his recollection returned to him. In the course of\nconversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.\n\n\"Goodness me! where am I?\" said he. It bewildered him as he\nthought of it.\n\n\"We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer,\" said one of\nthe guests; \"will you drink with us?\"\n\nTwo maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two\ncolors. They poured out the wine, bowed their heads, and withdrew.\n\nThe counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. \"What is this?\nwhat does it mean?\" said he; but he was obliged to drink with them,\nfor they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became\nat last desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did\nnot doubt the man's word in the least--only begged them to get a\ndroschky; and then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite\nlanguage. Never before had he been in such rough and vulgar company.\n\"One might believe that the country was going back to heathenism,\"\nhe observed. \"This is the most terrible moment of my life.\"\n\nJust then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the\ntable, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached\nthe entry, the rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by\nthe feet, when, luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with\nthem vanished the whole enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite\nplainly a lamp, and a large building behind it; everything looked\nfamiliar and beautiful. He was in East Street, as it now appears; he\nlay with his legs turned towards a porch, and just by him sat the\nwatchman asleep.\n\n\"Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street\ndreaming?\" said he. \"Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully\nbright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass of\npunch should have upset me like this.\"\n\nTwo minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to drive\nhim to Christian's Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety\nwhich he had undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the\nreality and comfort of modern times, which, with all their errors,\nwere far better than those in which he so lately found himself.\n\n\nTHE WATCHMAN'S ADVENTURES\n\n\"Well, I declare, there lies a pair of goloshes,\" said the\nwatchman. \"No doubt, they belong to the lieutenant who lives up\nstairs. They are lying just by his door.\" Gladly would the honest\nman have rung, and given them in, for a light was still burning, but\nhe did not wish to disturb the other people in the house; so he let\nthem lie. \"These things must keep the feet very warm,\" said he;\n\"they are of such nice soft leather.\" Then he tried them on, and\nthey fitted his feet exactly. \"Now,\" said he, \"how droll things are in\nthis world! There's that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he does\nnot do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a\nhappy man. He has neither wife nor children, and he goes out into\ncompany every evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I should be a\nhappy man.\"\n\nAs he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on took\neffect, and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood\nin his room, holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers,\non which was a poem,--a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who\nhas not had, for once in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and\nat such a moment, if the thoughts are written down, they flow in\npoetry. The following verses were written on the pink paper:--\n\n  \"OH WERE I RICH!\n\n  \"Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth's bright hour,\n    When youthful pleasures banish every care,\n  I longed for riches but to gain a power,\n    The sword and plume and uniform to wear!\n  The riches and the honor came for me;\n    Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:\n        Ah, help and pity me!\n\n  \"Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,\n    A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,\n  Rich in its tender love and purity,\n    Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.\n  Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;\n    She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.\n        Thou knowest: ah, pity me!\n\n  \"Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:\n    That child is now a woman, fair and free,\n  As good and beautiful as angels are.\n    Oh, were I rich in lovers' poetry,\n  To tell my fairy tale, love's richest lore!\n    But no; I must be silent--I am poor.\n        Ah, wilt thou pity me?\n\n  \"Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,\n    I need not then my poverty bewail.\n  To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;\n    Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?\n  A leaf on which my sorrows I relate--\n    Dark story of a darker night of fate.\n        Ah, bless and pity me!\"\n\n\n\"Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but a wise\nman will not print them. A lieutenant in love, and poor. This is a\ntriangle, or more properly speaking, the half of the broken die of\nfortune.\" The lieutenant felt this very keenly, and therefore leaned\nhis head against the window-frame, and sighed deeply. \"The poor\nwatchman in the street,\" said he, \"is far happier than I am. He\nknows not what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife and children, who\nweep at his sorrow and rejoice at his joy. Oh, how much happier I\nshould be could I change my being and position with him, and pass\nthrough life with his humble expectations and hopes! Yes, he is indeed\nhappier than I am.\"\n\nAt this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for having,\nthrough the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the existence of the\nlieutenant, and found himself less contented than he expected, he\nhad preferred his former condition, and wished himself again a\nwatchman. \"That was an ugly dream,\" said he, \"but droll enough. It\nseemed to me as if I were the lieutenant up yonder, but there was no\nhappiness for me. I missed my wife and the little ones, who are always\nready to smother me with kisses.\" He sat down again and nodded, but he\ncould not get the dream out of his thoughts, and he still had the\ngoloshes on his feet. A falling star gleamed across the sky. \"There\ngoes one!\" cried he. \"However, there are quite enough left; I should\nvery much like to examine these a little nearer, especially the\nmoon, for that could not slip away under one's hands. The student, for\nwhom my wife washes, says that when we die we shall fly from one\nstar to another. If that were true, it would be very delightful, but I\ndon't believe it. I wish I could make a little spring up there now;\nI would willingly let my body lie here on the steps.\"\n\nThere are certain things in the world which should be uttered very\ncautiously; doubly so when the speaker has on his feet the goloshes of\nFortune. Now we shall hear what happened to the watchman.\n\nNearly every one is acquainted with the great power of steam; we\nhave proved it by the rapidity with which we can travel, both on a\nrailroad or in a steamship across the sea. But this speed is like\nthe movements of the sloth, or the crawling march of the snail, when\ncompared to the swiftness with which light travels; light flies\nnineteen million times faster than the fleetest race-horse, and\nelectricity is more rapid still. Death is an electric shock which we\nreceive in our hearts, and on the wings of electricity the liberated\nsoul flies away swiftly, the light from the sun travels to our earth\nninety-five millions of miles in eight minutes and a few seconds;\nbut on the wings of electricity, the mind requires only a second to\naccomplish the same distance. The space between the heavenly bodies\nis, to thought, no farther than the distance which we may have to walk\nfrom one friend's house to another in the same town; yet this electric\nshock obliges us to use our bodies here below, unless, like the\nwatchman, we have on the goloshes of Fortune.\n\nIn a very few seconds the watchman had travelled more than two\nhundred thousand miles to the moon, which is formed of a lighter\nmaterial than our earth, and may be said to be as soft as new fallen\nsnow. He found himself on one of the circular range of mountains which\nwe see represented in Dr. Madler's large map of the moon. The interior\nhad the appearance of a large hollow, bowl-shaped, with a depth\nabout half a mile from the brim. Within this hollow stood a large\ntown; we may form some idea of its appearance by pouring the white\nof an egg into a glass of water. The materials of which it was built\nseemed just as soft, and pictured forth cloudy turrets and sail-like\nterraces, quite transparent, and floating in the thin air. Our earth\nhung over his head like a great dark red ball. Presently he discovered\na number of beings, which might certainly be called men, but were very\ndifferent to ourselves. A more fantastical imagination than Herschel's\nmust have discovered these. Had they been placed in groups, and\npainted, it might have been said, \"What beautiful foliage!\" They had\nalso a language of their own. No one could have expected the soul of\nthe watchman to understand it, and yet he did understand it, for our\nsouls have much greater capabilities then we are inclined to\nbelieve. Do we not, in our dreams, show a wonderful dramatic talent?\neach of our acquaintance appears to us then in his own character,\nand with his own voice; no man could thus imitate them in his waking\nhours. How clearly, too, we are reminded of persons whom we have not\nseen for many years; they start up suddenly to the mind's eye with all\ntheir peculiarities as living realities. In fact, this memory of the\nsoul is a fearful thing; every sin, every sinful thought it can\nbring back, and we may well ask how we are to give account of \"every\nidle word\" that may have been whispered in the heart or uttered with\nthe lips. The spirit of the watchman therefore understood very well\nthe language of the inhabitants of the moon. They were disputing about\nour earth, and doubted whether it could be inhabited. The\natmosphere, they asserted, must be too dense for any inhabitants of\nthe moon to exist there. They maintained that the moon alone was\ninhabited, and was really the heavenly body in which the old world\npeople lived. They likewise talked politics.\n\nBut now we will descend to East Street, and see what happened to\nthe watchman's body. He sat lifeless on the steps. His staff had\nfallen out of his hand, and his eyes stared at the moon, about which\nhis honest soul was wandering.\n\n\"What is it o'clock, watchman?\" inquired a passenger. But there\nwas no answer from the watchman.\n\nThe man then pulled his nose gently, which caused him to lose\nhis balance. The body fell forward, and lay at full length on the\nground as one dead.\n\nAll his comrades were very much frightened, for he seemed quite\ndead; still they allowed him to remain after they had given notice\nof what had happened; and at dawn the body was carried to the\nhospital. We might imagine it to be no jesting matter if the soul of\nthe man should chance to return to him, for most probably it would\nseek for the body in East Street without being able to find it. We\nmight fancy the soul inquiring of the police, or at the address\noffice, or among the missing parcels, and then at length finding it at\nthe hospital. But we may comfort ourselves by the certainty that the\nsoul, when acting upon its own impulses, is wiser than we are; it is\nthe body that makes it stupid.\n\nAs we have said, the watchman's body had been taken to the\nhospital, and here it was placed in a room to be washed. Naturally,\nthe first thing done here was to take off the goloshes, upon which the\nsoul was instantly obliged to return, and it took the direct road to\nthe body at once, and in a few seconds the man's life returned to him.\nHe declared, when he quite recovered himself, that this had been the\nmost dreadful night he had ever passed; not for a hundred pounds would\nhe go through such feelings again. However, it was all over now.\n\nThe same day he was allowed to leave, but the goloshes remained at\nthe hospital.\n\n\nTHE EVENTFUL MOMENT--A MOST UNUSUAL JOURNEY\n\nEvery inhabitant of Copenhagen knows what the entrance to\nFrederick's Hospital is like; but as most probably a few of those\nwho read this little tale may not reside in Copenhagen, we will give a\nshort description of it.\n\nThe hospital is separated from the street by an iron railing, in\nwhich the bars stand so wide apart that, it is said, some very slim\npatients have squeezed through, and gone to pay little visits in the\ntown. The most difficult part of the body to get through was the head;\nand in this case, as it often happens in the world, the small heads\nwere the most fortunate. This will serve as sufficient introduction to\nour tale. One of the young volunteers, of whom, physically speaking,\nit might be said that he had a great head, was on guard that evening\nat the hospital. The rain was pouring down, yet, in spite of these two\nobstacles, he wanted to go out just for a quarter of an hour; it was\nnot worth while, he thought, to make a confidant of the porter, as\nhe could easily slip through the iron railings. There lay the\ngoloshes, which the watchman had forgotten. It never occurred to him\nthat these could be goloshes of Fortune. They would be very\nserviceable to him in this rainy weather, so he drew them on. Now came\nthe question whether he could squeeze through the palings; he\ncertainly had never tried, so he stood looking at them. \"I wish to\ngoodness my head was through,\" said he, and instantly, though it was\nso thick and large, it slipped through quite easily. The goloshes\nanswered that purpose very well, but his body had to follow, and\nthis was impossible. \"I am too fat,\" he said; \"I thought my head would\nbe the worst, but I cannot get my body through, that is certain.\" Then\nhe tried to pull his head back again, but without success; he could\nmove his neck about easily enough, and that was all. His first feeling\nwas one of anger, and then his spirits sank below zero. The goloshes\nof Fortune had placed him in this terrible position, and unfortunately\nit never occurred to him to wish himself free. No, instead of\nwishing he kept twisting about, yet did not stir from the spot. The\nrain poured, and not a creature could be seen in the street. The\nporter's bell he was unable to reach, and however was he to get loose!\nHe foresaw that he should have to stay there till morning, and then\nthey must send for a smith to file away the iron bars, and that\nwould be a work of time. All the charity children would just be\ngoing to school: and all the sailors who inhabited that quarter of the\ntown would be there to see him standing in the pillory. What a crowd\nthere would be. \"Ha,\" he cried, \"the blood is rushing to my head,\nand I shall go mad. I believe I am crazy already; oh, I wish I were\nfree, then all these sensations would pass off.\" This is just what\nhe ought to have said at first. The moment he had expressed the\nthought his head was free. He started back, quite bewildered with\nthe fright which the goloshes of Fortune had caused him. But we must\nnot suppose it was all over; no, indeed, there was worse to come\nyet. The night passed, and the whole of the following day; but no\none sent for the goloshes. In the evening a declamatory performance\nwas to take place at the amateur theatre in a distant street. The\nhouse was crowded; among the audience was the young volunteer from the\nhospital, who seemed to have quite forgotten his adventures of the\nprevious evening. He had on the goloshes; they had not been sent\nfor, and as the streets were still very dirty, they were of great\nservice to him. A new poem, entitled \"My Aunt's Spectacles,\" was being\nrecited. It described these spectacles as possessing a wonderful\npower; if any one put them on in a large assembly the people\nappeared like cards, and the future events of ensuing years could be\neasily foretold by them. The idea struck him that he should very\nmuch like to have such a pair of spectacles; for, if used rightly,\nthey would perhaps enable him to see into the hearts of people,\nwhich he thought would be more interesting than to know what was going\nto happen next year; for future events would be sure to show\nthemselves, but the hearts of people never. \"I can fancy what I should\nsee in the whole row of ladies and gentlemen on the first seat, if I\ncould only look into their hearts; that lady, I imagine, keeps a store\nfor things of all descriptions; how my eyes would wander about in that\ncollection; with many ladies I should no doubt find a large\nmillinery establishment. There is another that is perhaps empty, and\nwould be all the better for cleaning out. There may be some well\nstored with good articles. Ah, yes,\" he sighed, \"I know one, in\nwhich everything is solid, but a servant is there already, and that is\nthe only thing against it. I dare say from many I should hear the\nwords, 'Please to walk in.' I only wish I could slip into the hearts\nlike a little tiny thought.\" This was the word of command for the\ngoloshes. The volunteer shrunk up together, and commenced a most\nunusual journey through the hearts of the spectators in the first row.\nThe first heart he entered was that of a lady, but he thought he\nmust have got into one of the rooms of an orthopedic institution where\nplaster casts of deformed limbs were hanging on the walls, with this\ndifference, that the casts in the institution are formed when the\npatient enters, but here they were formed and preserved after the good\npeople had left. These were casts of the bodily and mental deformities\nof the lady's female friends carefully preserved. Quickly he passed\ninto another heart, which had the appearance of a spacious, holy\nchurch, with the white dove of innocence fluttering over the altar.\nGladly would he have fallen on his knees in such a sacred place; but\nhe was carried on to another heart, still, however, listening to the\ntones of the organ, and feeling himself that he had become another and\na better man. The next heart was also a sanctuary, which he felt\nalmost unworthy to enter; it represented a mean garret, in which lay a\nsick mother; but the warm sunshine streamed through the window, lovely\nroses bloomed in a little flowerbox on the roof, two blue birds sang\nof childlike joys, and the sick mother prayed for a blessing on her\ndaughter. Next he crept on his hands and knees through an overfilled\nbutcher's shop; there was meat, nothing but meat, wherever he stepped;\nthis was the heart of a rich, respectable man, whose name is doubtless\nin the directory. Then he entered the heart of this man's wife; it was\nan old, tumble-down pigeon-house; the husband's portrait served as a\nweather-cock; it was connected with all the doors, which opened and\nshut just as the husband's decision turned. The next heart was a\ncomplete cabinet of mirrors, such as can be seen in the Castle of\nRosenberg. But these mirrors magnified in an astonishing degree; in\nthe middle of the floor sat, like the Grand Lama, the insignificant\nI of the owner, astonished at the contemplation of his own features.\nAt his next visit he fancied he must have got into a narrow\nneedlecase, full of sharp needles: \"Oh,\" thought he, \"this must be the\nheart of an old maid;\" but such was not the fact; it belonged to a\nyoung officer, who wore several orders, and was said to be a man of\nintellect and heart.\n\nThe poor volunteer came out of the last heart in the row quite\nbewildered. He could not collect his thoughts, and imagined his\nfoolish fancies had carried him away. \"Good gracious!\" he sighed, \"I\nmust have a tendency to softening of the brain, and here it is so\nexceedingly hot that the blood is rushing to my head.\" And then\nsuddenly recurred to him the strange event of the evening before, when\nhis head had been fixed between the iron railings in front of the\nhospital. \"That is the cause of it all!\" he exclaimed, \"I must do\nsomething in time. A Russian bath would be a very good thing to\nbegin with. I wish I were lying on one of the highest shelves.\" Sure\nenough, there he lay on an upper shelf of a vapor bath, still in his\nevening costume, with his boots and goloshes on, and the hot drops\nfrom the ceiling falling on his face. \"Ho!\" he cried, jumping down and\nrushing towards the plunging bath. The attendant stopped him with a\nloud cry, when he saw a man with all his clothes on. The volunteer\nhad, however, presence of mind enough to whisper, \"It is for a wager;\"\nbut the first thing he did, when he reached his own room, was to put a\nlarge blister on his neck, and another on his back, that his crazy fit\nmight be cured. The next morning his back was very sore, which was all\nhe gained by the goloshes of Fortune.\n\n\nTHE CLERK'S TRANSFORMATION\n\nThe watchman, whom we of course have not forgotten, thought, after\na while, of the goloshes which he had found and taken to the hospital;\nso he went and fetched them. But neither the lieutenant nor any one in\nthe street could recognize them as their own, so he gave them up to\nthe police. \"They look exactly like my own goloshes,\" said one of\nthe clerks, examining the unknown articles, as they stood by the\nside of his own. \"It would require even more than the eye of a\nshoemaker to know one pair from the other.\"\n\n\"Master clerk,\" said a servant who entered with some papers. The\nclerk turned and spoke to the man; but when he had done with him, he\nturned to look at the goloshes again, and now he was in greater\ndoubt than ever as to whether the pair on the right or on the left\nbelonged to him. \"Those that are wet must be mine,\" thought he; but he\nthought wrong, it was just the reverse. The goloshes of Fortune were\nthe wet pair; and, besides, why should not a clerk in a police\noffice be wrong sometimes? So he drew them on, thrust his papers\ninto his pocket, placed a few manuscripts under his arm, which he\nhad to take with him, and to make abstracts from at home. Then, as\nit was Sunday morning and the weather very fine, he said to himself,\n\"A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good:\" so away he went.\n\nThere could not be a quieter or more steady young man than this\nclerk. We will not grudge him this little walk, it was just the\nthing to do him good after sitting so much. He went on at first like a\nmere automaton, without thought or wish; therefore the goloshes had no\nopportunity to display their magic power. In the avenue he met with an\nacquaintance, one of our young poets, who told him that he intended to\nstart on the following day on a summer excursion. \"Are you really\ngoing away so soon?\" asked the clerk. \"What a free, happy man you are.\nYou can roam about where you will, while such as we are tied by the\nfoot.\"\n\n\"But it is fastened to the bread-tree,\" replied the poet. \"You\nneed have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old there is a\npension for you.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes; but you have the best of it,\" said the clerk; \"it must\nbe so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world makes itself\nagreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try how\nyou would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of\njustice.\" The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each\nretained his own opinion, and so they parted. \"They are strange\npeople, these poets,\" thought the clerk. \"I should like to try what it\nis to have a poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I\nshould not write such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid\nspring day for a poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the clouds\nare so beautiful, and the green grass has such a sweet smell. For many\nyears I have not felt as I do at this moment.\"\n\nWe perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a\npoet. By most poets what he had said would be considered common-place,\nor as the Germans call it, \"insipid.\" It is a foolish fancy to look\nupon poets as different to other men. There are many who are more\nthe poets of nature than those who are professed poets. The difference\nis this, the poet's intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an\nidea or a sentiment, until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in\nwords, which the others cannot do. But the transition from a character\nof every-day life to one of a more gifted nature is a great\ntransition; and so the clerk became aware of the change after a\ntime. \"What a delightful perfume,\" said he; \"it reminds me of the\nviolets at Aunt Lora's. Ah, that was when I was a little boy. Dear me,\nhow long it seems since I thought of those days! She was a good old\nmaiden lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a\nsprig or a few blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe.\nI could smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny\npieces against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty\nview it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships,\nicebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented\nthe only living creature on board. But when the breezes of spring\ncame, everything started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the\nships were tarred and rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.\n\n\"I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my post at the\npolice office, and letting others take passports to distant lands.\nYes, this is my fate,\" and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. \"Good\ngracious, what has come over me? I never felt before as I do now; it\nmust be the air of spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is\ndelightful.\"\n\nHe felt in his pockets for some of his papers. \"These will give me\nsomething else to think of,\" said he. Casting his eyes on the first\npage of one, he read, \"'Mistress Sigbirth; an original Tragedy, in\nFive Acts.' What is this?--in my own handwriting, too! Have I\nwritten this tragedy?\" He read again, \"'The Intrigue on the Promenade;\nor, the Fast-Day. A Vaudeville.' However did I get all this? Some\none must have put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!\" It was\nfrom the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all in\npolite terms.\n\n\"Hem, hem!\" said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts were\nvery elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily he\nseized one of the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy.\nAll that botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a\nmoment by this little flower. It spoke of the glory of its birth; it\ntold of the strength of the sunlight, which had caused its delicate\nleaves to expand, and given to it such sweet perfume. The struggles of\nlife which arouse sensations in the bosom have their type in the\ntiny flowers. Air and light are the lovers of the flowers, but light\nis the favored one; towards light it turns, and only when light\nvanishes does it fold its leaves together, and sleep in the embraces\nof the air.\"\n\n\"It is light that adorns me,\" said the flower.\n\n\"But the air gives you the breath of life,\" whispered the poet.\n\nJust by him stood a boy, splashing with his stick in a marshy\nditch. The water-drops spurted up among the green twigs, and the clerk\nthought of the millions of animalculae which were thrown into the\nair with every drop of water, at a height which must be the same to\nthem as it would be to us if we were hurled beyond the clouds. As\nthe clerk thought of all these things, and became conscious of the\ngreat change in his own feelings, he smiled, and said to himself, \"I\nmust be asleep and dreaming; and yet, if so, how wonderful for a dream\nto be so natural and real, and to know at the same time too that it is\nbut a dream. I hope I shall be able to remember it all when I wake\ntomorrow. My sensations seem most unaccountable. I have a clear\nperception of everything as if I were wide awake. I am quite sure if I\nrecollect all this tomorrow, it will appear utterly ridiculous and\nabsurd. I have had this happen to me before. It is with the clever\nor wonderful things we say or hear in dreams, as with the gold which\ncomes from under the earth, it is rich and beautiful when we possess\nit, but when seen in a true light it is but as stones and withered\nleaves.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he sighed mournfully, as he gazed at the birds singing\nmerrily, or hopping from branch to branch, \"they are much better off\nthan I. Flying is a glorious power. Happy is he who is born with\nwings. Yes, if I could change myself into anything I would be a little\nlark.\" At the same moment his coat-tails and sleeves grew together and\nformed wings, his clothes changed to feathers, and his goloshes to\nclaws. He felt what was taking place, and laughed to himself. \"Well,\nnow it is evident I must be dreaming; but I never had such a wild\ndream as this.\" And then he flew up into the green boughs and sang,\nbut there was no poetry in the song, for his poetic nature had left\nhim. The goloshes, like all persons who wish to do a thing thoroughly,\ncould only attend to one thing at a time. He wished to be a poet,\nand he became one. Then he wanted to be a little bird, and in this\nchange he lost the characteristics of the former one. \"Well,\"\nthought he, \"this is charming; by day I sit in a police-office,\namongst the dryest law papers, and at night I can dream that I am a\nlark, flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg. Really a complete\ncomedy could be written about it.\" Then he flew down into the grass,\nturned his head about in every direction, and tapped his beak on the\nbending blades of grass, which, in proportion to his size, seemed to\nhim as long as the palm-leaves in northern Africa.\n\nIn another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed as if\nsomething immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy had flung his\nlarge cap over the bird, and a hand came underneath and caught the\nclerk by the back and wings so roughly, that he squeaked, and then\ncried out in his alarm, \"You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the\npolice-office!\" but it only sounded to the boy like \"tweet, tweet;\" so\nhe tapped the bird on the beak, and walked away with him. In the\navenue he met two school-boys, who appeared to belong to a better\nclass of society, but whose inferior abilities kept them in the lowest\nclass at school. These boys bought the bird for eightpence, and so the\nclerk returned to Copenhagen. \"It is well for me that I am\ndreaming,\" he thought; \"otherwise I should become really angry.\nFirst I was a poet, and now I am a lark. It must have been the\npoetic nature that changed me into this little creature. It is a\nmiserable story indeed, especially now I have fallen into the hands of\nboys. I wonder what will be the end of it.\" The boys carried him\ninto a very elegant room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady\nreceived them, but she was not at all gratified to find that they\nhad brought a lark--a common field-bird as she called it. However, she\nallowed them for one day to place the bird in an empty cage that\nhung near the window. \"It will please Polly perhaps,\" she said,\nlaughing at a large gray parrot, who was swinging himself proudly on a\nring in a handsome brass cage. \"It is Polly's birthday,\" she added\nin a simpering tone, \"and the little field-bird has come to offer\nhis congratulations.\"\n\nPolly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing\nproudly to and fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been brought\nfrom his own warm, fragrant fatherland, the summer previous, began\nto sing as loud as he could.\n\n\"You screamer!\" said the lady, throwing a white handkerchief\nover the cage.\n\n\"Tweet, tweet,\" sighed he, \"what a dreadful snowstorm!\" and then\nhe became silent.\n\nThe clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was placed in\na little cage close to the canary, and not far from the parrot. The\nonly human speech which Polly could utter, and which she sometimes\nchattered forth most comically, was \"Now let us be men.\" All besides\nwas a scream, quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the\ncanary-bird, excepting to the clerk, who being now a bird, could\nunderstand his comrades very well.\n\n\"I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the blooming\nalmond-trees,\" sang the canary. \"I flew with my brothers and sisters\nover beautiful flowers, and across the clear, bright sea, which\nreflected the waving foliage in its glittering depths; and I have seen\nmany gay parrots, who could relate long and delightful stories.\n\n\"They were wild birds,\" answered the parrot, \"and totally\nuneducated. Now let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the lady and\nher visitors can laugh at this, surely you can. It is a great\nfailing not to be able to appreciate what is amusing. Now let us be\nmen.\"\n\n\"Do you remember,\" said the canary, \"the pretty maidens who used\nto dance in the tents that were spread out beneath the sweet blossoms?\nDo you remember the delicious fruit and the cooling juice from the\nwild herbs?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said the parrot; \"but here I am much better off. I am\nwell fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a clever head;\nand what more do I want? Let us be men now. You have a soul for\npoetry. I have deep knowledge and wit. You have genius, but no\ndiscretion. You raise your naturally high notes so much, that you\nget covered over. They never serve me so. Oh, no; I cost them\nsomething more than you. I keep them in order with my beak, and\nfling my wit about me. Now let us be men.\n\n\"O my warm, blooming fatherland,\" sang the canary bird, \"I will\nsing of thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams, where the\nbending branches kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing of the\njoy of my brothers and sisters, as their shining plumage flits among\nthe dark leaves of the plants which grow wild by the springs.\"\n\n\"Do leave off those dismal strains,\" said the parrot; \"sing\nsomething to make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the highest\norder of intellect. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, they can cry;\nbut to man alone is the power of laughter given. Ha! ha! ha!\"\nlaughed Polly, and repeated his witty saying, \"Now let us be men.\"\n\n\"You little gray Danish bird,\" said the canary, \"you also have\nbecome a prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests, but still\nthere is liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten to close the\ncage, and the window is open at the top. Fly, fly!\"\n\nInstinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the same\nmoment the half-opened door leading into the next room creaked on\nits hinges, and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes, the cat crept in\nand chased the lark round the room. The canary-bird fluttered in his\ncage, and the parrot flapped his wings and cried, \"Let us be men;\" the\npoor clerk, in the most deadly terror, flew through the window, over\nthe houses, and through the streets, till at length he was obliged\nto seek a resting-place. A house opposite to him had a look of home. A\nwindow stood open; he flew in, and perched upon the table. It was\nhis own room. \"Let us be men now,\" said he, involuntarily imitating\nthe parrot; and at the same moment he became a clerk again, only\nthat he was sitting on the table. \"Heaven preserve us!\" said he;\n\"How did I get up here and fall asleep in this way? It was an uneasy\ndream too that I had. The whole affair appears most absurd.\"\n\n\nTHE BEST THING THE GOLOSHES DID\n\nEarly on the following morning, while the clerk was still in\nbed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who lodged on the same\nstorey, knocked at his door, and then walked in. \"Lend me your\ngoloshes,\" said he; \"it is so wet in the garden, but the sun is\nshining brightly. I should like to go out there and smoke my pipe.\" He\nput on the goloshes, and was soon in the garden, which contained\nonly one plum-tree and one apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small\ngarden like this is a great advantage.\n\nThe student wandered up and down the path; it was just six\no'clock, and he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the street.\n\"Oh, to travel, to travel!\" cried he; \"there is no greater happiness\nin the world: it is the height of my ambition. This restless feeling\nwould be stilled, if I could take a journey far away from this\ncountry. I should like to see beautiful Switzerland, to travel through\nItaly, and,\"--It was well for him that the goloshes acted immediately,\notherwise he might have been carried too far for himself as well as\nfor us. In a moment he found himself in Switzerland, closely packed\nwith eight others in the diligence. His head ached, his back was\nstiff, and the blood had ceased to circulate, so that his feet were\nswelled and pinched by his boots. He wavered in a condition between\nsleeping and waking. In his right-hand pocket he had a letter of\ncredit; in his left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis\nd'ors were sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his\nbreast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost one or\nanother of these possessions; then he would awake with a start, and\nthe first movements of his hand formed a triangle from his\nright-hand pocket to his breast, and from his breast to his\nleft-hand pocket, to feel whether they were all safe. Umbrellas,\nsticks, and hats swung in the net before him, and almost obstructed\nthe prospect, which was really very imposing; and as he glanced at it,\nhis memory recalled the words of one poet at least, who has sung of\nSwitzerland, and whose poems have not yet been printed:--\n\n  \"How lovely to my wondering eyes\n  Mont Blanc's fair summits gently rise;\n  'Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,--\n  If you have gold enough to spare.\"\n\nGrand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The\npine-forests looked like little groups of moss on high rocks, whose\nsummits were lost in clouds of mist. Presently it began to snow, and\nthe wind blew keen and cold. \"Ah,\" he sighed, \"if I were only on the\nother side of the Alps now, it would be summer, and I should be able\nto get money on my letter of credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter\nprevents me from enjoying myself in Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on\nthe other side of the Alps.\"\n\nAnd there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the midst of\nItaly, between Florence and Rome, where the lake Thrasymene\nglittered in the evening sunlight like a sheet of molten gold\nbetween the dark blue mountains. There, where Hannibal defeated\nFlaminius, the grape vines clung to each other with the friendly grasp\nof their green tendril fingers; while, by the wayside, lovely\nhalf-naked children were watching a herd of coal-black swine under the\nblossoms of fragrant laurel. Could we rightly describe this\npicturesque scene, our readers would exclaim, \"Delightful Italy!\"\n\nBut neither the student nor either of his travelling companions\nfelt the least inclination to think of it in this way. Poisonous flies\nand gnats flew into the coach by thousands. In vain they drove them\naway with a myrtle branch, the flies stung them notwithstanding. There\nwas not a man in the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured\nwith the stings. The poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on\ntheir backs in swarms, and they were only relieved when the coachmen\ngot down and drove the creatures off.\n\nAs the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not however\nof long duration. It produced the feeling which we experience when\nwe enter a vault at a funeral, on a summer's day; while the hills\nand the clouds put on that singular green hue which we often notice in\nold paintings, and look upon as unnatural until we have ourselves seen\nnature's coloring in the south. It was a glorious spectacle; but the\nstomachs of the travellers were empty, their bodies exhausted with\nfatigue, and all the longings of their heart turned towards a\nresting-place for the night; but where to find one they knew not.\nAll the eyes were too eagerly seeking for this resting-place, to\nnotice the beauties of nature.\n\nThe road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it reminded the\nstudent of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a lonely inn, and\nclose by it a number of crippled beggars had placed themselves; the\nbrightest among them looked, to quote the words of Marryat, \"like\nthe eldest son of Famine who had just come of age.\" The others were\neither blind, or had withered legs, which obliged them to creep\nabout on their hands and knees, or they had shrivelled arms and\nhands without fingers. It was indeed poverty arrayed in rags.\n\"Eccellenza, miserabili!\" they exclaimed, stretching forth their\ndiseased limbs. The hostess received the travellers with bare feet,\nuntidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors were fastened together with\nstring; the floors of the rooms were of brick, broken in many\nplaces; bats flew about under the roof; and as to the odor within--\n\n\"Let us have supper laid in the stable,\" said one of the\ntravellers; \"then we shall know what we are breathing.\"\n\nThe windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but\nquicker than air came in the withered arms and the continual whining\nsounds, \"Miserabili, eccellenza.\" On the walls were inscriptions,\nhalf of them against \"la bella Italia.\"\n\nThe supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of watery\nsoup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last delicacy played a\nprincipal part in the salad. Musty eggs and roasted cocks'-combs\nwere the best dishes on the table; even the wine had a strange\ntaste, it was certainly a mixture. At night, all the boxes were placed\nagainst the doors, and one of the travellers watched while the\nothers slept. The student's turn came to watch. How close the air felt\nin that room; the heat overpowered him. The gnats were buzzing about\nand stinging, while the miserabili, outside, moaned in their dreams.\n\n\"Travelling would be all very well,\" said the student of\ndivinity to himself, \"if we had no bodies, or if the body could rest\nwhile the soul if flying. Wherever I go I feel a want which\noppresses my heart, for something better presents itself at the\nmoment; yes, something better, which shall be the best of all; but\nwhere is that to be found? In fact, I know in my heart very well\nwhat I want. I wish to attain the greatest of all happiness.\"\n\nNo sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long white\ncurtains shaded the windows of his room, and in the middle of the\nfloor stood a black coffin, in which he now lay in the still sleep\nof death; his wish was fulfilled, his body was at rest, and his spirit\ntravelling.\n\n\"Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave,\" were the words\nof Solon. Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every corpse\nis a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might\nunveil its own mystery in the words which the living had himself\nwritten two days before--\n\n  \"Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;\n    Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.\n  Earth's garden reaper! from the grave's cold bed\n    The soul on Jacob's ladder takes her flight.\n\n  Man's greatest sorrows often are a part\n    Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,\n  Which press far heavier on the lonely heart\n    Than now the earth that on his coffin lies.\"\n\n\nTwo figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was\nthe fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent\nover the dead.\n\n\"Look!\" said Care; \"what happiness have your goloshes brought to\nmankind?\"\n\n\"They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who\nslumbers here,\" she said.\n\n\"Not so,\" said Care, \"he went away of himself, he was not\nsummoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to discern the\ntreasures which he had been destined to discover. I will do him a\nfavor now.\" And she drew the goloshes from his feet.\n\nThe sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised\nhimself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she\nlooked upon them as her own property.\n\n\n\n\nSHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING\n\nThe mayor stood at the open window. He looked smart, for his\nshirt-frill, in which he had stuck a breast-pin, and his ruffles, were\nvery fine. He had shaved his chin uncommonly smooth, although he had\ncut himself slightly, and had stuck a piece of newspaper over the\nplace. \"Hark 'ee, youngster!\" cried he.\n\nThe boy to whom he spoke was no other than the son of a poor\nwasher-woman, who was just going past the house. He stopped, and\nrespectfully took off his cap. The peak of this cap was broken in\nthe middle, so that he could easily roll it up and put it in his\npocket. He stood before the mayor in his poor but clean and\nwell-mended clothes, with heavy wooden shoes on his feet, looking as\nhumble as if it had been the king himself.\n\n\"You are a good and civil boy,\" said the mayor. \"I suppose your\nmother is busy washing the clothes down by the river, and you are\ngoing to carry that thing to her that you have in your pocket. It is\nvery bad for your mother. How much have you got in it?\"\n\n\"Only half a quartern,\" stammered the boy in a frightened voice.\n\n\"And she has had just as much this morning already?\"\n\n\"No, it was yesterday,\" replied the boy.\n\n\"Two halves make a whole,\" said the mayor. \"She's good for\nnothing. What a sad thing it is with these people. Tell your mother\nshe ought to be ashamed of herself. Don't you become a drunkard, but I\nexpect you will though. Poor child! there, go now.\"\n\nThe boy went on his way with his cap in his hand, while the wind\nfluttered his golden hair till the locks stood up straight. He\nturned round the corner of the street into the little lane that led to\nthe river, where his mother stood in the water by her washing bench,\nbeating the linen with a heavy wooden bar. The floodgates at the\nmill had been drawn up, and as the water rolled rapidly on, the sheets\nwere dragged along by the stream, and nearly overturned the bench,\nso that the washer-woman was obliged to lean against it to keep it\nsteady. \"I have been very nearly carried away,\" she said; \"it is a\ngood thing that you are come, for I want something to strengthen me.\nIt is cold in the water, and I have stood here six hours. Have you\nbrought anything for me?\"\n\nThe boy drew the bottle from his pocket, and the mother put it\nto her lips, and drank a little.\n\n\"Ah, how much good that does, and how it warms me,\" she said;\n\"it is as good as a hot meal, and not so dear. Drink a little, my boy;\nyou look quite pale; you are shivering in your thin clothes, and\nautumn has really come. Oh, how cold the water is! I hope I shall\nnot be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of that. Give me a little\nmore, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you must not get\nused to it, my poor, dear child.\" She stepped up to the bridge on\nwhich the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water dripped\nfrom the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from her\ngown. \"I work hard and suffer pain with my poor hands,\" said she, \"but\nI do it willingly, that I may be able to bring you up honestly and\ntruthfully, my dear boy.\"\n\nAt the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, came\ntowards them. She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, and\nwith a large false curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which was\nblind. This curl was intended to conceal the blind eye, but it made\nthe defect only more visible. She was a friend of the laundress, and\nwas called, among the neighbors, \"Lame Martha, with the curl.\" \"Oh,\nyou poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the water!\" she\nexclaimed. \"You really do need something to give you a little\nwarmth, and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take.\"\nAnd then Martha repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes,\nall that the mayor had said to her boy, which she had overheard; and\nshe felt very angry that any man could speak, as he had done, of a\nmother to her own child, about the few drops she had taken; and she\nwas still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor was going to\nhave a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, rich\nwine, drunk by the bottle. \"Many will take more than they ought, but\nthey don't call that drinking! They are all right, you are good for\nnothing indeed!\" cried Martha indignantly.\n\n\"And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child?\" said the\nwasher-woman, and her lips trembled as she spoke. \"He says you have\na mother who is good for nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but he\nshould not have said it to my child. How much has happened to me\nfrom that house!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Martha; \"I remember you were in service there, and\nlived in the house when the mayor's parents were alive; how many years\nago that is. Bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and people\nmay well be thirsty,\" and Martha smiled. \"The mayor's great\ndinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but the news came\ntoo late. The footman told me the dinner was already cooked, when a\nletter came to say that the mayor's younger brother in Copenhagen is\ndead.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" cried the laundress, turning pale as death.\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" replied Martha; \"but why do you take it so\nmuch to heart? I suppose you knew him years ago, when you were in\nservice there?\"\n\n\"Is he dead?\" she exclaimed. \"Oh, he was such a kind, good-hearted\nman, there are not many like him,\" and the tears rolled down her\ncheeks as she spoke. Then she cried, \"Oh, dear me; I feel quite ill:\neverything is going round me, I cannot bear it. Is the bottle\nempty?\" and she leaned against the plank.\n\n\"Dear me, you are ill indeed,\" said the other woman. \"Come,\ncheer up; perhaps it will pass off. No, indeed, I see you are really\nill; the best thing for me to do is to lead you home.\"\n\n\"But my washing yonder?\"\n\n\"I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can\nstay here and take care of the linen, and I'll come back and finish\nthe washing; it is but a trifle.\"\n\nThe limbs of the laundress shook under her, and she said, \"I\nhave stood too long in the cold water, and I have had nothing to eat\nthe whole day since the morning. O kind Heaven, help me to get home; I\nam in a burning fever. Oh, my poor child,\" and she burst into tears.\nAnd he, poor boy, wept also, as he sat alone by the river, near to and\nwatching the damp linen.\n\nThe two women walked very slowly. The laundress slipped and\ntottered through the lane, and round the corner, into the street where\nthe mayor lived; and just as she reached the front of his house, she\nsank down upon the pavement. Many persons came round her, and Lame\nMartha ran into the house for help. The mayor and his guests came to\nthe window.\n\n\"Oh, it is the laundress,\" said he; \"she has had a little drop too\nmuch. She is good for nothing. It is a sad thing for her pretty little\nson. I like the boy very well; but the mother is good for nothing.\"\n\nAfter a while the laundress recovered herself, and they led her to\nher poor dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha warmed a mug of\nbeer for her, with butter and sugar--she considered this the best\nmedicine--and then hastened to the river, washed and rinsed, badly\nenough, to be sure, but she did her best. Then she drew the linen\nashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket. Before evening, she\nwas sitting in the poor little room with the laundress. The mayor's\ncook had given her some roasted potatoes and a beautiful piece of\nfat for the sick woman. Martha and the boy enjoyed these good things\nvery much; but the sick woman could only say that the smell was very\nnourishing, she thought. By-and-by the boy was put to bed, in the same\nbed as the one in which his mother lay; but he slept at her feet,\ncovered with an old quilt made of blue and white patchwork. The\nlaundress felt a little better by this time. The warm beer had\nstrengthened her, and the smell of the good food had been pleasant\nto her.\n\n\"Many thanks, you good soul,\" she said to Martha. \"Now the boy\nis asleep, I will tell you all. He is soon asleep. How gentle and\nsweet he looks as he lies there with his eyes closed! He does not know\nhow his mother has suffered; and Heaven grant he never may know it.\nI was in service at the counsellor's, the father of the mayor, and\nit happened that the youngest of his sons, the student, came home. I\nwas a young wild girl then, but honest; that I can declare in the\nsight of Heaven. The student was merry and gay, brave and\naffectionate; every drop of blood in him was good and honorable; a\nbetter man never lived on earth. He was the son of the house, and I\nwas only a maid; but he loved me truly and honorably, and he told\nhis mother of it. She was to him as an angel upon earth; she was so\nwise and loving. He went to travel, and before he started he placed\na gold ring on my finger; and as soon as he was out of the house, my\nmistress sent for me. Gently and earnestly she drew me to her, and\nspake as if an angel were speaking. She showed me clearly, in spirit\nand in truth, the difference there was between him and me. 'He is\npleased now,' she said, 'with your pretty face; but good looks do\nnot last long. You have not been educated like he has. You are not\nequals in mind and rank, and therein lies the misfortune. I esteem the\npoor,' she added. 'In the sight of God, they may occupy a higher place\nthan many of the rich; but here upon earth we must beware of\nentering upon a false track, lest we are overturned in our plans, like\na carriage that travels by a dangerous road. I know a worthy man, an\nartisan, who wishes to marry you. I mean Eric, the glovemaker. He is a\nwidower, without children, and in a good position. Will you think it\nover?' Every word she said pierced my heart like a knife; but I knew\nshe was right, and the thought pressed heavily upon me. I kissed her\nhand, and wept bitter tears, and I wept still more when I went to my\nroom, and threw myself on the bed. I passed through a dreadful\nnight; God knows what I suffered, and how I struggled. The following\nSunday I went to the house of God to pray for light to direct my path.\nIt seemed like a providence that as I stepped out of church Eric\ncame towards me; and then there remained not a doubt in my mind. We\nwere suited to each other in rank and circumstances. He was, even\nthen, a man of good means. I went up to him, and took his hand, and\nsaid, 'Do you still feel the same for me?' 'Yes; ever and always,'\nsaid he. 'Will you, then, marry a maiden who honors and esteems you,\nalthough she cannot offer you her love? but that may come.' 'Yes, it\nwill come,' said he; and we joined our hands together, and I went home\nto my mistress. The gold ring which her son had given me I wore next\nto my heart. I could not place it on my finger during the daytime, but\nonly in the evening, when I went to bed. I kissed the ring till my\nlips almost bled, and then I gave it to my mistress, and told her that\nthe banns were to be put up for me and the glovemaker the following\nweek. Then my mistress threw her arms round me, and kissed me. She did\nnot say that I was 'good for nothing;' very likely I was better then\nthan I am now; but the misfortunes of this world, were unknown to me\nthen. At Michaelmas we were married, and for the first year everything\nwent well with us. We had a journeyman and an apprentice, and you were\nour servant, Martha.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, and you were a dear, good mistress,\" said Martha, \"I\nshall never forget how kind you and your husband were to me.\"\n\n\"Yes, those were happy years when you were with us, although we\nhad no children at first. The student I never met again. Yet I saw him\nonce, although he did not see me. He came to his mother's funeral. I\nsaw him, looking pale as death, and deeply troubled, standing at her\ngrave; for she was his mother. Sometime after, when his father died,\nhe was in foreign lands, and did not come home. I know that he never\nmarried, I believe he became a lawyer. He had forgotten me, and even\nhad we met he would not have known me, for I have lost all my good\nlooks, and perhaps that is all for the best.\" And then she spoke of\nthe dark days of trial, when misfortune had fallen upon them.\n\n\"We had five hundred dollars,\" she said, \"and there was a house in\nthe street to be sold for two hundred, so we thought it would be worth\nour while to pull it down and build a new one in its place; so it\nwas bought. The builder and carpenter made an estimate that the new\nhouse would cost ten hundred and twenty dollars to build. Eric had\ncredit, so he borrowed the money in the chief town. But the captain,\nwho was bringing it to him, was shipwrecked, and the money lost.\nJust about this time, my dear sweet boy, who lies sleeping there,\nwas born, and my husband was attacked with a severe lingering illness.\nFor three quarters of a year I was obliged to dress and undress him.\nWe were backward in our payments, we borrowed more money, and all that\nwe had was lost and sold, and then my husband died. Since then I\nhave worked, toiled, and striven for the sake of the child. I have\nscrubbed and washed both coarse and fine linen, but I have not been\nable to make myself better off; and it was God's will. In His own time\nHe will take me to Himself, but I know He will never forsake my\nboy.\" Then she fell asleep. In the morning she felt much refreshed,\nand strong enough, as she thought, to go on with her work. But as soon\nas she stepped into the cold water, a sudden faintness seized her; she\nclutched at the air convulsively with her hand, took one step forward,\nand fell. Her head rested on dry land, but her feet were in the water;\nher wooden shoes, which were only tied on by a wisp of straw, were\ncarried away by the stream, and thus she was found by Martha when\nshe came to bring her some coffee.\n\nIn the meantime a messenger had been sent to her house by the\nmayor, to say that she must come to him immediately, as he had\nsomething to tell her. It was too late; a surgeon had been sent for to\nopen a vein in her arm, but the poor woman was dead.\n\n\"She has drunk herself to death,\" said the cruel mayor. In the\nletter, containing the news of his brother's death, it was stated that\nhe had left in his will a legacy of six hundred dollars to the\nglovemaker's widow, who had been his mother's maid, to be paid with\ndiscretion, in large or small sums to the widow or her child.\n\n\"There was something between my brother and her, I remember,\" said\nthe mayor; \"it is a good thing that she is out of the way, for now the\nboy will have the whole. I will place him with honest people to\nbring him up, that he may become a respectable working man.\" And the\nblessing of God rested upon these words. The mayor sent for the boy to\ncome to him, and promised to take care of him, but most cruelly\nadded that it was a good thing that his mother was dead, for \"she\nwas good for nothing.\" They carried her to the churchyard, the\nchurchyard in which the poor were buried. Martha strewed sand on the\ngrave and planted a rose-tree upon it, and the boy stood by her side.\n\n\"Oh, my poor mother!\" he cried, while the tears rolled down his\ncheeks. \"Is it true what they say, that she was good for nothing?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, it is not true,\" replied the old servant, raising her\neyes to heaven; \"she was worth a great deal; I knew it years ago,\nand since the last night of her life I am more certain of it than\never. I say she was a good and worthy woman, and God, who is in\nheaven, knows I am speaking the truth, though the world may say,\neven now she was good for nothing.\"\n\n\n\n\nGRANDMOTHER\n\nGrandmother is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is\nquite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild,\ngentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you\ngood. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked\non it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most\nwonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive\nbefore father and mother--that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book\nwith large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book,\nbetween the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so\npretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she\nsmiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes. \"I\nwonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book\nthat way? Do you know?\" Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the\nrose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room\nwith its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around\nher is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams\nthrough thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a\ncharming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,\nbright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those\nmild, saintly eyes, are the same,--they have been left to grandmother.\nAt her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and\nshe smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is\nsmiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections\nof the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has\nwithered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an\nold woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.\n\nGrandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,\ntelling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she\nsaid she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could\nhear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter\nand calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It\nwas as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and\nthen people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking\nmild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though\nher eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair\nlooked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.\nWe did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had\nbeen such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose\nstill lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and\nthen they buried grandmother.\n\nOn the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a\nrose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among\nthe flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church\nsounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were\nwritten in the old book under the head of the dead one.\n\nThe moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;\nevery child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from\nthe tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are\nliving. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange\nthing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.\nThey are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth\nhas been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within\nit. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its\nrecollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh\nroses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there\nstill lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,\ngentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will\nonce again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for\nthe first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in\nthe grave.\n\n\n\n\nA GREAT GRIEF\n\nThis story really consists of two parts. The first part might be\nleft out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful.\n\nWe were staying in the country at a gentleman's seat, where it\nhappened that the master was absent for a few days. In the meantime,\nthere arrived from the next town a lady; she had a pug dog with her,\nand came, she said, to dispose of shares in her tan-yard. She had\nher papers with her, and we advised her to put them in an envelope,\nand to write thereon the address of the proprietor of the estate,\n\"General War-Commissary Knight,\" &c.\n\nShe listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused, and begged\nus to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and she wrote; but\nin the midst of the \"General War-\" she struck fast, sighed deeply, and\nsaid, \"I am only a woman!\" Her Puggie had seated itself on the\nground while she wrote, and growled; for the dog had come with her for\namusement and for the sake of its health; and then the bare floor\nought not to be offered to a visitor. His outward appearance was\ncharacterized by a snub nose and a very fat back.\n\n\"He doesn't bite,\" said the lady; \"he has no teeth. He is like one\nof the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is my\ngrandchildren's fault, for they have teased him; they play at wedding,\nand want to give him the part of the bridesmaid, and that's too much\nfor him, poor old fellow.\"\n\nAnd she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her arm. And\nthis is the first part of the story which might have been left out.\n\nPUGGIE DIED!! That's the second part.\n\nIt was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and put\nup at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which was divided\ninto two parts by a partition of planks; in one half were many skins\nand hides, raw and tanned. Here was all the apparatus necessary to\ncarry on a tannery, and it belonged to the widow. Puggie had died in\nthe morning, and was to be buried in this part of the yard; the\ngrandchildren of the widow (that is, of the tanner's widow, for Puggie\nhad never been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful\ngrave--it must have been quite pleasant to lie there.\n\nThe grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and strewn\nover with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half a beer bottle,\nwith the neck upwards, and that was not at all allegorical.\n\nThe children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys\namong them, a practical youngster of seven years, made the proposition\nthat there should be an exhibition of Puggie's burial-place for all\nwho lived in the lane; the price of admission was to be a trouser\nbutton, for every boy would be sure to have one, and each might also\ngive one for a little girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.\n\nAnd all the children out of the lane--yes, even out of the\nlittle lane at the back--flocked to the place, and each gave a button.\nMany were noticed to go about on that afternoon with only one\nsuspender; but then they had seen Puggie's grave, and the sight was\nworth much more.\n\nBut in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood a\nlittle girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with curly\nhair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure to look into\nthem. The child said not a word, nor did she cry; but each time the\nlittle door was opened she gave a long, long look into the yard. She\nhad not a button--that she knew right well, and therefore she remained\nstanding sorrowfully outside, till all the others had seen the grave\nand had gone away; then she sat down, held her little brown hands\nbefore her eyes, and burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen\nPuggie's grave. It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can\nexperience.\n\nWe saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many a grief\nof our own and of others can make us smile! That is the story, and\nwhoever does not understand it may go and purchase a share in the\ntan-yard from the window.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAPPY FAMILY\n\nThe largest green leaf in this country is certainly the\nburdock-leaf. If you hold it in front of you, it is large enough for\nan apron; and if you hold it over your head, it is almost as good as\nan umbrella, it is so wonderfully large. A burdock never grows\nalone; where it grows, there are many more, and it is a splendid\nsight; and all this splendor is good for snails. The great white\nsnails, which grand people in olden times used to have made into\nfricassees; and when they had eaten them, they would say, \"O, what a\ndelicious dish!\" for these people really thought them good; and\nthese snails lived on burdock-leaves, and for them the burdock was\nplanted.\n\nThere was once an old estate where no one now lived to require\nsnails; indeed, the owners had all died out, but the burdock still\nflourished; it grew over all the beds and walks of the garden--its\ngrowth had no check--till it became at last quite a forest of\nburdocks. Here and there stood an apple or a plum-tree; but for\nthis, nobody would have thought the place had ever been a garden. It\nwas burdock from one end to the other; and here lived the last two\nsurviving snails. They knew not themselves how old they were; but they\ncould remember the time when there were a great many more of them, and\nthat they were descended from a family which came from foreign\nlands, and that the whole forest had been planted for them and theirs.\nThey had never been away from the garden; but they knew that another\nplace once existed in the world, called the Duke's Palace Castle, in\nwhich some of their relations had been boiled till they became\nblack, and were then laid on a silver dish; but what was done\nafterwards they did not know. Besides, they could not imagine\nexactly how it felt to be boiled and placed on a silver dish; but no\ndoubt it was something very fine and highly genteel. Neither the\ncockchafer, nor the toad, nor the earth-worm, whom they questioned\nabout it, would give them the least information; for none of their\nrelations had ever been cooked or served on a silver dish. The old\nwhite snails were the most aristocratic race in the world,--they\nknew that. The forest had been planted for them, and the nobleman's\ncastle had been built entirely that they might be cooked and laid on\nsilver dishes.\n\nThey lived quite retired and very happily; and as they had no\nchildren of their own, they had adopted a little common snail, which\nthey brought up as their own child. The little one would not grow, for\nhe was only a common snail; but the old people, particularly the\nmother-snail, declared that she could easily see how he grew; and when\nthe father said he could not perceive it, she begged him to feel the\nlittle snail's shell, and he did so, and found that the mother was\nright.\n\nOne day it rained very fast. \"Listen, what a drumming there is\non the burdock-leaves; turn, turn, turn; turn, turn, turn,\" said the\nfather-snail.\n\n\"There come the drops,\" said the mother; \"they are trickling\ndown the stalks. We shall have it very wet here presently. I am very\nglad we have such good houses, and that the little one has one of\nhis own. There has been really more done for us than for any other\ncreature; it is quite plain that we are the most noble people in the\nworld. We have houses from our birth, and the burdock forest has\nbeen planted for us. I should very much like to know how far it\nextends, and what lies beyond it.\"\n\n\"There can be nothing better than we have here,\" said the\nfather-snail; \"I wish for nothing more.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I do,\" said the mother; \"I should like to be taken to\nthe palace, and boiled, and laid upon a silver dish, as was done to\nall our ancestors; and you may be sure it must be something very\nuncommon.\"\n\n\"The nobleman's castle, perhaps, has fallen to decay,\" said the\nsnail-father, \"or the burdock wood may have grown out. You need not\nbe in a hurry; you are always so impatient, and the youngster is\ngetting just the same. He has been three days creeping to the top of\nthat stalk. I feel quite giddy when I look at him.\"\n\n\"You must not scold him,\" said the mother-snail; \"he creeps so\nvery carefully. He will be the joy of our home; and we old folks\nhave nothing else to live for. But have you ever thought where we\nare to get a wife for him? Do you think that farther out in the wood\nthere may be others of our race?\"\n\n\"There may be black snails, no doubt,\" said the old snail;\n\"black snails without houses; but they are so vulgar and conceited\ntoo. But we can give the ants a commission; they run here and there,\nas if they all had so much business to get through. They, most likely,\nwill know of a wife for our youngster.\"\n\n\"I certainly know a most beautiful bride,\" said one of the ants;\n\"but I fear it would not do, for she is a queen.\"\n\n\"That does not matter,\" said the old snail; \"has she a house?\"\n\n\"She has a palace,\" replied the ant,--\"a most beautiful ant-palace\nwith seven hundred passages.\"\n\n\"Thank-you,\" said the mother-snail; \"but our boy shall not go to\nlive in an ant-hill. If you know of nothing better, we will give the\ncommission to the white gnats; they fly about in rain and sunshine;\nthey know the burdock wood from one end to the other.\"\n\n\"We have a wife for him,\" said the gnats; \"a hundred man-steps\nfrom here there is a little snail with a house, sitting on a\ngooseberry-bush; she is quite alone, and old enough to be married.\nIt is only a hundred man-steps from here.\"\n\n\"Then let her come to him,\" said the old people. \"He has the whole\nburdock forest; she has only a bush.\"\n\nSo they brought the little lady-snail. She took eight days to\nperform the journey; but that was just as it ought to be; for it\nshowed her to be one of the right breeding. And then they had a\nwedding. Six glow-worms gave as much light as they could; but in other\nrespects it was all very quiet; for the old snails could not bear\nfestivities or a crowd. But a beautiful speech was made by the\nmother-snail. The father could not speak; he was too much overcome.\nThen they gave the whole burdock forest to the young snails as an\ninheritance, and repeated what they had so often said, that it was the\nfinest place in the world, and that if they led upright and\nhonorable lives, and their family increased, they and their children\nmight some day be taken to the nobleman's palace, to be boiled\nblack, and laid on a silver dish. And when they had finished speaking,\nthe old couple crept into their houses, and came out no more; for they\nslept.\n\nThe young snail pair now ruled in the forest, and had a numerous\nprogeny. But as the young ones were never boiled or laid in silver\ndishes, they concluded that the castle had fallen into decay, and that\nall the people in the world were dead; and as nobody contradicted\nthem, they thought they must be right. And the rain fell upon the\nburdock-leaves, to play the drum for them, and the sun shone to\npaint colors on the burdock forest for them, and they were very happy;\nthe whole family were entirely and perfectly happy.\n\n\n\n\nA LEAF FROM HEAVEN\n\nHigh up in the clear, pure air flew an angel, with a flower\nplucked from the garden of heaven. As he was kissing the flower a very\nlittle leaf fell from it and sunk down into the soft earth in the\nmiddle of a wood. It immediately took root, sprouted, and sent out\nshoots among the other plants.\n\n\"What a ridiculous little shoot!\" said one. \"No one will recognize\nit; not even the thistle nor the stinging-nettle.\"\n\n\"It must be a kind of garden plant,\" said another; and so they\nsneered and despised the plant as a thing from a garden.\n\n\"Where are you coming?\" said the tall thistles whose leaves were\nall armed with thorns. \"It is stupid nonsense to allow yourself to\nshoot out in this way; we are not here to support you.\"\n\nWinter came, and the plant was covered with snow, but the snow\nglittered over it as if it had sunshine beneath as well as above.\n\nWhen spring came, the plant appeared in full bloom: a more\nbeautiful object than any other plant in the forest. And now the\nprofessor of botany presented himself, one who could explain his\nknowledge in black and white. He examined and tested the plant, but it\ndid not belong to his system of botany, nor could he possibly find out\nto what class it did belong. \"It must be some degenerate species,\"\nsaid he; \"I do not know it, and it is not mentioned in any system.\"\n\n\"Not known in any system!\" repeated the thistles and the nettles.\n\nThe large trees which grew round it saw the plant and heard the\nremarks, but they said not a word either good or bad, which is the\nwisest plan for those who are ignorant.\n\nThere passed through the forest a poor innocent girl; her heart\nwas pure, and her understanding increased by her faith. Her chief\ninheritance had been an old Bible, which she read and valued. From its\npages she heard the voice of God speaking to her, and telling her to\nremember what was said of Joseph's brethren when persons wished to\ninjure her. \"They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it\nto good.\" If we suffer wrongfully, if we are misunderstood or\ndespised, we must think of Him who was pure and holy, and who prayed\nfor those who nailed Him to the cross, \"Father forgive them, for\nthey know not what they do.\"\n\nThe girl stood still before the wonderful plant, for the green\nleaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and the flowers\nglittered and sparkled in the sunshine like colored flames, and the\nharmony of sweet sounds lingered round them as if each concealed\nwithin itself a deep fount of melody, which thousands of years could\nnot exhaust. With pious gratitude the girl looked upon this glorious\nwork of God, and bent down over one of the branches, that she might\nexamine the flower and inhale the sweet perfume. Then a light broke in\non her mind, and her heart expanded. Gladly would she have plucked a\nflower, but she could not overcome her reluctance to break one off.\nShe knew it would so soon fade; so she took only a single green\nleaf, carried it home, and laid it in her Bible, where it remained\never green, fresh, and unfading. Between the pages of the Bible it\nstill lay when, a few weeks afterwards, that Bible was laid under\nthe young girl's head in her coffin. A holy calm rested on her face,\nas if the earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she now\nstood in the presence of God.\n\nIn the forest the wonderful plant still continued to bloom till it\ngrew and became almost a tree, and all the birds of passage bowed\nthemselves before it.\n\n\"That plant is a foreigner, no doubt,\" said the thistles and the\nburdocks. \"We can never conduct ourselves like that in this\ncountry.\" And the black forest snails actually spat at the flower.\n\nThen came the swineherd; he was collecting thistles and shrubs\nto burn them for the ashes. He pulled up the wonderful plant, roots\nand all, and placed it in his bundle. \"This will be as useful as any,\"\nhe said; so the plant was carried away.\n\nNot long after, the king of the country suffered from the\ndeepest melancholy. He was diligent and industrious, but employment\ndid him no good. They read deep and learned books to him, and then the\nlightest and most trifling that could be found, but all to no purpose.\nThen they applied for advice to one of the wise men of the world,\nand he sent them a message to say that there was one remedy which\nwould relieve and cure him, and that it was a plant of heavenly origin\nwhich grew in the forest in the king's own dominions. The messenger\ndescribed the flower so that is appearance could not be mistaken.\n\nThen said the swineherd, \"I am afraid I carried this plant away\nfrom the forest in my bundle, and it has been burnt to ashes long ago.\nBut I did not know any better.\"\n\n\"You did not know, any better! Ignorance upon ignorance indeed!\"\n\nThe poor swineherd took these words to heart, for they were\naddressed to him; he knew not that there were others who were\nequally ignorant. Not even a leaf of the plant could be found. There\nwas one, but it lay in the coffin of the dead; no one knew anything\nabout it.\n\nThen the king, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot in\nthe wood. \"Here is where the plant stood,\" he said; \"it is a sacred\nplace.\" Then he ordered that the place should be surrounded with a\ngolden railing, and a sentry stationed near it.\n\nThe botanical professor wrote a long treatise about the heavenly\nplant, and for this he was loaded with gold, which improved the\nposition of himself and his family.\n\nAnd this part is really the most pleasant part of the story. For\nthe plant had disappeared, and the king remained as melancholy and sad\nas ever, but the sentry said he had always been so.\n\n\n\n\nHOLGER DANSKE\n\nIn Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close by\nthe Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, and\nPrussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castle\nwith cannons, \"Boom, boom,\" which is as if they said, \"Good-day.\"\nAnd the cannons of the old castle answer \"Boom,\" which means \"Many\nthanks.\" In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered\nwith ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance\nof a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes and\nSwedes say, \"Good-day,\" and \"Thank you\" to each other, not with\ncannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchange\nwhite bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articles\ntaste the best.\n\nBut the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of\nKronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, into\nwhich no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head on\nhis strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table,\ninto which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but in\nhis dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On each\nChristmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he has\ndreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, as\nDenmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come,\nthen Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst\nasunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his\nstrength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries of\nthe world.\n\nAn old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this about\nHolger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told him\nmust be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving an\nimage in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prow\nof a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,\none who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to the\nnames given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood\nthere erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his\nbroad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.\nThe old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danish\nmen and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so that\nhe fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, after\nall, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, he\nthought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against the\ncounterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had become\nrooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and\ncarving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. And\nwhen he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of all\nhe had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to his\nlittle grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and put\nthem on, and said, \"Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my\nlifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live to\nsee him when the event really comes to pass.\" And the old\ngrandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the\nmore satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It\nseemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like iron\nand steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; while\nthe lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up. \"That\nis the most beautiful coat of arms in the world,\" said the old man.\n\"The lions represent strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love.\"\nAnd as he gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute,\nwho chained great England to Denmark's throne; and he looked at the\nsecond lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conquered\nthe Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who united\nDenmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts,\ntheir colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memory\nfollowed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison,\nin which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christian\nthe Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her\nbosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this\nnoblest and best of all Danish women. \"Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble\nheart in the Danish arms,\" said the grandfather, and his spirit\nfollowed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannons\nroared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heart\nattached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbon\nof an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in order\nto save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland's wretched\nhuts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every word\nand action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added another\nheart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather's spirit followed\nthe next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In a\npeasant woman's humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing his\nname with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and in\nhis heart, and it was in the peasant's room that his heart became\none for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he\nhad known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blue\neyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remained\nfor some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it was\ngetting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supper\nwas on the table.\n\n\"What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,\"\nsaid she. \"Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me as\nif I have seen the face somewhere.\"\n\n\"No, that is impossible,\" replied the old grandfather; \"but I have\nseen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained it\nin my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay in\nthe roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true,\nancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron;\nI had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He\nsung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were\nsomething more than a man. I still remember his face, but from\nwhence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I have\noften thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swam\ndown to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. That\nwas my idea, and there stands his likeness.\"\n\nThe wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even on\npart of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stood\nbehind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by the\nflame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-law\nkissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by the\ntable; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man and\nthe father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper with\nhim. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish\nhearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quite\nclearly that there is another strength than that which lies in a\nsword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,\nand amongst them a collection of Holberg's plays, which are much\nread and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we have\nknown the people of those days, who are described in them.\n\n\"He knew how to fight also,\" said the old man; \"for he lashed\nthe follies and prejudices of people during his whole life.\"\n\nThen the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,\nwhere hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower upon\nit, and said \"Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, but\nnot one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of the\nstars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whose\nfather belonged to my calling,--yes, he, the son of the old\nimage-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks\nand his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;--yes, he\nwas a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear\nin marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear of\nthe strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel.\"\n\nBut the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of\nKronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far down\nin the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming of\neverything that was passing above him.\n\nAnd Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which the\nimage-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded in\nhis dream, saying, \"Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep me\nin your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need.\"\n\nThe bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the wind\nbrought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboring\nshores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom of\nthe cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, \"Boom, boom.\" But\nthe roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only\n\"Good morning,\" and \"Thank you.\" They must fire in another fashion\nbefore he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet in\nHolger Danske.\n\n\n\n\nIB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA\n\nIn the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North\nJutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clear\nstream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through the\nwood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and not far from the\nriver, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that the sandy\nsoil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat which\ngrow in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived here\ncultivated these fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen;\nin fact they maintained themselves very well, they had quite enough to\nlive upon, as people generally have who are content with their lot.\nThey even could have afforded to keep two horses, but it was a\nsaying among the farmers in those parts, \"The horse eats himself\nup;\" that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Jans\ncultivated his fields in summer, and in the winter he made wooden\nshoes. He also had an assistant, a lad who understood as well as he\nhimself did how to make wooden shoes strong, but light, and in the\nfashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well; therefore no\none could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. Little\nIb, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by,\nwatching the workmen, or cutting a stick, and sometimes his finger\ninstead of the stick. But one day Ib succeeded so well in his\ncarving that he made two pieces of wood look really like two little\nwooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to Little\nChristina.\n\n\"And who was Little Christina?\" She was the boatman's daughter,\ngraceful and delicate as the child of a gentleman; had she been\ndressed differently, no one would have believed that she lived in a\nhut on the neighboring heath with her father. He was a widower, and\nearned his living by carrying firewood in his large boat from the\nforest to the eel-pond and eel-weir, on the estate of Silkborg, and\nsometimes even to the distant town of Randers. There was no one\nunder whose care he could leave Little Christina; so she was almost\nalways with him in his boat, or playing in the wood among the\nblossoming heath, or picking the ripe wild berries. Sometimes, when\nher father had to go as far as the town, he would take Little\nChristina, who was a year younger than Ib, across the heath to the\ncottage of Jeppe Jans, and leave her there. Ib and Christina agreed\ntogether in everything; they divided their bread and berries when they\nwere hungry; they were partners in digging their little gardens;\nthey ran, and crept, and played about everywhere. Once they wandered a\nlong way into the forest, and even ventured together to climb the high\nridge. Another time they found a few snipes' eggs in the wood, which\nwas a great event. Ib had never been on the heath where Christina's\nfather lived, nor on the river; but at last came an opportunity.\nChristina's father invited him to go for a sail in his boat; and the\nevening before, he accompanied the boatman across the heath to his\nhouse. The next morning early, the two children were placed on the top\nof a high pile of firewood in the boat, and sat eating bread and\nwild strawberries, while Christina's father and his man drove the boat\nforward with poles. They floated on swiftly, for the tide was in their\nfavor, passing over lakes, formed by the stream in its course;\nsometimes they seemed quite enclosed by reeds and water-plants, yet\nthere was always room for them to pass out, although the old trees\noverhung the water and the old oaks stretched out their bare branches,\nas if they had turned up their sleeves and wished to show their\nknotty, naked arms. Old alder-trees, whose roots were loosened from\nthe banks, clung with their fibres to the bottom of the stream, and\nthe tops of the branches above the water looked like little woody\nislands. The water-lilies waved themselves to and fro on the river,\neverything made the excursion beautiful, and at last they came to\nthe great eel-weir, where the water rushed through the flood-gates;\nand the children thought this a beautiful sight. In those days there\nwas no factory nor any town house, nothing but the great farm, with\nits scanty-bearing fields, in which could be seen a few herd of\ncattle, and one or two farm laborers. The rushing of the water through\nthe sluices, and the scream of the wild ducks, were almost the only\nsigns of active life at Silkborg. After the firewood had been\nunloaded, Christina's father bought a whole bundle of eels and a\nsucking-pig, which were all placed in a basket in the stern of the\nboat. Then they returned again up the stream; and as the wind was\nfavorable, two sails were hoisted, which carried the boat on as well\nas if two horses had been harnessed to it. As they sailed on, they\ncame by chance to the place where the boatman's assistant lived, at\na little distance from the bank of the river. The boat was moored; and\nthe two men, after desiring the children to sit still, both went on\nshore. They obeyed this order for a very short time, and then forgot\nit altogether. First they peeped into the basket containing the eels\nand the sucking-pig; then they must needs pull out the pig and take it\nin their hands, and feel it, and touch it; and as they both wanted\nto hold it at the same time, the consequence was that they let it fall\ninto the water, and the pig sailed away with the stream.\n\nHere was a terrible disaster. Ib jumped ashore, and ran a little\ndistance from the boat.\n\n\"Oh, take me with you,\" cried Christina; and she sprang after him.\nIn a few minutes they found themselves deep in a thicket, and could no\nlonger see the boat or the shore. They ran on a little farther, and\nthen Christina fell down, and began to cry.\n\nIb helped her up, and said, \"Never mind; follow me. Yonder is\nthe house.\" But the house was not yonder; and they wandered still\nfarther, over the dry rustling leaves of the last year, and treading\non fallen branches that crackled under their little feet; then they\nheard a loud, piercing cry, and they stood still to listen.\nPresently the scream of an eagle sounded through the wood; it was an\nugly cry, and it frightened the children; but before them, in the\nthickest part of the forest, grew the most beautiful blackberries,\nin wonderful quantities. They looked so inviting that the children\ncould not help stopping; and they remained there so long eating,\nthat their mouths and cheeks became quite black with the juice.\n\nPresently they heard the frightful scream again, and Christina\nsaid, \"We shall get into trouble about that pig.\"\n\n\"Oh, never mind,\" said Ib; \"we will go home to my father's\nhouse. It is here in the wood.\" So they went on, but the road led them\nout of the way; no house could be seen, it grew dark, and the children\nwere afraid. The solemn stillness that reigned around them was now and\nthen broken by the shrill cries of the great horned owl and other\nbirds that they knew nothing of. At last they both lost themselves\nin the thicket; Christina began to cry, and then Ib cried too; and,\nafter weeping and lamenting for some time, they stretched themselves\ndown on the dry leaves and fell asleep.\n\nThe sun was high in the heavens when the two children woke. They\nfelt cold; but not far from their resting-place, on a hill, the sun\nwas shining through the trees. They thought if they went there they\nshould be warm, and Ib fancied he should be able to see his father's\nhouse from such a high spot. But they were far away from home now,\nin quite another part of the forest. They clambered to the top of\nthe rising ground, and found themselves on the edge of a declivity,\nwhich sloped down to a clear transparent lake. Great quantities of\nfish could be seen through the clear water, sparkling in the sun's\nrays; they were quite surprised when they came so suddenly upon such\nan unexpected sight.\n\nClose to where they stood grew a hazel-bush, covered with\nbeautiful nuts. They soon gathered some, cracked them, and ate the\nfine young kernels, which were only just ripe. But there was another\nsurprise and fright in store for them. Out of the thicket stepped a\ntall old woman, her face quite brown, and her hair of a deep shining\nblack; the whites of her eyes glittered like a Moor's; on her back she\ncarried a bundle, and in her hand a knotted stick. She was a gypsy.\nThe children did not at first understand what she said. She drew out\nof her pocket three large nuts, in which she told them were hidden the\nmost beautiful and lovely things in the world, for they were wishing\nnuts. Ib looked at her, and as she spoke so kindly, he took courage,\nand asked her if she would give him the nuts; and the woman gave\nthem to him, and then gathered some more from the bushes for\nherself, quite a pocket full. Ib and Christina looked at the wishing\nnuts with wide open eyes.\n\n\"Is there in this nut a carriage, with a pair of horses?\" asked\nIb.\n\n\"Yes, there is a golden carriage, with two golden horses,\" replied\nthe woman.\n\n\"Then give me that nut,\" said Christina; so Ib gave it to her, and\nthe strange woman tied up the nut for her in her handkerchief.\n\nIb held up another nut. \"Is there, in this nut, a pretty little\nneckerchief like the one Christina has on her neck?\" asked Ib.\n\n\"There are ten neckerchiefs in it,\" she replied, \"as well as\nbeautiful dresses, stockings, and a hat and veil.\"\n\n\"Then I will have that one also,\" said Christina; \"and it is a\npretty one too.\" And then Ib gave her the second nut.\n\nThe third was a little black thing. \"You may keep that one,\"\nsaid Christina; \"it is quite as pretty.\"\n\n\"What is in it?\" asked Ib.\n\n\"The best of all things for you,\" replied the gypsy. So Ib held\nthe nut very tight.\n\nThen the woman promised to lead the children to the right path,\nthat they might find their way home: and they went forward certainly\nin quite another direction to the one they meant to take; therefore no\none ought to speak against the woman, and say that she wanted to steal\nthe children. In the wild wood-path they met a forester who knew Ib,\nand, by his help, Ib and Christina reached home, where they found\nevery one had been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and\nforgiven, although they really had both done wrong, and deserved to\nget into trouble; first, because they had let the sucking-pig fall\ninto the water; and, secondly, because they had run away. Christina\nwas taken back to her father's house on the heath, and Ib remained\nin the farm-house on the borders of the wood, near the great land\nridge.\n\nThe first thing Ib did that evening was to take out of his\npocket the little black nut, in which the best thing of all was said\nto be enclosed. He laid it carefully between the door and the\ndoor-post, and then shut the door so that the nut cracked directly.\nBut there was not much kernel to be seen; it was what we should call\nhollow or worm-eaten, and looked as if it had been filled with tobacco\nor rich black earth. \"It is just what I expected!\" exclaimed Ib.\n\"How should there be room in a little nut like this for the best thing\nof all? Christina will find her two nuts just the same; there will\nbe neither fine clothes or a golden carriage in them.\"\n\nWinter came; and the new year, and indeed many years passed\naway; until Ib was old enough to be confirmed, and, therefore, he went\nduring a whole winter to the clergyman of the nearest village to be\nprepared.\n\nOne day, about this time, the boatman paid a visit to Ib's\nparents, and told them that Christina was going to service, and that\nshe had been remarkably fortunate in obtaining a good place, with most\nrespectable people. \"Only think,\" he said, \"She is going to the rich\ninnkeeper's, at the hotel in Herning, many miles west from here. She\nis to assist the landlady in the housekeeping; and, if afterwards\nshe behaves well and remains to be confirmed, the people will treat\nher as their own daughter.\"\n\nSo Ib and Christina took leave of each other. People already\ncalled them \"the betrothed,\" and at parting the girl showed Ib the two\nnuts, which she had taken care of ever since the time that they lost\nthemselves in the wood; and she told him also that the little wooden\nshoes he once carved for her when he was a boy, and gave her as a\npresent, had been carefully kept in a drawer ever since. And so they\nparted.\n\nAfter Ib's confirmation, he remained at home with his mother,\nfor he had become a clever shoemaker, and in summer managed the farm\nfor her quite alone. His father had been dead some time, and his\nmother kept no farm servants. Sometimes, but very seldom, he heard\nof Christina, through a postillion or eel-seller who was passing.\nBut she was well off with the rich innkeeper; and after being\nconfirmed she wrote a letter to her father, in which was a kind\nmessage to Ib and his mother. In this letter, she mentioned that her\nmaster and mistress had made her a present of a beautiful new dress,\nand some nice under-clothes. This was, of course, pleasant news.\n\nOne day, in the following spring, there came a knock at the door\nof the house where Ib's old mother lived; and when they opened it,\nlo and behold, in stepped the boatman and Christina. She had come to\npay them a visit, and to spend the day. A carriage had to come from\nthe Herning hotel to the next village, and she had taken the\nopportunity to see her friends once more. She looked as elegant as a\nreal lady, and wore a pretty dress, beautifully made on purpose for\nher. There she stood, in full dress, while Ib wore only his working\nclothes. He could not utter a word; he could only seize her hand and\nhold it fast in his own, but he felt too happy and glad to open his\nlips. Christina, however, was quite at her ease; she talked and\ntalked, and kissed him in the most friendly manner. Even afterwards,\nwhen they were left alone, and she asked, \"Did you know me again, Ib?\"\nhe still stood holding her hand, and said at last, \"You are become\nquite a grand lady, Christina, and I am only a rough working man;\nbut I have often thought of you and of old times.\" Then they\nwandered up the great ridge, and looked across the stream to the\nheath, where the little hills were covered with the flowering broom.\nIb said nothing; but before the time came for them to part, it\nbecame quite clear to him that Christina must be his wife: had they\nnot even in childhood been called the betrothed? To him it seemed as\nif they were really engaged to each other, although not a word had\nbeen spoken on the subject. They had only a few more hours to remain\ntogether, for Christina was obliged to return that evening to the\nneighboring village, to be ready for the carriage which was to start\nthe next morning early for Herning. Ib and her father accompanied\nher to the village. It was a fine moonlight evening; and when they\narrived, Ib stood holding Christina's hand in his, as if he could\nnot let her go. His eyes brightened, and the words he uttered came\nwith hesitation from his lips, but from the deepest recesses of his\nheart: \"Christina, if you have not become too grand, and if you can be\ncontented to live in my mother's house as my wife, we will be\nmarried some day. But we can wait for a while.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" she replied; \"Let us wait a little longer, Ib. I can\ntrust you, for I believe that I do love you. But let me think it\nover.\" Then he kissed her lips; and so they parted.\n\nOn the way home, Ib told the boatman that he and Christina were as\ngood as engaged to each other; and the boatman found out that he had\nalways expected it would be so, and went home with Ib that evening,\nand remained the night in the farmhouse; but nothing further was\nsaid of the engagement. During the next year, two letters passed\nbetween Ib and Christina. They were signed, \"Faithful till death;\" but\nat the end of that time, one day the boatman came over to see Ib, with\na kind greeting from Christina. He had something else to say, which\nmade him hesitate in a strange manner. At last it came out that\nChristina, who had grown a very pretty girl, was more lucky than ever.\nShe was courted and admired by every one; but her master's son, who\nhad been home on a visit, was so much pleased with Christina that he\nwished to marry her. He had a very good situation in an office at\nCopenhagen, and as she had also taken a liking for him, his parents\nwere not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart, often\nthought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt\ninclined to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib\nsaid not a word, but he became as white as the wall, and shook his\nhead gently, and then he spoke,--\"Christina must not refuse this\ngood fortune.\"\n\n\"Then will you write a few words to her?\" said the boatman.\n\nIb sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words\nwere not what he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The\nfollowing morning, however, a letter lay ready to be sent to\nChristina, and the following is what he wrote:--\n\n\"The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see\nfrom it that you are prosperous in everything, and that still better\nfortune is in store for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and\nthink over carefully what awaits you if you take me for your\nhusband, for I possess very little in the world. Do not think of me or\nof my position; think only of your own welfare. You are bound to me by\nno promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release you\nfrom it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you,\nChristina. Heaven will give me the heart's consolation.\"\n\n\"Ever your sincere friend, IB.\"\n\n\nThis letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In\nthe course of the following November, her banns were published in\nthe church on the heath, and also in Copenhagen, where the\nbridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen under the protection\nof her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not spare\ntime from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into\nJutland. On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the\nvillages through which they passed, and here he took leave of her.\nVery little was said about the matter to Ib, and he did not refer to\nit; his mother, however, noticed that he had grown very silent and\npensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the three nuts\ncame into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child,\nand of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts,\nafter all, had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded\ncarriage and noble horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of\nthese Christina would now have in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part\nhad come true. And for him the nut had contained only black earth. The\ngypsy woman had said it was the best for him. Perhaps it was, and this\nalso would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman's meaning\nnow. The black earth--the dark grave--was the best thing for him now.\n\nAgain years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to\nIb. The old innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the\nwhole of their property, many thousand dollars, was inherited by their\nson. Christina could have the golden carriage now, and plenty of\nfine clothes. During the two long years which followed, no letter came\nfrom Christina to her father; and when at last her father received one\nfrom her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor Christina!\nNeither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save, and\nthe riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked\nfor it.\n\nYears passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with\nbloom; in winter the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew\nacross the ridge under which stood Ib's sheltered home. One spring day\nthe sun shone brightly, and he was guiding the plough across his\nfield. The ploughshare struck against something which he fancied was a\nfirestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a splinter of\nshining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed\nbrightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet\nof superior workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had\ndisturbed a Hun's grave. He searched further, and found more\nvaluable treasures, which Ib showed to the clergyman, who explained\ntheir value to him. Then he went to the magistrate, who informed the\npresident of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to take the\ntreasures himself to the president.\n\n\"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,\"\nsaid the magistrate.\n\n\"The best thing,\" thought Ib; \"the very best thing for me,--and\nfound in the earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was\nright in her prophecy.\"\n\nSo Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who\nhad only sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this\nseemed like a voyage on the ocean; and at length he arrived at\nCopenhagen. The value of the gold he had found was paid to him; it was\na large sum--six hundred dollars. Then Ib of the heath went out, and\nwandered about in the great city.\n\nOn the evening before the day he had settled to return with the\ncaptain of the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and\ntook quite a different turning to the one he wished to follow. He\nwandered on till he found himself in a poor street of the suburb\ncalled Christian's Haven. Not a creature could be seen. At last a very\nlittle girl came out of one of the wretched-looking houses, and Ib\nasked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked up\ntimidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the\nmatter; but what she said he could not understand. So he went along\nthe street with her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell\non the little girl's face. A strange sensation came over Ib, as he\ncaught sight of it. The living, breathing embodiment of Little\nChristina stood before him, just as he remembered her in the days of\nher childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and\nascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in\nthe roof. The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was\nburning, and from one corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It\nwas the mother of the child who lay there on a miserable bed. With the\nhelp of a match, Ib struck a light, and approached her.\n\n\"Can I be of any service to you?\" he asked. \"This little girl\nbrought me up here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no\nneighbors or any one whom I can call?\"\n\nThen he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her\npillow. He started as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one\nhad mentioned her name to Ib for years; it would have disturbed his\npeace of mind, especially as the reports respecting her were not good.\nThe wealth which her husband had inherited from his parents had made\nhim proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment, and\ntravelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had\nlived in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had\ntrembled on the high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till\nat last he toppled over, and ruin came. His numerous merry companions,\nand the visitors at his table, said it served him right, for he had\nkept house like a madman. One morning his corpse was found in the\ncanal. The cold hand of death had already touched the heart of\nChristina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of\nprosperity, had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and\nat last Christina herself became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken\nand dying, in a miserable room, amid poverty she might have borne in\nher younger days, but which was now more painful to her from the\nluxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her eldest\nchild, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home,\nwhere she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.\n\n\"It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor\nchild,\" sighed she. \"Oh, what will become of her?\" She could say no\nmore.\n\nThen Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle\nwhich he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the\nwretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of\nChristina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love this\nchild, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dying\nwoman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He\nnever knew; for not another word escaped her lips.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nIn the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and\nbeneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and\nwhitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the\nheath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the\nboatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood\nsafely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turf\nblazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the\nsparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones\nfrom the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All\nwas life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to her\nboth father and mother; her own parents had vanished from her\nmemory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib's\nhouse was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man\nnow, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at\nCopenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now--money\nwhich had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina for\nhis own, after all.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ICE MAIDEN\n\nI. LITTLE RUDY\n\nWe will pay a visit to Switzerland, and wander through that\ncountry of mountains, whose steep and rocky sides are overgrown with\nforest trees. Let us climb to the dazzling snow-fields at their\nsummits, and descend again to the green meadows beneath, through which\nrivers and brooks rush along as if they could not quickly enough reach\nthe sea and vanish. Fiercely shines the sun over those deep valleys,\nas well as upon the heavy masses of snow which lie on the mountains.\n\nDuring the year these accumulations thaw or fall in the rolling\navalance, or are piled up in shining glaciers. Two of these glaciers\nlie in the broad, rocky cliffs, between the Schreckhorn and the\nWetterhorn, near the little town of Grindelwald. They are wonderful to\nbehold, and therefore in the summer time strangers come here from\nall parts of the world to see them. They cross snow-covered mountains,\nand travel through the deep valleys, or ascend for hours, higher and\nstill higher, the valleys appearing to sink lower and lower as they\nproceed, and become as small as if seen from an air balloon. Over\nthe lofty summits of these mountains the clouds often hang like a dark\nveil; while beneath in the valley, where many brown, wooden houses are\nscattered about, the bright rays of the sun may be shining upon a\nlittle brilliant patch of green, making it appear almost\ntransparent. The waters foam and dash along in the valleys beneath;\nthe streams from above trickle and murmur as they fall down the\nrocky mountain's side, looking like glittering silver bands.\n\nOn both sides of the mountain-path stand these little wooden\nhouses; and, as within, there are many children and many mouths to\nfeed, each house has its own little potato garden. These children rush\nout in swarms, and surround travellers, whether on foot or in\ncarriages. They are all clever at making a bargain. They offer for\nsale the sweetest little toy-houses, models of the mountain cottages\nin Switzerland. Whether it be rain or sunshine, these crowds of\nchildren are always to be seen with their wares.\n\nAbout twenty years ago, there might be seen occasionally, standing\nat a short distance from the other children, a little boy, who was\nalso anxious to sell his curious wares. He had an earnest,\nexpressive countenance, and held the box containing his carved toys\ntightly with both hands, as if unwilling to part with it. His\nearnest look, and being also a very little boy, made him noticed by\nthe strangers; so that he often sold the most, without knowing why. An\nhour's walk farther up the ascent lived his grandfather, who cut and\ncarved the pretty little toy-houses; and in the old man's room stood a\nlarge press, full of all sorts of carved things--nut-crackers,\nknives and forks, boxes with beautifully carved foliage, leaping\nchamois. It contained everything that could delight the eyes of a\nchild. But the boy, who was named Rudy, looked with still greater\npleasure and longing at some old fire-arms which hung upon the\nrafters, under the ceiling of the room. His grandfather promised him\nthat he should have them some day, but that he must first grow big and\nstrong, and learn how to use them. Small as he was, the goats were\nplaced in his care, and a good goat-keeper should also be a good\nclimber, and such Rudy was; he sometimes, indeed, climbed higher\nthan the goats, for he was fond of seeking for birds'-nests at the top\nof high trees; he was bold and daring, but was seldom seen to smile,\nexcepting when he stood by the roaring cataract, or heard the\ndescending roll of the avalanche. He never played with the other\nchildren, and was not seen with them, unless his grandfather sent\nhim down to sell his curious workmanship. Rudy did not much like\ntrade; he loved to climb the mountains, or to sit by his grandfather\nand listen to his tales of olden times, or of the people in Meyringen,\nthe place of his birth.\n\n\"In the early ages of the world,\" said the old man, \"these\npeople could not be found in Switzerland. They are a colony from the\nnorth, where their ancestors still dwell, and are called Swedes.\"\n\nThis was something for Rudy to know, but he learnt more from other\nsources, particularly from the domestic animals who belonged to the\nhouse. One was a large dog, called Ajola, which had belonged to his\nfather; and the other was a tom-cat. This cat stood very high in\nRudy's favor, for he had taught him to climb.\n\n\"Come out on the roof with me,\" said the cat; and Rudy quite\nunderstood him, for the language of fowls, ducks, cats, and dogs, is\nas easily understood by a young child as his own native tongue. But it\nmust be at the age when grandfather's stick becomes a neighing\nhorse, with head, legs, and tail. Some children retain these ideas\nlater than others, and they are considered backwards and childish\nfor their age. People say so; but is it so?\n\n\"Come out on the roof with me, little Rudy,\" was the first thing\nhe heard the cat say, and Rudy understood him. \"What people say\nabout falling down is all nonsense,\" continued the cat; \"you will\nnot fall, unless you are afraid. Come, now, set one foot here and\nanother there, and feel your way with your fore-feet. Keep your eyes\nwide open, and move softly, and if you come to a hole jump over it,\nand cling fast as I do.\" And this was just what Rudy did. He was often\non the sloping roof with the cat, or on the tops of high trees. But,\nmore frequently, higher still on the ridges of the rocks where puss\nnever came.\n\n\"Higher, higher!\" cried the trees and the bushes, \"see to what\nheight we have grown, and how fast we hold, even to the narrow edges\nof the rocks.\"\n\nRudy often reached the top of the mountain before the sunrise, and\nthere inhaled his morning draught of the fresh, invigorating\nmountain air,--God's own gift, which men call the sweet fragrance of\nplant and herb on the mountain-side, and the mint and wild thyme in\nthe valleys. The overhanging clouds absorb all heaviness from the air,\nand the winds convey them away over the pine-tree summits. The\nspirit of fragrance, light and fresh, remained behind, and this was\nRudy's morning draught. The sunbeams--those blessing-bringing\ndaughters of the sun--kissed his cheeks. Vertigo might be lurking on\nthe watch, but he dared not approach him. The swallows, who had not\nless than seven nests in his grandfather's house, flew up to him and\nhis goats, singing, \"We and you, you and we.\" They brought him\ngreetings from his grandfather's house, even from two hens, the only\nbirds of the household; but Rudy was not intimate with them.\n\nAlthough so young and such a little fellow, Rudy had travelled a\ngreat deal. He was born in the canton of Valais, and brought to his\ngrandfather over the mountains. He had walked to Staubbach--a little\ntown that seems to flutter in the air like a silver veil--the\nglittering, snow-clad mountain Jungfrau. He had also been to the great\nglaciers; but this is connected with a sad story, for here his\nmother met her death, and his grandfather used to say that all\nRudy's childish merriment was lost from that time. His mother had\nwritten in a letter, that before he was a year old he had laughed more\nthan he cried; but after his fall into the snow-covered crevasse,\nhis disposition had completely changed. The grandfather seldom spoke\nof this, but the fact was generally known. Rudy's father had been a\npostilion, and the large dog which now lived in his grandfather's\ncottage had always followed him on his journeys over the Simplon to\nthe lake of Geneva. Rudy's relations, on his father's side, lived in\nthe canton of Valais, in the valley of the Rhone. His uncle was a\nchamois hunter, and a well-known guide. Rudy was only a year old\nwhen his father died, and his mother was anxious to return with her\nchild to her own relations, who lived in the Bernese Oberland. Her\nfather dwelt at a few hours' distance from Grindelwald; he was a\ncarver in wood, and gained so much by it that he had plenty to live\nupon. She set out homewards in the month of June, carrying her\ninfant in her arms, and, accompanied by two chamois hunters, crossed\nthe Gemmi on her way to Grindelwald. They had already left more than\nhalf the journey behind them. They had crossed high ridges, and\ntraversed snow-fields; they could even see her native valley, with its\nfamiliar wooden cottages. They had only one more glacier to climb.\nSome newly fallen snow concealed a cleft which, though it did not\nextend to the foaming waters in the depths beneath, was still much\ndeeper than the height of a man. The young woman, with the child in\nher arms, slipped upon it, sank in, and disappeared. Not a shriek, not\na groan was heard; nothing but the whining of a little child. More\nthan an hour elapsed before her two companions could obtain from the\nnearest house ropes and poles to assist in raising them; and it was\nwith much exertion that they at last succeeded in raising from the\ncrevasse what appeared to be two dead bodies. Every means was used\nto restore them to life. With the child they were successful, but\nnot with the mother; so the old grandfather received his daughter's\nlittle son into his house an orphan,--a little boy who laughed more\nthan he cried; but it seemed as if laughter had left him in the cold\nice-world into which he had fallen, where, as the Swiss peasants\nsay, the souls of the lost are confined till the judgment-day.\n\nThe glaciers appear as if a rushing stream had been frozen in\nits course, and pressed into blocks of green crystal, which,\nbalanced one upon another, form a wondrous palace of crystal for the\nIce Maiden--the queen of the glaciers. It is she whose mighty power\ncan crush the traveller to death, and arrest the flowing river in\nits course. She is also a child of the air, and with the swiftness\nof the chamois she can reach the snow-covered mountain tops, where the\nboldest mountaineer has to cut footsteps in the ice to ascend. She\nwill sail on a frail pine-twig over the raging torrents beneath, and\nspring lightly from one iceberg to another, with her long,\nsnow-white hair flowing around her, and her dark-green robe glittering\nlike the waters of the deep Swiss lakes. \"Mine is the power to seize\nand crush,\" she cried. \"Once a beautiful boy was stolen from me by\nman,--a boy whom I had kissed, but had not kissed to death. He is\nagain among mankind, and tends the goats on the mountains. He is\nalways climbing higher and higher, far away from all others, but not\nfrom me. He is mine; I will send for him.\" And she gave Vertigo the\ncommission.\n\nIt was summer, and the Ice Maiden was melting amidst the green\nverdure, when Vertigo swung himself up and down. Vertigo has many\nbrothers, quite a troop of them, and the Ice Maiden chose the\nstrongest among them. They exercise their power in different ways, and\neverywhere. Some sit on the banisters of steep stairs, others on the\nouter rails of lofty towers, or spring like squirrels along the ridges\nof the mountains. Others tread the air as a swimmer treads the\nwater, and lure their victims here and there till they fall into the\ndeep abyss. Vertigo and the Ice Maiden clutch at human beings, as\nthe polypus seizes upon all that comes within its reach. And now\nVertigo was to seize Rudy.\n\n\"Seize him, indeed,\" cried Vertigo; \"I cannot do it. That\nmonster of a cat has taught him her tricks. That child of the human\nrace has a power within him which keeps me at a distance; I cannot\npossibly reach the boy when he hangs from the branches of trees,\nover the precipice; or I would gladly tickle his feet, and send him\nheels over head through the air; but I cannot accomplish it.\"\n\n\"We must accomplish it,\" said the Ice Maiden; \"either you or I\nmust; and I will--I will!\"\n\n\"No, no!\" sounded through the air, like an echo on the mountain\nchurch bells chime. It was an answer in song, in the melting tones\nof a chorus from others of nature's spirits--good and loving\nspirits, the daughters of the sunbeam. They who place themselves in\na circle every evening on the mountain peaks; there they spread out\ntheir rose-colored wings, which, as the sun sinks, become more flaming\nred, until the lofty Alps seem to burn with fire. Men call this the\nAlpine glow. After the sun has set, they disappear within the white\nsnow on the mountain-tops, and slumber there till sunrise, when they\nagain come forth. They have great love for flowers, for butterflies,\nand for mankind; and from among the latter they had chosen little\nRudy. \"You shall not catch him; you shall not seize him!\" they sang.\n\n\"Greater and stronger than he have I seized!\" said the Ice Maiden.\n\nThen the daughters of the sun sang a song of the traveller,\nwhose cloak had been carried away by the wind. \"The wind took the\ncovering, but not the man; it could even seize upon him, but not\nhold him fast. The children of strength are more powerful, more\nethereal, even than we are. They can rise higher than our parent,\nthe sun. They have the magic words that rule the wind and the waves,\nand compel them to serve and obey; and they can, at last, cast off the\nheavy, oppressive weight of mortality, and soar upwards.\" Thus sweetly\nsounded the bell-like tones of the chorus.\n\nAnd each morning the sun's rays shone through the one little\nwindow of the grandfather's house upon the quiet child. The\ndaughters of the sunbeam kissed him; they wished to thaw, and melt,\nand obliterate the ice kiss which the queenly maiden of the glaciers\nhad given him as he lay in the lap of his dead mother, in the deep\ncrevasse of ice from which he had been so wonderfully rescued.\n\n\nII. THE JOURNEY TO THE NEW HOME\n\nRudy was just eight years old, when his uncle, who lived on the\nother side of the mountain, wished to have the boy, as he thought he\nmight obtain a better education with him, and learn something more.\nHis grandfather thought the same, so he consented to let him go.\nRudy had many to say farewell to, as well as his grandfather. First,\nthere was Ajola, the old dog.\n\n\"Your father was the postilion, and I was the postilion's dog,\"\nsaid Ajola. \"We have often travelled the same journey together; I knew\nall the dogs and men on this side of the mountain. It is not my\nhabit to talk much; but now that we have so little time to converse\ntogether, I will say something more than usual. I will relate to you a\nstory, which I have reflected upon for a long time. I do not\nunderstand it, and very likely you will not, but that is of no\nconsequence. I have, however, learnt from it that in this world things\nare not equally divided, neither for dogs nor for men. All are not\nborn to lie on the lap and to drink milk: I have never been petted\nin this way, but I have seen a little dog seated in the place of a\ngentleman or lady, and travelling inside a post-chaise. The lady,\nwho was his mistress, or of whom he was master, carried a bottle of\nmilk, of which the little dog now and then drank; she also offered him\npieces of sugar to crunch. He sniffed at them proudly, but would not\neat one, so she ate them herself. I was running along the dirty road\nby the side of the carriage as hungry as a dog could be, chewing the\ncud of my own thoughts, which were rather in confusion. But many other\nthings seemed in confusion also. Why was not I lying on a lap and\ntravelling in a coach? I could not tell; yet I knew I could not\nalter my own condition, either by barking or growling.\"\n\nThis was Ajola's farewell speech, and Rudy threw his arms round\nthe dog's neck and kissed his cold nose. Then he took the cat in his\narms, but he struggled to get free.\n\n\"You are getting too strong for me,\" he said; \"but I will not\nuse my claws against you. Clamber away over the mountains; it was I\nwho taught you to climb. Do not fancy you are going to fall, and you\nwill be quite safe.\" Then the cat jumped down and ran away; he did not\nwish Rudy to see that there were tears in his eyes.\n\nThe hens were hopping about the floor; one of them had no tail;\na traveller, who fancied himself a sportsman, had shot off her tail,\nhe had mistaken her for a bird of prey.\n\n\"Rudy is going away over the mountains,\" said one of the hens.\n\n\"He is always in such a hurry,\" said the other; \"and I don't\nlike taking leave,\" so they both hopped out.\n\nBut the goats said farewell; they bleated and wanted to go with\nhim, they were so very sorry.\n\nJust at this time two clever guides were going to cross the\nmountains to the other side of the Gemmi, and Rudy was to go with them\non foot. It was a long walk for such a little boy, but he had plenty\nof strength and invincible courage. The swallows flew with him a\nlittle way, singing, \"We and you--you and we.\" The way led across\nthe rushing Lutschine, which falls in numerous streams from the dark\nclefts of the Grindelwald glaciers. Trunks of fallen trees and\nblocks of stone form bridges over these streams. After passing a\nforest of alders, they began to ascend, passing by some blocks of\nice that had loosened themselves from the side of the mountain and lay\nacross their path; they had to step over these ice-blocks or walk\nround them. Rudy crept here and ran there, his eyes sparkling with\njoy, and he stepped so firmly with his iron-tipped mountain shoe, that\nhe left a mark behind him wherever he placed his foot.\n\nThe earth was black where the mountain torrents or the melted\nice had poured upon it, but the bluish green, glassy ice sparkled\nand glittered. They had to go round little pools, like lakes, enclosed\nbetween large masses of ice; and, while thus wandering out of their\npath, they came near an immense stone, which lay balanced on the\nedge of an icy peak. The stone lost its balance just as they reached\nit, and rolled over into the abyss beneath, while the noise of its\nfall was echoed back from every hollow cliff of the glaciers.\n\nThey were always going upwards. The glaciers seemed to spread\nabove them like a continued chain of masses of ice, piled up in wild\nconfusion between bare and rugged rocks. Rudy thought for a moment\nof what had been told him, that he and his mother had once lain buried\nin one of these cold, heart-chilling fissures; but he soon banished\nsuch thoughts, and looked upon the story as fabulous, like many\nother stories which had been told him. Once or twice, when the men\nthought the way was rather difficult for such a little boy, they\nheld out their hands to assist him; but he would not accept their\nassistance, for he stood on the slippery ice as firmly as if he had\nbeen a chamois. They came at length to rocky ground; sometimes\nstepping upon moss-covered stones, sometimes passing beneath stunted\nfir-trees, and again through green meadows. The landscape was always\nchanging, but ever above them towered the lofty snow-clad mountains,\nwhose names not only Rudy but every other child knew--\"The\nJungfrau,\" \"The Monk and the Eiger.\"\n\nRudy had never been so far away before; he had never trodden on\nthe wide-spreading ocean of snow that lay here with its immovable\nbillows, from which the wind blows off the snowflake now and then,\nas it cuts the foam from the waves of the sea. The glaciers stand here\nso close together it might almost be said they are hand-in-hand; and\neach is a crystal palace for the Ice Maiden, whose power and will it\nis to seize and imprison the unwary traveller.\n\nThe sun shone warmly, and the snow sparkled as if covered with\nglittering diamonds. Numerous insects, especially butterflies and\nbees, lay dead in heaps on the snow. They had ventured too high, or\nthe wind had carried them here and left them to die of cold.\n\nAround the Wetterhorn hung a feathery cloud, like a woolbag, and a\nthreatening cloud too, for as it sunk lower it increased in size,\nand concealed within was a \"fohn,\" fearful in its violence should it\nbreak loose. This journey, with its varied incidents,--the wild paths,\nthe night passed on the mountain, the steep rocky precipices, the\nhollow clefts, in which the rustling waters from time immemorial had\nworn away passages for themselves through blocks of stone,--all\nthese were firmly impressed on Rudy's memory.\n\nIn a forsaken stone building, which stood just beyond the seas\nof snow, they one night took shelter. Here they found some charcoal\nand pine branches, so that they soon made a fire. They arranged\ncouches to lie on as well as they could, and then the men seated\nthemselves by the fire, took out their pipes, and began to smoke. They\nalso prepared a warm, spiced drink, of which they partook and Rudy was\nnot forgotten--he had his share. Then they began to talk of those\nmysterious beings with which the land of the Alps abounds; the hosts\nof apparitions which come in the night, and carry off the sleepers\nthrough the air, to the wonderful floating town of Venice; of the wild\nherds-man, who drives the black sheep across the meadows. These flocks\nare never seen, yet the tinkle of their little bells has often been\nheard, as well as their unearthly bleating. Rudy listened eagerly, but\nwithout fear, for he knew not what fear meant; and while he\nlistened, he fancied he could hear the roaring of the spectral herd.\nIt seemed to come nearer and roar louder, till the men heard it also\nand listened in silence, till, at length, they told Rudy that he\nmust not dare to sleep. It was a \"fohn,\" that violent storm-wind which\nrushes from the mountain to the valley beneath, and in its fury\nsnaps asunder the trunks of large trees as if they were but slender\nreeds, and carries the wooden houses from one side of a river to the\nother as easily as we could move the pieces on a chess-board. After an\nhour had passed, they told Rudy that it was all over, and he might\ngo to sleep; and, fatigued with his long walk, he readily slept at the\nword of command.\n\nVery early the following morning they again set out. The sun on\nthis day lighted up for Rudy new mountains, new glaciers, and new\nsnow-fields. They had entered the Canton Valais, and found\nthemselves on the ridge of the hills which can be seen from\nGrindelwald; but he was still far from his new home. They pointed\nout to him other clefts, other meadows, other woods and rocky paths,\nand other houses. Strange men made their appearance before him, and\nwhat men! They were misshapen, wretched-looking creatures, with yellow\ncomplexions; and on their necks were dark, ugly lumps of flesh,\nhanging down like bags. They were called cretins. They dragged\nthemselves along painfully, and stared at the strangers with vacant\neyes. The women looked more dreadful than the men. Poor Rudy! were\nthese the sort of people he should see at his new home?\n\n\nIII. THE UNCLE\n\nRudy arrived at last at his uncle's house, and was thankful to\nfind the people like those he had been accustomed to see. There was\nonly one cretin amongst them, a poor idiot boy, one of those\nunfortunate beings who, in their neglected conditions, go from house\nto house, and are received and taken care of in different families,\nfor a month or two at a time.\n\nPoor Saperli had just arrived at his uncle's house when Rudy came.\nThe uncle was an experienced hunter; he also followed the trade of a\ncooper; his wife was a lively little person, with a face like a\nbird, eyes like those of an eagle, and a long, hairy throat.\nEverything was new to Rudy--the fashion of the dress, the manners, the\nemployments, and even the language; but the latter his childish ear\nwould soon learn. He saw also that there was more wealth here, when\ncompared with his former home at his grandfather's. The rooms were\nlarger, the walls were adorned with the horns of the chamois, and\nbrightly polished guns. Over the door hung a painting of the Virgin\nMary, fresh alpine roses and a burning lamp stood near it. Rudy's\nuncle was, as we have said, one of the most noted chamois hunters in\nthe whole district, and also one of the best guides. Rudy soon\nbecame the pet of the house; but there was another pet, an old\nhound, blind and lazy, who would never more follow the hunt, well as\nhe had once done so. But his former good qualities were not forgotten,\nand therefore the animal was kept in the family and treated with every\nindulgence. Rudy stroked the old hound, but he did not like strangers,\nand Rudy was as yet a stranger; he did not, however, long remain so,\nhe soon endeared himself to every heart, and became like one of the\nfamily.\n\n\"We are not very badly off, here in the canton Valais,\" said his\nuncle one day; \"we have the chamois, they do not die so fast as the\nwild goats, and it is certainly much better here now than in former\ntimes. How highly the old times have been spoken of, but ours is\nbetter. The bag has been opened, and a current of air now blows\nthrough our once confined valley. Something better always makes its\nappearance when old, worn-out things fail.\"\n\nWhen his uncle became communicative, he would relate stories of\nhis youthful days, and farther back still of the warlike times in\nwhich his father had lived. Valais was then, as he expressed it,\nonly a closed-up bag, quite full of sick people, miserable cretins;\nbut the French soldiers came, and they were capital doctors, they soon\nkilled the disease and the sick people, too. The French people knew\nhow to fight in more ways than one, and the girls knew how to\nconquer too; and when he said this the uncle nodded at his wife, who\nwas a French woman by birth, and laughed. The French could also do\nbattle on the stones. \"It was they who cut a road out of the solid\nrock over the Simplon--such a road, that I need only say to a child of\nthree years old, 'Go down to Italy, you have only to keep in the\nhigh road,' and the child will soon arrive in Italy, if he followed my\ndirections.\"\n\nThen the uncle sang a French song, and cried, \"Hurrah! long live\nNapoleon Buonaparte.\" This was the first time Rudy had ever heard of\nFrance, or of Lyons, that great city on the Rhone where his uncle\nhad once lived. His uncle said that Rudy, in a very few years, would\nbecome a clever hunter, he had quite a talent for it; he taught the\nboy to hold a gun properly, and to load and fire it. In the hunting\nseason he took him to the hills, and made him drink the warm blood\nof the chamois, which is said to prevent the hunter from becoming\ngiddy; he taught him to know the time when, from the different\nmountains, the avalanche is likely to fall, namely, at noontide or\nin the evening, from the effects of the sun's rays; he made him\nobserve the movements of the chamois when he gave a leap, so that he\nmight fall firmly and lightly on his feet. He told him that when on\nthe fissures of the rocks he could find no place for his feet, he must\nsupport himself on his elbows, and cling with his legs, and even\nlean firmly with his back, for this could be done when necessary. He\ntold him also that the chamois are very cunning, they place\nlookers-out on the watch; but the hunter must be more cunning than\nthey are, and find them out by the scent.\n\nOne day, when Rudy went out hunting with his uncle, he hung a coat\nand hat on an alpine staff, and the chamois mistook it for a man, as\nthey generally do. The mountain path was narrow here; indeed it was\nscarcely a path at all, only a kind of shelf, close to the yawning\nabyss. The snow that lay upon it was partially thawed, and the\nstones crumbled beneath the feet. Every fragment of stone broken off\nstruck the sides of the rock in its fall, till it rolled into the\ndepths beneath, and sunk to rest. Upon this shelf Rudy's uncle laid\nhimself down, and crept forward. At about a hundred paces behind him\nstood Rudy, upon the highest point of the rock, watching a great\nvulture hovering in the air; with a single stroke of his wing the bird\nmight easily cast the creeping hunter into the abyss beneath, and make\nhim his prey. Rudy's uncle had eyes for nothing but the chamois,\nwho, with its young kid, had just appeared round the edge of the rock.\nSo Rudy kept his eyes fixed on the bird, he knew well what the great\ncreature wanted; therefore he stood in readiness to discharge his\ngun at the proper moment. Suddenly the chamois made a spring, and\nhis uncle fired and struck the animal with the deadly bullet; while\nthe young kid rushed away, as if for a long life he had been\naccustomed to danger and practised flight. The large bird, alarmed\nat the report of the gun, wheeled off in another direction, and Rudy's\nuncle was saved from danger, of which he knew nothing till he was told\nof it by the boy.\n\nWhile they were both in pleasant mood, wending their way\nhomewards, and the uncle whistling the tune of a song he had learnt in\nhis young days, they suddenly heard a peculiar sound which seemed to\ncome from the top of the mountain. They looked up, and saw above them,\non the over-hanging rock, the snow-covering heave and lift itself as a\npiece of linen stretched on the ground to dry raises itself when the\nwind creeps under it. Smooth as polished marble slabs, the waves of\nsnow cracked and loosened themselves, and then suddenly, with the\nrumbling noise of distant thunder, fell like a foaming cataract into\nthe abyss. An avalanche had fallen, not upon Rudy and his uncle, but\nvery near them. Alas, a great deal too near!\n\n\"Hold fast, Rudy!\" cried his uncle; \"hold fast, with all your\nmight.\"\n\nThen Rudy clung with his arms to the trunk of the nearest tree,\nwhile his uncle climbed above him, and held fast by the branches.\nThe avalanche rolled past them at some distance; but the gust of\nwind that followed, like the storm-wings of the avalanche, snapped\nasunder the trees and bushes over which it swept, as if they had\nbeen but dry rushes, and threw them about in every direction. The tree\nto which Rudy clung was thus overthrown, and Rudy dashed to the\nground. The higher branches were snapped off, and carried away to a\ngreat distance; and among these shattered branches lay Rudy's uncle,\nwith his skull fractured. When they found him, his hand was still\nwarm; but it would have been impossible to recognize his face. Rudy\nstood by, pale and trembling; it was the first shock of his life,\nthe first time he had ever felt fear. Late in the evening he\nreturned home with the fatal news,--to that home which was now to be\nso full of sorrow. His uncle's wife uttered not a word, nor shed a\ntear, till the corpse was brought in; then her agony burst forth.\nThe poor cretin crept away to his bed, and nothing was seen of him\nduring the whole of the following day. Towards evening, however, he\ncame to Rudy, and said, \"Will you write a letter for me? Saperli\ncannot write; Saperli can only take the letters to the post.\"\n\n\"A letter for you!\" said Rudy; \"who do you wish to write to?\"\n\n\"To the Lord Christ,\" he replied.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" asked Rudy.\n\nThen the poor idiot, as the cretin was often called, looked at\nRudy with a most touching expression in his eyes, clasped his hands,\nand said, solemnly and devoutly, \"Saperli wants to send a letter to\nJesus Christ, to pray Him to let Saperli die, and not the master of\nthe house here.\"\n\nRudy pressed his hand, and replied, \"A letter would not reach\nHim up above; it would not give him back whom we have lost.\"\n\nIt was not, however, easy for Rudy to convince Saperli of the\nimpossibility of doing what he wished.\n\n\"Now you must work for us,\" said his foster-mother; and Rudy\nvery soon became the entire support of the house.\n\n\nIV. BABETTE\n\nWho was the best marksman in the canton Valais? The chamois knew\nwell. \"Save yourselves from Rudy,\" they might well say. And who is the\nhandsomest marksman? \"Oh, it is Rudy,\" said the maidens; but they\ndid not say, \"Save yourselves from Rudy.\" Neither did anxious\nmothers say so; for he bowed to them as pleasantly as to the young\ngirls. He was so brave and cheerful. His cheeks were brown, his\nteeth white, and his eyes dark and sparkling. He was now a handsome\nyoung man of twenty years. The most icy water could not deter him from\nswimming; he could twist and turn like a fish. None could climb like\nhe, and he clung as firmly to the edges of the rocks as a limpet. He\nhad strong muscular power, as could be seen when he leapt from rock to\nrock. He had learnt this first from the cat, and more lately from\nthe chamois. Rudy was considered the best guide over the mountains;\nevery one had great confidence in him. He might have made a great deal\nof money as guide. His uncle had also taught him the trade of a\ncooper; but he had no inclination for either; his delight was in\nchamois-hunting, which also brought him plenty of money. Rudy would be\na very good match, as people said, if he would not look above his\nown station. He was also such a famous partner in dancing, that the\ngirls often dreamt about him, and one and another thought of him\neven when awake.\n\n\"He kissed me in the dance,\" said Annette, the schoolmaster's\ndaughter, to her dearest friend; but she ought not to have told\nthis, even to her dearest friend. It is not easy to keep such secrets;\nthey are like sand in a sieve; they slip out. It was therefore soon\nknown that Rudy, so brave and so good as he was, had kissed some one\nwhile dancing, and yet he had never kissed her who was dearest to him.\n\n\"Ah, ah,\" said an old hunter, \"he has kissed Annette, has he? he\nhas begun with A, and I suppose he will kiss through the whole\nalphabet.\"\n\nBut a kiss in the dance was all the busy tongues could accuse\nhim of. He certainly had kissed Annette, but she was not the flower of\nhis heart.\n\nDown in the valley, near Bex, among the great walnut-trees, by the\nside of a little rushing mountain-stream, lived a rich miller. His\ndwelling-house was a large building, three storeys high, with little\nturrets. The roof was covered with chips, bound together with tin\nplates, that glittered in sunshine and in the moonlight. The largest\nof the turrets had a weather-cock, representing an apple pierced by\na glittering arrow, in memory of William Tell. The mill was a neat and\nwell-ordered place, that allowed itself to be sketched and written\nabout; but the miller's daughter did not permit any to sketch or write\nabout her. So, at least, Rudy would have said, for her image was\npictured in his heart; her eyes shone in it so brightly, that quite\na flame had been kindled there; and, like all other fires, it had\nburst forth so suddenly, that the miller's daughter, the beautiful\nBabette, was quite unaware of it. Rudy had never spoken a word to\nher on the subject. The miller was rich, and, on that account, Babette\nstood very high, and was rather difficult to aspire to. But said\nRudy to himself, \"Nothing is too high for a man to reach: he must\nclimb with confidence in himself, and he will not fail.\" He had learnt\nthis lesson in his youthful home.\n\nIt happened once that Rudy had some business to settle at Bex.\nIt was a long journey at that time, for the railway had not been\nopened. From the glaciers of the Rhone, at the foot of the Simplon,\nbetween its ever-changing mountain summits, stretches the valley of\nthe canton Valais. Through it runs the noble river of the Rhone, which\noften overflows its banks, covering fields and highways, and\ndestroying everything in its course. Near the towns of Sion and St.\nMaurice, the valley takes a turn, and bends like an elbow, and\nbehind St. Maurice becomes so narrow that there is only space enough\nfor the bed of the river and a narrow carriage-road. An old tower\nstands here, as if it were guardian to the canton Valais, which ends\nat this point; and from it we can look across the stone bridge to\nthe toll-house on the other side, where the canton Vaud commences. Not\nfar from this spot stands the town of Bex, and at every step can be\nseen an increase of fruitfulness and verdure. It is like entering a\ngrove of chestnut and walnut-trees. Here and there the cypress and\npomegranate blossoms peep forth; and it is almost as warm as an\nItalian climate. Rudy arrived at Bex, and soon finished the business\nwhich had brought him there, and then walked about the town; but not\neven the miller's boy could be seen, nor any one belonging to the\nmill, not to mention Babette. This did not please him at all.\nEvening came on. The air was filled with the perfume of the wild thyme\nand the blossoms of the lime-trees, and the green woods on the\nmountains seemed to be covered with a shining veil, blue as the sky.\nOver everything reigned a stillness, not of sleep or of death, but\nas if Nature were holding her breath, that her image might be\nphotographed on the blue vault of heaven. Here and there, amidst the\ntrees of the silent valley, stood poles which supported the wires of\nthe electric telegraph. Against one of these poles leaned an object so\nmotionless that it might have been mistaken for the trunk of a tree;\nbut it was Rudy, standing there as still as at that moment was\neverything around him. He was not asleep, neither was he dead; but\njust as the various events in the world--matters of momentous\nimportance to individuals--were flying through the telegraph wires,\nwithout the quiver of a wire or the slightest tone, so, through the\nmind of Rudy, thoughts of overwhelming importance were passing,\nwithout an outward sign of emotion. The happiness of his future life\ndepended upon the decision of his present reflections. His eyes were\nfixed on one spot in the distance--a light that twinkled through the\nfoliage from the parlor of the miller's house, where Babette dwelt.\nRudy stood so still, that it might have been supposed he was\nwatching for a chamois; but he was in reality like a chamois, who will\nstand for a moment, looking as if it were chiselled out of the rock,\nand then, if only a stone rolled by, would suddenly bound forward with\na spring, far away from the hunter. And so with Rudy: a sudden roll of\nhis thoughts roused him from his stillness, and made him bound forward\nwith determination to act.\n\n\"Never despair!\" cried he. \"A visit to the mill, to say good\nevening to the miller, and good evening to little Babette, can do no\nharm. No one ever fails who has confidence in himself. If I am to be\nBabette's husband, I must see her some time or other.\"\n\nThen Rudy laughed joyously, and took courage to go to the mill. He\nknew what he wanted; he wanted to marry Babette. The clear water of\nthe river rolled over its yellow bed, and willows and lime-trees\nwere reflected in it, as Rudy stepped along the path to the miller's\nhouse. But, as the children sing--\n\n  \"There was no one at home in the house,\n  Only a kitten at play.\"\n\n\nThe cat standing on the steps put up its back and cried \"mew.\" But\nRudy had no inclination for this sort of conversation; he passed on,\nand knocked at the door. No one heard him, no one opened the door.\n\"Mew,\" said the cat again; and had Rudy been still a child, he would\nhave understood this language, and known that the cat wished to tell\nhim there was no one at home. So he was obliged to go to the mill\nand make inquiries, and there he heard that the miller had gone on a\njourney to Interlachen, and taken Babette with him, to the great\nshooting festival, which began that morning, and would continue for\neight days, and that people from all the German settlements would be\nthere.\n\nPoor Rudy! we may well say. It was not a fortunate day for his\nvisit to Bex. He had just to return the way he came, through St.\nMaurice and Sion, to his home in the valley. But he did not despair.\nWhen the sun rose the next morning, his good spirits had returned;\nindeed he had never really lost them. \"Babette is at Interlachen,\"\nsaid Rudy to himself, \"many days' journey from here. It is certainly a\nlong way for any one who takes the high-road, but not so far if he\ntakes a short cut across the mountain, and that just suits a\nchamois-hunter. I have been that way before, for it leads to the\nhome of my childhood, where, as a little boy, I lived with my\ngrandfather. And there are shooting matches at Interlachen. I will go,\nand try to stand first in the match. Babette will be there, and I\nshall be able to make her acquaintance.\"\n\nCarrying his light knapsack, which contained his Sunday clothes,\non his back, and with his musket and his game-bag over his shoulder,\nRudy started to take the shortest way across the mountain. Still it\nwas a great distance. The shooting matches were to commence on that\nday, and to continue for a whole week. He had been told also that\nthe miller and Babette would remain that time with some relatives at\nInterlachen. So over the Gemmi Rudy climbed bravely, and determined to\ndescend the side of the Grindelwald. Bright and joyous were his\nfeelings as he stepped lightly onwards, inhaling the invigorating\nmountain air. The valley sunk as he ascended, the circle of the\nhorizon expanded. One snow-capped peak after another rose before\nhim, till the whole of the glittering Alpine range became visible.\nRudy knew each ice-clad peak, and he continued his course towards\nthe Schreckhorn, with its white powdered stone finger raised high in\nthe air. At length he had crossed the highest ridges, and before him\nlay the green pasture lands sloping down towards the valley, which was\nonce his home. The buoyancy of the air made his heart light. Hill\nand valley were blooming in luxuriant beauty, and his thoughts were\nyouthful dreams, in which old age or death were out of the question.\nLife, power, and enjoyment were in the future, and he felt free and\nlight as a bird. And the swallows flew round him, as in the days of\nhis childhood, singing \"We and you--you and we.\" All was overflowing\nwith joy. Beneath him lay the meadows, covered with velvety green,\nwith the murmuring river flowing through them, and dotted here and\nthere were small wooden houses. He could see the edges of the\nglaciers, looking like green glass against the soiled snow, and the\ndeep chasms beneath the loftiest glacier. The church bells were\nringing, as if to welcome him to his home with their sweet tones.\nHis heart beat quickly, and for a moment he seemed to have\nforegotten Babette, so full were his thoughts of old recollections. He\nwas, in imagination, once more wandering on the road where, when a\nlittle boy, he, with other children, came to sell their curiously\ncarved toy houses. Yonder, behind the fir-trees, still stood his\ngrandfather's house, his mother's father, but strangers dwelt in it\nnow. Children came running to him, as he had once done, and wished\nto sell their wares. One of them offered him an Alpine rose. Rudy took\nthe rose as a good omen, and thought of Babette. He quickly crossed\nthe bridge where the two rivers flow into each other. Here he found\na walk over-shadowed with large walnut-trees, and their thick\nfoliage formed a pleasant shade. Very soon he perceived in the\ndistance, waving flags, on which glittered a white cross on a red\nground--the standard of the Danes as well as of the Swiss--and\nbefore him lay Interlachen.\n\n\"It is really a splendid town, like none other that I have ever\nseen,\" said Rudy to himself. It was indeed a Swiss town in its holiday\ndress. Not like the many other towns, crowded with heavy stone houses,\nstiff and foreign looking. No; here it seemed as if the wooden\nhouses on the hills had run into the valley, and placed themselves\nin rows and ranks by the side of the clear river, which rushes like an\narrow in its course. The streets were rather irregular, it is true,\nbut still this added to their picturesque appearance. There was one\nstreet which Rudy thought the prettiest of them all; it had been built\nsince he had visited the town when a little boy. It seemed to him as\nif all the neatest and most curiously carved toy houses which his\ngrandfather once kept in the large cupboard at home, had been\nbrought out and placed in this spot, and that they had increased in\nsize since then, as the old chestnut trees had done. The houses were\ncalled hotels; the woodwork on the windows and balconies was curiously\ncarved. The roofs were gayly painted, and before each house was a\nflower garden, which separated it from the macadamized high-road.\nThese houses all stood on the same side of the road, so that the\nfresh, green meadows, in which were cows grazing, with bells on\ntheir necks, were not hidden. The sound of these bells is often\nheard amidst Alpine scenery. These meadows were encircled by lofty\nhills, which receded a little in the centre, so that the most\nbeautifully formed of Swiss mountains--the snow-crowned Jungfrau--could\nbe distinctly seen glittering in the distance. A number of\nelegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies from foreign lands, and\ncrowds of country people from the neighboring cantons, were\nassembled in the town. Each marksman wore the number of hits he had\nmade twisted in a garland round his hat. Here were music and singing\nof all descriptions: hand-organs, trumpets, shouting, and noise. The\nhouses and bridges were adorned with verses and inscriptions. Flags\nand banners were waving. Shot after shot was fired, which was the best\nmusic to Rudy's ears. And amidst all this excitement he quite forgot\nBabette, on whose account only he had come. The shooters were\nthronging round the target, and Rudy was soon amongst them. But when\nhe took his turn to fire, he proved himself the best shot, for he\nalways struck the bull's-eye.\n\n\"Who may that young stranger be?\" was the inquiry on all sides.\n\"He speaks French as it is spoken in the Swiss cantons.\"\n\n\"And makes himself understood very well when he speaks German,\"\nsaid some.\n\n\"He lived here, when a child, with his grandfather, in a house\non the road to Grindelwald,\" remarked one of the sportsmen.\n\nAnd full of life was this young stranger; his eyes sparkled, his\nglance was steady, and his arm sure, therefore he always hit the mark.\nGood fortune gives courage, and Rudy was always courageous. He soon\nhad a circle of friends gathered round him. Every one noticed him, and\ndid him homage. Babette had quite vanished from his thoughts, when\nhe was struck on the shoulder by a heavy hand, and a deep voice said\nto him in French, \"You are from the canton Valais.\"\n\nRudy turned round, and beheld a man with a ruddy, pleasant face,\nand a stout figure. It was the rich miller from Bex. His broad, portly\nperson, hid the slender, lovely Babette; but she came forward and\nglanced at him with her bright, dark eyes. The rich miller was very\nmuch flattered at the thought that the young man, who was acknowledged\nto be the best shot, and was so praised by every one, should be from\nhis own canton. Now was Rudy really fortunate: he had travelled all\nthis way to this place, and those he had forgotten were now come to\nseek him. When country people go far from home, they often meet with\nthose they know, and improve their acquaintance. Rudy, by his\nshooting, had gained the first place in the shooting-match, just as\nthe miller at home at Bex stood first, because of his money and his\nmill. So the two men shook hands, which they had never done before.\nBabette, too, held out her hand to Rudy frankly, and he pressed it\nin his, and looked at her so earnestly, that she blushed deeply. The\nmiller talked of the long journey they had travelled, and of the\nmany towns they had seen. It was his opinion that he had really made\nas great a journey as if he had travelled in a steamship, a railway\ncarriage, or a post-chaise.\n\n\"I came by a much shorter way,\" said Rudy; \"I came over the\nmountains. There is no road so high that a man may not venture upon\nit.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes; and break your neck,\" said the miller; \"and you look\nlike one who will break his neck some day, you are so daring.\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing ever happens to a man if he has confidence in\nhimself,\" replied Rudy.\n\nThe miller's relations at Interlachen, with whom the miller and\nBabette were staying, invited Rudy to visit them, when they found he\ncame from the same canton as the miller. It was a most pleasant visit.\nGood fortune seemed to follow him, as it does those who think and\nact for themselves, and who remember the proverb, \"Nuts are given to\nus, but they are not cracked for us.\" And Rudy was treated by the\nmiller's relations almost like one of the family, and glasses of\nwine were poured out to drink to the welfare of the best shooter.\nBabette clinked glasses with Rudy, and he returned thanks for the\ntoast. In the evening they all took a delightful walk under the\nwalnut-trees, in front of the stately hotels; there were so many\npeople, and such crowding, that Rudy was obliged to offer his arm to\nBabette. Then he told her how happy it made him to meet people from\nthe canton Vaud,--for Vaud and Valais were neighboring cantons. He\nspoke of this pleasure so heartily that Babette could not resist\ngiving his arm a slight squeeze; and so they walked on together, and\ntalked and chatted like old acquaintances. Rudy felt inclined to laugh\nsometimes at the absurd dress and walk of the foreign ladies; but\nBabette did not wish to make fun of them, for she knew there must be\nsome good, excellent people amongst them; she, herself, had a\ngodmother, who was a high-born English lady. Eighteen years before,\nwhen Babette was christened, this lady was staying at Bex, and she\nstood godmother for her, and gave her the valuable brooch she now wore\nin her bosom.\n\nHer godmother had twice written to her, and this year she was\nexpected to visit Interlachen with her two daughters; \"but they are\nold-maids,\" added Babette, who was only eighteen: \"they are nearly\nthirty.\" Her sweet little mouth was never still a moment, and all that\nshe said sounded in Rudy's ears as matters of the greatest importance,\nand at last he told her what he was longing to tell. How often he\nhad been at Bex, how well he knew the mill, and how often he had\nseen Babette, when most likely she had not noticed him; and lastly,\nthat full of many thoughts which he could not tell her, he had been to\nthe mill on the evening when she and her father has started on their\nlong journey, but not too far for him to find a way to overtake\nthem. He told her all this, and a great deal more; he told her how\nmuch he could endure for her; and that it was to see her, and not\nthe shooting-match, which had brought him to Interlachen. Babette\nbecame quite silent after hearing all this; it was almost too much,\nand it troubled her.\n\nAnd while they thus wandered on, the sun sunk behind the lofty\nmountains. The Jungfrau stood out in brightness and splendor, as a\nback-ground to the green woods of the surrounding hills. Every one\nstood still to look at the beautiful sight, Rudy and Babette among\nthem.\n\n\"Nothing can be more beautiful than this,\" said Babette.\n\n\"Nothing!\" replied Rudy, looking at Babette.\n\n\"To-morrow I must return home,\" remarked Rudy a few minutes\nafterwards.\n\n\"Come and visit us at Bex,\" whispered Babette; \"my father will\nbe pleased to see you.\"\n\n\nV. ON THE WAY HOME\n\nOh, what a number of things Rudy had to carry over the\nmountains, when he set out to return home! He had three silver cups,\ntwo handsome pistols, and a silver coffee-pot. This latter would be\nuseful when he began housekeeping. But all these were not the heaviest\nweight he had to bear; something mightier and more important he\ncarried with him in his heart, over the high mountains, as he\njourneyed homeward.\n\nThe weather was dismally dark, and inclined to rain; the clouds\nhung low, like a mourning veil on the tops of the mountains, and\nshrouded their glittering peaks. In the woods could be heard the sound\nof the axe and the heavy fall of the trunks of the trees, as they\nrolled down the slopes of the mountains. When seen from the heights,\nthe trunks of these trees looked like slender stems; but on a nearer\ninspection they were found to be large and strong enough for the masts\nof a ship. The river murmured monotonously, the wind whistled, and the\nclouds sailed along hurriedly.\n\nSuddenly there appeared, close by Rudy's side, a young maiden;\nhe had not noticed her till she came quite near to him. She was also\ngoing to ascend the mountain. The maiden's eyes shone with an\nunearthly power, which obliged you to look into them; they were\nstrange eyes,--clear, deep, and unfathomable.\n\n\"Hast thou a lover?\" asked Rudy; all his thoughts were naturally\non love just then.\n\n\"I have none,\" answered the maiden, with a laugh; it was as if she\nhad not spoken the truth.\n\n\"Do not let us go such a long way round,\" said she. \"We must\nkeep to the left; it is much shorter.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" he replied; \"and fall into some crevasse. Do you\npretend to be a guide, and not know the road better than that?\"\n\n\"I know every step of the way,\" said she; \"and my thoughts are\ncollected, while yours are down in the valley yonder. We should\nthink of the Ice Maiden while we are up here; men say she is not\nkind to their race.\"\n\n\"I fear her not,\" said Rudy. \"She could not keep me when I was a\nchild; I will not give myself up to her now I am a man.\"\n\nDarkness came on, the rain fell, and then it began to snow, and\nthe whiteness dazzled the eyes.\n\n\"Give me your hand,\" said the maiden; \"I will help you to\nmount.\" And he felt the touch of her icy fingers.\n\n\"You help me,\" cried Rudy; \"I do not yet require a woman to help\nme to climb.\" And he stepped quickly forwards away from her.\n\nThe drifting snow-shower fell like a veil between them, the wind\nwhistled, and behind him he could hear the maiden laughing and\nsinging, and the sound was most strange to hear.\n\n\"It certainly must be a spectre or a servant of the Ice Maiden,\"\nthought Rudy, who had heard such things talked about when he was a\nlittle boy, and had stayed all night on the mountain with the guides.\n\nThe snow fell thicker than ever, the clouds lay beneath him; he\nlooked back, there was no one to be seen, but he heard sounds of\nmocking laughter, which were not those of a human voice.\n\nWhen Rudy at length reached the highest part of the mountain,\nwhere the path led down to the valley of the Rhone, the snow had\nceased, and in the clear heavens he saw two bright stars twinkling.\nThey reminded him of Babette and of himself, and of his future\nhappiness, and his heart glowed at the thought.\n\n\nVI. THE VISIT TO THE MILL\n\n\"What beautiful things you have brought home!\" said his old\nfoster-mother; and her strange-looking eagle-eyes sparkled, while\nshe wriggled and twisted her skinny neck more quickly and strangely\nthan ever. \"You have brought good luck with you, Rudy. I must give you\na kiss, my dear boy.\"\n\nRudy allowed himself to be kissed; but it could be seen by his\ncountenance that he only endured the infliction as a homely duty.\n\n\"How handsome you are, Rudy!\" said the old woman.\n\n\"Don't flatter,\" said Rudy, with a laugh; but still he was\npleased.\n\n\"I must say once more,\" said the old woman, \"that you are very\nlucky.\"\n\n\"Well, in that I believe you are right,\" said he, as he thought of\nBabette. Never had he felt such a longing for that deep valley as he\nnow had. \"They must have returned home by this time,\" said he to\nhimself, \"it is already two days over the time which they fixed\nupon. I must go to Bex.\"\n\nSo Rudy set out to go to Bex; and when he arrived there, he\nfound the miller and his daughter at home. They received him kindly,\nand brought him many greetings from their friends at Interlachen.\nBabette did not say much. She seemed to have become quite silent;\nbut her eyes spoke, and that was quite enough for Rudy. The miller had\ngenerally a great deal to talk about, and seemed to expect that\nevery one should listen to his jokes, and laugh at them; for was not\nhe the rich miller? But now he was more inclined to hear Rudy's\nadventures while hunting and travelling, and to listen to his\ndescriptions of the difficulties the chamois-hunter has to overcome on\nthe mountain-tops, or of the dangerous snow-drifts which the wind\nand weather cause to cling to the edges of the rocks, or to lie in the\nform of a frail bridge over the abyss beneath. The eyes of the brave\nRudy sparkled as he described the life of a hunter, or spoke of the\ncunning of the chamois and their wonderful leaps; also of the powerful\nfohn and the rolling avalanche. He noticed that the more he described,\nthe more interested the miller became, especially when he spoke of the\nfierce vulture and of the royal eagle. Not far from Bex, in the canton\nValais, was an eagle's nest, more curiously built under a high,\nover-hanging rock. In this nest was a young eagle; but who would\nventure to take it? A young Englishman had offered Rudy a whole\nhandful of gold, if he would bring him the young eagle alive.\n\n\"There is a limit to everything,\" was Rudy's reply. \"The eagle\ncould not be taken; it would be folly to attempt it.\"\n\nThe wine was passed round freely, and the conversation kept up\npleasantly; but the evening seemed too short for Rudy, although it was\nmidnight when he left the miller's house, after this his first visit.\n\nWhile the lights in the windows of the miller's house still\ntwinkled through the green foliage, out through the open skylight came\nthe parlor-cat on to the roof, and along the water-pipe walked the\nkitchen-cat to meet her.\n\n\"What is the news at the mill?\" asked the parlor-cat. \"Here in the\nhouse there is secret love-making going on, which the father knows\nnothing about. Rudy and Babette have been treading on each other's\npaws, under the table, all the evening. They trod on my tail twice,\nbut I did not mew; that would have attracted notice.\"\n\n\"Well, I should have mewed,\" said the kitchen-cat.\n\n\"What might suit the kitchen would not suit the parlor,\" said\nthe other. \"I am quite curious to know what the miller will say when\nhe finds out this engagement.\"\n\nYes, indeed; what would the miller say? Rudy himself was anxious\nto know that; but to wait till the miller heard of it from others\nwas out of the question. Therefore, not many days after this visit, he\nwas riding in the omnibus that runs between the two cantons, Valais\nand Vaud. These cantons are separated by the Rhone, over which is a\nbridge that unites them. Rudy, as usual, had plenty of courage, and\nindulged in pleasant thoughts of the favorable answer he should\nreceive that evening. And when the omnibus returned, Rudy was again\nseated in it, going homewards; and at the same time the parlor-cat\nat the miller's house ran out quickly, crying,--\n\n\"Here, you from the kitchen, what do you think? The miller knows\nall now. Everything has come to a delightful end. Rudy came here\nthis evening, and he and Babette had much whispering and secret\nconversation together. They stood in the path near the miller's\nroom. I lay at their feet; but they had no eyes or thoughts for me.\n\n\"'I will go to your father at once,' said he; 'it is the most\nhonorable way.'\n\n\"'Shall I go with you?' asked Babette; 'it will give you courage.'\n\n\"'I have plenty of courage,' said Rudy; 'but if you are with me,\nhe must be friendly, whether he says Yes or No.'\n\n\"So they turned to go in, and Rudy trod heavily on my tail; he\ncertainly is very clumsy. I mewed; but neither he nor Babette had\nany ears for me. They opened the door, and entered together. I was\nbefore them, and jumped on the back of a chair. I hardly know what\nRudy said; but the miller flew into a rage, and threatened to kick him\nout of the house. He told him he might go to the mountains, and look\nafter the chamois, but not after our little Babette.\"\n\n\"And what did they say? Did they speak?\" asked the kitchen-cat.\n\n\"What did they say! why, all that people generally do say when\nthey go a-wooing--'I love her, and she loves me; and when there is\nmilk in the can for one, there is milk in the can for two.'\n\n\"'But she is so far above you,' said the miller; 'she has heaps of\ngold, as you know. You should not attempt to reach her.'\n\n\"'There is nothing so high that a man cannot reach, if he will,'\nanswered Rudy; for he is a brave youth.\n\n\"'Yet you could not reach the young eagle,' said the miller,\nlaughing. 'Babette is higher than the eagle's nest.'\n\n\"'I will have them both,' said Rudy.\n\n\"'Very well; I will give her to you when you bring me the young\neaglet alive,' said the miller; and he laughed till the tears stood in\nhis eyes. 'But now I thank you for this visit, Rudy; and if you come\nto-morrow, you will find nobody at home. Good-bye, Rudy.'\n\n\"Babette also wished him farewell; but her voice sounded as\nmournful as the mew of a little kitten that has lost its mother.\n\n\"'A promise is a promise between man and man,' said Rudy. 'Do\nnot weep, Babette; I shall bring the young eagle.'\n\n\"'You will break your neck, I hope,' said the miller, 'and we\nshall be relieved from your company.'\n\n\"I call that kicking him out of the house,\" said the parlor-cat.\n\"And now Rudy is gone, and Babette sits and weeps, while the miller\nsings German songs that he learnt on his journey; but I do not trouble\nmyself on the matter,--it would be of no use.\"\n\n\"Yet, for all that, it is a very strange affair,\" said the\nkitchen-cat.\n\n\nVII. THE EAGLE'S NEST\n\nFrom the mountain-path came a joyous sound of some person\nwhistling, and it betokened good humor and undaunted courage. It was\nRudy, going to meet his friend Vesinaud. \"You must come and help,\"\nsaid he. \"I want to carry off the young eaglet from the top of the\nrock. We will take young Ragli with us.\"\n\n\"Had you not better first try to take down the moon? That would be\nquite as easy a task,\" said Vesinaud. \"You seem to be in good\nspirits.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed I am. I am thinking of my wedding. But to be serious,\nI will tell you all about it, and how I am situated.\"\n\nThen he explained to Vesinaud and Ragli what he wished to do,\nand why.\n\n\"You are a daring fellow,\" said they; \"but it is no use; you\nwill break your neck.\"\n\n\"No one falls, unless he is afraid,\" said Rudy.\n\nSo at midnight they set out, carrying with them poles, ladders,\nand ropes. The road lay amidst brushwood and underwood, over rolling\nstones, always upwards higher and higher in the dark night. Waters\nroared beneath them, or fell in cascades from above. Humid clouds were\ndriving through the air as the hunters reached the precipitous ledge\nof the rock. It was even darker here, for the sides of the rocks\nalmost met, and the light penetrated only through a small opening at\nthe top. At a little distance from the edge could be heard the sound\nof the roaring, foaming waters in the yawning abyss beneath them.\nThe three seated themselves on a stone, to await in stillness the dawn\nof day, when the parent eagle would fly out, as it would be\nnecessary to shoot the old bird before they could think of gaining\npossession of the young one. Rudy sat motionless, as if he had been\npart of the stone on which he sat. He held his gun ready to fire, with\nhis eyes fixed steadily on the highest point of the cliff, where the\neagle's nest lay concealed beneath the overhanging rock.\n\nThe three hunters had a long time to wait. At last they heard a\nrustling, whirring sound above them, and a large hovering object\ndarkened the air. Two guns were ready to aim at the dark body of the\neagle as it rose from the nest. Then a shot was fired; for an\ninstant the bird fluttered its wide-spreading wings, and seemed as\nif it would fill up the whole of the chasm, and drag down the\nhunters in its fall. But it was not so; the eagle sunk gradually\ninto the abyss beneath, and the branches of trees and bushes were\nbroken by its weight. Then the hunters roused themselves: three of the\nlongest ladders were brought and bound together; the topmost ring of\nthese ladders would just reach the edge of the rock which hung over\nthe abyss, but no farther. The point beneath which the eagle's nest\nlay sheltered was much higher, and the sides of the rock were as\nsmooth as a wall. After consulting together, they determined to bind\ntogether two more ladders, and to hoist them over the cavity, and so\nform a communication with the three beneath them, by binding the upper\nones to the lower. With great difficulty they contrived to drag the\ntwo ladders over the rock, and there they hung for some moments,\nswaying over the abyss; but no sooner had they fastened them together,\nthan Rudy placed his foot on the lowest step.\n\nIt was a bitterly cold morning; clouds of mist were rising from\nbeneath, and Rudy stood on the lower step of the ladder as a fly rests\non a piece of swinging straw, which a bird may have dropped from the\nedge of the nest it was building on some tall factory chimney; but the\nfly could fly away if the straw were shaken, Rudy could only break his\nneck. The wind whistled around him, and beneath him the waters of\nthe abyss, swelled by the thawing of the glaciers, those palaces of\nthe Ice Maiden, foamed and roared in their rapid course. When Rudy\nbegan to ascend, the ladder trembled like the web of the spider,\nwhen it draws out the long, delicate threads; but as soon as he\nreached the fourth of the ladders, which had been bound together, he\nfelt more confidence,--he knew that they had been fastened securely by\nskilful hands. The fifth ladder, that appeared to reach the nest,\nwas supported by the sides of the rock, yet it swung to and fro, and\nflapped about like a slender reed, and as if it had been bound by\nfishing lines. It seemed a most dangerous undertaking to ascend it,\nbut Rudy knew how to climb; he had learnt that from the cat, and he\nhad no fear. He did not observe Vertigo, who stood in the air behind\nhim, trying to lay hold of him with his outstretched polypous arms.\n\nWhen at length he stood on the topmost step of the ladder, he\nfound that he was still some distance below the nest, and not even\nable to see into it. Only by using his hands and climbing could he\npossibly reach it. He tried the strength of the stunted trees, and the\nthick underwood upon which the nest rested, and of which it was\nformed, and finding they would support his weight, he grasped them\nfirmly, and swung himself up from the ladder till his head and\nbreast were above the nest, and then what an overpowering stench\ncame from it, for in it lay the putrid remains of lambs, chamois,\nand birds. Vertigo, although he could not reach him, blew the\npoisonous vapor in his face, to make him giddy and faint; and beneath,\nin the dark, yawning deep, on the rushing waters, sat the Ice\nMaiden, with her long, pale, green hair falling around her, and her\ndeath-like eyes fixed upon him, like the two barrels of a gun. \"I have\nthee now,\" she cried.\n\nIn a corner of the eagle's nest sat the young eaglet, a large\nand powerful bird, though still unable to fly. Rudy fixed his eyes\nupon it, held on by one hand with all his strength, and with the other\nthrew a noose round the young eagle. The string slipped to its legs.\nRudy tightened it, and thus secured the bird alive. Then flinging\nthe sling over his shoulder, so that the creature hung a good way down\nbehind him, he prepared to descend with the help of a rope, and his\nfoot soon touched safely the highest step of the ladder. Then Rudy,\nremembering his early lesson in climbing, \"Hold fast, and do not\nfear,\" descended carefully down the ladders, and at last stood\nsafely on the ground with the young living eaglet, where he was\nreceived with loud shouts of joy and congratulations.\n\n\nVIII. WHAT FRESH NEWS THE PARLOR-CAT HAD TO TELL\n\n\"There is what you asked for,\" said Rudy, as he entered the\nmiller's house at Bex, and placed on the floor a large basket. He\nremoved the lid as he spoke, and a pair of yellow eyes, encircled by a\nblack ring, stared forth with a wild, fiery glance, that seemed\nready to burn and destroy all that came in its way. Its short,\nstrong beak was open, ready to bite, and on its red throat were\nshort feathers, like stubble.\n\n\"The young eaglet!\" cried the miller.\n\nBabette screamed, and started back, while her eyes wandered from\nRudy to the bird in astonishment.\n\n\"You are not to be discouraged by difficulties, I see,\" said the\nmiller.\n\n\"And you will keep your word,\" replied Rudy. \"Each has his own\ncharacteristic, whether it is honor or courage.\"\n\n\"But how is it you did not break your neck?\" asked the miller.\n\n\"Because I held fast,\" answered Rudy; \"and I mean to hold fast\nto Babette.\"\n\n\"You must get her first,\" said the miller, laughing; and Babette\nthought this a very good sign.\n\n\"We must take the bird out of the basket,\" said she. \"It is\ngetting into a rage; how its eyes glare. How did you manage to conquer\nit?\"\n\nThen Rudy had to describe his adventure, and the miller's eyes\nopened wide as he listened.\n\n\"With your courage and your good fortune you might win three\nwives,\" said the miller.\n\n\"Oh, thank you,\" cried Rudy.\n\n\"But you have not won Babette yet,\" said the miller, slapping\nthe young Alpine hunter on the shoulder playfully.\n\n\"Have you heard the fresh news at the mill?\" asked the\nparlor-cat of the kitchen-cat. \"Rudy has brought us the young eagle,\nand he is to take Babette in exchange. They kissed each other in the\npresence of the old man, which is as good as an engagement. He was\nquite civil about it; drew in his claws, and took his afternoon nap,\nso that the two were left to sit and wag their tails as much as they\npleased. They have so much to talk about that it will not be\nfinished till Christmas.\" Neither was it finished till Christmas.\n\nThe wind whirled the faded, fallen leaves; the snow drifted in the\nvalleys, as well as upon the mountains, and the Ice Maiden sat in\nthe stately palace which, in winter time, she generally occupied.\nThe perpendicular rocks were covered with slippery ice, and where in\nsummer the stream from the rocks had left a watery veil, icicles large\nand heavy hung from the trees, while the snow-powdered fir-trees\nwere decorated with fantastic garlands of crystal. The Ice Maiden rode\non the howling wind across the deep valleys, the country, as far as\nBex, was covered with a carpet of snow, so that the Ice Maiden could\nfollow Rudy, and see him, when he visited the mill; and while in the\nroom at the miller's house, where he was accustomed to spend so much\nof his time with Babette. The wedding was to take place in the\nfollowing summer, and they heard enough of it, for so many of their\nfriends spoke of the matter.\n\nThen came sunshine to the mill. The beautiful Alpine roses\nbloomed, and joyous, laughing Babette, was like the early spring,\nwhich makes all the birds sing of summer time and bridal days.\n\n\"How those two do sit and chatter together,\" said the\nparlor-cat; \"I have had enough of their mewing.\"\n\n\nIX. THE ICE MAIDEN\n\nThe walnut and chestnut trees, which extend from the bridge of St.\nMaurice, by the river Rhone, to the shores of the lake of Geneva, were\nalready covered with the delicate green garlands of early spring, just\nbursting into bloom, while the Rhone rushed wildly from its source\namong the green glaciers which form the ice palace of the Ice\nMaiden. She sometimes allows herself to be carried by the keen wind to\nthe lofty snow-fields, where she stretches herself in the sunshine\non the soft snowy-cushions. From thence she throws her far-seeing\nglance into the deep valley beneath, where human beings are busily\nmoving about like ants on a stone in the sun. \"Spirits of strength, as\nthe children of the sun call you,\" cried the Ice Maiden, \"ye are but\nworms! Let but a snow-ball roll, and you and your houses and your\ntowns are crushed and swept away.\" And she raised her proud head,\nand looked around her with eyes that flashed death from their\nglance. From the valley came a rumbling sound; men were busily at work\nblasting the rocks to form tunnels, and laying down roads for the\nrailway. \"They are playing at work underground, like moles,\" said she.\n\"They are digging passages beneath the earth, and the noise is like\nthe reports of cannons. I shall throw down my palaces, for the\nclamor is louder than the roar of thunder.\" Then there ascended from\nthe valley a thick vapor, which waved itself in the air like a\nfluttering veil. It rose, as a plume of feathers, from a steam engine,\nto which, on the lately-opened railway, a string of carriages was\nlinked, carriage to carriage, looking like a winding serpent. The\ntrain shot past with the speed of an arrow. \"They play at being\nmasters down there, those spirits of strength!\" exclaimed the Ice\nMaiden; \"but the powers of nature are still the rulers.\" And she\nlaughed and sang till her voice sounded through the valley, and people\nsaid it was the rolling of an avalanche. But the children of the sun\nsang in louder strains in praise of the mind of man, which can span\nthe sea as with a yoke, can level mountains, and fill up valleys. It\nis the power of thought which gives man the mastery over nature.\n\nJust at this moment there came across the snow-field, where the\nIce Maiden sat, a party of travellers. They had bound themselves\nfast to each other, so that they looked like one large body on the\nslippery plains of ice encircling the deep abyss.\n\n\"Worms!\" exclaimed the Ice Maiden. \"You, the lords of the powers\nof nature!\" And she turned away and looked maliciously at the deep\nvalley where the railway train was rushing by. \"There they sit,\nthese thoughts!\" she exclaimed. \"There they sit in their power over\nnature's strength. I see them all. One sits proudly apart, like a\nking; others sit together in a group; yonder, half of them are asleep;\nand when the steam dragon stops, they will get out and go their way.\nThe thoughts go forth into the world,\" and she laughed.\n\n\"There goes another avalanche,\" said those in the valley beneath.\n\n\"It will not reach us,\" said two who sat together behind the steam\ndragon. \"Two hearts and one beat,\" as people say. They were Rudy and\nBabette, and the miller was with them. \"I am like the luggage,\" said\nhe; \"I am here as a necessary appendage.\"\n\n\"There sit those two,\" said the Ice Maiden. \"Many a chamois have I\ncrushed. Millions of Alpine roses have I snapped and broken off; not a\nroot have I spared. I know them all, and their thoughts, those spirits\nof strength!\" and again she laughed.\n\n\"There rolls another avalanche,\" said those in the valley.\n\n\nX. THE GODMOTHER\n\nAt Montreux, one of the towns which encircle the northeast part of\nthe lake of Geneva, lived Babette's godmother, the noble English lady,\nwith her daughters and a young relative. They had only lately arrived,\nyet the miller had paid them a visit, and informed them of Babette's\nengagement to Rudy. The whole story of their meeting at Interlachen,\nand his brave adventure with the eaglet, were related to them, and\nthey were all very much interested, and as pleased about Rudy and\nBabette as the miller himself. The three were invited to come to\nMontreux; it was but right for Babette to become acquainted with her\ngodmother, who wished to see her very much. A steam-boat started\nfrom the town of Villeneuve, at one end of the lake of Geneva, and\narrived at Bernex, a little town beyond Montreux, in about half an\nhour. And in this boat, the miller, with his daughter and Rudy, set\nout to visit her godmother. They passed the coast which has been so\ncelebrated in song. Here, under the walnut-trees, by the deep blue\nlake, sat Byron, and wrote his melodious verses about the prisoner\nconfined in the gloomy castle of Chillon. Here, where Clarens, with\nits weeping-willows, is reflected in the clear water, wandered\nRousseau, dreaming of Heloise. The river Rhone glides gently by\nbeneath the lofty snow-capped hills of Savoy, and not far from its\nmouth lies a little island in the lake, so small that, seen from the\nshore, it looks like a ship. The surface of the island is rocky; and\nabout a hundred years ago, a lady caused the ground to be covered with\nearth, in which three acacia-trees were planted, and the whole\nenclosed with stone walls. The acacia-trees now overshadow every\npart of the island. Babette was enchanted with the spot; it seemed\nto her the most beautiful object in the whole voyage, and she\nthought how much she should like to land there. But the steam-ship\npassed it by, and did not stop till it reached Bernex. The little\nparty walked slowly from this place to Montreux, passing the sun-lit\nwalls with which the vineyards of the little mountain town of Montreux\nare surrounded, and peasants' houses, overshadowed by fig-trees,\nwith gardens in which grow the laurel and the cypress.\n\nHalfway up the hill stood the boarding-house in which Babette's\ngodmother resided. She was received most cordially; her godmother\nwas a very friendly woman, with a round, smiling countenance. When a\nchild, her head must have resembled one of Raphael's cherubs; it was\nstill an angelic face, with its white locks of silvery hair. The\ndaughters were tall, elegant, slender maidens.\n\nThe young cousin, whom they had brought with them, was dressed\nin white from head to foot; he had golden hair and golden whiskers,\nlarge enough to be divided amongst three gentlemen; and he began\nimmediately to pay the greatest attention to Babette.\n\nRichly bound books, note-paper, and drawings, lay on the large\ntable. The balcony window stood open, and from it could be seen the\nbeautiful wide extended lake, the water so clear and still, that the\nmountains of Savoy, with their villages, woods, and snow-crowned\npeaks, were clearly reflected in it.\n\nRudy, who was usually so lively and brave, did not in the least\nfeel himself at home; he acted as if he were walking on peas, over a\nslippery floor. How long and wearisome the time appeared; it was\nlike being in a treadmill. And then they went out for a walk, which\nwas very slow and tedious. Two steps forward and one backwards had\nRudy to take to keep pace with the others. They walked down to\nChillon, and went over the old castle on the rocky island. They saw\nthe implements of torture, the deadly dungeons, the rusty fetters in\nthe rocky walls, the stone benches for those condemned to death, the\ntrap-doors through which the unhappy creatures were hurled upon iron\nspikes, and impaled alive. They called looking at all these a\npleasure. It certainly was the right place to visit. Byron's poetry\nhad made it celebrated in the world. Rudy could only feel that it\nwas a place of execution. He leaned against the stone framework of the\nwindow, and gazed down into the deep, blue water, and over to the\nlittle island with the three acacias, and wished himself there, away\nand free from the whole chattering party. But Babette was most\nunusually lively and good-tempered.\n\n\"I have been so amused,\" she said.\n\nThe cousin had found her quite perfect.\n\n\"He is a perfect fop,\" said Rudy; and this was the first time Rudy\nhad said anything that did not please Babette.\n\nThe Englishman had made her a present of a little book, in\nremembrance of their visit to Chillon. It was Byron's poem, \"The\nPrisoner of Chillon,\" translated into French, so that Babette could\nread it.\n\n\"The book may be very good,\" said Rudy; \"but that finely combed\nfellow who gave it to you is not worth much.\"\n\n\"He looks something like a flour-sack without any flour,\" said the\nmiller, laughing at his own wit. Rudy laughed, too, for so had he\nappeared to him.\n\n\nXI. THE COUSIN\n\nWhen Rudy went a few days after to pay a visit to the mill, he\nfound the young Englishman there. Babette was just thinking of\npreparing some trout to set before him. She understood well how to\ngarnish the dish with parsley, and make it look quite tempting. Rudy\nthought all this quite unnecessary. What did the Englishman want\nthere? What was he about? Why should he be entertained, and waited\nupon by Babette? Rudy was jealous, and that made Babette happy. It\namused her to discover all the feelings of his heart; the strong\npoints and weak ones. Love was to her as yet only a pastime, and she\nplayed with Rudy's whole heart. At the same time it must be\nacknowledged that her fortune, her whole life, her inmost thoughts,\nher best and most noble feelings in this world were all for him. Still\nthe more gloomy he looked, the more her eyes laughed. She could almost\nhave kissed the fair Englishman, with the golden whiskers, if by so\ndoing she could have put Rudy in a rage, and made him run out of the\nhouse. That would have proved how much he loved her. All this was\nnot right in Babette, but she was only nineteen years of age, and\nshe did not reflect on what she did, neither did she think that her\nconduct would appear to the young Englishman as light, and not even\nbecoming the modest and much-loved daughter of the miller.\n\nThe mill at Bex stood in the highway, which passed under the\nsnow-clad mountains, and not far from a rapid mountain-stream, whose\nwaters seemed to have been lashed into a foam like soap-suds. This\nstream, however, did not pass near enough to the mill, and therefore\nthe mill-wheel was turned by a smaller stream which tumbled down the\nrocks on the opposite side, where it was opposed by a stone\nmill-dam, and obtained greater strength and speed, till it fell into a\nlarge basin, and from thence through a channel to the mill-wheel. This\nchannel sometimes overflowed, and made the path so slippery that any\none passing that way might easily fall in, and be carried towards\nthe mill wheel with frightful rapidity. Such a catastrophe nearly\nhappened to the young Englishman. He had dressed himself in white\nclothes, like a miller's man, and was climbing the path to the\nmiller's house, but he had never been taught to climb, and therefore\nslipped, and nearly went in head-foremost. He managed, however, to\nscramble out with wet sleeves and bespattered trousers. Still, wet and\nsplashed with mud, he contrived to reach Babette's window, to which he\nhad been guided by the light that shone from it. Here he climbed the\nold linden-tree that stood near it, and began to imitate the voice\nof an owl, the only bird he could venture to mimic. Babette heard\nthe noise, and glanced through the thin window curtain; but when she\nsaw the man in white, and guessed who he was, her little heart beat\nwith terror as well as anger. She quickly put out the light, felt if\nthe fastening of the window was secure, and then left him to howl as\nlong as he liked. How dreadful it would be, thought Babette, if Rudy\nwere here in the house. But Rudy was not in the house. No, it was much\nworse, he was outside, standing just under the linden-tree. He was\nspeaking loud, angry words. He could fight, and there might be murder!\nBabette opened the window in alarm, and called Rudy's name; she told\nhim to go away, she did not wish him to remain there.\n\n\"You do not wish me to stay,\" cried he; \"then this is an\nappointment you expected--this good friend whom you prefer to me.\nShame on you, Babette!\"\n\n\"You are detestable!\" exclaimed Babette, bursting into tears.\n\"Go away. I hate you.\"\n\n\"I have not deserved this,\" said Rudy, as he turned away, his\ncheeks burning, and his heart like fire.\n\nBabette threw herself on the bed, and wept bitterly. \"So much as I\nloved thee, Rudy, and yet thou canst think ill of me.\"\n\nThus her anger broke forth; it relieved her, however: otherwise\nshe would have been more deeply grieved; but now she could sleep\nsoundly, as youth only can sleep.\n\n\nXII. EVIL POWERS\n\nRudy left Bex, and took his way home along the mountain path.\nThe air was fresh, but cold; for here amidst the deep snow, the Ice\nMaiden reigned. He was so high up that the large trees beneath him,\nwith their thick foliage, appeared like garden plants, and the pines\nand bushes even less. The Alpine roses grew near the snow, which lay\nin detached stripes, and looked like linen laid out to bleach. A\nblue gentian grew in his path, and he crushed it with the butt end\nof his gun. A little higher up, he espied two chamois. Rudy's eyes\nglistened, and his thoughts flew at once in a different direction; but\nhe was not near enough to take a sure aim. He ascended still higher,\nto a spot where a few rough blades of grass grew between the blocks of\nstone and the chamois passed quietly on over the snow-fields. Rudy\nwalked hurriedly, while the clouds of mist gathered round him.\nSuddenly he found himself on the brink of a precipitous rock. The rain\nwas falling in torrents. He felt a burning thirst, his head was hot,\nand his limbs trembled with cold. He seized his hunting-flask, but\nit was empty; he had not thought of filling it before ascending the\nmountain. He had never been ill in his life, nor ever experienced such\nsensations as those he now felt. He was so tired that he could\nscarcely resist lying down at his full length to sleep, although the\nground was flooded with the rain. Yet when he tried to rouse himself a\nlittle, every object around him danced and trembled before his eyes.\n\nSuddenly he observed in the doorway of a hut newly built under the\nrock, a young maiden. He did not remember having seen this hut before,\nyet there it stood; and he thought, at first, that the young maiden\nwas Annette, the schoolmaster's daughter, whom he had once kissed in\nthe dance. The maiden was not Annette; yet it seemed as if he had seen\nher somewhere before, perhaps near Grindelwald, on the evening of\nhis return home from Interlachen, after the shooting-match.\n\n\"How did you come here?\" he asked.\n\n\"I am at home,\" she replied; \"I am watching my flocks.\"\n\n\"Your flocks!\" he exclaimed; \"where do they find pasture? There is\nnothing here but snow and rocks.\"\n\n\"Much you know of what grows here,\" she replied, laughing. \"Not\nfar beneath us there is beautiful pasture-land. My goats go there. I\ntend them carefully; I never miss one. What is once mine remains\nmine.\"\n\n\"You are bold,\" said Rudy.\n\n\"And so are you,\" she answered.\n\n\"Have you any milk in the house?\" he asked; \"if so, give me some\nto drink; my thirst is intolerable.\"\n\n\"I have something better than milk,\" she replied, \"which I will\ngive you. Some travellers who were here yesterday with their guide\nleft behind them a half a flask of wine, such as you have never\ntasted. They will not come back to fetch it, I know, and I shall not\ndrink it; so you shall have it.\"\n\nThen the maiden went to fetch the wine, poured some into a\nwooden cup, and offered it to Rudy.\n\n\"How good it is!\" said he; \"I have never before tasted such\nwarm, invigorating wine.\" And his eyes sparkled with new life; a\nglow diffused itself over his frame; it seemed as if every sorrow,\nevery oppression were banished from his mind, and a fresh, free nature\nwere stirring within him. \"You are surely Annette, the schoolmaster's\ndaughter,\" cried he; \"will you give me a kiss?\"\n\n\"Yes, if you will give me that beautiful ring which you wear on\nyour finger.\"\n\n\"My betrothal ring?\" he replied.\n\n\"Yes, just so,\" said the maiden, as she poured out some more wine,\nand held it to his lips. Again he drank, and a living joy streamed\nthrough every vein.\n\n\"The whole world is mine, why therefore should I grieve?\"\nthought he. \"Everything is created for our enjoyment and happiness.\nThe stream of life is a stream of happiness; let us flow on with it to\njoy and felicity.\"\n\nRudy gazed on the young maiden; it was Annette, and yet it was not\nAnnette; still less did he suppose it was the spectral phantom, whom\nhe had met near Grindelwald. The maiden up here on the mountain was\nfresh as the new fallen snow, blooming as an Alpine rose, and as\nnimble-footed as a young kid. Still, she was one of Adam's race,\nlike Rudy. He flung his arms round the beautiful being, and gazed into\nher wonderfully clear eyes,--only for a moment; but in that moment\nwords cannot express the effect of his gaze. Was it the spirit of life\nor of death that overpowered him? Was he rising higher, or sinking\nlower and lower into the deep, deadly abyss? He knew not; but the\nwalls of ice shone like blue-green glass; innumerable clefts yawned\naround him, and the water-drops tinkled like the chiming of church\nbells, and shone clearly as pearls in the light of a pale-blue\nflame. The Ice Maiden, for she it was, kissed him, and her kiss sent a\nchill as of ice through his whole frame. A cry of agony escaped from\nhim; he struggled to get free, and tottered from her. For a moment all\nwas dark before his eyes, but when he opened them again it was\nlight, and the Alpine maiden had vanished. The powers of evil had\nplayed their game; the sheltering hut was no more to be seen. The\nwater trickled down the naked sides of the rocks, and snow lay thickly\nall around. Rudy shivered with cold; he was wet through to the skin;\nand his ring was gone,--the betrothal ring that Babette had given him.\nHis gun lay near him in the snow; he took it up and tried to discharge\nit, but it missed fire. Heavy clouds lay on the mountain clefts,\nlike firm masses of snow. Upon one of these Vertigo sat, lurking after\nhis powerless prey, and from beneath came a sound as if a piece of\nrock had fallen from the cleft, and was crushing everything that stood\nin its way or opposed its course.\n\nBut, at the miller's, Babette sat alone and wept. Rudy had not\nbeen to see her for six days. He who was in the wrong, and who ought\nto ask her forgiveness; for did she not love him with her whole heart?\n\n\nXIII. AT THE MILL\n\n\"What strange creatures human beings are,\" said the parlor-cat\nto the kitchen-cat; \"Babette and Rudy have fallen out with each other.\nShe sits and cries, and he thinks no more about her.\"\n\n\"That does not please me to hear,\" said the kitchen-cat.\n\n\"Nor me either,\" replied the parlor-cat; \"but I do not take it\nto heart. Babette may fall in love with the red whiskers, if she\nlikes, but he has not been here since he tried to get on the roof.\"\n\nThe powers of evil carry on their game both around us and within\nus. Rudy knew this, and thought a great deal about it. What was it\nthat had happened to him on the mountain? Was it really a ghostly\napparition, or a fever dream? Rudy knew nothing of fever, or any other\nailment. But, while he judged Babette, he began to examine his own\nconduct. He had allowed wild thoughts to chase each other in his\nheart, and a fierce tornado to break loose. Could he confess to\nBabette, indeed, every thought which in the hour of temptation might\nhave led him to wrong doing? He had lost her ring, and that very\nloss had won him back to her. Could she expect him to confess? He felt\nas if his heart would break while he thought of it, and while so\nmany memories lingered on his mind. He saw her again, as she once\nstood before him, a laughing, spirited child; many loving words, which\nshe had spoken to him out of the fulness of her love, came like a\nray of sunshine into his heart, and soon it was all sunshine as he\nthought of Babette. But she must also confess she was wrong; that\nshe should do.\n\nHe went to the mill--he went to confession. It began with a\nkiss, and ended with Rudy being considered the offender. It was such a\ngreat fault to doubt Babette's truth--it was most abominable of him.\nSuch mistrust, such violence, would cause them both great unhappiness.\nThis certainly was very true, she knew that; and therefore Babette\npreached him a little sermon, with which she was herself much\namused, and during the preaching of which she looked quite lovely. She\nacknowledged, however, that on one point Rudy was right. Her\ngodmother's nephew was a fop: she intended to burn the book which he\nhad given her, so that not the slightest thing should remain to remind\nher of him.\n\n\"Well, that quarrel is all over,\" said the kitchen-cat. \"Rudy is\ncome back, and they are friends again, which they say is the\ngreatest of all pleasures.\"\n\n\"I heard the rats say one night,\" said the kitchen-cat, \"that\nthe greatest pleasure in the world was to eat tallow candles and to\nfeast on rancid bacon. Which are we to believe, the rats or the\nlovers?\"\n\n\"Neither of them,\" said the parlor-cat; \"it is always the safest\nplan to believe nothing you hear.\"\n\nThe greatest happiness was coming for Rudy and Babette. The\nhappy day, as it is called, that is, their wedding-day, was near at\nhand. They were not to be married at the church at Bex, nor at the\nmiller's house; Babette's godmother wished the nuptials to be\nsolemnized at Montreux, in the pretty little church in that town.\nThe miller was very anxious that this arrangement should be agreed to.\nHe alone knew what the newly-married couple would receive from\nBabette's godmother, and he knew also that it was a wedding present\nwell worth a concession. The day was fixed, and they were to travel as\nfar as Villeneuve the evening before, to be in time for the steamer\nwhich sailed in the morning for Montreux, and the godmother's\ndaughters were to dress and adorn the bride.\n\n\"Here in this house there ought to be a wedding-day kept,\" said\nthe parlor-cat, \"or else I would not give a mew for the whole affair.\"\n\n\"There is going to be great feasting,\" replied the kitchen-cat.\n\"Ducks and pigeons have been killed, and a whole roebuck hangs on\nthe wall. It makes me lick my lips when I think of it.\"\n\n\"To-morrow morning they will begin the journey.\"\n\nYes, to-morrow! And this evening, for the last time, Rudy and\nBabette sat in the miller's house as an engaged couple. Outside, the\nAlps glowed in the evening sunset, the evening bells chimed, and the\nchildren of the sunbeam sang, \"Whatever happens is best.\"\n\n\nXIV. NIGHT VISIONS\n\nThe sun had gone down, and the clouds lay low on the valley of the\nRhone. The wind blew from the south across the mountains; it was an\nAfrican wind, a wind which scattered the clouds for a moment, and then\nsuddenly fell. The broken clouds hung in fantastic forms upon the\nwood-covered hills by the rapid Rhone. They assumed the shapes of\nantediluvian animals, of eagles hovering in the air, of frogs\nleaping over a marsh, and then sunk down upon the rushing stream and\nappeared to sail upon it, although floating in the air. An uprooted\nfir-tree was being carried away by the current, and marking out its\npath by eddying circles on the water. Vertigo and his sisters were\ndancing upon it, and raising these circles on the foaming river. The\nmoon lighted up the snow on the mountain-tops, shone on the dark\nwoods, and on the drifting clouds those fantastic forms which at night\nmight be taken for spirits of the powers of nature. The\nmountain-dweller saw them through the panes of his little window. They\nsailed in hosts before the Ice Maiden as she came out of her palace of\nice. Then she seated herself on the trunk of the fir-tree as on a\nbroken skiff, and the water from the glaciers carried her down the\nriver to the open lake.\n\n\"The wedding guests are coming,\" sounded from air and sea. These\nwere the sights and sounds without; within there were visions, for\nBabette had a wonderful dream. She dreamt that she had been married to\nRudy for many years, and that, one day when he was out chamois\nhunting, and she alone in their dwelling at home, the young Englishman\nwith the golden whiskers sat with her. His eyes were quite eloquent,\nand his words possessed a magic power; he offered her his hand, and\nshe was obliged to follow him. They went out of the house and\nstepped downwards, always downwards, and it seemed to Babette as if\nshe had a weight on her heart which continually grew heavier. She felt\nshe was committing a sin against Rudy, a sin against God. Suddenly she\nfound herself forsaken, her clothes torn by the thorns, and her hair\ngray; she looked upwards in her agony, and there, on the edge of the\nrock, she espied Rudy. She stretched out her arms to him, but she\ndid not venture to call him or to pray; and had she called him, it\nwould have been useless, for it was not Rudy, only his hunting coat\nand hat hanging on an alpenstock, as the hunters sometimes arrange\nthem to deceive the chamois. \"Oh!\" she exclaimed in her agony; \"oh,\nthat I had died on the happiest day of my life, my wedding-day. O my\nGod, it would have been a mercy and a blessing had Rudy travelled\nfar away from me, and I had never known him. None know what will\nhappen in the future.\" And then, in ungodly despair, she cast\nherself down into the deep rocky gulf. The spell was broken; a cry\nof terror escaped her, and she awoke.\n\nThe dream was over; it had vanished. But she knew she had dreamt\nsomething frightful about the young Englishman, yet months had\npassed since she had seen him or even thought of him. Was he still\nat Montreux, and should she meet him there on her wedding day? A\nslight shadow passed over her pretty mouth as she thought of this, and\nshe knit her brows; but the smile soon returned to her lip, and joy\nsparkled in her eyes, for this was the morning of the day on which she\nand Rudy were to be married, and the sun was shining brightly. Rudy\nwas already in the parlor when she entered it, and they very soon\nstarted for Villeneuve. Both of them were overflowing with\nhappiness, and the miller was in the best of tempers, laughing and\nmerry; he was a good, honest soul, and a kind father.\n\n\"Now we are masters of the house,\" said the parlor-cat.\n\n\nXV. THE CONCLUSION\n\nIt was early in the afternoon, and just at dinner-time, when the\nthree joyous travellers reached Villeneuve. After dinner, the miller\nplaced himself in the arm-chair, smoked his pipe, and had a little\nnap. The bridal pair went arm-in-arm out through the town and along\nthe high road, at the foot of the wood-covered rocks, and by the deep,\nblue lake.\n\nThe gray walls, and the heavy clumsy-looking towers of the\ngloomy castle of Chillon, were reflected in the clear flood. The\nlittle island, on which grew the three acacias, lay at a short\ndistance, looking like a bouquet rising from the lake. \"How delightful\nit must be to live there,\" said Babette, who again felt the greatest\nwish to visit the island; and an opportunity offered to gratify her\nwish at once, for on the shore lay a boat, and the rope by which it\nwas moored could be very easily loosened. They saw no one near, so\nthey took possession of it without asking permission of any one, and\nRudy could row very well. The oars divided the pliant water like the\nfins of a fish--that water which, with all its yielding softness, is\nso strong to bear and to carry, so mild and smiling when at rest,\nand yet so terrible in its destroying power. A white streak of foam\nfollowed in the wake of the boat, which, in a few minutes, carried\nthem both to the little island, where they went on shore; but there\nwas only just room enough for two to dance. Rudy swung Babette round\ntwo or three times; and then, hand-in-hand, they sat down on a\nlittle bench under the drooping acacia-tree, and looked into each\nother's eyes, while everything around them glowed in the rays of the\nsetting sun.\n\nThe fir-tree forests on the mountains were covered with a purple\nhue like the heather bloom; and where the woods terminated, and the\nrocks became prominent, they looked almost transparent in the rich\ncrimson glow of the evening sky. The surface of the lake was like a\nbed of pink rose-leaves.\n\nAs the evening advanced, the shadows fell upon the snow-capped\nmountains of Savoy painting them in colors of deep blue, while their\ntopmost peaks glowed like red lava; and for a moment this light was\nreflected on the cultivated parts of the mountains, making them appear\nas if newly risen from the lap of earth, and giving to the\nsnow-crested peak of the Dent du Midi the appearance of the full\nmoon as it rises above the horizon.\n\nRudy and Babette felt that they had never seen the Alpine glow\nin such perfection before. \"How very beautiful it is, and what\nhappiness to be here!\" exclaimed Babette.\n\n\"Earth has nothing more to bestow upon me,\" said Rudy; \"an evening\nlike this is worth a whole life. Often have I realized my good\nfortune, but never more than in this moment. I feel that if my\nexistence were to end now, I should still have lived a happy life.\nWhat a glorious world this is; one day ends, and another begins even\nmore beautiful than the last. How infinitely good God is, Babette!\"\n\n\"I have such complete happiness in my heart,\" said she.\n\n\"Earth has no more to bestow,\" answered Rudy. And then came the\nsound of the evening bells, borne upon the breeze over the mountains\nof Switzerland and Savoy, while still, in the golden splendor of the\nwest, stood the dark blue mountains of Jura.\n\n\"God grant you all that is brightest and best!\" exclaimed Babette.\n\n\"He will,\" said Rudy. \"He will to-morrow. To-morrow you will be\nwholly mine, my own sweet wife.\"\n\n\"The boat!\" cried Babette, suddenly. The boat in which they were\nto return had broken loose, and was floating away from the island.\n\n\"I will fetch it back,\" said Rudy; throwing off his coat and\nboots, he sprang into the lake, and swam with strong efforts towards\nit.\n\nThe dark-blue water, from the glaciers of the mountains, was icy\ncold and very deep. Rudy gave but one glance into the water beneath;\nbut in that one glance he saw a gold ring rolling, glittering, and\nsparkling before him. His engaged ring came into his mind; but this\nwas larger, and spread into a glittering circle, in which appeared a\nclear glacier. Deep chasms yawned around it, the water-drops glittered\nas if lighted with blue flame, and tinkled like the chiming of\nchurch bells. In one moment he saw what would require many words to\ndescribe. Young hunters, and young maidens--men and women who had sunk\nin the deep chasms of the glaciers--stood before him here in\nlifelike forms, with eyes open and smiles on their lips; and far\nbeneath them could be heard the chiming of the church bells of\nburied villages, where the villagers knelt beneath the vaulted\narches of churches in which ice-blocks formed the organ pipes, and the\nmountain stream the music.\n\nOn the clear, transparent ground sat the Ice Maiden. She raised\nherself towards Rudy, and kissed his feet; and instantly a cold,\ndeathly chill, like an electric shock, passed through his limbs. Ice\nor fire! It was impossible to tell, the shock was so instantaneous.\n\n\"Mine! mine!\" sounded around him, and within him; \"I kissed thee\nwhen thou wert a little child. I once kissed thee on the mouth, and\nnow I have kissed thee from heel to toe; thou art wholly mine.\" And\nthen he disappeared in the clear, blue water.\n\nAll was still. The church bells were silent; the last tone floated\naway with the last red glimmer on the evening clouds. \"Thou art mine,\"\nsounded from the depths below: but from the heights above, from the\neternal world, also sounded the words, \"Thou art mine!\" Happy was he\nthus to pass from life to life, from earth to heaven. A chord was\nloosened, and tones of sorrow burst forth. The icy kiss of death had\novercome the perishable body; it was but the prelude before life's\nreal drama could begin, the discord which was quickly lost in harmony.\nDo you think this a sad story? Poor Babette! for her it was\nunspeakable anguish.\n\nThe boat drifted farther and farther away. No one on the\nopposite shore knew that the betrothed pair had gone over to the\nlittle island. The clouds sunk as the evening drew on, and it became\ndark. Alone, in despair, she waited and trembled. The weather became\nfearful; flash after flash lighted up the mountains of Jura, Savoy,\nand Switzerland, while peals of thunder, that lasted for many minutes,\nrolled over her head. The lightning was so vivid that every single\nvine stem could be seen for a moment as distinctly as in the\nsunlight at noon-day; and then all was veiled in darkness. It\nflashed across the lake in winding, zigzag lines, lighting it up on\nall sides; while the echoes of the thunder grew louder and stronger.\nOn land, the boats were all carefully drawn up on the beach, every\nliving thing sought shelter, and at length the rain poured down in\ntorrents.\n\n\"Where can Rudy and Babette be in this awful weather?\" said the\nmiller.\n\nPoor Babette sat with her hands clasped, and her head bowed\ndown, dumb with grief; she had ceased to weep and cry for help.\n\n\"In the deep water!\" she said to herself; \"far down he lies, as if\nbeneath a glacier.\"\n\nDeep in her heart rested the memory of what Rudy had told her of\nthe death of his mother, and of his own recovery, even after he had\nbeen taken up as dead from the cleft in the glacier.\n\n\"Ah,\" she thought, \"the Ice Maiden has him at last.\"\n\nSuddenly there came a flash of lightning, as dazzling as the\nrays of the sun on the white snow. The lake rose for a moment like a\nshining glacier; and before Babette stood the pallid, glittering,\nmajestic form of the Ice Maiden, and at her feet lay Rudy's corpse.\n\n\"Mine!\" she cried, and again all was darkness around the heaving\nwater.\n\n\"How cruel,\" murmured Babette; \"why should he die just as the\nday of happiness drew near? Merciful God, enlighten my understanding,\nshed light upon my heart; for I cannot comprehend the arrangements\nof Thy providence, even while I bow to the decree of Thy almighty\nwisdom and power.\" And God did enlighten her heart.\n\nA sudden flash of thought, like a ray of mercy, recalled her dream\nof the preceding night; all was vividly represented before her. She\nremembered the words and wishes she had then expressed, that what\nwas best for her and for Rudy she might piously submit to.\n\n\"Woe is me,\" she said; \"was the germ of sin really in my heart?\nwas my dream a glimpse into the course of my future life, whose thread\nmust be violently broken to rescue me from sin? Oh, miserable creature\nthat I am!\"\n\nThus she sat lamenting in the dark night, while through the deep\nstillness the last words of Rudy seemed to ring in her ears. \"This\nearth has nothing more to bestow.\" Words, uttered in the fulness of\njoy, were again heard amid the depths of sorrow.\n\nYears have passed since this sad event happened. The shores of the\npeaceful lake still smile in beauty. The vines are full of luscious\ngrapes. Steamboats, with waving flags, pass swiftly by.\nPleasure-boats, with their swelling sails, skim lightly over the\nwatery mirror, like white butterflies. The railway is opened beyond\nChillon, and goes far into the deep valley of the Rhone. At every\nstation strangers alight with red-bound guide-books in their hands, in\nwhich they read of every place worth seeing. They visit Chillon, and\nobserve on the lake the little island with the three acacias, and then\nread in their guide-book the story of the bridal pair who, in the year\n1856, rowed over to it. They read that the two were missing till the\nnext morning, when some people on the shore heard the despairing cries\nof the bride, and went to her assistance, and by her were told of\nthe bridegroom's fate.\n\nBut the guide-book does not speak of Babette's quiet life\nafterwards with her father, not at the mill--strangers dwell there\nnow--but in a pretty house in a row near the station. On many an\nevening she sits at her window, and looks out over the chestnut-trees\nto the snow-capped mountains on which Rudy once roamed. She looks at\nthe Alpine glow in the evening sky, which is caused by the children\nof the sun retiring to rest on the mountain-tops; and again they\nbreathe their song of the traveller whom the whirlwind could deprive\nof his cloak but not of his life. There is a rosy tint on the mountain\nsnow, and there are rosy gleams in each heart in which dwells the\nthought, \"God permits nothing to happen, which is not the best for\nus.\" But this is not often revealed to all, as it was revealed to\nBabette in her wonderful dream.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JEWISH MAIDEN\n\nIn a charity school, among the children, sat a little Jewish girl.\nShe was a good, intelligent child, and very quick at her lessons;\nbut the Scripture-lesson class she was not allowed to join, for this\nwas a Christian school. During the hour of this lesson, the Jewish\ngirl was allowed to learn her geography, or to work her sum for the\nnext day; and when her geography lesson was perfect, the book remained\nopen before her, but she read not another word, for she sat silently\nlistening to the words of the Christian teacher. He soon became\naware that the little one was paying more attention to what he said\nthan most of the other children. \"Read your book, Sarah,\" he said to\nher gently.\n\nBut again and again he saw her dark, beaming eyes fixed upon\nhim; and once, when he asked her a question, she could answer him even\nbetter than the other children. She had not only heard, but understood\nhis words, and pondered them in her heart. Her father, a poor but\nhonest man, had placed his daughter at the school on the conditions\nthat she should not be instructed in the Christian faith. But it might\nhave caused confusion, or raised discontent in the minds of the\nother children if she had been sent out of the room, so she\nremained; and now it was evident this could not go on. The teacher\nwent to her father, and advised him to remove his daughter from the\nschool, or to allow her to become a Christian. \"I cannot any longer be\nan idle spectator of those beaming eyes, which express such a deep and\nearnest longing for the words of the gospel,\" said he.\n\nThen the father burst into tears. \"I know very little of the law\nof my fathers,\" said he; \"but Sarah's mother was firm in her belief as\na daughter of Israel, and I vowed to her on her deathbed that our\nchild should never be baptized. I must keep my vow: it is to me even\nas a covenant with God Himself.\" And so the little Jewish girl left\nthe Christian school.\n\nYears rolled by. In one of the smallest provincial towns, in a\nhumble household, lived a poor maiden of the Jewish faith, as a\nservant. Her hair was black as ebony, her eye dark as night, yet\nfull of light and brilliancy so peculiar to the daughters of the east.\nIt was Sarah. The expression in the face of the grown-up maiden was\nstill the same as when, a child, she sat on the schoolroom form\nlistening with thoughtful eyes to the words of the Christian\nteacher. Every Sunday there sounded forth from a church close by the\ntones of an organ and the singing of the congregation. The Jewish girl\nheard them in the house where, industrious and faithful in all things,\nshe performed her household duties. \"Thou shalt keep the Sabbath\nholy,\" said the voice of the law in her heart; but her Sabbath was a\nworking day among the Christians, which was a great trouble to her.\nAnd then as the thought arose in her mind, \"Does God reckon by days\nand hours?\" her conscience felt satisfied on this question, and she\nfound it a comfort to her, that on the Christian Sabbath she could\nhave an hour for her own prayers undisturbed. The music and singing of\nthe congregation sounded in her ears while at work in her kitchen,\ntill the place itself became sacred to her. Then she would read in the\nOld Testament, that treasure and comfort to her people, and it was\nindeed the only Scriptures she could read. Faithfully in her inmost\nthoughts had she kept the words of her father to her teacher when\nshe left the school, and the vow he had made to her dying mother\nthat she should never receive Christian baptism. The New Testament\nmust remain to her a sealed book, and yet she knew a great deal of its\nteaching, and the sound of the gospel truths still lingered among\nthe recollections of her childhood.\n\nOne evening she was sitting in a corner of the dining-room,\nwhile her master read aloud. It was not the gospel he read, but an old\nstory-book; therefore she might stay and listen to him. The story\nrelated that a Hungarian knight, who had been taken prisoner by a\nTurkish pasha, was most cruelly treated by him. He caused him to be\nyoked with his oxen to the plough, and driven with blows from the whip\ntill the blood flowed, and he almost sunk with exhaustion and pain.\nThe faithful wife of the knight at home gave up all her jewels,\nmortgaged her castle and land, and his friends raised large sums to\nmake up the ransom demanded for his release, which was most enormously\nhigh. It was collected at last, and the knight released from slavery\nand misery. Sick and exhausted, he reached home.\n\nEre long came another summons to a struggle with the foes of\nChristianity. The still living knight heard the sound; he could endure\nno more, he had neither peace nor rest. He caused himself to be lifted\non his war-horse; the color came into his cheeks, and his strength\nreturned to him again as he went forth to battle and to victory. The\nvery same pasha who had yoked him to the plough, became his\nprisoner, and was dragged to a dungeon in the castle. But an hour\nhad scarcely passed, when the knight stood before the captive pasha,\nand inquired, \"What do you suppose awaiteth thee?\"\n\n\"I know,\" replied the pasha; \"retribution.\"\n\n\"Yes, the retribution of a Christian,\" replied the knight. \"The\nteaching of Christ, the Teacher, commands us to forgive our enemies,\nto love our neighbors; for God is love. Depart in peace: return to thy\nhome. I give thee back to thy loved ones. But in future be mild and\nhumane to all who are in trouble.\"\n\nThen the prisoner burst into tears, and exclaimed, \"Oh how could I\nimagine such mercy and forgiveness! I expected pain and torment. It\nseemed to me so sure that I took poison, which I secretly carried\nabout me; and in a few hours its effects will destroy me. I must\ndie! Nothing can save me! But before I die, explain to me the teaching\nwhich is so full of love and mercy, so great and God-like. Oh, that\nI may hear his teaching, and die a Christian!\" And his prayer was\ngranted.\n\nThis was the legend which the master read out of the old\nstory-book. Every one in the house who was present listened, and\nshared the pleasure; but Sarah, the Jewish girl, sitting so still in a\ncorner, felt her heart burn with excitement. Great tears came into her\nshining dark eyes; and with the same gentle piety with which she had\nonce listened to the gospel while sitting on the form at school, she\nfelt its grandeur now, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then\nthe last words of her dying mother rose before her, \"Let not my\nchild become a Christian;\" and with them sounded in her heart the\nwords of the law, \"Honor thy father and thy mother.\"\n\n\"I am not admitted among the Christians,\" she said; \"they mock\nme as a Jewish girl; the neighbors' boys did so last Sunday when I\nstood looking in through the open church door at the candles burning\non the altar, and listening to the singing. Ever since I sat on the\nschool-bench I have felt the power of Christianity; a power which,\nlike a sunbeam, streams into my heart, however closely I may close\nmy eyes against it. But I will not grieve thee, my mother, in thy\ngrave. I will not be unfaithful to my father's vow. I will not read\nthe Bible of the Christian. I have the God of my fathers, and in Him I\nwill trust.\"\n\nAnd again years passed by. Sarah's master died, and his widow\nfound herself in such reduced circumstances that she wished to dismiss\nher servant maid; but Sarah refused to leave the house, and she became\na true support in time of trouble, and kept the household together\nby working till late at night, with her busy hands, to earn their\ndaily bread. Not a relative came forward to assist them, and the widow\nwas confined to a sick bed for months and grew weaker from day to day.\nSarah worked hard, but contrived to spare time to amuse her and\nwatch by the sick bed. She was gentle and pious, an angel of\nblessing in that house of poverty.\n\n\"My Bible lies on the table yonder,\" said the sick woman one day\nto Sarah. \"Read me something from it; the night appears so long, and\nmy spirit thirsts to hear the word of God.\"\n\nAnd Sarah bowed her head. She took the book, and folded her hand\nover the Bible of the Christians, and at last opened it, and read to\nthe sick woman. Tears stood in her eyes as she read, and they shone\nwith brightness, for in her heart it was light.\n\n\"Mother,\" she murmured, \"thy child may not receive Christian\nbaptism, nor be admitted into the congregation of Christian people.\nThou hast so willed it, and I will respect thy command. We are\ntherefore still united here on earth; but in the next world there will\nbe a higher union, even with God Himself, who leads and guides His\npeople till death. He came down from heaven to earth to suffer for us,\nthat we should bring forth the fruits of repentance. I understand it\nnow. I know not how I learnt this truth, unless it is through the name\nof Christ.\" Yet she trembled as she pronounced the holy name. She\nstruggled against these convictions of the truth of Christianity for\nsome days, till one evening while watching her mistress she was\nsuddenly taken very ill; her limbs tottered under her, and she sank\nfainting by the bedside of the sick woman.\n\n\"Poor Sarah,\" said the neighbors; \"she is overcome with hard\nwork and night watching.\" And then they carried her to the hospital\nfor the sick poor. There she died; and they bore her to her\nresting-place in the earth, but not to the churchyard of the\nChristians. There was no place for the Jewish girl; but they dug a\ngrave for her outside the wall. And God's sun, which shines upon the\ngraves of the churchyard of the Christians, also throws its beams on\nthe grave of the Jewish maiden beyond the wall. And when the psalms of\nthe Christians sound across the churchyard, their echo reaches her\nlonely resting-place; and she who sleeps there will be counted\nworthy at the resurrection, through the name of Christ the Lord, who\nsaid to His disciples, \"John baptized you with water, but I will\nbaptize you with the Holy Ghost.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE JUMPER\n\nThe Flea, the Grasshopper, and the Skipjack once wanted to see\nwhich of them could jump highest; and they invited the whole world,\nand whoever else would come, to see the grand sight. And there the\nthree famous jumpers were met together in the room.\n\n\"Yes, I'll give my daughter to him who jumps highest,\" said the\nKing, \"for it would be mean to let these people jump for nothing.\"\n\nThe Flea stepped out first. He had very pretty manners, and\nbowed in all directions, for he had young ladies' blood in his\nveins, and was accustomed to consort only with human beings; and\nthat was of great consequence.\n\nThen came the Grasshopper: he was certainly much heavier, but he\nhad a good figure, and wore the green uniform that was born with\nhim. This person, moreover, maintained that he belonged to a very\nold family in the land of Egypt, and that he was highly esteemed\nthere. He had just come from the field, he said, and had been put into\na card house three stories high, and all made of picture cards with\nthe figures turned inwards. There were doors and windows in the house,\ncut in the body of the Queen of Hearts.\n\n\"I sing so,\" he said, \"that sixteen native crickets who have\nchirped from their youth up, and have never yet had a card house of\ntheir own, would become thinner than they are with envy if they were\nto hear me.\"\n\nBoth of them, the Flea and the Grasshopper, took care to\nannounce who they were, and that they considered themselves entitled\nto marry a Princess.\n\nThe Skipjack said nothing, but it was said of him that he\nthought all the more; and directly the Yard Dog had smelt at him he\nwas ready to assert that the Skipjack was of good family, and formed\nfrom the breastbone of an undoubted goose. The old councillor, who had\nreceived three medals for holding his tongue, declared that the\nSkipjack possessed the gift of prophecy; one could tell by his bones\nwhether there would be a severe winter or a mild one; and that's\nmore than one can always tell from the breastbone of the man who\nwrites the almanac.\n\n\"I shall not say anything more,\" said the old King. \"I only go\non quietly, and always think the best.\"\n\nNow they were to take their jump. The Flea sprang so high that\nno one could see him; and then they asserted that he had not jumped at\nall. That was very mean. The Grasshopper only sprang half as high, but\nhe sprang straight into the King's face, and the King declared that\nwas horribly rude. The Skipjack stood a long time considering; at last\npeople thought that he could not jump at all.\n\n\"I only hope he's not become unwell,\" said the Yard Dog, and\nthen he smelt at him again.\n\n\"Tap!\" he sprang with a little crooked jump just into the lap of\nthe Princess, who sat on a low golden stool.\n\nThen the King said, \"The highest leap was taken by him who\njumped up to my daughter; for therein lies the point; but it\nrequires head to achieve that, and the Skipjack has shown that he\nhas a head.\"\n\nAnd so he had the Princess.\n\n\"I jumped highest, after all,\" said the Flea. \"But it's all the\nsame. Let her have the goose-bone with its lump of wax and bit of\nstick. I jumped to the highest; but in this world a body is required\nif one wishes to be seen.\"\n\nAnd the Flea went into foreign military service, where it is\nsaid he was killed.\n\nThe Grasshopper seated himself out in the ditch, and thought and\nconsidered how things happened in the world. And he too said, \"Body is\nrequired! body is required!\" And then he sang his own melancholy song,\nand from that we have gathered this story, which they say is not true,\nthough it's in print.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK\n\nIn the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the\nopen seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred\nand sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the\nsame number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night,\nand then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is\nobliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does\nnot get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest;\nits night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many\na warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day,\nhad fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if,\nfor a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large\nfresh leaves, the tree would always say, \"Poor little creature! your\nwhole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be\nquite melancholy.\"\n\n\"Melancholy! what do you mean?\" the little creature would always\nreply. \"Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and\nbeautiful, that it makes me joyous.\"\n\n\"But only for one day, and then it is all over.\"\n\n\"Over!\" repeated the fly; \"what is the meaning of all over? Are\nyou all over too?\"\n\n\"No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my\nday is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never\nreckon it out.\"\n\n\"No? then I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my\ndays, but I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and\nhappy. Does all the beauty of the world cease when you die?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the tree; \"it will certainly last much longer,--infinitely\nlonger than I can even think of.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said the little fly, \"we have the same time to live;\nonly we reckon differently.\" And the little creature danced and floated\nin the air, rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet,\nrejoicing in the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of\nclover-fields and wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the\ngarden hedges, wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all\nthese was so strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly.\nThe long and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights,\nthat when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and\nenjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly\nit glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little\nhead as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The\nfly was dead.\n\n\"Poor little Ephemera!\" said the oak; \"what a terribly short\nlife!\" And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same\nquestions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was\ncontinued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt\nequally merry and equally happy.\n\nThe oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon\nof summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew\nnigh--winter was coming. Already the storms were singing, \"Good-night,\ngood-night.\" Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. \"We will rock you\nand lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will sing you to sleep, and\nshake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will even\ncrackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your\nthree-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but a\nyoungster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow\nupon you, which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your\nfeet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams.\" And there stood the\noak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during the whole of a\nlong winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had happened in\nits life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree had once been small;\nindeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to human\ncomputation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was\nthe largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above\nall the other trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it\nserved as a landmark to the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes\nlooked eagerly for it. In its topmost branches the wood-pigeon built\nher nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual vocal performances, and\nhis well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in autumn, when the\nleaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage would\ncome and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across\nthe sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every\none could see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth\nfrom the trunk. Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and\ntalked of the hard times which were beginning, and how difficult it\nwas in winter to obtain food.\n\nIt was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a\ndream. The tree had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive\ntime had arrived, and in his dream fancied he heard the bells\nringing from all the churches round, and yet it seemed to him to be\na beautiful summer's day, mild and warm. His mighty summits was\ncrowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played\namong the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance\nfrom herb and blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the\nsummer flies danced around him, as if the world had been created\nmerely for them to dance and be merry in. All that had happened to the\ntree during every year of his life seemed to pass before him, as in\na festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times and noble\nladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes\nwaving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn\nsounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored\ndresses and glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their\ntents, and anon striking them. The watchfires again blazed, and men\nsang and slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree. He saw lovers\nmeet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine, and carve the\ninitials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk.\nOnce, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian\nharps had been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed\nto hang there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones. The\nwood-pigeons cooed as if to explain the feelings of the tree, and\nthe cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to\nlive. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through every\nfibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest\nbranches. The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while\nthrough the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he\ngrew higher and still higher, with increased strength, his topmost\nboughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to his growth,\nso was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous\nlonging to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright\nsun itself. Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which\nfloated beneath them like troops of birds of passage, or large white\nswans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed eyes to\nsee. The stars became visible in broad daylight, large and\nsparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to the memory the\nwell-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers who\nhad once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful\nand happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet,\namidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire\nthat all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him,\nmight be able also to rise higher, as he had done, and to see all this\nsplendor, and experience the same happiness. The grand, majestic oak\ncould not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment, while all\nthe rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling of\nyearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as\nwarmly and fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human\nheart. The summit of the tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards\nas if in his silent longing he sought for something. Then there came\nto him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the more powerful scent\nof honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the note of the\ncuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds\ncame the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak\nsaw them rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot\nupward, and some even tore themselves up by the roots to rise more\nquickly. The birch-tree was the quickest of all. Like a lightning\nflash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, the branches\nspreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native of\nthe wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest,\nwhile the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass,\nthat fluttered in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a\ngrasshopper, cleaning his wings with his legs. May beetles hummed, the\nbees murmured, the birds sang, each in his own way; the air was filled\nwith the sounds of song and gladness.\n\n\"But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?\"\nasked the oak, \"and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?\" You see\nthe oak wanted to have them all with him.\n\n\"Here we are, we are here,\" sounded in voice and song.\n\n\"But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the\nlilies-of-the-valley, which last year covered the earth with their\nbloom? and the wild apple-tree with its lovely blossoms, and all the\nglory of the wood, which has flourished year after year? even what may\nhave but now sprouted forth could be with us here.\"\n\n\"We are here, we are here,\" sounded voices higher in the air, as\nif they had flown there beforehand.\n\n\"Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed,\" said the\noak in a joyful tone. \"I have them all here, both great and small; not\none has been forgotten. Can such happiness be imagined?\" It seemed\nalmost impossible.\n\n\"In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is\npossible,\" sounded the reply through the air.\n\nAnd the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt\nthat his roots were loosening themselves from the earth.\n\n\"It is right so, it is best,\" said the tree, \"no fetters hold me\nnow. I can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And\nall I love are with me, both small and great. All--all are here.\"\n\nSuch was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a\nmighty storm came rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas\ntime. The sea rolled in great billows towards the shore. There was a\ncracking and crushing heard in the tree. The root was torn from the\nground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied it was being\nloosened from the earth. He fell--his three hundred and sixty-five\nyears were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of\nChristmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the\nchurches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even of the\nsmallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the smoke from\nthe festive thank-offerings on the Druids' altars. The sea gradually\nbecame calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the\ntempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token\nof joy and festivity. \"The tree is down! The old oak,--our landmark on\nthe coast!\" exclaimed the sailors. \"It must have fallen in the storm\nof last night. Who can replace it? Alas! no one.\" This was a funeral\noration over the old tree; short, but well-meant. There it lay\nstretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded the notes\nof a song from the ship--a song of Christmas joy, and of the\nredemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ's\natoning blood.\n\n  \"Sing aloud on the happy morn,\n  All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;\n  With songs of joy let us loudly sing,\n  'Hallelujahs to Christ our King.'\"\n\nThus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the\nship felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even\nas the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on\nthat Christmas morn.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST PEARL\n\nWe are in a rich, happy house, where the master, the servants, the\nfriends of the family are full of joy and felicity. For on this day\na son and heir has been born, and mother and child are doing well. The\nlamp in the bed-chamber had been partly shaded, and the windows were\ncovered with heavy curtains of some costly silken material. The carpet\nwas thick and soft, like a covering of moss. Everything invited to\nslumber, everything had a charming look of repose; and so the nurse\nhad discovered, for she slept; and well she might sleep, while\neverything around her told of happiness and blessing. The guardian\nangel of the house leaned against the head of the bed; while over\nthe child was spread, as it were, a net of shining stars, and each\nstar was a pearl of happiness. All the good stars of life had\nbrought their gifts to the newly born; here sparkled health, wealth,\nfortune, and love; in short, there seemed to be everything for which\nman could wish on earth.\n\n\"Everything has been bestowed here,\" said the guardian angel.\n\n\"No, not everything,\" said a voice near him--the voice of the good\nangel of the child; \"one fairy has not yet brought her gift, but she\nwill, even if years should elapse, she will bring her gift; it is\nthe last pearl that is wanting.\"\n\n\"Wanting!\" cried the guardian angel; \"nothing must be wanting\nhere; and if it is so, let us fetch it; let us seek the powerful\nfairy; let us go to her.\"\n\n\"She will come, she will come some day unsought!\"\n\n\"Her pearl must not be missing; it must be there, that the\ncrown, when worn, may be complete. Where is she to be found? Where\ndoes she dwell?\" said the guardian angel. \"Tell me, and I will procure\nthe pearl.\"\n\n\"Will you do that?\" replied the good angel of the child. \"Then I\nwill lead you to her directly, wherever she may be. She has no abiding\nplace; she rules in the palace of the emperor, sometimes she enters\nthe peasant's humble cot; she passes no one without leaving a trace of\nher presence. She brings her gift with her, whether it is a world or a\nbauble. To this child she must come. You think that to wait for this\ntime would be long and useless. Well, then, let us go for this\npearl--the only one lacking amidst all this wealth.\"\n\nThen hand-in-hand they floated away to the spot where the fairy\nwas now lingering. It was in a large house with dark windows and empty\nrooms, in which a peculiar stillness reigned. A whole row of windows\nstood open, so that the rude wind could enter at its pleasure, and the\nlong white curtains waved to and fro in the current of air. In the\ncentre of one of the rooms stood an open coffin, in which lay the body\nof a woman, still in the bloom of youth and very beautiful. Fresh\nroses were scattered over her. The delicate folded hands and the noble\nface glorified in death by the solemn, earnest look, which spoke of an\nentrance into a better world, were alone visible. Around the coffin\nstood the husband and children, a whole troop, the youngest in the\nfather's arms. They were come to take a last farewell look of their\nmother. The husband kissed her hand, which now lay like a withered\nleaf, but which a short time before had been diligently employed in\ndeeds of love for them all. Tears of sorrow rolled down their\ncheeks, and fell in heavy drops on the floor, but not a word was\nspoken. The silence which reigned here expressed a world of grief.\nWith silent steps, still sobbing, they left the room. A burning\nlight remained in the room, and a long, red wick rose far above the\nflame, which fluttered in the draught of air. Strange men came in\nand placed the lid of the coffin over the dead, and drove the nails\nfirmly in; while the blows of the hammer resounded through the\nhouse, and echoed in the hearts that were bleeding.\n\n\"Whither art thou leading me?\" asked the guardian angel. \"Here\ndwells no fairy whose pearl could be counted amongst the best gifts of\nlife.\"\n\n\"Yes, she is here; here in this sacred hour,\" replied the angel,\npointing to a corner of the room; and there,--where in her\nlife-time, the mother had taken her seat amidst flowers and\npictures: in that spot, where she, like the blessed fairy of the\nhouse, had welcomed husband, children, and friends, and, like a\nsunbeam, had spread joy and cheerfulness around her, the centre and\nheart of them all,--there, in that very spot, sat a strange woman,\nclothed in long, flowing garments, and occupying the place of the dead\nwife and mother. It was the fairy, and her name was \"Sorrow.\" A hot\ntear rolled into her lap, and formed itself into a pearl, glowing with\nall the colors of the rainbow. The angel seized it: the pearl\nglittered like a star with seven-fold radiance. The pearl of Sorrow,\nthe last, which must not be wanting, increases the lustre, and\nexplains the meaning of all the other pearls.\n\n\"Do you see the shimmer of the rainbow, which unites earth to\nheaven?\" So has there been a bridge built between this world and the\nnext. Through the night of the grave we gaze upwards beyond the\nstars to the end of all things. Then we glance at the pearl of Sorrow,\nin which are concealed the wings which shall carry us away to\neternal happiness.\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE CLAUS AND BIG CLAUS\n\nIn a village there once lived two men who had the same name.\nThey were both called Claus. One of them had four horses, but the\nother had only one; so to distinguish them, people called the owner of\nthe four horses, \"Great Claus,\" and he who had only one, \"Little\nClaus.\" Now we shall hear what happened to them, for this is a true\nstory.\n\nThrough the whole week, Little Claus was obliged to plough for\nGreat Claus, and lend him his one horse; and once a week, on a Sunday,\nGreat Claus lent him all his four horses. Then how Little Claus\nwould smack his whip over all five horses, they were as good as his\nown on that one day. The sun shone brightly, and the church bells were\nringing merrily as the people passed by, dressed in their best\nclothes, with their prayer-books under their arms. They were going\nto hear the clergyman preach. They looked at Little Claus ploughing\nwith his five horses, and he was so proud that he smacked his whip,\nand said, \"Gee-up, my five horses.\"\n\n\"You must not say that,\" said Big Claus; \"for only one of them\nbelongs to you.\" But Little Claus soon forgot what he ought to say,\nand when any one passed he would call out, \"Gee-up, my five horses!\"\n\n\"Now I must beg you not to say that again,\" said Big Claus; \"for\nif you do, I shall hit your horse on the head, so that he will drop\ndead on the spot, and there will be an end of him.\"\n\n\"I promise you I will not say it any more,\" said the other; but as\nsoon as people came by, nodding to him, and wishing him \"Good day,\" he\nbecame so pleased, and thought how grand it looked to have five horses\nploughing in his field, that he cried out again, \"Gee-up, all my\nhorses!\"\n\n\"I'll gee-up your horses for you,\" said Big Claus; and seizing a\nhammer, he struck the one horse of Little Claus on the head, and he\nfell dead instantly.\n\n\"Oh, now I have no horse at all,\" said Little Claus, weeping. But\nafter a while he took off the dead horse's skin, and hung the hide\nto dry in the wind. Then he put the dry skin into a bag, and,\nplacing it over his shoulder, went out into the next town to sell\nthe horse's skin. He had a very long way to go, and had to pass\nthrough a dark, gloomy forest. Presently a storm arose, and he lost\nhis way, and before he discovered the right path, evening came on, and\nit was still a long way to the town, and too far to return home before\nnight. Near the road stood a large farmhouse. The shutters outside the\nwindows were closed, but lights shone through the crevices at the top.\n\"I might get permission to stay here for the night,\" thought Little\nClaus; so he went up to the door and knocked. The farmer's wife opened\nthe door; but when she heard what he wanted, she told him to go\naway, as her husband would not allow her to admit strangers. \"Then I\nshall be obliged to lie out here,\" said Little Claus to himself, as\nthe farmer's wife shut the door in his face. Near to the farmhouse\nstood a large haystack, and between it and the house was a small shed,\nwith a thatched roof. \"I can lie up there,\" said Little Claus, as he\nsaw the roof; \"it will make a famous bed, but I hope the stork will\nnot fly down and bite my legs;\" for on it stood a living stork,\nwhose nest was in the roof. So Little Claus climbed to the roof of the\nshed, and while he turned himself to get comfortable, he discovered\nthat the wooden shutters, which were closed, did not reach to the tops\nof the windows of the farmhouse, so that he could see into a room,\nin which a large table was laid out with wine, roast meat, and a\nsplendid fish. The farmer's wife and the sexton were sitting at the\ntable together; and she filled his glass, and helped him plenteously\nto fish, which appeared to be his favorite dish. \"If I could only\nget some, too,\" thought Little Claus; and then, as he stretched his\nneck towards the window he spied a large, beautiful pie,--indeed\nthey had a glorious feast before them.\n\nAt this moment he heard some one riding down the road, towards the\nfarmhouse. It was the farmer returning home. He was a good man, but\nstill he had a very strange prejudice,--he could not bear the sight of\na sexton. If one appeared before him, he would put himself in a\nterrible rage. In consequence of this dislike, the sexton had gone\nto visit the farmer's wife during her husband's absence from home, and\nthe good woman had placed before him the best she had in the house\nto eat. When she heard the farmer coming she was frightened, and\nbegged the sexton to hide himself in a large empty chest that stood in\nthe room. He did so, for he knew her husband could not endure the\nsight of a sexton. The woman then quickly put away the wine, and hid\nall the rest of the nice things in the oven; for if her husband had\nseen them he would have asked what they were brought out for.\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" sighed Little Claus from the top of the shed, as he\nsaw all the good things disappear.\n\n\"Is any one up there?\" asked the farmer, looking up and\ndiscovering Little Claus. \"Why are you lying up there? Come down,\nand come into the house with me.\" So Little Claus came down and told\nthe farmer how he had lost his way and begged for a night's lodging.\n\n\"All right,\" said the farmer; \"but we must have something to eat\nfirst.\"\n\nThe woman received them both very kindly, laid the cloth on a\nlarge table, and placed before them a dish of porridge. The farmer was\nvery hungry, and ate his porridge with a good appetite, but Little\nClaus could not help thinking of the nice roast meat, fish and pies,\nwhich he knew were in the oven. Under the table, at his feet, lay\nthe sack containing the horse's skin, which he intended to sell at the\nnext town. Now Little Claus did not relish the porridge at all, so\nhe trod with his foot on the sack under the table, and the dry skin\nsqueaked quite loud. \"Hush!\" said Little Claus to his sack, at the\nsame time treading upon it again, till it squeaked louder than before.\n\n\"Hallo! what have you got in your sack!\" asked the farmer.\n\n\"Oh, it is a conjuror,\" said Little Claus; \"and he says we need\nnot eat porridge, for he has conjured the oven full of roast meat,\nfish, and pie.\"\n\n\"Wonderful!\" cried the farmer, starting up and opening the oven\ndoor; and there lay all the nice things hidden by the farmer's wife,\nbut which he supposed had been conjured there by the wizard under\nthe table. The woman dared not say anything; so she placed the\nthings before them, and they both ate of the fish, the meat, and the\npastry.\n\nThen Little Claus trod again upon his sack, and it squeaked as\nbefore. \"What does he say now?\" asked the farmer.\n\n\"He says,\" replied Little Claus, \"that there are three bottles\nof wine for us, standing in the corner, by the oven.\"\n\nSo the woman was obliged to bring out the wine also, which she had\nhidden, and the farmer drank it till he became quite merry. He would\nhave liked such a conjuror as Little Claus carried in his sack. \"Could\nhe conjure up the evil one?\" asked the farmer. \"I should like to see\nhim now, while I am so merry.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" replied Little Claus, \"my conjuror can do anything I\nask him,--can you not?\" he asked, treading at the same time on the\nsack till it squeaked. \"Do you hear? he answers 'Yes,' but he fears\nthat we shall not like to look at him.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am not afraid. What will he be like?\"\n\n\"Well, he is very much like a sexton.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said the farmer, \"then he must be ugly. Do you know I cannot\nendure the sight of a sexton. However, that doesn't matter, I shall\nknow who it is; so I shall not mind. Now then, I have got up my\ncourage, but don't let him come too near me.\"\n\n\"Stop, I must ask the conjuror,\" said Little Claus; so he trod\non the bag, and stooped his ear down to listen.\n\n\"What does he say?\"\n\n\"He says that you must go and open that large chest which stands\nin the corner, and you will see the evil one crouching down inside;\nbut you must hold the lid firmly, that he may not slip out.\"\n\n\"Will you come and help me hold it?\" said the farmer, going\ntowards the chest in which his wife had hidden the sexton, who now lay\ninside, very much frightened. The farmer opened the lid a very\nlittle way, and peeped in.\n\n\"Oh,\" cried he, springing backwards, \"I saw him, and he is exactly\nlike our sexton. How dreadful it is!\" So after that he was obliged\nto drink again, and they sat and drank till far into the night.\n\n\"You must sell your conjuror to me,\" said the farmer; \"ask as much\nas you like, I will pay it; indeed I would give you directly a whole\nbushel of gold.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, I cannot,\" said Little Claus; \"only think how much\nprofit I could make out of this conjuror.\"\n\n\"But I should like to have him,\" said the fanner, still continuing\nhis entreaties.\n\n\"Well,\" said Little Claus at length, \"you have been so good as\nto give me a night's lodging, I will not refuse you; you shall have\nthe conjuror for a bushel of money, but I will have quite full\nmeasure.\"\n\n\"So you shall,\" said the farmer; \"but you must take away the chest\nas well. I would not have it in the house another hour; there is no\nknowing if he may not be still there.\"\n\nSo Little Claus gave the farmer the sack containing the dried\nhorse's skin, and received in exchange a bushel of money--full\nmeasure. The farmer also gave him a wheelbarrow on which to carry away\nthe chest and the gold.\n\n\"Farewell,\" said Little Claus, as he went off with his money and\nthe great chest, in which the sexton lay still concealed. On one\nside of the forest was a broad, deep river, the water flowed so\nrapidly that very few were able to swim against the stream. A new\nbridge had lately been built across it, and in the middle of this\nbridge Little Claus stopped, and said, loud enough to be heard by\nthe sexton, \"Now what shall I do with this stupid chest; it is as\nheavy as if it were full of stones: I shall be tired if I roll it\nany farther, so I may as well throw it in the river; if it swims after\nme to my house, well and good, and if not, it will not much matter.\"\n\nSo he seized the chest in his hand and lifted it up a little, as\nif he were going to throw it into the water.\n\n\"No, leave it alone,\" cried the sexton from within the chest; \"let\nme out first.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" exclaimed Little Claus, pretending to be frightened, \"he\nis in there still, is he? I must throw him into the river, that he may\nbe drowned.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; oh, no,\" cried the sexton; \"I will give you a whole\nbushel full of money if you will let me go.\n\n\"Why, that is another matter,\" said Little Claus, opening the\nchest. The sexton crept out, pushed the empty chest into the water,\nand went to his house, then he measured out a whole bushel full of\ngold for Little Claus, who had already received one from the farmer,\nso that now he had a barrow full.\n\n\"I have been well paid for my horse,\" said he to himself when he\nreached home, entered his own room, and emptied all his money into a\nheap on the floor. \"How vexed Great Claus will be when he finds out\nhow rich I have become all through my one horse; but I shall not\ntell him exactly how it all happened.\" Then he sent a boy to Great\nClaus to borrow a bushel measure.\n\n\"What can he want it for?\" thought Great Claus; so he smeared\nthe bottom of the measure with tar, that some of whatever was put into\nit might stick there and remain. And so it happened; for when the\nmeasure returned, three new silver florins were sticking to it.\n\n\"What does this mean?\" said Great Claus; so he ran off directly to\nLittle Claus, and asked, \"Where did you get so much money?\"\n\n\"Oh, for my horse's skin, I sold it yesterday.\"\n\n\"It was certainly well paid for then,\" said Great Claus; and he\nran home to his house, seized a hatchet, and knocked all his four\nhorses on the head, flayed off their skins, and took them to the\ntown to sell. \"Skins, skins, who'll buy skins?\" he cried, as he went\nthrough the streets. All the shoemakers and tanners came running,\nand asked how much he wanted for them.\n\n\"A bushel of money, for each,\" replied Great Claus.\n\n\"Are you mad?\" they all cried; \"do you think we have money to\nspend by the bushel?\"\n\n\"Skins, skins,\" he cried again, \"who'll buy skins?\" but to all who\ninquired the price, his answer was, \"a bushel of money.\"\n\n\"He is making fools of us,\" said they all; then the shoemakers\ntook their straps, and the tanners their leather aprons, and began\nto beat Great Claus.\n\n\"Skins, skins!\" they cried, mocking him; \"yes, we'll mark your\nskin for you, till it is black and blue.\"\n\n\"Out of the town with him,\" said they. And Great Claus was obliged\nto run as fast as he could, he had never before been so thoroughly\nbeaten.\n\n\"Ah,\" said he, as he came to his house; \"Little Claus shall pay me\nfor this; I will beat him to death.\"\n\nMeanwhile the old grandmother of Little Claus died. She had been\ncross, unkind, and really spiteful to him; but he was very sorry,\nand took the dead woman and laid her in his warm bed to see if he\ncould bring her to life again. There he determined that she should lie\nthe whole night, while he seated himself in a chair in a corner of the\nroom as he had often done before. During the night, as he sat there,\nthe door opened, and in came Great Claus with a hatchet. He knew\nwell where Little Claus's bed stood; so he went right up to it, and\nstruck the old grandmother on the head, thinking it must be Little\nClaus.\n\n\"There,\" cried he, \"now you cannot make a fool of me again;\" and\nthen he went home.\n\n\"That is a very wicked man,\" thought Little Claus; \"he meant to\nkill me. It is a good thing for my old grandmother that she was\nalready dead, or he would have taken her life.\" Then he dressed his\nold grandmother in her best clothes, borrowed a horse of his neighbor,\nand harnessed it to a cart. Then he placed the old woman on the back\nseat, so that she might not fall out as he drove, and rode away\nthrough the wood. By sunrise they reached a large inn, where Little\nClaus stopped and went to get something to eat. The landlord was a\nrich man, and a good man too; but as passionate as if he had been made\nof pepper and snuff.\n\n\"Good morning,\" said he to Little Claus; \"you are come betimes\nto-day.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Little Claus; \"I am going to the town with my old\ngrandmother; she is sitting at the back of the wagon, but I cannot\nbring her into the room. Will you take her a glass of mead? but you\nmust speak very loud, for she cannot hear well.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly I will,\" replied the landlord; and, pouring out\na glass of mead, he carried it out to the dead grandmother, who sat\nupright in the cart. \"Here is a glass of mead from your grandson,\"\nsaid the landlord. The dead woman did not answer a word, but sat quite\nstill. \"Do you not hear?\" cried the landlord as loud as he could;\n\"here is a glass of mead from your grandson.\"\n\nAgain and again he bawled it out, but as she did not stir he\nflew into a passion, and threw the glass of mead in her face; it\nstruck her on the nose, and she fell backwards out of the cart, for\nshe was only seated there, not tied in.\n\n\"Hallo!\" cried Little Claus, rushing out of the door, and seizing\nhold of the landlord by the throat; \"you have killed my grandmother;\nsee, here is a great hole in her forehead.\"\n\n\"Oh, how unfortunate,\" said the landlord, wringing his hands.\n\"This all comes of my fiery temper. Dear Little Claus, I will give you\na bushel of money; I will bury your grandmother as if she were my own;\nonly keep silent, or else they will cut off my head, and that would be\ndisagreeable.\"\n\nSo it happened that Little Claus received another bushel of money,\nand the landlord buried his old grandmother as if she had been his\nown. When Little Claus reached home again, he immediately sent a boy\nto Great Claus, requesting him to lend him a bushel measure. \"How is\nthis?\" thought Great Claus; \"did I not kill him? I must go and see for\nmyself.\" So he went to Little Claus, and took the bushel measure\nwith him. \"How did you get all this money?\" asked Great Claus, staring\nwith wide open eyes at his neighbor's treasures.\n\n\"You killed my grandmother instead of me,\" said Little Claus;\n\"so I have sold her for a bushel of money.\"\n\n\"That is a good price at all events,\" said Great Claus. So he went\nhome, took a hatchet, and killed his old grandmother with one blow.\nThen he placed her on a cart, and drove into the town to the\napothecary, and asked him if he would buy a dead body.\n\n\"Whose is it, and where did you get it?\" asked the apothecary.\n\n\"It is my grandmother,\" he replied; \"I killed her with a blow,\nthat I might get a bushel of money for her.\"\n\n\"Heaven preserve us!\" cried the apothecary, \"you are out of your\nmind. Don't say such things, or you will lose your head.\" And then\nhe talked to him seriously about the wicked deed he had done, and told\nhim that such a wicked man would surely be punished. Great Claus got\nso frightened that he rushed out of the surgery, jumped into the cart,\nwhipped up his horses, and drove home quickly. The apothecary and\nall the people thought him mad, and let him drive where he liked.\n\n\"You shall pay for this,\" said Great Claus, as soon as he got into\nthe highroad, \"that you shall, Little Claus.\" So as soon as he reached\nhome he took the largest sack he could find and went over to Little\nClaus. \"You have played me another trick,\" said he. \"First, I killed\nall my horses, and then my old grandmother, and it is all your\nfault; but you shall not make a fool of me any more.\" So he laid\nhold of Little Claus round the body, and pushed him into the sack,\nwhich he took on his shoulders, saying, \"Now I'm going to drown you in\nthe river.\"\n\nHe had a long way to go before he reached the river, and Little\nClaus was not a very light weight to carry. The road led by the\nchurch, and as they passed he could hear the organ playing and the\npeople singing beautifully. Great Claus put down the sack close to the\nchurch-door, and thought he might as well go in and hear a psalm\nbefore he went any farther. Little Claus could not possibly get out of\nthe sack, and all the people were in church; so in he went.\n\n\"Oh dear, oh dear,\" sighed Little Claus in the sack, as he\nturned and twisted about; but he found he could not loosen the\nstring with which it was tied. Presently an old cattle driver, with\nsnowy hair, passed by, carrying a large staff in his hand, with\nwhich he drove a large herd of cows and oxen before him. They stumbled\nagainst the sack in which lay Little Claus, and turned it over. \"Oh\ndear,\" sighed Little Claus, \"I am very young, yet I am soon going to\nheaven.\"\n\n\"And I, poor fellow,\" said the drover, \"I who am so old already,\ncannot get there.\"\n\n\"Open the sack,\" cried Little Claus; \"creep into it instead of me,\nand you will soon be there.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" replied the drover, opening the sack, from\nwhich sprung Little Claus as quickly as possible. \"Will you take\ncare of my cattle?\" said the old man, as he crept into the bag.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Little Claus, and he tied up the sack, and then walked\noff with all the cows and oxen.\n\nWhen Great Claus came out of church, he took up the sack, and\nplaced it on his shoulders. It appeared to have become lighter, for\nthe old drover was not half so heavy as Little Claus.\n\n\"How light he seems now,\" said he. \"Ah, it is because I have\nbeen to a church.\" So he walked on to the river, which was deep and\nbroad, and threw the sack containing the old drover into the water,\nbelieving it to be Little Claus. \"There you may lie!\" he exclaimed;\n\"you will play me no more tricks now.\" Then he turned to go home,\nbut when he came to a place where two roads crossed, there was\nLittle Claus driving the cattle. \"How is this?\" said Great Claus. \"Did\nI not drown you just now?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Little Claus; \"you threw me into the river about\nhalf an hour ago.\"\n\n\"But wherever did you get all these fine beasts?\" asked Great\nClaus.\n\n\"These beasts are sea-cattle,\" replied Little Claus. \"I'll tell\nyou the whole story, and thank you for drowning me; I am above you\nnow, I am really very rich. I was frightened, to be sure, while I\nlay tied up in the sack, and the wind whistled in my ears when you\nthrew me into the river from the bridge, and I sank to the bottom\nimmediately; but I did not hurt myself, for I fell upon beautifully\nsoft grass which grows down there; and in a moment, the sack opened,\nand the sweetest little maiden came towards me. She had snow-white\nrobes, and a wreath of green leaves on her wet hair. She took me by\nthe hand, and said, 'So you are come, Little Claus, and here are\nsome cattle for you to begin with. About a mile farther on the road,\nthere is another herd for you.' Then I saw that the river formed a\ngreat highway for the people who live in the sea. They were walking\nand driving here and there from the sea to the land at the, spot where\nthe river terminates. The bed of the river was covered with the\nloveliest flowers and sweet fresh grass. The fish swam past me as\nrapidly as the birds do here in the air. How handsome all the people\nwere, and what fine cattle were grazing on the hills and in the\nvalleys!\"\n\n\"But why did you come up again,\" said Great Claus, \"if it was\nall so beautiful down there? I should not have done so?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Little Claus, \"it was good policy on my part; you\nheard me say just now that I was told by the sea-maiden to go a mile\nfarther on the road, and I should find a whole herd of cattle. By\nthe road she meant the river, for she could not travel any other\nway; but I knew the winding of the river, and how it bends,\nsometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, and it seemed a long\nway, so I chose a shorter one; and, by coming up to the land, and then\ndriving across the fields back again to the river, I shall save half a\nmile, and get all my cattle more quickly.\"\n\n\"What a lucky fellow you are!\" exclaimed Great Claus. \"Do you\nthink I should get any sea-cattle if I went down to the bottom of\nthe river?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so,\" said Little Claus; \"but I cannot carry you\nthere in a sack, you are too heavy. However if you will go there\nfirst, and then creep into a sack, I will throw you in with the\ngreatest pleasure.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Great Claus; \"but remember, if I do not get\nany sea-cattle down there I shall come up again and give you a good\nthrashing.\"\n\n\"No, now, don't be too fierce about it!\" said Little Claus, as\nthey walked on towards the river. When they approached it, the cattle,\nwho were very thirsty, saw the stream, and ran down to drink.\n\n\"See what a hurry they are in,\" said Little Claus, \"they are\nlonging to get down again.\"\n\n\"Come, help me, make haste,\" said Great Claus; \"or you'll get\nbeaten.\" So he crept into a large sack, which had been lying across\nthe back of one of the oxen.\n\n\"Put in a stone,\" said Great Claus, \"or I may not sink.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's not much fear of that,\" he replied; still he put a\nlarge stone into the bag, and then tied it tightly, and gave it a\npush.\n\n\"Plump!\" In went Great Claus, and immediately sank to the bottom\nof the river.\n\n\"I'm afraid he will not find any cattle,\" said Little Claus, and\nthen he drove his own beasts homewards.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE ELDER-TREE MOTHER\n\nThere was once a little boy who had caught cold; he had gone out\nand got wet feet. Nobody had the least idea how it had happened; the\nweather was quite dry. His mother undressed him, put him to bed, and\nordered the teapot to be brought in, that she might make him a good\ncup of tea from the elder-tree blossoms, which is so warming. At the\nsame time, the kind-hearted old man who lived by himself in the\nupper storey of the house came in; he led a lonely life, for he had no\nwife and children; but he loved the children of others very much,\nand he could tell so many fairy tales and stories, that it was a\npleasure to hear him.\n\n\"Now, drink your tea,\" said the mother; \"perhaps you will hear a\nstory.\"\n\n\"Yes, if I only knew a fresh one,\" said the old man, and nodded\nsmilingly. \"But how did the little fellow get his wet feet?\" he then\nasked.\n\n\"That,\" replied the mother, \"nobody can understand.\"\n\n\"Will you tell me a story?\" asked the boy.\n\n\"Yes, if you can tell me as nearly as possible how deep is the\ngutter in the little street where you go to school.\"\n\n\"Just half as high as my top-boots,\" replied the boy; \"but then\nI must stand in the deepest holes.\"\n\n\"There, now we know where you got your wet feet,\" said the old\nman. \"I ought to tell you a story, but the worst of it is, I do not\nknow any more.\"\n\n\"You can make one up,\" said the little boy. \"Mother says you can\ntell a fairy tale about anything you look at or touch.\"\n\n\"That is all very well, but such tales or stories are worth\nnothing! No, the right ones come by themselves and knock at my\nforehead saying: 'Here I am.'\"\n\n\"Will not one knock soon?\" asked the boy; and the mother smiled\nwhile she put elder-tree blossoms into the teapot and poured boiling\nwater over them. \"Pray, tell me a story.\"\n\n\"Yes, if stories came by themselves; they are so proud, they\nonly come when they please.--But wait,\" he said suddenly, \"there is\none. Look at the teapot; there is a story in it now.\"\n\nAnd the little boy looked at the teapot; the lid rose up\ngradually, the elder-tree blossoms sprang forth one by one, fresh\nand white; long boughs came forth; even out of the spout they grew\nup in all directions, and formed a bush--nay, a large elder tree,\nwhich stretched its branches up to the bed and pushed the curtains\naside; and there were so many blossoms and such a sweet fragrance!\nIn the midst of the tree sat a kindly-looking old woman with a strange\ndress; it was as green as the leaves, and trimmed with large white\nblossoms, so that it was difficult to say whether it was real cloth,\nor the leaves and blossoms of the elder-tree.\n\n\"What is this woman's name?\" asked the little boy.\n\n\"Well, the Romans and Greeks used to call her a Dryad,\" said the\nold man; \"but we do not understand that. Out in the sailors' quarter\nthey give her a better name; there she is called elder-tree mother.\nNow, you must attentively listen to her and look at the beautiful\nelder-tree.\n\n\"Just such a large tree, covered with flowers, stands out there;\nit grew in the corner of an humble little yard; under this tree sat\ntwo old people one afternoon in the beautiful sunshine. He was an old,\nold sailor, and she his old wife; they had already great-grandchildren,\nand were soon to celebrate their golden wedding, but they could not\nremember the date, and the elder-tree mother was sitting in the tree\nand looked as pleased as this one here. 'I know very well when the\ngolden wedding is to take place,' she said; but they did not hear\nit--they were talking of bygone days.\n\n\"'Well, do you remember?' said the old sailor, 'when we were quite\nsmall and used to run about and play--it was in the very same yard\nwhere we now are--we used to put little branches into the ground and\nmake a garden.'\n\n\"'Yes,' said the old woman, 'I remember it very well; we used to\nwater the branches, and one of them, an elder-tree branch, took\nroot, and grew and became the large tree under which we are now\nsitting as old people.'\n\n\"'Certainly, you are right,' he said; 'and in yonder corner\nstood a large water-tub; there I used to sail my boat, which I had cut\nout myself--it sailed so well; but soon I had to sail somewhere else.'\n\n\"'But first we went to school to learn something,' she said,\n'and then we were confirmed; we both wept on that day, but in the\nafternoon we went out hand in hand, and ascended the high round\ntower and looked out into the wide world right over Copenhagen and the\nsea; then we walked to Fredericksburg, where the king and the queen\nwere sailing about in their magnificent boat on the canals.'\n\n\"'But soon I had to sail about somewhere else, and for many\nyears I was travelling about far away from home.'\n\n\"'And I often cried about you, for I was afraid lest you were\ndrowned and lying at the bottom of the sea. Many a time I got up in\nthe night and looked if the weathercock had turned; it turned often,\nbut you did not return. I remember one day distinctly: the rain was\npouring down in torrents; the dust-man had come to the house where I\nwas in service; I went down with the dust-bin and stood for a moment\nin the doorway, and looked at the dreadful weather. Then the postman\ngave me a letter; it was from you. Heavens! how that letter had\ntravelled about. I tore it open and read it; I cried and laughed at\nthe same time, and was so happy! Therein was written that you were\nstaying in the hot countries, where the coffee grows. These must be\nmarvellous countries. You said a great deal about them, and I read all\nwhile the rain was pouring down and I was standing there with the\ndust-bin. Then suddenly some one put his arm round my waist-'\n\n\"'Yes, and you gave him a hearty smack on the cheek,' said the old\nman.\n\n\"'I did not know that it was you--you had come as quickly as\nyour letter; and you looked so handsome, and so you do still. You\nhad a large yellow silk handkerchief in your pocket and a shining\nhat on. You looked so well, and the weather in the street was\nhorrible!'\n\n\"'Then we married,' he said. 'Do you remember how we got our first\nboy, and then Mary, Niels, Peter, John, and Christian?'\n\n\"'Oh yes; and now they have all grown up, and have become useful\nmembers of society, whom everybody cares for.'\n\n\"'And their children have had children again,' said the old\nsailor. 'Yes, these are children's children, and they are strong and\nhealthy. If I am not mistaken, our wedding took place at this season\nof the year.'\n\n\"'Yes, to-day is your golden wedding-day,' said the little\nelder-tree mother, stretching her head down between the two old\npeople, who thought that she was their neighbour who was nodding to\nthem; they looked at each other and clasped hands. Soon afterwards the\nchildren and grandchildren came, for they knew very well that it was\nthe golden wedding-day; they had already wished them joy and happiness\nin the morning, but the old people had forgotten it, although they\nremembered things so well that had passed many, many years ago. The\nelder-tree smelt strongly, and the setting sun illuminated the faces\nof the two old people, so that they looked quite rosy; the youngest of\nthe grandchildren danced round them, and cried merrily that there\nwould be a feast in the evening, for they were to have hot potatoes;\nand the elder mother nodded in the tree and cried 'Hooray' with the\nothers.\"\n\n\"But that was no fairy tale,\" said the little boy who had listened\nto it.\n\n\"You will presently understand it,\" said the old man who told\nthe story. \"Let us ask little elder-tree mother about it.\"\n\n\"That was no fairy tale,\" said the little elder-tree mother;\n\"but now it comes! Real life furnishes us with subjects for the most\nwonderful fairy tales; for otherwise my beautiful elder-bush could not\nhave grown forth out of the teapot.\"\n\nAnd then she took the little boy out of bed and placed him on\nher bosom; the elder branches, full of blossoms, closed over them;\nit was as if they sat in a thick leafy bower which flew with them\nthrough the air; it was beautiful beyond all description. The little\nelder-tree mother had suddenly become a charming young girl, but her\ndress was still of the same green material, covered with white\nblossoms, as the elder-tree mother had worn; she had a real elder\nblossom on her bosom, and a wreath of the same flowers was wound round\nher curly golden hair; her eyes were so large and so blue that it\nwas wonderful to look at them. She and the boy kissed each other,\nand then they were of the same age and felt the same joys. They walked\nhand in hand out of the bower, and now stood at home in a beautiful\nflower garden. Near the green lawn the father's walking-stick was tied\nto a post. There was life in this stick for the little ones, for as\nsoon as they seated themselves upon it the polished knob turned into a\nneighing horse's head, a long black mane was fluttering in the wind,\nand four strong slender legs grew out. The animal was fiery and\nspirited; they galloped round the lawn. \"Hooray! now we shall ride far\naway, many miles!\" said the boy; \"we shall ride to the nobleman's\nestate where we were last year.\" And they rode round the lawn again,\nand the little girl, who, as we know, was no other than the little\nelder-tree mother, continually cried, \"Now we are in the country! Do\nyou see the farmhouse there, with the large baking stove, which\nprojects like a gigantic egg out of the wall into the road? The\nelder-tree spreads its branches over it, and the cock struts about and\nscratches for the hens. Look how proud he is! Now we are near the\nchurch; it stands on a high hill, under the spreading oak trees; one\nof them is half dead! Now we are at the smithy, where the fire roars\nand the half-naked men beat with their hammers so that the sparks\nfly far and wide. Let's be off to the beautiful farm!\" And they passed\nby everything the little girl, who was sitting behind on the stick,\ndescribed, and the boy saw it, and yet they only went round the\nlawn. Then they played in a side-walk, and marked out a little\ngarden on the ground; she took elder-blossoms out of her hair and\nplanted them, and they grew exactly like those the old people\nplanted when they were children, as we have heard before. They\nwalked about hand in hand, just as the old couple had done when they\nwere little, but they did not go to the round tower nor to the\nFredericksburg garden. No; the little girl seized the boy round the\nwaist, and then they flew far into the country. It was spring and it\nbecame summer, it was autumn and it became winter, and thousands of\npictures reflected themselves in the boy's eyes and heart, and the\nlittle girl always sang again, \"You will never forget that!\" And\nduring their whole flight the elder-tree smelt so sweetly; he\nnoticed the roses and the fresh beeches, but the elder-tree smelt much\nstronger, for the flowers were fixed on the little girl's bosom,\nagainst which the boy often rested his head during the flight.\n\n\"It is beautiful here in spring,\" said the little girl, and they\nwere again in the green beechwood, where the thyme breathed forth\nsweet fragrance at their feet, and the pink anemones looked lovely\nin the green moss. \"Oh! that it were always spring in the fragrant\nbeechwood!\"\n\n\"Here it is splendid in summer!\" she said, and they passed by\nold castles of the age of chivalry. The high walls and indented\nbattlements were reflected in the water of the ditches, on which swans\nwere swimming and peering into the old shady avenues. The corn waved\nin the field like a yellow sea. Red and yellow flowers grew in the\nditches, wild hops and convolvuli in full bloom in the hedges. In\nthe evening the moon rose, large and round, and the hayricks in the\nmeadows smelt sweetly. \"One can never forget it!\"\n\n\"Here it is beautiful in autumn!\" said the little girl, and the\natmosphere seemed twice as high and blue, while the wood shone with\ncrimson, green, and gold. The hounds were running off, flocks of\nwild fowl flew screaming over the barrows, while the bramble bushes\ntwined round the old stones. The dark-blue sea was covered with\nwhite-sailed ships, and in the barns sat old women, girls, and\nchildren picking hops into a large tub; the young ones sang songs, and\nthe old people told fairy tales about goblins and sorcerers. It\ncould not be more pleasant anywhere.\n\n\"Here it's agreeable in winter!\" said the little girl, and all the\ntrees were covered with hoar-frost, so that they looked like white\ncoral. The snow creaked under one's feet, as if one had new boots\non. One shooting star after another traversed the sky. In the room the\nChristmas tree was lit, and there were song and merriment. In the\npeasant's cottage the violin sounded, and games were played for\napple quarters; even the poorest child said, \"It is beautiful in\nwinter!\"\n\nAnd indeed it was beautiful! And the little girl showed everything\nto the boy, and the elder-tree continued to breathe forth sweet\nperfume, while the red flag with the white cross was streaming in\nthe wind; it was the flag under which the old sailor had served. The\nboy became a youth; he was to go out into the wide world, far away\nto the countries where the coffee grows. But at parting the little\ngirl took an elder-blossom from her breast and gave it to him as a\nkeepsake. He placed it in his prayer-book, and when he opened it in\ndistant lands it was always at the place where the flower of\nremembrance was lying; and the more he looked at it the fresher it\nbecame, so that he could almost smell the fragrance of the woods at\nhome. He distinctly saw the little girl, with her bright blue eyes,\npeeping out from behind the petals, and heard her whispering, \"Here it\nis beautiful in spring, in summer, in autumn, and in winter,\" and\nhundreds of pictures passed through his mind.\n\nThus many years rolled by. He had now become an old man, and was\nsitting, with his old wife, under an elder-tree in full bloom. They\nheld each other by the hand exactly as the great-grandfather and the\ngreat-grandmother had done outside, and, like them, they talked\nabout bygone days and of their golden wedding. The little girl with\nthe blue eyes and elder-blossoms in her hair was sitting high up in\nthe tree, and nodded to them, saying, \"To-day is the golden\nwedding!\" And then she took two flowers out of her wreath and kissed\nthem. They glittered at first like silver, then like gold, and when\nshe placed them on the heads of the old people each flower became a\ngolden crown. There they both sat like a king and queen under the\nsweet-smelling tree, which looked exactly like an elder-tree, and he\ntold his wife the story of the elder-tree mother as it had been told\nhim when he was a little boy. They were both of opinion that the story\ncontained many points like their own, and these similarities they\nliked best.\n\n\"Yes, so it is,\" said the little girl in the tree. \"Some call me\nLittle Elder-tree Mother; others a Dryad; but my real name is\n'Remembrance.' It is I who sit in the tree which grows and grows. I\ncan remember things and tell stories! But let's see if you have\nstill got your flower.\"\n\nAnd the old man opened his prayer-book; the elder-blossom was\nstill in it, and as fresh as if it had only just been put in.\nRemembrance nodded, and the two old people, with the golden crowns\non their heads, sat in the glowing evening sun. They closed their eyes\nand--and--\n\nWell, now the story is ended! The little boy in bed did not know\nwhether he had dreamt it or heard it told; the teapot stood on the\ntable, but no elder-tree was growing out of it, and the old man who\nhad told the story was on the point of leaving the room, and he did go\nout.\n\n\"How beautiful it was!\" said the little boy. \"Mother, I have\nbeen to warm countries!\"\n\n\"I believe you,\" said the mother; \"if one takes two cups of hot\nelder-tea it is quite natural that one gets into warm countries!\"\nAnd she covered him up well, so that he might not take cold. \"You have\nslept soundly while I was arguing with the old man whether it was a\nstory or a fairy tale!\"\n\n\"And what has become of the little elder-tree mother?\" asked the\nboy.\n\n\"She is in the teapot,\" said the mother; \"and there she may\nremain.\"\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS\n\n\"My poor flowers are quite dead,\" said little Ida, \"they were so\npretty yesterday evening, and now all the leaves are hanging down\nquite withered. What do they do that for,\" she asked, of the student\nwho sat on the sofa; she liked him very much, he could tell the most\namusing stories, and cut out the prettiest pictures; hearts, and\nladies dancing, castles with doors that opened, as well as flowers; he\nwas a delightful student. \"Why do the flowers look so faded to-day?\"\nshe asked again, and pointed to her nosegay, which was quite withered.\n\n\"Don't you know what is the matter with them?\" said the student.\n\"The flowers were at a ball last night, and therefore, it is no wonder\nthey hang their heads.\"\n\n\"But flowers cannot dance?\" cried little Ida.\n\n\"Yes indeed, they can,\" replied the student. \"When it grows\ndark, and everybody is asleep, they jump about quite merrily. They\nhave a ball almost every night.\"\n\n\"Can children go to these balls?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the student, \"little daisies and lilies of the\nvalley.\"\n\n\"Where do the beautiful flowers dance?\" asked little Ida.\n\n\"Have you not often seen the large castle outside the gates of the\ntown, where the king lives in summer, and where the beautiful garden\nis full of flowers? And have you not fed the swans with bread when\nthey swam towards you? Well, the flowers have capital balls there,\nbelieve me.\"\n\n\"I was in the garden out there yesterday with my mother,\" said\nIda, \"but all the leaves were off the trees, and there was not a\nsingle flower left. Where are they? I used to see so many in the\nsummer.\"\n\n\"They are in the castle,\" replied the student. \"You must know that\nas soon as the king and all the court are gone into the town, the\nflowers run out of the garden into the castle, and you should see\nhow merry they are. The two most beautiful roses seat themselves on\nthe throne, and are called the king and queen, then all the red\ncockscombs range themselves on each side, and bow, these are the\nlords-in-waiting. After that the pretty flowers come in, and there\nis a grand ball. The blue violets represent little naval cadets, and\ndance with hyacinths and crocuses which they call young ladies. The\ntulips and tiger-lilies are the old ladies who sit and watch the\ndancing, so that everything may be conducted with order and\npropriety.\"\n\n\"But,\" said little Ida, \"is there no one there to hurt the flowers\nfor dancing in the king's castle?\"\n\n\"No one knows anything about it,\" said the student. \"The old\nsteward of the castle, who has to watch there at night, sometimes\ncomes in; but he carries a great bunch of keys, and as soon as the\nflowers hear the keys rattle, they run and hide themselves behind\nthe long curtains, and stand quite still, just peeping their heads\nout. Then the old steward says, 'I smell flowers here,' but he\ncannot see them.\"\n\n\"Oh how capital,\" said little Ida, clapping her hands. \"Should I\nbe able to see these flowers?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the student, \"mind you think of it the next time you\ngo out, no doubt you will see them, if you peep through the window.\nI did so to-day, and I saw a long yellow lily lying stretched out on\nthe sofa. She was a court lady.\"\n\n\"Can the flowers from the Botanical Gardens go to these balls?\"\nasked Ida. \"It is such a distance!\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said the student, \"whenever they like, for they can\nfly. Have you not seen those beautiful red, white, and yellow\nbutterflies, that look like flowers? They were flowers once. They have\nflown off their stalks into the air, and flap their leaves as if\nthey were little wings to make them fly. Then, if they behave well,\nthey obtain permission to fly about during the day, instead of being\nobliged to sit still on their stems at home, and so in time their\nleaves become real wings. It may be, however, that the flowers in\nthe Botanical Gardens have never been to the king's palace, and,\ntherefore, they know nothing of the merry doings at night, which\ntake place there. I will tell you what to do, and the botanical\nprofessor, who lives close by here, will be so surprised. You know him\nvery well, do you not? Well, next time you go into his garden, you\nmust tell one of the flowers that there is going to be a grand ball at\nthe castle, then that flower will tell all the others, and they will\nfly away to the castle as soon as possible. And when the professor\nwalks into his garden, there will not be a single flower left. How\nhe will wonder what has become of them!\"\n\n\"But how can one flower tell another? Flowers cannot speak?\"\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" replied the student; \"but they can make\nsigns. Have you not often seen that when the wind blows they nod at\none another, and rustle all their green leaves?\"\n\n\"Can the professor understand the signs?\" asked Ida.\n\n\"Yes, to be sure he can. He went one morning into his garden,\nand saw a stinging nettle making signs with its leaves to a\nbeautiful red carnation. It was saying, 'You are so pretty, I like you\nvery much.' But the professor did not approve of such nonsense, so\nhe clapped his hands on the nettle to stop it. Then the leaves,\nwhich are its fingers, stung him so sharply that he has never ventured\nto touch a nettle since.\"\n\n\"Oh how funny!\" said Ida, and she laughed.\n\n\"How can anyone put such notions into a child's head?\" said a\ntiresome lawyer, who had come to pay a visit, and sat on the sofa.\nHe did not like the student, and would grumble when he saw him cutting\nout droll or amusing pictures. Sometimes it would be a man hanging\non a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand as if he had been stealing\nhearts. Sometimes it was an old witch riding through the air on a\nbroom and carrying her husband on her nose. But the lawyer did not\nlike such jokes, and he would say as he had just said, \"How can anyone\nput such nonsense into a child's head! what absurd fancies there are!\"\n\nBut to little Ida, all these stories which the student told her\nabout the flowers, seemed very droll, and she thought over them a\ngreat deal. The flowers did hang their heads, because they had been\ndancing all night, and were very tired, and most likely they were ill.\nThen she took them into the room where a number of toys lay on a\npretty little table, and the whole of the table drawer besides was\nfull of beautiful things. Her doll Sophy lay in the doll's bed asleep,\nand little Ida said to her, \"You must really get up Sophy, and be\ncontent to lie in the drawer to-night; the poor flowers are ill, and\nthey must lie in your bed, then perhaps they will get well again.\"\nSo she took the doll out, who looked quite cross, and said not a\nsingle word, for she was angry at being turned out of her bed. Ida\nplaced the flowers in the doll's bed, and drew the quilt over them.\nThen she told them to lie quite still and be good, while she made some\ntea for them, so that they might be quite well and able to get up\nthe next morning. And she drew the curtains close round the little\nbed, so that the sun might not shine in their eyes. During the whole\nevening she could not help thinking of what the student had told\nher. And before she went to bed herself, she was obliged to peep\nbehind the curtains into the garden where all her mother's beautiful\nflowers grew, hyacinths and tulips, and many others. Then she\nwhispered to them quite softly, \"I know you are going to a ball\nto-night.\" But the flowers appeared as if they did not understand, and\nnot a leaf moved; still Ida felt quite sure she knew all about it. She\nlay awake a long time after she was in bed, thinking how pretty it\nmust be to see all the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's garden.\n\"I wonder if my flowers have really been there,\" she said to\nherself, and then she fell asleep. In the night she awoke; she had\nbeen dreaming of the flowers and of the student, as well as of the\ntiresome lawyer who found fault with him. It was quite still in\nIda's bedroom; the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father and\nmother were asleep. \"I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy's\nbed,\" she thought to herself; \"how much I should like to know.\" She\nraised herself a little, and glanced at the door of the room where all\nher flowers and playthings lay; it was partly open, and as she\nlistened, it seemed as if some one in the room was playing the\npiano, but softly and more prettily than she had ever before heard it.\n\"Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there,\" she thought, \"oh\nhow much I should like to see them,\" but she did not dare move for\nfear of disturbing her father and mother. \"If they would only come\nin here,\" she thought; but they did not come, and the music\ncontinued to play so beautifully, and was so pretty, that she could\nresist no longer. She crept out of her little bed, went softly to\nthe door and looked into the room. Oh what a splendid sight there\nwas to be sure! There was no night-lamp burning, but the room appeared\nquite light, for the moon shone through the window upon the floor, and\nmade it almost like day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two\nlong rows down the room, not a single flower remained in the window,\nand the flower-pots were all empty. The flowers were dancing\ngracefully on the floor, making turns and holding each other by\ntheir long green leaves as they swung round. At the piano sat a\nlarge yellow lily which little Ida was sure she had seen in the\nsummer, for she remembered the student saying she was very much like\nMiss Lina, one of Ida's friends. They all laughed at him then, but now\nit seemed to little Ida as if the tall, yellow flower was really\nlike the young lady. She had just the same manners while playing,\nbending her long yellow face from side to side, and nodding in time to\nthe beautiful music. Then she saw a large purple crocus jump into\nthe middle of the table where the playthings stood, go up to the\ndoll's bedstead and draw back the curtains; there lay the sick\nflowers, but they got up directly, and nodded to the others as a\nsign that they wished to dance with them. The old rough doll, with the\nbroken mouth, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers. They did not\nlook ill at all now, but jumped about and were very merry, yet none of\nthem noticed little Ida. Presently it seemed as if something fell from\nthe table. Ida looked that way, and saw a slight carnival rod\njumping down among the flowers as if it belonged to them; it was,\nhowever, very smooth and neat, and a little wax doll with a broad\nbrimmed hat on her head, like the one worn by the lawyer, sat upon it.\nThe carnival rod hopped about among the flowers on its three red\nstilted feet, and stamped quite loud when it danced the Mazurka; the\nflowers could not perform this dance, they were too light to stamp\nin that manner. All at once the wax doll which rode on the carnival\nrod seemed to grow larger and taller, and it turned round and said\nto the paper flowers, \"How can you put such things in a child's\nhead? they are all foolish fancies;\" and then the doll was exactly\nlike the lawyer with the broad brimmed hat, and looked as yellow and\nas cross as he did; but the paper dolls struck him on his thin legs,\nand he shrunk up again and became quite a little wax doll. This was\nvery amusing, and Ida could not help laughing. The carnival rod went\non dancing, and the lawyer was obliged to dance also. It was no use,\nhe might make himself great and tall, or remain a little wax doll with\na large black hat; still he must dance. Then at last the other flowers\ninterceded for him, especially those who had lain in the doll's bed,\nand the carnival rod gave up his dancing. At the same moment a loud\nknocking was heard in the drawer, where Ida's doll Sophy lay with many\nother toys. Then the rough doll ran to the end of the table, laid\nhimself flat down upon it, and began to pull the drawer out a little\nway.\n\nThen Sophy raised himself, and looked round quite astonished,\n\"There must be a ball here to-night,\" said Sophy. \"Why did not\nsomebody tell me?\"\n\n\"Will you dance with me?\" said the rough doll.\n\n\"You are the right sort to dance with, certainly,\" said she,\nturning her back upon him.\n\nThen she seated herself on the edge of the drawer, and thought\nthat perhaps one of the flowers would ask her to dance; but none of\nthem came. Then she coughed, \"Hem, hem, a-hem;\" but for all that not\none came. The shabby doll now danced quite alone, and not very\nbadly, after all. As none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophy, she\nlet herself down from the drawer to the floor, so as to make a very\ngreat noise. All the flowers came round her directly, and asked if she\nhad hurt herself, especially those who had lain in her bed. But she\nwas not hurt at all, and Ida's flowers thanked her for the use of\nthe nice bed, and were very kind to her. They led her into the\nmiddle of the room, where the moon shone, and danced with her, while\nall the other flowers formed a circle round them. Then Sophy was\nvery happy, and said they might keep her bed; she did not mind lying\nin the drawer at all. But the flowers thanked her very much, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"We cannot live long. To-morrow morning we shall be quite dead;\nand you must tell little Ida to bury us in the garden, near to the\ngrave of the canary; then, in the summer we shall wake up and be\nmore beautiful than ever.\"\n\n\"No, you must not die,\" said Sophy, as she kissed the flowers.\n\nThen the door of the room opened, and a number of beautiful\nflowers danced in. Ida could not imagine where they could come from,\nunless they were the flowers from the king's garden. First came two\nlovely roses, with little golden crowns on their heads; these were the\nking and queen. Beautiful stocks and carnations followed, bowing to\nevery one present. They had also music with them. Large poppies and\npeonies had pea-shells for instruments, and blew into them till they\nwere quite red in the face. The bunches of blue hyacinths and the\nlittle white snowdrops jingled their bell-like flowers, as if they\nwere real bells. Then came many more flowers: blue violets, purple\nheart's-ease, daisies, and lilies of the valley, and they all danced\ntogether, and kissed each other. It was very beautiful to behold.\n\nAt last the flowers wished each other good-night. Then little\nIda crept back into her bed again, and dreamt of all she had seen.\nWhen she arose the next morning, she went quickly to the little table,\nto see if the flowers were still there. She drew aside the curtains of\nthe little bed. There they all lay, but quite faded; much more so than\nthe day before. Sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida had placed\nher; but she looked very sleepy.\n\n\"Do you remember what the flowers told you to say to me?\" said\nlittle Ida. But Sophy looked quite stupid, and said not a single word.\n\n\"You are not kind at all,\" said Ida; \"and yet they all danced with\nyou.\"\n\nThen she took a little paper box, on which were painted\nbeautiful birds, and laid the dead flowers in it.\n\n\"This shall be your pretty coffin,\" she said; \"and by and by, when\nmy cousins come to visit me, they shall help me to bury you out in the\ngarden; so that next summer you may grow up again more beautiful\nthan ever.\"\n\nHer cousins were two good-tempered boys, whose names were James\nand Adolphus. Their father had given them each a bow and arrow, and\nthey had brought them to show Ida. She told them about the poor\nflowers which were dead; and as soon as they obtained permission, they\nwent with her to bury them. The two boys walked first, with their\ncrossbows on their shoulders, and little Ida followed, carrying the\npretty box containing the dead flowers. They dug a little grave in the\ngarden. Ida kissed her flowers and then laid them, with the box, in\nthe earth. James and Adolphus then fired their crossbows over the\ngrave, as they had neither guns nor cannons.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE MATCH-SELLER\n\nIt was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the\nold year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness,\na poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through\nthe streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left\nhome, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large,\nindeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little\ncreature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two\ncarriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the\nslippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran\naway with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had\nchildren of his own. So the little girl went on with her little\nnaked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old\napron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her\nhands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had any\none given here even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept\nalong; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The\nsnowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her\nshoulders, but she regarded them not.\n\nLights were shining from every window, and there was a savory\nsmell of roast goose, for it was New-year's eve--yes, she remembered\nthat. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond\nthe other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn\nher little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and\nshe dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take\nhome even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her;\nbesides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only\nthe roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the\nlargest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little\nhands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match\nmight be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it\nagainst the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one\nout-\"scratch!\" how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright\nlight, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was\nreally a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was\nsitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass\nornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the\nchild stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame\nof the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the\nremains of the half-burnt match in her hand.\n\nShe rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and\nwhere its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil,\nand she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy\nwhite table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a\nsteaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what\nwas still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and\nwaddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to\nthe little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing\nbut the thick, damp, cold wall before her.\n\nShe lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting\nunder a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully\ndecorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at\nthe rich merchant's. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green\nbranches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the\nshow-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out\nher hand towards them, and the match went out.\n\nThe Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to\nher like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving\nbehind it a bright streak of fire. \"Some one is dying,\" thought the\nlittle girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever\nloved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star\nfalls, a soul was going up to God.\n\nShe again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round\nher; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining,\nyet mild and loving in her appearance. \"Grandmother,\" cried the little\none, \"O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns\nout; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the\nlarge, glorious Christmas-tree.\" And she made haste to light the whole\nbundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And\nthe matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day,\nand her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She\ntook the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in\nbrightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold\nnor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.\n\n\nIn the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale\ncheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been\nfrozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-year's\nsun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the\nstiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of\nwhich was burnt. \"She tried to warm herself,\" said some. No one\nimagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she\nhad entered with her grandmother, on New-year's day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE MERMAID\n\nFar out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the\nprettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very\ndeep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many church\nsteeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground\nbeneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King\nand his subjects. We must not imagine that there is nothing at the\nbottom of the sea but bare yellow sand. No, indeed; the most\nsingular flowers and plants grow there; the leaves and stems of\nwhich are so pliant, that the slightest agitation of the water\ncauses them to stir as if they had life. Fishes, both large and small,\nglide between the branches, as birds fly among the trees here upon\nland. In the deepest spot of all, stands the castle of the Sea King.\nIts walls are built of coral, and the long, gothic windows are of\nthe clearest amber. The roof is formed of shells, that open and\nclose as the water flows over them. Their appearance is very\nbeautiful, for in each lies a glittering pearl, which would be fit for\nthe diadem of a queen.\n\nThe Sea King had been a widower for many years, and his aged\nmother kept house for him. She was a very wise woman, and\nexceedingly proud of her high birth; on that account she wore twelve\noysters on her tail; while others, also of high rank, were only\nallowed to wear six. She was, however, deserving of very great praise,\nespecially for her care of the little sea-princesses, her\ngrand-daughters. They were six beautiful children; but the youngest\nwas the prettiest of them all; her skin was as clear and delicate as a\nrose-leaf, and her eyes as blue as the deepest sea; but, like all\nthe others, she had no feet, and her body ended in a fish's tail.\nAll day long they played in the great halls of the castle, or among\nthe living flowers that grew out of the walls. The large amber windows\nwere open, and the fish swam in, just as the swallows fly into our\nhouses when we open the windows, excepting that the fishes swam up\nto the princesses, ate out of their hands, and allowed themselves to\nbe stroked. Outside the castle there was a beautiful garden, in\nwhich grew bright red and dark blue flowers, and blossoms like\nflames of fire; the fruit glittered like gold, and the leaves and\nstems waved to and fro continually. The earth itself was the finest\nsand, but blue as the flame of burning sulphur. Over everything lay\na peculiar blue radiance, as if it were surrounded by the air from\nabove, through which the blue sky shone, instead of the dark depths of\nthe sea. In calm weather the sun could be seen, looking like a\npurple flower, with the light streaming from the calyx. Each of the\nyoung princesses had a little plot of ground in the garden, where\nshe might dig and plant as she pleased. One arranged her flower-bed\ninto the form of a whale; another thought it better to make hers\nlike the figure of a little mermaid; but that of the youngest was\nround like the sun, and contained flowers as red as his rays at\nsunset. She was a strange child, quiet and thoughtful; and while her\nsisters would be delighted with the wonderful things which they\nobtained from the wrecks of vessels, she cared for nothing but her\npretty red flowers, like the sun, excepting a beautiful marble statue.\nIt was the representation of a handsome boy, carved out of pure\nwhite stone, which had fallen to the bottom of the sea from a wreck.\nShe planted by the statue a rose-colored weeping willow. It grew\nsplendidly, and very soon hung its fresh branches over the statue,\nalmost down to the blue sands. The shadow had a violet tint, and waved\nto and fro like the branches; it seemed as if the crown of the tree\nand the root were at play, and trying to kiss each other. Nothing gave\nher so much pleasure as to hear about the world above the sea. She\nmade her old grandmother tell her all she knew of the ships and of the\ntowns, the people and the animals. To her it seemed most wonderful and\nbeautiful to hear that the flowers of the land should have\nfragrance, and not those below the sea; that the trees of the forest\nshould be green; and that the fishes among the trees could sing so\nsweetly, that it was quite a pleasure to hear them. Her grandmother\ncalled the little birds fishes, or she would not have understood\nher; for she had never seen birds.\n\n\"When you have reached your fifteenth year,\" said the\ngrand-mother, \"you will have permission to rise up out of the sea,\nto sit on the rocks in the moonlight, while the great ships are\nsailing by; and then you will see both forests and towns.\"\n\nIn the following year, one of the sisters would be fifteen: but as\neach was a year younger than the other, the youngest would have to\nwait five years before her turn came to rise up from the bottom of the\nocean, and see the earth as we do. However, each promised to tell\nthe others what she saw on her first visit, and what she thought the\nmost beautiful; for their grandmother could not tell them enough;\nthere were so many things on which they wanted information. None of\nthem longed so much for her turn to come as the youngest, she who\nhad the longest time to wait, and who was so quiet and thoughtful.\nMany nights she stood by the open window, looking up through the\ndark blue water, and watching the fish as they splashed about with\ntheir fins and tails. She could see the moon and stars shining\nfaintly; but through the water they looked larger than they do to\nour eyes. When something like a black cloud passed between her and\nthem, she knew that it was either a whale swimming over her head, or a\nship full of human beings, who never imagined that a pretty little\nmermaid was standing beneath them, holding out her white hands towards\nthe keel of their ship.\n\nAs soon as the eldest was fifteen, she was allowed to rise to\nthe surface of the ocean. When she came back, she had hundreds of\nthings to talk about; but the most beautiful, she said, was to lie\nin the moonlight, on a sandbank, in the quiet sea, near the coast, and\nto gaze on a large town nearby, where the lights were twinkling like\nhundreds of stars; to listen to the sounds of the music, the noise\nof carriages, and the voices of human beings, and then to hear the\nmerry bells peal out from the church steeples; and because she could\nnot go near to all those wonderful things, she longed for them more\nthan ever. Oh, did not the youngest sister listen eagerly to all these\ndescriptions? and afterwards, when she stood at the open window\nlooking up through the dark blue water, she thought of the great city,\nwith all its bustle and noise, and even fancied she could hear the\nsound of the church bells, down in the depths of the sea.\n\nIn another year the second sister received permission to rise to\nthe surface of the water, and to swim about where she pleased. She\nrose just as the sun was setting, and this, she said, was the most\nbeautiful sight of all. The whole sky looked like gold, while violet\nand rose-colored clouds, which she could not describe, floated over\nher; and, still more rapidly than the clouds, flew a large flock of\nwild swans towards the setting sun, looking like a long white veil\nacross the sea. She also swam towards the sun; but it sunk into the\nwaves, and the rosy tints faded from the clouds and from the sea.\n\nThe third sister's turn followed; she was the boldest of them all,\nand she swam up a broad river that emptied itself into the sea. On the\nbanks she saw green hills covered with beautiful vines; palaces and\ncastles peeped out from amid the proud trees of the forest; she\nheard the birds singing, and the rays of the sun were so powerful that\nshe was obliged often to dive down under the water to cool her burning\nface. In a narrow creek she found a whole troop of little human\nchildren, quite naked, and sporting about in the water; she wanted\nto play with them, but they fled in a great fright; and then a\nlittle black animal came to the water; it was a dog, but she did not\nknow that, for she had never before seen one. This animal barked at\nher so terribly that she became frightened, and rushed back to the\nopen sea. But she said she should never forget the beautiful forest,\nthe green hills, and the pretty little children who could swim in\nthe water, although they had not fish's tails.\n\nThe fourth sister was more timid; she remained in the midst of the\nsea, but she said it was quite as beautiful there as nearer the\nland. She could see for so many miles around her, and the sky above\nlooked like a bell of glass. She had seen the ships, but at such a\ngreat distance that they looked like sea-gulls. The dolphins sported\nin the waves, and the great whales spouted water from their nostrils\ntill it seemed as if a hundred fountains were playing in every\ndirection.\n\nThe fifth sister's birthday occurred in the winter; so when her\nturn came, she saw what the others had not seen the first time they\nwent up. The sea looked quite green, and large icebergs were\nfloating about, each like a pearl, she said, but larger and loftier\nthan the churches built by men. They were of the most singular shapes,\nand glittered like diamonds. She had seated herself upon one of the\nlargest, and let the wind play with her long hair, and she remarked\nthat all the ships sailed by rapidly, and steered as far away as\nthey could from the iceberg, as if they were afraid of it. Towards\nevening, as the sun went down, dark clouds covered the sky, the\nthunder rolled and the lightning flashed, and the red light glowed\non the icebergs as they rocked and tossed on the heaving sea. On all\nthe ships the sails were reefed with fear and trembling, while she sat\ncalmly on the floating iceberg, watching the blue lightning, as it\ndarted its forked flashes into the sea.\n\nWhen first the sisters had permission to rise to the surface, they\nwere each delighted with the new and beautiful sights they saw; but\nnow, as grown-up girls, they could go when they pleased, and they\nhad become indifferent about it. They wished themselves back again\nin the water, and after a month had passed they said it was much\nmore beautiful down below, and pleasanter to be at home. Yet often, in\nthe evening hours, the five sisters would twine their arms round\neach other, and rise to the surface, in a row. They had more beautiful\nvoices than any human being could have; and before the approach of a\nstorm, and when they expected a ship would be lost, they swam before\nthe vessel, and sang sweetly of the delights to be found in the depths\nof the sea, and begging the sailors not to fear if they sank to the\nbottom. But the sailors could not understand the song, they took it\nfor the howling of the storm. And these things were never to be\nbeautiful for them; for if the ship sank, the men were drowned, and\ntheir dead bodies alone reached the palace of the Sea King.\n\nWhen the sisters rose, arm-in-arm, through the water in this\nway, their youngest sister would stand quite alone, looking after\nthem, ready to cry, only that the mermaids have no tears, and\ntherefore they suffer more. \"Oh, were I but fifteen years old,\" said\nshe: \"I know that I shall love the world up there, and all the\npeople who live in it.\"\n\nAt last she reached her fifteenth year. \"Well, now, you are\ngrown up,\" said the old dowager, her grandmother; \"so you must let\nme adorn you like your other sisters;\" and she placed a wreath of\nwhite lilies in her hair, and every flower leaf was half a pearl. Then\nthe old lady ordered eight great oysters to attach themselves to the\ntail of the princess to show her high rank.\n\n\"But they hurt me so,\" said the little mermaid.\n\n\"Pride must suffer pain,\" replied the old lady. Oh, how gladly she\nwould have shaken off all this grandeur, and laid aside the heavy\nwreath! The red flowers in her own garden would have suited her much\nbetter, but she could not help herself: so she said, \"Farewell,\" and\nrose as lightly as a bubble to the surface of the water. The sun had\njust set as she raised her head above the waves; but the clouds were\ntinted with crimson and gold, and through the glimmering twilight\nbeamed the evening star in all its beauty. The sea was calm, and the\nair mild and fresh. A large ship, with three masts, lay becalmed on\nthe water, with only one sail set; for not a breeze stiffed, and the\nsailors sat idle on deck or amongst the rigging. There was music and\nsong on board; and, as darkness came on, a hundred colored lanterns\nwere lighted, as if the flags of all nations waved in the air. The\nlittle mermaid swam close to the cabin windows; and now and then, as\nthe waves lifted her up, she could look in through clear glass\nwindow-panes, and see a number of well-dressed people within. Among\nthem was a young prince, the most beautiful of all, with large black\neyes; he was sixteen years of age, and his birthday was being kept\nwith much rejoicing. The sailors were dancing on deck, but when the\nprince came out of the cabin, more than a hundred rockets rose in\nthe air, making it as bright as day. The little mermaid was so\nstartled that she dived under water; and when she again stretched\nout her head, it appeared as if all the stars of heaven were falling\naround her, she had never seen such fireworks before. Great suns\nspurted fire about, splendid fireflies flew into the blue air, and\neverything was reflected in the clear, calm sea beneath. The ship\nitself was so brightly illuminated that all the people, and even the\nsmallest rope, could be distinctly and plainly seen. And how\nhandsome the young prince looked, as he pressed the hands of all\npresent and smiled at them, while the music resounded through the\nclear night air.\n\nIt was very late; yet the little mermaid could not take her eyes\nfrom the ship, or from the beautiful prince. The colored lanterns\nhad been extinguished, no more rockets rose in the air, and the cannon\nhad ceased firing; but the sea became restless, and a moaning,\ngrumbling sound could be heard beneath the waves: still the little\nmermaid remained by the cabin window, rocking up and down on the\nwater, which enabled her to look in. After a while, the sails were\nquickly unfurled, and the noble ship continued her passage; but soon\nthe waves rose higher, heavy clouds darkened the sky, and lightning\nappeared in the distance. A dreadful storm was approaching; once\nmore the sails were reefed, and the great ship pursued her flying\ncourse over the raging sea. The waves rose mountains high, as if\nthey would have overtopped the mast; but the ship dived like a swan\nbetween them, and then rose again on their lofty, foaming crests. To\nthe little mermaid this appeared pleasant sport; not so to the\nsailors. At length the ship groaned and creaked; the thick planks gave\nway under the lashing of the sea as it broke over the deck; the\nmainmast snapped asunder like a reed; the ship lay over on her side;\nand the water rushed in. The little mermaid now perceived that the\ncrew were in danger; even she herself was obliged to be careful to\navoid the beams and planks of the wreck which lay scattered on the\nwater. At one moment it was so pitch dark that she could not see a\nsingle object, but a flash of lightning revealed the whole scene;\nshe could see every one who had been on board excepting the prince;\nwhen the ship parted, she had seen him sink into the deep waves, and\nshe was glad, for she thought he would now be with her; and then she\nremembered that human beings could not live in the water, so that when\nhe got down to her father's palace he would be quite dead. But he must\nnot die. So she swam about among the beams and planks which strewed\nthe surface of the sea, forgetting that they could crush her to\npieces. Then she dived deeply under the dark waters, rising and\nfalling with the waves, till at length she managed to reach the\nyoung prince, who was fast losing the power of swimming in that stormy\nsea. His limbs were failing him, his beautiful eyes were closed, and\nhe would have died had not the little mermaid come to his\nassistance. She held his head above the water, and let the waves drift\nthem where they would.\n\nIn the morning the storm had ceased; but of the ship not a\nsingle fragment could be seen. The sun rose up red and glowing from\nthe water, and its beams brought back the hue of health to the\nprince's cheeks; but his eyes remained closed. The mermaid kissed\nhis high, smooth forehead, and stroked back his wet hair; he seemed to\nher like the marble statue in her little garden, and she kissed him\nagain, and wished that he might live. Presently they came in sight\nof land; she saw lofty blue mountains, on which the white snow\nrested as if a flock of swans were lying upon them. Near the coast\nwere beautiful green forests, and close by stood a large building,\nwhether a church or a convent she could not tell. Orange and citron\ntrees grew in the garden, and before the door stood lofty palms. The\nsea here formed a little bay, in which the water was quite still,\nbut very deep; so she swam with the handsome prince to the beach,\nwhich was covered with fine, white sand, and there she laid him in the\nwarm sunshine, taking care to raise his head higher than his body.\nThen bells sounded in the large white building, and a number of\nyoung girls came into the garden. The little mermaid swam out\nfarther from the shore and placed herself between some high rocks that\nrose out of the water; then she covered her head and neck with the\nfoam of the sea so that her little face might not be seen, and watched\nto see what would become of the poor prince. She did not wait long\nbefore she saw a young girl approach the spot where he lay. She seemed\nfrightened at first, but only for a moment; then she fetched a\nnumber of people, and the mermaid saw that the prince came to life\nagain, and smiled upon those who stood round him. But to her he sent\nno smile; he knew not that she had saved him. This made her very\nunhappy, and when he was led away into the great building, she dived\ndown sorrowfully into the water, and returned to her father's\ncastle. She had always been silent and thoughtful, and now she was\nmore so than ever. Her sisters asked her what she had seen during\nher first visit to the surface of the water; but she would tell them\nnothing. Many an evening and morning did she rise to the place where\nshe had left the prince. She saw the fruits in the garden ripen till\nthey were gathered, the snow on the tops of the mountains melt away;\nbut she never saw the prince, and therefore she returned home,\nalways more sorrowful than before. It was her only comfort to sit in\nher own little garden, and fling her arm round the beautiful marble\nstatue which was like the prince; but she gave up tending her flowers,\nand they grew in wild confusion over the paths, twining their long\nleaves and stems round the branches of the trees, so that the whole\nplace became dark and gloomy. At length she could bear it no longer,\nand told one of her sisters all about it. Then the others heard the\nsecret, and very soon it became known to two mermaids whose intimate\nfriend happened to know who the prince was. She had also seen the\nfestival on board ship, and she told them where the prince came\nfrom, and where his palace stood.\n\n\"Come, little sister,\" said the other princesses; then they\nentwined their arms and rose up in a long row to the surface of the\nwater, close by the spot where they knew the prince's palace stood. It\nwas built of bright yellow shining stone, with long flights of\nmarble steps, one of which reached quite down to the sea. Splendid\ngilded cupolas rose over the roof, and between the pillars that\nsurrounded the whole building stood life-like statues of marble.\nThrough the clear crystal of the lofty windows could be seen noble\nrooms, with costly silk curtains and hangings of tapestry; while the\nwalls were covered with beautiful paintings which were a pleasure to\nlook at. In the centre of the largest saloon a fountain threw its\nsparkling jets high up into the glass cupola of the ceiling, through\nwhich the sun shone down upon the water and upon the beautiful\nplants growing round the basin of the fountain. Now that she knew\nwhere he lived, she spent many an evening and many a night on the\nwater near the palace. She would swim much nearer the shore than any\nof the others ventured to do; indeed once she went quite up the narrow\nchannel under the marble balcony, which threw a broad shadow on the\nwater. Here she would sit and watch the young prince, who thought\nhimself quite alone in the bright moonlight. She saw him many times of\nan evening sailing in a pleasant boat, with music playing and flags\nwaving. She peeped out from among the green rushes, and if the wind\ncaught her long silvery-white veil, those who saw it believed it to be\na swan, spreading out its wings. On many a night, too, when the\nfishermen, with their torches, were out at sea, she heard them\nrelate so many good things about the doings of the young prince,\nthat she was glad she had saved his life when he had been tossed about\nhalf-dead on the waves. And she remembered that his head had rested on\nher bosom, and how heartily she had kissed him; but he knew nothing of\nall this, and could not even dream of her. She grew more and more fond\nof human beings, and wished more and more to be able to wander about\nwith those whose world seemed to be so much larger than her own.\nThey could fly over the sea in ships, and mount the high hills which\nwere far above the clouds; and the lands they possessed, their woods\nand their fields, stretched far away beyond the reach of her sight.\nThere was so much that she wished to know, and her sisters were unable\nto answer all her questions. Then she applied to her old\ngrandmother, who knew all about the upper world, which she very\nrightly called the lands above the sea.\n\n\"If human beings are not drowned,\" asked the little mermaid,\n\"can they live forever? do they never die as we do here in the sea?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the old lady, \"they must also die, and their term\nof life is even shorter than ours. We sometimes live to three\nhundred years, but when we cease to exist here we only become the foam\non the surface of the water, and we have not even a grave down here of\nthose we love. We have not immortal souls, we shall never live\nagain; but, like the green sea-weed, when once it has been cut off, we\ncan never flourish more. Human beings, on the contrary, have a soul\nwhich lives forever, lives after the body has been turned to dust.\nIt rises up through the clear, pure air beyond the glittering stars.\nAs we rise out of the water, and behold all the land of the earth,\nso do they rise to unknown and glorious regions which we shall never\nsee.\"\n\n\"Why have not we an immortal soul?\" asked the little mermaid\nmournfully; \"I would give gladly all the hundreds of years that I have\nto live, to be a human being only for one day, and to have the hope of\nknowing the happiness of that glorious world above the stars.\"\n\n\"You must not think of that,\" said the old woman; \"we feel\nourselves to be much happier and much better off than human beings.\"\n\n\"So I shall die,\" said the little mermaid, \"and as the foam of the\nsea I shall be driven about never again to hear the music of the\nwaves, or to see the pretty flowers nor the red sun. Is there anything\nI can do to win an immortal soul?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the old woman, \"unless a man were to love you so much\nthat you were more to him than his father or mother; and if all his\nthoughts and all his love were fixed upon you, and the priest placed\nhis right hand in yours, and he promised to be true to you here and\nhereafter, then his soul would glide into your body and you would\nobtain a share in the future happiness of mankind. He would give a\nsoul to you and retain his own as well; but this can never happen.\nYour fish's tail, which amongst us is considered so beautiful, is\nthought on earth to be quite ugly; they do not know any better, and\nthey think it necessary to have two stout props, which they call legs,\nin order to be handsome.\"\n\nThen the little mermaid sighed, and looked sorrowfully at her\nfish's tail. \"Let us be happy,\" said the old lady, \"and dart and\nspring about during the three hundred years that we have to live,\nwhich is really quite long enough; after that we can rest ourselves\nall the better. This evening we are going to have a court ball.\"\n\nIt is one of those splendid sights which we can never see on\nearth. The walls and the ceiling of the large ball-room were of thick,\nbut transparent crystal. May hundreds of colossal shells, some of a\ndeep red, others of a grass green, stood on each side in rows, with\nblue fire in them, which lighted up the whole saloon, and shone\nthrough the walls, so that the sea was also illuminated. Innumerable\nfishes, great and small, swam past the crystal walls; on some of\nthem the scales glowed with a purple brilliancy, and on others they\nshone like silver and gold. Through the halls flowed a broad stream,\nand in it danced the mermen and the mermaids to the music of their own\nsweet singing. No one on earth has such a lovely voice as theirs.\nThe little mermaid sang more sweetly than them all. The whole court\napplauded her with hands and tails; and for a moment her heart felt\nquite gay, for she knew she had the loveliest voice of any on earth or\nin the sea. But she soon thought again of the world above her, for she\ncould not forget the charming prince, nor her sorrow that she had\nnot an immortal soul like his; therefore she crept away silently out\nof her father's palace, and while everything within was gladness and\nsong, she sat in her own little garden sorrowful and alone. Then she\nheard the bugle sounding through the water, and thought--\"He is\ncertainly sailing above, he on whom my wishes depend, and in whose\nhands I should like to place the happiness of my life. I will\nventure all for him, and to win an immortal soul, while my sisters are\ndancing in my father's palace, I will go to the sea witch, of whom I\nhave always been so much afraid, but she can give me counsel and\nhelp.\"\n\nAnd then the little mermaid went out from her garden, and took the\nroad to the foaming whirlpools, behind which the sorceress lived.\nShe had never been that way before: neither flowers nor grass grew\nthere; nothing but bare, gray, sandy ground stretched out to the\nwhirlpool, where the water, like foaming mill-wheels, whirled round\neverything that it seized, and cast it into the fathomless deep.\nThrough the midst of these crushing whirlpools the little mermaid\nwas obliged to pass, to reach the dominions of the sea witch; and also\nfor a long distance the only road lay right across a quantity of warm,\nbubbling mire, called by the witch her turfmoor. Beyond this stood her\nhouse, in the centre of a strange forest, in which all the trees and\nflowers were polypi, half animals and half plants; they looked like\nserpents with a hundred heads growing out of the ground. The\nbranches were long slimy arms, with fingers like flexible worms,\nmoving limb after limb from the root to the top. All that could be\nreached in the sea they seized upon, and held fast, so that it never\nescaped from their clutches. The little mermaid was so alarmed at what\nshe saw, that she stood still, and her heart beat with fear, and she\nwas very nearly turning back; but she thought of the prince, and of\nthe human soul for which she longed, and her courage returned. She\nfastened her long flowing hair round her head, so that the polypi\nmight not seize hold of it. She laid her hands together across her\nbosom, and then she darted forward as a fish shoots through the water,\nbetween the supple arms and fingers of the ugly polypi, which were\nstretched out on each side of her. She saw that each held in its grasp\nsomething it had seized with its numerous little arms, as if they were\niron bands. The white skeletons of human beings who had perished at\nsea, and had sunk down into the deep waters, skeletons of land\nanimals, oars, rudders, and chests of ships were lying tightly grasped\nby their clinging arms; even a little mermaid, whom they had caught\nand strangled; and this seemed the most shocking of all to the\nlittle princess.\n\nShe now came to a space of marshy ground in the wood, where large,\nfat water-snakes were rolling in the mire, and showing their ugly,\ndrab-colored bodies. In the midst of this spot stood a house, built\nwith the bones of shipwrecked human beings. There sat the sea witch,\nallowing a toad to eat from her mouth, just as people sometimes feed a\ncanary with a piece of sugar. She called the ugly water-snakes her\nlittle chickens, and allowed them to crawl all over her bosom.\n\n\"I know what you want,\" said the sea witch; \"it is very stupid\nof you, but you shall have your way, and it will bring you to\nsorrow, my pretty princess. You want to get rid of your fish's tail,\nand to have two supports instead of it, like human beings on earth, so\nthat the young prince may fall in love with you, and that you may have\nan immortal soul.\" And then the witch laughed so loud and\ndisgustingly, that the toad and the snakes fell to the ground, and lay\nthere wriggling about. \"You are but just in time,\" said the witch;\n\"for after sunrise to-morrow I should not be able to help you till the\nend of another year. I will prepare a draught for you, with which\nyou must swim to land tomorrow before sunrise, and sit down on the\nshore and drink it. Your tail will then disappear, and shrink up\ninto what mankind calls legs, and you will feel great pain, as if a\nsword were passing through you. But all who see you will say that\nyou are the prettiest little human being they ever saw. You will still\nhave the same floating gracefulness of movement, and no dancer will\never tread so lightly; but at every step you take it will feel as if\nyou were treading upon sharp knives, and that the blood must flow.\nIf you will bear all this, I will help you.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" said the little princess in a trembling voice, as\nshe thought of the prince and the immortal soul.\n\n\"But think again,\" said the witch; \"for when once your shape has\nbecome like a human being, you can no more be a mermaid. You will\nnever return through the water to your sisters, or to your father's\npalace again; and if you do not win the love of the prince, so that he\nis willing to forget his father and mother for your sake, and to\nlove you with his whole soul, and allow the priest to join your\nhands that you may be man and wife, then you will never have an\nimmortal soul. The first morning after he marries another your heart\nwill break, and you will become foam on the crest of the waves.\"\n\n\"I will do it,\" said the little mermaid, and she became pale as\ndeath.\n\n\"But I must be paid also,\" said the witch, \"and it is not a trifle\nthat I ask. You have the sweetest voice of any who dwell here in the\ndepths of the sea, and you believe that you will be able to charm\nthe prince with it also, but this voice you must give to me; the\nbest thing you possess will I have for the price of my draught. My own\nblood must be mixed with it, that it may be as sharp as a two-edged\nsword.\"\n\n\"But if you take away my voice,\" said the little mermaid, \"what is\nleft for me?\"\n\n\"Your beautiful form, your graceful walk, and your expressive\neyes; surely with these you can enchain a man's heart. Well, have\nyou lost your courage? Put out your little tongue that I may cut it\noff as my payment; then you shall have the powerful draught.\"\n\n\"It shall be,\" said the little mermaid.\n\nThen the witch placed her cauldron on the fire, to prepare the\nmagic draught.\n\n\"Cleanliness is a good thing,\" said she, scouring the vessel\nwith snakes, which she had tied together in a large knot; then she\npricked herself in the breast, and let the black blood drop into it.\nThe steam that rose formed itself into such horrible shapes that no\none could look at them without fear. Every moment the witch threw\nsomething else into the vessel, and when it began to boil, the sound\nwas like the weeping of a crocodile. When at last the magic draught\nwas ready, it looked like the clearest water. \"There it is for you,\"\nsaid the witch. Then she cut off the mermaid's tongue, so that she\nbecame dumb, and would never again speak or sing. \"If the polypi\nshould seize hold of you as you return through the wood,\" said the\nwitch, \"throw over them a few drops of the potion, and their fingers\nwill be torn into a thousand pieces.\" But the little mermaid had no\noccasion to do this, for the polypi sprang back in terror when they\ncaught sight of the glittering draught, which shone in her hand like a\ntwinkling star.\n\nSo she passed quickly through the wood and the marsh, and\nbetween the rushing whirlpools. She saw that in her father's palace\nthe torches in the ballroom were extinguished, and all within\nasleep; but she did not venture to go in to them, for now she was dumb\nand going to leave them forever, she felt as if her heart would break.\nShe stole into the garden, took a flower from the flower-beds of\neach of her sisters, kissed her hand a thousand times towards the\npalace, and then rose up through the dark blue waters. The sun had not\nrisen when she came in sight of the prince's palace, and approached\nthe beautiful marble steps, but the moon shone clear and bright.\nThen the little mermaid drank the magic draught, and it seemed as if a\ntwo-edged sword went through her delicate body: she fell into a swoon,\nand lay like one dead. When the sun arose and shone over the sea,\nshe recovered, and felt a sharp pain; but just before her stood the\nhandsome young prince. He fixed his coal-black eyes upon her so\nearnestly that she cast down her own, and then became aware that her\nfish's tail was gone, and that she had as pretty a pair of white\nlegs and tiny feet as any little maiden could have; but she had no\nclothes, so she wrapped herself in her long, thick hair. The prince\nasked her who she was, and where she came from, and she looked at\nhim mildly and sorrowfully with her deep blue eyes; but she could\nnot speak. Every step she took was as the witch had said it would\nbe, she felt as if treading upon the points of needles or sharp\nknives; but she bore it willingly, and stepped as lightly by the\nprince's side as a soap-bubble, so that he and all who saw her\nwondered at her graceful-swaying movements. She was very soon\narrayed in costly robes of silk and muslin, and was the most beautiful\ncreature in the palace; but she was dumb, and could neither speak\nnor sing.\n\nBeautiful female slaves, dressed in silk and gold, stepped forward\nand sang before the prince and his royal parents: one sang better than\nall the others, and the prince clapped his hands and smiled at her.\nThis was great sorrow to the little mermaid; she knew how much more\nsweetly she herself could sing once, and she thought, \"Oh if he\ncould only know that! I have given away my voice forever, to be with\nhim.\"\n\nThe slaves next performed some pretty fairy-like dances, to the\nsound of beautiful music. Then the little mermaid raised her lovely\nwhite arms, stood on the tips of her toes, and glided over the\nfloor, and danced as no one yet had been able to dance. At each moment\nher beauty became more revealed, and her expressive eyes appealed more\ndirectly to the heart than the songs of the slaves. Every one was\nenchanted, especially the prince, who called her his little foundling;\nand she danced again quite readily, to please him, though each time\nher foot touched the floor it seemed as if she trod on sharp knives.\n\nThe prince said she should remain with him always, and she\nreceived permission to sleep at his door, on a velvet cushion. He\nhad a page's dress made for her, that she might accompany him on\nhorseback. They rode together through the sweet-scented woods, where\nthe green boughs touched their shoulders, and the little birds sang\namong the fresh leaves. She climbed with the prince to the tops of\nhigh mountains; and although her tender feet bled so that even her\nsteps were marked, she only laughed, and followed him till they\ncould see the clouds beneath them looking like a flock of birds\ntravelling to distant lands. While at the prince's palace, and when\nall the household were asleep, she would go and sit on the broad\nmarble steps; for it eased her burning feet to bathe them in the\ncold sea-water; and then she thought of all those below in the deep.\n\nOnce during the night her sisters came up arm-in-arm, singing\nsorrowfully, as they floated on the water. She beckoned to them, and\nthen they recognized her, and told her how she had grieved them. After\nthat, they came to the same place every night; and once she saw in the\ndistance her old grandmother, who had not been to the surface of the\nsea for many years, and the old Sea King, her father, with his crown\non his head. They stretched out their hands towards her, but they\ndid not venture so near the land as her sisters did.\n\nAs the days passed, she loved the prince more fondly, and he loved\nher as he would love a little child, but it never came into his head\nto make her his wife; yet, unless he married her, she could not\nreceive an immortal soul; and, on the morning after his marriage\nwith another, she would dissolve into the foam of the sea.\n\n\"Do you not love me the best of them all?\" the eyes of the\nlittle mermaid seemed to say, when he took her in his arms, and kissed\nher fair forehead.\n\n\"Yes, you are dear to me,\" said the prince; \"for you have the best\nheart, and you are the most devoted to me; you are like a young maiden\nwhom I once saw, but whom I shall never meet again. I was in a ship\nthat was wrecked, and the waves cast me ashore near a holy temple,\nwhere several young maidens performed the service. The youngest of\nthem found me on the shore, and saved my life. I saw her but twice,\nand she is the only one in the world whom I could love; but you are\nlike her, and you have almost driven her image out of my mind. She\nbelongs to the holy temple, and my good fortune has sent you to me\ninstead of her; and we will never part.\"\n\n\"Ah, he knows not that it was I who saved his life,\" thought the\nlittle mermaid. \"I carried him over the sea to the wood where the\ntemple stands: I sat beneath the foam, and watched till the human\nbeings came to help him. I saw the pretty maiden that he loves\nbetter than he loves me;\" and the mermaid sighed deeply, but she could\nnot shed tears. \"He says the maiden belongs to the holy temple,\ntherefore she will never return to the world. They will meet no\nmore: while I am by his side, and see him every day. I will take\ncare of him, and love him, and give up my life for his sake.\"\n\nVery soon it was said that the prince must marry, and that the\nbeautiful daughter of a neighboring king would be his wife, for a fine\nship was being fitted out. Although the prince gave out that he merely\nintended to pay a visit to the king, it was generally supposed that he\nreally went to see his daughter. A great company were to go with\nhim. The little mermaid smiled, and shook her head. She knew the\nprince's thoughts better than any of the others.\n\n\"I must travel,\" he had said to her; \"I must see this beautiful\nprincess; my parents desire it; but they will not oblige me to bring\nher home as my bride. I cannot love her; she is not like the beautiful\nmaiden in the temple, whom you resemble. If I were forced to choose\na bride, I would rather choose you, my dumb foundling, with those\nexpressive eyes.\" And then he kissed her rosy mouth, played with her\nlong waving hair, and laid his head on her heart, while she dreamed of\nhuman happiness and an immortal soul. \"You are not afraid of the\nsea, my dumb child,\" said he, as they stood on the deck of the noble\nship which was to carry them to the country of the neighboring king.\nAnd then he told her of storm and of calm, of strange fishes in the\ndeep beneath them, and of what the divers had seen there; and she\nsmiled at his descriptions, for she knew better than any one what\nwonders were at the bottom of the sea.\n\nIn the moonlight, when all on board were asleep, excepting the man\nat the helm, who was steering, she sat on the deck, gazing down\nthrough the clear water. She thought she could distinguish her\nfather's castle, and upon it her aged grandmother, with the silver\ncrown on her head, looking through the rushing tide at the keel of the\nvessel. Then her sisters came up on the waves, and gazed at her\nmournfully, wringing their white hands. She beckoned to them, and\nsmiled, and wanted to tell them how happy and well off she was; but\nthe cabin-boy approached, and when her sisters dived down he thought\nit was only the foam of the sea which he saw.\n\nThe next morning the ship sailed into the harbor of a beautiful\ntown belonging to the king whom the prince was going to visit. The\nchurch bells were ringing, and from the high towers sounded a flourish\nof trumpets; and soldiers, with flying colors and glittering bayonets,\nlined the rocks through which they passed. Every day was a festival;\nballs and entertainments followed one another.\n\nBut the princess had not yet appeared. People said that she was\nbeing brought up and educated in a religious house, where she was\nlearning every royal virtue. At last she came. Then the little\nmermaid, who was very anxious to see whether she was really beautiful,\nwas obliged to acknowledge that she had never seen a more perfect\nvision of beauty. Her skin was delicately fair, and beneath her long\ndark eye-lashes her laughing blue eyes shone with truth and purity.\n\n\"It was you,\" said the prince, \"who saved my life when I lay\ndead on the beach,\" and he folded his blushing bride in his arms. \"Oh,\nI am too happy,\" said he to the little mermaid; \"my fondest hopes\nare all fulfilled. You will rejoice at my happiness; for your devotion\nto me is great and sincere.\"\n\nThe little mermaid kissed his hand, and felt as if her heart\nwere already broken. His wedding morning would bring death to her, and\nshe would change into the foam of the sea. All the church bells\nrung, and the heralds rode about the town proclaiming the betrothal.\nPerfumed oil was burning in costly silver lamps on every altar. The\npriests waved the censers, while the bride and bridegroom joined their\nhands and received the blessing of the bishop. The little mermaid,\ndressed in silk and gold, held up the bride's train; but her ears\nheard nothing of the festive music, and her eyes saw not the holy\nceremony; she thought of the night of death which was coming to her,\nand of all she had lost in the world. On the same evening the bride\nand bridegroom went on board ship; cannons were roaring, flags waving,\nand in the centre of the ship a costly tent of purple and gold had\nbeen erected. It contained elegant couches, for the reception of the\nbridal pair during the night. The ship, with swelling sails and a\nfavorable wind, glided away smoothly and lightly over the calm sea.\nWhen it grew dark a number of colored lamps were lit, and the\nsailors danced merrily on the deck. The little mermaid could not\nhelp thinking of her first rising out of the sea, when she had seen\nsimilar festivities and joys; and she joined in the dance, poised\nherself in the air as a swallow when he pursues his prey, and all\npresent cheered her with wonder. She had never danced so elegantly\nbefore. Her tender feet felt as if cut with sharp knives, but she\ncared not for it; a sharper pang had pierced through her heart. She\nknew this was the last evening she should ever see the prince, for\nwhom she had forsaken her kindred and her home; she had given up her\nbeautiful voice, and suffered unheard-of pain daily for him, while\nhe knew nothing of it. This was the last evening that she would\nbreathe the same air with him, or gaze on the starry sky and the\ndeep sea; an eternal night, without a thought or a dream, awaited her:\nshe had no soul and now she could never win one. All was joy and\ngayety on board ship till long after midnight; she laughed and\ndanced with the rest, while the thoughts of death were in her heart.\nThe prince kissed his beautiful bride, while she played with his raven\nhair, till they went arm-in-arm to rest in the splendid tent. Then all\nbecame still on board the ship; the helmsman, alone awake, stood at\nthe helm. The little mermaid leaned her white arms on the edge of\nthe vessel, and looked towards the east for the first blush of\nmorning, for that first ray of dawn that would bring her death. She\nsaw her sisters rising out of the flood: they were as pale as herself;\nbut their long beautiful hair waved no more in the wind, and had\nbeen cut off.\n\n\"We have given our hair to the witch,\" said they, \"to obtain\nhelp for you, that you may not die to-night. She has given us a knife:\nhere it is, see it is very sharp. Before the sun rises you must plunge\nit into the heart of the prince; when the warm blood falls upon your\nfeet they will grow together again, and form into a fish's tail, and\nyou will be once more a mermaid, and return to us to live out your\nthree hundred years before you die and change into the salt sea\nfoam. Haste, then; he or you must die before sunrise. Our old\ngrandmother moans so for you, that her white hair is falling off\nfrom sorrow, as ours fell under the witch's scissors. Kill the\nprince and come back; hasten: do you not see the first red streaks\nin the sky? In a few minutes the sun will rise, and you must die.\" And\nthen they sighed deeply and mournfully, and sank down beneath the\nwaves.\n\nThe little mermaid drew back the crimson curtain of the tent,\nand beheld the fair bride with her head resting on the prince's\nbreast. She bent down and kissed his fair brow, then looked at the sky\non which the rosy dawn grew brighter and brighter; then she glanced at\nthe sharp knife, and again fixed her eyes on the prince, who whispered\nthe name of his bride in his dreams. She was in his thoughts, and\nthe knife trembled in the hand of the little mermaid: then she flung\nit far away from her into the waves; the water turned red where it\nfell, and the drops that spurted up looked like blood. She cast one\nmore lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw\nherself from the ship into the sea, and thought her body was\ndissolving into foam. The sun rose above the waves, and his warm\nrays fell on the cold foam of the little mermaid, who did not feel\nas if she were dying. She saw the bright sun, and all around her\nfloated hundreds of transparent beautiful beings; she could see\nthrough them the white sails of the ship, and the red clouds in the\nsky; their speech was melodious, but too ethereal to be heard by\nmortal ears, as they were also unseen by mortal eyes. The little\nmermaid perceived that she had a body like theirs, and that she\ncontinued to rise higher and higher out of the foam. \"Where am I?\"\nasked she, and her voice sounded ethereal, as the voice of those who\nwere with her; no earthly music could imitate it.\n\n\"Among the daughters of the air,\" answered one of them. \"A mermaid\nhas not an immortal soul, nor can she obtain one unless she wins the\nlove of a human being. On the power of another hangs her eternal\ndestiny. But the daughters of the air, although they do not possess an\nimmortal soul, can, by their good deeds, procure one for themselves.\nWe fly to warm countries, and cool the sultry air that destroys\nmankind with the pestilence. We carry the perfume of the flowers to\nspread health and restoration. After we have striven for three hundred\nyears to all the good in our power, we receive an immortal soul and\ntake part in the happiness of mankind. You, poor little mermaid,\nhave tried with your whole heart to do as we are doing; you have\nsuffered and endured and raised yourself to the spirit-world by your\ngood deeds; and now, by striving for three hundred years in the same\nway, you may obtain an immortal soul.\"\n\nThe little mermaid lifted her glorified eyes towards the sun,\nand felt them, for the first time, filling with tears. On the ship, in\nwhich she had left the prince, there were life and noise; she saw\nhim and his beautiful bride searching for her; sorrowfully they\ngazed at the pearly foam, as if they knew she had thrown herself\ninto the waves. Unseen she kissed the forehead of her bride, and\nfanned the prince, and then mounted with the other children of the air\nto a rosy cloud that floated through the aether.\n\n\"After three hundred years, thus shall we float into the kingdom\nof heaven,\" said she. \"And we may even get there sooner,\" whispered\none of her companions. \"Unseen we can enter the houses of men, where\nthere are children, and for every day on which we find a good child,\nwho is the joy of his parents and deserves their love, our time of\nprobation is shortened. The child does not know, when we fly through\nthe room, that we smile with joy at his good conduct, for we can count\none year less of our three hundred years. But when we see a naughty or\na wicked child, we shed tears of sorrow, and for every tear a day is\nadded to our time of trial!\"\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE TINY OR THUMBELINA\n\nThere was once a woman who wished very much to have a little\nchild, but she could not obtain her wish. At last she went to a fairy,\nand said, \"I should so very much like to have a little child; can\nyou tell me where I can find one?\"\n\n\"Oh, that can be easily managed,\" said the fairy. \"Here is a\nbarleycorn of a different kind to those which grow in the farmer's\nfields, and which the chickens eat; put it into a flower-pot, and\nsee what will happen.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelve\nshillings, which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went home\nand planted it, and immediately there grew up a large handsome flower,\nsomething like a tulip in appearance, but with its leaves tightly\nclosed as if it were still a bud. \"It is a beautiful flower,\" said the\nwoman, and she kissed the red and golden-colored leaves, and while she\ndid so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a real\ntulip. Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a very\ndelicate and graceful little maiden. She was scarcely half as long\nas a thumb, and they gave her the name of \"Thumbelina,\" or Tiny,\nbecause she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly polished, served\nher for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet-leaves, with a\nrose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during the\nday she amused herself on a table, where the woman had placed a\nplateful of water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with their\nstems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, which\nserved Tiny for a boat. Here the little maiden sat and rowed herself\nfrom side to side, with two oars made of white horse-hair. It really\nwas a very pretty sight. Tiny could, also, sing so softly and\nsweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard.\nOne night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toad\ncrept through a broken pane of glass in the window, and leaped right\nupon the table where Tiny lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt.\n\n\"What a pretty little wife this would make for my son,\" said the\ntoad, and she took up the walnut-shell in which little Tiny lay\nasleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden.\n\nIn the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived the\ntoad, with her son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when he\nsaw the pretty little maiden in her elegant bed, he could only cry,\n\"Croak, croak, croak.\"\n\n\"Don't speak so loud, or she will wake,\" said the toad, \"and\nthen she might run away, for she is as light as swan's down. We will\nplace her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream; it will\nbe like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then she\ncannot escape; and, while she is away, we will make haste and\nprepare the state-room under the marsh, in which you are to live\nwhen you are married.\"\n\nFar out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broad\ngreen leaves, which seemed to float on the top of the water. The\nlargest of these leaves appeared farther off than the rest, and the\nold toad swam out to it with the walnut-shell, in which little Tiny\nlay still asleep. The tiny little creature woke very early in the\nmorning, and began to cry bitterly when she found where she was, for\nshe could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf,\nand no way of reaching the land. Meanwhile the old toad was very\nbusy under the marsh, decking her room with rushes and wild yellow\nflowers, to make it look pretty for her new daughter-in-law. Then\nshe swam out with her ugly son to the leaf on which she had placed\npoor little Tiny. She wanted to fetch the pretty bed, that she might\nput it in the bridal chamber to be ready for her. The old toad bowed\nlow to her in the water, and said, \"Here is my son, he will be your\nhusband, and you will live happily in the marsh by the stream.\"\n\n\"Croak, croak, croak,\" was all her son could say for himself; so\nthe toad took up the elegant little bed, and swam away with it,\nleaving Tiny all alone on the green leaf, where she sat and wept.\nShe could not bear to think of living with the old toad, and having\nher ugly son for a husband. The little fishes, who swam about in the\nwater beneath, had seen the toad, and heard what she said, so they\nlifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden. As\nsoon as they caught sight of her, they saw she was very pretty, and it\nmade them very sorry to think that she must go and live with the\nugly toads. \"No, it must never be!\" so they assembled together in\nthe water, round the green stalk which held the leaf on which the\nlittle maiden stood, and gnawed it away at the root with their\nteeth. Then the leaf floated down the stream, carrying Tiny far away\nout of reach of land.\n\nTiny sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushes\nsaw her, and sang, \"What a lovely little creature;\" so the leaf swam\naway with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands.\nA graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her,\nand at last alighted on the leaf. Tiny pleased him, and she was glad\nof it, for now the toad could not possibly reach her, and the\ncountry through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon\nthe water, till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdle\nand tied one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of the\nribbon she fastened to the leaf, which now glided on much faster\nthan ever, taking little Tiny with it as she stood. Presently a\nlarge cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught sight of her, he seized\nher round her delicate waist with his claws, and flew with her into\na tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterfly\nflew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away.\n\nOh, how frightened little Tiny felt when the cockchafer flew\nwith her to the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautiful\nwhite butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he could\nnot free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did not\ntrouble himself at all about the matter. He seated himself by her side\non a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat,\nand told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like a\ncockchafer. After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers,\nand said, \"She has only two legs! how ugly that looks.\" \"She has no\nfeelers,\" said another. \"Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is like\na human being.\"\n\n\"Oh! she is ugly,\" said all the lady cockchafers, although Tiny\nwas very pretty. Then the cockchafer who had run away with her,\nbelieved all the others when they said she was ugly, and would have\nnothing more to say to her, and told her she might go where she liked.\nThen he flew down with her from the tree, and placed her on a daisy,\nand she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even the\ncockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while she\nwas really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and as\ntender and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf. During the whole\nsummer poor little Tiny lived quite alone in the wide forest. She wove\nherself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf,\nto protect herself from the rain. She sucked the honey from the\nflowers for food, and drank the dew from their leaves every morning.\nSo passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter,--the\nlong, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly\nwere flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large\nclover leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolled\ntogether and shrivelled up, nothing remained but a yellow withered\nstalk. She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and she\nwas herself so frail and delicate, that poor little Tiny was nearly\nfrozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes, as they\nfell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for\nwe are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herself\nup in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keep\nher warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she had\nbeen living lay a corn-field, but the corn had been cut a long time;\nnothing remained but the bare dry stubble standing up out of the\nfrozen ground. It was to her like struggling through a large wood. Oh!\nhow she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of a\nfield-mouse, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. There\ndwelt the field-mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of\ncorn, a kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor little Tiny stood\nbefore the door just like a little beggar-girl, and begged for a small\npiece of barley-corn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for two\ndays.\n\n\"You poor little creature,\" said the field-mouse, who was really a\ngood old field-mouse, \"come into my warm room and dine with me.\" She\nwas very pleased with Tiny, so she said, \"You are quite welcome to\nstay with me all the winter, if you like; but you must keep my rooms\nclean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear them\nvery much.\" And Tiny did all the field-mouse asked her, and found\nherself very comfortable.\n\n\"We shall have a visitor soon,\" said the field-mouse one day;\n\"my neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I\nam; he has large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If\nyou could only have him for a husband, you would be well provided\nfor indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him some of your\nprettiest stories.\"\n\nBut Tiny did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, for\nhe was a mole. However, he came and paid his visit dressed in his\nblack velvet coat.\n\n\"He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times larger\nthan mine,\" said the field-mouse.\n\nHe was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly\nof the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them.\nTiny was obliged to sing to him, \"Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away\nhome,\" and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her\nbecause she had such a sweet voice; but he said nothing yet, for he\nwas very cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a long\npassage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of the\nfield-mouse to his own, and here she had permission to walk with\nTiny whenever she liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at the\nsight of a dead bird which lay in the passage. It was a perfect\nbird, with a beak and feathers, and could not have been dead long, and\nwas lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took a\npiece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth, and it glittered like\nfire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through the\nlong, dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the dead\nbird, the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, the earth\ngave way, so that there was a large hole, and the daylight shone\ninto the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, his\nbeautiful wings pulled close to his sides, his feet and his head drawn\nup under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of the cold.\nIt made little Tiny very sad to see it, she did so love the little\nbirds; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her so\nbeautifully. But the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs, and\nsaid, \"He will sing no more now. How miserable it must be to be born a\nlittle bird! I am thankful that none of my children will ever be\nbirds, for they can do nothing but cry, 'Tweet, tweet,' and always die\nof hunger in the winter.\"\n\n\"Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!\" exclaimed the\nfield-mouse, \"What is the use of his twittering, for when winter comes\nhe must either starve or be frozen to death. Still birds are very high\nbred.\"\n\nTiny said nothing; but when the two others had turned their\nbacks on the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the soft\nfeathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids.\n\"Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer,\"\nshe said; \"and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird.\"\n\nThe mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone,\nand then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny could\nnot sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet of\nhay; then she carried it to the dead bird, and spread it over him;\nwith some down from the flowers which she had found in the\nfield-mouse's room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread some of\nit on each side of the bird, so that he might lie warmly in the cold\nearth. \"Farewell, you pretty little bird,\" said she, \"farewell;\nthank you for your delightful singing during the summer, when all\nthe trees were green, and the warm sun shone upon us.\" Then she laid\nher head on the bird's breast, but she was alarmed immediately, for it\nseemed as if something inside the bird went \"thump, thump.\" It was the\nbird's heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, and\nthe warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the swallows fly\naway into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the cold\nseizes it, it becomes frozen, and falls down as if dead; it remains\nwhere it fell, and the cold snow covers it. Tiny trembled very much;\nshe was quite frightened, for the bird was large, a great deal\nlarger than herself,--she was only an inch high. But she took courage,\nlaid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow, and then took a leaf\nwhich she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it over the\nhead of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to see\nhim. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for a\nmoment to look at Tiny, who stood by holding a piece of decayed wood\nin her hand, for she had no other lantern. \"Thank you, pretty little\nmaiden,\" said the sick swallow; \"I have been so nicely warmed, that\nI shall soon regain my strength, and be able to fly about again in the\nwarm sunshine.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said she, \"it is cold out of doors now; it snows and\nfreezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you.\"\n\nThen she brought the swallow some water in a flower-leaf, and\nafter he had drank, he told her that he had wounded one of his wings\nin a thorn-bush, and could not fly as fast as the others, who were\nsoon far away on their journey to warm countries. Then at last he\nhad fallen to the earth, and could remember no more, nor how he came\nto be where she had found him. The whole winter the swallow remained\nunderground, and Tiny nursed him with care and love. Neither the\nmole nor the field-mouse knew anything about it, for they did not like\nswallows. Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed the\nearth. Then the swallow bade farewell to Tiny, and she opened the hole\nin the ceiling which the mole had made. The sun shone in upon them\nso beautifully, that the swallow asked her if she would go with him;\nshe could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with her\ninto the green woods. But Tiny knew it would make the field-mouse very\ngrieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, \"No, I cannot.\"\n\n\"Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden,\" said\nthe swallow; and he flew out into the sunshine.\n\nTiny looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was\nvery fond of the poor swallow.\n\n\"Tweet, tweet,\" sang the bird, as he flew out into the green\nwoods, and Tiny felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into\nthe warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field over\nthe house of the field-mouse had grown up high into the air, and\nformed a thick wood to Tiny, who was only an inch in height.\n\n\"You are going to be married, Tiny,\" said the field-mouse. \"My\nneighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like\nyou. Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be both\nwoollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the mole's\nwife.\"\n\nTiny had to turn the spindle, and the field-mouse hired four\nspiders, who were to weave day and night. Every evening the mole\nvisited her, and was continually speaking of the time when the\nsummer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day with Tiny;\nbut now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth, and\nmade it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, the\nwedding should take place. But Tiny was not at all pleased; for she\ndid not like the tiresome mole. Every morning when the sun rose, and\nevery evening when it went down, she would creep out at the door,\nand as the wind blew aside the ears of corn, so that she could see the\nblue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there,\nand wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he never\nreturned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green\nforest.\n\nWhen autumn arrived, Tiny had her outfit quite ready; and the\nfield-mouse said to her, \"In four weeks the wedding must take place.\"\n\nThen Tiny wept, and said she would not marry the disagreeable\nmole.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" replied the field-mouse. \"Now don't be obstinate, or I\nshall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome mole; the\nqueen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. His\nkitchen and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankful\nfor such good fortune.\"\n\nSo the wedding-day was fixed, on which the mole was to fetch\nTiny away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again to\nsee the warm sun, because he did not like it. The poor child was\nvery unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun,\nand as the field-mouse had given her permission to stand at the\ndoor, she went to look at it once more.\n\n\"Farewell bright sun,\" she cried, stretching out her arm towards\nit; and then she walked a short distance from the house; for the\ncorn had been cut, and only the dry stubble remained in the fields.\n\"Farewell, farewell,\" she repeated, twining her arm round a little red\nflower that grew just by her side. \"Greet the little swallow from\nme, if you should see him again.\"\n\n\"Tweet, tweet,\" sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, and\nthere was the swallow himself flying close by. As soon as he spied\nTiny, he was delighted; and then she told him how unwilling she felt\nto marry the ugly mole, and to live always beneath the earth, and\nnever to see the bright sun any more. And as she told him she wept.\n\n\"Cold winter is coming,\" said the swallow, \"and I am going to\nfly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my\nback, and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away from\nthe ugly mole and his gloomy rooms,--far away, over the mountains,\ninto warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly--than\nhere; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greater\nbeauty. Fly now with me, dear little Tiny; you saved my life when I\nlay frozen in that dark passage.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will go with you,\" said Tiny; and she seated herself on\nthe bird's back, with her feet on his outstretched wings, and tied her\ngirdle to one of his strongest feathers.\n\nThen the swallow rose in the air, and flew over forest and over\nsea, high above the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Tiny\nwould have been frozen in the cold air, but she crept under the bird's\nwarm feathers, keeping her little head uncovered, so that she might\nadmire the beautiful lands over which they passed. At length they\nreached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly, and the sky\nseems so much higher above the earth. Here, on the hedges, and by\nthe wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons and\noranges hung from trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant with\nmyrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along the\ncountry lanes, playing with large gay butterflies; and as the\nswallow flew farther and farther, every place appeared still more\nlovely.\n\nAt last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded by\ntrees of the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble,\nbuilt in the olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, and\nat the top were many swallows' nests, and one of these was the home of\nthe swallow who carried Tiny.\n\n\"This is my house,\" said the swallow; \"but it would not do for you\nto live there--you would not be comfortable. You must choose for\nyourself one of those lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it,\nand then you shall have everything that you can wish to make you\nhappy.\"\n\n\"That will be delightful,\" she said, and clapped her little\nhands for joy.\n\nA large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, had\nbeen broken into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the most\nbeautiful large white flowers; so the swallow flew down with Tiny, and\nplaced her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised she was to\nsee in the middle of the flower, a tiny little man, as white and\ntransparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had a gold crown\non his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was not much\nlarger than Tiny herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a tiny\nman and a tiny woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king of\nthem all.\n\n\"Oh, how beautiful he is!\" whispered Tiny to the swallow.\n\nThe little prince was at first quite frightened at the bird, who\nwas like a giant, compared to such a delicate little creature as\nhimself; but when he saw Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her the\nprettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crown\nfrom his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she\nwould be his wife, and queen over all the flowers.\n\nThis certainly was a very different sort of husband to the son\nof a toad, or the mole, with my black velvet and fur; so she said,\n\"Yes,\" to the handsome prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out of\neach came a little lady or a tiny lord, all so pretty it was quite a\npleasure to look at them. Each of them brought Tiny a present; but the\nbest gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which had belonged to a large\nwhite fly and they fastened them to Tiny's shoulders, so that she\nmight fly from flower to flower. Then there was much rejoicing, and\nthe little swallow who sat above them, in his nest, was asked to\nsing a wedding song, which he did as well as he could; but in his\nheart he felt sad for he was very fond of Tiny, and would have liked\nnever to part from her again.\n\n\"You must not be called Tiny any more,\" said the spirit of the\nflowers to her. \"It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. We\nwill call you Maia.\"\n\n\"Farewell, farewell,\" said the swallow, with a heavy heart as he\nleft the warm countries to fly back into Denmark. There he had a\nnest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy\ntales. The swallow sang, \"Tweet, tweet,\" and from his song came the\nwhole story.\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE TUK\n\nYes, they called him Little Tuk, but it was not his real name;\nhe had called himself so before he could speak plainly, and he meant\nit for Charles. It was all very well for those who knew him, but not\nfor strangers.\n\nLittle Tuk was left at home to take care of his little sister,\nGustava, who was much younger than himself, and he had to learn his\nlessons at the same time, and the two things could not very well be\nperformed together. The poor boy sat there with his sister on his lap,\nand sung to her all the songs he knew, and now and then he looked into\nhis geography lesson that lay open before him. By the next morning\nhe had to learn by heart all the towns in Zealand, and all that\ncould be described of them.\n\nHis mother came home at last, and took little Gustava in her arms.\nThen Tuk ran to the window, and read so eagerly that he nearly read\nhis eyes out; for it had become darker and darker every minute, and\nhis mother had no money to buy a light.\n\n\"There goes the old washerwoman up the lane,\" said the mother,\nas she looked out of the window; \"the poor woman can hardly drag\nherself along, and now she had to drag a pail of water from the\nwell. Be a good boy, Tuk, and run across and help the old woman, won't\nyou?\"\n\nSo Tuk ran across quickly, and helped her, but when he came back\ninto the room it was quite dark, and there was not a word said about a\nlight, so he was obliged to go to bed on his little truckle\nbedstead, and there he lay and thought of his geography lesson, and of\nZealand, and of all the master had told him. He ought really to have\nread it over again, but he could not for want of light. So he put\nthe geography book under his pillow, for he had heard that this was\na great help towards learning a lesson, but not always to be\ndepended upon. He still lay thinking and thinking, when all at once it\nseemed as if some one kissed him on his eyes and mouth. He slept and\nyet he did not sleep; and it appeared as if the old washerwoman looked\nat him with kind eyes and said, \"It would be a great pity if you did\nnot know your lesson to-morrow morning; you helped me, and now I\nwill help you, and Providence will always keep those who help\nthemselves;\" and at the same time the book under Tuk's pillow began to\nmove about. \"Cluck, cluck, cluck,\" cried a hen as she crept towards\nhim. \"I am a hen from Kjoge,\" and then she told him how many\ninhabitants the town contained, and about a battle that had been\nfought there, which really was not worth speaking of.\n\n\"Crack, crack,\" down fell something. It was a wooden bird, the\nparrot which is used as a target as Prastoe. He said there were as\nmany inhabitants in that town as he had nails in his body. He was very\nproud, and said, \"Thorwalsden lived close to me, and here I am now,\nquite comfortable.\"\n\nBut now little Tuk was no longer in bed; all in a moment he\nfound himself on horseback. Gallop, gallop, away he went, seated in\nfront of a richly-attired knight, with a waving plume, who held him on\nthe saddle, and so they rode through the wood by the old town of\nWordingburg, which was very large and busy. The king's castle was\nsurrounded by lofty towers, and radiant light streamed from all the\nwindows. Within there were songs and dancing; King Waldemar and the\nyoung gayly-dressed ladies of the court were dancing together. Morning\ndawned, and as the sun rose, the whole city and the king's castle sank\nsuddenly down together. One tower after another fell, till at last\nonly one remained standing on the hill where the castle had formerly\nbeen.\n\nThe town now appeared small and poor, and the school-boys read\nin their books, which they carried under their arms, that it contained\ntwo thousand inhabitants; but this was a mere boast, for it did not\ncontain so many.\n\nAnd again little Tuk lay in his bed, scarcely knowing whether he\nwas dreaming or not, for some one stood by him.\n\n\"Tuk! little Tuk!\" said a voice. It was a very little person who\nspoke. He was dressed as a sailor, and looked small enough to be a\nmiddy, but he was not one. \"I bring you many greetings from Corsor. It\nis a rising town, full of life. It has steamships and mail-coaches. In\ntimes past they used to call it ugly, but that is no longer true. I\nlie on the sea-shore,\" said Corsor; \"I have high-roads and\npleasure-gardens; I have given birth to a poet who was witty and\nentertaining, which they are not all. I once wanted to fit out a\nship to sail round the world, but I did not accomplish it, though most\nlikely I might have done so. But I am fragrant with perfume, for close\nto my gates most lovely roses bloom.\"\n\nThen before the eyes of little Tuk appeared a confusion of colors,\nred and green; but it cleared off, and he could distinguish a cliff\nclose to the bay, the slopes of which were quite overgrown with\nverdure, and on its summit stood a fine old church with pointed\ntowers. Springs of water flowed out of the cliff in thick waterspouts,\nso that there was a continual splashing. Close by sat an old king with\na golden crown on his white head. This was King Hroar of the Springs\nand near the springs stood the town of Roeskilde, as it is called.\nThen all the kings and queens of Denmark went up the ascent to the old\nchurch, hand in hand, with golden crowns on their heads, while the\norgan played and the fountains sent forth jets of water.\n\nLittle Tuk saw and heard it all. \"Don't forget the names of\nthese towns,\" said King Hroar.\n\nAll at once everything vanished; but where! It seemed to him\nlike turning over the leaves of a book. And now there stood before him\nan old peasant woman, who had come from Soroe where the grass grows in\nthe market-place. She had a green linen apron thrown over her head and\nshoulders, and it was quite wet, as if it had been raining heavily.\n\"Yes, that it has,\" said she, and then, just as she was going to\ntell him a great many pretty stories from Holberg's comedies, and\nabout Waldemar and Absalom, she suddenly shrunk up together, and\nwagged her head as if she were a frog about to spring. \"Croak,\" she\ncried; \"it is always wet, and as quiet as death in Soroe.\" Then little\nTuk saw she was changed into a frog. \"Croak,\" and again she was an old\nwoman. \"One must dress according to the weather,\" said she. \"It is\nwet, and my town is just like a bottle. By the cork we must go in, and\nby the cork we must come out again. In olden times I had beautiful\nfish, and now I have fresh, rosy-cheeked boys in the bottom of the\nbottle, and they learn wisdom, Hebrew and Greek.\"\n\n\"Croak.\" How it sounded like the cry of the frogs on the moor,\nor like the creaking of great boots when some one is marching,--always\nthe same tone, so monotonous and wearing, that little Tuk at length\nfell fast asleep, and then the sound could not annoy him. But even\nin this sleep came a dream or something like it. His little sister\nGustava, with her blue eyes, and fair curly hair, had grown up a\nbeautiful maiden all at once, and without having wings she could\nfly. And they flew together over Zealand, over green forests and\nblue lakes.\n\n\"Hark, so you hear the cock crow, little Tuk. 'Cock-a-doodle-doo.'\nThe fowls are flying out of Kjoge. You shall have a large farm-yard.\nYou shall never suffer hunger or want. The bird of good omen shall\nbe yours, and you shall become a rich and happy man; your house\nshall rise up like King Waldemar's towers, and shall be richly adorned\nwith marble statues, like those at Prastoe. Understand me well; your\nname shall travel with fame round the world like the ship that was\nto sail from Corsor, and at Roeskilde,--Don't forget the names of\nthe towns, as King Hroar said,--you shall speak well and clearly\nlittle Tuk, and when at last you lie in your grave you shall sleep\npeacefully, as--\"\n\n\"As if I lay in Soroe,\" said little Tuk awaking. It was bright\ndaylight, and he could not remember his dream, but that was not\nnecessary, for we are not to know what will happen to us in the\nfuture. Then he sprang out of bed quickly, and read over his lesson in\nthe book, and knew it all at once quite correctly. The old washerwoman\nput her head in at the door, and nodded to him quite kindly, and said,\n\"Many thanks, you good child, for your help yesterday. I hope all your\nbeautiful dreams will come true.\"\n\nLittle Tuk did not at all know what he had dreamt, but One above\ndid.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD\n\nThere lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at\nall seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the\nworld. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most\nbeautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its\napple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near\nthe shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and\nwindow-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the\nhalls. They were of every fragrance and color.\n\nBut care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a\nsick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. \"There is\nstill one thing that could save her,\" said one of the wisest among\nthem. \"Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits\nthe purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before\nher eyes close, she will not die.\"\n\nThen from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in\nevery garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one\nfrom the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the\nhighest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in\nthe world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that\ntitle; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide\nto every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and\ncondition.\n\n\"No one has yet named the flower,\" said the wise man. \"No one\nhas pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is\nnot a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of\nWalburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not\none of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of\nWinkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies\nfor his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be\nredder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the\nmagic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes\nmany an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a\nlonely chamber.\"\n\n\"I know where it blooms,\" said a happy mother, who came with her\nlovely child to the bedside of the queen. \"I know where the\nloveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of\nmy sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy;\nwhen refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with\nchildlike affection.\"\n\n\"This is a lovely rose,\" said the wise man; \"but there is one\nstill more lovely.\"\n\n\"Yes, one far more lovely,\" said one of the women. \"I have seen\nit, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white,\nlike the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the\nqueen. She had taken off her golden crown, and through the long,\ndreary night, she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept over\nit, kissed it, and prayed for it as only a mother can pray in that\nhour of her anguish.\"\n\n\"Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief, but\nit is not the one we seek.\"\n\n\"No; the loveliest rose in the world I saw at the Lord's table,\"\nsaid the good old bishop. \"I saw it shine as if an angel's face had\nappeared. A young maiden knelt at the altar, and renewed the vows made\nat her baptism; and there were white roses and red roses on the\nblushing cheeks of that young girl. She looked up to heaven with all\nthe purity and love of her young spirit, in all the expression of\nthe highest and purest love.\"\n\n\"May she be blessed!\" said the wise man: \"but no one has yet named\nthe loveliest rose in the world.\"\n\nThen there came into the room a child--the queen's little son.\nTears stood in his eyes, and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a\ngreat book and the binding was of velvet, with silver clasps.\n\"Mother,\" cried the little boy; \"only hear what I have read.\" And\nthe child seated himself by the bedside, and read from the book of Him\nwho suffered death on the cross to save all men, even who are yet\nunborn. He read, \"Greater love hath no man than this,\" and as he\nread a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes\nbecame so enlightened and clear, that she saw from the leaves of the\nbook a lovely rose spring forth, a type of Him who shed His blood on\nthe cross.\n\n\"I see it,\" she said. \"He who beholds this, the loveliest rose\non earth, shall never die.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAIL-COACH PASSENGERS\n\nIt was bitterly cold, the sky glittered with stars, and not a\nbreeze stirred. \"Bump\"--an old pot was thrown at a neighbor's door;\nand \"bang, bang,\" went the guns; for they were greeting the New\nYear. It was New Year's Eve, and the church clock was striking twelve.\n\"Tan-ta-ra-ra, tan-ta-ra-ra,\" sounded the horn, and the mail-coach\ncame lumbering up. The clumsy vehicle stopped at the gate of the town;\nall the places had been taken, for there were twelve passengers in the\ncoach.\n\n\"Hurrah! hurrah!\" cried the people in the town; for in every house\nthe New Year was being welcomed; and as the clock struck, they stood\nup, the full glasses in their hands, to drink success to the new\ncomer. \"A happy New Year,\" was the cry; \"a pretty wife, plenty of\nmoney, and no sorrow or care.\"\n\nThe wish passed round, and the glasses clashed together till\nthey rang again; while before the town-gate the mail coach stopped\nwith the twelve strange passengers. And who were these strangers? Each\nof them had his passport and his luggage with him; they even brought\npresents for me, and for you, and for all the people in the town. \"Who\nwere they? what did they want? and what did they bring with them?\"\n\n\"Good-morning,\" they cried to the sentry at the town-gate.\n\n\"Good-morning,\" replied the sentry; for the clock had struck\ntwelve. \"Your name and profession?\" asked the sentry of the one who\nalighted first from the carriage.\n\n\"See for yourself in the passport,\" he replied. \"I am myself;\" and\na famous fellow he looked, arrayed in bear-skin and fur boots. \"I am\nthe man on whom many persons fix their hopes. Come to me to-morrow,\nand I'll give you a New Year's present. I throw shillings and pence\namong the people; I give balls, no less than thirty-one; indeed,\nthat is the highest number I can spare for balls. My ships are often\nfrozen in, but in my offices it is warm and comfortable. My name is\nJANUARY. I'm a merchant, and I generally bring my accounts with me.\"\n\nThen the second alighted. He seemed a merry fellow. He was a\ndirector of a theatre, a manager of masked balls, and a leader of\nall the amusements we can imagine. His luggage consisted of a great\ncask.\n\n\"We'll dance the bung out of the cask at carnival time,\" said\nhe; \"I'll prepare a merry tune for you and for myself too.\nUnfortunately I have not long to live--the shortest time, in fact,\nof my whole family--only twenty-eight days. Sometimes they pop me in a\nday extra; but I trouble myself very little about that. Hurrah!\"\n\n\"You must not shout so,\" said the sentry.\n\n\"Certainly I may shout,\" retorted the man; \"I'm Prince Carnival,\ntravelling under the name of FEBRUARY.\"\n\nThe third now got out. He looked a personification of fasting; but\nhe carried his nose very high, for he was related to the \"forty\n(k)nights,\" and was a weather prophet. But that is not a very\nlucrative office, and therefore he praised fasting. In his button-hole\nhe carried a little bunch of violets, but they were very small.\n\n\"MARCH, March,\" the fourth called after him, slapping him on the\nshoulder, \"don't you smell something? Make haste into the guard\nroom; they're drinking punch there; that's your favorite drink. I\ncan smell it out here already. Forward, Master March.\" But it was\nnot true; the speaker only wanted to remind him of his name, and to\nmake an APRIL fool of him; for with that fun the fourth generally\nbegan his career. He looked very jovial, did little work, and had\nthe more holidays. \"If the world were only a little more settled,\"\nsaid he: \"but sometimes I'm obliged to be in a good humor, and\nsometimes a bad one, according to circumstances; now rain, now\nsunshine. I'm kind of a house agent, also a manager of funerals. I can\nlaugh or cry, according to circumstances. I have my summer wardrobe in\nthis box here, but it would be very foolish to put it on now. Here I\nam. On Sundays I go out walking in shoes and white silk stockings, and\na muff.\"\n\nAfter him, a lady stepped out of the coach. She called herself\nMiss MAY. She wore a summer dress and overshoes; her dress was a light\ngreen, and she wore anemones in her hair. She was so scented with\nwild-thyme, that it made the sentry sneeze.\n\n\"Your health, and God bless you,\" was her salutation to him.\n\nHow pretty she was! and such a singer! not a theatre singer, nor a\nballad singer; no, but a singer of the woods; for she wandered through\nthe gay green forest, and had a concert there for her own amusement.\n\n\"Now comes the young lady,\" said those in the carriage; and out\nstepped a young dame, delicate, proud, and pretty. It was Mistress\nJUNE, in whose service people become lazy and fond of sleeping for\nhours. She gives a feast on the longest day of the year, that there\nmay be time for her guests to partake of the numerous dishes at her\ntable. Indeed, she keeps her own carriage; but still she travelled\nby the mail, with the rest, because she wished to show that she was\nnot high-minded. But she was not without a protector; her younger\nbrother, JULY, was with her. He was a plump young fellow, clad in\nsummer garments and wearing a straw hat. He had but very little\nluggage with him, because it was so cumbersome in the great heat; he\nhad, however, swimming-trousers with him, which are nothing to\ncarry. Then came the mother herself, in crinoline, Madame AUGUST, a\nwholesale dealer in fruit, proprietress of a large number of fish\nponds and a land cultivator. She was fat and heated, yet she could use\nher hands well, and would herself carry out beer to the laborers in\nthe field. \"In the sweat of the face shalt thou eat bread,\" said\nshe; \"it is written in the Bible.\" After work, came the recreations,\ndancing and playing in the greenwood, and the \"harvest homes.\" She was\na thorough housewife.\n\nAfter her a man came out of the coach, who is a painter; he is the\ngreat master of colors, and is named SEPTEMBER. The forest, on his\narrival, had to change its colors when he wished it; and how beautiful\nare the colors he chooses! The woods glow with hues of red and gold\nand brown. This great master painter could whistle like a blackbird.\nHe was quick in his work, and soon entwined the tendrils of the hop\nplant around his beer jug. This was an ornament to the jug, and he has\na great love for ornament. There he stood with his color pot in his\nhand, and that was the whole of his luggage. A land-owner followed,\nwho in the month for sowing seed attended to the ploughing and was\nfond of field sports. Squire OCTOBER brought his dog and his gun\nwith him, and had nuts in his game bag. \"Crack, crack.\" He had a great\ndeal of luggage, even an English plough. He spoke of farming, but what\nhe said could scarcely be heard for the coughing and gasping of his\nneighbor. It was NOVEMBER, who coughed violently as he got out. He had\na cold, which caused him to use his pocket-handkerchief continually;\nand yet he said he was obliged to accompany servant girls to their new\nplaces, and initiate them into their winter service. He said he\nthought his cold would never leave him when he went out woodcutting,\nfor he was a master sawyer, and had to supply wood to the whole\nparish. He spent his evenings preparing wooden soles for skates, for\nhe knew, he said, that in a few weeks these shoes would be wanted\nfor the amusement of skating. At length the last passenger made her\nappearance,--old Mother DECEMBER, with her fire-stool. The dame was\nvery old, but her eyes glistened like two stars. She carried on her\narm a flower-pot, in which a little fir-tree was growing. \"This tree I\nshall guard and cherish,\" she said, \"that it may grow large by\nChristmas Eve, and reach from the ground to the ceiling, to be covered\nand adorned with flaming candles, golden apples, and little figures.\nThe fire-stool will be as warm as a stove, and I shall then bring a\nstory book out of my pocket, and read aloud till all the children in\nthe room are quite quiet. Then the little figures on the tree will\nbecome lively, and the little waxen angel at the top spread out his\nwings of gold-leaf, and fly down from his green perch. He will kiss\nevery one in the room, great and small; yes, even the poor children\nwho stand in the passage, or out in the street singing a carol about\nthe 'Star of Bethlehem.'\"\n\n\"Well, now the coach may drive away,\" said the sentry; \"we have\nthe whole twelve. Let the horses be put up.\"\n\n\"First, let all the twelve come to me,\" said the captain on\nduty, \"one after another. The passports I will keep here. Each of them\nis available for one month; when that has passed, I shall write the\nbehavior of each on his passport. Mr. JANUARY, have the goodness to\ncome here.\" And Mr. January stepped forward.\n\nWhen a year has passed, I think I shall be able to tell you what\nthe twelve passengers have brought to you, to me, and to all of us.\nNow I do not know, and probably even they don't know themselves, for\nwe live in strange times.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MARSH KING'S DAUGHTER\n\nThe storks relate to their little ones a great many stories, and\nthey are all about moors and reed banks, and suited to their age and\ncapacity. The youngest of them are quite satisfied with \"kribble,\nkrabble,\" or such nonsense, and think it very grand; but the elder\nones want something with a deeper meaning, or at least something about\ntheir own family.\n\nWe are only acquainted with one of the two longest and oldest\nstories which the storks relate--it is about Moses, who was exposed by\nhis mother on the banks of the Nile, and was found by the king's\ndaughter, who gave him a good education, and he afterwards became a\ngreat man; but where he was buried is still unknown.\n\nEvery one knows this story, but not the second; very likely\nbecause it is quite an inland story. It has been repeated from mouth\nto mouth, from one stork-mamma to another, for thousands of years; and\neach has told it better than the last; and now we mean to tell it\nbetter than all.\n\nThe first stork pair who related it lived at the time it happened,\nand had their summer residence on the rafters of the Viking's house,\nwhich stood near the wild moorlands of Wendsyssell; that is, to\nspeak more correctly, the great moorheath, high up in the north of\nJutland, by the Skjagen peak. This wilderness is still an immense wild\nheath of marshy ground, about which we can read in the \"Official\nDirectory.\" It is said that in olden times the place was a lake, the\nground of which had heaved up from beneath, and now the moorland\nextends for miles in every direction, and is surrounded by damp\nmeadows, trembling, undulating swamps, and marshy ground covered\nwith turf, on which grow bilberry bushes and stunted trees. Mists\nare almost always hovering over this region, which, seventy years ago,\nwas overrun with wolves. It may well be called the Wild Moor; and\none can easily imagine, with such a wild expanse of marsh and lake,\nhow lonely and dreary it must have been a thousand years ago. Many\nthings may be noticed now that existed then. The reeds grow to the\nsame height, and bear the same kind of long, purple-brown leaves, with\ntheir feathery tips. There still stands the birch, with its white bark\nand its delicate, loosely hanging leaves; and with regard to the\nliving beings who frequented this spot, the fly still wears a gauzy\ndress of the same cut, and the favorite colors of the stork are white,\nwith black and red for stockings. The people, certainly, in those\ndays, wore very different dresses to those they now wear, but if any\nof them, be he huntsman or squire, master or servant, ventured on\nthe wavering, undulating, marshy ground of the moor, they met with the\nsame fate a thousand years ago as they would now. The wanderer sank,\nand went down to the Marsh King, as he is named, who rules in the\ngreat moorland empire beneath. They also called him \"Gunkel King,\" but\nwe like the name of \"Marsh King\" better, and we will give him that\nname as the storks do. Very little is known of the Marsh King's\nrule, but that, perhaps, is a good thing.\n\nIn the neighborhood of the moorlands, and not far from the great\narm of the North Sea and the Cattegat which is called the\nLumfjorden, lay the castle of the Viking, with its water-tight stone\ncellars, its tower, and its three projecting storeys. On the ridge\nof the roof the stork had built his nest, and there the stork-mamma\nsat on her eggs and felt sure her hatching would come to something.\n\nOne evening, stork-papa stayed out rather late, and when he came\nhome he seemed quite busy, bustling, and important. \"I have\nsomething very dreadful to tell you,\" said he to the stork-mamma.\n\n\"Keep it to yourself then,\" she replied. \"Remember that I am\nhatching eggs; it may agitate me, and will affect them.\"\n\n\"You must know it at once,\" said he. \"The daughter of our host\nin Egypt has arrived here. She has ventured to take this journey,\nand now she is lost.\"\n\n\"She who sprung from the race of the fairies, is it?\" cried the\nmother stork. \"Oh, tell me all about it; you know I cannot bear to\nbe kept waiting at a time when I am hatching eggs.\"\n\n\"Well, you see, mother,\" he replied, \"she believed what the\ndoctors said, and what I have heard you state also, that the\nmoor-flowers which grow about here would heal her sick father; and she\nhas flown to the north in swan's plumage, in company with some other\nswan-princesses, who come to these parts every year to renew their\nyouth. She came, and where is she now!\"\n\n\"You enter into particulars too much,\" said the mamma stork,\n\"and the eggs may take cold; I cannot bear such suspense as this.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"I have kept watch; and this evening I went among\nthe rushes where I thought the marshy ground would bear me, and\nwhile I was there three swans came. Something in their manner of\nflying seemed to say to me, 'Look carefully now; there is one not\nall swan, only swan's feathers.' You know, mother, you have the same\nintuitive feeling that I have; you know whether a thing is right or\nnot immediately.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" said she; \"but tell me about the princess; I\nam tired of hearing about the swan's feathers.\"\n\n\"Well, you know that in the middle of the moor there is\nsomething like a lake,\" said the stork-papa. \"You can see the edge\nof it if you raise yourself a little. Just there, by the reeds and the\ngreen banks, lay the trunk of an elder-tree; upon this the three swans\nstood flapping their wings, and looking about them; one of them\nthrew off her plumage, and I immediately recognized her as one of\nthe princesses of our home in Egypt. There she sat, without any\ncovering but her long, black hair. I heard her tell the two others\nto take great care of the swan's plumage, while she dipped down into\nthe water to pluck the flowers which she fancied she saw there. The\nothers nodded, and picked up the feather dress, and took possession of\nit. I wonder what will become of it? thought I, and she most likely\nasked herself the same question. If so, she received an answer, a very\npractical one; for the two swans rose up and flew away with her swan's\nplumage. 'Dive down now!' they cried; 'thou shalt never more fly in\nthe swan's plumage, thou shalt never again see Egypt; here, on the\nmoor, thou wilt remain.' So saying, they tore the swan's plumage\ninto a thousand pieces, the feathers drifted about like a snow-shower,\nand then the two deceitful princesses flew away.\"\n\n\"Why, that is terrible,\" said the stork-mamma; \"I feel as if I\ncould hardly bear to hear any more, but you must tell me what happened\nnext.\"\n\n\"The princess wept and lamented aloud; her tears moistened the\nelder stump, which was really not an elder stump but the Marsh King\nhimself, he who in marshy ground lives and rules. I saw myself how the\nstump of the tree turned round, and was a tree no more, while long,\nclammy branches like arms, were extended from it. Then the poor\nchild was terribly frightened, and started up to run away. She\nhastened to cross the green, slimy ground; but it will not bear any\nweight, much less hers. She quickly sank, and the elder stump dived\nimmediately after her; in fact, it was he who drew her down. Great\nblack bubbles rose up out of the moor-slime, and with these every\ntrace of the two vanished. And now the princess is buried in the\nwild marsh, she will never now carry flowers to Egypt to cure her\nfather. It would have broken your heart, mother, had you seen it.\"\n\n\"You ought not to have told me,\" said she, \"at such a time as\nthis; the eggs might suffer. But I think the princess will soon find\nhelp; some one will rise up to help her. Ah! if it had been you or\nI, or one of our people, it would have been all over with us.\"\n\n\"I mean to go every day,\" said he, \"to see if anything comes to\npass;\" and so he did.\n\nA long time went by, but at last he saw a green stalk shooting\nup out of the deep, marshy ground. As it reached the surface of the\nmarsh, a leaf spread out, and unfolded itself broader and broader, and\nclose to it came forth a bud.\n\nOne morning, when the stork-papa was flying over the stem, he\nsaw that the power of the sun's rays had caused the bud to open, and\nin the cup of the flower lay a charming child--a little maiden,\nlooking as if she had just come out of a bath. The little one was so\nlike the Egyptian princess, that the stork, at the first moment,\nthought it must be the princess herself, but after a little reflection\nhe decided that it was much more likely to be the daughter of the\nprincess and the Marsh King; and this explained also her being\nplaced in the cup of a water-lily. \"But she cannot be left to lie\nhere,\" thought the stork, \"and in my nest there are already so many.\nBut stay, I have thought of something: the wife of the Viking has no\nchildren, and how often she has wished for a little one. People always\nsay the stork brings the little ones; I will do so in earnest this\ntime. I shall fly with the child to the Viking's wife; what\nrejoicing there will be!\"\n\nAnd then the stork lifted the little girl out of the flower-cup,\nflew to the castle, picked a hole with his beak in the bladder-covered\nwindow, and laid the beautiful child in the bosom of the Viking's\nwife. Then he flew back quickly to the stork-mamma and told her\nwhat he had seen and done; and the little storks listened to it\nall, for they were then quite old enough to do so. \"So you see,\"\nhe continued, \"that the princess is not dead, for she must have sent\nher little one up here; and now I have found a home for her.\"\n\n\"Ah, I said it would be so from the first,\" replied the\nstork-mamma; \"but now think a little of your own family. Our\ntravelling time draws near, and I sometimes feel a little irritation\nalready under the wings. The cuckoos and the nightingale are already\ngone, and I heard the quails say they should go too as soon as the\nwind was favorable. Our youngsters will go through all the\nmanoeuvres at the review very well, or I am much mistaken in them.\"\n\nThe Viking's wife was above measure delighted when she awoke the\nnext morning and found the beautiful little child lying in her\nbosom. She kissed it and caressed it; but it cried terribly, and\nstruck out with its arms and legs, and did not seem to be pleased at\nall. At last it cried itself to sleep; and as it lay there so still\nand quiet, it was a most beautiful sight to see. The Viking's wife was\nso delighted, that body and soul were full of joy. Her heart felt so\nlight within her, that it seemed as if her husband and his soldiers,\nwho were absent, must come home as suddenly and unexpectedly as the\nlittle child had done. She and her whole household therefore busied\nthemselves in preparing everything for the reception of her lord.\nThe long, colored tapestry, on which she and her maidens had worked\npictures of their idols, Odin, Thor, and Friga, was hung up. The\nslaves polished the old shields that served as ornaments; cushions\nwere placed on the seats, and dry wood laid on the fireplaces in the\ncentre of the hall, so that the flames might be fanned up at a\nmoment's notice. The Viking's wife herself assisted in the work, so\nthat at night she felt very tired, and quickly fell into a sound\nsleep. When she awoke, just before morning, she was terribly alarmed\nto find that the infant had vanished. She sprang from her couch,\nlighted a pine-chip, and searched all round the room, when, at last,\nin that part of the bed where her feet had been, lay, not the child,\nbut a great, ugly frog. She was quite disgusted at this sight, and\nseized a heavy stick to kill the frog; but the creature looked at\nher with such strange, mournful eyes, that she was unable to strike\nthe blow. Once more she searched round the room; then she started at\nhearing the frog utter a low, painful croak. She sprang from the couch\nand opened the window hastily; at the same moment the sun rose, and\nthrew its beams through the window, till it rested on the couch\nwhere the great frog lay. Suddenly it appeared as if the frog's\nbroad mouth contracted, and became small and red. The limbs moved\nand stretched out and extended themselves till they took a beautiful\nshape; and behold there was the pretty child lying before her, and the\nugly frog was gone. \"How is this?\" she cried, \"have I had a wicked\ndream? Is it not my own lovely cherub that lies there.\" Then she\nkissed it and fondled it; but the child struggled and fought, and\nbit as if she had been a little wild cat.\n\nThe Viking did not return on that day, nor the next; he was,\nhowever, on the way home; but the wind, so favorable to the storks,\nwas against him; for it blew towards the south. A wind in favor of one\nis often against another.\n\nAfter two or three days had passed, it became clear to the\nViking's wife how matters stood with the child; it was under the\ninfluence of a powerful sorcerer. By day it was charming in appearance\nas an angel of light, but with a temper wicked and wild; while at\nnight, in the form of an ugly frog, it was quiet and mournful, with\neyes full of sorrow. Here were two natures, changing inwardly and\noutwardly with the absence and return of sunlight. And so it\nhappened that by day the child, with the actual form of its mother,\npossessed the fierce disposition of its father; at night, on the\ncontrary, its outward appearance plainly showed its descent on the\nfather's side, while inwardly it had the heart and mind of its mother.\nWho would be able to loosen this wicked charm which the sorcerer had\nworked upon it? The wife of the Viking lived in constant pain and\nsorrow about it. Her heart clung to the little creature, but she could\nnot explain to her husband the circumstances in which it was placed.\nHe was expected to return shortly; and were she to tell him, he\nwould very likely, as was the custom at that time, expose the poor\nchild in the public highway, and let any one take it away who would.\nThe good wife of the Viking could not let that happen, and she\ntherefore resolved that the Viking should never see the child\nexcepting by daylight.\n\nOne morning there sounded a rushing of storks' wings over the\nroof. More than a hundred pair of storks had rested there during the\nnight, to recover themselves after their excursion; and now they\nsoared aloft, and prepared for the journey southward.\n\n\"All the husbands are here, and ready!\" they cried; \"wives and\nchildren also!\"\n\n\"How light we are!\" screamed the young storks in chorus.\n\"Something pleasant seems creeping over us, even down to our toes,\nas if we were full of live frogs. Ah, how delightful it is to travel\ninto foreign lands!\"\n\n\"Hold yourselves properly in the line with us,\" cried papa and\nmamma. \"Do not use your beaks so much; it tries the lungs.\" And then\nthe storks flew away.\n\nAbout the same time sounded the clang of the warriors' trumpets\nacross the heath. The Viking had landed with his men. They were\nreturning home, richly laden with spoil from the Gallic coast, where\nthe people, as did also the inhabitants of Britain, often cried in\nalarm, \"Deliver us from the wild northmen.\"\n\nLife and noisy pleasure came with them into the castle of the\nViking on the moorland. A great cask of mead was drawn into the\nhall, piles of wood blazed, cattle were slain and served up, that they\nmight feast in reality, The priest who offered the sacrifice sprinkled\nthe devoted parishioners with the warm blood; the fire crackled, and\nthe smoke rolled along beneath the roof; the soot fell upon them\nfrom the beams; but they were used to all these things. Guests were\ninvited, and received handsome presents. All wrongs and unfaithfulness\nwere forgotten. They drank deeply, and threw in each other's faces the\nbones that were left, which was looked upon as a sign of good\nfeeling amongst them. A bard, who was a kind of musician as well as\nwarrior, and who had been with the Viking in his expedition, and\nknew what to sing about, gave them one of his best songs, in which\nthey heard all their warlike deeds praised, and every wonderful action\nbrought forward with honor. Every verse ended with this refrain,--\n\n  \"Gold and possessions will flee away,\n  Friends and foes must die one day;\n  Every man on earth must die,\n  But a famous name will never die.\"\n\nAnd with that they beat upon their shields, and hammered upon the\ntable with knives and bones, in a most outrageous manner.\n\nThe Viking's wife sat upon a raised cross seat in the open hall.\nShe wore a silk dress, golden bracelets, and large amber beads. She\nwas in costly attire, and the bard named her in his song, and spoke of\nthe rich treasure of gold which she had brought to her husband. Her\nhusband had already seen the wonderfully beautiful child in the\ndaytime, and was delighted with her beauty; even her wild ways pleased\nhim. He said the little maiden would grow up to be a heroine, with the\nstrong will and determination of a man. She would never wink her eyes,\neven if, in joke, an expert hand should attempt to cut off her\neye-brows with a sharp sword.\n\nThe full cask of mead soon became empty, and a fresh one was\nbrought in; for these were people who liked plenty to eat and drink.\nThe old proverb, which every one knows, says that \"the cattle know\nwhen to leave their pasture, but a foolish man knows not the measure\nof his own appetite.\" Yes, they all knew this; but men may know what\nis right, and yet often do wrong. They also knew \"that even the\nwelcome guest becomes wearisome when he sits too long in the house.\"\nBut there they remained; for pork and mead are good things. And so\nat the Viking's house they stayed, and enjoyed themselves; and at\nnight the bondmen slept in the ashes, and dipped their fingers in\nthe fat, and licked them. Oh, it was a delightful time!\n\nOnce more in the same year the Viking went forth, though the\nstorms of autumn had already commenced to roar. He went with his\nwarriors to the coast of Britain; he said that it was but an excursion\nof pleasure across the water, so his wife remained at home with the\nlittle girl. After a while, it is quite certain the foster-mother\nbegan to love the poor frog, with its gentle eyes and its deep\nsighs, even better than the little beauty who bit and fought with\nall around her.\n\nThe heavy, damp mists of autumn, which destroy the leaves of the\nwood, had already fallen upon forest and heath. Feathers of plucked\nbirds, as they call the snow, flew about in thick showers, and\nwinter was coming. The sparrows took possession of the stork's nest,\nand conversed about the absent owners in their own fashion; and\nthey, the stork pair and all their young ones, where were they staying\nnow? The storks might have been found in the land of Egypt, where\nthe sun's rays shone forth bright and warm, as it does here at\nmidsummer. Tamarinds and acacias were in full bloom all over the\ncountry, the crescent of Mahomet glittered brightly from the cupolas\nof the mosques, and on the slender pinnacles sat many of the storks,\nresting after their long journey. Swarms of them took divided\npossession of the nests--nests which lay close to each other between\nthe venerable columns, and crowded the arches of temples in\nforgotten cities. The date and the palm lifted themselves as a\nscreen or as a sun-shade over them. The gray pyramids looked like\nbroken shadows in the clear air and the far-off desert, where the\nostrich wheels his rapid flight, and the lion, with his subtle eyes,\ngazes at the marble sphinx which lies half buried in sand. The\nwaters of the Nile had retreated, and the whole bed of the river was\ncovered with frogs, which was a most acceptable prospect for the stork\nfamilies. The young storks thought their eyes deceived them,\neverything around appeared so beautiful.\n\n\"It is always like this here, and this is how we live in our\nwarm country,\" said the stork-mamma; and the thought made the young\nones almost beside themselves with pleasure.\n\n\"Is there anything more to see?\" they asked; \"are we going farther\ninto the country?\"\n\n\"There is nothing further for us to see,\" answered the\nstork-mamma. \"Beyond this delightful region there are immense forests,\nwhere the branches of the trees entwine round each other, while\nprickly, creeping plants cover the paths, and only an elephant could\nforce a passage for himself with his great feet. The snakes are too\nlarge, and the lizards too lively for us to catch. Then there is the\ndesert; if you went there, your eyes would soon be full of sand with\nthe lightest breeze, and if it should blow great guns, you would\nmost likely find yourself in a sand-drift. Here is the best place\nfor you, where there are frogs and locusts; here I shall remain, and\nso must you.\" And so they stayed.\n\nThe parents sat in the nest on the slender minaret, and rested,\nyet still were busily employed in cleaning and smoothing their\nfeathers, and in sharpening their beaks against their red stockings;\nthen they would stretch out their necks, salute each other, and\ngravely raise their heads with the high-polished forehead, and soft,\nsmooth feathers, while their brown eyes shone with intelligence. The\nfemale young ones strutted about amid the moist rushes, glancing at\nthe other young storks and making acquaintances, and swallowing a frog\nat every third step, or tossing a little snake about with their beaks,\nin a way they considered very becoming, and besides it tasted very\ngood. The young male storks soon began to quarrel; they struck at each\nother with their wings, and pecked with their beaks till the blood\ncame. And in this manner many of the young ladies and gentlemen were\nbetrothed to each other: it was, of course, what they wanted, and\nindeed what they lived for. Then they returned to a nest, and there\nthe quarrelling began afresh; for in hot countries people are almost\nall violent and passionate. But for all that it was pleasant,\nespecially for the old people, who watched them with great joy: all\nthat their young ones did suited them. Every day here there was\nsunshine, plenty to eat, and nothing to think of but pleasure. But\nin the rich castle of their Egyptian host, as they called him,\npleasure was not to be found. The rich and mighty lord of the castle\nlay on his couch, in the midst of the great hall, with its many\ncolored walls looking like the centre of a great tulip; but he was\nstiff and powerless in all his limbs, and lay stretched out like a\nmummy. His family and servants stood round him; he was not dead,\nalthough he could scarcely be said to live. The healing moor-flower\nfrom the north, which was to have been found and brought to him by her\nwho loved him so well, had not arrived. His young and beautiful\ndaughter who, in swan's plumage, had flown over land and seas to the\ndistant north, had never returned. She is dead, so the two\nswan-maidens had said when they came home; and they made up quite a\nstory about her, and this is what they told,--\n\n\"We three flew away together through the air,\" said they: \"a\nhunter caught sight of us, and shot at us with an arrow. The arrow\nstruck our young friend and sister, and slowly singing her farewell\nsong she sank down, a dying swan, into the forest lake. On the\nshores of the lake, under a spreading birch-tree, we laid her in the\ncold earth. We had our revenge; we bound fire under the wings of a\nswallow, who had a nest on the thatched roof of the huntsman. The\nhouse took fire, and burst into flames; the hunter was burnt with\nthe house, and the light was reflected over the sea as far as the\nspreading birch, beneath which we laid her sleeping dust. She will\nnever return to the land of Egypt.\" And then they both wept. And\nstork-papa, who heard the story, snapped with his beak so that it\nmight be heard a long way off.\n\n\"Deceit and lies!\" cried he; \"I should like to run my beak deep\ninto their chests.\"\n\n\"And perhaps break it off,\" said the mamma stork, \"then what a\nsight you would be. Think first of yourself, and then of your\nfamily; all others are nothing to us.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" said the stork-papa; \"but to-morrow I can easily\nplace myself on the edge of the open cupola, when the learned and wise\nmen assemble to consult on the state of the sick man; perhaps they may\ncome a little nearer to the truth.\" And the learned and wise men\nassembled together, and talked a great deal on every point; but the\nstork could make no sense out of anything they said; neither were\nthere any good results from their consultations, either for the sick\nman, or for his daughter in the marshy heath. When we listen to what\npeople say in this world, we shall hear a great deal; but it is an\nadvantage to know what has been said and done before, when we listen\nto a conversation. The stork did, and we know at least as much as\nhe, the stork.\n\n\"Love is a life-giver. The highest love produces the highest life.\nOnly through love can the sick man be cured.\" This had been said by\nmany, and even the learned men acknowledged that it was a wise saying.\n\n\"What a beautiful thought!\" exclaimed the papa stork immediately.\n\n\"I don't quite understand it,\" said the mamma stork, when her\nhusband repeated it; \"however, it is not my fault, but the fault of\nthe thought; whatever it may be, I have something else to think of.\"\n\nNow the learned men had spoken also of love between this one and\nthat one; of the difference of the love which we have for our\nneighbor, to the love that exists between parents and children; of the\nlove of the plant for the light, and how the germ springs forth when\nthe sunbeam kisses the ground. All these things were so elaborately\nand learnedly explained, that it was impossible for stork-papa to\nfollow it, much less to talk about it. His thoughts on the subject\nquite weighed him down; he stood the whole of the following day on one\nleg, with half-shut eyes, thinking deeply. So much learning was\nquite a heavy weight for him to carry. One thing, however, the papa\nstork could understand. Every one, high and low, had from their inmost\nhearts expressed their opinion that it was a great misfortune for so\nmany thousands of people--the whole country indeed--to have this man\nso sick, with no hopes of his recovery. And what joy and blessing it\nwould spread around if he could by any means be cured! But where\nbloomed the flower that could bring him health? They had searched\nfor it everywhere; in learned writings, in the shining stars, in the\nweather and wind. Inquiries had been made in every by-way that could\nbe thought of, until at last the wise and learned men has asserted, as\nwe have been already told, that \"love, the life-giver, could alone\ngive new life to a father;\" and in saying this, they had overdone\nit, and said more than they understood themselves. They repeated it,\nand wrote it down as a recipe, \"Love is a life-giver.\" But how could\nsuch a recipe be prepared--that was a difficulty they could not\novercome. At last it was decided that help could only come from the\nprincess herself, whose whole soul was wrapped up in her father,\nespecially as a plan had been adopted by her to enable her to obtain a\nremedy.\n\nMore than a year had passed since the princess had set out at\nnight, when the light of the young moon was soon lost beneath the\nhorizon. She had gone to the marble sphinx in the desert, shaking\nthe sand from her sandals, and then passed through the long passage,\nwhich leads to the centre of one of the great pyramids, where the\nmighty kings of antiquity, surrounded with pomp and splendor, lie\nveiled in the form of mummies. She had been told by the wise men, that\nif she laid her head on the breast of one of them, from the head she\nwould learn where to find life and recovery for her father. She had\nperformed all this, and in a dream had learnt that she must bring home\nto her father the lotus flower, which grows in the deep sea, near\nthe moors and heath in the Danish land. The very place and situation\nhad been pointed out to her, and she was told that the flower would\nrestore her father to health and strength. And, therefore, she had\ngone forth from the land of Egypt, flying over to the open marsh and\nthe wild moor in the plumage of a swan.\n\nThe papa and mamma storks knew all this, and we also know it\nnow. We know, too, that the Marsh King has drawn her down to\nhimself, and that to the loved ones at home she is forever dead. One\nof the wisest of them said, as the stork-mamma also said, \"That in\nsome way she would, after all, manage to succeed;\" and so at last they\ncomforted themselves with this hope, and would wait patiently; in\nfact, they could do nothing better.\n\n\"I should like to get away the swan's feathers from those two\ntreacherous princesses,\" said the papa stork; \"then, at least, they\nwould not be able to fly over again to the wild moor, and do more\nwickedness. I can hide the two suits of feathers over yonder, till\nwe find some use for them.\"\n\n\"But where will you put them?\" asked the mamma stork.\n\n\"In our nest on the moor. I and the young ones will carry them\nby turns during our flight across; and as we return, should they prove\ntoo heavy for us, we shall be sure to find plenty of places on the way\nin which 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\ntravelling wrappers.\"\n\n\"No one will thank you for it,\" said stork-mamma; \"but you are\nmaster; and, excepting at breeding time, I have nothing to say.\"\n\nIn the Viking's castle on the wild moor, to which the storks\ndirected their flight in the following spring, the little maiden still\nremained. They had named her Helga, which was rather too soft a name\nfor a child with a temper like hers, although her form was still\nbeautiful. Every month this temper showed itself in sharper\noutlines; and in the course of years, while the storks still made\nthe same journeys in autumn to the hill, and in spring to the moors,\nthe child grew to be almost a woman, and before any one seemed aware\nof it, she was a wonderfully beautiful maiden of sixteen. The casket\nwas splendid, but the contents were worthless. She was, indeed, wild\nand savage even in those hard, uncultivated times. It was a pleasure\nto her to splash about with her white hands in the warm blood of the\nhorse which had been slain for sacrifice. In one of her wild moods she\nbit off the head of the black cock, which the priest was about to slay\nfor the sacrifice. To her foster-father she said one day, \"If thine\nenemy were to pull down thine house about thy ears, and thou shouldest\nbe sleeping in unconscious security, I would not wake thee; even if\nI had the power I would never do it, for my ears still tingle with the\nblow that thou gavest me years ago. I have never forgotten it.\" But\nthe Viking treated her words as a joke; he was, like every one else,\nbewitched with her beauty, and knew nothing of the change in the\nform and temper of Helga at night. Without a saddle, she would sit\non a horse as if she were a part of it, while it rushed along at\nfull speed; nor would she spring from its back, even when it\nquarrelled with other horses and bit them. She would often leap from\nthe high shore into the sea with all her clothes on, and swim to\nmeet the Viking, when his boat was steering home towards the shore.\nShe once cut off a long lock of her beautiful hair, and twisted it\ninto a string for her bow. \"If a thing is to be done well,\" said\nshe, \"I must do it myself.\"\n\nThe Viking's wife was, for the time in which she lived, a woman of\nstrong character and will; but, compared to her daughter, she was a\ngentle, timid woman, and she knew that a wicked sorcerer had the\nterrible child in his power. It was sometimes as if Helga acted from\nsheer wickedness; for often when her mother stood on the threshold\nof the door, or stepped into the yard, she would seat herself on the\nbrink of the well, wave her arms and legs in the air, and suddenly\nfall right in. Here she was able, from her frog nature, to dip and\ndive about in the water of the deep well, until at last she would\nclimb forth like a cat, and come back into the hall dripping with\nwater, so that the green leaves that were strewed on the floor were\nwhirled round, and carried away by the streams that flowed from her.\n\nBut there was one time of the day which placed a check upon Helga.\nIt was the evening twilight; when this hour arrived she became quiet\nand thoughtful, and allowed herself to be advised and led; then also a\nsecret feeling seemed to draw her towards her mother. And as usual,\nwhen the sun set, and the transformation took place, both in body\nand mind, inwards and outwards, she would remain quiet and mournful,\nwith her form shrunk together in the shape of a frog. Her body was\nmuch larger than those animals ever are, and on this account it was\nmuch more hideous in appearance; for she looked like a wretched dwarf,\nwith a frog's head, and webbed fingers. Her eyes had a most piteous\nexpression; she was without a voice, excepting a hollow, croaking\nsound, like the smothered sobs of a dreaming child.\n\nThen the Viking's wife took her on her lap, and forgot the ugly\nform, as she looked into the mournful eyes, and often said, \"I could\nwish that thou wouldst always remain my dumb frog child, for thou\nart too terrible when thou art clothed in a form of beauty.\" And the\nViking woman wrote Runic characters against sorcery and spells of\nsickness, and threw them over the wretched child; but they did no\ngood.\n\n\"One can scarcely believe that she was ever small enough to lie in\nthe cup of the water-lily,\" said the papa stork; \"and now she is grown\nup, and the image of her Egyptian mother, especially about the eyes.\nAh, we shall never see her again; perhaps she has not discovered how\nto help herself, as you and the wise men said she would. Year after\nyear have I flown across and across the moor, but there was no sign of\nher being still alive. Yes, and I may as well tell you that you that\neach year, when I arrived a few days before you to repair the nest,\nand put everything in its place, I have spent a whole night flying\nhere and there over the marshy lake, as if I had been an owl or a bat,\nbut all to no purpose. The two suit of swan's plumage, which I and the\nyoung ones dragged over here from the land of the Nile, are of no use;\ntrouble enough it was to us to bring them here in three journeys,\nand now they are lying at the bottom of the nest; and if a fire should\nhappen to break out, and the wooden house be burnt down, they would be\ndestroyed.\"\n\n\"And our good nest would be destroyed, too,\" said the mamma stork;\n\"but you think less of that than of your plumage stuff and your\nmoor-princess. Go and stay with her in the marsh if you like. You\nare a bad father to your own children, as I have told you already,\nwhen I hatched my first brood. I only hope neither we nor our children\nmay have an arrow sent through our wings, owing to that wild girl.\nHelga does not know in the least what she is about. We have lived in\nthis house longer than she has, she should think of that, and we\nhave never forgotten our duty. We have paid every year our toll of a\nfeather, an egg, and a young one, as it is only right we should do.\nYou don't suppose I can wander about the court-yard, or go\neverywhere as I used to do in old times. I can do it in Egypt, where I\ncan be a companion of the people, without forgetting myself. But\nhere I cannot go and peep into the pots and kettles as I do there. No,\nI can only sit up here and feel angry with that girl, the little\nwretch; and I am angry with you, too; you should have left her lying\nin the water lily, then no one would have known anything about her.\"\n\n\"You are far better than your conversation,\" said the papa\nstork; \"I know you better than you know yourself.\" And with that he\ngave a hop, and flapped his wings twice, proudly; then he stretched\nhis neck and flew, or rather soared away, without moving his outspread\nwings. He went on for some distance, and then he gave a great flap\nwith his wings and flew on his course at a rapid rate, his head and\nneck bending proudly before him, while the sun's rays fell on his\nglossy plumage.\n\n\"He is the handsomest of them all,\" said the mamma stork, as she\nwatched him; \"but I won't tell him so.\"\n\nEarly in the autumn, the Viking again returned home laden with\nspoil, and bringing prisoners with him. Among them was a young\nChristian priest, one of those who contemned the gods of the north.\nOften lately there had been, both in hall and chamber, a talk of the\nnew faith which was spreading far and wide in the south, and which,\nthrough the means of the holy Ansgarius, had already reached as far as\nHedeby on the Schlei. Even Helga had heard of this belief in the\nteachings of One who was named Christ, and who for the love of\nmankind, and for their redemption, had given up His life. But to her\nall this had, as it were, gone in one ear and out the other. It seemed\nthat she only understood the meaning of the word \"love,\" when in the\nform of a miserable frog she crouched together in the corner of the\nsleeping chamber; but the Viking's wife had listened to the\nwonderful story, and had felt herself strangely moved by it.\n\nOn their return, after this voyage, the men spoke of the beautiful\ntemples built of polished stone, which had been raised for the\npublic worship of this holy love. Some vessels, curiously formed of\nmassive gold, had been brought home among the booty. There was a\npeculiar fragrance about them all, for they were incense vessels,\nwhich had been swung before the altars in the temples by the Christian\npriests. In the deep stony cellars of the castle, the young\nChristian priest was immured, and his hands and feet tied together\nwith strips of bark. The Viking's wife considered him as beautiful\nas Baldur, and his distress raised her pity; but Helga said he ought\nto have ropes fastened to his heels, and be tied to the tails of\nwild animals.\n\n\"I would let the dogs loose after him\" she said; \"over the moor\nand across the heath. Hurrah! that would be a spectacle for the\ngods, and better still to follow in its course.\"\n\nBut the Viking would not allow him to die such a death as that,\nespecially as he was the disowned and despiser of the high gods. In\na few days, he had decided to have him offered as a sacrifice on the\nblood-stone in the grove. For the first time, a man was to be\nsacrificed here. Helga begged to be allowed to sprinkle the\nassembled people with the blood of the priest. She sharpened her\nglittering knife; and when one of the great, savage dogs, who were\nrunning about the Viking's castle in great numbers, sprang towards\nher, she thrust the knife into his side, merely, as she said, to prove\nits sharpness.\n\nThe Viking's wife looked at the wild, badly disposed girl, with\ngreat sorrow; and when night came on, and her daughter's beautiful\nform and disposition were changed, she spoke in eloquent words to\nHelga of the sorrow and deep grief that was in her heart. The ugly\nfrog, in its monstrous shape, stood before her, and raised its brown\nmournful eyes to her face, listening to her words, and seeming to\nunderstand them with the intelligence of a human being.\n\n\"Never once to my lord and husband has a word passed my lips of\nwhat I have to suffer through you; my heart is full of grief about\nyou,\" said the Viking's wife. \"The love of a mother is greater and\nmore powerful than I ever imagined. But love never entered thy\nheart; it is cold and clammy, like the plants on the moor.\"\n\nThen the miserable form trembled; it was as if these words had\ntouched an invisible bond between body and soul, for great tears stood\nin the eyes.\n\n\"A bitter time will come for thee at last,\" continued the Viking's\nwife; \"and it will be terrible for me too. It had been better for thee\nif thou hadst been left on the high-road, with the cold night wind\nto lull thee to sleep.\" And the Viking's wife shed bitter tears, and\nwent away in anger and sorrow, passing under the partition of furs,\nwhich hung loose over the beam and divided the hall.\n\nThe shrivelled frog still sat in the corner alone. Deep silence\nreigned around. At intervals, a half-stifled sigh was heard from its\ninmost soul; it was the soul of Helga. It seemed in pain, as if a\nnew life were arising in her heart. Then she took a step forward and\nlistened; then stepped again forward, and seized with her clumsy hands\nthe heavy bar which was laid across the door. Gently, and with much\ntrouble, she pushed back the bar, as silently lifted the latch, and\nthen took up the glimmering lamp which stood in the ante-chamber of\nthe hall. It seemed as if a stronger will than her own gave her\nstrength. She removed the iron bolt from the closed cellar-door, and\nslipped in to the prisoner. He was slumbering. She touched him with\nher cold, moist hand, and as he awoke and caught sight of the\nhideous form, he shuddered as if he beheld a wicked apparition. She\ndrew her knife, cut through the bonds which confined his hands and\nfeet, and beckoned to him to follow her. He uttered some holy names\nand made the sign of the cross, while the form remained motionless\nby his side.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" he asked, \"whose outward appearance is that of\nan animal, while thou willingly performest acts of mercy?\"\n\nThe frog-figure beckoned to him to follow her, and led him through\na long gallery concealed by hanging drapery to the stables, and then\npointed to a horse. He mounted upon it, and she sprang up also\nbefore him, and held tightly by the animal's mane. The prisoner\nunderstood her, and they rode on at a rapid trot, by a road which he\nwould never have found by himself, across the open heath. He forgot\nher ugly form, and only thought how the mercy and loving-kindness of\nthe Almighty was acting through this hideous apparition. As he offered\npious prayers and sang holy songs of praise, she trembled. Was it\nthe effect of prayer and praise that caused this? or, was she\nshuddering in the cold morning air at the thought of approaching\ntwilight? What were her feelings? She raised herself up, and wanted to\nstop the horse and spring off, but the Christian priest held her\nback with all his might, and then sang a pious song, as if this\ncould loosen the wicked charm that had changed her into the\nsemblance of a frog.\n\nAnd the horse galloped on more wildly than before. The sky painted\nitself red, the first sunbeam pierced through the clouds, and in the\nclear flood of sunlight the frog became changed. It was Helga again,\nyoung and beautiful, but with a wicked demoniac spirit. He held now\na beautiful young woman in his arms, and he was horrified at the\nsight. He stopped the horse, and sprang from its back. He imagined\nthat some new sorcery was at work. But Helga also leaped from the\nhorse and stood on the ground. The child's short garment reached\nonly to her knee. She snatched the sharp knife from her girdle, and\nrushed like lightning at the astonished priest. \"Let me get at\nthee!\" she cried; \"let me get at thee, that I may plunge this knife\ninto thy body. Thou art pale as ashes, thou beardless slave.\" She\npressed in upon him. They struggled with each other in heavy combat,\nbut it was as if an invisible power had been given to the Christian in\nthe struggle. He held her fast, and the old oak under which they stood\nseemed to help him, for the loosened roots on the ground became\nentangled in the maiden's feet, and held them fast. Close by rose a\nbubbling spring, and he sprinkled Helga's face and neck with the\nwater, commanded the unclean spirit to come forth, and pronounced upon\nher a Christian blessing. But the water of faith has no power unless\nthe well-spring of faith flows within. And yet even here its power was\nshown; something more than the mere strength of a man opposed\nitself, through his means, against the evil which struggled within\nher. His holy action seemed to overpower her. She dropped her arms,\nglanced at him with pale cheeks and looks of amazement. He appeared to\nher a mighty magician skilled in secret arts; his language was the\ndarkest magic to her, and the movements of his hands in the air were\nas the secret signs of a magician's wand. She would not have blinked\nhad he waved over her head a sharp knife or a glittering axe; but\nshe shrunk from him as he signed her with the sign of the cross on her\nforehead and breast, and sat before him like a tame bird, with her\nhead bowed down. Then he spoke to her, in gentle words, of the deed of\nlove she had performed for him during the night, when she had come\nto him in the form of an ugly frog, to loosen his bonds, and to lead\nhim forth to life and light; and he told her that she was bound in\ncloser fetters than he had been, and that she could recover also\nlife and light by his means. He would take her to Hedeby to St.\nAnsgarius, and there, in that Christian town, the spell of the\nsorcerer would be removed. But he would not let her sit before him\non the horse, though of her own free will she wished to do so. \"Thou\nmust sit behind me, not before me,\" said he. \"Thy magic beauty has a\nmagic power which comes from an evil origin, and I fear it; still I am\nsure to overcome through my faith in Christ.\" Then he knelt down,\nand prayed with pious fervor. It was as if the quiet woodland were a\nholy church consecrated by his worship. The birds sang as if they were\nalso of this new congregation; and the fragrance of the wild flowers\nwas as the ambrosial perfume of incense; while, above all, sounded the\nwords of Scripture, \"A light to them that sit in darkness and in the\nshadow of death, to guide their feet into the way of peace.\" And he\nspoke these words with the deep longing of his whole nature.\n\nMeanwhile, the horse that had carried them in wild career stood\nquietly by, plucking at the tall bramble-bushes, till the ripe young\nberries fell down upon Helga's hands, as if inviting her to eat.\nPatiently she allowed herself to be lifted on the horse, and sat there\nlike a somnambulist--as one who walked in his sleep. The Christian\nbound two branches together with bark, in the form of a cross, and\nheld it on high as they rode through the forest. The way gradually\ngrew thicker of brushwood, as they rode along, till at last it\nbecame a trackless wilderness. Bushes of the wild sloe here and\nthere blocked up the path, so that they had to ride over them. The\nbubbling spring formed not a stream, but a marsh, round which also\nthey were obliged to guide the horse; still there were strength and\nrefreshment in the cool forest breeze, and no trifling power in the\ngentle words spoken in faith and Christian love by the young priest,\nwhose inmost heart yearned to lead this poor lost one into the way\nof light and life. It is said that rain-drops can make a hollow in the\nhardest stone, and the waves of the sea can smooth and round the rough\nedges of the rocks; so did the dew of mercy fall upon Helga, softening\nwhat was hard, and smoothing what was rough in her character. These\neffects did not yet appear; she was not herself aware of them; neither\ndoes the seed in the lap of earth know, when the refreshing dew and\nthe warm sunbeams fall upon it, that it contains within itself power\nby which it will flourish and bloom. The song of the mother sinks into\nthe heart of the child, and the little one prattles the words after\nher, without understanding their meaning; but after a time the\nthoughts expand, and what has been heard in childhood seems to the\nmind clear and bright. So now the \"Word,\" which is all-powerful to\ncreate, was working in the heart of Helga.\n\nThey rode forth from the thick forest, crossed the heath, and\nagain entered a pathless wood. Here, towards evening, they met with\nrobbers.\n\n\"Where hast thou stolen that beauteous maiden?\" cried the robbers,\nseizing the horse by the bridle, and dragging the two riders from\nits back.\n\nThe priest had nothing to defend himself with, but the knife he\nhad taken from Helga, and with this he struck out right and left.\nOne of the robbers raised his axe against him; but the young priest\nsprang on one side, and avoided the blow, which fell with great\nforce on the horse's neck, so that the blood gushed forth, and the\nanimal sunk to the ground. Then Helga seemed suddenly to awake from\nher long, deep reverie; she threw herself hastily upon the dying\nanimal. The priest placed himself before her, to defend and shelter\nher; but one of the robbers swung his iron axe against the Christian's\nhead with such force that it was dashed to pieces, the blood and\nbrains were scattered about, and he fell dead upon the ground. Then\nthe robbers seized beautiful Helga by her white arms and slender\nwaist; but at that moment the sun went down, and as its last ray\ndisappeared, she was changed into the form of a frog. A greenish white\nmouth spread half over her face; her arms became thin and slimy; while\nbroad hands, with webbed fingers, spread themselves out like fans.\nThen the robbers, in terror, let her go, and she stood among them, a\nhideous monster; and as is the nature of frogs to do, she hopped up as\nhigh as her own size, and disappeared in the thicket. Then the robbers\nknew that this must be the work of an evil spirit or some secret\nsorcery, and, in a terrible fright, they ran hastily from the spot.\n\nThe full moon had already risen, and was shining in all her\nradiant splendor over the earth, when from the thicket, in the form of\na frog, crept poor Helga. She stood still by the corpse of the\nChristian priest, and the carcase of the dead horse. She looked at\nthem with eyes that seemed to weep, and from the frog's head came\nforth a croaking sound, as when a child bursts into tears. She threw\nherself first upon one, and then upon the other; brought water in\nher hand, which, from being webbed, was large and hollow, and poured\nit over them; but they were dead, and dead they would remain. She\nunderstood that at last. Soon wild animals would come and tear their\ndead bodies; but no, that must not happen. Then she dug up the\nearth, as deep as she was able, that she might prepare a grave for\nthem. She had nothing but a branch of a tree and her two hands,\nbetween the fingers of which the webbed skin stretched, and they\nwere torn by the work, while the blood ran down her hands. She saw\nat last that her work would be useless, more than she could\naccomplish; so she fetched more water, and washed the face of the\ndead, and then covered it with fresh green leaves; she also brought\nlarge boughs and spread over him, and scattered dried leaves between\nthe branches. Then she brought the heaviest stones that she could\ncarry, and laid them over the dead body, filling up the crevices\nwith moss, till she thought she had fenced in his resting-place\nstrongly enough. The difficult task had employed her the whole\nnight; and as the sun broke forth, there stood the beautiful Helga\nin all her loveliness, with her bleeding hands, and, for the first\ntime, with tears on her maiden cheeks. It was, in this transformation,\nas if two natures were striving together within her; her whole frame\ntrembled, and she looked around her as if she had just awoke from a\npainful dream. She leaned for support against the trunk of a slender\ntree, and at last climbed to the topmost branches, like a cat, and\nseated herself firmly upon them. She remained there the whole day,\nsitting alone, like a frightened squirrel, in the silent solitude of\nthe wood, where the rest and stillness is as the calm of death.\n\nButterflies fluttered around her, and close by were several\nant-hills, each with its hundreds of busy little creatures moving\nquickly to and fro. In the air, danced myriads of gnats, swarm upon\nswarm, troops of buzzing flies, ladybirds, dragon-flies with golden\nwings, and other little winged creatures. The worm crawled forth\nfrom the moist ground, and the moles crept out; but, excepting\nthese, all around had the stillness of death: but when people say\nthis, they do not quite understand themselves what they mean. None\nnoticed Helga but a flock of magpies, which flew chattering round\nthe top of the tree on which she sat. These birds hopped close to\nher on the branches with bold curiosity. A glance from her eyes was\na signal to frighten them away, and they were not clever enough to\nfind out who she was; indeed she hardly knew herself.\n\nWhen the sun was near setting, and the evening's twilight about to\ncommence, the approaching transformation aroused her to fresh\nexertion. She let herself down gently from the tree, and, as the\nlast sunbeam vanished, she stood again in the wrinkled form of a frog,\nwith the torn, webbed skin on her hands, but her eyes now gleamed with\nmore radiant beauty than they had ever possessed in her most beautiful\nform of loveliness; they were now pure, mild maidenly eyes that\nshone forth in the face of a frog. They showed the existence of deep\nfeeling and a human heart, and the beauteous eyes overflowed with\ntears, weeping precious drops that lightened the heart.\n\nOn the raised mound which she had made as a grave for the dead\npriest, she found the cross made of the branches of a tree, the last\nwork of him who now lay dead and cold beneath it. A sudden thought\ncame to Helga, and she lifted up the cross and planted it upon the\ngrave, between the stones that covered him and the dead horse. The sad\nrecollection brought the tears to her eyes, and in this gentle\nspirit she traced the same sign in the sand round the grave; and as\nshe formed, with both her hands, the sign of the cross, the web skin\nfell from them like a torn glove. She washed her hands in the water of\nthe spring, and gazed with astonishment at their delicate whiteness.\nAgain she made the holy sign in the air, between herself and the\ndead man; her lips trembled, her tongue moved, and the name which\nshe in her ride through the forest had so often heard spoken, rose\nto her lips, and she uttered the words, \"Jesus Christ.\" Then the\nfrog skin fell from her; she was once more a lovely maiden. Her head\nbent wearily, her tired limbs required rest, and then she slept.\n\nHer sleep, however, was short. Towards midnight, she awoke; before\nher stood the dead horse, prancing and full of life, which shone forth\nfrom his eyes and from his wounded neck. Close by his side appeared\nthe murdered Christian priest, more beautiful than Baldur, as the\nViking's wife had said; but now he came as if in a flame of fire. Such\ngravity, such stern justice, such a piercing glance shone from his\nlarge, gentle eyes, that it seemed to penetrate into every corner of\nher heart. Beautiful Helga trembled at the look, and her memory\nreturned with a power as if it had been the day of judgment. Every\ngood deed that had been done for her, every loving word that had\nbeen said, were vividly before her mind. She understood now that\nlove had kept her here during the day of her trial; while the creature\nformed of dust and clay, soul and spirit, had wrestled and struggled\nwith evil. She acknowledged that she had only followed the impulses of\nan evil disposition, that she had done nothing to cure herself;\neverything had been given her, and all had happened as it were by\nthe ordination of Providence. She bowed herself humbly, confessed\nher great imperfections in the sight of Him who can read every fault\nof the heart, and then the priest spoke. \"Daughter of the moorland,\nthou hast come from the swamp and the marshy earth, but from this thou\nshalt arise. The sunlight shining into thy inmost soul proves the\norigin from which thou hast really sprung, and has restored the body\nto its natural form. I am come to thee from the land of the dead,\nand thou also must pass through the valley to reach the holy mountains\nwhere mercy and perfection dwell. I cannot lead thee to Hedeby that\nthou mayst receive Christian baptism, for first thou must remove the\nthick veil with which the waters of the moorland are shrouded, and\nbring forth from its depths the living author of thy being and thy\nlife. Till this is done, thou canst not receive consecration.\"\n\nThen he lifted her on the horse and gave her a golden censer,\nsimilar to those she had already seen at the Viking's house. A sweet\nperfume arose from it, while the open wound in the forehead of the\nslain priest, shone with the rays of a diamond. He took the cross from\nthe grave, and held it aloft, and now they rode through the air over\nthe rustling trees, over the hills where warriors lay buried each by\nhis dead war-horse; and the brazen monumental figures rose up and\ngalloped forth, and stationed themselves on the summits of the\nhills. The golden crescent on their foreheads, fastened with golden\nknots, glittered in the moonlight, and their mantles floated in the\nwind. The dragon, that guards buried treasure, lifted his head and\ngazed after them. The goblins and the satyrs peeped out from beneath\nthe hills, and flitted to and fro in the fields, waving blue, red, and\ngreen torches, like the glowing sparks in burning paper. Over woodland\nand heath, flood and fen, they flew on, till they reached the wild\nmoor, over which they hovered in broad circles. The Christian priest\nheld the cross aloft, and it glittered like gold, while from his\nlips sounded pious prayers. Beautiful Helga's voice joined with his in\nthe hymns he sung, as a child joins in her mother's song. She swung\nthe censer, and a wonderful fragrance of incense arose from it; so\npowerful, that the reeds and rushes of the moor burst forth into\nblossom. Each germ came forth from the deep ground: all that had\nlife raised itself. Blooming water-lilies spread themselves forth like\na carpet of wrought flowers, and upon them lay a slumbering woman,\nyoung and beautiful. Helga fancied that it was her own image she saw\nreflected in the still water. But it was her mother she beheld, the\nwife of the Marsh King, the princess from the land of the Nile.\n\nThe dead Christian priest desired that the sleeping woman should\nbe lifted on the horse, but the horse sank beneath the load, as if\nhe had been a funeral pall fluttering in the wind. But the sign of the\ncross made the airy phantom strong, and then the three rode away\nfrom the marsh to firm ground.\n\nAt the same moment the cock crew in the Viking's castle, and the\ndream figures dissolved and floated away in the air, but mother and\ndaughter stood opposite to each other.\n\n\"Am I looking at my own image in the deep water?\" said the mother.\n\n\"Is it myself that I see represented on a white shield?\" cried the\ndaughter.\n\nThen they came nearer to each other in a fond embrace. The\nmother's heart beat quickly, and she understood the quickened\npulses. \"My child!\" she exclaimed, \"the flower of my heart--my lotus\nflower of the deep water!\" and she embraced her child again and\nwept, and the tears were as a baptism of new life and love for\nHelga. \"In swan's plumage I came here,\" said the mother, \"and here I\nthrew off my feather dress. Then I sank down through the wavering\nground, deep into the marsh beneath, which closed like a wall around\nme; I found myself after a while in fresher water; still a power\ndrew me down deeper and deeper. I felt the weight of sleep upon my\neyelids. Then I slept, and dreams hovered round me. It seemed to me as\nif I were again in the pyramids of Egypt, and yet the waving elder\ntrunk that had frightened me on the moor stood ever before me. I\nobserved the clefts and wrinkles in the stem; they shone forth in\nstrange colors, and took the form of hieroglyphics. It was the mummy\ncase on which I gazed. At last it burst, and forth stepped the\nthousand years' old king, the mummy form, black as pitch, black as the\nshining wood-snail, or the slimy mud of the swamp. Whether it was\nreally the mummy or the Marsh King I know not. He seized me in his\narms, and I felt as if I must die. When I recovered myself, I found in\nmy bosom a little bird, flapping its wings, twittering and fluttering.\nThe bird flew away from my bosom, upwards towards the dark, heavy\ncanopy above me, but a long, green band kept it fastened to me. I\nheard and understood the tenor of its longings. Freedom! sunlight!\nto my father! Then I thought of my father, and the sunny land of my\nbirth, my life, and my love. Then I loosened the band, and let the\nbird fly away to its home--to a father. Since that hour I have\nceased to dream; my sleep has been long and heavy, till in this very\nhour, harmony and fragrance awoke me, and set me free.\"\n\nThe green band which fastened the wings of the bird to the\nmother's heart, where did it flutter now? whither had it been\nwafted? The stork only had seen it. The band was the green stalk,\nthe cup of the flower the cradle in which lay the child, that now in\nblooming beauty had been folded to the mother's heart.\n\nAnd while the two were resting in each other's arms, the old stork\nflew round and round them in narrowing circles, till at length he flew\naway swiftly to his nest, and fetched away the two suits of swan's\nfeathers, which he had preserved there for many years. Then he\nreturned to the mother and daughter, and threw the swan's plumage over\nthem; the feathers immediately closed around them, and they rose up\nfrom the earth in the form of two white swans.\n\n\"And now we can converse with pleasure,\" said the stork-papa;\n\"we can understand one another, although the beaks of birds are so\ndifferent in shape. It is very fortunate that you came to-night.\nTo-morrow we should have been gone. The mother, myself and the\nlittle ones, we're about to fly to the south. Look at me now: I am\nan old friend from the Nile, and a mother's heart contains more than\nher beak. She always said that the princess would know how to help\nherself. I and the young ones carried the swan's feathers over here,\nand I am glad of it now, and how lucky it is that I am here still.\nWhen the day dawns we shall start with a great company of other\nstorks. We'll fly first, and you can follow in our track, so that\nyou cannot miss your way. I and the young ones will have an eye upon\nyou.\"\n\n\"And the lotus-flower which I was to take with me,\" said the\nEgyptian princess, \"is flying here by my side, clothed in swan's\nfeathers. The flower of my heart will travel with me; and so the\nriddle is solved. Now for home! now for home!\"\n\nBut Helga said she could not leave the Danish land without once\nmore seeing her foster-mother, the loving wife of the Viking. Each\npleasing recollection, each kind word, every tear from the heart which\nher foster-mother had wept for her, rose in her mind, and at that\nmoment she felt as if she loved this mother the best.\n\n\"Yes, we must go to the Viking's castle,\" said the stork;\n\"mother and the young ones are waiting for me there. How they will\nopen their eyes and flap their wings! My wife, you see, does not say\nmuch; she is short and abrupt in her manner; but she means well, for\nall that. I will flap my wings at once, that they may hear us coming.\"\nThen stork-papa flapped his wings in first-rate style, and he and\nthe swans flew away to the Viking's castle.\n\nIn the castle, every one was in a deep sleep. It had been late\nin the evening before the Viking's wife retired to rest. She was\nanxious about Helga, who, three days before, had vanished with the\nChristian priest. Helga must have helped him in his flight, for it was\nher horse that was missed from the stable; but by what power had all\nthis been accomplished? The Viking's wife thought of it with wonder,\nthought on the miracles which they said could be performed by those\nwho believed in the Christian faith, and followed its teachings. These\npassing thoughts formed themselves into a vivid dream, and it seemed\nto her that she was still lying awake on her couch, while without\ndarkness reigned. A storm arose; she heard the lake dashing and\nrolling from east and west, like the waves of the North Sea or the\nCattegat. The monstrous snake which, it is said, surrounds the earth\nin the depths of the ocean, was trembling in spasmodic convulsions.\nThe night of the fall of the gods was come, \"Ragnorock,\" as the\nheathens call the judgment-day, when everything shall pass away,\neven the high gods themselves. The war trumpet sounded; riding upon\nthe rainbow, came the gods, clad in steel, to fight their last\nbattle on the last battle-field. Before them flew the winged vampires,\nand the dead warriors closed up the train. The whole firmament was\nablaze with the northern lights, and yet the darkness triumphed. It\nwas a terrible hour. And, close to the terrified woman, Helga seemed\nto be seated on the floor, in the hideous form of a frog, yet\ntrembling, and clinging to her foster-mother, who took her on her lap,\nand lovingly caressed her, hideous and frog-like as she was. The air\nwas filled with the clashing of arms and the hissing of arrows, as\nif a storm of hail was descending upon the earth. It seemed to her the\nhour when earth and sky would burst asunder, and all things be\nswallowed up in Saturn's fiery lake; but she knew that a new heaven\nand a new earth would arise, and that corn-fields would wave where now\nthe lake rolled over desolate sands, and the ineffable God reign. Then\nshe saw rising from the region of the dead, Baldur the gentle, the\nloving, and as the Viking's wife gazed upon him, she recognized his\ncountenance. It was the captive Christian priest. \"White Christian!\"\nshe exclaimed aloud, and with the words, she pressed a kiss on the\nforehead of the hideous frog-child. Then the frog-skin fell off, and\nHelga stood before her in all her beauty, more lovely and\ngentle-looking, and with eyes beaming with love. She kissed the\nhands of her foster-mother, blessed her for all her fostering love and\ncare during the days of her trial and misery, for the thoughts she had\nsuggested and awoke in her heart, and for naming the Name which she\nnow repeated. Then beautiful Helga rose as a mighty swan, and spread\nher wings with the rushing sound of troops of birds of passage\nflying through the air.\n\nThen the Viking's wife awoke, but she still heard the rushing\nsound without. She knew it was the time for the storks to depart,\nand that it must be their wings which she heard. She felt she should\nlike to see them once more, and bid them farewell. She rose from her\ncouch, stepped out on the threshold, and beheld, on the ridge of the\nroof, a party of storks ranged side by side. Troops of the birds\nwere flying in circles over the castle and the highest trees; but just\nbefore her, as she stood on the threshold and close to the well\nwhere Helga had so often sat and alarmed her with her wildness, now\nstood two swans, gazing at her with intelligent eyes. Then she\nremembered her dream, which still appeared to her as a reality. She\nthought of Helga in the form of a swan. She thought of a Christian\npriest, and suddenly a wonderful joy arose in her heart. The swans\nflapped their wings and arched their necks as if to offer her a\ngreeting, and the Viking's wife spread out her arms towards them, as\nif she accepted it, and smiled through her tears. She was roused\nfrom deep thought by a rustling of wings and snapping of beaks; all\nthe storks arose, and started on their journey towards the south.\n\n\"We will not wait for the swans,\" said the mamma stork; \"if they\nwant to go with us, let them come now; we can't sit here till the\nplovers start. It is a fine thing after all to travel in families, not\nlike the finches and the partridges. There the male and the female\nbirds fly in separate flocks, which, to speak candidly, I consider\nvery unbecoming.\"\n\n\"What are those swans flapping their wings for?\"\n\n\"Well, every one flies in his own fashion,\" said the papa stork.\n\"The swans fly in an oblique line; the cranes, in the form of a\ntriangle; and the plovers, in a curved line like a snake.\"\n\n\"Don't talk about snakes while we are flying up here,\" said\nstork-mamma. \"It puts ideas into the children's heads that can not\nbe realized.\"\n\n\"Are those the high mountains I have heard spoken of?\" asked\nHelga, in the swan's plumage.\n\n\"They are storm-clouds driving along beneath us,\" replied her\nmother.\n\n\"What are yonder white clouds that rise so high?\" again inquired\nHelga.\n\n\"Those are mountains covered with perpetual snows, that you see\nyonder,\" said her mother. And then they flew across the Alps towards\nthe blue Mediterranean.\n\n\"Africa's land! Egyptia's strand!\" sang the daughter of the\nNile, in her swan's plumage, as from the upper air she caught sight of\nher native land, a narrow, golden, wavy strip on the shores of the\nNile; the other birds espied it also and hastened their flight.\n\n\"I can smell the Nile mud and the wet frogs,\" said the\nstork-mamma, \"and I begin to feel quite hungry. Yes, now you shall\ntaste something nice, and you will see the marabout bird, and the\nibis, and the crane. They all belong to our family, but they are not\nnearly so handsome as we are. They give themselves great airs,\nespecially the ibis. The Egyptians have spoilt him. They make a\nmummy of him, and stuff him with spices. I would rather be stuffed\nwith live frogs, and so would you, and so you shall. Better have\nsomething in your inside while you are alive, than to be made a parade\nof after you are dead. That is my opinion, and I am always right.\"\n\n\"The storks are come,\" was said in the great house on the banks of\nthe Nile, where the lord lay in the hall on his downy cushions,\ncovered with a leopard skin, scarcely alive, yet not dead, waiting and\nhoping for the lotus-flower from the deep moorland in the far north.\nRelatives and servants were standing by his couch, when the two\nbeautiful swans who had come with the storks flew into the hall.\nThey threw off their soft white plumage, and two lovely female forms\napproached the pale, sick old man, and threw back their long hair, and\nwhen Helga bent over her grandfather, redness came back to his cheeks,\nhis eyes brightened, and life returned to his benumbed limbs. The\nold man rose up with health and energy renewed; daughter and\ngrandchild welcomed him as joyfully as if with a morning greeting\nafter a long and troubled dream.\n\nJoy reigned through the whole house, as well as in the stork's\nnest; although there the chief cause was really the good food,\nespecially the quantities of frogs, which seemed to spring out of\nthe ground in swarms.\n\nThen the learned men hastened to note down, in flying\ncharacters, the story of the two princesses, and spoke of the\narrival of the health-giving flower as a mighty event, which had\nbeen a blessing to the house and the land. Meanwhile, the stork-papa\ntold the story to his family in his own way; but not till they had\neaten and were satisfied; otherwise they would have had something else\nto do than to listen to stories.\n\n\"Well,\" said the stork-mamma, when she had heard it, \"you will\nbe made something of at last; I suppose they can do nothing less.\"\n\n\"What could I be made?\" said stork-papa; \"what have I done?--just\nnothing.\"\n\n\"You have done more than all the rest,\" she replied. \"But for\nyou and the youngsters the two young princesses would never have\nseen Egypt again, and the recovery of the old man would not have\nbeen effected. You will become something. They must certainly give you\na doctor's hood, and our young ones will inherit it, and their\nchildren after them, and so on. You already look like an Egyptian\ndoctor, at least in my eyes.\"\n\n\"I cannot quite remember the words I heard when I listened on\nthe roof,\" said stork-papa, while relating the story to his family;\n\"all I know is, that what the wise men said was so complicated and\nso learned, that they received not only rank, but presents; even the\nhead cook at the great house was honored with a mark of distinction,\nmost likely for the soup.\"\n\n\"And what did you receive?\" said the stork-mamma. \"They\ncertainly ought not to forget the most important person in the affair,\nas you really are. The learned men have done nothing at all but use\ntheir tongues. Surely they will not overlook you.\"\n\nLate in the night, while the gentle sleep of peace rested on the\nnow happy house, there was still one watcher. It was not stork-papa,\nwho, although he stood on guard on one leg, could sleep soundly. Helga\nalone was awake. She leaned over the balcony, gazing at the\nsparkling stars that shone clearer and brighter in the pure air than\nthey had done in the north, and yet they were the same stars. She\nthought of the Viking's wife in the wild moorland, of the gentle\neyes of her foster-mother, and of the tears she had shed over the poor\nfrog-child that now lived in splendor and starry beauty by the\nwaters of the Nile, with air balmy and sweet as spring. She thought of\nthe love that dwelt in the breast of the heathen woman, love that\nhad been shown to a wretched creature, hateful as a human being, and\nhideous when in the form of an animal. She looked at the glittering\nstars, and thought of the radiance that had shone forth on the\nforehead of the dead man, as she had fled with him over the woodland\nand moor. Tones were awakened in her memory; words which she had heard\nhim speak as they rode onward, when she was carried, wondering and\ntrembling, through the air; words from the great Fountain of love, the\nhighest love that embraces all the human race. What had not been won\nand achieved by this love?\n\nDay and night beautiful Helga was absorbed in the contemplation of\nthe great amount of her happiness, and lost herself in the\ncontemplation, like a child who turns hurriedly from the giver to\nexamine the beautiful gifts. She was over-powered with her good\nfortune, which seemed always increasing, and therefore what might it\nbecome in the future? Had she not been brought by a wonderful\nmiracle to all this joy and happiness? And in these thoughts she\nindulged, until at last she thought no more of the Giver. It was the\nover-abundance of youthful spirits unfolding its wings for a daring\nflight. Her eyes sparkled with energy, when suddenly arose a loud\nnoise in the court below, and the daring thought vanished. She\nlooked down, and saw two large ostriches running round quickly in\nnarrow circles; she had never seen these creatures before,--great,\ncoarse, clumsy-looking birds with curious wings that looked as if they\nhad been clipped, and the birds themselves had the appearance of\nhaving been roughly used. She inquired about them, and for the first\ntime heard the legend which the Egyptians relate respecting the\nostrich.\n\nOnce, say they, the ostriches were a beautiful and glorious race\nof birds, with large, strong wings. One evening the other large\nbirds of the forest said to the ostrich, \"Brother, shall we fly to the\nriver to-morrow morning to drink, God willing?\" and the ostrich\nanswered, \"I will.\"\n\nWith the break of day, therefore, they commenced their flight;\nfirst rising high in the air, towards the sun, which is the eye of\nGod; still higher and higher the ostrich flew, far above the other\nbirds, proudly approaching the light, trusting in its own strength,\nand thinking not of the Giver, or saying, \"if God will.\" When suddenly\nthe avenging angel drew back the veil from the flaming ocean of\nsunlight, and in a moment the wings of the proud bird were scorched\nand shrivelled, and they sunk miserably to the earth. Since that\ntime the ostrich and his race have never been able to rise in the air;\nthey can only fly terror-stricken along the ground, or run round and\nround in narrow circles. It is a warning to mankind, that in all our\nthoughts and schemes, and in every action we undertake, we should say,\n\"if God will.\"\n\nThen Helga bowed her head thoughtfully and seriously, and looked\nat the circling ostrich, as with timid fear and simple pleasure it\nglanced at its own great shadow on the sunlit walls. And the story\nof the ostrich sunk deeply into the heart and mind of Helga: a life of\nhappiness, both in the present and in the future, seemed secure for\nher, and what was yet to come might be the best of all, God willing.\n\nEarly in the spring, when the storks were again about to journey\nnorthward, beautiful Helga took off her golden bracelets, scratched\nher name on them, and beckoned to the stork-father. He came to her,\nand she placed the golden circlet round his neck, and begged him to\ndeliver it safely to the Viking's wife, so that she might know that\nher foster-daughter still lived, was happy, and had not forgotten her.\n\n\"It is rather heavy to carry,\" thought stork-papa, when he had\nit on his neck; \"but gold and honor are not to be flung into the\nstreet. The stork brings good fortune--they'll be obliged to\nacknowledge that at last.\"\n\n\"You lay gold, and I lay eggs,\" said stork-mamma; \"with you it\nis only once in a way, I lay eggs every year But no one appreciates\nwhat we do; I call it very mortifying.\"\n\n\"But then we have a consciousness of our own worth, mother,\"\nreplied stork-papa.\n\n\"What good will that do you?\" retorted stork-mamma; \"it will\nneither bring you a fair wind, nor a good meal.\"\n\n\"The little nightingale, who is singing yonder in the tamarind\ngrove, will soon be going north, too.\" Helga said she had often\nheard her singing on the wild moor, so she determined to send a\nmessage by her. While flying in the swan's plumage she had learnt\nthe bird language; she had often conversed with the stork and the\nswallow, and she knew that the nightingale would understand. So she\nbegged the nightingale to fly to the beechwood, on the peninsula of\nJutland, where a mound of stone and twigs had been raised to form\nthe grave, and she begged the nightingale to persuade all the other\nlittle birds to build their nests round the place, so that evermore\nshould resound over that grave music and song. And the nightingale\nflew away, and time flew away also.\n\nIn the autumn, an eagle, standing upon a pyramid, saw a stately\ntrain of richly laden camels, and men attired in armor on foaming\nArabian steeds, whose glossy skins shone like silver, their nostrils\nwere pink, and their thick, flowing manes hung almost to their slender\nlegs. A royal prince of Arabia, handsome as a prince should be, and\naccompanied by distinguished guests, was on his way to the stately\nhouse, on the roof of which the storks' empty nests might be seen.\nThey were away now in the far north, but expected to return very soon.\nAnd, indeed, they returned on a day that was rich in joy and gladness.\n\nA marriage was being celebrated, in which the beautiful Helga,\nglittering in silk and jewels, was the bride, and the bridegroom the\nyoung Arab prince. Bride and bridegroom sat at the upper end of the\ntable, between the bride's mother and grandfather. But her gaze was\nnot on the bridegroom, with his manly, sunburnt face, round which\ncurled a black beard, and whose dark fiery eyes were fixed upon her;\nbut away from him, at a twinkling star, that shone down upon her\nfrom the sky. Then was heard the sound of rushing wings beating the\nair. The storks were coming home; and the old stork pair, although\ntired with the journey and requiring rest, did not fail to fly down at\nonce to the balustrades of the verandah, for they knew already what\nfeast was being celebrated. They had heard of it on the borders of the\nland, and also that Helga had caused their figures to be represented\non the walls, for they belonged to her history.\n\n\"I call that very sensible and pretty,\" said stork-papa.\n\n\"Yes, but it is very little,\" said mamma stork; \"they could not\npossibly have done less.\"\n\nBut, when Helga saw them, she rose and went out into the\nverandah to stroke the backs of the storks. The old stork pair bowed\ntheir heads, and curved their necks, and even the youngest among the\nyoung ones felt honored by this reception.\n\nHelga continued to gaze upon the glittering star, which seemed\nto glow brighter and purer in its light; then between herself and\nthe star floated a form, purer than the air, and visible through it.\nIt floated quite near to her, and she saw that it was the dead\nChristian priest, who also was coming to her wedding feast--coming\nfrom the heavenly kingdom.\n\n\"The glory and brightness, yonder, outshines all that is known\non earth,\" said he.\n\nThen Helga the fair prayed more gently, and more earnestly, than\nshe had ever prayed in her life before, that she might be permitted to\ngaze, if only for a single moment, at the glory and brightness of\nthe heavenly kingdom. Then she felt herself lifted up, as it were,\nabove the earth, through a sea of sound and thought; not only around\nher, but within her, was there light and song, such as words cannot\nexpress.\n\n\"Now we must return;\" he said; \"you will be missed.\"\n\n\"Only one more look,\" she begged; \"but one short moment more.\"\n\n\"We must return to earth; the guests will have all departed.\nOnly one more look!--the last!\"\n\nThen Helga stood again in the verandah. But the marriage lamps\nin the festive hall had been all extinguished, and the torches outside\nhad vanished. The storks were gone; not a guest could be seen; no\nbridegroom--all in those few short moments seemed to have died. Then a\ngreat dread fell upon her. She stepped from the verandah through the\nempty hall into the next chamber, where slept strange warriors. She\nopened a side door, which once led into her own apartment, but now, as\nshe passed through, she found herself suddenly in a garden which she\nhad never before seen here, the sky blushed red, it was the dawn of\nmorning. Three minutes only in heaven, and a whole night on earth\nhad passed away! Then she saw the storks, and called to them in\ntheir own language.\n\nThen stork-papa turned his head towards here, listened to her\nwords, and drew near. \"You speak our language,\" said he, \"what do\nyou wish? Why do you appear,--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 is a mistake,\" said the stork, \"you must have dreamed all\nthis.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she exclaimed. Then she reminded him of the Viking's\ncastle, of the great lake, and of the journey across the ocean.\n\nThen stork-papa winked his eyes, and said, \"Why that's an old\nstory which happened in the time of my grandfather. There certainly\nwas a princess of that kind here in Egypt once, who came from the\nDanish land, but she vanished on the evening of her wedding day,\nmany hundred years ago, and never came back. You may read about it\nyourself yonder, on a monument in the garden. There you will find\nswans and storks sculptured, and on the top is a figure of the\nprincess Helga, in marble.\"\n\nAnd so it was; Helga understood it all now, and sank on her knees.\nThe sun burst forth in all its glory, and, as in olden times, the form\nof the frog vanished in his beams, and the beautiful form stood\nforth in all its loveliness; so now, bathed in light, rose a beautiful\nform, purer, clearer than air--a ray of brightness--from the Source of\nlight Himself. The body crumbled into dust, and a faded lotus-flower\nlay on the spot on which Helga had stood.\n\n\"Now that is a new ending to the story,\" said stork-papa; \"I\nreally never expected it would end in this way, but it seems a very\ngood ending.\"\n\n\"And what will the young ones say to it, I wonder?\" said\nstork-mamma.\n\n\"Ah, that is a very important question,\" replied the stork.\n\n\n\n\nTHE METAL PIG\n\nIn the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca,\nruns a little street called Porta Rosa. In this street, just in\nfront of the market-place where vegetables are sold, stands a pig,\nmade of brass and curiously formed. The bright color has been\nchanged by age to dark green; but clear, fresh water pours from the\nsnout, which shines as if it had been polished, and so indeed it\nhas, for hundreds of poor people and children seize it in their\nhands as they place their mouths close to the mouth of the animal,\nto drink. It is quite a picture to see a half-naked boy clasping the\nwell-formed creature by the head, as he presses his rosy lips\nagainst its jaws. Every one who visits Florence can very quickly\nfind the place; he has only to ask the first beggar he meets for the\nMetal Pig, and he will be told where it is.\n\nIt was late on a winter evening; the mountains were covered with\nsnow, but the moon shone brightly, and moonlight in Italy is like a\ndull winter's day in the north; indeed it is better, for clear air\nseems to raise us above the earth, while in the north a cold, gray,\nleaden sky appears to press us down to earth, even as the cold damp\nearth shall one day press on us in the grave. In the garden of the\ngrand duke's palace, under the roof of one of the wings, where a\nthousand roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been sitting\nthe whole day long; a boy, who might serve as a type of Italy,\nlovely and smiling, and yet still suffering. He was hungry and\nthirsty, yet no one gave him anything; and when it became dark, and\nthey were about to close the gardens, the porter turned him out. He\nstood a long time musing on the bridge which crosses the Arno, and\nlooking at the glittering stars, reflected in the water which flowed\nbetween him and the elegant marble bridge Della Trinita. He then\nwalked away towards the Metal Pig, half knelt down, clasped it with\nhis arms, and then put his mouth to the shining snout and drank deep\ndraughts of the fresh water. Close by, lay a few salad-leaves and\ntwo chestnuts, which were to serve for his supper. No one was in the\nstreet but himself; it belonged only to him, so he boldly seated\nhimself on the pig's back, leaned forward so that his curly head could\nrest on the head of the animal, and, before he was aware, he fell\nasleep.\n\nIt was midnight. The Metal Pig raised himself gently, and the\nboy heard him say quite distinctly, \"Hold tight, little boy, for I\nam going to run;\" and away he started for a most wonderful ride.\nFirst, they arrived at the Piazza del Granduca, and the metal horse\nwhich bears the duke's statue, neighed aloud. The painted\ncoats-of-arms on the old council-house shone like transparent\npictures, and Michael Angelo's David tossed his sling; it was as if\neverything had life. The metallic groups of figures, among which\nwere Perseus and the Rape of the Sabines, looked like living\npersons, and cries of terror sounded from them all across the noble\nsquare. By the Palazzo degli Uffizi, in the arcade, where the nobility\nassemble for the carnival, the Metal Pig stopped. \"Hold fast,\" said\nthe animal; \"hold fast, for I am going up stairs.\"\n\nThe little boy said not a word; he was half pleased and half\nafraid. They entered a long gallery, where the boy had been before.\nThe walls were resplendent with paintings; here stood statues and\nbusts, all in a clear light as if it were day. But the grandest\nappeared when the door of a side room opened; the little boy could\nremember what beautiful things he had seen there, but to-night\neverything shone in its brightest colors. Here stood the figure of a\nbeautiful woman, as beautifully sculptured as possible by one of the\ngreat masters. Her graceful limbs appeared to move; dolphins sprang at\nher feet, and immortality shone from her eyes. The world called her\nthe Venus de' Medici. By her side were statues, in which the spirit of\nlife breathed in stone; figures of men, one of whom whetted his sword,\nand was named the Grinder; wrestling gladiators formed another\ngroup, the sword had been sharpened for them, and they strove for\nthe goddess of beauty. The boy was dazzled by so much glitter; for the\nwalls were gleaming with bright colors, all appeared living reality.\n\nAs they passed from hall to hall, beauty everywhere showed itself;\nand as the Metal Pig went step by step from one picture to the\nother, the little boy could see it all plainly. One glory eclipsed\nanother; yet there was one picture that fixed itself on the little\nboy's memory, more especially because of the happy children it\nrepresented, for these the little boy had seen in daylight. Many\npass this picture by with indifference, and yet it contains a treasure\nof poetic feeling; it represents Christ descending into Hades. They\nare not the lost whom the spectator sees, but the heathen of olden\ntimes. The Florentine, Angiolo Bronzino, painted this picture; most\nbeautiful is the expression on the face of the two children, who\nappear to have full confidence that they shall reach heaven at last.\nThey are embracing each other, and one little one stretches out his\nhand towards another who stands below him, and points to himself, as\nif he were saying, \"I am going to heaven.\" The older people stand as\nif uncertain, yet hopeful, and they bow in humble adoration to the\nLord Jesus. On this picture the boy's eyes rested longer than on any\nother: the Metal Pig stood still before it. A low sigh was heard.\nDid it come from the picture or from the animal? The boy raised his\nhands towards the smiling children, and then the Pig ran off with\nhim through the open vestibule.\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal,\" said the little boy,\ncaressing the Metal Pig as it ran down the steps.\n\n\"Thanks to yourself also,\" replied the Metal Pig; \"I have helped\nyou and you have helped me, for it is only when I have an innocent\nchild on my back that I receive the power to run. Yes; as you see, I\ncan even venture under the rays of the lamp, in front of the picture\nof the Madonna, but I may not enter the church; still from without,\nand while you are upon my back, I may look in through the open door.\nDo not get down yet, for if you do, then I shall be lifeless, as you\nhave seen me in the Porta Rosa.\"\n\n\"I will stay with you, my dear creature,\" said the little boy.\nSo then they went on at a rapid pace through the streets of\nFlorence, till they came to the square before the church of Santa\nCroce. The folding-doors flew open, and light streamed from the\naltar through the church into the deserted square. A wonderful blaze\nof light streamed from one of the monuments in the left-side aisle,\nand a thousand moving stars seemed to form a glory round it; even\nthe coat-of-arms on the tomb-stone shone, and a red ladder on a blue\nfield gleamed like fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument\nis unadorned, but the red ladder is an emblem of art, signifying\nthat the way to glory leads up a shining ladder, on which the prophets\nof mind rise to heaven, like Elias of old. In the right aisle of the\nchurch every statue on the richly carved sarcophagi seemed endowed\nwith life. Here stood Michael Angelo; there Dante, with the laurel\nwreath round his brow; Alfieri and Machiavelli; for here side by\nside rest the great men--the pride of Italy. The church itself is very\nbeautiful, even more beautiful than the marble cathedral at\nFlorence, though not so large. It seemed as if the carved vestments\nstirred, and as if the marble figures they covered raised their\nheads higher, to gaze upon the brightly colored glowing altar where\nthe white-robed boys swung the golden censers, amid music and song,\nwhile the strong fragrance of incense filled the church, and\nstreamed forth into the square. The boy stretched forth his hands\ntowards the light, and at the same moment the Metal Pig started\nagain so rapidly that he was obliged to cling tightly to him. The wind\nwhistled in his ears, he heard the church door creak on its hinges\nas it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses--then\na cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.\n\nIt was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the\nPorta Rosa, and the boy found he had slipped nearly off its back. Fear\nand trembling came upon him as he thought of his mother; she had\nsent him out the day before to get some money, he had not done so, and\nnow he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he clasped the neck of his\nmetal horse, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell to it. Then he\nwandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there was\nscarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door\nstood ajar; he passed through, and climbed up a brick staircase,\nwith dirty walls and a rope for a balustrade, till he came to an\nopen gallery hung with rags. From here a flight of steps led down to a\ncourt, where from a well water was drawn up by iron rollers to the\ndifferent stories of the house, and where the water-buckets hung\nside by side. Sometimes the roller and the bucket danced in the air,\nsplashing the water all over the court. Another broken-down\nstaircase led from the gallery, and two Russian sailors running down\nit almost upset the poor boy. They were coming from their nightly\ncarousal. A woman not very young, with an unpleasant face and a\nquantity of black hair, followed them. \"What have you brought home?\"\nshe asked, when she saw the boy.\n\n\"Don't be angry,\" he pleaded; \"I received nothing, I have\nnothing at all;\" and he seized his mother's dress and would have\nkissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need not describe\nit, but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles,\nmade for holding fire, which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she\ntook in her lap, warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her\nelbow.\n\n\"Certainly you must have some money,\" she said. The boy began to\ncry, and then she struck him with her foot till he cried out louder.\n\n\"Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;\" and she\nswung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand, while the boy\ncrouched to the earth and screamed.\n\nThen a neighbor came in, and she had also a marito under her\narm. \"Felicita,\" she said, \"what are you doing to the child?\"\n\n\"The child is mine,\" she answered; \"I can murder him if I like,\nand you too, Giannina.\" And then she swung about the fire-pot. The\nother woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed\ntogether so violently that they were dashed to pieces, and fire and\nashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out at the sight, sped\nacross the courtyard, and fled from the house. The poor child ran till\nhe was quite out of breath; at last he stopped at the church, the\ndoors of which were opened to him the night before, and went in.\nHere everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first tomb\non his right, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his\nheart would break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no\none noticed the boy, excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and\nlooked at him for a moment, and then went away like the rest. Hunger\nand thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill.\nAt last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments, and went\nto sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve;\nhe started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.\n\n\"Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?\" were\nsome of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers,\nthe old man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street.\nThey entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A\nlittle white poodle, so closely shaven that his pink skin could\nplainly be seen, frisked about the room, and gambolled upon the boy.\n\n\"Innocent souls are soon intimate,\" said the woman, as she\ncaressed both the boy and the dog. These good people gave the child\nfood and drink, and said he should stay with them all night, and\nthat the next day the old man, who was called Giuseppe, would go and\nspeak to his mother. A little homely bed was prepared for him, but\nto him who had so often slept on the hard stones it was a royal couch,\nand he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures and of the\nMetal Pig. Giuseppe went out the next morning, and the poor child\nwas not glad to see him go, for he knew that the old man was gone to\nhis mother, and that, perhaps, he would have to go back. He wept at\nthe thought, and then he played with the little, lively dog, and\nkissed it, while the old woman looked kindly at him to encourage\nhim. And what news did Giuseppe bring back? At first the boy could not\nhear, for he talked a great deal to his wife, and she nodded and\nstroked the boy's cheek.\n\nThen she said, \"He is a good lad, he shall stay with us, he may\nbecome a clever glovemaker, like you. Look what delicate fingers he\nhas got; Madonna intended him for a glovemaker.\" So the boy stayed\nwith them, and the woman herself taught him to sew; and he ate well,\nand slept well, and became very merry. But at last he began to tease\nBellissima, as the little dog was called. This made the woman angry,\nand she scolded him and threatened him, which made him very unhappy,\nand he went and sat in his own room full of sad thoughts. This chamber\nlooked upon the street, in which hung skins to dry, and there were\nthick iron bars across his window. That night he lay awake, thinking\nof the Metal Pig; indeed, it was always in his thoughts. Suddenly he\nfancied he heard feet outside going pit-a-pat. He sprung out of bed\nand went to the window. Could it be the Metal Pig? But there was\nnothing to be seen; whatever he had heard had passed already. Next\nmorning, their neighbor, the artist, passed by, carrying a paint-box\nand a large roll of canvas.\n\n\"Help the gentleman to carry his box of colors,\" said the woman to\nthe boy; and he obeyed instantly, took the box, and followed the\npainter. They walked on till they reached the picture gallery, and\nmounted the same staircase up which he had ridden that night on the\nMetal Pig. He remembered all the statues and pictures, the beautiful\nmarble Venus, and again he looked at the Madonna with the Saviour\nand St. John. They stopped before the picture by Bronzino, in which\nChrist is represented as standing in the lower world, with the\nchildren smiling before Him, in the sweet expectation of entering\nheaven; and the poor boy smiled, too, for here was his heaven.\n\n\"You may go home now,\" said the painter, while the boy stood\nwatching him, till he had set up his easel.\n\n\"May I see you paint?\" asked the boy; \"may I see you put the\npicture on this white canvas?\"\n\n\"I am not going to paint yet,\" replied the artist; then he brought\nout a piece of chalk. His hand moved quickly, and his eye measured the\ngreat picture; and though nothing appeared but a faint line, the\nfigure of the Saviour was as clearly visible as in the colored\npicture.\n\n\"Why don't you go?\" said the painter. Then the boy wandered home\nsilently, and seated himself on the table, and learned to sew\ngloves. But all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery; and\nso he pricked his fingers and was awkward. But he did not tease\nBellissima. When evening came, and the house door stood open, he\nslipped out. It was a bright, beautiful, starlight evening, but rather\ncold. Away he went through the already-deserted streets, and soon came\nto the Metal Pig; he stooped down and kissed its shining nose, and\nthen seated himself on its back.\n\n\"You happy creature,\" he said; \"how I have longed for you! we must\ntake a ride to-night.\"\n\nBut the Metal Pig lay motionless, while the fresh stream gushed\nforth from its mouth. The little boy still sat astride on its back,\nwhen he felt something pulling at his clothes. He looked down, and\nthere was Bellissima, little smooth-shaven Bellissima, barking as if\nshe would have said, \"Here I am too; why are you sitting there?\"\n\nA fiery dragon could not have frightened the little boy so much as\ndid the little dog in this place. \"Bellissima in the street, and not\ndressed!\" as the old lady called it; \"what would be the end of this?\"\n\nThe dog never went out in winter, unless she was attired in a\nlittle lambskin coat which had been made for her; it was fastened\nround the little dog's neck and body with red ribbons, and was\ndecorated with rosettes and little bells. The dog looked almost like a\nlittle kid when she was allowed to go out in winter, and trot after\nher mistress. And now here she was in the cold, and not dressed. Oh,\nhow would it end? All his fancies were quickly put to flight; yet he\nkissed the Metal Pig once more, and then took Bellissima in his\narms. The poor little thing trembled so with cold, that the boy ran\nhomeward as fast as he could.\n\n\"What are you running away with there?\" asked two of the police\nwhom he met, and at whom the dog barked. \"Where have you stolen that\npretty dog?\" they asked; and they took it away from him.\n\n\"Oh, I have not stolen it; do give it to me back again,\" cried the\nboy, despairingly.\n\n\"If you have not stolen it, you may say at home that they can send\nto the watch-house for the dog.\" Then they told him where the\nwatch-house was, and went away with Bellissima.\n\nHere was a dreadful trouble. The boy did not know whether he had\nbetter jump into the Arno, or go home and confess everything. They\nwould certainly kill him, he thought.\n\n\"Well, I would gladly be killed,\" he reasoned; \"for then I shall\ndie, and go to heaven:\" and so he went home, almost hoping for death.\n\nThe door was locked, and he could not reach the knocker. No one\nwas in the street; so he took up a stone, and with it made a\ntremendous noise at the door.\n\n\"Who is there?\" asked somebody from within.\n\n\"It is I,\" said he. \"Bellissima is gone. Open the door, and then\nkill me.\"\n\nThen indeed there was a great panic. Madame was so very fond of\nBellissima. She immediately looked at the wall where the dog's dress\nusually hung; and there was the little lambskin.\n\n\"Bellissima in the watch-house!\" she cried. \"You bad boy! how\ndid you entice her out? Poor little delicate thing, with those rough\npolicemen! and she'll be frozen with cold.\"\n\nGiuseppe went off at once, while his wife lamented, and the boy\nwept. Several of the neighbors came in, and amongst them the\npainter. He took the boy between his knees, and questioned him; and,\nin broken sentences, he soon heard the whole story, and also about the\nMetal Pig, and the wonderful ride to the picture-gallery, which was\ncertainly rather incomprehensible. The painter, however, consoled\nthe little fellow, and tried to soften the lady's anger; but she would\nnot be pacified till her husband returned with Bellissima, who had\nbeen with the police. Then there was great rejoicing, and the\npainter caressed the boy, and gave him a number of pictures. Oh,\nwhat beautiful pictures these were!--figures with funny heads; and,\nabove all, the Metal Pig was there too. Oh, nothing could be more\ndelightful. By means of a few strokes, it was made to appear on the\npaper; and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched in.\nOh, if he could only draw and paint! He who could do this could\nconjure all the world before him. The first leisure moment during\nthe next day, the boy got a pencil, and on the back of one of the\nother drawings he attempted to copy the drawing of the Metal Pig,\nand he succeeded. Certainly it was rather crooked, rather up and down,\none leg thick, and another thin; still it was like the copy, and he\nwas overjoyed at what he had done. The pencil would not go quite as it\nought,--he had found that out; but the next day he tried again. A\nsecond pig was drawn by the side of the first, and this looked a\nhundred times better; and the third attempt was so good, that\neverybody might know what it was meant to represent.\n\nAnd now the glovemaking went on but slowly. The orders given by\nthe shops in the town were not finished quickly; for the Metal Pig had\ntaught the boy that all objects may be drawn upon paper; and\nFlorence is a picture-book in itself for any one who chooses to turn\nover its pages. On the Piazza dell Trinita stands a slender pillar,\nand upon it is the goddess of Justice, blindfolded, with her scales in\nher hand. She was soon represented on paper, and it was the\nglovemaker's boy who placed her there. His collection of pictures\nincreased; but as yet they were only copies of lifeless objects,\nwhen one day Bellissima came gambolling before him: \"Stand still,\"\ncried he, \"and I will draw you beautifully, to put amongst my\ncollection.\"\n\nBut Bellissima would not stand still, so she must be bound fast in\none position. He tied her head and tail; but she barked and jumped,\nand so pulled and tightened the string, that she was nearly strangled;\nand just then her mistress walked in.\n\n\"You wicked boy! the poor little creature!\" was all she could\nutter.\n\nShe pushed the boy from her, thrust him away with her foot, called\nhim a most ungrateful, good-for-nothing, wicked boy, and forbade him\nto enter the house again. Then she wept, and kissed her little\nhalf-strangled Bellissima. At this moment the painter entered the\nroom.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nIn the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts at\nFlorence. Two pictures, placed side by side, attracted a large\nnumber of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little\nboy sitting at a table, drawing; before him was a little white poodle,\ncuriously shaven; but as the animal would not stand still, it had been\nfastened with a string to its head and tail, to keep it in one\nposition. The truthfulness and life in this picture interested every\none. The painter was said to be a young Florentine, who had been found\nin the streets, when a child, by an old glovemaker, who had brought\nhim up. The boy had taught himself to draw: it was also said that a\nyoung artist, now famous, had discovered talent in the child just as\nhe was about to be sent away for having tied up madame's favorite\nlittle dog, and using it as a model. The glovemaker's boy had also\nbecome a great painter, as the picture proved; but the larger\npicture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent. It\nrepresented a handsome boy, clothed in rags, lying asleep, and leaning\nagainst the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa. All the\nspectators knew the spot well. The child's arms were round the neck of\nthe Pig, and he was in a deep sleep. The lamp before the picture of\nthe Madonna threw a strong, effective light on the pale, delicate face\nof the child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame\nsurrounded it, and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been\nhung; but a black band, twined unseen among the green leaves, and a\nstreamer of crape, hung down from it; for within the last few days the\nyoung artist had--died.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MONEY-BOX\n\nIn a nursery where a number of toys lay scattered about, a\nmoney-box stood on the top of a very high wardrobe. It was made of\nclay in the shape of a pig, and had been bought of the potter. In\nthe back of the pig was a slit, and this slit had been enlarged with a\nknife, so that dollars, or crown pieces, might slip through; and,\nindeed there were two in the box, besides a number of pence. The\nmoney-pig was stuffed so full that it could no longer rattle, which is\nthe highest state of perfection to which a money-pig can attain. There\nhe stood upon the cupboard, high and lofty, looking down upon\neverything else in the room. He knew very well that he had enough\ninside him to buy up all the other toys, and this gave him a very good\nopinion of his own value. The rest thought of this fact also, although\nthey did not express it, for there were so many other things to talk\nabout. A large doll, still handsome, though rather old, for her neck\nhad been mended, lay inside one of the drawers which was partly\nopen. She called out to the others, \"Let us have a game at being men\nand women, that is something worth playing at.\"\n\nUpon this there was a great uproar; even the engravings, which\nhung in frames on the wall, turned round in their excitement, and\nshowed that they had a wrong side to them, although they had not the\nleast intention to expose themselves in this way, or to object to\nthe game. It was late at night, but as the moon shone through the\nwindows, they had light at a cheap rate. And as the game was now to\nbegin, all were invited to take part in it, even the children's wagon,\nwhich certainly belonged to the coarser playthings. \"Each has its\nown value,\" said the wagon; \"we cannot all be noblemen; there must\nbe some to do the work.\"\n\nThe money-pig was the only one who received a written\ninvitation. He stood so high that they were afraid he would not accept\na verbal message. But in his reply, he said, if he had to take a part,\nhe must enjoy the sport from his own home; they were to arrange for\nhim to do so; and so they did. The little toy theatre was therefore\nput up in such a way that the money-pig could look directly into it.\nSome wanted to begin with a comedy, and afterwards to have a tea party\nand a discussion for mental improvement, but they commenced with the\nlatter first. The rocking-horse spoke of training and races; the wagon\nof railways and steam power, for these subjects belonged to each of\ntheir professions, and it was right they should talk of them. The\nclock talked politics--\"tick, tick;\" he professed to know what was the\ntime of day, but there was a whisper that he did not go correctly. The\nbamboo cane stood by, looking stiff and proud: he was vain of his\nbrass ferrule and silver top, and on the sofa lay two worked cushions,\npretty but stupid. When the play at the little theatre began, the rest\nsat and looked on; they were requested to applaud and stamp, or crack,\nwhen they felt gratified with what they saw. But the riding-whip\nsaid he never cracked for old people, only for the young who were\nnot yet married. \"I crack for everybody,\" said the cracker.\n\n\"Yes, and a fine noise you make,\" thought the audience, as the\nplay went on.\n\nIt was not worth much, but it was very well played, and all the\ncharacters turned their painted sides to the audience, for they were\nmade only to be seen on one side. The acting was wonderful,\nexcepting that sometimes they came out beyond the lamps, because the\nwires were a little too long. The doll, whose neck had been darned,\nwas so excited that the place in her neck burst, and the money-pig\ndeclared he must do something for one of the players, as they had\nall pleased him so much. So he made up his mind to remember one of\nthem in his will, as the one to be buried with him in the family\nvault, whenever that event should happen. They all enjoyed the\ncomedy so much, that they gave up all thoughts of the tea party, and\nonly carried out their idea of intellectual amusement, which they\ncalled playing at men and women; and there was nothing wrong about it,\nfor it was only play. All the while, each one thought most of himself,\nor of what the money-pig could be thinking. His thoughts were on, as\nhe supposed, a very distant time--of making his will, and of his\nburial, and of when it might all come to pass. Certainly sooner than\nhe expected--for all at once down he came from the top of the press,\nfell on the ground, and was broken to pieces. Then the pennies\nhopped and danced about in the most amusing manner. The little ones\ntwirled round like tops, and the large ones rolled away as far as they\ncould, especially the one great silver crown piece who had often to go\nout into the world, and now he had his wish as well as all the rest of\nthe money. The pieces of the money-pig were thrown into the\ndust-bin, and the next day there stood a new money-pig on the\ncupboard, but it had not a farthing in its inside yet, and\ntherefore, like the old one, it could not rattle. This was the\nbeginning with him, and we will make it the end of our story.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT THE MOON SAW\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nIt is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most deeply,\nmy hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot rightly\ndescribe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising within me;\nand yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that, and all my\nfriends 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\nI do not 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\nfollow in their proper order, just as they were described to me.\nSome great gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make\nsomething more of them if he likes; what I have given here are only\nhasty sketches, hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own\nthoughts, interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every\nevening--a cloud sometimes hid his face from me.\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\nthe waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the\nthick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like\nthe tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid,\nlight as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision,\nand yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this\ndaughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought\nthat had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her\nsandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that\nhad come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a\nstartled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I\ncould see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them\nfor a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream,\nand set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame\nflickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp\nburned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind\ntheir long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest\nintensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as\nshe could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if\nthe lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned\nbravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the\ngrass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not--she thought only of\nBramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he\nlives!' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he\nlives!\"\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 the\nmatter.\n\n\"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into\nthe same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little\ngirl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the\nbolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They\ncried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran\nabout in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite\nplainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was\nangry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out\nand scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly\nby the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of\nlarge tears. 'What are you about here?' he asked. She wept and said,\n'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her\nyesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.'\n\n\"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed\nher on the mouth and eyes.\"\n\n\nTHIRD EVENING\n\n\"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow\nthat my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the\nhouse, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made\nof--in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that\nwoman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in\nthe country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were\nfaded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches\ngrew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few\nroses still in bloom--not so fair as the queen of flowers generally\nappears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's\nlittle daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on\nher stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll\nwith the battered pasteboard cheeks.\n\n\"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a\nsplendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I\nrejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah,\nnobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my\nrose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage.\nThere are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last\nact of one.\n\n\"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was\nsick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the\nthin coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up!' said\nhe; 'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself,\ngive me money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick--get up!'\nShe answered, 'Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest.' But\nhe forced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of\nroses in her hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with\na candle burning beside her, and went away.\n\n\"I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands\nin her lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a\ncrash, so that a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she\nnever moved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about\nher face; and I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat\nthe dead woman, preaching a sermon against sin--my poor faded rose out\nof the parsonage garden!\"\n\n\nFOURTH EVENING\n\n\"This evening I saw a German play acted,\" said the Moon. \"It was\nin a little town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is\nto say, the stable had been left standing, and had been turned into\nprivate boxes, and all the timber work had been covered with\ncoloured paper. A little iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and\nthat it might be made to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in\ngreat theatres, when the ting-ting of the prompter's bell is heard,\na great inverted tub has been placed just above it.\n\n\"'Ting-ting!' and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at\nleast half a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign\nthat the play was going to begin. A young nobleman and his lady, who\nhappened to 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\nsoul sat there, for the tallow was dropping, drip, drip! I saw\neverything, for it was so warm in there that every loophole had been\nopened. The male and female servants stood outside, peeping through\nthe chinks, although a real policeman was inside, threatening them\nwith a stick. Close by the orchestra could be seen the noble young\ncouple in two old arm-chairs, which were usually occupied by his\nworship the mayor and his lady; but these latter were to-day obliged\nto content themselves with wooden forms, just as if they had been\nordinary citizens; and the lady observed quietly to herself, 'One\nsees, now, that there is rank above rank;' and this incident gave an\nair of extra festivity to the whole proceedings. The chandelier gave\nlittle leaps, the crowd got their knuckles rapped, and I, the Moon,\nwas present at the performance from beginning to end.\"\n\n\nFIFTH EVENING\n\n\"Yesterday,\" began the Moon, \"I looked down upon the turmoil of\nParis. My eye penetrated into an apartment of the Louvre. An old\ngrandmother, poorly clad--she belonged to the working class--was\nfollowing one of the under-servants into the great empty\nthrone-room, for this was the apartment she wanted to see--that she\nwas resolved to see; it had cost her many a little sacrifice, and many\na coaxing word, to penetrate thus far. She folded her thin hands,\nand looked round with an air of reverence, as if she had been in a\nchurch.\n\n\"'Here it was!' she said, 'here!' and she approached the throne,\nfrom which 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 looked\nso, and yet it did not,' observed the man: 'the windows were beaten\nin, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood upon\nthe floor.' 'But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon the\nthrone of France. Died!' mournfully repeated the old woman. I do not\nthink 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\na story.\n\n\"It happened, in the Revolution of July, on the evening of the\nmost brilliantly victorious day, when every house was a fortress,\nevery window a breastwork. The people stormed the Tuileries. Even\nwomen and children were to be found among the combatants. They\npenetrated into the apartments and halls of the palace. A poor\nhalf-grown boy in a ragged blouse fought among the older insurgents.\nMortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This\nhappened in the throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the\nthrone of France, wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his\nblood streamed forth upon the imperial purple. There was a picture!\nThe splendid hall, the fighting groups! A torn flag upon the ground,\nthe tricolor was waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay\nthe poor lad with the pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned\ntowards the sky, his limbs writhing in the death agony, his breast\nbare, and his poor tattered clothing half hidden by the rich velvet\nembroidered with silver lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had\nbeen spoken: 'He will die on the throne of France!' The mother's heart\ndreamt of a second Napoleon.\n\n\"My beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles on his grave,\nand this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while\nin a dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw--the\npoor boy on the throne of France.\"\n\n\nSIXTH EVENING\n\n\"I've been in Upsala,\" said the Moon: \"I looked down upon the\ngreat plain 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. There is no\nmonument 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\ntill the fresh turf grows!\n\n\"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with\nthe broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not\nto betray 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\nbeeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales\nvisit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing\nsea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage\nafter another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye\nloves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the\nsloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true\npoetry in nature.\n\n\"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell\nyou what I 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,\nand last year we got fourteen dollars a load'--and they were gone.\n'The road here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past.\n'That's the fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour;\n'there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the\nsea'--and they were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All\nthe passengers were asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew\nhis horn, but he only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well\nhere. I wonder if those in there like it?'--and the stage coach\nvanished. Then two young fellows came gallopping up on horseback.\nThere's youth and spirit in the blood here! thought I; and, indeed,\nthey looked with a smile at the moss-grown hill and thick forest. 'I\nshould not dislike a walk here with the miller's Christine,' said\none--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.\nHe began 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\ntill the morning dawn kissed her brow.\"\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\ntold me such pretty tales, and showed me pictures. Yes, he has had\nan experience indeed. He glided over the waters of the Deluge, and\nsmiled on Noah's ark just as he lately glanced down upon me, and\nbrought comfort and promise of a new world that was to spring forth\nfrom the old. When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of\nBabylon, he glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the\nsilent harps. When Romeo climbed the balcony, and the promise of\ntrue love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven, the round Moon\nhung, half hidden among the dark cypresses, in the lucid air. He saw\nthe captive giant at St. Helena, looking from the lonely rock across\nthe wide ocean, while great thoughts swept through his soul. Ah!\nwhat tales the Moon can tell. Human life is like a story to him.\nTo-night I shall not see thee again, old friend. Tonight I can draw no\npicture of the memories of thy visit. And, as I looked dreamily\ntowards the clouds, the sky became bright. There was a glancing light,\nand a beam from the Moon fell upon me. It vanished again, and dark\nclouds flew past: but still it was a greeting, a friendly good-night\noffered to me by the Moon.\n\n\nNINTH EVENING\n\nThe air was clear again. Several evenings had passed, and the Moon\nwas in the first quarter. Again he gave me an outline for a sketch.\nListen to what he told me.\n\n\"I have followed the polar bird and the swimming whale to the\neastern coast of Greenland. Gaunt ice-covered rocks and dark clouds\nhung over a valley, where dwarf willows and barberry bushes stood\nclothed in green. The blooming lychnis exhaled sweet odours. My\nlight was faint, my face pale as the water lily that, torn from its\nstem, has been drifting for weeks with the tide. The crown-shaped\nNorthern Light burned fiercely in the sky. Its ring was broad, and\nfrom its circumference the rays shot like whirling shafts of fire\nacross the whole sky, flashing in changing radiance from green to red.\nThe inhabitants 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 soul 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\nsong about catching the seal, and the chorus around chimed in with,\n'Eia, Eia, Ah.' And in their white furs they danced about in the\ncircle, till you might fancy it was a polar bear's ball.\n\n\"And now a Court of Judgment was opened. Those Greenlanders who\nhad quarrelled stepped forward, and the offended person chanted\nforth the faults of his adversary in an extempore song, turning them\nsharply into ridicule, to the sound of the pipe and the measure of the\ndance. The defendant replied with satire as keen, while the audience\nlaughed, and gave their verdict. The rocks heaved, the glaciers\nmelted, and great masses of ice and snow came crashing down, shivering\nto fragments as they fall; 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 sewing 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 over\nit. Or wouldst thou rather be buried in the sea?' 'In the sea,' he\nwhispered, 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\"I knew an old maid,\" said the Moon. \"Every winter she wore a\nwrapper of yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the\nonly fashion she followed. In summer she always wore the same straw\nhat, and I verily believe the very same gray-blue dress.\n\n\"She never went out, except across the street to an old female\nfriend; and in later years she did not even take this walk, for the\nold friend was dead. In her solitude my old maid was always busy at\nthe window, which was adorned in summer with pretty flowers, and in\nwinter with cress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her\nno more at the window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had\nnot yet seen her begin the 'long journey,' of which she often spoke\nwith her friend. 'Yes, yes,' she was in the habit of saying, when I\ncome to die I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole\nlife long. 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.\nOn the high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked\nnervously round every now and then--I fancy he half expected to see\nher sitting on the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he\nwas startled, he foolishly lashed his horses, while he held the\nreins so tightly that the poor beasts were in a foam: they were\nyoung and fiery. A hare jumped across the road and startled them,\nand they fairly ran away. The old sober maiden, who had for years\nand years moved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now,\nin death, rattled over stock and stone on the public highway. The\ncoffin in its covering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left\non the high-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in\nwild career. 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\nthe suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair\nmonuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths,\ntheir temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of\nLais. Now, the stillness of death reigned around. German\nmercenaries, in the Neapolitan service, kept guard, played cards,\nand diced; and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came\ninto the town, accompanied by a sentry. They wanted to see the city\nthat had risen from the grave illumined by my beams; and I showed them\nthe wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs; I showed\nthem the names on the doors, and the signs that hung there yet: they\nsaw in the little courtyard the basins of the fountains, ornamented\nwith shells; but no jet of water gushed upwards, no songs sounded\nforth from the richly-painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept\nthe 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\nmarble, with its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the\nweeping willows 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\nthe expression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years\nago, the 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\nwill stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know\nof the momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress;\nwhen all will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be\nbut a dream of the past.\"\n\n\nTWELFTH EVENING\n\n\"I looked through the windows of an editor's house,\" said the\nMoon. \"It was somewhere in Germany. I saw handsome furniture, many\nbooks, and a chaos of newspapers. Several young men were present:\nthe editor himself stood at his desk, and two little books, both by\nyoung authors, were to be noticed. 'This one has been sent to me,'\nsaid he. 'I have not read it yet; what think you of the contents?'\n'Oh,' said the person addressed--he was a poet himself--'it is good\nenough; a little broad, certainly; but, you see, the author is still\nyoung. The verses might be better, to be sure; the thoughts are sound,\nthough there is certainly a good deal of common-place among them.\nBut what will you have? You can't be always getting something new.\nThat he'll turn out anything great I don't believe, but you may safely\npraise him. He is well read, a remarkable Oriental scholar, and has\na good judgment. It was he who wrote that nice review of my\n'Reflections on Domestic Life.' We must be lenient towards the young\nman.\"\n\n\"'But he is a complete hack!' objected another of the gentlemen.\n'Nothing worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not go\nbeyond this.'\n\n\"'Poor fellow,' observed a third, 'and his aunt is so happy\nabout him. It was she, Mr. Editor, who got together so many\nsubscribers for your last translation.'\n\n\"'Ah, the good woman! Well, I have noticed the book briefly.\nUndoubted talent--a welcome offering--a flower in the garden of\npoetry--prettily brought out--and so on. But this other book--I\nsuppose the author expects me to purchase it? I hear it is praised. He\nhas genius, certainly: don't you think so?'\n\n\"'Yes, all the world declares as much,' replied the poet, 'but\nit has turned out rather wildly. The punctuation of the book, in\nparticular, is very eccentric.'\n\n\"'It will be good for him if we pull him to pieces, and anger\nhim a little, otherwise he will get too good an opinion of himself.'\n\n\"'But that would be unfair,' objected the fourth. 'Let us not carp\nat little faults, but rejoice over the real and abundant good that\nwe find 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\nin the aunt's house. There sat the be-praised poet, the tame one;\nall the 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\na great 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\nit, for you are much too wild, too fantastic. But it must be allowed\nthat, as 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\nfarm-houses. 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\novergrown with moss and with yellow flowers and houseleek. Cabbage and\npotatoes are the only plants cultivated in the gardens, but out of the\nhedge there grows a willow tree, and under this willow tree sat a\nlittle girl, and she sat with her eyes fixed upon the old oak tree\nbetween the two huts.\n\n\"It was an old withered stem. It had been sawn off at the top, and\na stork 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 neighbors told me\nthat he would bring us a little brother or sister to-day; let us watch\nto see it come!'\n\n\"'The stork brings no such things,' the boy declared, 'you may\nbe sure of that. Our neighbor told me the same thing, but she\nlaughed when she said it, and so I asked her if she could say 'On my\nhonor,' and she could not; and I know by that the story about the\nstorks is not true, and that they only tell it to us children for\nfun.'\n\n \"'But where do babies come from, then?' asked the girl.\n\n\"'Why, an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak, but no\nman can 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\"'Come in, you two,' she said. 'See what the stork has brought. It\nis a 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 Luneburg Heath,\" the Moon said. \"A\nlonely hut stood by the wayside, a few scanty bushes grew near it, and\na nightingale who had lost his way sang sweetly. He died in the\ncoldness of 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\ntottered by their sides, and a poor starved horse tugged at a cart\nthat bore their scanty effects. The cold wind whistled, and\ntherefore the little girl nestled closer to the mother, who, looking\nup at my decreasing disc, thought of the bitter want at home, and\nspoke of the heavy taxes they had not been able to raise. The whole\ncaravan thought of the same thing; therefore, the rising dawn seemed\nto them a message from the sun, of fortune that was to gleam\nbrightly upon them. They heard the dying nightingale sing; it was no\nfalse prophet, but a harbinger of fortune. The wind whistled,\ntherefore they did not understand that the nightingale sung, 'Fare\naway over the sea! Thou hast paid the long passage with all that was\nthine, and poor and helpless shalt thou enter Canaan. Thou must sell\nthyself, thy wife, and thy children. But your griefs shall not last\nlong. Behind the broad fragrant leaves lurks the goddess of Death, and\nher welcome kiss shall breathe fever into thy blood. Fare away, fare\naway, over the heaving billows.' And the caravan listened well pleased\nto the song of the nightingale, which seemed to promise good\nfortune. Day broke through the light clouds; country people went\nacross the heath to church; the black-gowned women with their white\nhead-dresses looked like ghosts that had stepped forth from the church\npictures. All around lay a wide dead plain, covered with faded brown\nheath, and black charred spaces between the white sand hills. The\nwomen carried hymn books, and walked into the church. Oh, pray, pray\nfor those who are wandering to find graves beyond the foaming\nbillows.\"\n\n\nFIFTEENTH EVENING\n\n\"I know a Pulcinella,\" 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\nwas yet 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\nhim in depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect. The theatre\nwas his ideal world. If he had possessed a slender well-shaped figure,\nhe might 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,\nwho showered plaudits on their favourite. The lovely Columbine was\nindeed kind and cordial to him; but she preferred to marry the\nHarlequin. It would have been too ridiculous if beauty and ugliness\nhad in reality paired together.\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;\nand added with a comic pathos, 'and I am the person you are in love\nwith.' You see, such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the\nquestion--and, indeed, Pulcinella burst out laughing, and gave a\nleap into the air, and his melancholy was forgotten.\n\n\"And yet she had only spoken the truth. He did love her, love\nher adoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her\nwedding he was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness\nof night he wept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they\nwould have applauded 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\nand the agile Harlequin. Therefore Pulcinella had to be more\nboisterous and extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered,\nwith despair in his heart; and the audience yelled, and shouted\n'bravo, bravissimo!' Pulcinella was actually called before the\ncurtain. He was pronounced inimitable.\n\n\"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town,\nquite alone, 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\non a grave--peculiar and whimsical! If the people could have seen\ntheir favourite, they would have cried as usual, 'Bravo, Pulcinella;\nbravo, bravissimo!'\"\n\n\nSIXTEENTH EVENING\n\nHear what the Moon told me. \"I have seen the cadet who had just\nbeen made an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time; I\nhave seen the young bride in her wedding dress, and the princess\ngirl-wife happy in her gorgeous robes; but never have I seen a\nfelicity equal to that of a little girl of four years old, whom I\nwatched this evening. She had received a new blue dress, and a new\npink hat, the splendid attire had just been put on, and all were\ncalling for a candle, for my rays, shining in through the windows of\nthe room, were not bright enough for the occasion, and further\nillumination was required. There stood the little maid, stiff and\nupright as a doll, her arms stretched painfully straight out away from\nthe dress, and her fingers apart; and oh, what happiness beamed from\nher eyes, and from her whole countenance! 'To-morrow you shall go\nout in your new clothes,' said her mother; and the little one looked\nup at her hat, and down at her frock, and smiled brightly. 'Mother,'\nshe cried, 'what will the little dogs think, when they see me in these\nsplendid new things?'\"\n\n\nSEVENTEENTH EVENING\n\n\"I have spoken to you of Pompeii,\" said the Moon; \"that corpse\nof a city, exposed in the view of living towns: I know another sight\nstill more strange, and this is not the corpse, but the spectre of a\ncity. Whenever the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they\nseem to me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the\nspouting water may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her\nfame! On the surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and that is\nher widow's veil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and\nhis city are his mausoleum! Dost thou know this city? She has never\nheard the rolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her\nstreets, through which the fish swim, while the black gondola glides\nspectrally over the green water. I will show you the place,\" continued\nthe Moon, \"the largest square in it, and you will fancy yourself\ntransported into the city of a fairy tale. The grass grows rank\namong the broad flagstones, and in the morning twilight thousands of\ntame pigeons flutter around the solitary lofty tower. On three sides\nyou find yourself surrounded by cloistered walks. In these the\nsilent Turk sits smoking his long pipe, the handsome Greek leans\nagainst the pillar and gazes at the upraised trophies and lofty masts,\nmemorials of power that is gone. The flags hang down like mourning\nscarves. A girl rests there: she has put down her heavy pails filled\nwith water, the yoke with which she has carried them rests on one of\nher shoulders, and she leans against the mast of victory. That is\nnot a fairy palace you see before you yonder, but a church: the gilded\ndomes and shining orbs flash back my beams; the glorious bronze horses\nup yonder have made journeys, like the bronze horse in the fairy tale:\nthey have come hither, and gone hence, and have returned again. Do you\nnotice the variegated splendour of the walls and windows? It looks\nas if Genius had followed the caprices of a child, in the adornment of\nthese singular temples. Do you see the winged lion on the pillar?\nThe gold glitters still, but his wings are tied--the lion is dead, for\nthe king of the sea is dead; the great halls stand desolate, and where\ngorgeous paintings hung of yore, the naked wall now peers through. The\nlazzarone sleeps under the arcade, whose pavement in old times was\nto be trodden only by the feet of high nobility. From the deep\nwells, and perhaps from the prisons by the Bridge of Sighs, rise the\naccents of woe, as at the time when the tambourine was heard in the\ngay gondolas, and the golden ring was cast from the Bucentaur to\nAdria, the queen of the seas. Adria! shroud thyself in mists; let\nthe veil of thy widowhood shroud thy form, and clothe in the weeds\nof woe the mausoleum of thy bridegroom--the marble, spectral Venice.\"\n\n\nEIGHTEENTH EVENING\n\n\"I looked down upon a great theatre,\" said the Moon. \"The house\nwas crowded, for a new actor was to make his first appearance that\nnight. My rays glided over a little window in the wall, and I saw a\npainted face with the forehead pressed against the panes. It was the\nhero of the evening. The knighly beard curled crisply about the\nchin; but there were tears in the man's eyes, for he had been hissed\noff, and indeed with reason. The poor Incapable! But Incapables cannot\nbe admitted 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\nhe thought 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\nbitterly, and 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\nacted, but in a little theatre, and by a poor strolling company. Again\nI saw the well-remembered face, with the painted cheeks and the\ncrisp beard. He looked up at me and smiled; and yet he had been hissed\noff only a minute before--hissed off from a wretched theatre, by a\nmiserable audience. And tonight a shabby hearse rolled out of the\ntown-gate. It was a suicide--our painted, despised hero. The driver of\nthe hearse was the only person present, for no one followed except\nmy beams. In a corner of the churchyard the corpse of the suicide\nwas shovelled into the earth, and nettles will soon be growing\nrankly over his grave, and the sexton will throw thorns and weeds from\nthe other graves upon it.\"\n\n\nNINETEENTH EVENING\n\n\"I come from Rome,\" said the Moon. \"In the midst of the city, upon\none of the seven hills, lie the ruins of the imperial palace. The wild\nfig tree grows in the clefts of the wall, and covers the nakedness\nthereof with its broad grey-green leaves; trampling among heaps of\nrubbish, the ass treads upon green laurels, and rejoices over the rank\nthistles. From this spot, whence the eagles of Rome once flew\nabroad, whence they 'came, saw, and conquered,' our door leads into\na little mean house, built of clay between two pillars; the wild\nvine hangs like a mourning garland over the crooked window. An old\nwoman and her little granddaughter live there: they rule now in the\npalace of the Caesars, and show to strangers the remains of its past\nglories. Of the splendid throne-hall only a naked wall yet stands, and\na black cypress throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne\nonce stood. The dust lies several feet deep on the broken pavement;\nand the little maiden, now the daughter of the imperial palace,\noften sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring. The keyhole\nof the door close by she calls her turret window; through this she can\nsee half Rome, as far as the mighty cupola of St. Peter's.\n\n\"On this evening, as usual, stillness reigned around; and in the\nfull beam 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\nof rough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar.\nThe coloured lizards slipped away, startled, from before her feet, but\nshe was not frightened at them. Already she lifted her hand to pull\nthe door-bell--a hare's foot fastened to a string formed the\nbell-handle of the imperial palace. She paused for a moment--of what\nmight she be thinking? Perhaps of the beautiful Christ-child,\ndressed in gold and silver, which was down below in the chapel,\nwhere the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright, and where her\nlittle friends sung the hymns in which she also could join? I know\nnot. Presently she moved again--she stumbled: the earthen vessel\nfell from her head, and broke on the marble steps. She burst into\ntears. The beautiful daughter of the imperial palace wept over the\nworthless broken pitcher; with her bare feet she stood there\nweeping; and dared not pull the string, the bell-rope of the\nimperial palace!\"\n\n\nTWENTIETH EVENING\n\nIt was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone. Now he\nstood once more, round and bright, above the clouds, moving slowly\nonward. Hear what the Moon told me.\n\n\"From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan. On the margin of\nthe sandy desert, in a salt plain, that shone like a frozen lake,\nand was only covered in spots with light drifting sand, a halt was\nmade. The eldest of the company--the water gourd hung at his girdle,\nand on his head was a little bag of unleavened bread--drew a square in\nthe sand with his staff, and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran,\nand then the whole caravan passed over the consecrated spot. A young\nmerchant, a child of the East, as I could tell by his eye and his\nfigure, rode pensively forward on his white snorting steed. Was he\nthinking, perchance, of his fair young wife? It was only two days\nago that the camel, adorned with furs and with costly shawls, had\ncarried her, the beauteous bride, round the walls of the city, while\ndrums and cymbals had sounded, the women sang, and festive shots, of\nwhich the bridegroom fired the greatest number, resounded round the\ncamel; and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.\n\n\"For many nights I followed the train. I saw them rest by the\nwellside 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\nsand whirled destruction over the journeying caravan. At home the\nbeautiful wife prayed for her husband and her father. 'Are they dead?'\nshe asked of my golden crescent; 'Are they dead?' she cried to my full\ndisc. Now the desert lies behind them. This evening they sit beneath\nthe lofty palm trees, where the crane flutters round them with its\nlong wings, and the pelican watches them from the branches of the\nmimosa. The luxuriant herbage is trampled down, crushed by the feet of\nelephants. A troop of negroes are returning from a market in the\ninterior of the land: the women, with copper buttons in their black\nhair, and decked out in clothes dyed with indigo, drive the\nheavily-laden oxen, on whose backs slumber the naked black children. A\nnegro leads a young lion which he has brought, by a string. They\napproach the caravan; the young merchant sits pensive and\nmotionless, thinking of his beautiful wife, dreaming, in the land of\nthe blacks, of his white lily beyond the desert. He raises his head,\nand--\" But at this moment a cloud passed before the Moon, and then\nanother. I heard nothing more from him this evening.\n\n\nTWENTY-FIRST EVENING\n\n\"I saw a little girl weeping,\" said the Moon; \"she was weeping\nover the depravity of the world. She had received a most beautiful\ndoll as a present. Oh, that was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate!\nShe did not seem created for the sorrows of this world. But the\nbrothers of the little girl, those great naughty boys, had set the\ndoll high up in the branches of a tree and had run away.\n\n\"The little girl could not reach up to the doll, and could not\nhelp her down, and that is why she was crying. The doll must certainly\nhave been 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 on the bough all night long?\nNo, the little maid could not make up her mind to that. 'I'll stay\nwith you,' she said, although she felt anything but happy in her mind.\nShe could almost fancy she distinctly saw little gnomes, with their\nhigh-crowned hats, sitting in the bushes; and further back in the long\nwalk, tall spectres appeared to be dancing. They came nearer and\nnearer, and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the\ndoll sat; they laughed scornfully, and pointed at her with their\nfingers. Oh, how frightened the little maid was! 'But if one has not\ndone anything wrong,' she thought, 'nothing evil can harm one. I\nwonder if I have done anything wrong?' And she considered. 'Oh, yes! I\nlaughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg; she limped along\nso funnily, I could not help laughing; but it's a sin to laugh at\nanimals.' 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\nthe dark 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\nand green. At the top sat a cuckoo, below hung the heavy leaden\nweights, and the pendulum with the polished disc of metal went to\nand fro, and said 'tick, tick.' But no, he was not looking at the\nclock, but at his mother's spinning wheel, that stood just\nunderneath it. That was the boy's favourite piece of furniture, but he\ndared not touch it, for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the\nknuckles. For hours together, when his mother was spinning, he would\nsit quietly by her side, watching the murmuring spindle and the\nrevolving wheel, and as he sat he thought of many things. Oh, if he\nmight only turn the wheel himself! Father and mother were asleep; he\nlooked at them, and looked at the spinning wheel, and presently a\nlittle naked foot peered out of the bed, and then a second foot, and\nthen two little white legs. There he stood. He looked round once more,\nto see if father and mother were still asleep--yes, they slept; and\nnow he crept softly, softly, in his short little nightgown, to the\nspinning wheel, and began to spin. The thread flew from the wheel, and\nthe wheel whirled faster and faster. I kissed his fair hair and his\nblue eyes, it was such a pretty picture.\n\n\"At that moment the mother awoke. The curtain shook, she looked\nforth, and fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little\nspectre. 'In Heaven's name!' she cried, and aroused her husband in a\nfrightened way. He opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and\nlooked at the brisk little lad. 'Why, that is Bertel,' said he. And my\neye quitted the poor room, for I have so much to see. At the same\nmoment I looked at the halls of the Vatican, where the marble gods are\nenthroned. I shone upon the group of the Laocoon; the stone seemed\nto sigh. I pressed a silent kiss on the lips of the Muses, and they\nseemed to stir and move. But my rays lingered longest about the Nile\ngroup with the colossal god. Leaning against the Sphinx, he lies there\nthoughtful and meditative, as if he were thinking on the rolling\ncenturies; and little love-gods sport with him and with the\ncrocodiles. In the horn of plenty sat with folded arms a little tiny\nlove-god, contemplating the great solemn river-god, a true picture\nof the boy at the spinning wheel--the features were exactly the\nsame. Charming and life-like stood the little marble form, and yet the\nwheel of the year has turned more than a thousand times since the time\nwhen it sprang forth from the stone. Just as often as the boy in the\nlittle room turned the spinning wheel had the great wheel murmured,\nbefore the age could again call forth marble gods equal to those he\nafterwards formed.\n\n\"Years have passed since all this happened,\" the Moon went on to\nsay. \"Yesterday I looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of Denmark.\nGlorious woods are there, and high trees, an old knightly castle\nwith red walls, swans floating in the ponds, and in the background\nappears, among orchards, a little town with a church. Many boats,\nthe crews all furnished with torches, glided over the silent\nexpanse--but these fires had not been kindled for catching fish, for\neverything had a festive look. Music sounded, a song was sung, and\nin one of the boats the man stood erect to whom homage was paid by the\nrest, a tall sturdy man, wrapped in a cloak. He had blue eyes and long\nwhite hair. I knew him, and thought of the Vatican, and of the group\nof the Nile, and the old marble gods. I thought of the simple little\nroom where little Bertel sat in his night-shirt by the spinning wheel.\nThe wheel of time has turned, and new gods have come forth from the\nstone. From the boats there arose a shout: 'Hurrah, hurrah for\nBertel Thorwaldsen!'\"\n\n\nTWENTY-FOURTH EVENING\n\n\"I will now give you a picture from Frankfort,\" said the Moon.\n\"I especially noticed one building there. It was not the house in\nwhich Goethe 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\ncandlesticks stood there, and bowed low before an old woman, who was\nbeing brought downstairs in a litter. The proprietor of the house\nstood bare-headed, and respectfully imprinted a kiss on the hand of\nthe old woman. She was his mother. She nodded in a friendly manner\nto him and to the servants, and they carried her into the dark\nnarrow street, into a little house, that was her dwelling. Here her\nchildren had been born, from hence the fortune of the family had\narisen. If she deserted the despised street and the little house,\nfortune would also desert her children. That was her firm belief.\"\n\nThe Moon told me no more; his visit this evening was far too\nshort. But I thought of the old woman in the narrow despised street.\nIt would have cost her but a word, and a brilliant house would have\narisen for her on the banks of the Thames--a word, and a villa would\nhave been prepared in the Bay of Naples.\n\n\"If I deserted the lowly house, where the fortunes of my sons\nfirst began to bloom, fortune would desert them!\" It was a\nsuperstition, but a superstition of such a class, that he who knows\nthe story and has seen this picture, need have only two words placed\nunder the picture to make him understand it; and these two words\nare: \"A mother.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-FIFTH EVENING\n\n\"It was yesterday, in the morning twilight\"--these are the words\nthe Moon told me--\"in the great city no chimney was yet smoking--and\nit was 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\ncan see me now, and the sun too. Ya-hip! ya-hip!' And he flourished\nhis broom in triumph.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-SIXTH EVENING\n\n\"Last night I looked down upon a town in China,\" said the Moon.\n\"My beams irradiated the naked walls that form the streets there.\nNow and then, certainly, a door is seen; but it is locked, for what\ndoes the Chinaman care about the outer world? Close wooden shutters\ncovered the windows behind the walls of the houses; but through the\nwindows of the temple a faint light glimmered. I looked in, and saw\nthe quaint decorations within. From the floor to the ceiling\npictures are painted, in the most glaring colours, and richly\ngilt--pictures representing the deeds of the gods here on earth. In\neach niche statues 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\nthe sacred colour. At the foot of the altar sat a living being, a\nyoung priest. He appeared to be praying, but in the midst of his\nprayer he seemed to fall into deep thought, and this must have been\nwrong, for his cheeks glowed and he held down his head. Poor\nSoui-Hong! Was he, perhaps, dreaming of working in the little flower\ngarden behind the high street wall? And did that occupation seem\nmore agreeable to him than watching the wax lights in the temple? Or\ndid he wish to sit at the rich feast, wiping his mouth with silver\npaper between each course? Or was his sin so great that, if he dared\nutter it, the Celestial Empire would punish it with death? Had his\nthoughts ventured to fly with the ships of the barbarians, to their\nhomes in far distant England? No, his thoughts did not fly so far, and\nyet they were sinful, sinful as thoughts born of young hearts,\nsinful here in the temple, in the presence of Fo and the other holy\ngods.\n\n\"I know whither his thoughts had strayed. At the farther end of\nthe city, on the flat roof paved with porcelain, on which stood the\nhandsome vases covered with painted flowers, sat the beauteous Pu,\nof the little roguish eyes, of the full lips, and of the tiny feet.\nThe tight shoe pained her, but her heart pained her still more. She\nlifted her graceful round arm, and her satin dress rustled. Before her\nstood a glass bowl containing four gold-fish. She stirred the bowl\ncarefully with a slender lacquered stick, very slowly, for she, too,\nwas lost in thought. Was she thinking, perchance, how the fishes\nwere richly clothed in gold, how they lived calmly and peacefully in\ntheir crystal world, how they were regularly fed, and yet how much\nhappier they might be if they were free? Yes, that she could well\nunderstand, the beautiful Pu. Her thoughts wandered away from her\nhome, wandered to the temple, but not for the sake of holy things.\nPoor Pu! Poor Soui-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\nthe purest ether through which I was gliding, and deep below the\nsurface I could see the strange plants that stretched up their long\narms towards me like the gigantic trees of the forest. The fishes swam\nto and fro above their tops. High in the air a flight of wild swans\nwere winging their way, one of which sank lower and lower, with\nwearied pinions, his eyes following the airy caravan, that melted\nfarther and farther into the distance. With outspread wings he sank\nslowly, as a soap bubble sinks in the still air, till he touched the\nwater. At length his head lay back between his wings, and silently\nhe lay there, like a white lotus flower upon the quiet lake. And a\ngentle wind arose, and crisped the quiet surface, which gleamed like\nthe clouds that poured along in great broad waves; and the swan raised\nhis head, and the glowing water splashed like blue fire over his\nbreast and back. The morning dawn illuminated the red clouds, the swan\nrose strengthened, and flew towards the rising sun, towards the bluish\ncoast whither the caravan had gone; but he flew alone, with a\nlonging in his breast. Lonely 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.\nOn the wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem of\nearthly grandeur, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted\nand gilt, and is hung on a wooden peg driven into the wall. The\nworms have gnawed the gilded wood, the spider has spun her web from\nthe crown down to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail and\ntransient as the grief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can\nremember them quite plainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips,\nthat so strongly and plainly expressed joy or grief. When the\nsteamboat winds along like a magic snail over the lakes, a stranger\noften comes to the church, and visits the burial vault; he asks the\nnames of the kings, and they have a dead and forgotten sound. He\nglances with a smile at the worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be\na pious, thoughtful man, something of melancholy mingles with the\nsmile. Slumber on, ye dead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at\nnight sends down his rays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs\nthe crown of pine wood.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-NINTH EVENING\n\n\"Close by the high-road,\" said the Moon, \"is an inn, and\nopposite to it 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,\nfast asleep, while the horses were being watered. The coachman\nstretched himself, though I am very sure that he had been most\ncomfortably asleep half the last stage. The door of the servants' room\nstood open, and the bed looked as if it had been turned over and over;\nthe candle stood on the floor, and had burnt deep down into the\nsocket. The wind blew cold through the shed: it was nearer to the dawn\nthan to midnight. In the wooden frame on the ground slept a wandering\nfamily of musicians. The father and mother seemed to be dreaming of\nthe burning liquor that remained in the bottle. The little pale\ndaughter was dreaming too, for her eyes were wet with tears. The harp\nstood at their heads, and the dog lay stretched at their feet.\"\n\n\nTHIRTIETH EVENING\n\n\"It was in a little provincial town,\" the Moon said; \"it certainly\nhappened last year, but that has nothing to do with the matter. I\nsaw it quite plainly. To-day I read about it in the papers, but\nthere it was not half so clearly expressed. In the taproom of the\nlittle inn sat the bear leader, eating his supper; the bear was tied\nup outside, behind the wood pile--poor Bruin, who did nobody any harm,\nthough he looked grim enough. Up in the garret three little children\nwere playing by the light of my beams; the eldest was perhaps six\nyears old, the youngest certainly not more than two. 'Tramp,\ntramp'--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.\nI saw it all,\" said the Moon. \"The children were very much\nfrightened at first at the great shaggy animal; each of them crept\ninto a corner, but he found them all out, and smelt at them, but did\nthem no harm. 'This must be a great dog,' they said, and began to\nstroke him. He lay down upon the ground, the youngest boy clambered on\nhis back, and bending down a little head of golden curls, played at\nhiding in the beast's shaggy skin. Presently the eldest boy took his\ndrum, and beat upon it till it rattled again; the bear rose upon his\nhind legs, and began to dance. It was a charming sight to behold. Each\nboy now took his gun, and the bear was obliged to have one too, and he\nheld it up quite properly. Here was a capital playmate they had found;\nand they began marching--one, two; one, two.\n\n\"Suddenly some one came to the door, which opened, and the\nmother of the children appeared. You should have seen her in her\ndumb terror, with her face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and\nher eyes fixed in a horrified stare. But the youngest boy nodded to\nher in great glee, and called out in his infantile prattle, 'We're\nplaying at soldiers.' 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;\nonly for a moment now and then did the Moon become visible. He said,\n\"I looked down from the silent sky upon the driving clouds, and saw\nthe great 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\nhis face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was\nclosed, the whip cracked, and the horses gallopped off into the\nthick forest, whither my rays were not able to follow him; but as I\nglanced through the grated window, my rays glided over the notes,\nhis last farewell engraved on the prison wall--where words fail,\nsounds can often speak. My rays could only light up isolated notes, so\nthe greater part of what was written there will ever remain dark to\nme. Was it the death-hymn he wrote there? Were these the glad notes of\njoy? Did he drive away to meet death, or hasten to the embraces of his\nbeloved? The rays of the Moon do not read all that is written by\nmortals.\"\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\nthe arm; or I see how the stocking is drawn off, and a plump little\nwhite leg makes its appearance, and a white little foot that is fit to\nbe kissed, and I kiss it too.\n\n\"But about what I was going to tell you. This evening I looked\nthrough a window, before which no curtain was drawn, for nobody\nlives opposite. I saw a whole troop of little ones, all of one family,\nand among them was a little sister. She is only four years old, but\ncan say her prayers as well as any of the rest. The mother sits by her\nbed every evening, and hears her say her prayers; and then she has a\nkiss, and the mother sits by the bed till the little one has gone to\nsleep, which generally happens as soon as ever she can close her eyes.\n\n\"This evening the two elder children were a little boisterous. One\nof them hopped about on one leg in his long white nightgown, and the\nother stood on a chair surrounded by the clothes of all the\nchildren, and declared he was acting Grecian statues. The third and\nfourth laid the clean linen carefully in the box, for that is a\nthing that has to be done; and the mother sat by the bed of the\nyoungest, and announced to all the rest that they were to be quiet,\nfor little sister was going to say her prayers.\n\n\"I looked in, over the lamp, into the little maiden's bed, where\nshe lay under the neat white coverlet, her hands folded demurely and\nher little face quite grave and serious. She was praying the Lord's\nprayer aloud. But her mother interrupted her in the middle of her\nprayer. 'How is it,' she asked, 'that when you have prayed for daily\nbread, you always add something I cannot understand? You must tell\nme what that is.' The little one lay silent, and looked at her\nmother in embarrassment. 'What is it you say after our daily bread?'\n'Dear mother, don't be angry: I only said, and plenty of butter on\nit.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEIGHBOURING FAMILIES\n\nOne would have thought that something important was going on in\nthe duck-pond, but it was nothing after all. All the ducks lying\nquietly on the water or standing on their heads in it--for they\ncould do that--at once swarm to the sides; the traces of their feet\nwere seen in the wet earth, and their cackling was heard far and wide.\nThe water, which a few moments before had been as clear and smooth\nas a mirror, became very troubled. Before, every tree, every\nneighbouring bush, the old farmhouse with the holes in the roof and\nthe swallows' nest, and especially the great rose-bush full of\nflowers, had been reflected in it. The rose-bush covered the wall\nand hung out over the water, in which everything was seen as if in a\npicture, except that it all stood on its head; but when the water\nwas troubled everything got mixed up, and the picture was gone. Two\nfeathers which the fluttering ducks had lost floated up and down;\nsuddenly they took a rush as if the wind were coming, but as it did\nnot come they had to lie still, and the water once more became quiet\nand smooth. The roses were again reflected; they were very\nbeautiful, but they did not know it, for no one had told them. The sun\nshone among the delicate leaves; everything breathed forth the\nloveliest fragrance, and all felt as we do when we are filled with joy\nat the thought of our happiness.\n\n\"How beautiful existence is!\" said each rose. \"The only thing that\nI wish for is to be able to kiss the sun, because it is so warm and\nbright. I should also like to kiss those roses down in the water,\nwhich are so much like us, and the pretty little birds down in the\nnest. There are some up above too; they put out their heads and pipe\nsoftly; they have no feathers like their father and mother. We have\ngood neighbours, both below and above. How beautiful existence is!\"\n\nThe young ones above and below--those below were really only\nshadows in the water--were sparrows; their parents were sparrows\ntoo, and had taken possession of the empty swallows' nest of last\nyear, and now lived in it as if it were their own property.\n\n\"Are those the duck's children swimming here?\" asked the young\nsparrows when they saw the feathers on the water.\n\n\"If you must ask questions, ask sensible ones,\" said their mother.\n\"Don't you see that they are feathers, such as I wear and you will\nwear too? But ours are finer. Still, I should like to have them up\nin the nest, for they keep one warm. I am very curious to know what\nthe ducks were so startled about; not about us, certainly, although\nI did say 'peep' to you pretty loudly. The thick-headed roses ought to\nknow why, but they know nothing at all; they only look at themselves\nand smell. I am heartily tired of such neighbours.\"\n\n\"Listen to the dear little birds up there,\" said the roses;\n\"they begin to want to sing too, but are not able to manage it yet.\nBut it will soon come. What a pleasure that must be! It is fine to\nhave such cheerful neighbours.\"\n\nSuddenly two horses came galloping up to be watered. A peasant boy\nrode on one, and he had taken off all his clothes except his large\nbroad black hat. The boy whistled like a bird, and rode into the\npond where it was deepest, and as he passed the rose-bush he plucked a\nrose and stuck it in his hat. Now he looked dressed, and rode on.\nThe other roses looked after their sister, and asked each other,\n\"Where can she be going to?\" But none of them knew.\n\n\"I should like to go out into the world for once,\" said one;\n\"but here at home among our green leaves it is beautiful too. The\nwhole day long the sun shines bright and warm, and in the night the\nsky shines more beautifully still; we can see that through all the\nlittle holes in it.\"\n\nThey meant the stars, but they knew no better.\n\n\"We make it lively about the house,\" said the sparrow-mother; \"and\npeople say that a swallows' nest brings luck; so they are glad of\nus. But such neighbours as ours! A rose-bush on the wall like that\ncauses damp. I daresay it will be taken away; then we shall,\nperhaps, have some corn growing here. The roses are good for nothing\nbut to be looked at and to be smelt, or at most to be stuck in a\nhat. Every year, as I have been told by my mother, they fall off.\nThe farmer's wife preserves them and strews salt among them; then they\nget a French name which I neither can pronounce nor care to, and are\nput into the fire to make a nice smell. You see, that's their life;\nthey exist only for the eye and the nose. Now you know.\"\n\nIn the evening, when the gnats were playing about in the warm\nair and in the red clouds, the nightingale came and sang to the\nroses that the beautiful was like sunshine to the world, and that\nthe beautiful lived for ever. The roses thought that the nightingale\nwas singing about itself, and that one might easily have believed;\nthey had no idea that the song was about them. But they were very\npleased with it, and wondered whether all the little sparrows could\nbecome nightingales.\n\n\"I understand the song of that bird very well,\" said the young\nsparrows. \"There was only one word that was not clear to me. What does\n'the beautiful' mean?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all,\" answered their mother; \"that's only something\nexternal. Up at the Hall, where the pigeons have their own house,\nand corn and peas are strewn before them every day--I have dined\nwith them myself, and that you shall do in time, too; for tell me what\ncompany you keep and I'll tell you who you are--up at the Hall they\nhave two birds with green necks and a crest upon their heads; they can\nspread out their tails like a great wheel, and these are so bright\nwith various colours that it makes one's eyes ache. These birds are\ncalled peacocks, and that is 'the beautiful.' If they were only\nplucked a little they would look no better than the rest of us. I\nwould have plucked them already if they had not been so big.\"\n\n\"I'll pluck them,\" piped the young sparrow, who had no feathers\nyet.\n\nIn the farmhouse lived a young married couple; they loved each\nother dearly, were industrious and active, and everything in their\nhome looked very nice. On Sundays the young wife came down early,\nplucked a handful of the most beautiful roses, and put them into a\nglass of water, which she placed upon the cupboard.\n\n\"Now I see that it is Sunday,\" said the husband, kissing his\nlittle wife. They sat down, read their hymn-book, and held each\nother by the hand, while the sun shone down upon the fresh roses and\nupon them.\n\n\"This sight is really too tedious,\" said the sparrow-mother, who\ncould see into the room from her nest; and she flew away.\n\nThe same thing happened on the following Sunday, for every\nSunday fresh roses were put into the glass; but the rose-bush\nbloomed as beautifully as ever. The young sparrows now had feathers,\nand wanted very much to fly with their mother; but she would not allow\nit, and so they had to stay at home. In one of her flights, however it\nmay have happened, she was caught, before she was aware of it, in a\nhorse-hair net which some boys had attached to a tree. The\nhorse-hair was drawn tightly round her leg--as tightly as if the\nlatter were to be cut off; she was in great pain and terror. The\nboys came running up and seized her, and in no gentle way either.\n\n\"It's only a sparrow,\" they said; they did not, however, let her\ngo, but took her home with them, and every time she cried they hit her\non the beak.\n\nIn the farmhouse was an old man who understood making soap into\ncakes and balls, both for shaving and washing. He was a merry old man,\nalways wandering about. On seeing the sparrow which the boys had\nbrought, and which they said they did not want, he asked, \"Shall we\nmake it look very pretty?\"\n\nAt these words an icy shudder ran through the sparrow-mother.\n\nOut of his box, in which were the most beautiful colours, the\nold man took a quantity of shining leaf-gold, while the boys had to go\nand fetch some white of egg, with which the sparrow was to be\nsmeared all over; the gold was stuck on to this, and the\nsparrow-mother was now gilded all over. But she, trembling in every\nlimb, did not think of the adornment. Then the soap-man tore off a\nsmall piece from the red lining of his old jacket, and cutting it so\nas to make it look like a cock's comb, he stuck it to the bird's head.\n\n\"Now you will see the gold-jacket fly,\" said the old man,\nletting the sparrow go, which flew away in deadly fear, with the sun\nshining upon her. How she glittered! All the sparrows, and even a\ncrow--and an old boy he was too--were startled at the sight; but still\nthey flew after her to learn what kind of strange bird she was.\n\nDriven by fear and horror, she flew homeward; she was almost\nsinking fainting to the earth, while the flock of pursuing birds\nincreased, some even attempting to peck at her.\n\n\"Look at her! Look at her!\" they all cried.\n\n\"Look at her! Look at her\" cried her little ones, as she\napproached the nest. \"That is certainly a young peacock, for it\nglitters in all colours; it makes one's eyes ache, as mother told\nus. Peep! that's 'the beautiful'.\" And then they pecked at the bird\nwith their little beaks so that it was impossible for her to get\ninto the nest; she was so exhausted that she couldn't even say \"Peep!\"\nmuch less \"I am your own mother!\" The other birds, too, now fell\nupon the sparrow and plucked off feather after feather until she\nfell bleeding into the rose-bush.\n\n\"Poor creature!\" said all the roses; \"only be still, and we will\nhide you. Lean your little head against us.\"\n\nThe sparrow spread out her wings once more, then drew them closely\nto her, and lay dead near the neighbouring family, the beautiful fresh\nroses.\n\n\"Peep!\" sounded from the nest. \"Where can mother be so long?\nIt's more than I can understand. It cannot be a trick of hers, and\nmean that we are now to take care of ourselves. She has left us the\nhouse as an inheritance; but to which of us is it to belong when we\nhave families of our own?\"\n\n\"Yes, it won't do for you to stay with me when I increase my\nhousehold with a wife and children,\"' said the smallest.\n\n\"I daresay I shall have more wives and children than you,\" said\nthe second.\n\n\"But I am the eldest!\" exclaimed the third. Then they all got\nexcited; they hit out with their wings, pecked with their beaks, and\nflop! one after another was thrown out of the nest. There they lay\nwith their anger, holding their heads on one side and blinking the eye\nthat was turned upwards. That was their way of looking foolish.\n\nThey could fly a little; by practice they learned to improve,\nand at last they agreed upon a sign by which to recognise each other\nif they should meet in the world later on. It was to be one \"Peep!\"\nand three scratches on the ground with the left foot.\n\nThe young one who had remained behind in the nest made himself\nas broad as he could, for he was the proprietor. But this greatness\ndid not last long. In the night the red flames burst through the\nwindow and seized the roof, the dry straw blazed up high, and the\nwhole house, together with the young sparrow, was burned. The two\nothers, who wanted to marry, thus saved their lives by a stroke of\nluck.\n\nWhen the sun rose again and everything looked as refreshed as if\nit had had a quiet sleep, there only remained of the farmhouse a few\nblack charred beams leaning against the chimney, which was now its own\nmaster. Thick smoke still rose from the ruins, but the rose-bush stood\nyonder, fresh, blooming, and untouched, every flower and every twig\nbeing reflected in the clear water.\n\n\"How beautifully the roses bloom before the ruined house,\"\nexclaimed a passer-by. \"A pleasanter picture cannot be imagined. I\nmust have that.\" And the man took out of his portfolio a little book\nwith white leaves: he was a painter, and with his pencil he drew the\nsmoking house, the charred beams and the overhanging chimney, which\nbent more and more; in the foreground he put the large, blooming\nrose-bush, which presented a charming view. For its sake alone the\nwhole picture had been drawn.\n\nLater in the day the two sparrows who had been born there came by.\n\"Where is the house?\" they asked. \"Where is the nest? Peep! All is\nburned and our strong brother too. That's what he has now for\nkeeping the nest. The roses got off very well; there they still\nstand with their red cheeks. They certainly do not mourn at their\nneighbours' misfortunes. I don't want to talk to them, and it looks\nmiserable here--that's my opinion.\" And away they went.\n\nOn a beautiful sunny autumn day--one could almost have believed it\nwas still the middle of summer--there hopped about in the dry\nclean-swept courtyard before the principal entrance of the Hall a\nnumber of black, white, and gaily-coloured pigeons, all shining in the\nsunlight. The pigeon-mothers said to their young ones: \"Stand in\ngroups, stand in groups! for that looks much better.\"\n\n\"What kind of creatures are those little grey ones that run\nabout behind us?\" asked an old pigeon, with red and green in her eyes.\n\"Little grey ones! Little grey ones!\" she cried.\n\n\"They are sparrows, and good creatures. We have always had the\nreputation of being pious, so we will allow them to pick up the corn\nwith us; they don't interrupt our talk, and they scrape so prettily\nwhen they bow.\"\n\nIndeed they were continually making three foot-scrapings with\nthe left foot and also said \"Peep!\" By this means they recognised each\nother, for they were the sparrows from the nest on the burned house.\n\n\"Here is excellent fare!\" said the sparrow. The pigeons strutted\nround one another, puffed out their chests mightily, and had their own\nprivate views and opinions.\n\n\"Do you see that pouter pigeon?\" said one to the other. \"Do you\nsee how she swallows the peas? She eats too many, and the best ones\ntoo. Curoo! Curoo! How she lifts her crest, the ugly, spiteful\ncreature! Curoo! Curoo!\" And the eyes of all sparkled with malice.\n\"Stand in groups! Stand in groups! Little grey ones, little grey ones!\nCuroo, curoo, curoo!\"\n\nSo their chatter ran on, and so it will run on for thousands of\nyears. The sparrows ate lustily; they listened attentively, and even\nstood in the ranks with the others, but it did not suit them at all.\nThey were full, and so they left the pigeons, exchanging opinions\nabout them, slipped in under the garden palings, and when they found\nthe door leading into the house open, one of them, who was more than\nfull, and therefore felt brave, hopped on to the threshold. \"Peep!\"\nsaid he; \"I may venture that.\"\n\n\"Peep!\" said the other; \"so may I, and something more too!\" and he\nhopped into the room. No one was there; the third sparrow, seeing\nthis, flew still farther into the room, exclaiming, \"All or nothing!\nIt is a curious man's nest all the same; and what have they put up\nhere? What is it?\"\n\nClose to the sparrows the roses were blooming; they were reflected\nin the water, and the charred beams leaned against the overhanging\nchimney. \"Do tell me what this is. How comes this in a room at the\nHall?\" And all three sparrows wanted to fly over the roses and the\nchimney, but flew against a flat wall. It was all a picture, a great\nsplendid picture, which the artist had painted from a sketch.\n\n\"Peep!\" said the sparrows, \"it's nothing. It only looks like\nsomething. Peep! that is 'the beautiful.' Do you understand it? I\ndon't.\"\n\nAnd they flew away, for some people came into the room.\n\nDays and years went by. The pigeons had often cooed, not to say\ngrowled--the spiteful creatures; the sparrows had been frozen in\nwinter and had lived merrily in summer: they were all betrothed, or\nmarried, or whatever you like to call it. They had little ones, and of\ncourse each one thought his own the handsomest and cleverest; one flew\nthis way, another that, and when they met they recognised each other\nby their \"Peep!\" and the three scrapes with the left foot. The\neldest had remained an old maid and had no nest nor young ones. It was\nher pet idea to see a great city, so she flew to Copenhagen.\n\nThere was a large house painted in many gay colours standing close\nto the castle and the canal, upon which latter were to be seen many\nships laden with apples and pottery. The windows of the house were\nbroader at the bottom than at the top, and when the sparrows looked\nthrough them, every room appeared to them like a tulip with the\nbrightest colours and shades. But in the middle of the tulip stood\nwhite men, made of marble; a few were of plaster; still, looked at\nwith sparrows' eyes, that comes to the same thing. Up on the roof\nstood a metal chariot drawn by metal horses, and the goddess of\nVictory, also of metal, was driving. It was Thorwaldsen's Museum.\n\n\"How it shines! how it shines!\" said the maiden sparrow. \"I\nsuppose that is 'the beautiful.' Peep! But here it is larger than a\npeacock.\" She still remembered what in her childhood's days her mother\nhad looked upon as the greatest among the beautiful. She flew down\ninto the courtyard: there everything was extremely fine. Palms and\nbranches were painted on the walls, and in the middle of the court\nstood a great blooming rose-tree spreading out its fresh boughs,\ncovered with roses, over a grave. Thither flew the maiden sparrow, for\nshe saw several of her own kind there. A \"peep\" and three\nfoot-scrapings--in this way she had often greeted throughout the year,\nand no one here had responded, for those who are once parted do not\nmeet every day; and so this greeting had become a habit with her.\nBut to-day two old sparrows and a young one answered with a \"peep\" and\nthe thrice-repeated scrape with the left foot.\n\n\"Ah! Good-day! good-day!\" They were two old ones from the nest and\na little one of the family. \"Do we meet here? It's a grand place,\nbut there's not much to eat. This is 'the beautiful.' Peep!\"\n\nMany people came out of the side rooms where the beautiful\nmarble statues stood and approached the grave where lay the great\nmaster who had created these works of art. All stood with enraptured\nfaces round Thorwaldsen's grave, and a few picked up the fallen\nrose-leaves and preserved them. They had come from afar: one from\nmighty England, others from Germany and France. The fairest of the\nladies plucked one of the roses and hid it in her bosom. Then the\nsparrows thought that the roses reigned here, and that the house had\nbeen built for their sake. That appeared to them to be really too\nmuch, but since all the people showed their love for the roses, they\ndid not wish to be behindhand. \"Peep!\" they said sweeping the ground\nwith their tails, and blinking with one eye at the roses, they had not\nlooked at them long before they were convinced that they were their\nold neighbours. And so they really were. The painter who had drawn the\nrose-bush near the ruined house, had afterwards obtained permission to\ndig it up, and had given it to the architect, for finer roses had\nnever been seen. The architect had planted it upon Thorwaldsen's\ngrave, where it bloomed as an emblem of 'the beautiful' and yielded\nfragrant red rose-leaves to be carried as mementoes to distant lands.\n\n\"Have you obtained an appointment here in the city?\" asked the\nsparrows. The roses nodded; they recognized their grey neighbours\nand were pleased to see them again. \"How glorious it is to live and to\nbloom, to see old friends again, and happy faces every day. It is as\nif every day were a festival.\" \"Peep!\" said the sparrows. \"Yes, they\nare really our old neighbours; we remember their origin near the pond.\nPeep! how they have got on. Yes, some succeed while they are asleep.\nAh! there's a faded leaf; I can see that quite plainly.\" And they\npecked at it till it fell off. But the tree stood there fresher and\ngreener than ever; the roses bloomed in the sunshine on\nThorwaldsen's grave and became associated with his immortal name.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NIGHTINGALE\n\nIn China, you know, the emperor is a Chinese, and all those\nabout him are Chinamen also. The story I am going to tell you happened\na great many years ago, so it is well to hear it now before it is\nforgotten. The emperor's palace was the most beautiful in the world.\nIt was built entirely of porcelain, and very costly, but so delicate\nand brittle that whoever touched it was obliged to be careful. In\nthe garden could be seen the most singular flowers, with pretty silver\nbells tied to them, which tinkled so that every one who passed could\nnot help noticing the flowers. Indeed, everything in the emperor's\ngarden was remarkable, and it extended so far that the gardener\nhimself did not know where it ended. Those who travelled beyond its\nlimits knew that there was a noble forest, with lofty trees, sloping\ndown to the deep blue sea, and the great ships sailed under the shadow\nof its branches. In one of these trees lived a nightingale, who sang\nso beautifully that even the poor fishermen, who had so many other\nthings to do, would stop and listen. Sometimes, when they went at\nnight to spread their nets, they would hear her sing, and say, \"Oh, is\nnot that beautiful?\" But when they returned to their fishing, they\nforgot the bird until the next night. Then they would hear it again,\nand exclaim \"Oh, how beautiful is the nightingale's song!\"\n\nTravellers from every country in the world came to the city of the\nemperor, which they admired very much, as well as the palace and\ngardens; but when they heard the nightingale, they all declared it\nto be the best of all. And the travellers, on their return home,\nrelated what they had seen; and learned men wrote books, containing\ndescriptions of the town, the palace, and the gardens; but they did\nnot forget the nightingale, which was really the greatest wonder.\nAnd those who could write poetry composed beautiful verses about the\nnightingale, who lived in a forest near the deep sea. The books\ntravelled all over the world, and some of them came into the hands\nof the emperor; and he sat in his golden chair, and, as he read, he\nnodded his approval every moment, for it pleased him to find such a\nbeautiful description of his city, his palace, and his gardens. But\nwhen he came to the words, \"the nightingale is the most beautiful of\nall,\" he exclaimed, \"What is this? I know nothing of any\nnightingale. Is there such a bird in my empire? and even in my garden?\nI have never heard of it. Something, it appears, may be learnt from\nbooks.\"\n\nThen he called one of his lords-in-waiting, who was so\nhigh-bred, that when any in an inferior rank to himself spoke to\nhim, or asked him a question, he would answer, \"Pooh,\" which means\nnothing.\n\n\"There is a very wonderful bird mentioned here, called a\nnightingale,\" said the emperor; \"they say it is the best thing in my\nlarge kingdom. Why have I not been told of it?\"\n\n\"I have never heard the name,\" replied the cavalier; \"she has\nnot been presented at court.\"\n\n\"It is my pleasure that she shall appear this evening.\" said the\nemperor; \"the whole world knows what I possess better than I do\nmyself.\"\n\n\"I have never heard of her,\" said the cavalier; \"yet I will\nendeavor to find her.\"\n\nBut where was the nightingale to be found? The nobleman went up\nstairs and down, through halls and passages; yet none of those whom he\nmet had heard of the bird. So he returned to the emperor, and said\nthat it must be a fable, invented by those who had written the book.\n\"Your imperial majesty,\" said he, \"cannot believe everything contained\nin books; sometimes they are only fiction, or what is called the black\nart.\"\n\n\"But the book in which I have read this account,\" said the\nemperor, \"was sent to me by the great and mighty emperor of Japan, and\ntherefore it cannot contain a falsehood. I will hear the\nnightingale, she must be here this evening; she has my highest\nfavor; and if she does not come, the whole court shall be trampled\nupon after supper is ended.\"\n\n\"Tsing-pe!\" cried the lord-in-waiting, and again he ran up and\ndown stairs, through all the halls and corridors; and half the court\nran with him, for they did not like the idea of being trampled upon.\nThere was a great inquiry about this wonderful nightingale, whom all\nthe world knew, but who was unknown to the court.\n\nAt last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said,\n\"Oh, yes, I know the nightingale quite well; indeed, she can sing.\nEvery evening I have permission to take home to my poor sick mother\nthe scraps from the table; she lives down by the sea-shore, and as I\ncome back I feel tired, and I sit down in the wood to rest, and listen\nto the nightingale's song. Then the tears come into my eyes, and it is\njust as if my mother kissed me.\"\n\n\"Little maiden,\" said the lord-in-waiting, \"I will obtain for\nyou constant employment in the kitchen, and you shall have\npermission to see the emperor dine, if you will lead us to the\nnightingale; for she is invited for this evening to the palace.\" So\nshe went into the wood where the nightingale sang, and half the\ncourt followed her. As they went along, a cow began lowing.\n\n\"Oh,\" said a young courtier, \"now we have found her; what\nwonderful power for such a small creature; I have certainly heard it\nbefore.\"\n\n\"No, that is only a cow lowing,\" said the little girl; \"we are a\nlong way from the place yet.\"\n\nThen some frogs began to croak in the marsh.\n\n\"Beautiful,\" said the young courtier again. \"Now I hear it,\ntinkling like little church bells.\"\n\n\"No, those are frogs,\" said the little maiden; \"but I think we\nshall soon hear her now:\" and presently the nightingale began to sing.\n\n\"Hark, hark! there she is,\" said the girl, \"and there she sits,\"\nshe added, pointing to a little gray bird who was perched on a bough.\n\n\"Is it possible?\" said the lord-in-waiting, \"I never imagined it\nwould be a little, plain, simple thing like that. She has certainly\nchanged color at seeing so many grand people around her.\"\n\n\"Little nightingale,\" cried the girl, raising her voice, \"our most\ngracious emperor wishes you to sing before him.\"\n\n\"With the greatest pleasure,\" said the nightingale, and began to\nsing most delightfully.\n\n\"It sounds like tiny glass bells,\" said the lord-in-waiting,\n\"and see how her little throat works. It is surprising that we have\nnever heard this before; she will be a great success at court.\"\n\n\"Shall I sing once more before the emperor?\" asked the\nnightingale, who thought he was present.\n\n\"My excellent little nightingale,\" said the courtier, \"I have\nthe great pleasure of inviting you to a court festival this evening,\nwhere you will gain imperial favor by your charming song.\"\n\n\"My song sounds best in the green wood,\" said the bird; but\nstill she came willingly when she heard the emperor's wish.\n\nThe palace was elegantly decorated for the occasion. The walls and\nfloors of porcelain glittered in the light of a thousand lamps.\nBeautiful flowers, round which little bells were tied, stood in the\ncorridors: what with the running to and fro and the draught, these\nbells tinkled so loudly that no one could speak to be heard. In the\ncentre of the great hall, a golden perch had been fixed for the\nnightingale to sit on. The whole court was present, and the little\nkitchen-maid had received permission to stand by the door. She was not\ninstalled as a real court cook. All were in full dress, and every\neye was turned to the little gray bird when the emperor nodded to\nher to begin. The nightingale sang so sweetly that the tears came into\nthe emperor's eyes, and then rolled down his cheeks, as her song\nbecame still more touching and went to every one's heart. The\nemperor was so delighted that he declared the nightingale should\nhave his gold slipper to wear round her neck, but she declined the\nhonor with thanks: she had been sufficiently rewarded already. \"I have\nseen tears in an emperor's eyes,\" she said, \"that is my richest\nreward. An emperor's tears have wonderful power, and are quite\nsufficient honor for me;\" and then she sang again more enchantingly\nthan ever.\n\n\"That singing is a lovely gift;\" said the ladies of the court to\neach other; and then they took water in their mouths to make them\nutter the gurgling sounds of the nightingale when they spoke to any\none, so that they might fancy themselves nightingales. And the footmen\nand chambermaids also expressed their satisfaction, which is saying\na great deal, for they are very difficult to please. In fact the\nnightingale's visit was most successful. She was now to remain at\ncourt, to have her own cage, with liberty to go out twice a day, and\nonce during the night. Twelve servants were appointed to attend her on\nthese occasions, who each held her by a silken string fastened to\nher leg. There was certainly not much pleasure in this kind of flying.\n\nThe whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people\nmet, one said \"nightin,\" and the other said \"gale,\" and they\nunderstood what was meant, for nothing else was talked of. Eleven\npeddlers' children were named after her, but not of them could sing\na note.\n\nOne day the emperor received a large packet on which was written\n\"The Nightingale.\" \"Here is no doubt a new book about our celebrated\nbird,\" said the emperor. But instead of a book, it was a work of art\ncontained in a casket, an artificial nightingale made to look like a\nliving one, and covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.\nAs soon as the artificial bird was wound up, it could sing like the\nreal one, and could move its tail up and down, which sparkled with\nsilver and gold. Round its neck hung a piece of ribbon, on which was\nwritten \"The Emperor of China's nightingale is poor compared with that\nof the Emperor of Japan's.\"\n\n\"This is very beautiful,\" exclaimed all who saw it, and he who had\nbrought the artificial bird received the title of \"Imperial\nnightingale-bringer-in-chief.\"\n\n\"Now they must sing together,\" said the court, \"and what a duet it\nwill be.\" But they did not get on well, for the real nightingale\nsang in its own natural way, but the artificial bird sang only\nwaltzes.\n\n\"That is not a fault,\" said the music-master, \"it is quite perfect\nto my taste,\" so then it had to sing alone, and was as successful as\nthe real bird; besides, it was so much prettier to look at, for it\nsparkled like bracelets and breast-pins. Three and thirty times did it\nsing the same tunes without being tired; the people would gladly\nhave heard it again, but the emperor said the living nightingale ought\nto sing something. But where was she? No one had noticed her when\nshe flew out at the open window, back to her own green woods.\n\n\"What strange conduct,\" said the emperor, when her flight had been\ndiscovered; and all the courtiers blamed her, and said she was a\nvery ungrateful creature.\n\n\"But we have the best bird after all,\" said one, and then they\nwould have the bird sing again, although it was the thirty-fourth time\nthey had listened to the same piece, and even then they had not learnt\nit, for it was rather difficult. But the music-master praised the bird\nin the highest degree, and even asserted that it was better than a\nreal nightingale, not only in its dress and the beautiful diamonds,\nbut also in its musical power. \"For you must perceive, my chief lord\nand emperor, that with a real nightingale we can never tell what is\ngoing to be sung, but with this bird everything is settled. It can\nbe opened and explained, so that people may understand how the waltzes\nare formed, and why one note follows upon another.\"\n\n\"This is exactly what we think,\" they all replied, and then the\nmusic-master received permission to exhibit the bird to the people\non the following Sunday, and the emperor commanded that they should be\npresent to hear it sing. When they heard it they were like people\nintoxicated; however it must have been with drinking tea, which is\nquite a Chinese custom. They all said \"Oh!\" and held up their\nforefingers and nodded, but a poor fisherman, who had heard the real\nnightingale, said, \"it sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are\nall alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell\nwhat.\"\n\nAnd after this the real nightingale was banished from the\nempire, and the artificial bird placed on a silk cushion close to\nthe emperor's bed. The presents of gold and precious stones which\nhad been received with it were round the bird, and it was now advanced\nto the title of \"Little Imperial Toilet Singer,\" and to the rank of\nNo. 1 on the left hand; for the emperor considered the left side, on\nwhich the heart lies, as the most noble, and the heart of an emperor\nis in the same place as that of other people.\n\nThe music-master wrote a work, in twenty-five volumes, about the\nartificial bird, which was very learned and very long, and full of the\nmost difficult Chinese words; yet all the people said they had read\nit, and understood it, for fear of being thought stupid and having\ntheir bodies trampled upon.\n\nSo a year passed, and the emperor, the court, and all the other\nChinese knew every little turn in the artificial bird's song; and\nfor that same reason it pleased them better. They could sing with\nthe bird, which they often did. The street-boys sang, \"Zi-zi-zi,\ncluck, cluck, cluck,\" and the emperor himself could sing it also. It\nwas really most amusing.\n\nOne evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and\nthe emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird\nsounded \"whizz.\" Then a spring cracked. \"Whir-r-r-r\" went all the\nwheels, running round, and then the music stopped. The emperor\nimmediately sprang out of bed, and called for his physician; but\nwhat could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker; and, after a\ngreat deal of talking and examination, the bird was put into something\nlike order; but he said that it must be used very carefully, as the\nbarrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put in new ones\nwithout injuring the music. Now there was great sorrow, as the bird\ncould only be allowed to play once a year; and even that was dangerous\nfor the works inside it. Then the music-master made a little speech,\nfull of hard words, and declared that the bird was as good as ever;\nand, of course no one contradicted him.\n\nFive years passed, and then a real grief came upon the land. The\nChinese really were fond of their emperor, and he now lay so ill\nthat he was not expected to live. Already a new emperor had been\nchosen and the people who stood in the street asked the\nlord-in-waiting how the old emperor was; but he only said, \"Pooh!\" and\nshook his head.\n\nCold and pale lay the emperor in his royal bed; the whole court\nthought he was dead, and every one ran away to pay homage to his\nsuccessor. The chamberlains went out to have a talk on the matter, and\nthe ladies'-maids invited company to take coffee. Cloth had been\nlaid down on the halls and passages, so that not a footstep should\nbe heard, and all was silent and still. But the emperor was not yet\ndead, although he lay white and stiff on his gorgeous bed, with the\nlong velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open,\nand the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird. The\npoor emperor, finding he could scarcely breathe with a strange\nweight on his chest, opened his eyes, and saw Death sitting there.\nHe had put on the emperor's golden crown, and held in one hand his\nsword of state, and in the other his beautiful banner. All around\nthe bed and peeping through the long velvet curtains, were a number of\nstrange heads, some very ugly, and others lovely and gentle-looking.\nThese were the emperor's good and bad deeds, which stared him in the\nface now Death sat at his heart.\n\n\"Do you remember this?\" \"Do you recollect that?\" they asked one\nafter another, thus bringing to his remembrance circumstances that\nmade the perspiration stand on his brow.\n\n\"I know nothing about it,\" said the emperor. \"Music! music!\" he\ncried; \"the large Chinese drum! that I may not hear what they say.\"\nBut they still went on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they\nsaid. \"Music! music!\" shouted the emperor. \"You little precious golden\nbird, sing, pray sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I\nhave even hung my golden slipper round your neck. Sing! sing!\" But the\nbird remained silent. There was no one to wind it up, and therefore it\ncould not sing a note.\n\nDeath continued to stare at the emperor with his cold, hollow\neyes, and the room was fearfully still. Suddenly there came through\nthe open window the sound of sweet music. Outside, on the bough of a\ntree, sat the living nightingale. She had heard of the emperor's\nillness, and was therefore come to sing to him of hope and trust.\nAnd as she sung, the shadows grew paler and paler; the blood in the\nemperor's veins flowed more rapidly, and gave life to his weak\nlimbs; and even Death himself listened, and said, \"Go on, little\nnightingale, go on.\"\n\n\"Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich\nbanner? and will you give me the emperor's crown?\" said the bird.\n\nSo Death gave up each of these treasures for a song; and the\nnightingale continued her singing. She sung of the quiet churchyard,\nwhere the white roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume\non the breeze, and the fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the\nmourners' tears. Then Death longed to go and see his garden, and\nfloated out through the window in the form of a cold, white mist.\n\n\"Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I\nbanished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the\nevil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your\nsweet song. How can I reward you?\"\n\n\"You have already rewarded me,\" said the nightingale. \"I shall\nnever forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to\nyou. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now\nsleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you again.\"\n\nAnd as she sung, the emperor fell into a sweet sleep; and how mild\nand refreshing that slumber was! When he awoke, strengthened and\nrestored, the sun shone brightly through the window; but not one of\nhis servants had returned--they all believed he was dead; only the\nnightingale still sat beside him, and sang.\n\n\"You must always remain with me,\" said the emperor. \"You shall\nsing only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird\ninto a thousand pieces.\"\n\n\"No; do not do that,\" replied the nightingale; \"the bird did\nvery well as long as it could. Keep it here still. I cannot live in\nthe palace, and build my nest; but let me come when I like. I will sit\non a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you, so\nthat you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to\nyou of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and\nthe evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far\nfrom you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant's\ncot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something\nholy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you; but you\nmust promise me one thing.\"\n\n\"Everything,\" said the emperor, who, having dressed himself in his\nimperial robes, stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword\npressed to his heart.\n\n\"I only ask one thing,\" she replied; \"let no one know that you\nhave a little bird who tells you everything. It will be best to\nconceal it.\" So saying, the nightingale flew away.\n\nThe servants now came in to look after the dead emperor; when, lo!\nthere he stood, and, to their astonishment, said, \"Good morning.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT\n\n\"That was a terrible affair!\" said a hen, and in a quarter of the\ntown, too, where it had not taken place. \"That was a terrible affair\nin a hen-roost. I cannot sleep alone to-night. It is a good thing that\nmany of us sit on the roost together.\" And then she told a story\nthat made the feathers on the other hens bristle up, and the cock's\ncomb fall. There was no doubt about it.\n\nBut we will begin at the beginning, and that is to be found in a\nhen-roost in another part of the town. The sun was setting, and the\nfowls were flying on to their roost; one hen, with white feathers\nand short legs, used to lay her eggs according to the regulations, and\nwas, as a hen, respectable in every way. As she was flying upon the\nroost, she plucked herself with her beak, and a little feather came\nout.\n\n\"There it goes,\" she said; \"the more I pluck, the more beautiful\ndo I get.\" She said this merrily, for she was the best of the hens,\nand, moreover, as had been said, very respectable. With that she\nwent to sleep.\n\nIt was dark all around, and hen sat close to hen, but the one\nwho sat nearest to her merry neighbour did not sleep. She had heard\nand yet not heard, as we are often obliged to do in this world, in\norder to live at peace; but she could not keep it from her neighbour\non the other side any longer. \"Did you hear what was said? I mention\nno names, but there is a hen here who intends to pluck herself in\norder to look well. If I were a cock, I should despise her.\"\n\nJust over the fowls sat the owl, with father owl and the little\nowls. The family has sharp ears, and they all heard every word that\ntheir neighbour had said. They rolled their eyes, and mother owl,\nbeating her wings, said: \"Don't listen to her! But I suppose you heard\nwhat was said? I heard it with my own ears, and one has to hear a\ngreat deal before they fall off. There is one among the fowls who\nhas so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen that she plucks out all\nher feathers and lets the cock see it.\"\n\n\"Prenez garde aux enfants!\" said father owl; \"children should\nnot hear such things.\"\n\n\"But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an\nestimable owl to talk to.\" And with that she flew away.\n\n\"Too-whoo! Too-whoo!\" they both hooted into the neighbour's\ndove-cot to the doves inside. \"Have you heard? Have you heard?\nToo-whoo! There is a hen who has plucked out all her feathers for\nthe sake of the cock; she will freeze to death, if she is not frozen\nalready. Too-whoo!\"\n\n\"Where? where?\" cooed the doves.\n\n\"In the neighbour's yard. I have as good as seen it myself. It\nis almost unbecoming to tell the story, but there is no doubt about\nit.\"\n\n\"Believe every word of what we tell you,\" said the doves, and\ncooed down into their poultry-yard. \"There is a hen--nay, some say\nthat there are two--who have plucked out all their feathers, in\norder not to look like the others, and to attract the attention of the\ncock. It is a dangerous game, for one can easily catch cold and die\nfrom fever, and both of these are dead already.\"\n\n\"Wake up! wake up!\" crowed the cock, and flew upon his board.\nSleep was still in his eyes, but yet he crowed out: \"Three hens have\ndied of their unfortunate love for a cock. They had plucked out all\ntheir feathers. It is a horrible story: I will not keep it to\nmyself, but let it go farther.\"\n\n\"Let it go farther,\" shrieked the bats, and the hens clucked and\nthe cocks crowed, \"Let it go farther! Let it go farther!\" In this\nway the story travelled from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last\ncame back to the place from which it had really started.\n\n\"Five hens,\" it now ran, \"have plucked out all their feathers to\nshow which of them had grown leanest for love of the cock, and then\nthey all pecked at each other till the blood ran down and they fell\ndown dead, to the derision and shame of their family, and to the great\nloss of their owner.\"\n\nThe hen who had lost the loose little feather naturally did not\nrecognise her own story, and being a respectable hen, said: \"I despise\nthose fowls; but there are more of that kind. Such things ought not to\nbe concealed, and I will do my best to get the story into the\npapers, so that it becomes known throughout the land; the hens have\nrichly deserved it, and their family too.\"\n\nIt got into the papers, it was printed; and there is no doubt\nabout it, one little feather may easily grow into five hens.\n\n\n\n\nIN THE NURSERY\n\nFather, and mother, and brothers, and sisters, were gone to the\nplay; only little Anna and her grandpapa were left at home.\n\n\"We'll have a play too,\" he said, \"and it may begin immediately.\"\n\n\"But we have no theatre,\" cried little Anna, \"and we have no one\nto act for us; my old doll cannot, for she is a fright, and my new one\ncannot, for she must not rumple her new clothes.\"\n\n\"One can always get actors if one makes use of what one has,\"\nobserved grandpapa.\n\n\"Now we'll go into the theatre. Here we will put up a book,\nthere another, and there a third, in a sloping row. Now three on the\nother side; so, now we have the side scenes. The old box that lies\nyonder may be the back stairs; and we'll lay the flooring on top of\nit. The stage represents a room, as every one may see. Now we want the\nactors. Let us see what we can find in the plaything-box. First the\npersonages, and then we will get the play ready. One after the\nother; that will be capital! Here's a pipe-head, and yonder an odd\nglove; they will do very well for father and daughter.\"\n\n\"But those are only two characters,\" said little Anna. \"Here's\nmy brother's old waistcoat--could not that play in our piece, too?\"\n\n\"It's big enough, certainly,\" replied grandpapa. \"It shall be\nthe lover. There's nothing in the pockets, and that's very\ninteresting, for that's half of an unfortunate attachment. And here we\nhave the nut-cracker's boots, with spurs to them. Row, dow, dow! how\nthey can stamp and strut! They shall represent the unwelcome wooer,\nwhom the lady does not like. What kind of a play will you have now?\nShall it be a tragedy, or a domestic drama?\"\n\n\"A domestic drama, please,\" said little Anna, \"for the others\nare so fond of that. Do you know one?\"\n\n\"I know a hundred,\" said grandpapa. \"Those that are most in\nfavor are from the French, but they are not good for little girls.\nIn the meantime, we may take one of the prettiest, for inside\nthey're all very much alike. Now I shake the pen! Cock-a-lorum! So\nnow, here's the play, brin-bran-span new! Now listen to the\nplay-bill.\"\n\nAnd grandpapa took a newspaper, and read as if he were reading\nfrom it:\n\n                 THE PIPE-HEAD AND THE GOOD HEAD\n                    A Family Drama in One Act\n                            CHARACTERS\n\n      MR. PIPE-HEAD, a father.           MR. WAISTCOAT, a lover.\n      MISS GLOVE, a daughter.            MR. DE BOOTS, a suitor.\n\n\n\"And now we're going to begin. The curtain rises. We have no\ncurtain, so it has risen already. All the characters are there, and so\nwe have them at hand. Now I speak as Papa Pipe-head! He's angry\nto-day. One can see that he's a colored meerschaum.\n\n\"'Snik, snak, snurre, bassellurre! I'm master of this house! I'm\nthe father of my daughter! Will you hear what I have to say? Mr. de\nBoots is a person in whom one may see one's face; his upper part is of\nmorocco, and he has spurs into the bargain. Snikke, snakke, snak! He\nshall have my daughter!\"\n\n\"Now listen to what the Waistcoat says, little Anna,\" said\ngrandpapa. \"Now the Waistcoat's speaking. The Waistcoat has a\nlaydown collar, and is very modest; but he knows his own value, and\nhas quite a right to say what he says:\n\n\"'I haven't a spot on me! Goodness of material ought to be\nappreciated. I am of real silk, and have strings to me.'\n\n\"'--On the wedding day, but no longer; you don't keep your color\nin the wash.' This is Mr. Pipe-head who is speaking. 'Mr. de Boots\nis water-tight, of strong leather, and yet very delicate; he can\ncreak, and clank with his spurs, and has an Italian physiognomy-'\"\n\n\"But they ought to speak in verses,\" said Anna, \"for I've heard\nthat's the most charming way of all.\"\n\n\"They can do that too,\" replied grandpapa; \"and if the public\ndemands it, they will talk in that way. Just look at little Miss\nGlove, how she's pointing her fingers!\n\n  \"'Could I but have my love,\n    Who then so happy as Glove!\n             Ah!\n    If I from him must part,\n    I'm sure 'twill break my heart!'\n             'Bah!'\n\nThe last word was spoken by Mr. Pipe-head; and now it's Mr.\nWaistcoat's turn:\n\n  \"'O Glove, my own dear,\n    Though it cost thee a tear,\n               Thou must be mine,\n    For Holger Danske has sworn it!'\n\n\n\"Mr. de Boots, hearing this, kicks up, jingles his spurs, and\nknocks down three of the side-scenes.\"\n\n\"That's exceedingly charming!\" cried little Anna.\n\n\"Silence! silence!\" said grandpapa. \"Silent approbation will\nshow that you are the educated public in the stalls. Now Miss Glove\nsings her great song with startling effects:\n\n  \"'I can't see, heigho!\n    And therefore I'll crow!\n  Kikkeriki, in the lofty hall!'\n\n\n\"Now comes the exciting part, little Anna. This is the most\nimportant in all the play. Mr. Waistcoat undoes himself, and addresses\nhis speech to you, that you may applaud; but leave it alone,--that's\nconsidered more genteel.\n\n\"'I am driven to extremities! Take care of yourself! Now comes the\nplot! You are the Pipe-head, and I am the good head--snap! there you\ngo!\"\n\n\"Do you notice this, little Anna?\" asked grandpapa. \"That's a most\ncharming comedy. Mr. Waistcoat seized the old Pipe-head and put him in\nhis pocket; there he lies, and the Waistcoat says:\n\n\"'You are in my pocket; you can't come out till you promise to\nunite me to your daughter Glove on the left. I hold out my right\nhand.'\"\n\n\"That's awfully pretty,\" said little Anna.\n\n\"And now the old Pipe-head replies:\n\n  \"'Though I'm all ear,\n    Very stupid I appear:\n  Where's my humor? Gone, I fear,\n  And I feel my hollow stick's not here,\n    Ah! never, my dear,\n    Did I feel so queer.\n    Oh! pray let me out,\n  And like a lamb led to slaughter\n    I'll betroth you, no doubt,\n         To my daughter.'\"\n\n\n\"Is the play over already?\" asked little Anna.\n\n\"By no means,\" replied grandpapa. \"It's only all over with Mr.\nde Boots. Now the lovers kneel down, and one of them sings:\n\n  \"'Father!'\n\nand the other,\n\n  'Come, do as you ought to do,--\n  Bless your son and daughter.'\n\nAnd they receive his blessing, and celebrate their wedding, and all\nthe pieces of furniture sing in chorus,\n\n  \"'Klink! clanks!\n    A thousand thanks;\n  And now the play is over!'\n\n\n\"And now we'll applaud,\" said grandpapa. \"We'll call them all out,\nand the pieces of furniture too, for they are of mahogany.\"\n\n\"And is not our play just as good as those which the others have\nin the real theatre?\"\n\n\"Our play is much better,\" said grandpapa. \"It is shorter, the\nperformers are natural, and it has passed away the interval before\ntea-time.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP\n\nThere is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is\ncalled \"Hysken\" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is\nvery uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the\nGermans, for it would then be called \"Hauschen,\" not \"Hysken.\"\n\"Hauschen,\" means a little house; and for many years it consisted only\nof a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden\nbooths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a\nlittle higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or\nbladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in\nevery house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our\ngrandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days\nas \"olden times;\" indeed, many centuries have passed since then.\n\nThe rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in\nCopenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their\nclerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and\nsold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were\nmany sorts--from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick--and quantities of all\nsorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper;\nindeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it\nhappened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their\nnickname of \"pepper gentry.\" It had been made a condition with these\nclerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old\nhad to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and\neven to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of\nthem were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and\neccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a\ncertain age, are called, in Denmark, \"pepper gentry;\" and this must be\nremembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These\n\"pepper gentlemen,\" or, as they are called in England, \"old\nbachelors,\" are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on\ntheir nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The\nboys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:--\n\n  \"Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,\n    Such a nightcap was never seen;\n    Who would think it was ever clean?\n  Go to sleep, it will do you good.\"\n\n\nSo they sing about the \"pepper gentleman;\" so do they make sport\nof the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really\nknow nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or\nlaugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.\n\nIn olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers\nwould stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in\nunfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths\nleaning against each other were so close together, that in the\nsummer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth\nto another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron,\nand ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a\nrule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys;\nbut they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men\nrepresented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat\nand waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of\nour great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the \"pepper gentlemen\"\nhad no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of\nthem would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken\nas he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or\non holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed\nhats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his.\nThe woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close\njacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over\nit; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the\nclerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon\nin their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to\nthemselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.\n\nAfter this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and\nfestivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a\nkind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to\nwhich he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two,\nnightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the\nclerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a\nlath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers,\nbushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair,\nwhich did not look handsome, but made his appearance very\nremarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly\nhis home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from\nThuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg.\nOld Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the\nmore.\n\nThe old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each\none remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the\nevening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only\na faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the\nlittle window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally\non his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be\nmoving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in\nmany things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a\nstranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you\nunless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night\noutside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted\nand gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very\nsmall one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of\nthe Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the\nwater against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be\nheard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find\nsomething to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things\nto be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to\nbe polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and\npatched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,--his nightcap,\nwhich he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had\nonly to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon,\nhowever, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was\nproperly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at\nlast pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other\nside. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether\nevery coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop\nbelow. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to\nsomething, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed,\ncreep down the ladder--for it could scarcely be called a flight of\nstairs--and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so\nhe had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half\nway back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not\nproperly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And\nwhen at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth\nchattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him,\npull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from\ntrade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was\nscarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories\nraise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart\nwith painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking\neyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like\npearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the\nfloor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken.\nSometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life\nwhich had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his\nnightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the\nsource of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The\npictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances\nthey represented had occurred; very often the most painful would\ncome together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they\nhad always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.\n\nThe beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be\nvery beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony\nwere the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and\nvenerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial castle,\nwhere the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the rocks;\nsweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in all the\nland of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a\nglittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play--a\nboy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear,\nblue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was himself.\nThe little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was clever and\ncourageous; she was the mayor's daughter, Molly. The children were\nplaying with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard the pips\nrattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them took half.\nThey also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the little\ngirl proposed should be placed in the ground.\n\n\"You will see what will come out,\" she said; \"something you\ndon't expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly.\"\nThen they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both\nvery busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with\nhis finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then\nthey both covered it over with earth.\n\n\"Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken\nroot,\" said Molly; \"no one ever should do that. I did so with my\nflowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I\ndidn't know any better then, and the flowers all died.\"\n\nLittle Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the\nwhole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but\nblack earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm\nagain, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the pot.\n\n\"They are Molly and me,\" said the boy. \"How wonderful they are,\nand so beautiful!\"\n\nVery soon a third leaf made its appearance.\n\n\"Who does that stand for?\" thought he, and then came another and\nanother. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became\nquite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to\nold Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and\ndisappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the\nold man.\n\nIn the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony\nmountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself\nabove the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits.\nIt is called the \"Venus Mountain,\" and the story goes that the \"Lady\nVenus,\" one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also\ncalled \"Lady Halle,\" as every child round Eisenach well knows. She\nit was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from\nthe circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.\n\nLittle Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day\nMolly said, \"Do you dare to knock and say, 'Lady Halle, Lady Halle,\nopen the door: Tannhauser is here!'\" But Anthony did not dare.\nMolly, however, did, though she only said the words, \"Lady Halle, Lady\nHalle,\" loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her\nbreath that Anthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and\nyet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did sometimes when\nshe was in the garden with a number of other little girls; they\nwould all stand round him together, and want to kiss him, because he\ndid not like to be kissed, and pushed them away. Then Molly was the\nonly one who dared to resist him. \"I may kiss him,\" she would say\nproudly, as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain of her\npower over Anthony, for he would submit quietly and think nothing of\nit. Molly was very charming, but rather bold; and how she did tease!\n\nThey said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a\ntempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the\npious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized\nin so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty\nand more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by\nsilver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.\n\nThe apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year\nafter year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted\ninto the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And\nthere it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand\nthe cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it\nseemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the\ncold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for\nMolly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after\nthis grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh\nas an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for\nlong. All things change; Molly's father left his old home, and Molly\nwent with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a\nfew hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so\nfar eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the\nborders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears\nall flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy.\nMolly had told him that she loved him--loved him more than all the\nsplendors of Weimar.\n\nOne, two, three years went by, and during the whole time he\nreceived only two letters. One came by the carrier, and the other a\ntraveller brought. The way was very long and difficult, with many\nturnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had\nAnthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda, and Anthony\nhad thought the story applied to him, although Tristan means born in\nsorrow, which Anthony certainly was not; nor was it likely he would\never say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda, \"She has forgotten me.\"\nBut in truth, Isolda had not forgotten him, her faithful friend; and\nwhen both were laid in their graves, one, on each side of the\nchurch, the linden-trees that grew by each grave spread over the roof,\nand, bending towards each other, mingled their blossoms together.\nAnthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never\nfeared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly, as he passed the\nspot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter,\ncalled the \"Willow bird,\" beginning--\n\n  \"Under the linden-trees,\n    Out on the heath.\"\n\n\nOne stanza pleased him exceedingly--\n\n  \"Through the forest, and in the vale,\n  Sweetly warbles the nightingale.\n\n\nThis song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on\na moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow\nway, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive\nunexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty\nwelcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where\noverflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed\nwere provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had\nexpected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own\nfeelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a\nperson can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one\nof them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse\nwith our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know\nnothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one\nanother, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something\nof this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.\n\n\"I am a straightforward girl,\" she said, \"and I will tell you\nmyself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children\ntogether; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We\ncannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force\nof custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you\nwhen I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes\nin my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for\nanother man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to\nthis. Farewell, Anthony.\"\n\nAnthony also said, \"Farewell.\" Not a tear came into his eye; he\nfelt he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike\ntake the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss\neither; and Anthony's kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had\nonce been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was\nback again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely\nruined.\n\n\"What matters it?\" said he; \"I am ruined also. I will destroy\neverything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus,\nthe heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by\nthe roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit.\"\n\nThe apple-tree was not broken down; for Anthony himself was struck\nwith a fever, which caused him to break down, and confined him to\nhis bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it?\nA medicine was offered to him, which he was obliged to take: a\nbitter remedy, at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike\nshuddered. Anthony's father lost all his property, and, from being\nknown as one of the richest merchants, he became very poor. Dark days,\nheavy trials, with poverty at the door, came rolling into the house\nupon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived\nAnthony's father of his strength, so that he had something else to\nthink of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly.\nHe had to take his father's place, to give orders, to act with energy,\nto help, and, at last, to go out into the world and earn his bread.\nAnthony went to Bremen, and there he learnt what poverty and hard\nliving really were. These things often harden the character, but\nsometimes soften the heart, even too much.\n\nHow different the world, and the people in it, appeared to Anthony\nnow, to what he had thought in his childhood! What to him were the\nminstrel's songs? An echo of the past, sounds long vanished. At\ntimes he would think in this way; yet again and again the songs\nwould sound in his soul, and his heart become gentle and pious.\n\n\"God's will is the best,\" he would then say. \"It was well that I\nwas not allowed to keep my power over Molly's heart, and that she\ndid not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune\nhas deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my\ncircumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a\nmerciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could\nnot help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against\nher.\"\n\nYears passed by: Anthony's father died, and strangers lived in the\nold house. He had seen it once again since then. His rich master\nsent him journeys on business, and on one occasion his way led him\nto his native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg castle stood\nunchanged on the rock where the monk and the nun were hewn out of\nthe stone. The great oaks formed an outline to the scene which he so\nwell remembered in his childhood. The Venus mountain stood out gray\nand bare, overshadowing the valley beneath. He would have been glad to\ncall out \"Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain\nremain here always in my native soil.\" That was a sinful thought,\nand he offered a prayer to drive it away. Then a little bird in the\nthicket sang out clearly, and old Anthony thought of the minstrel's\nsong. How much came back to his remembrance as he looked through the\ntears once more on his native town! The old house was still standing\nas in olden times, but the garden had been greatly altered; a\npathway led through a portion of the ground, and outside the garden,\nand beyond the path, stood the old apple-tree, which he had not broken\ndown, although he talked of doing so in his trouble. The sun still\nthrew its rays upon the tree, and the refreshing dew fell upon it as\nof old; and it was so overloaded with fruit that the branches bent\ntowards the earth with the weight. \"That flourishes still,\" said he,\nas he gazed. One of the branches of the tree had, however, been\nbroken: mischievous hands must have done this in passing, for the tree\nnow stood in a public thoroughfare. \"The blossoms are often\nplucked,\" said Anthony; \"the fruit is stolen and the branches broken\nwithout a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might\nbe said of a tree, as it has been said of some men--it was not\npredicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly\nbegan the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and\nforgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public\nroad. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It\ncertainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the\nnumber of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it\nwas cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be\nover.\"\n\nSuch were Anthony's thoughts as he stood under the tree, and\nduring many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden\nhouse in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the\nrich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition\nthat he should never marry. \"Marry! ha, ha!\" and he laughed bitterly\nto himself at the thought.\n\nWinter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a\nsnowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it\nhappened that Anthony's neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did\nnot notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that\nhe had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in\nsuch weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy\ndays, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark\nnights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not\nleft his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had\nfor some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken\nby all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the\nwater jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone.\nIt was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In\nthe little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it\nwere by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not\nsee, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there\nshould be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his\neyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears\nto shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his\nmind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were\nlying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt\nslight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one\ntended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from\nstarvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who once wandered on the earth, the\nsaint of his home and his childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia,\nthat highly esteemed lady who visited the poorest villages, bringing\nhope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection of her pious\ndeeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as\nshe went about speaking words of comfort, binding up the wounds of the\nafflicted and feeding the hungry, although often blamed for it by\nher stern husband. He remembered a story told of her, that on one\noccasion, when she was carrying a basket full of wine and\nprovisions, her husband, who had watched her footsteps, stepped\nforward and asked her angrily what she carried in her basket,\nwhereupon, with fear and trembling, she answered, \"Roses, which I have\nplucked from the garden.\" Then he tore away the cloth which covered\nthe basket, and what could equal the surprise of the pious woman, to\nfind that by a miracle, everything in her basket--the wine, the\nbread--had all been changed into roses.\n\nIn this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind\nof Anthony. She was as a living reality in his little dwelling in\nthe Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might look into her\ngentle eyes, while everything around him changed from its look of\npoverty and want, to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread\nthrough the room, mingled with the sweet smell of apples. He saw the\nbranches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It was the tree which\nhe and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree\nfell upon him and cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips\nthey seemed like refreshing bread and wine; and as they rested on\nhis breast, a peaceful calm stole over him, and he felt inclined to\nsleep. \"I shall sleep now,\" he whispered to himself. \"Sleep will do me\ngood. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well.\nGlorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears\nbefore me in heavenly beauty.\" And he slept.\n\nThe following day, the third day during which his house had been\nclosed, the snow-storm ceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over\nto the house in which old Anthony lived, for he had not yet showed\nhimself. There he lay stretched on his bed, dead, with his old\nnightcap tightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap, however,\nwas not placed on his head in his coffin; he had a clean white one\non then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What had become of\nthose wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as\nthese cannot be washed out, even when the nightcap is forgotten. The\nold thoughts and dreams of a bachelor's nightcap still remain. Never\nwish for such a nightcap. It would make your forehead hot, cause\nyour pulse to beat with agitation, and conjure up dreams which would\nappear realities.\n\nThe first who wore old Anthony's cap felt the truth of this,\nthough it was half a century afterwards. That man was the mayor\nhimself, who had already made a comfortable home for his wife and\neleven children, by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he\ndreamed of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and of dark days.\n\"Hallo! how the nightcap burns!\" he exclaimed, as he tore it from\nhis bead. Then a pearl rolled out, and then another, and another,\nand they glittered and sounded as they fell. \"What can this be? Is\nit paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes?\" They were the tears\nwhich old Anthony had shed half a century before.\n\nTo every one who afterwards put this cap on his head, came visions\nand dreams which agitated him not a little. His own history was\nchanged into that of Anthony till it became quite a story, and many\nstories might be made by others, so we will leave them to relate their\nown. We have told the first; and our last word is, don't wish for a\n\"bachelor's nightcap.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD CHURCH BELL\n\n(WRITTEN FOR THE SCHILLER ALBUM)\n\nIn the country of Wurtemburg, in Germany, where the acacias grow\nby the public road, where the apple-trees and the pear-trees in autumn\nbend to the earth with the weight of the precious fruit, lies the\nlittle town of Marbach. As is often the case with many of these towns,\nit is charmingly situated on the banks of the river Neckar, which\nrushes rapidly by, passing villages, old knights' castles, and green\nvineyards, till its waters mingle with those of the stately Rhine.\nIt was late in the autumn; the vine-leaves still hung upon the\nbranches of the vines, but they were already tinted with red and gold;\nheavy showers fell on the surrounding country, and the cold autumn\nwind blew sharp and strong. It was not at all pleasant weather for the\npoor. The days grew shorter and more gloomy, and, dark as it was out\nof doors in the open air, it was still darker within the small,\nold-fashioned houses of the village. The gable end of one of these\nhouses faced the street, and with its small, narrow windows, presented\na very mean appearance. The family who dwelt in it were also very poor\nand humble, but they treasured the fear of God in their innermost\nhearts. And now He was about to send them a child. It was the hour\nof the mother's sorrow, when there pealed forth from the church\ntower the sound of festive bells. In that solemn hour the sweet and\njoyous chiming filled the hearts of those in the humble dwelling\nwith thankfulness and trust; and when, amidst these joyous sounds, a\nlittle son was born to them, the words of prayer and praise arose from\ntheir overflowing hearts, and their happiness seemed to ring out\nover town and country in the liquid tones of the church bells'\nchime. The little one, with its bright eyes and golden hair, had\nbeen welcomed joyously on that dark November day. Its parents kissed\nit lovingly, and the father wrote these words in the Bible, \"On the\ntenth of November, 1759, God sent us a son.\" And a short time after,\nwhen the child had been baptized, the names he had received were\nadded, \"John Christopher Frederick.\"\n\nAnd what became of the little lad?--the poor boy of the humble\ntown of Marbach? Ah, indeed, there was no one who thought or supposed,\nnot even the old church bell which had been the first to sound and\nchime for him, that he would be the first to sing the beautiful song\nof \"The Bell.\" The boy grew apace, and the world advanced with him.\n\nWhile he was yet a child, his parents removed from Marbach, and\nwent to reside in another town; but their dearest friends remained\nbehind at Marbach, and therefore sometimes the mother and her son\nwould start on a fine day to pay a visit to the little town. The boy\nwas at this time about six years old, and already knew a great many\nstories out of the Bible, and several religious psalms. While seated\nin the evening on his little cane-chair, he had often heard his father\nread from Gellert's fables, and sometimes from Klopstock's grand poem,\n\"The Messiah.\" He and his sister, two years older than himself, had\noften wept scalding tears over the story of Him who suffered death\non the cross for us all.\n\nOn his first visit to Marbach, the town appeared to have changed\nbut very little, and it was not far enough away to be forgotten. The\nhouse, with its pointed gable, narrow windows, overhanging walls and\nstories, projecting one beyond another, looked just the same as in\nformer times. But in the churchyard there were several new graves; and\nthere also, in the grass, close by the wall, stood the old church\nbell! It had been taken down from its high position, in consequence of\na crack in the metal which prevented it from ever chiming again, and a\nnew bell now occupied its place. The mother and son were walking in\nthe churchyard when they discovered the old bell, and they stood still\nto look at it. Then the mother reminded her little boy of what a\nuseful bell this had been for many hundred years. It had chimed for\nweddings and for christenings; it had tolled for funerals, and to give\nthe alarm in case of fire. With every event in the life of man the\nbell had made its voice heard. His mother also told him how the\nchiming of that old bell had once filled her heart with joy and\nconfidence, and that in the midst of the sweet tones her child had\nbeen given to her. And the boy gazed on the large, old bell with the\ndeepest interest. He bowed his head over it and kissed it, old, thrown\naway, and cracked as it was, and standing there amidst the grass and\nnettles. The boy never forgot what his mother told him, and the\ntones of the old bell reverberated in his heart till he reached\nmanhood. In such sweet remembrance was the old bell cherished by the\nboy, who grew up in poverty to be tall and slender, with a freckled\ncomplexion and hair almost red; but his eyes were clear and blue as\nthe deep sea, and what was his career to be? His career was to be\ngood, and his future life enviable. We find him taking high honors\nat the military school in the division commanded by the member of a\nfamily high in position, and this was an honor, that is to say, good\nluck. He wore gaiters, stiff collars, and powdered hair, and by this\nhe was recognized; and, indeed, he might be known by the word of\ncommand--\"March! halt! front!\"\n\nThe old church bell had long been quite forgotten, and no one\nimagined it would ever again be sent to the melting furnace to make it\nas it was before. No one could possibly have foretold this. Equally\nimpossible would it have been to believe that the tones of the old\nbell still echoed in the heart of the boy from Marbach; or that one\nday they would ring out loud enough and strong enough to be heard\nall over the world. They had already been heard in the narrow space\nbehind the school-wall, even above the deafening sounds of \"March!\nhalt! front!\" They had chimed so loudly in the heart of the youngster,\nthat he had sung them to his companions, and their tones resounded\nto the very borders of the country. He was not a free scholar in the\nmilitary school, neither was he provided with clothes or food. But\nhe had his number, and his own peg; for everything here was ordered\nlike clockwork, which we all know is of the greatest utility--people\nget on so much better together when their position and duties are\nunderstood. It is by pressure that a jewel is stamped. The pressure of\nregularity and discipline here stamped the jewel, which in the\nfuture the world so well knew.\n\nIn the chief town of the province a great festival was being\ncelebrated. The light streamed forth from thousands of lamps, and\nthe rockets shot upwards towards the sky, filling the air with showers\nof colored fiery sparks. A record of this bright display will live\nin the memory of man, for through it the pupil in the military\nschool was in tears and sorrow. He had dared to attempt to reach\nforeign territories unnoticed, and must therefore give up\nfatherland, mother, his dearest friends, all, or sink down into the\nstream of common life. The old church bell had still some comfort;\nit stood in the shelter of the church wall in Marbach, once so\nelevated, now quite forgotten. The wind roared around it, and could\nhave readily related the story of its origin and of its sweet\nchimes, and the wind could also tell of him to whom he had brought\nfresh air when, in the woods of a neighboring country, he had sunk\ndown exhausted with fatigue, with no other worldly possessions than\nhope for the future, and a written leaf from \"Fiesco.\" The wind\ncould have told that his only protector was an artist, who, by reading\neach leaf to him, made it plain; and that they amused themselves by\nplaying at nine-pins together. The wind could also describe the pale\nfugitive, who, for weeks and months, lay in a wretched little\nroad-side inn, where the landlord got drunk and raved, and where the\nmerry-makers had it all their own way. And he, the pale fugitive, sang\nof the ideal.\n\nFor many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer to\nenable it to endure trial and temptation; yet, amidst it all, would\nthe minstrel sing. Dark days and cold nights also passed over the\nold bell, and it noticed them not; but the bell in the man's heart\nfelt it to be a gloomy time. What would become of this young man,\nand what would become of the old bell?\n\nThe old bell was, after a time, carried away to a greater distance\nthan any one, even the warder in the bell tower, ever imagined; and\nthe bell in the breast of the young man was heard in countries where\nhis feet had never wandered. The tones went forth over the wide\nocean to every part of the round world.\n\nWe will now follow the career of the old bell. It was, as we\nhave said, carried far away from Marbach and sold as old copper;\nthen sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace. And then what\nhappened?\n\nIn the royal city of Bavaria, many years after the bell had been\nremoved from the tower and melted down, some metal was required for\na monument in honor of one of the most celebrated characters which a\nGerman people or a German land could produce. And now we see how\nwonderfully things are ordered. Strange things sometimes happen in\nthis world.\n\nIn Denmark, in one of those green islands where the foliage of the\nbeech-woods rustles in the wind, and where many Huns' graves may be\nseen, was another poor boy born. He wore wooden shoes, and when his\nfather worked in a ship-yard, the boy, wrapped up in an old worn-out\nshawl, carried his dinner to him every day. This poor child was now\nthe pride of his country; for the sculptured marble, the work of his\nhands, had astonished the world.[1] To him was offered the honor of\nforming from the clay, a model of the figure of him whose name,\n\"John Christopher Frederick,\" had been written by his father in the\nBible. The bust was cast in bronze, and part of the metal used for\nthis purpose was the old church bell, whose tones had died away from\nthe memory of those at home and elsewhere. The metal, glowing with\nheat, flowed into the mould, and formed the head and bust of the\nstatue which was unveiled in the square in front of the old castle.\nThe statue represented in living, breathing reality, the form of him\nwho was born in poverty, the boy from Marbach, the pupil of the\nmilitary school, the fugitive who struggled against poverty and\noppression, from the outer world; Germany's great and immortal poet,\nwho sung of Switzerland's deliverer, William Tell, and of the\nheaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.\n\nIt was a beautiful sunny day; flags were waving from tower and\nroof in royal Stuttgart, and the church bells were ringing a joyous\npeal. One bell was silent; but it was illuminated by the bright\nsunshine which streamed from the head and bust of the renowned figure,\nof which it formed a part. On this day, just one hundred years had\npassed since the day on which the chiming of the old church bell at\nMarbach had filled the mother's heart with trust and joy--the day on\nwhich her child was born in poverty, and in a humble home; the same\nwho, in after-years, became rich, became the noble woman-hearted poet,\na blessing to the world--the glorious, the sublime, the immortal bard,\nJohn Christoper Frederick Schiller!\n\n\n[1] The Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen.\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD GRAVE-STONE\n\nIn a house, with a large courtyard, in a provincial town, at\nthat time of the year in which people say the evenings are growing\nlonger, a family circle were gathered together at their old home. A\nlamp burned on the table, although the weather was mild and warm,\nand the long curtains hung down before the open windows, and without\nthe moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.\n\nBut they were not talking of the moon, but of a large, old stone\nthat lay below in the courtyard not very far from the kitchen door.\nThe maids often laid the clean copper saucepans and kitchen vessels on\nthis stone, that they might dry in the sun, and the children were fond\nof playing on it. It was, in fact, an old grave-stone.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the master of the house, \"I believe the stone came\nfrom the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled\ndown, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold. My\nfather bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used for\npaving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and laid in the\ncourtyard.\"\n\n\"Any one can see that it is a grave-stone,\" said the eldest of the\nchildren; \"the representation of an hour-glass and part of the\nfigure of an angel can still be traced, but the inscription beneath is\nquite worn out, excepting the name 'Preben,' and a large 'S' close\nby it, and a little farther down the name of 'Martha' can be easily\nread. But nothing more, and even that cannot be seen unless it has\nbeen raining, or when we have washed the stone.\"\n\n\"Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben\nSchwane and his wife.\"\n\nThe old man who said this looked old enough to be the\ngrandfather of all present in the room.\n\n\"Yes,\" he continued, \"these people were among the last who were\nburied in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy\nold couple, I can remember them well in the days of my boyhood.\nEvery one knew them, and they were esteemed by all. They were the\noldest residents in the town, and people said they possessed a ton\nof gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed, in the coarsest\nstuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben and Martha\nwere a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the bench, at the\ntop of the steep stone steps, in front of their house, with the\nbranches of the linden-tree waving above them, and nodded in a gentle,\nfriendly way to passers by, it really made one feel quite happy.\nThey were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them, and\nin their benevolence there was judgment as well as true\nChristianity. The old woman died first; that day is still quite\nvividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my\nfather to the old man's house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of\ndeath just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a bedroom, near to\nthe one in which we sat, and the old man was in great distress and\nweeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and to a few neighbors\nwho were there, of how lonely he should feel now she was gone, and how\ngood and true she, his dead wife, had been during the number of\nyears that they had passed through life together, and how they had\nbecome acquainted, and learnt to love each other. I was, as I have\nsaid, a boy, and only stood by and listened to what the others said;\nbut it filled me with a strange emotion to listen to the old man,\nand to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spoke of the\ndays of their courtship, of how beautiful she was, and how many little\ntricks he had been guilty of, that he might meet her. And then he\ntalked of his wedding-day; and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to\nbe carried back, by his words, to that joyful time. And yet there\nshe was, lying in the next room, dead--an old woman, and he was an old\nman, speaking of the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it\nis; then I was but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane\nthen was. Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember\nquite well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben\nwalked close behind the coffin.\n\n\"A few years before this time the old couple had had their\ngrave-stone prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the\ndate. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and laid\non the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben might be\nlaid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth,\nthey left behind them far less than people had believed they\npossessed; what there was went to families distantly related to\nthem, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old house, with\nits balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of the high steps,\nunder the lime-tree, was considered, by the road-inspectors, too old\nand rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate\nbefell the convent church, and the graveyard was destroyed, the\ngrave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything else, was sold to\nwhoever would buy it. And so it happened that this stone was not cut\nin two as many others had been, but now lies in the courtyard below, a\nscouring block for the maids, and a playground for the children. The\npaved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his\nwife; no one thinks of them any more now.\"\n\nAnd the old man who had spoken of all this shook his head\nmournfully, and said, \"Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be\nforgotten!\" And then the conversation turned on other matters.\n\nBut the youngest child in the room, a boy, with large, earnest\neyes, mounted upon a chair behind the window curtains, and looked\nout into the yard, where the moon was pouring a flood of light on\nthe old gravestone,--the stone that had always appeared to him so dull\nand flat, but which lay there now like a great leaf out of a book of\nhistory. All that the boy had heard of Old Preben and his wife\nseemed clearly defined on the stone, and as he gazed on it, and\nglanced at the clear, bright moon shining in the pure air, it was as\nif the light of God's countenance beamed over His beautiful world.\n\n\"Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!\" still echoed through\nthe room, and in the same moment an invisible spirit whispered to\nthe heart of the boy, \"Preserve carefully the seed that has been\nentrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Through\nthee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old,\nweather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear,\ngolden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the streets\narm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the bench under\nthe lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this\nhour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful poem. The\nbeautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in\nstory or in song.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD HOUSE\n\nA very old house stood once in a street with several that were\nquite new and clean. The date of its erection had been carved on one\nof the beams, and surrounded by scrolls formed of tulips and\nhop-tendrils; by this date it could be seen that the old house was\nnearly three hundred years old. Verses too were written over the\nwindows in old-fashioned letters, and grotesque faces, curiously\ncarved, grinned at you from under the cornices. One story projected\na long way over the other, and under the roof ran a leaden gutter,\nwith a dragon's head at the end. The rain was intended to pour out\nat the dragon's mouth, but it ran out of his body instead, for there\nwas a hole in the gutter. The other houses in the street were new\nand well built, with large window panes and smooth walls. Any one\ncould see they had nothing to do with the old house. Perhaps they\nthought, \"How long will that heap of rubbish remain here to be a\ndisgrace to the whole street. The parapet projects so far forward that\nno one can see out of our windows what is going on in that\ndirection. The stairs are as broad as the staircase of a castle, and\nas steep as if they led to a church-tower. The iron railing looks like\nthe gate of a cemetery, and there are brass knobs upon it. It is\nreally too ridiculous.\"\n\nOpposite to the old house were more nice new houses, which had\njust the same opinion as their neighbors.\n\nAt the window of one of them sat a little boy with fresh rosy\ncheeks, and clear sparkling eyes, who was very fond of the old\nhouse, in sunshine or in moonlight. He would sit and look at the\nwall from which the plaster had in some places fallen off, and fancy\nall sorts of scenes which had been in former times. How the street\nmust have looked when the houses had all gable roofs, open staircases,\nand gutters with dragons at the spout. He could even see soldiers\nwalking about with halberds. Certainly it was a very good house to\nlook at for amusement.\n\nAn old man lived in it, who wore knee-breeches, a coat with\nlarge brass buttons, and a wig, which any one could see was a real\nwig. Every morning an old man came to clean the rooms, and to wait\nupon him, otherwise the old man in the knee-breeches would have been\nquite alone in the house. Sometimes he came to one of the windows\nand looked out; then the little boy nodded to him, and the old man\nnodded back again, till they became acquainted, and were friends,\nalthough they had never spoken to each other; but that was of no\nconsequence.\n\nThe little boy one day heard his parents say, \"The old man\nopposite is very well off, but is terribly lonely.\" The next Sunday\nmorning the little boy wrapped something in a piece of paper and\ntook it to the door of the old house, and said to the attendant who\nwaited upon the old man, \"Will you please give this from me to the\ngentleman who lives here; I have two tin soldiers, and this is one\nof them, and he shall have it, because I know he is terribly lonely.\"\n\nAnd the old attendant nodded and looked very pleased, and then\nhe carried the tin soldier into the house.\n\nAfterwards he was sent over to ask the little boy if he would\nnot like to pay a visit himself. His parents gave him permission,\nand so it was that he gained admission to the old house.\n\nThe brassy knobs on the railings shone more brightly than ever, as\nif they had been polished on account of his visit; and on the door\nwere carved trumpeters standing in tulips, and it seemed as if they\nwere blowing with all their might, their cheeks were so puffed out.\n\"Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is\ncoming.\"\n\nThen the door opened. All round the hall hung old portraits of\nknights in armor, and ladies in silk gowns; and the armor rattled, and\nthe silk dresses rustled. Then came a staircase which went up a long\nway, and then came down a little way and led to a balcony, which was\nin a very ruinous state. There were large holes and long cracks, out\nof which grew grass and leaves, indeed the whole balcony, the\ncourtyard, and the walls were so overgrown with green that they looked\nlike a garden. In the balcony stood flower-pots, on which were heads\nhaving asses' ears, but the flowers in them grew just as they pleased.\nIn one pot pinks were growing all over the sides, at least the green\nleaves were shooting forth stalk and stem, and saying as plainly as\nthey could speak, \"The air has fanned me, the sun has kissed me, and I\nam promised a little flower for next Sunday--really for next Sunday.\"\n\nThen they entered a room in which the walls were covered with\nleather, and the leather had golden flowers stamped upon it.\n\n  \"Gilding will fade in damp weather,\n  To endure, there is nothing like leather,\"\n\nsaid the walls. Chairs handsomely carved, with elbows on each side,\nand with very high backs, stood in the room, and as they creaked\nthey seemed to say, \"Sit down. Oh dear, how I am creaking. I shall\ncertainly have the gout like the old cupboard. Gout in my back, ugh.\"\n\nAnd then the little boy entered the room where the old man sat.\n\n\"Thank you for the tin soldier my little friend,\" said the old\nman, \"and thank you also for coming to see me.\"\n\n\"Thanks, thanks,\" or \"Creak, creak,\" said all the furniture.\n\nThere was so much that the pieces of furniture stood in each\nother's way to get a sight of the little boy.\n\nOn the wall near the centre of the room hung the picture of a\nbeautiful lady, young and gay, dressed in the fashion of the olden\ntimes, with powdered hair, and a full, stiff skirt. She said neither\n\"thanks\" nor \"creak,\" but she looked down upon the little boy with her\nmild eyes; and then he said to the old man,\n\n\"Where did you get that picture?\"\n\n\"From the shop opposite,\" he replied. \"Many portraits hang there\nthat none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent\nhave been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many\nyears ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century.\"\n\nUnder a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered\nflowers, which were no doubt half a century old too, at least they\nappeared so.\n\nAnd the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands\nturned round; and as time passed on, everything in the room grew\nolder, but no one seemed to notice it.\n\n\"They say at home,\" said the little boy, \"that you are very\nlonely.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied the old man, \"I have pleasant thoughts of all that\nhas passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me,\nand that is very pleasant.\"\n\nThen he took from the book-case, a book full of pictures\nrepresenting long processions of wonderful coaches, such as are\nnever seen at the present time. Soldiers like the knave of clubs,\nand citizens with waving banners. The tailors had a flag with a pair\nof scissors supported by two lions, and on the shoemakers' flag\nthere were not boots, but an eagle with two heads, for the\nshoemakers must have everything arranged so that they can say, \"This\nis a pair.\" What a picture-book it was; and then the old man went into\nanother room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very pleasant,\ncertainly, to be in that old house.\n\n\"I cannot endure it,\" said the tin soldier, who stood on a\nshelf, \"it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to\nlive in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear\nit. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not\nhere like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother\ntalked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children\nmade such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's\nhouse. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has\nfriendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but\nthe grave. Oh, I cannot bear it.\"\n\n\"You must not look only on the sorrowful side,\" said the little\nboy; \"I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old\npleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them,\" said the tin\nsoldier, \"and I cannot bear it.\"\n\n\"You must bear it,\" said the little boy. Then the old man came\nback with a pleasant face; and brought with him beautiful preserved\nfruits, as well as apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more\nof the tin soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was; and\nafter he returned home, and while days and weeks passed, a great\ndeal of nodding took place from one house to the other, and then the\nlittle boy went to pay another visit. The carved trumpeters blew\n\"Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra.\" The swords and\narmor on the old knight's pictures rattled. The silk dresses\nrustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and the old chairs had the\ngout in their backs, and cried, \"Creak;\" it was all exactly like the\nfirst time; for in that house, one day and one hour were just like\nanother. \"I cannot bear it any longer,\" said the tin soldier; \"I\nhave wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the\nwars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot\nbear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old\nrecollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from\nmine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very\nnearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite,\nas if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children\nstood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning.\nYou were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and\nmother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your\nfather and mother were looking just as serious, when the door\nopened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was\nbrought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music\nand singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although\nshe ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right\ntime because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and\nthen on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit\nthe music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very\ndifficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from\nthe table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not\nright to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen,\nkeeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that\nbring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on\nSundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old\ncomrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I\ncannot endure this life.\"\n\n\"You are given away,\" said the little boy; \"you must stay. Don't\nyou see that?\" Then the old man came in, with a box containing many\ncurious things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards, so\nlarge and so richly gilded, that none are ever seen like them in these\ndays. And there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was\nopened, and inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old\nman played, the piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the\npicture he had bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled\nbrightly as he nodded at it, and said, \"Ah, she could sing that tune.\"\n\n\"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!\" cried the tin\nsoldier as loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor.\nWhere could he have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy\nsearched, but he was gone, and could not be found. \"I shall find him\nagain,\" said the old man, but he did not find him. The boards of the\nfloor were open and full of holes. The tin soldier had fallen\nthrough a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open\ngrave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week\npassed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite\nfrozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub\na hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all\nthe scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with\nsnow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the\nold man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and\nthe old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to\nthe country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him\naway; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the\nlittle boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with\nit. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and\nfrom his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the\npictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long\nears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,\nsome another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture\ndealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no\none seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;\nthey began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete\nrubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls\nwere covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the\nbalcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,\nfor it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away\naltogether. \"What a good riddance,\" said the neighbors' houses. Very\nshortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had\nlofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the\nold house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines\ngrew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were\nlarge iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.\nPeople used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows\nassembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as\nloud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could\nremember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the\nlittle boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents\nwere very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his\nyoung wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,\nand now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower\nthat she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her\nlittle hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. \"Oh\ndear, what was that?\" she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out\nof the soft earth something was sticking up. It was--only think!--it\nwas really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in\nthe old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for\na long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been\nfor many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a\ngreen leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt\nof such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was\nrecovering from a fainting fit. \"Let me see him,\" said the young\nman, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, \"It can scarcely\nbe the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my\ntin soldiers when I was a little boy.\" And then he told his wife about\nthe old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had\nsent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related\nthe story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife\nfor the old house and the old man. \"It is very likely that this is\nreally the same soldier,\" said she, \"and I will take care of him, and\nalways remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me\nthe old man's grave.\"\n\n\"I don't know where it is,\" he replied; \"no one knows. All his\nfriends are dead; no one took care of him, and I was only a little\nboy.\"\n\n\"Oh, how dreadfully lonely he must have been,\" said she.\n\n\"Yes, terribly lonely,\" cried the tin soldier; \"still it is\ndelightful not to be forgotten.\"\n\n\"Delightful indeed,\" cried a voice quite near to them; no one\nbut the tin soldier saw that it came from a rag of the leather which\nhung in tatters; it had lost all its gilding, and looked like wet\nearth, but it had an opinion, and it spoke it thus:--\n\n  \"Gilding will fade in damp weather,\n  To endure, there is nothing like leather.\"\n\n\nBut the tin soldier did not believe any such thing.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT THE OLD MAN DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT\n\nI will tell you a story that was told me when I was a little\nboy. Every time I thought of this story, it seemed to me more and more\ncharming; for it is with stories as it is with many people--they\nbecome better as they grow older.\n\nI have no doubt that you have been in the country, and seen a very\nold farmhouse, with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants\ngrowing wild upon it. There is a stork's nest on the ridge of the\ngable, for we cannot do without the stork. The walls of the house\nare sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is\nmade to open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like a great\nknob. An elder-tree hangs over the palings; and beneath its\nbranches, 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 corners. Just such a farmhouse as this stood in a country\nlane; and in it dwelt an old couple, a peasant and his wife. Small\nas their possessions were, they had one article they could not do\nwithout, and that was a horse, which contrived to live upon the\ngrass which it found by the side of the high road. The old peasant\nrode into the town upon this horse, and his neighbors often borrowed\nit of him, and paid for the loan of it by rendering some service to\nthe old couple. After a time they thought it would be as well to\nsell the horse, or exchange it for something which might be more\nuseful to them. But what might this something be?\n\n\"You'll know 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, so ride to the\nfair.\"\n\nAnd she fastened his neckerchief for him; for she could do that\nbetter than he could, and she could also tie it very prettily in a\ndouble bow. She also smoothed his hat round and round with the palm of\nher hand, and gave him a kiss. Then he rode away upon the horse that\nwas to be sold or bartered for something else. Yes, the old man knew\nwhat he was about. The sun shone with great heat, and not a cloud\nwas to be seen in the sky. The road was very dusty; for a number of\npeople, all going to the fair, were driving, riding, or walking upon\nit. There was no shelter anywhere from the hot sunshine. Among the\nrest a man came trudging along, and driving a cow to the fair. The cow\nwas as beautiful a creature as any cow could be.\n\n\"She gives good milk, I am certain,\" said the peasant to\nhimself. \"That would be a very good exchange: the cow for the horse.\nHallo there! you with the cow,\" he said. \"I tell you what; I dare\nsay a horse is of more value than a cow; but I don't care for that,--a\ncow will be more useful to me; so, if you like, we'll exchange.\"\n\n\"To be sure I will,\" said the man.\n\nAccordingly the exchange was made; and as the matter was\nsettled, the peasant might have turned back; for he had done the\nbusiness he came to do. But, having made up his mind to go to the\nfair, he determined to do so, if only to have a look at it; so on he\nwent to the town with his cow. Leading the animal, he strode on\nsturdily, and, after a short time, overtook a man who was driving a\nsheep. It was a good fat sheep, with a fine fleece on its back.\n\n\"I should like to have that fellow,\" said the peasant to\nhimself. \"There is plenty of grass for him by our palings, and in\nthe winter we could keep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would\nbe more profitable to have a sheep than a cow. Shall I exchange?\"\nThe man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was\nquickly made. And then our peasant continued his way on the\nhigh-road with his sheep. Soon after this, he overtook another man,\nwho had come into the road from a field, and was carrying a large\ngoose under his arm.\n\n\"What a heavy creature you have there!\" said the peasant; \"it\nhas plenty of feathers and plenty of fat, and would look well tied\nto a string, or paddling in the water at our place. That would be very\nuseful to my old woman; she could make all sorts of profits out of it.\nHow often she has said, 'If now we only had a goose!' Now here is an\nopportunity, and, if possible, I will get it for her. Shall we\nexchange? I will give you my sheep for your goose, and thanks into the\nbargain.\"\n\nThe other had not the least objection, and accordingly the\nexchange was made, and our peasant became possessor of the goose. By\nthis time he had arrived very near the town. The crowd on the high\nroad had been gradually increasing, and there was quite a rush of\nmen and cattle. The cattle walked on the path and by the palings,\nand at the turnpike-gate they even walked into the toll-keeper's\npotato-field, where one fowl was strutting about with a string tied to\nits leg, for fear it should take fright at the crowd, and run away and\nget lost. The tail-feathers of the fowl were very short, and it winked\nwith both its eyes, and looked very cunning, as it said \"Cluck,\ncluck.\" What were the thoughts of the fowl as it said this I cannot\ntell you; but directly our good man saw it, he thought, \"Why that's\nthe finest fowl I ever saw in my life; it's finer than our parson's\nbrood hen, upon my word. I should like to have that fowl. Fowls can\nalways pick up a few grains that lie about, and almost keep\nthemselves. I think it would be a good exchange if I could get it\nfor my goose. Shall we exchange?\" he asked the toll-keeper.\n\n\"Exchange,\" repeated the man; \"well, it would not be a bad thing.\"\n\nAnd so they made an exchange,--the toll-keeper at the\nturnpike-gate kept the goose, and the peasant carried off the fowl.\nNow he had really done a great deal of business on his way to the\nfair, and he was hot and tired. He wanted something to eat, and a\nglass of ale to refresh himself; so he turned his steps to an inn.\nHe was just about to enter when the ostler came out, and they met at\nthe door. The ostler was carrying a sack. \"What have you in that\nsack?\" asked the peasant.\n\n\"Rotten apples,\" answered the ostler; \"a whole sackful of them.\nThey will do to feed the pigs with.\"\n\n\"Why that will be terrible waste,\" he replied; \"I should like to\ntake them home to my old woman. Last year the old apple-tree by the\ngrass-plot only bore one apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it\nwas quite withered and rotten. It was always property, my old woman\nsaid; and here she would see a great deal of property--a whole\nsackful; I should like to show them to her.\"\n\n\"What will you give me for the sackful?\" asked the ostler.\n\n\"What will I give? Well, I will give you my fowl in exchange.\"\n\nSo he gave up the fowl, and received the apples, which he\ncarried into the inn parlor. He leaned the sack carefully against\nthe stove, and then went to the table. But the stove was hot, and he\nhad not thought of that. Many guests were present--horse dealers,\ncattle drovers, and two Englishmen. The Englishmen were so rich that\ntheir pockets quite bulged out and seemed ready to burst; and they\ncould bet too, as you shall hear. \"Hiss-s-s, hiss-s-s.\" What could\nthat be by the stove? The apples were beginning to roast. \"What is\nthat?\" asked one.\n\n\"Why, do you know\"--said our peasant. And then he told them the\nwhole story of the horse, which he had exchanged for a cow, and all\nthe rest of it, down to the apples.\n\n\"Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home,\"\nsaid one of the Englishmen. \"Won't there be a noise?\"\n\n\"What! Give me what?\" said the peasant. \"Why, she will kiss me,\nand say, 'what the old man does is always right.'\"\n\n\"Let us lay a wager on it,\" said the Englishmen. \"We'll wager\nyou a ton of coined gold, a hundred pounds to the hundred-weight.\"\n\n\"No; a bushel will be enough,\" replied the peasant. \"I can only\nset a bushel of apples against it, and I'll throw myself and my old\nwoman into the bargain; that will pile up the measure, I fancy.\"\n\n\"Done! taken!\" and so the bet was made.\n\nThen the landlord's coach came to the door, and the two Englishmen\nand the peasant got in, and away they drove, and soon arrived and\nstopped at the peasant's hut. \"Good evening, old woman.\" \"Good\nevening, old man.\" \"I've made the exchange.\"\n\n\"Ah, well, you understand what you're about,\" said the woman. Then\nshe embraced him, and paid no attention to the strangers, nor did\nshe notice the sack.\n\n\"I got a cow in exchange for the horse.\"\n\n\"Thank Heaven,\" said she. \"Now we shall have plenty of milk, 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, better still!\" cried the wife. \"You always think of\neverything; we have just enough pasture for a sheep. Ewe's milk and\ncheese, woollen jackets and stockings! The cow could not give all\nthese, and her hair only falls off. How you think of everything!\"\n\n\"But I changed away the sheep for a goose.\"\n\n\"Then we shall have roast goose to eat this year. You dear old\nman, you are always thinking of something to please me. This is\ndelightful. We can let the goose walk about with a string tied to\nher leg, so she will be fatter still before we roast her.\"\n\n\"But I gave away the goose for a fowl.\"\n\n\"A fowl! Well, that was a good exchange,\" replied the woman.\n\"The fowl will lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens; we\nshall soon have a poultry-yard. Oh, this is just what I was wishing\nfor.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shrivelled apples.\"\n\n\"What! I really must give you a kiss for that!\" exclaimed the\nwife. \"My dear, good husband, now I'll tell you something. Do you\nknow, almost as soon as you left me this morning, I began to think\nof what I could give you nice for supper this evening, and then I\nthought of fried eggs and bacon, with sweet herbs; I had eggs and\nbacon, but I wanted the herbs; so I went over to the schoolmaster's: I\nknew they had plenty of herbs, but the schoolmistress is very mean,\nalthough she can smile so sweetly. I begged her to lend me a handful\nof herbs. 'Lend!' she exclaimed, 'I have nothing to lend; nothing at\nall grows in our garden, not even a shrivelled apple; I could not even\nlend you a shrivelled apple, my dear woman. But now I can lend her\nten, or a whole sackful, which I'm very glad of; it makes me laugh\nto think about it;\" and then she gave him a hearty kiss.\n\n\"Well, I like all this,\" said both the Englishmen; \"always going\ndown the hill, and yet always merry; it's worth the money to see\nit.\" So they paid a hundred-weight of gold to the peasant, who,\nwhatever he did, was not scolded but kissed.\n\nYes, it always pays best when the wife sees and maintains that her\nhusband knows best, and whatever he does is right.\n\nThat is a story which I heard when I was a child; and now you have\nheard it too, and know that \"What the old man does is always right.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD STREET LAMP\n\nDid you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not\nremarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen\nto it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many\nyears of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this\nevening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street. His\nfeelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theatre,\nwho is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the morrow she\nwill be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had very great\nanxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to appear for\nthe first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the mayor and\nthe council, who were to decide if he were fit for further service\nor not;--whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light the\ninhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory;\nand if not, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to be\nmelted down. In this latter case it might be turned into anything, and\nhe wondered very much whether he would then be able to remember that\nhe had once been a street lamp, and it troubled him exceedingly.\nWhatever might happen, one thing seemed certain, that he would be\nseparated from the watchman and his wife, whose family he looked\nupon as his own. The lamp had first been hung up on that very\nevening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon\nthe duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long time since\none became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a little\npride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the lamp,\nexcepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the daytime. But\nin later years, when all these,--the watchman, the wife, and the\nlamp--had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and supplied it\nwith oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they had never\ncheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.\n\nThis was the lamp's last night in the street, and to-morrow he\nmust go to the town-hall,--two very dark things to think of. No wonder\nhe did not burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through\nhis mind. How many persons he had lighted on their way, and how much\nhe had seen; as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation\nthemselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for he\nwas a good, honorable old lamp, who would not willingly do harm to any\none, especially to those in authority. As many things were recalled to\nhis mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness; he had,\nat such moments, a conviction that he would be remembered. \"There\nwas a handsome young man once,\" thought he; \"it is certainly a long\nwhile ago, but I remember he had a little note, written on pink\npaper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant, evidently a lady's\nhand: twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at\nme, with eyes that said quite plainly, 'I am the happiest of men!'\nOnly he and I know what was written on this his first letter from\nhis lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I\nremember,--it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing\nto another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and beautiful\nwoman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and attended\nby torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the street\nstood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the\nprocession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I\ncould look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my\npost, and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked\nup at me.\" These and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp,\non this the last time that his light would shine. The sentry, when\nhe is relieved from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and\nmay whisper a few words to him, but the lamp did not know his\nsuccessor, or he could have given him a few hints respecting rain,\nor mist, and could have informed him how far the moon's rays would\nrest on the pavement, and from which side the wind generally blew, and\nso on.\n\nOn the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to\nrecommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the\noffice to whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring's head, which\ncould emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great\nsaving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two was a\npiece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark. He considered\nhimself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the forest.\nThe third was a glow-worm, and how he found his way there the lamp\ncould not imagine, yet there he was, and could really give light as\nwell as the others. But the rotten wood and the herring's head\ndeclared most solemnly, by all they held sacred, that the glow-worm\nonly gave light at certain times, and must not be allowed to compete\nwith themselves. The old lamp assured them that not one of them\ncould give sufficient light to fill the position of a street lamp; but\nthey would believe nothing he said. And when they discovered that he\nhad not the power of naming his successor, they said they were very\nglad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and worn-out to make a\nproper choice.\n\nAt this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the\nstreet, and through the air-holes of the old lamp. \"What is this I\nhear?\" said he; \"that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening\nthe last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell\ngift. I will blow into your brain, so that in future you shall not\nonly be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the\npast, but your light within shall be so bright, that you shall be able\nto understand all that is said or done in your presence.\"\n\n\"Oh, that is really a very, very great gift,\" said the old lamp;\n\"I thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down.\"\n\n\"That is not likely to happen yet,\" said the wind; \"and I will\nalso blow a memory into you, so that should you receive other\nsimilar presents your old age will pass very pleasantly.\"\n\n\"That is if I am not melted down,\" said the lamp. \"But should I in\nthat case still retain my memory?\"\n\n\"Do be reasonable, old lamp,\" said the wind, puffing away.\n\nAt this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds. \"What will\nyou give the old lamp?\" asked the wind.\n\n\"I can give nothing,\" she replied; \"I am on the wane, and no lamps\nhave ever given me light while I have frequently shone upon them.\" And\nwith these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds, that\nshe might be saved from further importunities. Just then a drop fell\nupon the lamp, from the roof of the house, but the drop explained that\nhe was a gift from those gray clouds, and perhaps the best of all\ngifts. \"I shall penetrate you so thoroughly,\" he said, \"that you\nwill have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, to crumble\ninto dust in one night.\"\n\nBut this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind\nthought so too. \"Does no one give any more? Will no one give any\nmore?\" shouted the breath of the wind, as loud as it could. Then a\nbright falling star came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak behind\nit.\n\n\"What was that?\" cried the herring's head. \"Did not a star fall? I\nreally believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born\npersonages try for the office, we may as well say 'Good-night,' and go\nhome.\"\n\nAnd so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully\nstrong light all around him.\n\n\"This is a glorious gift,\" said he; \"the bright stars have\nalways been a joy to me, and have always shone more brilliantly than I\never could shine, though I have tried with my whole might; and now\nthey have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that\nwill enable me to see clearly everything that I remember, as if it\nstill stood before me, and to be seen by all those who love me. And\nherein lies the truest pleasure, for joy which we cannot share with\nothers is only half enjoyed.\"\n\n\"That sentiment does you honor,\" said the wind; \"but for this\npurpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you,\nyour particular faculties will not benefit others in the least. The\nstars have not thought of this; they suppose that you and every\nother light must be a wax taper: but I must go down now.\" So he laid\nhimself to rest.\n\n\"Wax tapers, indeed!\" said the lamp, \"I have never yet had\nthese, nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not\nbeing melted down!\"\n\nThe next day. Well, perhaps we had better pass over the next\nday. The evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather's\nchair, and guess where! Why, at the old watchman's house. He had\nbegged, as a favor, that the mayor and corporation would allow him\nto keep the street lamp, in consideration of his long and faithful\nservice, as he had himself hung it up and lit it on the day he first\ncommenced his duties, four-and-twenty years ago. He looked upon it\nalmost as his own child; he had no children, so the lamp was given\nto him. There it lay in the great arm-chair near to the warm stove. It\nseemed almost as if it had grown larger, for it appeared quite to fill\nthe chair. The old people sat at their supper, casting friendly\nglances at the old lamp, whom they would willingly have admitted to\na place at the table. It is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar,\ntwo yards deep in the earth, and they had to cross a stone passage\nto get to their room, but within it was warm and comfortable and\nstrips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed and the\nlittle window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat. On\nthe window seat stood two curious flower-pots which a sailor, named\nChristian, had brought over from the East or West Indies. They were of\nclay, and in the form of two elephants, with open backs; they were\nhollow and filled with earth, and through the open space flowers\nbloomed. In one grew some very fine chives or leeks; this was the\nkitchen garden. The other elephant, which contained a beautiful\ngeranium, they called their flower garden. On the wall hung a large\ncolored print, representing the congress of Vienna, and all the\nkings and emperors at once. A clock, with heavy weights, hung on the\nwall and went \"tick, tick,\" steadily enough; yet it was always\nrather too fast, which, however, the old people said was better than\nbeing too slow. They were now eating their supper, while the old\nstreet lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather's arm-chair near\nthe stove. It seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned\nround; but after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp, and\nspoke of what they had both gone through together,--in rain and in\nfog; during the short bright nights of summer, or in the long winter\nnights, through the drifting snow-storms, when he longed to be at home\nin the cellar. Then the lamp felt it was all right again. He saw\neverything that had happened quite clearly, as if it were passing\nbefore him. Surely the wind had given him an excellent gift. The old\npeople were very active and industrious, they were never idle for even\na single hour. On Sunday afternoons they would bring out some books,\ngenerally a book of travels which they were very fond of. The old\nman would read aloud about Africa, with its great forests and the wild\nelephants, while his wife would listen attentively, stealing a\nglance now and then at the clay elephants, which served as\nflower-pots.\n\n\"I can almost imagine I am seeing it all,\" she said; and then\nhow the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in him, for then the\nold woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as he did\nhimself. The lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, the\nnaked negroes on horseback, and whole herds of elephants treading down\nbamboo thickets with their broad, heavy feet.\n\n\"What is the use of all my capabilities,\" sighed the old lamp,\n\"when I cannot obtain any wax lights; they have only oil and tallow\nhere, and these will not do.\" One day a great heap of wax-candle\nends found their way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burnt,\nand the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So\nthere were now candles enough, but it never occurred to any one to put\na little piece in the lamp.\n\n\"Here I am now with my rare powers,\" thought the lamp, \"I have\nfaculties within me, but I cannot share them; they do not know that\nI could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change\nthem into noble forests, or, indeed, to anything else they might\nwish for.\" The lamp, however, was always kept clean and shining in a\ncorner where it attracted all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as\nlumber, but the old people did not care for that; they loved the lamp.\nOne day--it was the watchman's birthday--the old woman approached\nthe lamp, smiling to herself, and said, \"I will have an illumination\nto-day in honor of my old man.\" And the lamp rattled in his metal\nframe, for he thought, \"Now at last I shall have a light within me,\"\nbut after all no wax light was placed in the lamp, but oil as usual.\nThe lamp burned through the whole evening, and began to perceive too\nclearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden treasure\nall his life. Then he had a dream; for, to one with his faculties,\ndreaming was no difficulty. It appeared to him that the old people\nwere dead, and that he had been taken to the iron foundry to be melted\ndown. It caused him quite as much anxiety as on the day when he had\nbeen called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the\ntown-hall. But though he had been endowed with the power of falling\ninto decay from rust when he pleased, he did not make use of it. He\nwas therefore put into the melting-furnace and changed into as elegant\nan iron candlestick as you could wish to see, one intended to hold a\nwax taper. The candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a\nnosegay, in the centre of which the wax taper was to be placed. It was\nto stand on a green writing table, in a very pleasant room; many books\nwere scattered about, and splendid paintings hung on the walls. The\nowner of the room was a poet, and a man of intellect; everything he\nthought or wrote was pictured around him. Nature showed herself to him\nsometimes in the dark forests, at others in cheerful meadows where the\nstorks were strutting about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across\nthe foaming sea with the clear, blue sky above, or at night the\nglittering stars. \"What powers I possess!\" said the lamp, awaking from\nhis dream; \"I could almost wish to be melted down; but no, that must\nnot be while the old people live. They love me for myself alone,\nthey keep me bright, and supply me with oil. I am as well off as the\npicture of the congress, in which they take so much pleasure.\" And\nfrom that time he felt at rest in himself, and not more so than such\nan honorable old lamp really deserved to be.\n\n\n\n\nOLE-LUK-OIE, THE DREAM-GOD\n\nThere is nobody in the world who knows so many stories as\nOle-Luk-Oie, or who can relate them so nicely. In the evening, while\nthe children are seated at the table or in their little chairs, he\ncomes up the stairs very softly, for he walks in his socks, then he\nopens the doors without the slightest noise, and throws a small\nquantity of very fine dust in their eyes, just enough to prevent\nthem from keeping them open, and so they do not see him. Then he\ncreeps behind them, and blows softly upon their necks, till their\nheads begin to droop. But Ole-Luk-Oie does not wish to hurt them,\nfor he is very fond of children, and only wants them to be quiet\nthat he may relate to them pretty stories, and they never are quiet\nuntil they are in bed and asleep. As soon as they are asleep,\nOle-Luk-Oie seats himself upon the bed. He is nicely dressed; his coat\nis made of silken stuff; it is impossible to say of what color, for it\nchanges from green to red, and from red to blue as he turns from\nside to side. Under each arm he carries an umbrella; one of them, with\npictures on the inside, he spreads over the good children, and then\nthey dream the most beautiful stories the whole night. But the other\numbrella has no pictures, and this he holds over the naughty\nchildren so that they sleep heavily, and wake in the morning without\nhaving dreamed at all.\n\nNow we shall hear how Ole-Luk-Oie came every night during a\nwhole week to the little boy named Hjalmar, and what he told him.\nThere were seven stories, as there are seven days in the week.\n\n\nMONDAY\n\n\"Now pay attention,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie, in the evening, when\nHjalmar was in bed, \"and I will decorate the room.\"\n\nImmediately all the flowers in the flower-pots became large trees,\nwith long branches reaching to the ceiling, and stretching along the\nwalls, so that the whole room was like a greenhouse. All the\nbranches were loaded with flowers, each flower as beautiful and as\nfragrant as a rose; and, had any one tasted them, he would have\nfound them sweeter even than jam. The fruit glittered like gold, and\nthere were cakes so full of plums that they were nearly bursting. It\nwas incomparably beautiful. At the same time sounded dismal moans from\nthe table-drawer in which lay Hjalmar's school books.\n\n\"What can that be now?\" said Ole-Luk-Oie, going to the table and\npulling out the drawer.\n\nIt was a slate, in such distress because of a false number in\nthe sum, that it had almost broken itself to pieces. The pencil pulled\nand tugged at its string as if it were a little dog that wanted to\nhelp, but could not.\n\nAnd then came a moan from Hjalmar's copy-book. Oh, it was quite\nterrible to hear! On each leaf stood a row of capital letters, every\none having a small letter by its side. This formed a copy; under these\nwere other letters, which Hjalmar had written: they fancied they\nlooked like the copy, but they were mistaken; for they were leaning on\none side as if they intended to fall over the pencil-lines.\n\n\"See, this is the way you should hold yourselves,\" said the\ncopy. \"Look here, you should slope thus, with a graceful curve.\"\n\n\"Oh, we are very willing to do so, but we cannot,\" said\nHjalmar's letters; \"we are so wretchedly made.\"\n\n\"You must be scratched out, then,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" they cried, and then they stood up so gracefully it\nwas quite a pleasure to look at them.\n\n\"Now we must give up our stories, and exercise these letters,\"\nsaid Ole-Luk-Oie; \"One, two--one, two--\" So he drilled them till\nthey stood up gracefully, and looked as beautiful as a copy could\nlook. But after Ole-Luk-Oie was gone, and Hjalmar looked at them in\nthe morning, they were as wretched and as awkward as ever.\n\n\nTUESDAY\n\nAs soon as Hjalmar was in bed, Ole-Luk-Oie touched, with his\nlittle magic wand, all the furniture in the room, which immediately\nbegan to chatter, and each article only talked of itself.\n\nOver the chest of drawers hung a large picture in a gilt frame,\nrepresenting a landscape, with fine old trees, flowers in the grass,\nand a broad stream, which flowed through the wood, past several\ncastles, far out into the wild ocean. Ole-Luk-Oie touched the\npicture with his magic wand, and immediately the birds commenced\nsinging, the branches of the trees rustled, and the clouds moved\nacross the sky, casting their shadows on the landscape beneath them.\nThen Ole-Luk-Oie lifted little Hjalmar up to the frame, and placed his\nfeet in the picture, just on the high grass, and there he stood with\nthe sun shining down upon him through the branches of the trees. He\nran to the water, and seated himself in a little boat which lay there,\nand which was painted red and white. The sails glittered like\nsilver, and six swans, each with a golden circlet round its neck,\nand a bright blue star on its forehead, drew the boat past the green\nwood, where the trees talked of robbers and witches, and the flowers\nof beautiful little elves and fairies, whose histories the butterflies\nhad related to them. Brilliant fish, with scales like silver and gold,\nswam after the boat, sometimes making a spring and splashing the water\nround them, while birds, red and blue, small and great, flew after him\nin two long lines. The gnats danced round them, and the cockchafers\ncried \"Buz, buz.\" They all wanted to follow Hjalmar, and all had\nsome story to tell him. It was a most pleasant sail. Sometimes the\nforests were thick and dark, sometimes like a beautiful garden, gay\nwith sunshine and flowers; then he passed great palaces of glass and\nof marble, and on the balconies stood princesses, whose faces were\nthose of little girls whom Hjalmar knew well, and had often played\nwith. One of them held out her hand, in which was a heart made of\nsugar, more beautiful than any confectioner ever sold. As Hjalmar\nsailed by, he caught hold of one side of the sugar heart, and held\nit fast, and the princess held fast also, so that it broke in two\npieces. Hjalmar had one piece, and the princess the other, but\nHjalmar's was the largest. At each castle stood little princes\nacting as sentinels. They presented arms, and had golden swords, and\nmade it rain plums and tin soldiers, so that they must have been\nreal princes.\n\nHjalmar continued to sail, sometimes through woods, sometimes as\nit were through large halls, and then by large cities. At last he came\nto the town where his nurse lived, who had carried him in her arms\nwhen he was a very little boy, and had always been kind to him. She\nnodded and beckoned to him, and then sang the little verses she had\nherself composed and set to him,--\n\n  \"How oft my memory turns to thee,\n    My own Hjalmar, ever dear!\n  When I could watch thy infant glee,\n    Or kiss away a pearly tear.\n  'Twas in my arms thy lisping tongue\n    First spoke the half-remembered word,\n  While o'er thy tottering steps I hung,\n    My fond protection to afford.\n  Farewell! I pray the Heavenly Power\n  To keep thee till thy dying hour.\"\n\nAnd all the birds sang the same tune, the flowers danced on their\nstems, and the old trees nodded as if Ole-Luk-Oie had been telling\nthem stories as well.\n\n\nWEDNESDAY\n\nHow the rain did pour down! Hjalmar could hear it in his sleep;\nand when Ole-Luk-Oie opened the window, the water flowed quite up to\nthe window-sill. It had the appearance of a large lake outside, and\na beautiful ship lay close to the house.\n\n\"Wilt thou sail with me to-night, little Hjalmar?\" said\nOle-Luk-Oie; \"then we shall see foreign countries, and thou shalt\nreturn here in the morning.\"\n\nAll in a moment, there stood Hjalmar, in his best clothes, on\nthe deck of the noble ship; and immediately the weather became fine.\nThey sailed through the streets, round by the church, and on every\nside rolled the wide, great sea. They sailed till the land\ndisappeared, and then they saw a flock of storks, who had left their\nown country, and were travelling to warmer climates. The storks flew\none behind the other, and had already been a long, long time on the\nwing. One of them seemed so tired that his wings could scarcely\ncarry him. He was the last of the row, and was soon left very far\nbehind. At length he sunk lower and lower, with outstretched wings,\nflapping them in vain, till his feet touched the rigging of the\nship, and he slided from the sails to the deck, and stood before them.\nThen a sailor-boy caught him, and put him in the hen-house, with the\nfowls, the ducks, and the turkeys, while the poor stork stood quite\nbewildered amongst them.\n\n\"Just look at that fellow,\" said the chickens.\n\nThen the turkey-cock puffed himself out as large as he could,\nand inquired who he was; and the ducks waddled backwards, crying,\n\"Quack, quack.\"\n\nThen the stork told them all about warm Africa, of the pyramids,\nand of the ostrich, which, like a wild horse, runs across the\ndesert. But the ducks did not understand what he said, and quacked\namongst themselves, \"We are all of the same opinion; namely, that he\nis stupid.\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, he is stupid,\" said the turkey-cock; and\ngobbled.\n\nThen the stork remained quite silent, and thought of his home in\nAfrica.\n\n\"Those are handsome thin legs of yours,\" said the turkey-cock.\n\"What do they cost a yard?\"\n\n\"Quack, quack, quack,\" grinned the ducks; but, the stork pretended\nnot to hear.\n\n\"You may as well laugh,\" said the turkey; \"for that remark was\nrather witty, or perhaps it was above you. Ah, ah, is he not clever?\nHe will be a great amusement to us while he remains here.\" And then he\ngobbled, and the ducks quacked, \"Gobble, gobble; Quack, quack.\"\n\nWhat a terrible uproar they made, while they were having such\nfun among themselves!\n\nThen Hjalmar went to the hen-house; and, opening the door,\ncalled to the stork. Then he hopped out on the deck. He had rested\nhimself now, and he looked happy, and seemed as if he nodded to\nHjalmar, as if to thank him. Then he spread his wings, and flew away\nto warmer countries, while the hens clucked, the ducks quacked, and\nthe turkey-cock turned quite scarlet in the head.\n\n\"To-morrow you shall be made into soup,\" said Hjalmar to the\nfowls; and then he awoke, and found himself lying in his little bed.\n\nIt was a wonderful journey which Ole-Luk-Oie had made him take\nthis night.\n\n\nTHURSDAY\n\n\"What do you think I have got here?\" said Ole-Luk-Oie, \"Do not\nbe frightened, and you shall see a little mouse.\" And then he held out\nhis hand to him, in which lay a lovely little creature. \"It has come\nto invite you to a wedding. Two little mice are going to enter into\nthe marriage state tonight. They reside under the floor of your\nmother's store-room, and that must be a fine dwelling-place.\"\n\n\"But how can I get through the little mouse-hole in the floor?\"\nasked Hjalmar.\n\n\"Leave me to manage that,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie. \"I will soon make you\nsmall enough.\" And then he touched Hjalmar with his magic wand,\nwhereupon he became less and less, until at last he was not longer\nthan a little finger. \"Now you can borrow the dress of the tin\nsoldier. I think it will just fit you. It looks well to wear a uniform\nwhen you go into company.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" said Hjalmar; and in a moment he was dressed\nas neatly as the neatest of all tin soldiers.\n\n\"Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mamma's thimble,\"\nsaid the little mouse, \"that I may have the pleasure of drawing you to\nthe wedding.\"\n\n\"Will you really take so much trouble, young lady?\" said\nHjalmar. And so in this way he rode to the mouse's wedding.\n\nFirst they went under the floor, and then passed through a long\npassage, which was scarcely high enough to allow the thimble to\ndrive under, and the whole passage was lit up with the phosphorescent\nlight of rotten wood.\n\n\"Does it not smell delicious?\" asked the mouse, as she drew him\nalong. \"The wall and the floor have been smeared with bacon-rind;\nnothing can be nicer.\"\n\nVery soon they arrived at the bridal hall. On the right stood\nall the little lady-mice, whispering and giggling, as if they were\nmaking game of each other. To the left were the gentlemen-mice,\nstroking their whiskers with their fore-paws; and in the centre of the\nhall could be seen the bridal pair, standing side by side, in a hollow\ncheese-rind, and kissing each other, while all eyes were upon them;\nfor they had already been betrothed, and were soon to be married. More\nand more friends kept arriving, till the mice were nearly treading\neach other to death; for the bridal pair now stood in the doorway, and\nnone could pass in or out.\n\nThe room had been rubbed over with bacon-rind, like the passage,\nwhich was all the refreshment offered to the guests. But for dessert\nthey produced a pea, on which a mouse belonging to the bridal pair had\nbitten the first letters of their names. This was something quite\nuncommon. All the mice said it was a very beautiful wedding, and\nthat they had been very agreeably entertained.\n\nAfter this, Hjalmar returned home. He had certainly been in\ngrand society; but he had been obliged to creep under a room, and to\nmake himself small enough to wear the uniform of a tin soldier.\n\n\nFRIDAY\n\n\"It is incredible how many old people there are who would be\nglad to have me at night,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie, \"especially those who\nhave done something wrong. 'Good little Ole,' say they to me, 'we\ncannot close our eyes, and we lie awake the whole night and see all\nour evil deeds sitting on our beds like little imps, and sprinkling us\nwith hot water. Will you come and drive them away, that we may have\na good night's rest?' and then they sigh so deeply and say, 'We\nwould gladly pay you for it. Good-night, Ole-Luk, the money lies on\nthe window.' But I never do anything for gold.\" \"What shall we do\nto-night?\" asked Hjalmar. \"I do not know whether you would care to\ngo to another wedding,\" he replied, \"although it is quite a\ndifferent affair to the one we saw last night. Your sister's large\ndoll, that is dressed like a man, and is called Herman, intends to\nmarry the doll Bertha. It is also the dolls' birthday, and they will\nreceive many presents.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know that already,\" said Hjalmar, \"my sister always allows\nher dolls to keep their birthdays or to have a wedding when they\nrequire new clothes; that has happened already a hundred times, I am\nquite sure.\"\n\n\"Yes, so it may; but to-night is the hundred and first wedding,\nand when that has taken place it must be the last, therefore this is\nto be extremely beautiful. Only look.\"\n\nHjalmar looked at the table, and there stood the little card-board\ndoll's house, with lights in all the windows, and drawn up before it\nwere the tin soldiers presenting arms. The bridal pair were seated\non the floor, leaning against the leg of the table, looking very\nthoughtful, and with good reason. Then Ole-Luk-Oie dressed up in\ngrandmother's black gown married them.\n\nAs soon as the ceremony was concluded, all the furniture in the\nroom joined in singing a beautiful song, which had been composed by\nthe lead pencil, and which went to the melody of a military tattoo.\n\n  \"What merry sounds are on the wind,\n  As marriage rites together bind\n  A quiet and a loving pair,\n  Though formed of kid, yet smooth and fair!\n  Hurrah! If they are deaf and blind,\n  We'll sing, though weather prove unkind.\"\n\n\nAnd now came the present; but the bridal pair had nothing to\neat, for love was to be their food.\n\n\"Shall we go to a country house, or travel?\" asked the bridegroom.\n\nThen they consulted the swallow who had travelled so far, and\nthe old hen in the yard, who had brought up five broods of chickens.\n\nAnd the swallow talked to them of warm countries, where the grapes\nhang in large clusters on the vines, and the air is soft and mild, and\nabout the mountains glowing with colors more beautiful than we can\nthink of.\n\n\"But they have no red cabbage like we have,\" said the hen, \"I\nwas once in the country with my chickens for a whole summer, there was\na large sand-pit, in which we could walk about and scratch as we\nliked. Then we got into a garden in which grew red cabbage; oh, how\nnice it was, I cannot think of anything more delicious.\"\n\n\"But one cabbage stalk is exactly like another,\" said the swallow;\n\"and here we have often bad weather.\"\n\n\"Yes, but we are accustomed to it,\" said the hen.\n\n\"But it is so cold here, and freezes sometimes.\"\n\n\"Cold weather is good for cabbages,\" said the hen; \"besides we\ndo have it warm here sometimes. Four years ago, we had a summer that\nlasted more than five weeks, and it was so hot one could scarcely\nbreathe. And then in this country we have no poisonous animals, and we\nare free from robbers. He must be wicked who does not consider our\ncountry the finest of all lands. He ought not to be allowed to live\nhere.\" And then the hen wept very much and said, \"I have also\ntravelled. I once went twelve miles in a coop, and it was not pleasant\ntravelling at all.\"\n\n\"The hen is a sensible woman,\" said the doll Bertha. \"I don't care\nfor travelling over mountains, just to go up and come down again.\nNo, let us go to the sand-pit in front of the gate, and then take a\nwalk in the cabbage garden.\"\n\nAnd so they settled it.\n\n\nSATURDAY\n\n\"Am I to hear any more stories?\" asked little Hjalmar, as soon\nas Ole-Luk-Oie had sent him to sleep.\n\n\"We shall have no time this evening,\" said he, spreading out his\nprettiest umbrella over the child. \"Look at these Chinese,\" and then\nthe whole umbrella appeared like a large china bowl, with blue trees\nand pointed bridges, upon which stood little Chinamen nodding their\nheads. \"We must make all the world beautiful for to-morrow morning,\"\nsaid Ole-Luk-Oie, \"for it will be a holiday, it is Sunday. I must\nnow go to the church steeple and see if the little sprites who live\nthere have polished the bells, so that they may sound sweetly. Then\nI must go into the fields and see if the wind has blown the dust\nfrom the grass and the leaves, and the most difficult task of all\nwhich I have to do, is to take down all the stars and brighten them\nup. I have to number them first before I put them in my apron, and\nalso to number the places from which I take them, so that they may\ngo back into the right holes, or else they would not remain, and we\nshould have a number of falling stars, for they would all tumble\ndown one after the other.\"\n\n\"Hark ye! Mr. Luk-Oie,\" said an old portrait which hung on the\nwall of Hjalmar's bedroom. \"Do you know me? I am Hjalmar's\ngreat-grandfather. I thank you for telling the boy stories, but you\nmust not confuse his ideas. The stars cannot be taken down from the\nsky and polished; they are spheres like our earth, which is a good\nthing for them.\"\n\n\"Thank you, old great-grandfather,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie. \"I thank\nyou; you may be the head of the family, as no doubt you are, but I\nam older than you. I am an ancient heathen. The old Romans and\nGreeks named me the Dream-god. I have visited the noblest houses,\nand continue to do so; still I know how to conduct myself both to high\nand low, and now you may tell the stories yourself:\" and so\nOle-Luk-Oie walked off, taking his umbrellas with him.\n\n\"Well, well, one is never to give an opinion, I suppose,\" grumbled\nthe portrait. And it woke Hjalmar.\n\n\nSUNDAY\n\n\"Good evening,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie.\n\nHjalmar nodded, and then sprang out of bed, and turned his\ngreat-grandfather's portrait to the wall, so that it might not\ninterrupt them as it had done yesterday. \"Now,\" said he, \"you must\ntell me some stories about five green peas that lived in one pod; or\nof the chickseed that courted the chickweed; or of the darning needle,\nwho acted so proudly because she fancied herself an embroidery\nneedle.\"\n\n\"You may have too much of a good thing,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie. \"You\nknow that I like best to show you something, so I will show you my\nbrother. He is also called Ole-Luk-Oie but he never visits any one but\nonce, and when he does come, he takes him away on his horse, and tells\nhim stories as they ride along. He knows only two stories. One of\nthese is so wonderfully beautiful, that no one in the world can\nimagine anything at all like it; but the other is just as ugly and\nfrightful, so that it would be impossible to describe it.\" Then\nOle-Luk-Oie lifted Hjalmar up to the window. \"There now, you can see\nmy brother, the other Ole-Luk-Oie; he is also called Death. You\nperceive he is not so bad as they represent him in picture books;\nthere he is a skeleton, but now his coat is embroidered with silver,\nand he wears the splendid uniform of a hussar, and a mantle of black\nvelvet flies behind him, over the horse. Look, how he gallops\nalong.\" Hjalmar saw that as this Ole-Luk-Oie rode on, he lifted up old\nand young, and carried them away on his horse. Some he seated in front\nof him, and some behind, but always inquired first, \"How stands the\nmark-book?\"\n\n\"Good,\" they all answered.\n\n\"Yes, but let me see for myself,\" he replied; and they were\nobliged to give him the books. Then all those who had \"Very good,\"\nor \"Exceedingly good,\" came in front of the horse, and heard the\nbeautiful story; while those who had \"Middling,\" or \"Tolerably\ngood,\" in their books, were obliged to sit behind, and listen to the\nfrightful tale. They trembled and cried, and wanted to jump down\nfrom the horse, but they could not get free, for they seemed\nfastened to the seat.\n\n\"Why, Death is a most splendid Luk-Oie,\" said Hjalmar. \"I am not\nin the least afraid of him.\"\n\n\"You need have no fear of him,\" said Ole-Luk-Oie, \"if you take\ncare and keep a good conduct book.\"\n\n\"Now I call that very instructive,\" murmured the\ngreat-grandfather's portrait. \"It is useful sometimes to express an\nopinion;\" so he was quite satisfied.\n\nThese are some of the doings and sayings of Ole-Luk-Oie. I hope he\nmay visit you himself this evening, and relate some more.\n\n\n\n\nOLE THE TOWER-KEEPER\n\n\"In the world it's always going up and down; and now I can't go up\nany higher!\" So said Ole the tower-keeper. \"Most people have to try\nboth the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get to\nbe watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height.\"\n\nSuch was the speech of Ole, my friend, the old tower-keeper, a\nstrange, talkative old fellow, who seemed to speak out everything that\ncame into his head, and who for all that had many a serious thought\ndeep in his heart. Yes, he was the child of respectable people, and\nthere were even some who said that he was the son of a privy\ncouncillor, or that he might have been. He had studied, too, and had\nbeen assistant teacher and deputy clerk; but of what service was all\nthat to him? In those days he lived in the clerk's house, and was to\nhave everything in the house--to be at free quarters, as the saying\nis; but he was still, so to speak, a fine young gentleman. He wanted\nto have his boots cleaned with patent blacking, and the clerk could\nonly afford ordinary grease; and upon that point they split. One spoke\nof stinginess, the other of vanity, and the blacking became the\nblack cause of enmity between them, 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\ndrew back from all men, and became a hermit; but the church tower is\nthe only place in a great city where hermitage, office and bread can\nbe found together. So he betook himself up thither, and smoked his\npipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward,\nand had his own thoughts, and told in his own way of what he read in\nbooks and in himself. I often lent him books--good books; and you\nmay know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the English\ngoverness novels nor the French ones, which he called a mixture of\nempty wind and raisin-stalks: he wanted biographies, and\ndescriptions of the wonders of, the world. I visited him at least once\na year, generally directly after New Year's day, and then he always\nspoke of this and that which the change of the year had put into his\nhead.\n\nI will tell the story of three of these visits, and will reproduce\nhis own words whenever I can remember them.\n\n\nFIRST VISIT\n\nAmong the books which I had lately lent Ole, was one which had\ngreatly rejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book,\ncontaining an account of the boulders.\n\n\"Yes, they're rare old fellows, those boulders!\" he said; \"and\nto think that we should pass them without noticing them! And over\nthe street pavement, the paving stones, those fragments of the\noldest remains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking about\nthem. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfully\nat every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me with\nthought, and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance\nof the earth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It's a\npity one can't read the first volume of it, because it is 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\nhearing, if they only knew how to talk. It's really a pleasure now and\nthen to become a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highly\nplaced as I am. And then to think that we all, even with patent\nlacquer, are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hill\nthe earth, though we may be insects with stars and garters, places and\noffices! One feels quite a novice beside these venerable\nmillion-year-old boulders. On last New Year's eve I was reading the\nbook, and had lost myself in it so completely, that I forgot my\nusual New Year's diversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amack. Ah, you\ndon't know what that 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\nwild journey, also which is national and modern, and that is the\njourney to Amack on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poets\nand poetesses, musicians, newspaper writers, and artistic\nnotabilities,--I mean those who are no good,--ride in the New Year's\nnight through the air to Amack. They sit backwards on their painting\nbrushes or quill pens, for steel pens won't bear them--they're too\nstiff. As I told you, I see that every New Year's night, and could\nmention the majority of the riders by name, but I should not like to\ndraw their enmity upon myself, for they don't like people to talk\nabout their ride to Amack on quill pens. I've a kind of niece, who\nis a fishwife, and who, as she tells me, supplies three respectable\nnewspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use, and\nshe has herself been at Amack as an invited guest; but she was carried\nout thither, for she does not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. She\nhas told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true, but the\nother half gives us information enough. When she was out there, the\nfestivities began with a song; each of the guests had written his\nown song, and each one sang his own song, for he thought that the\nbest, and it was all one, all the same melody. Then those came\nmarching up, in little bands, who are only busy with their mouths.\nThere were ringing bells that rang alternately; and then came the\nlittle drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle; and\nacquaintance was made with those who write without putting their\nnames, which here means as much as using grease instead of patent\nblacking; and then there was the beadle with his boy, and the boy\nwas worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then,\ntoo, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns over\nthe dust-bin, and calls it 'good, very good, remarkably good.' And\nin the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meeting\nof these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amack a\nstem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof,\nwhich formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in it\nhung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Out\nof the tree poured sparks like flames of fire; these were the ideas\nand thoughts, borrowed from others, which they had used, and which now\ngot free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at 'the\nstick burns,' and the young poets played at 'heart-burns,' and the\nwitlings played off their jests, and the jests rolled away with a\nthundering sound, as if empty pots were being shattered against doors.\n'It was very amusing!' my niece said; in fact, she said many things\nthat were very malicious but very amusing, but I won't mention them,\nfor a man must be good-natured, and not a carping critic. But you will\neasily perceive that when a man once knows the rights of the journey\nto Amack, as I know them, it's quite natural that on the New Year's\nnight one should look out to see the wild chase go by. If in the New\nYear I miss certain persons who used to be there, I am sure to\nnotice others who are new arrivals; but this year I omitted taking\nmy look at the guests, I bowled away on the boulders, rolled back\nthrough millions of years, and saw the stones break loose high up in\nthe north, saw them drifting about on icebergs, long before Noah's ark\nwas constructed, saw them sink down to the bottom of the sea, and\nre-appear with a sand-bank, with that one that peered forth from the\nflood and said, 'This shall be Zealand!' I saw them become the\ndwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us, and then become the\nseat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing, until with their axes\nthey cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones, which then came\ninto the calendar of time. But as for me, I had gone quite beyond\nall lapse of time, and had become a cipher and a nothing. Then three\nor four beautiful falling stars came down, which cleared the air,\nand gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a falling star\nis, do you not? The learned men are not at all clear about it. I\nhave my own ideas about shooting stars, as the common people in many\nparts call them, and my idea is this: How often are silent\nthanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble action!\nThe thanks are often speechless, but they are not lost for all that. I\nthink these thanks are caught up, and the sunbeams bring the silent,\nhidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor; and if it be a\nwhole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a long\nlapse of time, the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers, and\nat length falls in the form of a shooting star over 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\nsouthwest, as a tribute of thanksgiving to many--many! 'For whom was\nthat star intended?' thought I. It fell, no doubt, on the hill by\nthe Bay of Plensberg, where the Danebrog waves over the graves of\nSchleppegrell, Lasloes, and their comrades. One star also fell in\nthe midst of the land, fell upon Soro, a flower on the grave of\nHolberg, the thanks of the year from a great many--thanks for his\ncharming plays!\n\n\"It is a great and pleasant thought to know that a shooting star\nfalls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall--no sunbeam\nbrings thanks to me, for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. I\nshall not get the patent lacquer,\" said Ole, \"for my fate on earth\nis only grease, after all.\"\n\n\nSECOND VISIT\n\nIt was New Year's day, and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke of\nthe toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year into\nthe New--from one grave into the other, as he said. And he told me a\nstory about the glasses, and this story had a very deep meaning. It\nwas this:\n\n\"When on the New Year's night the clock strikes twelve, the people\nat the 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 drunkards. 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 arbor of\nhealth.\n\n\"If you take the second glass--from this a little bird soars\nupward, twittering in guileless cheerfulness, so that a man may listen\nto his song, and perhaps join in 'Fair is life! no downcast looks!\nTake 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\nharm you, indeed, but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'll\nsit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you; he'll creep into\nyour heart and warm you, so that you grow very merry, and become a\nwit, so far 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\nfeel such a deep emotion; or it will affect you in a different way.\nOut of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival, nine\ntimes and extravagantly merry. He'll draw you away with him; you'll\nforget your dignity, if you have any, and you'll forget more than\nyou should or ought to forget. All is dance, song and sound: the masks\nwill carry you away with them, and the daughters of vanity, clad in\nsilk and satin, will come with loose hair and alluring charms; but\ntear yourself away if you can!\n\n\"The sixth glass! Yes, in that glass sits a demon, in the form\nof a little, 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\nmingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass, and with that\nthe germ of all evil shoots up within us; and each one grows up with a\nstrength like that of the grains of mustard-seed, and shoots up into a\ntree, and spreads over the whole world: and most people have no choice\nbut to 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,\n\"and it can be told with lacquer or only with grease; but I give it\nyou with both!\"\n\n\nTHIRD VISIT\n\nOn this occasion I chose the general \"moving-day\" for my visit\nto Ole, for on that day it is anything but agreeable down in the\nstreets in the town; for they are full of sweepings, shreds, and\nremnants of all sorts, to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in which\none has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two children\nplaying in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at \"going\nto bed,\" for the occasion seemed especially favorable for this\nsport. They crept under the straw, and drew an old bit of ragged\ncurtain over themselves by way of coverlet. \"It was splendid!\" they\nsaid; but it was a little too strong for me, and besides, I was\nobliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.\n\n\"It's moving-day to day,\" he said; \"streets and houses are like\na dust-bin--a large dust-bin; but I'm content with a cartload. I may\nget something good out of that, and I really did get something good\nout of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street;\nit was rough weather, wet and dirty--the right kind of weather to\ncatch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart, which was full,\nand looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of\nthe cart stood a fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on its\ntwigs; it had been used on Christmas eve, and now it was thrown out\ninto the street, and the dustman had stood it up at the back of his\ncart. It was droll to look at, or you may say it was mournful--all\ndepends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought about\nit, and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart: or\nI might have done so, and that comes to the same thing. There was an\nold lady's glove, too: I wonder what that was thinking of? Shall I\ntell you? The glove was lying there, pointing with its little finger\nat the tree. 'I'm sorry for the tree,' it thought; 'and I was also\nat the feast, where the chandeliers glittered. My life was, so to\nspeak, a ball night--a pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memory\nkeeps dwelling upon that, and I have really nothing else to live for!'\nThis is what the glove thought, or what it might have thought. 'That's\na stupid affair with yonder fir tree,' said the potsherds. You see,\npotsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in the\ndust-cart,' they said, 'one ought not to give one's self airs and wear\ntinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world--far more useful\nthan such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken, and I\ndon't think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that, the fir tree\nlooked very well: it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap; and\ntruly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way is\ndifficult and troublesome then, and I feel obliged to run away out\nof the confusion; or, if I am on the tower, I stay there and look\ndown, and it is amusing enough.\n\n\"There are the good people below, playing at 'changing houses.'\nThey toil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and the\nhousehold goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All the\nlittle griefs of the lodging and the family, and the real cares and\nsorrows, move with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and what\ngain is there for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there was\nwritten long ago the good old maxim: 'Think on the great moving-day of\ndeath!' That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable to\nyou that I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certain\nmessenger, after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes,\nDeath is the omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, and\nhe countersigns our service-book, and he is director of the savings\nbank of life. Do you understand me? All the deeds of our life, the\ngreat and the little alike, we put into this savings bank; and when\nDeath calls with his omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive with\nhim into the land of eternity, then on the frontier he gives us our\nservice-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey, he takes\nthis or that good deed we have done, and lets it accompany us; and\nthis may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escaped\nthe omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was not\nallowed to go--they call him the Wandering Jew: he has to ride\nbehind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in, he would have\nescaped 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 savings bank with them. But which\nof 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 who\nsat 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 arbor. 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;\nand the drink is bright and clear, so that the thoughts remain pure,\nand all good and noble feelings are awakened, and he sees and feels\nwhat in life he could not or would not see; and then he has within him\nthe punishment, the gnawing worm, which will not die through time\nincalculable. If on the glasses there stood written 'oblivion,' on the\nbarrel 'remembrance' is inscribed.\n\n\"When I read a good book, an historical work, I always think at\nlast of the poetry of what I am reading, and of the omnibus of\ndeath, and wonder, which of the hero's deeds Death took out of the\nsavings bank for him, and what provisions he got on the journey into\neternity. There was once a French king--I have forgotten his name, for\nthe names of good people are sometimes forgotten, even by me, but it\nwill come back some day;--there was a king who, during a famine,\nbecame the benefactor of his people; and the people raised up to his\nmemory a monument of snow, with the inscription, 'Quicker than this\nmelts didst thou bring help!' I fancy that Death, looking back upon\nthe monument, gave him a single snow-flake as provision, a\nsnow-flake that never melts, and this flake floated over his royal\nhead, like a white butterfly, into the land of eternity. Thus, too,\nthere was Louis XI. I have remembered his name, for one remembers what\nis bad--a trait of him often comes into my thoughts, and I wish one\ncould say the story is not true. He had his lord high constable\nexecuted, and he could execute him, right or wrong; but he had the\ninnocent children of the constable, one seven and the other eight\nyears old, placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of their\nfather spurted over them, and then he had them sent to the Bastille,\nand shut up in iron cages, where not even a coverlet was given them to\nprotect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner to\nthem every week, and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each,\nthat they might not be too comfortable; and the elder of the boys\nsaid, 'My mother would die of grief if she knew that my younger\nbrother had to suffer so cruelly; therefore pull out two of my\nteeth, and spare him.' The tears came into the hangman's eyes, but the\nking's will was stronger than the tears; and every week two little\nteeth were brought to him on a silver plate; he had demanded them, and\nhe had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of the\nsavings bank of life, and gave them to Louis XI, to carry with him\non the great journey into the land of immortality; they fly before him\nlike two flames of fire; they shine and burn, and they bite him, the\ninnocent 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 hour, 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\nmarked in the calendar.\"\n\n\n\n\nOUR AUNT\n\nYou ought to have known our aunt; she was charming! That is to\nsay, she was not charming at all as the word is usually understood;\nbut she was good and kind, amusing in her way, and was just as any one\nought to be whom people are to talk about and to laugh at. She might\nhave been put into a play, and wholly and solely on account of the\nfact that she only lived for the theatre and for what was done\nthere. She was an honorable matron; but Agent Fabs, whom she used to\ncall \"Flabs,\" declared that our aunt was stage-struck.\n\n\"The theatre is my school,\" said she, \"the source of my knowledge.\nFrom thence I have resuscitated Biblical history. Now, 'Moses' and\n'Joseph in Egypt'--there are operas for you! I get my universal\nhistory from the theatre, my geography, and my knowledge of men. Out\nof the French pieces I get to know life in Paris--slippery, but\nexceedingly interesting. How I have cried over 'La Famille\nRoquebourg'--that the man must drink himself to death, so that she may\nmarry the young fellow! Yes, how many tears I have wept in the fifty\nyears I have subscribed to the theatre!\"\n\nOur aunt knew every acting play, every bit of scenery, every\ncharacter, every one who appeared or had appeared. She seemed really\nonly to live during the nine months the theatre was open. Summertime\nwithout a summer theatre seemed to be only a time that made her old;\nwhile, on the other hand, a theatrical evening that lasted till\nmidnight was a lengthening of her life. She did not say, as other\npeople do, \"Now we shall have spring, the stork is here,\" or, \"They've\nadvertised the first strawberries in the papers.\" She, on the\ncontrary, used to announce the coming of autumn, with \"Have you\nheard they're selling boxes for the theatre? now the performances will\nbegin.\"\n\nShe used to value a lodging entirely according to its proximity to\nthe theatre. It was a real sorrow to her when she had to leave the\nlittle lane behind the playhouse, and move into the great street\nthat lay a little farther off, and live there in a house where she had\nno opposite neighbors.\n\n\"At home,\" said she, \"my windows must be my opera-box. One\ncannot sit and look into one's self till one's tired; one must see\npeople. But now I live just as if I'd go into the country. If I want\nto see human beings, I must go into my kitchen, and sit down on the\nsink, for there only I have opposite neighbors. No; when I lived in my\ndear little lane, I could look straight down into the ironmonger's\nshop, and had only three hundred paces to the theatre; and now I've\nthree thousand paces to go, military measurement.\"\n\nOur aunt was sometimes ill, but however unwell she might feel, she\nnever missed the play. The doctor prescribed one day that she should\nput her feet in a bran bath, and she followed his advice; but she\ndrove to the theatre all the same, and sat with her feet in bran\nthere. If she had died there, she would have been very glad.\nThorwaldsen died in the theatre, and she called that a happy death.\n\nShe could not imagine but that in heaven there must be a theatre\ntoo. It had not, indeed, been promised us, but we might very well\nimagine it. The many distinguished actors and actresses who had passed\naway must surely have a field for their talent.\n\nOur aunt had an electric wire from the theatre to her room. A\ntelegram used to be dispatched to her at coffee-time, and it used to\nconsist of the words, \"Herr Sivertsen is at the machinery;\" for it was\nhe who gave the signal for drawing the curtain up and down and for\nchanging the scenes.\n\nFrom him she used to receive a short and concise description of\nevery piece. His opinion of Shakspeare's \"Tempest,\" was, \"Mad\nnonsense! There's so much to put up, and the first scene begins with\n'Water to the front of the wings.'\" That is to say, the water had to\ncome forward so far. But when, on the other hand, the same interior\nscene remained through five acts, he used to pronounce it a\nsensible, well-written play, a resting play, which performed itself,\nwithout putting up scenes.\n\nIn earlier times, by which name our aunt used to designate\nthirty years ago, she and the before-mentioned Herr Sivertsen had been\nyounger. At that time he had already been connected with the\nmachinery, and was, as she said, her benefactor. It used to be the\ncustom in those days that in the evening performances in the only\ntheatre the town possessed, spectators were admitted to the part\ncalled the \"flies,\" over the stage, and every machinist had one or two\nplaces to give away. Often the flies were quite full of good\ncompany; it was said that generals' wives and privy councillors' wives\nhad been up there. It was quite interesting to look down behind the\nscenes, and to see how the people walked to and fro on the stage\nwhen the curtain was down.\n\nOur aunt had been there several times, as well when there was a\ntragedy as when there was a ballet; for the pieces in which there were\nthe greatest number of characters on the stage were the most\ninteresting to see from the flies. One sat pretty much in the dark\nup there, and most people took their supper up with them. Once three\napples and a great piece of bread and butter and sausage fell down\nright into the dungeon of Ugolino, where that unhappy man was to be\nstarved to death; and there was great laughter among the audience. The\nsausage was one of the weightiest reasons why the worthy management\nrefused in future to have any spectators up in the flies.\n\n\"But I was there seven-and-thirty times,\" said our aunt, \"and I\nshall always remember Mr. Sivertsen for that.\"\n\nOn the very last evening when the flies were still open to the\npublic, the \"Judgment of Solomon\" was performed, as our aunt\nremembered very well. She had, through the influence of her\nbenefactor, Herr Sivertsen, procured a free admission for the Agent\nFabs, although he did not deserve it in the least, for he was always\ncutting his jokes about the theatre and teasing our aunt; but she\nhad procured him a free admission to the flies, for all that. He\nwanted to look at this player-stuff from the other side.\n\n\"Those were his own words, and they were just like him,\" said\nour aunt.\n\nHe looked down from above on the 'Judgment of Solomon,' and fell\nasleep over it. One would have thought that he had come from a\ndinner where many toasts had been given. He went to sleep, and was\nlocked in. And there he sat through the dark night in the flies, and\nwhen he woke, he told a story, but our aunt would not believe it.\n\n\"The 'Judgment of Solomon' was over,\" he said, \"and all the people\nhad gone away, up stairs and down stairs; but now the real play began,\nthe after-piece, which was the best of all,\" said the agent. \"Then\nlife came into the affair. It was not the 'Judgment of Solomon' that\nwas performed; no, a real court of judgment was held upon the\nstage.\" And Agent Fabs had the impudence to try and make our aunt\nbelieve all this. That was the thanks she got for having got him a\nplace in the flies.\n\nWhat did the agent say? Why, it was curious enough to hear, but\nthere was malice and satire in it.\n\n\"It looked dark enough up there,\" said the agent; \"but then the\nmagic business began--a great performance, 'The Judgment in the\nTheatre.' The box-keepers were at their posts, and every spectator had\nto show his ghostly pass-book, that it might be decided if he was to\nbe admitted with hands loose or bound, and with or without a muzzle.\nGrand people who came too late, when the performance had begun, and\nyoung people, who could not always watch the time, were tied up\noutside, and had list slippers put on their feet, with which they were\nallowed to go in before the beginning of the next act, and they had\nmuzzles too. And then the 'Judgment on the Stage' began.\"\n\n\"All malice, and not a bit of truth in it,\" said our aunt.\n\nThe painter, who wanted to get to Paradise, had to go up a\nstaircase which he had himself painted, but which no man could\nmount. That was to expiate his sins against perspective. All the\nplants and buildings, which the property-man had placed, with infinite\npains, in countries to which they did not belong, the poor fellow\nwas obliged to put in their right places before cockcrow, if he wanted\nto get into Paradise. Let Herr Fabs see how he would get in himself;\nbut what he said of the performers, tragedians and comedians,\nsingers and dancers, that was the most rascally of all. Mr. Fabs,\nindeed!--Flabs! He did not deserve to be admitted at all, and our aunt\nwould not soil her lips with what he said. And he said, did Flabs,\nthat the whole was written down, and it should be printed when he\nwas dead and buried, but not before, for he would not risk having\nhis arms and legs broken.\n\nOnce our aunt had been in fear and trembling in her temple of\nhappiness, the theatre. It was on a winter day, one of those days in\nwhich one has a couple of hours of daylight, with a gray sky. It was\nterribly cold and snowy, but aunt must go to the theatre. A little\nopera and a great ballet were performed, and a prologue and an\nepilogue into the bargain; and that would last till late at night. Our\naunt must needs go; so she borrowed a pair of fur boots of her\nlodger--boots with fur inside and out, and which reached far up\nher legs.\n\nShe got to the theatre, and to her box; the boots were warm, and\nshe kept them on. Suddenly there was a cry of \"Fire!\" Smoke was coming\nfrom one of the side scenes, and streamed down from the flies, and\nthere was a terrible panic. The people came rushing out, and our\naunt was the last in the box, \"on the second tier, left-hand side, for\nfrom there the scenery looks best,\" she used to say. \"The scenes are\nalways arranged that they look best from the King's side.\" Aunt wanted\nto come out, but the people before her, in their fright and\nheedlessness, slammed the door of the box; and there sat our aunt, and\ncouldn't get out, and couldn't get in; that is to say, she couldn't\nget into the next box, for the partition was too high for her. She\ncalled out, and no one heard her; she looked down into the tier of\nboxes below her, and it was empty, and low, and looked quite near, and\naunt in her terror felt quite young and light. She thought of\njumping down, and had got one leg over the partition, the other\nresting on the bench. There she sat astride, as if on horseback,\nwell wrapped up in her flowered cloak with one leg hanging out--a\nleg in a tremendous fur boot. That was a sight to behold; and when\nit was beheld, our aunt was heard too, and was saved from burning, for\nthe theatre was not burned down.\n\nThat was the most memorable evening of her life, and she was\nglad that she could not see herself, for she would have died with\nconfusion.\n\nHer benefactor in the machinery department, Herr Sivertsen,\nvisited her every Sunday, but it was a long time from Sunday to\nSunday. In the latter time, therefore, she used to have in a little\nchild \"for the scraps;\" that is to say, to eat up the remains of the\ndinner. It was a child employed in the ballet, one that certainly\nwanted feeding. The little one used to appear, sometimes as an elf,\nsometimes as a page; the most difficult part she had to play was the\nlion's hind leg in the \"Magic Flute;\" but as she grew larger she could\nrepresent the fore-feet of the lion. She certainly only got half a\nguilder for that, whereas the hind legs were paid for with a whole\nguilder; but then she had to walk bent, and to do without fresh air.\n\"That was all very interesting to hear,\" said our aunt.\n\nShe deserved to live as long as the theatre stood, but she could\nnot last so long; and she did not die in the theatre, but\nrespectably in her bed. Her last words were, moreover, not without\nmeaning. She asked,\n\n\"What will the play be to-morrow?\"\n\nAt her death she left about five hundred dollars. We presume\nthis from the interest, which came to twenty dollars. This our aunt\nhad destined as a legacy for a worthy old spinster who had no friends;\nit was to be devoted to a yearly subscription for a place in the\nsecond tier, on the left side, for the Saturday evening, \"for on\nthat evening two pieces were always given,\" it said in the will; and\nthe only condition laid upon the person who enjoyed the legacy was,\nthat she should think, every Saturday evening, of our aunt, who was\nlying in her grave.\n\nThis was our aunt's religion.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GARDEN OF PARADISE\n\nThere was once a king's son who had a larger and more beautiful\ncollection of books than any one else in the world, and full of\nsplendid copper-plate engravings. He could read and obtain information\nrespecting every people of every land; but not a word could he find to\nexplain the situation of the garden of paradise, and this was just\nwhat he most wished to know. His grandmother had told him when he\nwas quite a little boy, just old enough to go to school, that each\nflower in the garden of paradise was a sweet cake, that the pistils\nwere full of rich wine, that on one flower history was written, on\nanother geography or tables; so those who wished to learn their\nlessons had only to eat some of the cakes, and the more they ate,\nthe more history, geography, or tables they knew. He believed it all\nthen; but as he grew older, and learnt more and more, he became wise\nenough to understand that the splendor of the garden of paradise\nmust be very different to all this. \"Oh, why did Eve pluck the fruit\nfrom the tree of knowledge? why did Adam eat the forbidden fruit?\"\nthought the king's son: \"if I had been there it would never have\nhappened, and there would have been no sin in the world.\" The garden\nof paradise occupied all his thoughts till he reached his\nseventeenth year.\n\nOne day he was walking alone in the wood, which was his greatest\npleasure, when evening came on. The clouds gathered, and the rain\npoured down as if the sky had been a waterspout; and it was as dark as\nthe bottom of a well at midnight; sometimes he slipped over the smooth\ngrass, or fell over stones that projected out of the rocky ground.\nEvery thing was dripping with moisture, and the poor prince had not\na dry thread about him. He was obliged at last to climb over great\nblocks of stone, with water spurting from the thick moss. He began\nto feel quite faint, when he heard a most singular rushing noise,\nand saw before him a large cave, from which came a blaze of light.\nIn the middle of the cave an immense fire was burning, and a noble\nstag, with its branching horns, was placed on a spit between the\ntrunks of two pine-trees. It was turning slowly before the fire, and\nan elderly woman, as large and strong as if she had been a man in\ndisguise, sat by, throwing one piece of wood after another into the\nflames.\n\n\"Come in,\" she said to the prince; \"sit down by the fire and dry\nyourself.\"\n\n\"There is a great draught here,\" said the prince, as he seated\nhimself on the ground.\n\n\"It will be worse when my sons come home,\" replied the woman; \"you\nare now in the cavern of the Winds, and my sons are the four Winds\nof heaven: can you understand that?\"\n\n\"Where are your sons?\" asked the prince.\n\n\"It is difficult to answer stupid questions,\" said the woman.\n\"My sons have plenty of business on hand; they are playing at\nshuttlecock with the clouds up yonder in the king's hall,\" and she\npointed upwards.\n\n\"Oh, indeed,\" said the prince; \"but you speak more roughly and\nharshly and are not so gentle as the women I am used to.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is because they have nothing else to do; but I am\nobliged to be harsh, to keep my boys in order, and I can do it,\nalthough they are so head-strong. Do you see those four sacks\nhanging on the wall? Well, they are just as much afraid of those\nsacks, as you used to be of the rat behind the looking-glass. I can\nbend the boys together, and put them in the sacks without any\nresistance on their parts, I can tell you. There they stay, and dare\nnot attempt to come out until I allow them to do so. And here comes\none of them.\"\n\nIt was the North Wind who came in, bringing with him a cold,\npiercing blast; large hailstones rattled on the floor, and\nsnowflakes were scattered around in all directions. He wore a bearskin\ndress and cloak. His sealskin cap was drawn over his ears, long\nicicles hung from his beard, and one hailstone after another rolled\nfrom the collar of his jacket.\n\n\"Don't go too near the fire,\" said the prince, \"or your hands\nand face will be frost-bitten.\"\n\n\"Frost-bitten!\" said the North Wind, with a loud laugh; \"why frost\nis my greatest delight. What sort of a little snip are you, and how\ndid you find your way to the cavern of the Winds?\"\n\n\"He is my guest,\" said the old woman, \"and if you are not\nsatisfied with that explanation you can go into the sack. Do you\nunderstand me?\"\n\nThat settled the matter. So the North Wind began to relate his\nadventures, whence he came, and where he had been for a whole month.\n\"I come from the polar seas,\" he said; \"I have been on the Bear's\nIsland with the Russian walrus-hunters. I sat and slept at the helm of\ntheir ship, as they sailed away from North Cape. Sometimes when I\nwoke, the storm-birds would fly about my legs. They are curious birds;\nthey give one flap with their wings, and then on their outstretched\npinions soar far away.\n\n\"Don't make such a long story of it,\" said the mother of the\nwinds; \"what sort of a place is Bear's Island?\"\n\n\"A very beautiful place, with a floor for dancing as smooth and\nflat as a plate. Half-melted snow, partly covered with moss, sharp\nstones, and skeletons of walruses and polar-bears, lie all about,\ntheir gigantic limbs in a state of green decay. It would seem as if\nthe sun never shone there. I blew gently, to clear away the mist,\nand then I saw a little hut, which had been built from the wood of a\nwreck, and was covered with the skins of the walrus, the fleshy side\noutwards; it looked green and red, and on the roof sat a growling\nbear. Then I went to the sea shore, to look after birds' nests, and\nsaw the unfledged nestlings opening their mouths and screaming for\nfood. I blew into the thousand little throats, and quickly stopped\ntheir screaming. Farther on were the walruses with pig's heads, and\nteeth a yard long, rolling about like great worms.\n\n\"You relate your adventures very well, my son,\" said the mother,\n\"it makes my mouth water to hear you.\n\n\"After that,\" continued the North Wind, \"the hunting commenced.\nThe harpoon was flung into the breast of the walrus, so that a smoking\nstream of blood spurted forth like a fountain, and besprinkled the\nice. Then I thought of my own game; I began to blow, and set my own\nships, the great icebergs sailing, so that they might crush the boats.\nOh, how the sailors howled and cried out! but I howled louder than\nthey. They were obliged to unload their cargo, and throw their\nchests and the dead walruses on the ice. Then I sprinkled snow over\nthem, and left them in their crushed boats to drift southward, and\nto taste salt water. They will never return to Bear's Island.\"\n\n\"So you have done mischief,\" said the mother of the Winds.\n\n\"I shall leave others to tell the good I have done,\" he replied.\n\"But here comes my brother from the West; I like him best of all,\nfor he has the smell of the sea about him, and brings in a cold, fresh\nair as he enters.\"\n\n\"Is that the little Zephyr?\" asked the prince.\n\n\"Yes, it is the little Zephyr,\" said the old woman; \"but he is not\nlittle now. In years gone by he was a beautiful boy; now that is all\npast.\"\n\nHe came in, looking like a wild man, and he wore a slouched hat to\nprotect his head from injury. In his hand he carried a club, cut\nfrom a mahogany tree in the American forests, not a trifle to carry.\n\n\"Whence do you come?\" asked the mother.\n\n\"I come from the wilds of the forests, where the thorny brambles\nform thick hedges between the trees; where the water-snake lies in the\nwet grass, and mankind seem to be unknown.\"\n\n\"What were you doing there?\"\n\n\"I looked into the deep river, and saw it rushing down from the\nrocks. The water drops mounted to the clouds and glittered in the\nrainbow. I saw the wild buffalo swimming in the river, but the\nstrong tide carried him away amidst a flock of wild ducks, which\nflew into the air as the waters dashed onwards, leaving the buffalo to\nbe hurled over the waterfall. This pleased me; so I raised a storm,\nwhich rooted up old trees, and sent them floating down the river.\"\n\n\"And what else have you done?\" asked the old woman.\n\n\"I have rushed wildly across the savannahs; I have stroked the\nwild horses, and shaken the cocoa-nuts from the trees. Yes, I have\nmany stories to relate; but I need not tell everything I know. You\nknow it all very well, don't you, old lady?\" And he kissed his\nmother so roughly, that she nearly fell backwards. Oh, he was, indeed,\na wild fellow.\n\nNow in came the South Wind, with a turban and a flowing Bedouin\ncloak.\n\n\"How cold it is here!\" said he, throwing more wood on the fire.\n\"It is easy to feel that the North Wind has arrived here before me.\"\n\n\"Why it is hot enough here to roast a bear,\" said the North Wind.\n\n\"You are a bear yourself,\" said the other.\n\n\"Do you want to be put in the sack, both of you?\" said the old\nwoman. \"Sit down, now, on that stone, yonder, and tell me where you\nhave been.\"\n\n\"In Africa, mother. I went out with the Hottentots, who were\nlion-hunting in the Kaffir land, where the plains are covered with\ngrass the color of a green olive; and here I ran races with the\nostrich, but I soon outstripped him in swiftness. At last I came to\nthe desert, in which lie the golden sands, looking like the bottom\nof the sea. Here I met a caravan, and the travellers had just killed\ntheir last camel, to obtain water; there was very little for them, and\nthey continued their painful journey beneath the burning sun, and over\nthe hot sands, which stretched before them a vast, boundless desert.\nThen I rolled myself in the loose sand, and whirled it in burning\ncolumns over their heads. The dromedarys stood still in terror,\nwhile the merchants drew their caftans over their heads, and threw\nthemselves on the ground before me, as they do before Allah, their\ngod. Then I buried them beneath a pyramid of sand, which covers them\nall. When I blow that away on my next visit, the sun will bleach their\nbones, and travellers will see that others have been there before\nthem; otherwise, in such a wild desert, they might not believe it\npossible.\"\n\n\"So you have done nothing but evil,\" said the mother. \"Into the\nsack with you;\" and, before he was aware, she had seized the South\nWind round the body, and popped him into the bag. He rolled about on\nthe floor, till she sat herself upon him to keep him still.\n\n\"These boys of yours are very lively,\" said the prince.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied, \"but I know how to correct them, when\nnecessary; and here comes the fourth.\" In came the East Wind,\ndressed like a Chinese.\n\n\"Oh, you come from that quarter, do you?\" said she; \"I thought you\nhad been to the garden of paradise.\"\n\n\"I am going there to-morrow,\" he replied; \"I have not been there\nfor a hundred years. I have just come from China, where I danced round\nthe porcelain tower till all the bells jingled again. In the streets\nan official flogging was taking place, and bamboo canes were being\nbroken on the shoulders of men of every high position, from the\nfirst to the ninth grade. They cried, 'Many thanks, my fatherly\nbenefactor;' but I am sure the words did not come from their hearts,\nso I rang the bells till they sounded, 'ding, ding-dong.'\"\n\n\"You are a wild boy,\" said the old woman; \"it is well for you that\nyou are going to-morrow to the garden of paradise; you always get\nimproved in your education there. Drink deeply from the fountain of\nwisdom while you are there, and bring home a bottleful for me.\"\n\n\"That I will,\" said the East Wind; \"but why have you put my\nbrother South in a bag? Let him out; for I want him to tell me about\nthe phoenix-bird. The princess always wants to hear of this bird\nwhen I pay her my visit every hundred years. If you will open the\nsack, sweetest mother, I will give you two pocketfuls of tea, green\nand fresh as when I gathered it from the spot where it grew.\"\n\n\"Well, for the sake of the tea, and because you are my own boy,\nI will open the bag.\"\n\nShe did so, and the South Wind crept out, looking quite cast down,\nbecause the prince had seen his disgrace.\n\n\"There is a palm-leaf for the princess,\" he said. \"The old\nphoenix, the only one in the world, gave it to me himself. He has\nscratched on it with his beak the whole of his history during the\nhundred years he has lived. She can there read how the old phoenix set\nfire to his own nest, and sat upon it while it was burning, like a\nHindoo widow. The dry twigs around the nest crackled and smoked till\nthe flames burst forth and consumed the phoenix to ashes. Amidst the\nfire lay an egg, red hot, which presently burst with a loud report,\nand out flew a young bird. He is the only phoenix in the world, and\nthe king over all the other birds. He has bitten a hole in the leaf\nwhich I give you, and that is his greeting to the princess.\"\n\n\"Now let us have something to eat,\" said the mother of the\nWinds. So they all sat down to feast on the roasted stag; and as the\nprince sat by the side of the East Wind, they soon became good\nfriends.\n\n\"Pray tell me,\" said the prince, \"who is that princess of whom you\nhave been talking! and where lies the garden of paradise?\"\n\n\"Ho! ho!\" said the East Wind, \"would you like to go there? Well,\nyou can fly off with me to-morrow; but I must tell you one thing--no\nhuman being has been there since the time of Adam and Eve. I suppose\nyou have read of them in your Bible.\"\n\n\"Of course I have,\" said the prince.\n\n\"Well,\" continued the East Wind, \"when they were driven out of the\ngarden of paradise, it sunk into the earth; but it retained its warm\nsunshine, its balmy air, and all its splendor. The fairy queen lives\nthere, in the island of happiness, where death never comes, and all is\nbeautiful. I can manage to take you there to-morrow, if you will sit\non my back. But now don't talk any more, for I want to go to sleep;\"\nand then they all slept.\n\nWhen the prince awoke in the early morning, he was not a little\nsurprised at finding himself high up above the clouds. He was seated\non the back of the East Wind, who held him faithfully; and they were\nso high in the air that woods and fields, rivers and lakes, as they\nlay beneath them, looked like a painted map.\n\n\"Good morning,\" said the East Wind. \"You might have slept on a\nwhile; for there is very little to see in the flat country over\nwhich we are passing unless you like to count the churches; they\nlook like spots of chalk on a green board.\" The green board was the\nname he gave to the green fields and meadows.\n\n\"It was very rude of me not to say good-bye to your mother and\nyour brothers,\" said the prince.\n\n\"They will excuse you, as you were asleep,\" said the East Wind;\nand then they flew on faster than ever.\n\nThe leaves and branches of the trees rustled as they passed.\nWhen they flew over seas and lakes, the waves rose higher, and the\nlarge ships dipped into the water like diving swans. As darkness\ncame on, towards evening, the great towns looked charming; lights were\nsparkling, now seen now hidden, just as the sparks go out one after\nanother on a piece of burnt paper. The prince clapped his hands with\npleasure; but the East Wind advised him not to express his\nadmiration in that manner, or he might fall down, and find himself\nhanging on a church steeple. The eagle in the dark forests flies\nswiftly; but faster than he flew the East Wind. The Cossack, on his\nsmall horse, rides lightly o'er the plains; but lighter still passed\nthe prince on the winds of the wind.\n\n\"There are the Himalayas, the highest mountains in Asia,\" said the\nEast Wind. \"We shall soon reach the garden of paradise now.\"\n\nThen, they turned southward, and the air became fragrant with\nthe perfume of spices and flowers. Here figs and pomegranates grew\nwild, and the vines were covered with clusters of blue and purple\ngrapes. Here they both descended to the earth, and stretched\nthemselves on the soft grass, while the flowers bowed to the breath of\nthe wind as if to welcome it. \"Are we now in the garden of\nparadise?\" asked the prince.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" replied the East Wind; \"but we shall be there very\nsoon. Do you see that wall of rocks, and the cavern beneath it, over\nwhich the grape vines hang like a green curtain? Through that cavern\nwe must pass. Wrap your cloak round you; for while the sun scorches\nyou here, a few steps farther it will be icy cold. The bird flying\npast the entrance to the cavern feels as if one wing were in the\nregion of summer, and the other in the depths of winter.\"\n\n\"So this then is the way to the garden of paradise?\" asked the\nprince, as they entered the cavern. It was indeed cold; but the cold\nsoon passed, for the East Wind spread his wings, and they gleamed like\nthe brightest fire. As they passed on through this wonderful cave, the\nprince could see great blocks of stone, from which water trickled,\nhanging over their heads in fantastic shapes. Sometimes it was so\nnarrow that they had to creep on their hands and knees, while at other\ntimes it was lofty and wide, like the free air. It had the\nappearance of a chapel for the dead, with petrified organs and\nsilent pipes. \"We seem to be passing through the valley of death to\nthe garden of paradise,\" said the prince.\n\nBut the East Wind answered not a word, only pointed forwards to\na lovely blue light which gleamed in the distance. The blocks of stone\nassumed a misty appearance, till at last they looked like white clouds\nin moonlight. The air was fresh and balmy, like a breeze from the\nmountains perfumed with flowers from a valley of roses. A river, clear\nas the air itself, sparkled at their feet, while in its clear depths\ncould be seen gold and silver fish sporting in the bright water, and\npurple eels emitting sparks of fire at every moment, while the broad\nleaves of the water-lilies, that floated on its surface, flickered\nwith all the colors of the rainbow. The flower in its color of flame\nseemed to receive its nourishment from the water, as a lamp is\nsustained by oil. A marble bridge, of such exquisite workmanship\nthat it appeared as if formed of lace and pearls, led to the island of\nhappiness, in which bloomed the garden of paradise. The East Wind took\nthe prince in his arms, and carried him over, while the flowers and\nthe leaves sang the sweet songs of his childhood in tones so full\nand soft that no human voice could venture to imitate. Within the\ngarden grew large trees, full of sap; but whether they were palm-trees\nor gigantic water-plants, the prince knew not. The climbing plants\nhung in garlands of green and gold, like the illuminations on the\nmargins of old missals or twined among the initial letters. Birds,\nflowers, and festoons appeared intermingled in seeming confusion.\nClose by, on the grass, stood a group of peacocks, with radiant\ntails outspread to the sun. The prince touched them, and found, to his\nsurprise, that they were not really birds, but the leaves of the\nburdock tree, which shone with the colors of a peacock's tail. The\nlion and the tiger, gentle and tame, were springing about like playful\ncats among the green bushes, whose perfume was like the fragrant\nblossom of the olive. The plumage of the wood-pigeon glistened like\npearls as it struck the lion's mane with its wings; while the\nantelope, usually so shy, stood near, nodding its head as if it wished\nto join in the frolic. The fairy of paradise next made her appearance.\nHer raiment shone like the sun, and her serene countenance beamed with\nhappiness like that of a mother rejoicing over her child. She was\nyoung and beautiful, and a train of lovely maidens followed her,\neach wearing a bright star in her hair. The East Wind gave her the\npalm-leaf, on which was written the history of the phoenix; and her\neyes sparkled with joy. She then took the prince by the hand, and\nled him into her palace, the walls of which were richly colored,\nlike a tulip-leaf when it is turned to the sun. The roof had the\nappearance of an inverted flower, and the colors grew deeper and\nbrighter to the gazer. The prince walked to a window, and saw what\nappeared to be the tree of knowledge of good and evil, with Adam and\nEve standing by, and the serpent near them. \"I thought they were\nbanished from paradise,\" he said.\n\nThe princess smiled, and told him that time had engraved each\nevent on a window-pane in the form of a picture; but, unlike other\npictures, all that it represented lived and moved,--the leaves\nrustled, and the persons went and came, as in a looking-glass. He\nlooked through another pane, and saw the ladder in Jacob's dream, on\nwhich the angels were ascending and descending with outspread wings.\nAll that had ever happened in the world here lived and moved on the\npanes of glass, in pictures such as time alone could produce. The\nfairy now led the prince into a large, lofty room with transparent\nwalls, through which the light shone. Here were portraits, each one\nappearing more beautiful than the other--millions of happy beings,\nwhose laughter and song mingled in one sweet melody: some of these\nwere in such an elevated position that they appeared smaller than\nthe smallest rosebud, or like pencil dots on paper. In the centre of\nthe hall stood a tree, with drooping branches, from which hung\ngolden apples, both great and small, looking like oranges amid the\ngreen leaves. It was the tree of knowledge of good and evil, from\nwhich Adam and Eve had plucked and eaten the forbidden fruit, and from\neach leaf trickled a bright red dewdrop, as if the tree were weeping\ntears of blood for their sin. \"Let us now take the boat,\" said the\nfairy: \"a sail on the cool waters will refresh us. But we shall not\nmove from the spot, although the boat may rock on the swelling\nwater; the countries of the world will glide before us, but we shall\nremain still.\"\n\nIt was indeed wonderful to behold. First came the lofty Alps,\nsnow-clad, and covered with clouds and dark pines. The horn resounded,\nand the shepherds sang merrily in the valleys. The banana-trees bent\ntheir drooping branches over the boat, black swans floated on the\nwater, and singular animals and flowers appeared on the distant shore.\nNew Holland, the fifth division of the world, now glided by, with\nmountains in the background, looking blue in the distance. They\nheard the song of the priests, and saw the wild dance of the savage to\nthe sound of the drums and trumpets of bone; the pyramids of Egypt\nrising to the clouds; columns and sphinxes, overthrown and buried in\nthe sand, followed in their turn; while the northern lights flashed\nout over the extinguished volcanoes of the north, in fireworks none\ncould imitate.\n\nThe prince was delighted, and yet he saw hundreds of other\nwonderful things more than can be described. \"Can I stay here\nforever?\" asked he.\n\n\"That depends upon yourself,\" replied the fairy. \"If you do not,\nlike Adam, long for what is forbidden, you can remain here always.\"\n\n\"I should not touch the fruit on the tree of knowledge,\" said\nthe prince; \"there is abundance of fruit equally beautiful.\"\n\n\"Examine your own heart,\" said the princess, \"and if you do not\nfeel sure of its strength, return with the East Wind who brought\nyou. He is about to fly back, and will not return here for a hundred\nyears. The time will not seem to you more than a hundred hours, yet\neven that is a long time for temptation and resistance. Every evening,\nwhen I leave you, I shall be obliged to say, 'Come with me,' and to\nbeckon to you with my hand. But you must not listen, nor move from\nyour place to follow me; for with every step you will find your\npower to resist weaker. If once you attempted to follow me, you\nwould soon find yourself in the hall, where grows the tree of\nknowledge, for I sleep beneath its perfumed branches. If you stooped\nover me, I should be forced to smile. If you then kissed my lips,\nthe garden of paradise would sink into the earth, and to you it\nwould be lost. A keen wind from the desert would howl around you; cold\nrain fall on your head, and sorrow and woe be your future lot.\"\n\n\"I will remain,\" said the prince.\n\nSo the East Wind kissed him on the forehead, and said, \"Be firm;\nthen shall we meet again when a hundred years have passed. Farewell,\nfarewell.\" Then the East Wind spread his broad pinions, which shone\nlike the lightning in harvest, or as the northern lights in a cold\nwinter.\n\n\"Farewell, farewell,\" echoed the trees and the flowers.\n\nStorks and pelicans flew after him in feathery bands, to accompany\nhim to the boundaries of the garden.\n\n\"Now we will commence dancing,\" said the fairy; \"and when it is\nnearly over at sunset, while I am dancing with you, I shall make a\nsign, and ask you to follow me: but do not obey. I shall be obliged to\nrepeat the same thing for a hundred years; and each time, when the\ntrial is past, if you resist, you will gain strength, till\nresistance becomes easy, and at last the temptation will be quite\novercome. This evening, as it will be the first time, I have warned\nyou.\"\n\nAfter this the fairy led him into a large hall, filled with\ntransparent lilies. The yellow stamina of each flower formed a tiny\ngolden harp, from which came forth strains of music like the mingled\ntones of flute and lyre. Beautiful maidens, slender and graceful in\nform, and robed in transparent gauze, floated through the dance, and\nsang of the happy life in the garden of paradise, where death never\nentered, and where all would bloom forever in immortal youth. As the\nsun went down, the whole heavens became crimson and gold, and tinted\nthe lilies with the hue of roses. Then the beautiful maidens offered\nto the prince sparkling wine; and when he had drank, he felt happiness\ngreater than he had ever known before. Presently the background of the\nhall opened and the tree of knowledge appeared, surrounded by a halo\nof glory that almost blinded him. Voices, soft and lovely as his\nmother's sounded in his ears, as if she were singing to him, \"My\nchild, my beloved child.\" Then the fairy beckoned to him, and said\nin sweet accents, \"Come with me, come with me.\" Forgetting his\npromise, forgetting it even on the very first evening, he rushed\ntowards her, while she continued to beckon to him and to smile. The\nfragrance around him overpowered his senses, the music from the\nharps sounded more entrancing, while around the tree appeared millions\nof smiling faces, nodding and singing. \"Man should know everything;\nman is the lord of the earth.\" The tree of knowledge no longer wept\ntears of blood, for the dewdrops shone like glittering stars.\n\n\"Come, come,\" continued that thrilling voice, and the prince\nfollowed the call. At every step his cheeks glowed, and the blood\nrushed wildly through his veins. \"I must follow,\" he cried; \"it is not\na sin, it cannot be, to follow beauty and joy. I only want to see\nher sleep, and nothing will happen unless I kiss her, and that I\nwill not do, for I have strength to resist, and a determined will.\"\n\nThe fairy threw off her dazzling attire, bent back the boughs, and\nin another moment was hidden among them.\n\n\"I have not sinned yet,\" said the prince, \"and I will not;\" and\nthen he pushed aside the boughs to follow the princess. She was\nlying already asleep, beautiful as only a fairy in the garden of\nparadise could be. She smiled as he bent over her, and he saw tears\ntrembling out of her beautiful eyelashes. \"Do you weep for me?\" he\nwhispered. \"Oh weep not, thou loveliest of women. Now do I begin to\nunderstand the happiness of paradise; I feel it to my inmost soul,\nin every thought. A new life is born within me. One moment of such\nhappiness is worth an eternity of darkness and woe.\" He stooped and\nkissed the tears from her eyes, and touched her lips with his.\n\nA clap of thunder, loud and awful, resounded through the trembling\nair. All around him fell into ruin. The lovely fairy, the beautiful\ngarden, sunk deeper and deeper. The prince saw it sinking down in\nthe dark night till it shone only like a star in the distance\nbeneath him. Then he felt a coldness, like death, creeping over him;\nhis eyes closed, and he became insensible.\n\nWhen he recovered, a chilling rain was beating upon him, and a\nsharp wind blew on his head. \"Alas! what have I done?\" he sighed; \"I\nhave sinned like Adam, and the garden of paradise has sunk into the\nearth.\" He opened his eyes, and saw the star in the distance, but it\nwas the morning star in heaven which glittered in the darkness.\n\nPresently he stood up and found himself in the depths of the\nforest, close to the cavern of the Winds, and the mother of the\nWinds sat by his side. She looked angry, and raised her arm in the air\nas she spoke. \"The very first evening!\" she said. \"Well, I expected\nit! If you were my son, you should go into the sack.\"\n\n\"And there he will have to go at last,\" said a strong old man,\nwith large black wings, and a scythe in his hand, whose name was\nDeath. \"He shall be laid in his coffin, but not yet. I will allow\nhim to wander about the world for a while, to atone for his sin, and\nto give him time to become better. But I shall return when he least\nexpects me. I shall lay him in a black coffin, place it on my head,\nand fly away with it beyond the stars. There also blooms a garden of\nparadise, and if he is good and pious he will be admitted; but if\nhis thoughts are bad, and his heart is full of sin, he will sink\nwith his coffin deeper than the garden of paradise has sunk. Once in\nevery thousand years I shall go and fetch him, when he will either\nbe condemned to sink still deeper, or be raised to a happier life in\nthe world beyond the stars.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PEA BLOSSOM\n\nThere were once five peas in one shell, they were green, the shell\nwas green, and so they believed that the whole world must be green\nalso, which was a very natural conclusion. The shell grew, and the\npeas grew, they accommodated themselves to their position, and sat all\nin a row. The sun shone without and warmed the shell, and the rain\nmade it clear and transparent; it was mild and agreeable in broad\ndaylight, and dark at night, as it generally is; and the peas as\nthey sat there grew bigger and bigger, and more thoughtful as they\nmused, for they felt there must be something else for them to do.\n\n\"Are we to sit here forever?\" asked one; \"shall we not become hard\nby sitting so long? It seems to me there must be something outside,\nand I feel sure of it.\"\n\nAnd as weeks passed by, the peas became yellow, and the shell\nbecame yellow.\n\n\"All the world is turning yellow, I suppose,\" said they,--and\nperhaps they were right.\n\nSuddenly they felt a pull at the shell; it was torn off, and\nheld in human hands, then slipped into the pocket of a jacket in\ncompany with other full pods.\n\n\"Now we shall soon be opened,\" said one,--just what they all\nwanted.\n\n\"I should like to know which of us will travel furthest,\" said the\nsmallest of the five; \"we shall soon see now.\"\n\n\"What is to happen will happen,\" said the largest pea.\n\n\"Crack\" went the shell as it burst, and the five peas rolled out\ninto the bright sunshine. There they lay in a child's hand. A little\nboy was holding them tightly, and said they were fine peas for his\npea-shooter. And immediately he put one in and shot it out.\n\n\"Now I am flying out into the wide world,\" said he; \"catch me if\nyou can;\" and he was gone in a moment.\n\n\"I,\" said the second, \"intend to fly straight to the sun, that\nis a shell that lets itself be seen, and it will suit me exactly;\" and\naway he went.\n\n\"We will go to sleep wherever we find ourselves,\" said the two\nnext, \"we shall still be rolling onwards;\" and they did certainly fall\non the floor, and roll about before they got into the pea-shooter; but\nthey were put in for all that. \"We shall go farther than the\nothers,\" said they.\n\n\"What is to happen will happen,\" exclaimed the last, as he was\nshot out of the pea-shooter; and as he spoke he flew up against an old\nboard under a garret-window, and fell into a little crevice, which was\nalmost filled up with moss and soft earth. The moss closed itself\nround him, and there he lay, a captive indeed, but not unnoticed by\nGod.\n\n\"What is to happen will happen,\" said he to himself.\n\nWithin the little garret lived a poor woman, who went out to clean\nstoves, chop wood into small pieces and perform such-like hard work,\nfor she was strong and industrious. Yet she remained always poor,\nand at home in the garret lay her only daughter, not quite grown up,\nand very delicate and weak. For a whole year she had kept her bed, and\nit seemed as if she could neither live nor die.\n\n\"She is going to her little sister,\" said the woman; \"I had but\nthe two children, and it was not an easy thing to support both of\nthem; but the good God helped me in my work, and took one of them to\nHimself and provided for her. Now I would gladly keep the other that\nwas left to me, but I suppose they are not to be separated, and my\nsick girl will very soon go to her sister above.\" But the sick girl\nstill remained where she was, quietly and patiently she lay all the\nday long, while her mother was away from home at her work.\n\nSpring came, and one morning early the sun shone brightly\nthrough the little window, and threw its rays over the floor of the\nroom. Just as the mother was going to her work, the sick girl fixed\nher gaze on the lowest pane of the window--\"Mother,\" she exclaimed,\n\"what can that little green thing be that peeps in at the window? It\nis moving in the wind.\"\n\nThe mother stepped to the window and half opened it. \"Oh!\" she\nsaid, \"there is actually a little pea which has taken root and is\nputting out its green leaves. How could it have got into this crack?\nWell now, here is a little garden for you to amuse yourself with.\"\nSo the bed of the sick girl was drawn nearer to the window, that she\nmight see the budding plant; and the mother went out to her work.\n\n\"Mother, I believe I shall get well,\" said the sick child in the\nevening, \"the sun has shone in here so brightly and warmly to-day, and\nthe little pea is thriving so well: I shall get on better, too, and go\nout into the warm sunshine again.\"\n\n\"God grant it!\" said the mother, but she did not believe it\nwould be so. But she propped up with the little stick the green\nplant which had given her child such pleasant hopes of life, so that\nit might not be broken by the winds; she tied the piece of string to\nthe window-sill and to the upper part of the frame, so that the\npea-tendrils might twine round it when it shot up. And it did shoot\nup, indeed it might almost be seen to grow from day to day.\n\n\"Now really here is a flower coming,\" said the old woman one\nmorning, and now at last she began to encourage the hope that her sick\ndaughter might really recover. She remembered that for some time the\nchild had spoken more cheerfully, and during the last few days had\nraised herself in bed in the morning to look with sparkling eyes at\nher little garden which contained only a single pea-plant. A week\nafter, the invalid sat up for the first time a whole hour, feeling\nquite happy by the open window in the warm sunshine, while outside\ngrew the little plant, and on it a pink pea-blossom in full bloom. The\nlittle maiden bent down and gently kissed the delicate leaves. This\nday was to her like a festival.\n\n\"Our heavenly Father Himself has planted that pea, and made it\ngrow and flourish, to bring joy to you and hope to me, my blessed\nchild,\" said the happy mother, and she smiled at the flower, as if\nit had been an angel from God.\n\nBut what became of the other peas? Why the one who flew out into\nthe wide world, and said, \"Catch me if you can,\" fell into a gutter\non the roof of a house, and ended his travels in the crop of a\npigeon. The two lazy ones were carried quite as far, for they also\nwere eaten by pigeons, so they were at least of some use; but the\nfourth, who wanted to reach the sun, fell into a sink and lay there\nin the dirty water for days and weeks, till he had swelled to a great\nsize.\n\n\"I am getting beautifully fat,\" said the pea, \"I expect I shall\nburst at last; no pea could do more that that, I think; I am the\nmost remarkable of all the five which were in the shell.\" And the sink\nconfirmed the opinion.\n\nBut the young maiden stood at the open garret window, with\nsparkling eyes and the rosy hue of health on her cheeks, she folded\nher thin hands over the pea-blossom, and thanked God for what He had\ndone.\n\n\"I,\" said the sink, \"shall stand up for my pea.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PEN AND THE INKSTAND\n\nIn a poet's room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the\nremark was once made, \"It is wonderful what can be brought out of an\ninkstand. What will come next? It is indeed wonderful.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" said the inkstand to the pen, and to the other\narticles that stood on the table; \"that's what I always say. It is\nwonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me.\nIt's quite incredible, and I really don't know what is coming next\nwhen that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for\nhalf a page of paper, and what cannot half a page contain? From me,\nall the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginary characters\nwhom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling, the\nhumor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how\nit is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me.\nFrom me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of\ntroops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds;\nof the halt and the blind, and I know not what more, for I assure\nyou I never think of these things.\"\n\n\"There you are right,\" said the pen, \"for you don't think at\nall; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means.\nYou give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in\nme, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes: no\nman doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as much about\npoetry as an old inkstand.\"\n\n\"You have had very little experience,\" replied the inkstand.\n\"You have hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn\nout. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and before\nyou came I had many like you, some of the goose family, and others\nof English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel\none. I have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more\nwhen he comes--the man who performs the mechanical part--and writes\ndown what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the\nnext thing he gets out of me.\"\n\n\"Inkpot!\" exclaimed the pen contemptuously.\n\nLate in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a\nconcert, and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance\nof a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer had\nproduced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded\nlike tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birds\ntwittering in chorus, and then rising and swelling in sound like the\nwind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart were\nweeping, but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice.\nIt seemed not only the strings, but every part of the instrument\nfrom which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderful\nperformance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to glide\nacross the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who\ntried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently\nof their master who guided them; it was as if soul and spirit had been\nbreathed into the instrument, so the audience forgot the performer\nin the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he remembered\nhim, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. \"How\nfoolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their\nperformance, and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet, the\nartist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general,--we all\ndo it; and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; to\nHim alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we\nshould be proud.\" Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it\nin the form of a parable, and called it \"The Master and the\nInstruments.\"\n\n\"That is what you have got, madam,\" said the pen to the\ninkstand, when the two were alone again. \"Did you hear him read\naloud what I had written down?\"\n\n\"Yes, what I gave you to write,\" retorted the inkstand. \"That\nwas a cut at you because of your conceit. To think that you could\nnot understand that you were being quizzed. I gave you a cut from\nwithin me. Surely I must know my own satire.\"\n\n\"Ink-pitcher!\" cried the pen.\n\n\"Writing-stick!\" retorted the inkstand. And each of them felt\nsatisfied that he had given a good answer. It is pleasing to be\nconvinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is\nsomething to make you sleep well, and they both slept well upon it.\nBut the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the\ntones of the violin, falling like pearls, or rushing like the strong\nwind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these\nthoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all\nminds.\n\n\"To Him be all the honor.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE\n\nFar away towards the east, in India, which seemed in those days\nthe world's end, stood the Tree of the Sun; a noble tree, such as we\nhave never seen, and perhaps never may see.\n\nThe summit of this tree spread itself for miles like an entire\nforest, each of its smaller branches forming a complete tree. Palms,\nbeech-trees, pines, plane-trees, and various other kinds, which are\nfound in all parts of the world, were here like small branches,\nshooting forth from the great tree; while the larger boughs, with\ntheir knots and curves, formed valleys and hills, clothed with velvety\ngreen and covered with flowers. Everywhere it was like a blooming\nmeadow or a lovely garden. Here were birds from all quarters of the\nworld assembled together; birds from the primeval forests of\nAmerica, from the rose gardens of Damascus, and from the deserts of\nAfrica, in which the elephant and the lion may boast of being the only\nrulers. Birds from the Polar regions came flying here, and of course\nthe stork and the swallow were not absent. But the birds were not\nthe only living creatures. There were stags, squirrels, antelopes, and\nhundreds of other beautiful and light-footed animals here found a\nhome.\n\nThe summit of the tree was a wide-spreading garden, and in the\nmidst of it, where the green boughs formed a kind of hill, stood a\ncastle of crystal, with a view from it towards every quarter of\nheaven. Each tower was erected in the form of a lily, and within the\nstern was a winding staircase, through which one could ascend to the\ntop and step out upon the leaves as upon balconies. The calyx of the\nflower itself formed a most beautiful, glittering, circular hall,\nabove which no other roof arose than the blue firmament and the sun\nand stars.\n\nJust as much splendor, but of another kind, appeared below, in the\nwide halls of the castle. Here, on the walls, were reflected\npictures of the world, which represented numerous and varied scenes of\neverything that took place daily, so that it was useless to read the\nnewspapers, and indeed there were none to be obtained in this spot.\nAll was to be seen in living pictures by those who wished it, but\nall would have been too much for even the wisest man, and this man\ndwelt here. His name is very difficult; you would not be able to\npronounce it, so it may be omitted. He knew everything that a man on\nearth can know or imagine. Every invention already in existence or yet\nto be, was known to him, and much more; still everything on earth\nhas a limit. The wise king Solomon was not half so wise as this man.\nHe could govern the powers of nature and held sway over potent\nspirits; even Death itself was obliged to give him every morning a\nlist of those who were to die during the day. And King Solomon himself\nhad to die at last, and this fact it was which so often occupied the\nthoughts of this great man in the castle on the Tree of the Sun. He\nknew that he also, however high he might tower above other men in\nwisdom, must one day die. He knew that his children would fade away\nlike the leaves of the forest and become dust. He saw the human race\nwither and fall like leaves from the tree; he saw new men come to fill\ntheir places, but the leaves that fell off never sprouted forth again;\nthey crumbled to dust or were absorbed into other plants.\n\n\"What happens to man,\" asked the wise man of himself, \"when\ntouched by the angel of death? What can death be? The body decays, and\nthe soul. Yes; what is the soul, and whither does it go?\"\n\n\"To eternal life,\" says the comforting voice of religion.\n\n\"But what is this change? Where and how shall we exist?\"\n\n\"Above; in heaven,\" answers the pious man; \"it is there we hope to\ngo.\"\n\n\"Above!\" repeated the wise man, fixing his eyes upon the moon\nand stars above him. He saw that to this earthly sphere above and\nbelow were constantly changing places, and that the position varied\naccording to the spot on which a man found himself. He knew, also,\nthat even if he ascended to the top of the highest mountain which\nrears its lofty summit on this earth, the air, which to us seems clear\nand transparent, would there be dark and cloudy; the sun would have\na coppery glow and send forth no rays, and our earth would lie beneath\nhim wrapped in an orange-colored mist. How narrow are the limits which\nconfine the bodily sight, and how little can be seen by the eye of the\nsoul. How little do the wisest among us know of that which is so\nimportant to us all.\n\nIn the most secret chamber of the castle lay the greatest treasure\non earth--the Book of Truth. The wise man had read it through page\nafter page. Every man may read in this book, but only in fragments. To\nmany eyes the characters seem so mixed in confusion that the words\ncannot be distinguished. On certain pages the writing often appears so\npale or so blurred that the page becomes a blank. The wiser a man\nbecomes, the more he will read, and those who are wisest read most.\n\nThe wise man knew how to unite the sunlight and the moonlight with\nthe light of reason and the hidden powers of nature; and through\nthis stronger light, many things in the pages were made clear to\nhim. But in the portion of the book entitled \"Life after Death\" not\na single point could he see distinctly. This pained him. Should he\nnever be able here on earth to obtain a light by which everything\nwritten in the Book of Truth should become clear to him? Like the wise\nKing Solomon, he understood the language of animals, and could\ninterpret their talk into song; but that made him none the wiser. He\nfound out the nature of plants and metals, and their power in curing\ndiseases and arresting death, but none to destroy death itself. In all\ncreated things within his reach he sought the light that should\nshine upon the certainty of an eternal life, but he found it not.\nThe Book of Truth lay open before him, but, its pages were to him as\nblank paper. Christianity placed before him in the Bible a promise\nof eternal life, but he wanted to read it in his book, in which\nnothing on the subject appeared to be written.\n\nHe had five children; four sons, educated as the children of\nsuch a wise father should be, and a daughter, fair, gentle, and\nintelligent, but she was blind; yet this deprivation appeared as\nnothing to her; her father and brothers were outward eyes to her,\nand a vivid imagination made everything clear to her mental sight. The\nsons had never gone farther from the castle than the branches of the\ntrees extended, and the sister had scarcely ever left home. They\nwere happy children in that home of their childhood, the beautiful and\nfragrant Tree of the Sun. Like all children, they loved to hear\nstories related to them, and their father told them many things\nwhich other children would not have understood; but these were as\nclever as most grownup people are among us. He explained to them\nwhat they saw in the pictures of life on the castle walls--the\ndoings of man, and the progress of events in all the lands of the\nearth; and the sons often expressed a wish that they could be present,\nand take a part in these great deeds. Then their father told them that\nin the world there was nothing but toil and difficulty: that it was\nnot quite what it appeared to them, as they looked upon it in their\nbeautiful home. He spoke to them of the true, the beautiful, and the\ngood, and told them that these three held together in the world, and\nby that union they became crystallized into a precious jewel,\nclearer than a diamond of the first water--a jewel, whose splendor had\na value even in the sight of God, in whose brightness all things are\ndim. This jewel was called the philosopher's stone. He told them that,\nby searching, man could attain to a knowledge of the existence of God,\nand that it was in the power of every man to discover the certainty\nthat such a jewel as the philosopher's stone really existed. This\ninformation would have been beyond the perception of other children;\nbut these children understood, and others will learn to comprehend its\nmeaning after a time. They questioned their father about the true, the\nbeautiful, and the good, and he explained it to them in many ways.\nHe told them that God, when He made man out of the dust of the\nearth, touched His work five times, leaving five intense feelings,\nwhich we call the five senses. Through these, the true, the beautiful,\nand the good are seen, understood, and perceived, and through these\nthey are valued, protected, and encouraged. Five senses have been\ngiven mentally and corporeally, inwardly and outwardly, to body and\nsoul.\n\nThe children thought deeply on all these things, and meditated\nupon them day and night. Then the eldest of the brothers dreamt a\nsplendid dream. Strange to say, not only the second brother but also\nthe third and fourth brothers all dreamt exactly the same thing;\nnamely, that each went out into the world to find the philosopher's\nstone. Each dreamt that he found it, and that, as he rode back on\nhis swift horse, in the morning dawn, over the velvety green\nmeadows, to his home in the castle of his father, that the stone\ngleamed from his forehead like a beaming light; and threw such a\nbright radiance upon the pages of the Book of Truth that every word\nwas illuminated which spoke of the life beyond the grave. But the\nsister had no dream of 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.\n\"I must try what life is like there, as I mix with men. I will\npractise only the good and true; with these I will protect the\nbeautiful. Much shall be changed for the better while I am there.\"\n\nNow these thoughts were great and daring, as our thoughts\ngenerally are at home, before we have gone out into the world, and\nencountered its storms and tempests, its thorns and its thistles. In\nhim, and in all his brothers, the five senses were highly\ncultivated, inwardly and outwardly; but each of them had one sense\nwhich in keenness and development surpassed the other four. In the\ncase of the eldest, this pre-eminent sense was sight, which he hoped\nwould be of special service. He had eyes for all times and all people;\neyes that could discover in the depths of the earth hidden\ntreasures, and look into the hearts of men, as through a pane of\nglass; he could read more than is often seen on the cheek that blushes\nor grows pale, in the eye that droops or smiles. Stags and antelopes\naccompanied him to the western boundary of his home, and there he\nfound the wild swans. These he followed, and found himself far away in\nthe north, far from the land of his father, which extended eastward to\nthe ends of the earth. How he opened his eyes with astonishment! How\nmany things were to be seen here! and so different to the mere\nrepresentation of pictures such as those in his father's house. At\nfirst he nearly lost his eyes in astonishment at the rubbish and\nmockery brought forward to represent the beautiful; but he kept his\neyes, and soon found full employment for them. He wished to go\nthoroughly and honestly to work in his endeavor to understand the\ntrue, the beautiful, and the good. But how were they represented in\nthe world? He observed that the wreath which rightly belonged to the\nbeautiful was often given the hideous; that the good was often\npassed by unnoticed, while mediocrity was applauded, when it should\nhave been hissed. People look at the dress, not at the wearer; thought\nmore of a name than of doing their duty; and trusted more to\nreputation than to real service. It was everywhere the same.\n\n\"I see I must make a regular attack on these things,\" said he; and\nhe accordingly did not spare them. But while looking for the truth,\ncame the evil one, the father of lies, to intercept him. Gladly\nwould the fiend have plucked out the eyes of this Seer, but that would\nhave been a too straightforward path for him; he works more cunningly.\nHe allowed the young man to seek for, and discover, the beautiful\nand the good; but while he was contemplating them, the evil spirit\nblew one mote after another into each of his eyes; and such a\nproceeding would injure the strongest sight. Then he blew upon the\nmotes, and they became beams, so that the clearness of his sight was\ngone, and the Seer was like a blind man in the world, and had no\nlonger any faith in it. He had lost his good opinion of the world,\nas well as of himself; and when a man gives up the world, and\nhimself too, it is all over with him.\n\n\"All over,\" said the wild swan, who flew across the sea to the\neast.\n\n\"All over,\" twittered the swallows, who were also flying\neastward towards the Tree of the Sun. It was no good news which they\ncarried home.\n\n\"I think the Seer has been badly served,\" said the second brother,\n\"but the Hearer may be more successful.\"\n\nThis one possessed the sense of hearing to a very high degree:\nso acute was this sense, that it was said he could hear the grass\ngrow. He took a fond leave of all at home, and rode away, provided\nwith good abilities and good intentions. The swallows escorted him,\nand he followed the swans till he found himself out in the world,\nand far away from home. But he soon discovered that one may have too\nmuch of a good thing. His hearing was too fine. He not only heard\nthe grass grow, but could hear every man's heart beat, whether in\nsorrow or in joy. The whole world was to him like a clockmaker's great\nworkshop, in which all the clocks were going \"tick, tick,\" and all the\nturret clocks striking \"ding, dong.\" It was unbearable. For a long\ntime his ears endured it, but at last all the noise and tumult\nbecame too much for one man to bear.\n\nThere were rascally boys of sixty years old--for years do not\nalone make a man--who raised a tumult, which might have made the\nHearer laugh, but for the applause which followed, echoing through\nevery street and house, and was even heard in country roads. Falsehood\nthrust itself forward and played the hypocrite; the bells on the\nfool's cap jingled, and declared they were church-bells, and the noise\nbecame so bad for the Hearer that he thrust his fingers into his ears.\nStill, he could hear false notes and bad singing, gossip and idle\nwords, scandal and slander, groaning and moaning, without and\nwithin. \"Heaven help us!\" He thrust his fingers farther and farther\ninto his ears, till at last the drums burst. And now he could hear\nnothing more of the true, the beautiful, and the good; for his hearing\nwas to have been the means by which he hoped to acquire his knowledge.\nHe became silent and suspicious, and at last trusted no one, not\neven himself, and no longer hoping to find and bring home the costly\njewel, he gave it up, and gave himself up too, which was worse than\nall.\n\nThe birds in their flight towards the east, carried the tidings,\nand the news reached the castle in the Tree of the Sun.\n\n\"I will try now,\" said the third brother; \"I have a keen nose.\"\nNow that was not a very elegant expression, but it was his way, and we\nmust take him as he was. He had a cheerful temper, and was, besides, a\nreal poet; he could make many things appear poetical, by the way in\nwhich he spoke of them, and ideas struck him long before they occurred\nto the minds of others. \"I can smell,\" he would say; and he attributed\nto the sense of smelling, which he possessed in a high degree, a great\npower in the region of the beautiful. \"I can smell,\" he would say,\n\"and many places are fragrant or beautiful according to the taste of\nthe frequenters. One man feels at home in the atmosphere of the\ntavern, among the flaring tallow candles, and when the smell of\nspirits mingles with the fumes of bad tobacco. Another prefers sitting\namidst the overpowering scent of jasmine, or perfuming himself with\nscented olive oil. This man seeks the fresh sea breeze, while that one\nclimbs the lofty mountain-top, to look down upon the busy life in\nminiature beneath him.\"\n\nAs he spoke in this way, it seemed as if he had already been out\nin the world, as if he had already known and associated with man.\nBut this experience was intuitive--it was the poetry within him, a\ngift from Heaven bestowed on him in his cradle. He bade farewell to\nhis parental roof in the Tree of the Sun, and departed on foot, from\nthe pleasant scenes that surrounded his home. Arrived at its confines,\nhe mounted on the back of an ostrich, which runs faster than a\nhorse, and afterwards, when he fell in with the wild swans, he swung\nhimself on the strongest of them, for he loved change, and away he\nflew over the sea to distant lands, where there were great forests,\ndeep lakes, lofty mountains, and proud cities. Wherever he came it\nseemed as if sunshine travelled with him across the fields, for\nevery flower, every bush, exhaled a renewed fragrance, as if conscious\nthat a friend and protector was near; one who understood them, and\nknew their value. The stunted rose-bush shot forth twigs, unfolded its\nleaves, and bore the most beautiful roses; every one could see it, and\neven the black, slimy wood-snail noticed its beauty. \"I will give my\nseal to the flower,\" said the snail, \"I have trailed my slime upon it,\nI can do no more.\n\n\"Thus it always fares with the beautiful in this world,\" said\nthe poet. And he made a song upon it, and sung it after his own\nfashion, but nobody listened. Then he gave a drummer twopence and a\npeacock's feather, and composed a song for the drum, and the drummer\nbeat it through the streets of the town, and when the people heard\nit they said, \"That is a capital tune.\" The poet wrote many songs\nabout the true, the beautiful, and the good. His songs were listened\nto in the tavern, where the tallow candles flared, in the fresh clover\nfield, in the forest, and on the high-seas; and it appeared as if this\nbrother was to be more fortunate than the other two.\n\nBut the evil spirit was angry at this, so he set to work with soot\nand incense, which he can mix so artfully as to confuse an angel,\nand how much more easily a poor poet. The evil one knew how to\nmanage such people. He so completely surrounded the poet with\nincense that the man lost his head, forgot his mission and his home,\nand at last lost himself and vanished in smoke.\n\nBut when the little birds heard of it, 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 offered me\nincense,\" he said, \"for it was I who gave him the idea of the most\nfamous of his songs--the drum song of 'The Way of the World;' and it\nwas I who spat at the rose; I can bring a witness to that fact.\"\n\nBut no tidings of all this reached the poet's home in India. The\nbirds had all been silent for three days, and when the time of\nmourning was over, so deep had been their grief, that they had\nforgotten for whom they wept. Such is the way of the world.\n\n\"Now I must go out into the world, and disappear like the rest,\"\nsaid the fourth brother. He was as good-tempered as the third, but\nno poet, though he could be witty.\n\nThe two eldest had filled the castle with joyfulness, and now\nthe last brightness was going away. Sight and hearing have always been\nconsidered two of the chief senses among men, and those which they\nwish to keep bright; the other senses are looked upon as of less\nimportance.\n\nBut the younger son had a different opinion; he had cultivated his\ntaste in every way, and taste is very powerful. It rules over what\ngoes into the mouth, as well as over all which is presented to the\nmind; and, consequently, this brother took upon himself to taste\neverything stored up in bottles or jars; this he called the rough part\nof his work. Every man's mind was to him as a vessel in which\nsomething was concocting; every land a kind of mental kitchen.\n\"There are no delicacies here,\" he said; so he wished to go out into\nthe world to find something delicate to suit his taste. \"Perhaps\nfortune may be more favorable to me than it was to my brothers. I\nshall start on my travels, but what conveyance shall I choose? Are air\nballoons invented yet?\" he asked of his father, who knew of all\ninventions that had been made, or would be made.\n\nAir balloons had not then been invented, nor steam-ships, nor\nrailways.\n\n\"Good,\" said he; \"then I shall choose an air balloon; my father\nknows how they are to be made and guided. Nobody has invented one yet,\nand the people will believe that it is an aerial phantom. When I\nhave done with the balloon I shall burn it, and for this purpose,\nyou must give me a few pieces of another invention, which will come\nnext; I mean a few chemical matches.\"\n\nHe obtained what he wanted, and flew away. The birds accompanied\nhim farther than they had the other brothers. They were curious to\nknow how this flight would end. Many more of them came swooping\ndown; they thought it must be some new bird, and he soon had a\ngoodly company of followers. They came in clouds till the air became\ndarkened with birds as it was with the cloud of locusts over the\nland of Egypt.\n\nAnd now he was out in the wide world. The balloon descended over\none of the greatest cities, and the aeronaut took up his station at\nthe highest point, on the church steeple. The balloon rose again\ninto the air, which it ought not to have done; what became of it is\nnot known, neither is it of any consequence, for balloons had not then\nbeen invented.\n\nThere he sat on the church steeple. The birds no longer hovered\nover him; they had got tired of him, and he was tired of them. All the\nchimneys in the town were smoking.\n\n\"There are altars erected to my honor,\" said the wind, who\nwished to say something agreeable to him as he sat there boldly\nlooking down upon the people in the street. There was one stepping\nalong, proud of his purse; another, of the key he carried behind\nhim, though he had nothing to lock up; another took a pride in his\nmoth-eaten coat; and another, in his mortified body. \"Vanity, all\nvanity!\" he exclaimed. \"I must go down there by-and-by, and touch\nand taste; but I shall sit here a little while longer, for the wind\nblows pleasantly at my back. I shall remain here as long as the wind\nblows, and enjoy a little rest. It is comfortable to sleep late in the\nmorning when one had a great deal to do,\" said the sluggard; \"so I\nshall stop here as long as the wind blows, for it pleases me.\"\n\nAnd there he stayed. But as he was sitting on the weather-cock\nof the steeple, which kept turning round and round with him, he was\nunder the false impression that the same wind still blew, and that\nhe could stay where he was without expense.\n\nBut in India, in the castle on the Tree of the Sun, all was\nsolitary and still, since the brothers had gone away one after the\nother.\n\n\"Nothing goes well with them,\" said the father; \"they will never\nbring the glittering jewel home, it is not made for me; they are all\ndead and gone.\" Then he bent down over the Book of Truth, and gazed on\nthe page on which he should have read of the life after death, but for\nhim there was nothing to be read or learned upon it.\n\nHis blind daughter was his consolation and joy; she clung to him\nwith sincere affection, and for the sake of his happiness and peace\nshe wished the costly jewel could be found and brought home.\n\nWith longing tenderness she thought of her brothers. Where were\nthey? Where did they live? How she wished she might dream of them; but\nit was strange that not even in dreams could she be brought near to\nthem. But at last one night she dreamt that she heard the voices of\nher brothers calling to her from the distant world, and she could\nnot refrain herself, but went out to them, and yet it seemed in her\ndream that she still remained in her father's house. She did not see\nher brothers, but she felt as it were a fire burning in her hand,\nwhich, however, did not hurt her, for it was the jewel she was\nbringing to her father. When she awoke she thought for a moment that\nshe still held the stone, but she only grasped the knob of her\ndistaff.\n\nDuring the long evenings she had spun constantly, and round the\ndistaff were woven threads finer than the web of a spider; human\neyes could never have distinguished these threads when separated\nfrom each other. But she had wetted them with her tears, and the twist\nwas as strong as a cable. She rose with the impression that her\ndream must be a reality, and her resolution was taken.\n\nIt was still night, and her father slept; she pressed a kiss\nupon his hand, and then took her distaff and fastened the end of the\nthread to her father's house. But for this, blind as she was, she\nwould never have found her way home again; to this thread she must\nhold fast, and trust not to others or even to herself. From the Tree\nof the Sun she broke four leaves; which she gave up to the wind and\nthe weather, that they might be carried to her brothers as letters and\na greeting, in case she did not meet them in the wide world. Poor\nblind child, what would become of her in those distant regions? But\nshe had the invisible thread, to which she could hold fast; and she\npossessed a gift which all the others lacked. This was a determination\nto throw herself entirely into whatever she undertook, and it made her\nfeel as if she had eyes even at the tips of her fingers, and could\nhear down into her very heart. Quietly she went forth into the\nnoisy, bustling, wonderful world, and wherever she went the skies grew\nbright, and she felt the warm sunbeam, and a rainbow above in the blue\nheavens seemed to span the dark world. She heard the song of the\nbirds, and smelt the scent of the orange groves and apple orchards\nso strongly that she seemed to taste it. Soft tones and charming songs\nreached her ear, as well as harsh sounds and rough words--thoughts and\nopinions in strange contradiction to each other. Into the deepest\nrecesses of her heart penetrated the echoes of human thoughts and\nfeelings. Now she heard the following words sadly sung,--\n\n  \"Life is a shadow that flits away\n  In a night of darkness and woe.\"\n\nBut then would follow brighter thoughts:\n\n  \"Life has the rose's sweet perfume\n  With sunshine, light, and joy.\"\n\nAnd if one stanza sounded painfully--\n\n  \"Each mortal thinks of himself alone,\n  Is a truth, alas, too clearly known;\"\n\nThen, on the other hand, came the answer--\n\n  \"Love, like a mighty flowing stream,\n  Fills every heart with its radiant gleam.\"\n\nShe heard, indeed, such words as these--\n\n  \"In the pretty turmoil here below,\n  All is a vain and paltry show.\n\nThen came also words of comfort--\n\n  \"Great and good are the actions done\n  By many whose worth is never known.\"\n\nAnd if sometimes the mocking strain reached her--\n\n  \"Why not join in the jesting cry\n  That contemns all gifts from the throne on high?\"\n\nIn the blind girl's heart a stronger voice repeated--\n\n  \"To trust in thyself and God is best,\n  In His holy will forever to rest.\"\n\n\nBut the evil spirit could not see this and remain contented. He\nhas more cleverness than ten thousand men, and he found means to\ncompass his end. He betook himself to the marsh, and collected a few\nlittle bubbles of stagnant water. Then he uttered over them the echoes\nof lying words that they might become strong. He mixed up together\nsongs of praise with lying epitaphs, as many as he could find,\nboiled them in tears shed by envy; put upon them rouge, which he had\nscraped from faded cheeks, and from these he produced a maiden, in\nform and appearance like the blind girl, the angel of completeness, as\nmen called her. The evil one's plot was successful. The world knew not\nwhich was the true, and indeed how should the world know?\n\n  \"To trust in thyself and God is best,\n  In his Holy will forever to rest.\"\n\nSo sung the blind girl in full faith. She had entrusted the four green\nleaves from the Tree of the Sun to the winds, as letters of greeting\nto her brothers, and she had full confidence that the leaves would\nreach them. She fully believed that the jewel which outshines all\nthe glories of the world would yet be found, and that upon the\nforehead of humanity it would glitter even in the castle of her\nfather. \"Even in my father's house,\" she repeated. \"Yes, the place\nin which this jewel is to be found is earth, and I shall bring more\nthan the promise of it with me. I feel it glow and swell more and more\nin my closed hand. Every grain of truth which the keen wind carried up\nand whirled towards me I caught and treasured. I allowed it to be\npenetrated with the fragrance of the beautiful, of which there is so\nmuch in the world, even for the blind. I took the beatings of a\nheart engaged in a good action, and added them to my treasure. All\nthat I can bring is but dust; still, it is a part of the jewel we\nseek, and there is plenty, my hand is quite full of it.\"\n\nShe soon found herself again at home; carried thither in a\nflight of thought, never having loosened her hold of the invisible\nthread fastened to her father's house. As she stretched out her hand\nto her father, the powers of evil dashed with the fury of a\nhurricane over the Tree of the Sun; a blast of wind rushed through the\nopen doors, and into the sanctuary, where lay the Book of Truth.\n\n\"It will be blown to dust by the wind,\" said the father, as he\nseized the open hand she held towards him.\n\n\"No,\" she replied, with quiet confidence, \"it is indestructible. I\nfeel its beam warming my very soul.\"\n\nThen her father observed that a dazzling flame gleamed from the\nwhite page on which the shining dust had passed from her hand. It\nwas there to prove the certainty of eternal life, and on the book\nglowed one shining word, and only one, the word BELIEVE. And soon\nthe four brothers were again with the father and daughter. When the\ngreen leaf from home fell on the bosom of each, a longing had seized\nthem to return. They had arrived, accompanied by the birds of passage,\nthe stag, the antelope, and all the creatures of the forest who wished\nto take part in their joy.\n\nWe have often seen, when a sunbeam burst through a crack in the\ndoor into a dusty room, how a whirling column of dust seems to\ncircle round. But this was not poor, insignificant, common dust, which\nthe blind girl had brought; even the rainbow's colors are dim when\ncompared with the beauty which shone from the page on which it had\nfallen. The beaming word BELIEVE, from every grain of truth, had the\nbrightness of the beautiful and the good, more bright than the\nmighty pillar of flame that led Moses and the children of Israel to\nthe land of Canaan, and from the word BELIEVE arose the bridge of\nhope, reaching even to the unmeasurable Love in the realms of the\ninfinite.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHOENIX BIRD\n\nIn the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge,\nbloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His\nflight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous,\nand his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree\nof knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from\nParadise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into\nthe nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished\nin the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered\naloft a new one--the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that\nhe dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to\ndeath in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the\nworld, rises up from the red egg.\n\nThe bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color,\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\ninfant's head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings\nsunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly\nsweet.\n\nBut the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his\nway in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of\nLapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland\nsummer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal\nmines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook\nthat rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he\nfloats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo\nmaid gleams bright when she beholds him.\n\nThe Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise,\nthe holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of\na chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees\nof wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan's red\nbeak; on Shakspeare's shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin's raven,\nand whispered in the poet's ear \"Immortality!\" and at the minstrels'\nfeast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.\n\nThe Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the\nMarseillaise, 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,\nending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of\nthe rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and\ndisregarded, a myth--\"The Phoenix of Arabia.\"\n\nIn Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the\nTree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was\ngiven thee--thy name, Poetry.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PORTUGUESE DUCK\n\nA duck once arrived from Portugal, but there were some who said\nshe came from Spain, which is almost the same thing. At all events,\nshe was called the \"Portuguese,\" and she laid eggs, was killed, and\ncooked, and there was an end of her. But the ducklings which crept\nforth from the eggs were also called \"Portuguese,\" and about that\nthere may be some question. But of all the family one only remained in\nthe duckyard, which may be called a farmyard, as the chickens were\nadmitted, and the cock strutted about in a very hostile manner. \"He\nannoys me with his loud crowing,\" said the Portuguese duck; \"but,\nstill, he's a handsome bird, there's no denying that, although he's\nnot a drake. He ought to moderate his voice, like those little birds\nwho are singing in the lime-trees over there in our neighbor's garden,\nbut that is an art only acquired in polite society. How sweetly they\nsing there; it is quite a pleasure to listen to them! I call it\nPortuguese singing. If I had only such a little singing-bird, I'd be\nkind and good as a mother to him, for it's in my nature, in my\nPortuguese blood.\"\n\nWhile she was speaking, one of the little singing-birds came\ntumbling head over heels from the roof into the yard. The cat was\nafter him, but he had escaped from her with a broken wing, and so came\ntumbling into the yard. \"That's just like the cat, she's a villain,\"\nsaid the Portuguese duck. \"I remember her ways when I had children\nof my own. How can such a creature be allowed to live, and wander\nabout upon the roofs. I don't think they allow such things in\nPortugal.\" She pitied the little singing-bird, and so did all the\nother ducks who were not Portuguese.\n\n\"Poor little creature!\" they said, one after another, as they came\nup. \"We can't sing, certainly; but we have a sounding-board, or\nsomething of the kind, within us; we can feel that, though we don't\ntalk about it.\"\n\n\"But I can talk,\" said the Portuguese duck; \"and I'll do something\nfor the little fellow; it's my duty;\" and she stepped into the\nwater-trough, and beat her wings upon the water so strongly that the\nbird was nearly drowned by a shower-bath; but the duck meant it\nkindly. \"That is a good deed,\" she said; \"I hope the others will\ntake example by it.\"\n\n\"Tweet, tweet!\" said the little bird, for one of his wings being\nbroken, he found it difficult to shake himself; but he quite\nunderstood that the bath was meant kindly, and he said, \"You are\nvery kind-hearted, madam;\" but he did not wish for a second bath.\n\n\"I have never thought about my heart,\" replied the Portuguese\nduck, \"but I know that I love all my fellow-creatures, except the cat,\nand nobody can expect me to love her, for she ate up two of my\nducklings. But pray make yourself at home; it is easy to make one's\nself comfortable. I am myself from a foreign country, as you may see\nby my feathery dress. My drake is a native of these parts; he's not of\nmy race; but I am not proud on that account. If any one here can\nunderstand you, I may say positively I am that person.\"\n\n\"She's quite full of 'Portulak,'\" said a little common duck, who\nwas witty. All the common ducks considered the word \"Portulak\" a\ngood joke, for it sounded like Portugal. They nudged each other, and\nsaid, \"Quack! that was witty!\"\n\nThen the other ducks began to notice the little bird. \"The\nPortuguese had certainly a great flow of language,\" they said to the\nlittle bird. \"For our part we don't care to fill our beaks with such\nlong words, but we sympathize with you quite as much. If we don't do\nanything else, we can walk about with you everywhere, and we think\nthat is the best thing we can do.\"\n\n\"You have a lovely voice,\" said one of the eldest ducks; \"it\nmust be great satisfaction to you to be able to give so much\npleasure as you do. I am certainly no judge of your singing so I\nkeep my beak shut, which is better than talking nonsense, as others\ndo.\"\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! no! pray let me dry,\" implored the little bird.\n\n\"The water-cure is the only remedy for me, when I am not well,\"\nsaid the Portuguese. \"Amusement, too, is very beneficial. The fowls\nfrom the neighborhood will soon be here to pay you a visit. There\nare two Cochin Chinese amongst them; they wear feathers on their legs,\nand are well educated. They have been brought from a great distance,\nand consequently I treat them with greater respect than I do the\nothers.\"\n\nThen the fowls arrived, and the cock was polite enough to-day to\nkeep from being rude. \"You are a real songster,\" he said, \"you do as\nmuch with your little voice as it is possible to do; but there\nrequires more noise and shrillness in any one who wishes it to be\nknown who he is.\"\n\nThe two Chinese were quite enchanted with the appearance of the\nsinging-bird. His feathers had been much ruffled by his bath, so\nthat he seemed to them quite like a tiny Chinese fowl. \"He's\ncharming,\" they said to each other, and began a conversation with\nhim in whispers, using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect: \"We\nare of the same race as yourself,\" they said. \"The ducks, even the\nPortuguese, are all aquatic birds, as you must have noticed. You do\nnot know us yet,--very few know us, or give themselves the trouble\nto make our acquaintance, not even any of the fowls, though we are\nborn to occupy a higher grade in society than most of them. But that\ndoes not disturb us, we quietly go on in our own way among the rest,\nwhose ideas are certainly not ours; for we look at the bright side\nof things, and only speak what is good, although that is sometimes\nvery difficult to find where none exists. Except ourselves and the\ncock there is not one in the yard who can be called talented or\npolite. It cannot even be said of the ducks, and we warn you, little\nbird, not to trust that one yonder, with the short tail feathers,\nfor she is cunning; that curiously marked one, with the crooked\nstripes on her wings, is a mischief-maker, and never lets any one have\nthe last word, though she is always in the wrong. That fat duck yonder\nspeaks evil of every one, and that is against our principles. If we\nhave nothing good to tell, we close our beaks. The Portuguese is the\nonly one who has had any education, and with whom we can associate,\nbut she is passionate, and talks too much about 'Portugal.'\"\n\n\"I wonder what those two Chinese are whispering about,\"\nwhispered one duck to another; \"they are always doing it, and it\nannoys me. We never speak to them.\"\n\nNow the drake came up, and he thought the little singing-bird\nwas a sparrow. \"Well, I don't understand the difference,\" he said; \"it\nappears to me all the same. He's only a plaything, and if people\nwill have playthings, why let them, I say.\"\n\n\"Don't take any notice of what he says,\" whispered the Portuguese;\n\"he's very well in matters of business, and with him business is\nplaced before everything. But now I shall lie down and have a little\nrest. It is a duty we owe to ourselves that we may be nice and fat\nwhen we come to be embalmed with sage and onions and apples.\" So she\nlaid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye; she had a very\ncomfortable place, and felt so comfortable that she fell asleep. The\nlittle singing-bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing,\nand at last he lay down, too, quite close to his protectress. The\nsun shone warm and bright, and he found out that it was a very good\nplace. But the fowls of the neighborhood were all awake, and, to\ntell the truth, they had paid a visit to the duckyard, simply and\nsolely to find food for themselves. The Chinese were the first to\nleave, and the other fowls soon followed them.\n\nThe witty little duck said of the Portuguese, that the old lady\nwas getting quite a \"doting ducky,\" All the other ducks laughed at\nthis. \"Doting ducky,\" they whispered. \"Oh, that's too 'witty!'\" And\nthen they repeated the former joke about \"Portulak,\" and declared it\nwas most amusing. Then they all lay down to have a nap.\n\nThey had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly\nsomething was thrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down\nwith such a bang, that the whole company started up and clapped\ntheir wings. The Portuguese awoke too, and rushed over to the other\nside: in so doing she trod upon the little singing-bird.\n\n\"Tweet,\" he cried; \"you trod very hard upon me, madam.\"\n\n\"Well, then, why do you lie in my way?\" she retorted, \"you must\nnot be so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry 'tweet.'\"\n\n\"Don't be angry,\" said the little bird; \"the 'tweet' slipped out\nof my beak unawares.\"\n\nThe Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast\nas she could, and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay\ndown again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to\nsing,--\n\n  \"Chirp and twitter,\n    The dew-drops glitter,\n  In the hours of sunny spring,\n    I'll sing my best,\n    Till I go to rest,\n  With my head behind my wing.\"\n\n\n\"Now I want rest after my dinner,\" said the Portuguese; \"you\nmust conform to the rules of the house while you are here. I want to\nsleep now.\"\n\nThe little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly.\nWhen madam awoke afterwards, there he stood before her with a little\ncorn he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had not slept\nwell, she was naturally in a bad temper. \"Give that to a chicken,\" she\nsaid, \"and don't be always standing in my way.\"\n\n\"Why are you angry with me?\" replied the little singing-bird,\n\"what have I done?\"\n\n\"Done!\" repeated the Portuguese duck, \"your mode of expressing\nyourself is not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact.\"\n\n\"It was sunshine here yesterday,\" said the little bird, \"but\nto-day it is cloudy and the air is close.\"\n\n\"You know very little about the weather, I fancy,\" she retorted,\n\"the day is not over yet. Don't stand there, looking so stupid.\"\n\n\"But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I\nfell into the yard yesterday.\"\n\n\"Impertinent creature!\" exclaimed the Portuguese duck: \"would\nyou compare me with the cat--that beast of prey? There's not a drop of\nmalicious blood in me. I've taken your part, and now I'll teach you\nbetter manners.\" So saying, she made a bite at the little\nsinging-bird's head, and he fell dead on the ground. \"Now whatever\nis the meaning of this?\" she said; \"could he not bear even such a\nlittle peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this\nworld. I've been like a mother to him, I know that, for I've a good\nheart.\"\n\nThen the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in, and\ncrowed with steam-engine power.\n\n\"You'll kill me with your crowing,\" she cried, \"it's all your\nfault. He's lost his life, and I'm very near losing mine.\"\n\n\"There's not much of him lying there,\" observed the cock.\n\n\"Speak of him with respect,\" said the Portuguese duck, \"for he had\nmanners and education, and he could sing. He was affectionate and\ngentle, and that is as rare a quality in animals as in those who\ncall themselves human beings.\"\n\nThen all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird. Ducks\nhave strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity. There was\nnothing to envy here, so they all showed a great deal of pity, even\nthe two Chinese. \"We shall never have another singing-bird again\namongst us; he was almost a Chinese,\" they whispered, and then they\nwept with such a noisy, clucking sound, that all the other fowls\nclucked too, but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards. \"We\nhave hearts of our own,\" they said, \"nobody can deny that.\"\n\n\"Hearts!\" repeated the Portuguese, \"indeed you have, almost as\ntender as the ducks in Portugal.\"\n\n\"Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger,\" said\nthe drake, \"that's the most important business. If one of our toys is\nbroken, why we have plenty more.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PORTER'S SON\n\nThe General lived in the grand first floor, and the porter lived\nin the cellar. There was a great distance between the two families--the\nwhole of the ground floor, and the difference in rank; but they\nlived in the same house, and both had a view of the street, and of the\ncourtyard. In the courtyard was a grass-plot, on which grew a blooming\nacacia tree (when it was in bloom), and under this tree sat\noccasionally the finely-dressed nurse, with the still more\nfinely-dressed child of the General--little Emily. Before them\ndanced about barefoot the little son of the porter, with his great\nbrown eyes and dark hair; and the little girl smiled at him, and\nstretched out her hands towards him; and when the General saw that\nfrom the window, he would nod his head and cry, \"Charming!\" The\nGeneral's lady (who was so young that she might very well have been\nher husband's daughter from an early marriage) never came to the\nwindow that looked upon the courtyard. She had given orders, though,\nthat the boy might play his antics to amuse her child, but must\nnever touch it. The nurse punctually obeyed the gracious lady's\norders.\n\nThe sun shone in upon the people in the grand first floor, and\nupon the people in the cellar; the acacia tree was covered with\nblossoms, and they fell off, and next year new ones came. The tree\nbloomed, and the porter's little son bloomed too, and looked like a\nfresh tulip.\n\nThe General's little daughter became delicate and pale, like the\nleaf of the acacia blossom. She seldom came down to the tree now,\nfor she took the air in a carriage. She drove out with her mamma,\nand then she would always nod at the porter's George; yes, she used\neven to kiss her hand to him, till her mamma said she was too old to\ndo that now.\n\nOne morning George was sent up to carry the General the letters\nand newspapers that had been delivered at the porter's room in the\nmorning. As he was running up stairs, just as he passed the door of\nthe sand-box, he heard a faint piping. He thought it was some young\nchicken that had strayed there, and was raising cries of distress; but\nit was the General's little daughter, decked out in lace and finery.\n\n\"Don't tell papa and mamma,\" she whimpered; \"they would be angry.\"\n\n\"What's the matter, little missie?\" asked George.\n\n\"It's all on fire!\" she answered. \"It's burning with a bright\nflame!\" George hurried up stairs to the General's apartments; he\nopened the door of the nursery. The window curtain was almost entirely\nburnt, and the wooden curtain-pole was one mass of flame. George\nsprang upon a chair he brought in haste, and pulled down the burning\narticles; he then alarmed the people. But for him, the house would\nhave been burned down.\n\nThe General and his lady cross-questioned little Emily.\n\n\"I only took just one lucifer-match,\" she said, \"and it was\nburning directly, and the curtain was burning too. I spat at it, to\nput it out; I spat at it as much as ever I could, but I could not\nput it out; so I ran away and hid myself, for papa and mamma would\nbe angry.\"\n\n\"I spat!\" cried the General's lady; \"what an expression! Did you\never hear your papa and mamma talk about spitting? You must have got\nthat from down stairs!\"\n\nAnd George had a penny given him. But this penny did not go to the\nbaker's shop, but into the savings-box; and soon there were so many\npennies in the savings-box that he could buy a paint-box and color the\ndrawings he made, and he had a great number of drawings. They seemed\nto shoot out of his pencil and out of his fingers' ends. His first\ncolored pictures he presented to Emily.\n\n\"Charming!\" said the General, and even the General's lady\nacknowledged that it was easy to see what the boy had meant to draw.\n\"He has genius.\" Those were the words that were carried down into\nthe cellar.\n\nThe General and his gracious lady were grand people. They had\ntwo coats of arms on their carriage, a coat of arms for each of\nthem, and the gracious lady had had this coat of arms embroidered on\nboth sides of every bit of linen she had, and even on her nightcap and\nher dressing-bag. One of the coats of arms, the one that belonged to\nher, was a very dear one; it had been bought for hard cash by her\nfather, for he had not been born with it, nor had she; she had come\ninto the world too early, seven years before the coat of arms, and\nmost people remembered this circumstance, but the family did not\nremember it. A man might well have a bee in his bonnet, when he had\nsuch a coat of arms to carry as that, let alone having to carry two;\nand the General's wife had a bee in hers when she drove to the court\nball, as stiff and as proud as you please.\n\nThe General was old and gray, but he had a good seat on horseback,\nand he knew it, and he rode out every day, with a groom behind him\nat a proper distance. When he came to a party, he looked somehow as if\nhe were riding into the room upon his high horse; and he had orders,\ntoo, such a number that no one would have believed it; but that was\nnot his fault. As a young man he had taken part in the great autumn\nreviews which were held in those days. He had an anecdote that he told\nabout those days, the only one he knew. A subaltern under his orders\nhad cut off one of the princes, and taken him prisoner, and the Prince\nhad been obliged to ride through the town with a little band of\ncaptured soldiers, himself a prisoner behind the General. This was\nan ever-memorable event, and was always told over and over again every\nyear by the General, who, moreover, always repeated the remarkable\nwords he had used when he returned his sword to the Prince; those\nwords were, \"Only my subaltern could have taken your Highness\nprisoner; I could never have done it!\" And the Prince had replied,\n\"You are incomparable.\" In a real war the General had never taken\npart. When war came into the country, he had gone on a diplomatic\ncareer to foreign courts. He spoke the French language so fluently\nthat he had almost forgotten his own; he could dance well, he could\nride well, and orders grew on his coat in an astounding way. The\nsentries presented arms to him, one of the most beautiful girls\npresented arms to him, and became the General's lady, and in time they\nhad a pretty, charming child, that seemed as if it had dropped from\nheaven, it was so pretty; and the porter's son danced before it in the\ncourtyard, as soon as it could understand it, and gave her all his\ncolored pictures, and little Emily looked at them, and was pleased,\nand tore them to pieces. She was pretty and delicate indeed.\n\n\"My little Roseleaf!\" cried the General's lady, \"thou art born\nto wed a prince.\"\n\nThe prince was already at the door, but they knew nothing of it;\npeople don't see far beyond the threshold.\n\n\"The day before yesterday our boy divided his bread and butter\nwith her!\" said the porter's wife. There was neither cheese nor\nmeat upon it, but she liked it as well as if it had been roast beef.\nThere would have been a fine noise if the General and his wife had\nseen the feast, but they did not see it.\n\nGeorge had divided his bread and butter with little Emily, and\nhe would have divided his heart with her, if it would have pleased\nher. He was a good boy, brisk and clever, and he went to the night\nschool in the Academy now, to learn to draw properly. Little Emily was\ngetting on with her education too, for she spoke French with her\n\"bonne,\" and had a dancing master.\n\n\n\"George will be confirmed at Easter,\" said the porter's wife;\nfor George had got so far as this.\n\n\"It would be the best thing, now, to make an apprentice of him,\"\nsaid his father. \"It must be to some good calling--and then he would\nbe out of the house.\"\n\n\"He would have to sleep out of the house,\" said George's mother.\n\"It is not easy to find a master who has room for him at night, and we\nshall have to provide him with clothes too. The little bit of eating\nthat he wants can be managed for him, for he's quite happy with a\nfew boiled potatoes; and he gets taught for nothing. Let the boy go\nhis own way. You will say that he will be our joy some day, and the\nProfessor says so too.\"\n\nThe confirmation suit was ready. The mother had worked it herself;\nbut the tailor who did repairs had cut them out, and a capital\ncutter-out he was.\n\n\"If he had had a better position, and been able to keep a workshop\nand journeymen,\" the porter's wife said, \"he might have been a court\ntailor.\"\n\nThe clothes were ready, and the candidate for confirmation was\nready. On his confirmation day, George received a great pinchbeck\nwatch from his godfather, the old iron monger's shopman, the richest\nof his godfathers. The watch was an old and tried servant. It always\nwent too fast, but that is better than to be lagging behind. That\nwas a costly present. And from the General's apartment there arrived a\nhymn-book bound in morocco, sent by the little lady to whom George had\ngiven pictures. At the beginning of the book his name was written, and\nher name, as \"his gracious patroness.\" These words had been written at\nthe dictation of the General's lady, and the General had read the\ninscription, and pronounced it \"Charming!\"\n\n\"That is really a great attention from a family of such position,\"\nsaid the porter's wife; and George was sent up stairs to show\nhimself in his confirmation clothes, with the hymn-book in his hand.\n\nThe General's lady was sitting very much wrapped up, and had the\nbad headache she always had when time hung heavy upon her hands. She\nlooked at George very pleasantly, and wished him all prosperity, and\nthat he might never have her headache. The General was walking about\nin his dressing-gown. He had a cap with a long tassel on his head, and\nRussian boots with red tops on his feet. He walked three times up\nand down the room, absorbed in his own thoughts and recollections, and\nthen stopped and said:\n\n\"So little George is a confirmed Christian now. Be a good man, and\nhonor those in authority over you. Some day, when you are an old\nman, you can say that the General gave you this precept.\"\n\nThat was a longer speech than the General was accustomed to\nmake, and then he went back to his ruminations, and looked very\naristocratic. But of all that George heard and saw up there, little\nMiss Emily remained most clear in his thoughts. How graceful she\nwas, how gentle, and fluttering, and pretty she looked. If she were to\nbe drawn, it ought to be on a soap-bubble. About her dress, about\nher yellow curled hair, there was a fragrance as of a fresh-blown\nrose; and to think that he had once divided his bread and butter\nwith her, and that she had eaten it with enormous appetite, and nodded\nto him at every second mouthful! Did she remember anything about it?\nYes, certainly, for she had given him the beautiful hymn-book in\nremembrance of this; and when the first new moon in the first new year\nafter this event came round, he took a piece of bread, a penny, and\nhis hymn-book, and went out into the open air, and opened the book\nto see what psalm he should turn up. It was a psalm of praise and\nthanksgiving. Then he opened the book again to see what would turn\nup for little Emily. He took great pains not to open the book in the\nplace where the funeral hymns were, and yet he got one that referred\nto the grave and death. But then he thought this was not a thing in\nwhich one must believe; for all that he was startled when soon\nafterwards the pretty little girl had to lie in bed, and the\ndoctor's carriage stopped at the gate every day.\n\n\"They will not keep her with them,\" said the porter's wife. \"The\ngood God knows whom He will summon to Himself.\"\n\nBut they kept her after all; and George drew pictures and sent\nthem to her. He drew the Czar's palace; the old Kremlin at Moscow,\njust as it stood, with towers and cupolas; and these cupolas looked\nlike gigantic green and gold cucumbers, at least in George's\ndrawing. Little Emily was highly pleased, and consequently, when a\nweek had elapsed, George sent her a few more pictures, all with\nbuildings in them; for, you see, she could imagine all sorts of things\ninside the windows and doors.\n\nHe drew a Chinese house, with bells hanging from every one of\nsixteen stories. He drew two Grecian temples with slender marble\npillars, and with steps all round them. He drew a Norwegian church. It\nwas easy to see that this church had been built entirely of wood, hewn\nout and wonderfully put together; every story looked as if it had\nrockers, like a cradle. But the most beautiful of all was the\ncastle, drawn on one of the leaves, and which he called \"Emily's\nCastle.\" This was the kind of place in which she must live. That is\nwhat George had thought, and consequently he had put into this\nbuilding whatever he thought most beautiful in all the others. It\nhad carved wood-work, like the Norwegian church; marble pillars,\nlike the Grecian temple; bells in every story; and was crowned with\ncupolas, green and gilded, like those of the Kremlin of the Czar. It\nwas a real child's castle, and under every window was written what the\nhall or the room inside was intended to be; for instance: \"Here\nEmily sleeps;\" \"Here Emily dances;\" \"Here Emily plays at receiving\nvisitors.\" It was a real pleasure to look at the castle, and right\nwell was the castle looked at accordingly.\n\n\"Charming!\" said the General.\n\nBut the old Count--for there was an old Count there, who was still\ngrander than the General, and had a castle of his own--said nothing at\nall; he heard that it had been designed and drawn by the porter's\nlittle son. Not that he was so very little, either, for he had already\nbeen confirmed. The old Count looked at the pictures, and had his\nown thoughts as he did so.\n\nOne day, when it was very gloomy, gray, wet weather, the brightest\nof days dawned for George; for the Professor at the Academy called him\ninto his room.\n\n\"Listen to me, my friend,\" said the Professor; \"I want to speak to\nyou. The Lord has been good to you in giving you abilities, and He has\nalso been good in placing you among kind people. The old Count at\nthe corner yonder has been speaking to me about you. I have also\nseen your sketches; but we will not say any more about those, for\nthere is a good deal to correct in them. But from this time forward\nyou may come twice a-week to my drawing-class, and then you will\nsoon learn how to do them better. I think there's more of the\narchitect than of the painter in you. You will have time to think that\nover; but go across to the old Count this very day, and thank God\nfor having sent you such a friend.\"\n\nIt was a great house--the house of the old Count at the corner.\nRound the windows elephants and dromedaries were carved, all from\nthe old times; but the old Count loved the new time best, and what\nit brought, whether it came from the first floor, or from the\ncellar, or from the attic.\n\n\"I think,\" said, the porter's wife, \"the grander people are, the\nfewer airs do they give themselves. How kind and straightforward the\nold count is! and he talks exactly like you and me. Now, the General\nand his lady can't do that. And George was fairly wild with delight\nyesterday at the good reception he met with at the Count's, and so\nam I to-day, after speaking to the great man. Wasn't it a good thing\nthat we didn't bind George apprentice to a handicraftsman? for he\nhas abilities of his own.\"\n\n\"But they must be helped on by others,\" said the father.\n\n\"That help he has got now,\" rejoined the mother; \"for the Count\nspoke out quite clearly and distinctly.\"\n\n\"But I fancy it began with the General,\" said the father, \"and\nwe must thank them too.\"\n\n\"Let us do so with all my heart,\" cried the mother, \"though I\nfancy we have not much to thank them for. I will thank the good God;\nand I will thank Him, too, for letting little Emily get well.\"\n\nEmily was getting on bravely, and George got on bravely too. In\nthe course of the year he won the little silver prize medal of the\nAcademy, and afterwards he gained the great one too.\n\n\n\"It would have been better, after all, if he had been\napprenticed to a handicraftsman,\" said the porter's wife, weeping;\n\"for then we could have kept him with us. What is he to do in Rome?\nI shall never get a sight of him again, not even if he comes back; but\nthat he won't do, the dear boy.\"\n\n\"It is fortune and fame for him,\" said the father.\n\n\"Yes, thank you, my friend,\" said the mother; \"you are saying what\nyou do not mean. You are just as sorrowful as I am.\"\n\nAnd it was all true about the sorrow and the journey. But\neverybody said it was a great piece of good fortune for the young\nfellow. And he had to take leave, and of the General too. The\nGeneral's lady did not show herself, for she had her bad headache.\nOn this occasion the General told his only anecdote, about what he had\nsaid to the Prince, and how the Prince had said to him, \"You are\nincomparable.\" And he held out a languid hand to George.\n\nEmily gave George her hand too, and looked almost sorry; and\nGeorge was the most sorry of all.\n\n\nTime goes by when one has something to do; and it goes by, too,\nwhen one has nothing to do. The time is equally long, but not\nequally useful. It was useful to George, and did not seem long at all,\nexcept when he happened to be thinking of his home. How might the good\nfolks be getting on, up stairs and down stairs? Yes, there was writing\nabout that, and many things can be put into a letter--bright\nsunshine and dark, heavy days. Both of these were in the letter\nwhich brought the news that his father was dead, and that his mother\nwas alone now. She wrote that Emily had come down to see her, and\nhad been to her like an angel of comfort; and concerning herself,\nshe added that she had been allowed to keep her situation as\nporteress.\n\nThe General's lady kept a diary, and in this diary was recorded\nevery ball she attended and every visit she received. The diary was\nillustrated by the insertion of the visiting cards of the diplomatic\ncircle and of the most noble families; and the General's lady was\nproud of it. The diary kept growing through a long time, and amid many\nsevere headaches, and through a long course of half-nights, that is to\nsay, of court balls. Emily had now been to a court ball for the\nfirst time. Her mother had worn a bright red dress, with black lace,\nin the Spanish style; the daughter had been attired in white, fair and\ndelicate; green silk ribbons fluttered like flag-leaves among her\nyellow locks, and on her head she wore a wreath of water-lillies.\nHer eyes were so blue and clear, her mouth was so delicate and red,\nshe looked like a little water spirit, as beautiful as such a spirit\ncan be imagined. The Princes danced with her, one after another of\ncourse; and the General's lady had not a headache for a week\nafterwards.\n\nBut the first ball was not the last, and Emily could not stand it;\nit was a good thing, therefore, that summer brought with it rest,\nand exercise in the open air. The family had been invited by the old\nCount to visit him at him castle. That was a castle with a garden\nwhich was worth seeing. Part of this garden was laid out quite in\nthe style of the old days, with stiff green hedges; you walked as if\nbetween green walls with peep-holes in them. Box trees and yew trees\nstood there trimmed into the form of stars and pyramids, and water\nsprang from fountains in large grottoes lined with shells. All\naround stood figures of the most beautiful stone--that could be seen\nin their clothes as well as in their faces; every flower-bed had a\ndifferent shape, and represented a fish, or a coat of arms, or a\nmonogram. That was the French part of the garden; and from this part\nthe visitor came into what appeared like the green, fresh forest,\nwhere the trees might grow as they chose, and accordingly they were\ngreat and glorious. The grass was green, and beautiful to walk on, and\nit was regularly cut, and rolled, and swept, and tended. That was\nthe English part of the garden.\n\n\"Old time and new time,\" said the Count, \"here they run well\ninto one another. In two years the building itself will put on a\nproper appearance, there will be a complete metamorphosis in beauty\nand improvement. I shall show you the drawings, and I shall show you\nthe architect, for he is to dine here to-day.\"\n\n\"Charming!\" said the General.\n\n\"'Tis like Paradise here,\" said the General's lady, \"and yonder\nyou have a knight's castle!\"\n\n\"That's my poultry-house,\" observed the Count. \"The pigeons live\nin the tower, the turkeys in the first floor, but old Elsie rules in\nthe ground floor. She has apartments on all sides of her. The\nsitting hens have their own room, and the hens with chickens have\ntheirs; and the ducks have their own particular door leading to the\nwater.\"\n\n\"Charming!\" repeated the General.\n\nAnd all sailed forth to see these wonderful things. Old Elsie\nstood in the room on the ground floor, and by her side stood Architect\nGeorge. He and Emily now met for the first time after several years,\nand they met in the poultry-house.\n\nYes, there he stood, and was handsome enough to be looked at.\nHis face was frank and energetic; he had black shining hair, and a\nsmile about his mouth, which said, \"I have a brownie that sits in my\near, and knows every one of you, inside and out.\" Old Elsie had pulled\noff her wooden shoes, and stood there in her stockings, to do honor to\nthe noble guests. The hens clucked, and the cocks crowed, and the\nducks waddled to and fro, and said, \"Quack, quack!\" But the fair, pale\ngirl, the friend of his childhood, the daughter of the General,\nstood there with a rosy blush on her usually pale cheeks, and her eyes\nopened wide, and her mouth seemed to speak without uttering a word,\nand the greeting he received from her was the most beautiful\ngreeting a young man can desire from a young lady, if they are not\nrelated, or have not danced many times together, and she and the\narchitect had never danced together.\n\nThe Count shook hands with him, and introduced him.\n\n\"He is not altogether a stranger, our young friend George.\"\n\nThe General's lady bowed to him, and the General's daughter was\nvery nearly giving him her hand; but she did not give it to him.\n\n\"Our little Master George!\" said the General. \"Old friends!\nCharming!\"\n\n\"You have become quite an Italian,\" said the General's lady,\n\"and I presume you speak the language like a native?\"\n\n\"My wife sings the language, but she does not speak it,\"\nobserved the General.\n\nAt dinner, George sat at the right hand of Emily, whom the General\nhad taken down, while the Count led in the General's lady.\n\nMr. George talked and told of his travels; and he could talk well,\nand was the life and soul of the table, though the old Count could\nhave been it too. Emily sat silent, but she listened, and her eyes\ngleamed, but she said nothing.\n\nIn the verandah, among the flowers, she and George stood together;\nthe rose-bushes concealed them. And George was speaking again, for\nhe took the lead now.\n\n\"Many thanks for the kind consideration you showed my old mother,\"\nhe said. \"I know that you went down to her on the night when my father\ndied, and you stayed with her till his eyes were closed. My\nheartiest thanks!\"\n\nHe took Emily's hand and kissed it--he might do so on such an\noccasion. She blushed deeply, but pressed his hand, and looked at\nhim with her dear blue eyes.\n\n\"Your mother was a dear soul!\" she said. \"How fond she was of\nher son! And she let me read all your letters, so that I almost\nbelieve I know you. How kind you were to me when I was little girl!\nYou used to give me pictures.\"\n\n\"Which you tore in two,\" said George.\n\n\"No, I have still your drawing of the castle.\"\n\n\"I must build the castle in reality now,\" said George; and he\nbecame quite warm at his own words.\n\nThe General and the General's lady talked to each other in their\nroom about the porter's son--how he knew how to behave, and to express\nhimself with the greatest propriety.\n\n\"He might be a tutor,\" said the General.\n\n\"Intellect!\" said the General's lady; but she did not say anything\nmore.\n\nDuring the beautiful summer-time Mr. George several times\nvisited the Count at his castle; and he was missed when he did not\ncome.\n\n\"How much the good God has given you that he has not given to us\npoor mortals,\" said Emily to him. \"Are you sure you are very\ngrateful for it?\"\n\nIt flattered George that the lovely young girl should look up to\nhim, and he thought then that Emily had unusually good abilities.\nAnd the General felt more and more convinced that George was no\ncellar-child.\n\n\"His mother was a very good woman,\" he observed. \"It is only right\nI should do her that justice now she is in her grave.\"\n\n\nThe summer passed away, and the winter came; again there was\ntalk about Mr. George. He was highly respected, and was received in\nthe first circles. The General had met him at a court ball.\n\nAnd now there was a ball to be given in the General's house for\nEmily, and could Mr. George be invited to it?\n\n\"He whom the King invites can be invited by the General also,\"\nsaid the General, and drew himself up till he stood quite an inch\nhigher than before.\n\nMr. George was invited, and he came; princes and counts came,\nand they danced, one better than the other. But Emily could only dance\none dance--the first; for she made a false step--nothing of\nconsequence; but her foot hurt her, so that she had to be careful, and\nleave off dancing, and look at the others. So she sat and looked on,\nand the architect stood by her side.\n\n\"I suppose you are giving her the whole history of St. Peter's,\"\nsaid the General, as he passed by; and smiled, like the\npersonification of patronage.\n\nWith the same patronizing smile he received Mr. George a few\ndays afterwards. The young man came, no doubt, to return thanks for\nthe invitation to the ball. What else could it be? But indeed there\nwas something else, something very astonishing and startling. He spoke\nwords of sheer lunacy, so that the General could hardly believe his\nown ears. It was \"the height of rhodomontade,\" an offer, quite an\ninconceivable offer--Mr. George came to ask the hand of Emily in\nmarriage!\n\n\"Man!\" cried the General, and his brain seemed to be boiling. \"I\ndon't understand you at all. What is it you say? What is it you\nwant? I don't know you. Sir! Man! What possesses you to break into\nmy house? And am I to stand here and listen to you?\" He stepped\nbackwards into his bed-room, locked the door behind him, and left\nMr. George standing alone. George stood still for a few minutes, and\nthen turned round and left the room. Emily was standing in the\ncorridor.\n\n\"My father has answered?\" she said, and her voice trembled.\n\nGeorge pressed her hand.\n\n\"He has escaped me,\" he replied; \"but a better time will come.\"\n\nThere were tears in Emily's eyes, but in the young man's eyes\nshone courage and confidence; and the sun shone through the window,\nand cast his beams on the pair, and gave them his blessing.\n\nThe General sat in his room, bursting hot. Yes, he was still\nboiling, until he boiled over in the exclamation, \"Lunacy! porter!\nmadness!\"\n\nNot an hour was over before the General's lady knew it out of\nthe General's own mouth. She called Emily, and remained alone with\nher.\n\n\"You poor child,\" she said; \"to insult you so! to insult us so!\nThere are tears in your eyes, too, but they become you well. You\nlook beautiful in tears. You look as I looked on my wedding-day.\nWeep on, my sweet Emily.\"\n\n\"Yes, that I must,\" said Emily, \"if you and my father do not say\n'yes.'\"\n\n\"Child!\" screamed the General's lady; \"you are ill! You are\ntalking wildly, and I shall have a most terrible headache! Oh, what\na misfortune is coming upon our house! Don't make your mother die,\nEmily, or you will have no mother.\"\n\nAnd the eyes of the General's lady were wet, for she could not\nbear to think of her own death.\n\n\nIn the newspapers there was an announcement. \"Mr. George has\nbeen elected Professor of the Fifth Class, number Eight.\"\n\n\"It's a pity that his parents are dead and cannot read it,\" said\nthe new porter people, who now lived in the cellar under the General's\napartments. They knew that the Professor had been born and grown up\nwithin their four walls.\n\n\"Now he'll get a salary,\" said the man.\n\n\"Yes, that's not much for a poor child,\" said the woman.\n\n\"Eighteen dollars a year,\" said the man. \"Why, it's a good deal of\nmoney.\"\n\n\"No, I mean the honor of it,\" replied the wife. \"Do you think he\ncares for the money? Those few dollars he can earn a hundred times\nover, and most likely he'll get a rich wife into the bargain. If we\nhad children of our own, husband, our child should be an architect and\na professor too.\"\n\nGeorge was spoken well of in the cellar, and he was spoken well of\nin the first floor. The old Count took upon himself to do that.\n\nThe pictures he had drawn in his childhood gave occasion for it.\nBut how did the conversation come to turn on these pictures? Why, they\nhad been talking of Russia and of Moscow, and thus mention was made of\nthe Kremlin, which little George had once drawn for Miss Emily. He had\ndrawn many pictures, but the Count especially remembered one, \"Emily's\nCastle,\" where she was to sleep, and to dance, and to play at\nreceiving guests.\n\n\"The Professor was a true man,\" said the Count, \"and would be a\nprivy councillor before he died, it was not at all unlikely; and he\nmight build a real castle for the young lady before that time came:\nwhy not?\"\n\n\"That was a strange jest,\" remarked the General's lady, when the\nCount had gone away. The General shook his head thoughtfully, and went\nout for a ride, with his groom behind him at a proper distance, and he\nsat more stiffly than ever on his high horse.\n\nIt was Emily's birthday. Flowers, books, letters, and visiting\ncards came pouring in. The General's lady kissed her on the mouth, and\nthe General kissed her on the forehead; they were affectionate\nparents, and they and Emily had to receive grand visitors, two of\nthe Princes. They talked of balls and theatres, of diplomatic\nmissions, of the government of empires and nations; and then they\nspoke of talent, native talent; and so the discourse turned upon the\nyoung architect.\n\n\"He is building up an immortality for himself,\" said one, \"and\nhe will certainly build his way into one of our first families.\"\n\n\"One of our first families!\" repeated the General and afterwards\nthe General's lady; \"what is meant by one of our first families?\"\n\n\"I know for whom it was intended,\" said the General's lady, \"but I\nshall not say it. I don't think it. Heaven disposes, but I shall be\nastonished.\"\n\n\"I am astonished also!\" said the General. \"I haven't an idea in my\nhead!\" And he fell into a reverie, waiting for ideas.\n\nThere is a power, a nameless power, in the possession of favor\nfrom above, the favor of Providence, and this favor little George had.\nBut we are forgetting the birthday.\n\nEmily's room was fragrant with flowers, sent by male and female\nfriends; on the table lay beautiful presents for greeting and\nremembrance, but none could come from George--none could come from\nhim; but it was not necessary, for the whole house was full of\nremembrances of him. Even out of the ash-bin the blossom of memory\npeeped forth, for Emily had sat whimpering there on the day when the\nwindow-curtain caught fire, and George arrived in the character of\nfire engine. A glance out of the window, and the acacia tree\nreminded of the days of childhood. Flowers and leaves had fallen,\nbut there stood the tree covered with hoar frost, looking like a\nsingle huge branch of coral, and the moon shone clear and large\namong the twigs, unchanged in its changings, as it was when George\ndivided his bread and butter with little Emily.\n\nOut of a box the girl took the drawings of the Czar's palace and\nof her own castle--remembrances of George. The drawings were looked\nat, and many thoughts came. She remembered the day when, unobserved by\nher father and mother, she had gone down to the porter's wife who\nlay dying. Once again she seemed to sit beside her, holding the\ndying woman's hand in hers, hearing the dying woman's last words:\n\"Blessing George!\" The mother was thinking of her son, and now Emily\ngave her own interpretation to those words. Yes, George was\ncertainly with her on her birthday.\n\nIt happened that the next day was another birthday in that\nhouse, the General's birthday. He had been born the day after his\ndaughter, but before her of course--many years before her. Many\npresents arrived, and among them came a saddle of exquisite\nworkmanship, a comfortable and costly saddle--one of the Princes had\njust such another. Now, from whom might this saddle come? The\nGeneral was delighted. There was a little note with the saddle. Now if\nthe words on the note had been \"many thanks for yesterday's\nreception,\" we might easily have guessed from whom it came. But the\nwords were \"From somebody whom the General does not know.\"\n\n\"Whom in the world do I not know?\" exclaimed the General. \"I\nknow everybody;\" and his thoughts wandered all through society, for he\nknew everybody there. \"That saddle comes from my wife!\" he said at\nlast. \"She is teasing me--charming!\"\n\nBut she was not teasing him; those times were past.\n\n\nAgain there was a feast, but it was not in the General's house, it\nwas a fancy ball at the Prince's, and masks were allowed too.\n\nThe General went as Rubens, in a Spanish costume, with a little\nruff round his neck, a sword by his side, and a stately manner. The\nGeneral's lady was Madame Rubens, in black velvet made high round\nthe neck, exceedingly warm, and with a mill-stone round her neck in\nthe shape of a great ruff--accurately dressed after a Dutch picture in\nthe possession of the General, in which the hands were especially\nadmired. They were just like the hands of the General's lady.\n\nEmily was Psyche. In white crape and lace she was like a\nfloating swan. She did not want wings at all. She only wore them as\nemblematic of Psyche.\n\nBrightness, splendor, light and flowers, wealth and taste appeared\nat the ball; there was so much to see, that the beautiful hands of\nMadame Rubens made no sensation at all.\n\nA black domino, with an acacia blossom in his cap, danced with\nPsyche.\n\n\"Who is that?\" asked the General's lady.\n\n\"His Royal Highness,\" replied the General. \"I am quite sure of it.\nI knew him directly by the pressure of his hand.\"\n\nThe General's lady doubted it.\n\nGeneral Rubens had no doubts about it. He went up to the black\ndomino and wrote the royal letters in the mask's hand. These were\ndenied, but the mask gave him a hint.\n\nThe words that came with the saddle: \"One whom you do not know,\nGeneral.\"\n\n\"But I do know you,\" said the General. \"It was you who sent me the\nsaddle.\"\n\nThe domino raised his hand, and disappeared among the other\nguests.\n\n\"Who is that black domino with whom you were dancing, Emily?\"\nasked the General's lady.\n\n\"I did not ask his name,\" she replied, \"because you knew it. It is\nthe Professor. Your protege is here, Count!\" she continued, turning to\nthat nobleman, who stood close by. \"A black domino with acacia\nblossoms in his cap.\"\n\n\"Very likely, my dear lady,\" replied the Count. \"But one of the\nPrinces wears just the same costume.\"\n\n\"I knew the pressure of the hand,\" said the General. \"The saddle\ncame from the Prince. I am so certain of it that I could invite that\ndomino to dinner.\"\n\n\"Do so. If it be the Prince he will certainly come,\" replied the\nCount.\n\n\"And if it is the other he will not come,\" said the General, and\napproached the black domino, who was just speaking with the King.\nThe General gave a very respectful invitation \"that they might make\neach other's acquaintance,\" and he smiled in his certainty\nconcerning the person he was inviting. He spoke loud and distinctly.\n\nThe domino raised his mask, and it was George. \"Do you repeat your\ninvitation, General?\" he asked.\n\nThe General certainly seemed to grow an inch taller, assumed a\nmore stately demeanor, and took two steps backward and one step\nforward, as if he were dancing a minuet, and then came as much gravity\nand expression into the face of the General as the General could\ncontrive to infuse into it; but he replied,\n\n\"I never retract my words! You are invited, Professor!\" and he\nbowed with a glance at the King, who must have heard the whole\ndialogue.\n\n\nNow, there was a company to dinner at the General's, but only\nthe old Count and his protege were invited.\n\n\"I have my foot under his table,\" thought George. \"That's laying\nthe foundation stone.\"\n\nAnd the foundation stone was really laid, with great ceremony,\nat the house of the General and of the General's lady.\n\nThe man had come, and had spoken quite like a person in good\nsociety, and had made himself very agreeable, so that the General\nhad often to repeat his \"Charming!\" The General talked of this dinner,\ntalked of it even to a court lady; and this lady, one of the most\nintellectual persons about the court, asked to be invited to meet\nthe Professor the next time he should come. So he had to be invited\nagain; and he was invited, and came, and was charming again; he\ncould even play chess.\n\n\"He's not out of the cellar,\" said the General; \"he's quite a\ndistinguished person. There are many distinguished persons of that\nkind, and it's no fault of his.\"\n\nThe Professor, who was received in the King's palace, might very\nwell be received by the General; but that he could ever belong to\nthe house was out of the question, only the whole town was talking\nof it.\n\n\nHe grew and grew. The dew of favor fell from above, so no one\nwas surprised after all that he should become a Privy Councillor,\nand Emily a Privy Councillor's lady.\n\n\"Life is either a tragedy or a comedy,\" said the General. \"In\ntragedies they die, in comedies they marry one another.\"\n\nIn this case they married. And they had three clever boys--but not\nall at once.\n\nThe sweet children rode on their hobby-horses through all the\nrooms when they came to see the grandparents. And the General also\nrode on his stick; he rode behind them in the character of groom to\nthe little Privy Councillors.\n\nAnd the General's lady sat on her sofa and smiled at them, even\nwhen she had her severest headache.\n\n\nSo far did George get, and much further; else it had not been\nworth while to tell the story of THE PORTER'S SON.\n\n\n\n\nPOULTRY MEG'S FAMILY\n\nPoultry Meg was the only person who lived in the new stately\ndwelling that had been built for the fowls and ducks belonging to\nthe manor house. It stood there where once the old knightly building\nhad stood with its tower, its pointed gables, its moat, and its\ndrawbridge. Close by it was a wilderness of trees and thicket; here\nthe garden had been, and had stretched out to a great lake, which\nwas now moorland. Crows and choughs flew screaming over the old trees,\nand there were crowds of birds; they did not seem to get fewer when\nany one shot among them, but seemed rather to increase. One heard\nthe screaming into the poultry-house, where Poultry Meg sat with the\nducklings running to and fro over her wooden shoes. She knew every\nfowl and every duck from the moment it crept out of the shell; and she\nwas fond of her fowls and her ducks, and proud of the stately house\nthat had been built for them. Her own little room in the house was\nclean and neat, for that was the wish of the gracious lady to whom the\nhouse belonged. She often came in the company of grand noble guests,\nto whom she showed \"the hens' and ducks' barracks,\" as she called\nthe little house.\n\nHere were a clothes cupboard, and an arm-chair, and even a\nchest of drawers; and on these drawers a polished metal plate had been\nplaced, whereon was engraved the word \"Grubbe,\" and this was the\nname of the noble family that had lived in the house of old. The brass\nplate had been found when they were digging the foundation; and the\nclerk has said it had no value except in being an old relic. The clerk\nknew all about the place, and about the old times, for he had his\nknowledge from books, and many a memorandum had been written and put\nin his table-drawer. But the oldest of the crows perhaps knew more\nthan he, and screamed it out in her own language; but that was the\ncrow's language, and the clerk did not understand that, clever as he\nwas.\n\nAfter the hot summer days the mist sometimes hung over the\nmoorland as if a whole lake were behind the old trees, among which the\ncrows and the daws were fluttering; and thus it had looked when the\ngood Knight Grubbe had lived here--when the old manor house stood with\nits thick red walls. The dog-chain used to reach in those days quite\nover the gateway; through the tower one went into a paved passage\nwhich led to the rooms; the windows were narrow, and the panes were\nsmall, even in the great hall where the dancing used to be; but in the\ntime of the last Grubbe, there had been no dancing in the hall\nwithin the memory of man, although an old drum still lay there that\nhad served as part of the music. Here stood a quaintly carved\ncupboard, in which rare flower-roots were kept, for my Lady Grubbe was\nfond of plants and cultivated trees and shrubs. Her husband\npreferred riding out to shoot wolves and boars; and his little\ndaughter Marie always went with him part of the way. When she was only\nfive years old, she would sit proudly on her horse, and look saucily\nround with her great black eyes. It was a great amusement to her to\nhit out among the hunting-dogs with her whip; but her father would\nrather have seen her hit among the peasant boys, who came running up\nto stare at their lord.\n\nThe peasant in the clay hut close by the knightly house had a\nson named Soren, of the same age as the gracious little lady. The\nboy could climb well, and had always to bring her down the bird's\nnests. The birds screamed as loud as they could, and one of the\ngreatest of them hacked him with its beak over the eye so that the\nblood ran down, and it was at first thought the eye had been\ndestroyed; but it had not been injured after all. Marie Grubbe used to\ncall him her Soren, and that was a great favor, and was an advantage\nto Soren's father--poor Jon, who had one day committed a fault, and\nwas to be punished by riding on the wooden horse. This same horse\nstood in the courtyard, and had four poles for legs, and a single\nnarrow plant for a back; on this Jon had to ride astride, and some\nheavy bricks were fastened to his feet into the bargain, that he might\nnot sit too comfortably. He made horrible grimaces, and Soren wept and\nimplored little Marie to interfere. She immediately ordered that\nSoren's father should be taken down, and when they did not obey her,\nshe stamped on the floor, and pulled at her father's sleeve till it\nwas torn to pieces. She would have her way, and she got her way, and\nSoren's father was taken down.\n\nLady Grubbe, who now came up, parted her little daughter's hair\nfrom the child's brow, and looked at her affectionately; but Marie did\nnot understand why.\n\nShe wanted to go to the hounds, and not to her mother, who went\ndown into the garden, to the lake where the water-lily bloomed, and\nthe heads of bulrushes nodded amid the reeds; and she looked at all\nthis beauty and freshness. \"How pleasant!\" she said. In the garden\nstood at that time a rare tree, which she herself had planted. It\nwas called the blood-beech--a kind of negro growing among the other\ntrees, so dark brown were the leaves. This tree required much\nsunshine, for in continual shade it would become bright green like the\nother trees, and thus lose its distinctive character. In the lofty\nchestnut trees were many birds' nests, and also in the thickets and in\nthe grassy meadows. It seemed as though the birds knew that they\nwere protected here, and that no one must fire a gun at them.\n\nLittle Marie came here with Soren. He knew how to climb, as we\nhave already said, and eggs and fluffy-feathered young birds were\nbrought down. The birds, great and small, flew about in terror and\ntribulation; the peewit from the fields, and the crows and daws from\nthe high trees, screamed and screamed; it was just such din as the\nfamily will raise to the present day.\n\n\"What are you doing, you children?\" cried the gentle lady; \"that\nis sinful!\"\n\nSoren stood abashed, and even the little gracious lady looked down\na little; but then he said, quite short and pretty,\n\n\"My father lets me do it!\"\n\n\"Craw-craw! away-away from here!\" cried the great black birds, and\nthey flew away; but on the following day they came back, for they were\nat home here.\n\nThe quiet gentle lady did not remain long at home here on earth,\nfor the good God called her away; and, indeed, her home was rather\nwith Him than in the knightly house; and the church bells tolled\nsolemnly when her corpse was carried to the church, and the eyes of\nthe poor people were wet with tears, for she had been good to them.\n\nWhen she was gone, no one attended to her plantations, and the\ngarden ran to waste. Grubbe the knight was a hard man, they said;\nbut his daughter, young as she was, knew how to manage him. He used to\nlaugh and let her have her way. She was now twelve years old, and\nstrongly built. She looked the people through and through with her\nblack eyes, rode her horse as bravely as a man, and could fire off her\ngun like a practiced hunter.\n\nOne day there were great visitors in the neighborhood, the\ngrandest visitors who could come. The young King, and his half-brother\nand comrade, the Lord Ulric Frederick Gyldenlowe. They wanted to\nhunt the wild boar, and to pass a few days at the castle of Grubbe.\n\nGyldenlowe sat at table next to Marie Grubbe, and he took her by\nthe hand and gave her a kiss, as if she had been a relation; but she\ngave him a box on the ear, and told him she could not bear him, at\nwhich there was great laughter, as if that had been a very amusing\nthing.\n\nAnd perhaps it was very amusing, for, five years afterwards,\nwhen Marie had fulfilled her seventeenth year, a messenger arrived\nwith a letter, in which Lord Gyldenlowe proposed for the hand of the\nnoble young lady. There was a thing for you!\n\n\"He is the grandest and most gallant gentleman in the whole\ncountry,\" said Grubbe the knight; \"that is not a thing to despise.\"\n\n\"I don't care so very much about him,\" said Marie Grubbe; but\nshe did not despise the grandest man of all the country, who sat by\nthe king's side.\n\nSilver plate, and fine linen and woollen, went off to Copenhagen\nin a ship, while the bride made the journey by land in ten days. But\nthe outfit met with contrary winds, or with no winds at all, for\nfour months passed before it arrived; and when it came, my Lady\nGyldenlowe was gone.\n\n\"I'd rather lie on coarse sacking than lie in his silken beds,\"\nshe declared. \"I'd rather walk barefoot than drive with him in a\ncoach!\"\n\nLate one evening in November two women came riding into the town\nof Aarhuus. They were the gracious Lady Gyldenlowe (Marie Grubbe)\nand her maid. They came from the town of Weile, whither they had\ncome in a ship from Copenhagen. They stopped at Lord Grubbe's stone\nmansion in Aarhuus. Grubbe was not well pleased with this visit. Marie\nwas accosted in hard words; but she had a bedroom given her, and got\nher beer soup of a morning; but the evil part of her father's nature\nwas aroused against her, and she was not used to that. She was not\nof a gentle temper, and we often answer as we are addressed. She\nanswered openly, and spoke with bitterness and hatred of her\nhusband, with whom she declared she would not live; she was too\nhonorable for that.\n\nA year went by, but it did not go by pleasantly. There were evil\nwords between the father and the daughter, and that ought never to be.\nBad words bear bad fruit. What could be the end of such a state of\nthings?\n\n\"We two cannot live under the same roof,\" said the father one day.\n\"Go away from here to our old manor house; but you had better bite\nyour tongue off than spread any lies among the people.\"\n\nAnd so the two parted. She went with her maid to the old castle\nwhere she had been born, and near which the gentle, pious lady, her\nmother, was lying in the church vault. An old cowherd lived in the\ncourtyard, and was the only other inhabitant of the place. In the\nrooms heavy black cobwebs hung down, covered with dust; in the\ngarden everything grew just as it would; hops and climbing plants\nran like a net between the trees and bushes, and the hemlock and\nnettle grew larger and stronger. The blood-beech had been outgrown\nby other trees, and now stood in the shade; and its leaves were\ngreen like those of the common trees, and its glory had departed.\nCrows and choughs, in great close masses, flew past over the tall\nchestnut trees, and chattered and screamed as if they had something\nvery important to tell one another--as if they were saying, \"Now she's\ncome back again, the little girl who had their eggs and their young\nones stolen from them; and as for the thief who had got them down,\nhe had to climb up a leafless tree, for he sat on a tall ship's\nmast, and was beaten with a rope's end if he did not behave himself.\"\n\nThe clerk told all this in our own times; he had collected it\nand looked it up in books and memoranda. It was to be found, with many\nother writings, locked up in his table-drawer.\n\n\"Upward and downward is the course of the world,\" said he. \"It\nis strange to hear.\"\n\nAnd we will hear how it went with Marie Grubbe. We need not for\nthat forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting in her capital hen-house, in\nour own time. Marie Grubbe sat down in her times, but not with the\nsame spirit that old Poultry Meg showed.\n\nThe winter passed away, and the spring and the summer passed away,\nand the autumn came again, with the damp, cold sea-fog. It was a\nlonely, desolate life in the old manor house. Marie Grubbe took her\ngun in her hand and went out to the heath, and shot hares and foxes,\nand whatever birds she could hit. More than once she met the noble Sir\nPalle Dyre, of Norrebak, who was also wandering about with his gun and\nhis dogs. He was tall and strong, and boasted of this when they talked\ntogether. He could have measured himself against the deceased Mr.\nBrockenhuus, of Egeskov, of whom the people still talked. Palle Dyre\nhad, after the example of Brockenhuus, caused an iron chain with a\nhunting-horn to be hung in his gateway; and when he came riding\nhome, he used to seize the chain, and lift himself and his horse\nfrom the ground, and blow the horn.\n\n\"Come yourself, and see me do that, Dame Marie,\" he said. 'One can\nbreathe fresh and free at Norrebak.\n\nWhen she went to his castle is not known, but on the altar\ncandlestick in the church of Norrebak it was inscribed that they\nwere the gift of Palle Dyre and Marie Grubbe, of Norrebak Castle.\n\nA great stout man was Palle Dyre. He drank like a sponge. He was\nlike a tub that could never get full; he snored like a whole sty of\npigs, and he looked red and bloated.\n\n\"He is treacherous and malicious,\" said Dame Pally Dyre,\nGrubbe's daughter. Soon she was weary of her life with him, but that\ndid not make it better.\n\nOne day the table was spread, and the dishes grew cold. Palle Dyre\nwas out hunting foxes, and the gracious lady was nowhere to be\nfound. Towards midnight Palle Dyre came home, but Dame Dyre came\nneither at midnight, nor next morning. She had turned her back upon\nNorrebak, and had ridden away without saying good-bye.\n\nIt was gray, wet weather; the wind grew cold, and a flight of\nblack screaming birds flew over her head. They were not so homeless as\nshe.\n\nFirst she journeyed southward, quite down into the German land.\nA couple of golden rings with costly stones were turned into money;\nand then she turned to the east, and then she turned again and went\ntowards the west. She had no food before her eyes, and murmured\nagainst everything, even against the good God himself, so wretched was\nher soul. Soon her body became wretched too, and she was scarcely able\nto move a foot. The peewit flew up as she stumbled over the mound of\nearth where it had built its nest. The bird cried, as it always cried,\n\"You thief! you thief!\" She had never stolen her neighbor's goods; but\nas a little girl she had caused eggs and young birds to be taken\nfrom the trees, and she thought of that now.\n\nFrom where she lay she could see the sand-dunes. By the seashore\nlived fishermen; but she could not get so far, she was so ill. The\ngreat white sea-mews flew over her head, and screamed as the crows and\ndaws screamed at home in the garden of the manor house. The birds flew\nquite close to her, and at last it seemed to her as if they became\nblack as crows, and then all was night before her eyes.\n\nWhen she opened her eyes again, she was being lifted and\ncarried. A great strong man had taken her up in his arms, and she\nwas looking straight into his bearded face. He had a scar over one\neye, which seemed to divide the eyebrow into two parts. Weak as she\nwas, he carried her to the ship, where he got a rating for it from the\ncaptain.\n\nThe next day the ship sailed away. Madame Grubbe had not been\nput ashore, so she sailed away with it. But she will return, will\nshe not? Yes, but where, and when?\n\nThe clerk could tell about this too, and it was not a story\nwhich he patched together himself. He had the whole strange history\nout of an old authentic book, which we ourselves can take out and\nread. The Danish historian, Ludwig Holberg, who has written so many\nuseful books and merry comedies, from which we can get such a good\nidea of his times and their people, tells in his letters of Marie\nGrubbe, where and how he met her. It is well worth hearing; but for\nall that, we don't at all forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting\ncheerful and comfortable in the charming fowl-house.\n\nThe ship sailed away with Marie Grubbe. That's where we left off.\n\nLong years went by.\n\nThe plague was raging at Copenhagen; it was in the year 1711.\nThe Queen of Denmark went away to her German home, the King quitted\nthe capital, and everybody who could do so hurried away. The students,\neven those who had board and lodging gratis, left the city. One of\nthese students, the last who had remained in the free college, at last\nwent away too. It was two o'clock in the morning. He was carrying\nhis knapsack, which was better stacked with books and writings than\nwith clothes. A damp mist hung over the town; not a person was to be\nseen in the streets; the street-doors around were marked with crosses,\nas a sign that the plague was within, or that all the inmates were\ndead. A great wagon rattled past him; the coachman brandished his\nwhip, and the horses flew by at a gallop. The wagon was filled with\ncorpses. The young student kept his hand before his face, and smelt at\nsome strong spirits that he had with him on a sponge in a little brass\nscent-case. Out of a small tavern in one of the streets there were\nsounds of singing and of unhallowed laughter, from people who drank\nthe night through to forget that the plague was at their doors, and\nthat they might be put into the wagon as the others had been. The\nstudent turned his steps towards the canal at the castle bridge, where\na couple of small ships were lying; one of these was weighing\nanchor, to get away from the plague-stricken city.\n\n\"If God spares our lives and grants us a fair wind, we are going\nto Gronmud, near Falster,\" said the captain; and he asked the name\nof the student who wished to go with him.\n\n\"Ludwig Holberg,\" answered the student; and the name sounded\nlike any other. But now there sounds in it one of the proudest names\nof Denmark; then it was the name of a young, unknown student.\n\nThe ship glided past the castle. It was not yet bright day when it\nwas in the open sea. A light wind filled the sails, and the young\nstudent sat down with his face turned towards the fresh wind, and went\nto sleep, which was not exactly the most prudent thing he could have\ndone.\n\nAlready on the third day the ship lay by the island of Falster.\n\n\"Do you know any one here with whom I could lodge cheaply?\"\nHolberg asked the captain.\n\n\"I should think you would do well to go to the ferry-woman in\nBorrehaus,\" answered the captain. \"If you want to be very civil to\nher, her name is Mother Soren Sorensen Muller. But it may happen\nthat she may fly into a fury if you are too polite to her. The man\nis in custody for a crime, and that's why she manages the ferry-boat\nherself--she has fists of her own.\"\n\nThe student took his knapsack and betook himself to the\nferry-house. The house door was not locked--it opened, and he went\ninto a room with a brick floor, where a bench, with a great coverlet\nof leather, formed the chief article of furniture. A white hen, who\nhad a brood of chickens, was fastened to the bench, and had overturned\nthe pipkin of water, so that the wet ran across the floor. There\nwere no people either here or in the adjoining room; only a cradle\nstood there, in which was a child. The ferry-boat came back with\nonly one person in it. Whether that person was a man or a woman was\nnot an easy matter to determine. The person in question was wrapped in\na great cloak, and wore a kind of hood. Presently the boat lay to.\n\nIt was a woman who got out of it and came into the room. She\nlooked very stately when she straightened her back; two proud eyes\nlooked forth from beneath her black eyebrows. It was Mother Soren, the\nferry-wife. The crows and daws might have called out another name\nfor her, which we know better.\n\nShe looked morose, and did not seem to care to talk; but this much\nwas settled, that the student should board in her house for an\nindefinite time, while things looked so bad in Copenhagen.\n\nThis or that honest citizen would often come to the ferry-house\nfrom the neighboring little town. There came Frank the cutler, and\nSivert the exciseman. They drank a mug of beer in the ferry-house, and\nused to converse with the student, for he was a clever young man,\nwho knew his \"Practica,\" as they called it; he could read Greek and\nLatin, and was well up in learned subjects.\n\n\"The less one knows, the less it presses upon one,\" said Mother\nSoren.\n\n\"You have to work hard,\" said Holberg one day, when she was\ndipping clothes in the strong soapy water, and was obliged herself\nto split the logs for the fire.\n\n\"That's my affair,\" she replied.\n\n\"Have you been obliged to toil in this way from your childhood?\"\n\n\"You can read that from my hands,\" she replied, and held out her\nhands, that were small indeed, but hard and strong, with bitten nails.\n\"You are learned, and can read.\"\n\nAt Christmas-time it began to snow heavily. The cold came on,\nthe wind blue sharp, as if there were vitriol in it to wash the\npeople's faces. Mother Soren did not let that disturb her; she threw\nher cloak around her, and drew her hood over her head. Early in the\nafternoon--it was already dark in the house--she laid wood and turf on\nthe hearth, and then she sat down to darn her stockings, for there was\nno one to do it for her. Towards evening she spoke more words to the\nstudent than it was customary with her to use; she spoke of her\nhusband.\n\n\"He killed a sailor of Dragor by mischance, and for that he has to\nwork for three years in irons. He's only a common sailor, and\ntherefore the law must take its course.\"\n\n\"The law is there for people of high rank, too,\" said Holberg.\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Mother Soren; then she looked into the\nfire for a while; but after a time she began to speak again. \"Have you\nheard of Kai Lykke, who caused a church to be pulled down, and when\nthe clergyman, Master Martin, thundered from the pulpit about it, he\nhad him put in irons, and sat in judgment upon him, and condemned\nhim to death? Yes, and the clergyman was obliged to bow his head to\nthe stroke. And yet Kai Lykke went scot-free.\"\n\n\"He had a right to do as he did in those times,\" said Holberg;\n\"but now we have left those times behind us.\"\n\n\"You may get a fool to believe that,\" cried Mother Soren; and\nshe got up and went into the room where the child lay. She lifted up\nthe child, and laid it down more comfortably. Then she arranged the\nbed-place of the student. He had the green coverlet, for he felt the\ncold more than she, though he was born in Norway.\n\nOn New Year's morning it was a bright sunshiny day. The frost\nhad been so strong, and was still so strong, that the fallen snow\nhad become a hard mass, and one could walk upon it. The bells of the\nlittle town were tolling for church. Student Holberg wrapped himself\nup in his woollen cloak, and wanted to go to the town.\n\nOver the ferry-house the crows and daws were flying with loud\ncries; one could hardly hear the church bells for their screaming.\nMother Soren stood in front of the house, filling a brass pot with\nsnow, which she was going to put on the fire to get drinking water.\nShe looked up to the crowd of birds, and thought her own thoughts.\n\nStudent Holberg went to church. On his way there and on his return\nhe passed by the house of tax-collector Sivert, by the town-gate. Here\nhe was invited to take a mug of brown beer with treacle and sugar. The\ndiscourse fell upon Mother Soren, but the tax collector did not know\nmuch about her, and, indeed, few knew much about her. She did not\nbelong to the island of Falster, he said; she had a little property of\nher own at one time. Her husband was a common sailor, a fellow of a\nvery hot temper, and had killed a sailor of Dragor; and he beat his\nwife, and yet she defended him.\n\n\"I should not endure such treatment,\" said the tax-collector's\nwife. \"I am come of more respectable people. My father was\nstocking-weaver to the Court.\"\n\n\"And consequently you have married a governmental official,\"\nsaid Holberg, and made a bow to her and to the collector.\n\nIt was on Twelfth Night, the evening of the festival of the\nThree Kings, Mother Soren lit up for Holberg a three-king candle, that\nis, a tallow candle with three wicks, which she had herself prepared.\n\n\"A light for each man,\" said Holberg.\n\n\"For each man?\" repeated the woman, looking sharply at him.\n\n\"For each of the wise men from the East,\" said Holberg.\n\n\"You mean it that way,\" said she, and then she was silent for a\nlong time. But on this evening he learned more about her than he had\nyet known.\n\n\"You speak very affectionately of your husband,\" observed Holberg,\n\"and yet the people say that he ill-uses you every day.\"\n\n\"That's no one's business but mine,\" she replied. \"The blows might\nhave done me good when I was a child; now, I suppose, I get them for\nmy sins. But I know what good he has done me,\" and she rose up.\n\"When I lay sick upon the desolate heath, and no one would have pity\non me, and no one would have anything to do with me, except the\ncrows and daws, which came to peck me to bits, he carried me in his\narms, and had to bear hard words because of the burden he brought on\nboard ship. It's not in my nature to be sick, and so I got well. Every\nman has his own way, and Soren has his; but the horse must not be\njudged by the halter. Taking one thing with another, I have lived more\nagreeably with him than with the man whom they called the most noble\nand gallant of the King's subjects. I have had the Stadtholder\nGyldenlowe, the King's half-brother, for my husband; and afterwards\nI took Palle Dyre. One is as good as another, each in his own way, and\nI in mine. That was a long gossip, but now you know all about me.\"\n\nAnd with those words she left the room.\n\n\nIt was Marie Grubbe! so strangely had fate played with her. She\ndid not live to see many anniversaries of the festival of the Three\nKings; Holberg has recorded that she died in June, 1716; but he has\nnot written down, for he did not know, that a number of great black\nbirds circled over the ferry-house, when Mother Soren, as she was\ncalled, was lying there a corpse. They did not scream, as if they knew\nthat at a burial silence should be observed. So soon as she lay in the\nearth, the birds disappeared; but on the same evening in Jutland, at\nthe old manor house, an enormous number of crows and choughs were\nseen; they all cried as loud as they could, as if they had some\nannouncement to make. Perhaps they talked of him who, as a little boy,\nhad taken away their eggs and their young; of the peasant's son, who\nhad to wear an iron garter, and of the noble young lady, who ended\nby being a ferryman's wife.\n\n\"Brave! brave!\" they cried.\n\nAnd the whole family cried, \"Brave! brave!\" when the old house was\npulled down.\n\n\"They are still crying, and yet there's nothing to cry about,\"\nsaid the clerk, when he told the story. \"The family is extinct, the\nhouse has been pulled down, and where it stood is now the stately\npoultry-house, with gilded weathercocks, and the old Poultry Meg.\nShe rejoices greatly in her beautiful dwelling. If she had not come\nhere,\" the old clerk added, \"she would have had to go into the\nwork-house.\"\n\nThe pigeons cooed over her, the turkey-cocks gobbled, and the\nducks quacked.\n\n\"Nobody knew her,\" they said; \"she belongs to no family. It's pure\ncharity that she is here at all. She has neither a drake father nor\na hen mother, and has no descendants.\"\n\nShe came of a great family, for all that; but she did not know it,\nand the old clerk did not know it, though he had so much written down;\nbut one of the old crows knew about it, and told about it. She had\nheard from her own mother and grandmother about Poultry Meg's mother\nand grandmother. And we know the grandmother too. We saw her ride,\nas child, over the bridge, looking proudly around her, as if the whole\nworld belonged to her, and all the birds' nests in it; and we saw\nher on the heath, by the sand-dunes; and, last of all, in the\nferry-house. The granddaughter, the last of her race, had come back to\nthe old home, where the old castle had stood, where the black wild\nbirds were screaming; but she sat among the tame birds, and these knew\nher and were fond of her. Poultry Meg had nothing left to wish for;\nshe looked forward with pleasure to her death, and she was old\nenough to die.\n\n\"Grave, grave!\" cried the crows.\n\nAnd Poultry Meg has a good grave, which nobody knew except the old\ncrow, if the old crow is not dead already.\n\nAnd now we know the story of the old manor house, of its old\nproprietors, and of all Poultry Meg's family.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINCESS AND THE PEA\n\nOnce upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a\nprincess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all\nover the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted.\nThere were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether\nthey were real ones. There was always something about them that was\nnot as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would\nhave liked very much to have a real princess.\n\nOne evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and\nlightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking\nwas heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.\n\nIt was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But,\ngood gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look.\nThe water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the\ntoes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that\nshe was a real princess.\n\n\"Well, we'll soon find that out,\" thought the old queen. But she\nsaid nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the\nbedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty\nmattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds\non top of the mattresses.\n\nOn this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she\nwas asked how she had slept.\n\n\"Oh, very badly!\" said she. \"I have scarcely closed my eyes all\nnight. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on\nsomething hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's\nhorrible!\"\n\nNow they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt\nthe pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty\neider-down beds.\n\nNobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.\n\nSo the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a\nreal princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still\nbe seen, if no one has stolen it.\n\nThere, that is a true story.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PSYCHE\n\nIn the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,\nthe brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,\nas if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen\nthere and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.\nLet us hear one of his stories.\n\n\"A short time ago\"--the Star's \"short time ago\" is called among\nmen \"centuries ago\"--\"my rays followed a young artist. It was in the\ncity of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed\nthere in the course of time, but the changes have not come so\nquickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace\nof the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew\namong the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,\nwhere the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a\ngigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its\nfragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with\nflaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art\nwas held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest\npainter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of\nsculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and\nhonored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was\nrewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was\nnot seen and known.\n\n\"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a\nyoung sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He\ncertainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,\nyoung in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,\nand an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his\nown power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,\nand never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to\nbe seen and to bring money.\n\n\"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's your\nmisfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,\nyou have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great\nwholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must\nmingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Look\nat the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world\nadmires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'\n\n\"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty\nFornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.\n\n\"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their\nage and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with\nthem into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be\ncalled; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had\nwarm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry\nchat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's\nmerry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine\nradiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;\nand when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the\nmasters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast\nswelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,\nsomething elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could\nproduce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a\npicture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart\nto the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft\nclay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the\nnext day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.\n\n\"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome\nhas many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and\nbeheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed\nwith a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green\njuicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear\nwater was splashing; and a form glided past, the daughter of the\nprincely house, graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a\nform of female loveliness he had never before beheld--yet stay: he had\nseen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of the\nRoman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it passed by\nhim in living reality.\n\n\"The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He went home\nto his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich\nyoung Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for the first time he looked\nat his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him, for it was\nshe. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they\ndeclared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power,\nof which they had long been aware, and that now the world should be\nmade aware of it too.\n\n\"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had not the\nwhiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the\nPsyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly\nblock of that stone. It had been lying for years, the property of\nhis parents, in the courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and\nremains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity;\nbut under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow; and\nfrom this block the Psyche was to arise.\"\n\nNow, it happened one morning--the bright Star tells nothing\nabout this, but we know it occurred--that a noble Roman company came\ninto the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane, and\nthe company proceeded on foot towards the house, to inspect the\nyoung sculptor's work, for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And\nwho were these distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate\nyoung man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room\nand smiled radiantly when her father said to her, \"It is your living\nimage.\" That smile could not be copied, any more than the look could\nbe reproduced, the wonderful look which she cast upon the young\nartist. It was a fiery look, that seemed at once to elevate and to\ncrush him.\n\n\"The Psyche must be executed in marble,\" said the wealthy\npatrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the\nheavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved\nartist. \"When the work is finished I will purchase it,\" continued\nthe rich noble.\n\nA new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and\ncheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its work. The\nbeaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed. The clay itself\nseemed inspired since she had been there, and moulded itself, in\nheightened beauty, to a likeness of the well-known features.\n\n\"Now I know what life is,\" cried the artist rejoicingly; \"it is\nLove! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the\nbeautiful in the soul! What my friends call life and enjoyment is a\npassing shadow; it is like bubbles among seething dregs, not the\npure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life.\"\n\nThe marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck\ngreat fragments from it; the measurements were taken, points and lines\nwere made, the mechanical part was executed, till gradually the\nstone assumed a human female form, a shape of beauty, and became\nconverted into the Psyche, fair and glorious--a divine being in\nhuman shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy\nPsyche, with the heavenly innocent smile--the smile that had\nmirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.\n\nThe Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was\nstirring within the young man, and could read the meaning of the\nchanging color of his cheek, of the light that flashed from his eye,\nas he stood busily working, reproducing what had been put into his\nsoul from above.\n\n\"Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient Greeks,\"\nexclaimed his delighted friends; \"soon shall the whole world admire\nthy Psyche.\"\n\n\"My Psyche!\" he repeated. \"Yes, mine. She must be mine. I, too, am\nan artist, like those great men who are gone. Providence has granted\nme the boon, and has made me the equal of that lady of noble birth.\"\n\nAnd he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss to\nHeaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake--for the sake of her\npicture in stone--for her Psyche which stood there as if formed of\nsnow, blushing in the morning dawn.\n\nHe was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche, whose\nwords sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry the news into\nthe rich palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He betook himself\nthither, strode through the open courtyard where the waters ran\nsplashing from the dolphin's jaws into the marble basins, where the\nsnowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into\nthe great lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding\nand bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men,\nadorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro, and some\nreclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as if they were\nthe masters of the house. He told them what had brought him to the\npalace, and was conducted up the shining marble staircase, covered\nwith soft carpets and adorned with many a statue. Then he went on\nthrough richly-furnished chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous\npictures. All this pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he\nfelt relieved, for the princely old master of the house received him\nmost graciously, almost heartily; and when he took his leave he was\nrequested to step into the Signora's apartment, for she, too, wished\nto see him. The servants led him through more luxurious halls and\nchambers into her room, where she appeared the chief and leading\nornament.\n\nShe spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant, could\nmelt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her hand and lifted\nit to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire thrilled through him\nfrom this rose--a feeling of power came upon him, and words poured\nfrom his tongue--he knew not what he said. Does the crater of the\nvolcano know that the glowing lava is pouring from it? He confessed\nwhat he felt for her. She stood before him astonished, offended,\nproud, with contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if\nshe had suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks\nreddened, her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though\nthey were dark as the blackness of night.\n\n\"Madman!\" she cried, \"away! begone!\"\n\nAnd she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore an\nexpression like that of the stony countenance with the snaky locks.\n\nLike a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the staircase\nand out into the street. Like a man walking in his sleep, he found his\nway back to his dwelling. Then he woke up to madness and agony, and\nseized his hammer, swung it high in the air, and rushed forward to\nshatter the beautiful marble image. But, in his pain, he had not\nnoticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held\nback his arm with a strong grasp, crying,\n\n\"Are you mad? What are you about?\"\n\nThey struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and, with a deep\nsigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself into a chair.\n\n\"What has happened?\" asked Angelo. \"Command yourself. Speak!\"\n\nBut what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo could\nmake no sense of his friend's incoherent words, he forbore to question\nhim further, and merely said,\n\n\"Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a man, as\nall others are, and don't go on living in ideals, for that is what\ndrives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you sleep quietly and\nhappily. Believe me, the time will come when you will be old, and your\nsinews will shrink, and then, on some fine sunshiny day, when\neverything is laughing and rejoicing, you will lie there a faded\nplant, that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams, but in\nreality. Come with me. Be a man!\"\n\nAnd he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he was able\nto do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor; a\nchange had taken place in his soul; he felt a longing to tear from the\nold, the accustomed--to forget, if possible, his own individuality;\nand therefore it was that he followed Angelo.\n\nIn an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by\nartists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths. The great\nyellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves, and covered\na part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a\nvaulted chamber, almost like a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned\nthere before the picture of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the\nhearth, and roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under\nthe citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.\n\nThe two artists were received by their friends with shouts of\nwelcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the spirits of\nthe company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were played on the\nguitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and the merry dance began.\nTwo young Roman girls, who sat as models to the artists, took part\nin the dance and in the festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were\nthey; certainly not Psyches--not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh,\nhearty, glowing carnations.\n\nHow hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot. There\nwas fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire everywhere. The\nair gleamed with gold and roses, and life seemed like gold and roses.\n\n\"At last you have joined us, for once,\" said his friends. \"Now let\nyourself be carried by the waves within and around you.\"\n\n\"Never yet have I felt so well, so merry!\" cried the young artist.\n\"You are right--you are all of you right. I was a fool--a dreamer. Man\nbelongs to reality, and not to fancy.\"\n\nWith songs and with sounding guitars the young people returned\nthat evening from the tavern, through the narrow streets; the two\nglowing carnations, daughters of the Campagna, went with them.\n\nIn Angelo's room, among a litter of colored sketches (studies) and\nglowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower, but not less merrily.\nOn the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the\nCampagna, in their fresh, hearty comeliness, but the two originals\nwere far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the\nsix-armed lamp flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within,\nand appeared in the glare as if it were divine.\n\n\"Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven--to your\nglory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding itself in my\nveins at this moment!\"\n\nYes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell, and\nan evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading astray the\nfancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it became dark.\n\nHe was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed and\ncollected his thoughts.\n\n\"Fie on thee!\" these were the words that sounded out of his\nmouth from the depths of his heart. \"Wretched man, go, begone!\" And\na deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.\n\n\"Away! begone!\" These, her words, the words of the living\nPsyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He buried his\nhead in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused, and he fell asleep.\n\nIn the morning dawn he started up, and collected his thoughts\nanew. What had happened? Had all the past been a dream? The visit to\nher, the feast at the tavern, the evening with the purple carnations\nof the Campagna? No, it was all real--a reality he had never before\nexperienced.\n\nIn the purple air gleamed the bright Star, and its beams fell upon\nhim and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that\npicture of immortality, and his glance seemed impure to him. He\nthrew the cloth over the statue, and then touched it once more to\nunveil the form--but he was not able to look again at his own work.\n\nGloomy, quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, he sat there\nthrough the long day; he heard nothing of what was going on around\nhim, and no man guessed what was passing in this human soul.\n\nAnd days and weeks went by, but the nights passed more slowly than\nthe days. The flashing Star beheld him one morning as he rose, pale\nand trembling with fever, from his sad couch; then he stepped\ntowards the statue, threw back the covering, took one long,\nsorrowful gaze at his work, and then, almost sinking beneath the\nburden, he dragged the statue out into the garden. In that place was\nan old dry well, now nothing but a hole. Into this he cast the Psyche,\nthrew earth in above her, and covered up the spot with twigs and\nnettles.\n\n\"Away! begone!\" Such was the short epitaph he spoke.\n\nThe Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky, and its beam\ntrembled upon two great tears upon the pale feverish cheeks of the\nyoung man; and soon it was said that he was sick unto death, and he\nlay stretched upon a bed of pain.\n\nThe convent Brother Ignatius visited him as a physician and a\nfriend, and brought him words of comfort, of religion, and spoke to\nhim of the peace and happiness of the church, of the sinfulness of\nman, of rest and mercy to be found in heaven.\n\nAnd the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil. The\nsoil smoked and sent up clouds of mist, fantastic pictures, pictures\nin which there was reality; and from these floating islands he\nlooked across at human life. He found it vanity and delusion--and\nvanity and delusion it had been to him. They told him that art was a\nsorcerer, betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are\nfalse to ourselves, unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards\nHeaven; and that the serpent was always repeating within us, \"Eat, and\nthou shalt become as God.\"\n\nAnd it appeared to him as if now, for the first time, he knew\nhimself, and had found the way that leads to truth and to peace. In\nthe church was the light and the brightness of God--in the monk's cell\nhe should find the rest through which the tree of human life might\ngrow on into eternity.\n\nBrother Ignatius strengthened his longings, and the\ndetermination became firm within him. A child of the world became a\nservant of the church--the young artist renounced the world, and\nretired into the cloister.\n\nThe brothers came forward affectionately to welcome him, and his\ninauguration was as a Sunday feast. Heaven seemed to him to dwell in\nthe sunshine of the church, and to beam upon him from the holy\npictures and from the cross. And when, in the evening, at the sunset\nhour, he stood in his little cell, and, opening the window, looked out\nupon old Rome, upon the desolated temples, and the great dead\nColiseum--when he saw all this in its spring garb, when the acacias\nbloomed, and the ivy was fresh, and roses burst forth everywhere,\nand the citron and orange were in the height of their beauty, and\nthe palm trees waved their branches--then he felt a deeper emotion\nthan had ever yet thrilled through him. The quiet open Campagna spread\nitself forth towards the blue snow-covered mountains, which seemed\nto be painted in the air; all the outlines melting into each other,\nbreathing peace and beauty, floating, dreaming--and all appearing like\na dream!\n\nYes, this world was a dream, and the dream lasts for hours, and\nmay return for hours; but convent life is a life of years--long years,\nand many years.\n\nFrom within comes much that renders men sinful and impure. He\nfully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in him at\ntimes! What a source of evil, of that which we would not, welled up\ncontinually! He mortified his body, but the evil came from within.\n\n\nOne day, after the lapse of many years, he met Angelo, who\nrecognized him.\n\n\"Man!\" exclaimed Angelo. \"Yes, it is thou! Art thou happy now?\nThou hast sinned against God, and cast away His boon from thee--hast\nneglected thy mission in this world! Read the parable of the intrusted\ntalent! The MASTER, who spoke that parable, spoke the truth! What hast\nthou gained? What hast thou found? Dost thou not fashion for thyself a\nreligion and a dreamy life after thine own idea, as almost all do?\nSuppose all this is a dream, a fair delusion!\"\n\n\"Get thee away from me, Satan!\" said the monk; and he quitted\nAngelo.\n\n\"There is a devil, a personal devil! This day I have seen him!\"\nsaid the monk to himself. \"Once I extended a finger to him, and he\ntook my whole hand. But now,\" he sighed, \"the evil is within me, and\nit is in yonder man; but it does not bow him down; he goes abroad with\nhead erect, and enjoys his comfort; and I grasped at comfort in the\nconsolations of religion. If it were nothing but a consolation?\nSupposing everything here were, like the world I have quitted, only\na beautiful fancy, a delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds,\nlike the misty blue of the distant hills!--when you approach them,\nthey are very different! O eternity! Thou actest like the great calm\nocean, that beckons us, and fills us with expectation--and when we\nembark upon thee, we sink, disappear, and cease to be. Delusion!\naway with it! begone!\"\n\nAnd tearless, but sunk in bitter reflection, he sat upon his\nhard couch, and then knelt down--before whom? Before the stone cross\nfastened to the wall? No, it was only habit that made him take this\nposition.\n\nThe more deeply he looked into his own heart, the blacker did\nthe darkness seem. \"Nothing within, nothing without--this life\nsquandered and cast away!\" And this thought rolled and grew like a\nsnowball, until it seemed to crush him.\n\n\"I can confide my griefs to none. I may speak to none of the\ngnawing worm within. My secret is my prisoner; if I let the captive\nescape, I shall be his!\"\n\nAnd the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and strove.\n\n\"O Lord, my Lord!\" he cried, in his despair, \"be merciful and\ngrant me faith. I threw away the gift thou hadst vouchsafed to me, I\nleft my mission unfulfilled. I lacked strength, and strength thou\ndidst not give me. Immortality--the Psyche in my breast--away with\nit!--it shall be buried like that Psyche, the best gleam of my life;\nnever will it arise out of its grave!\"\n\nThe Star glowed in the roseate air, the Star that shall surely\nbe extinguished and pass away while the soul still lives on; its\ntrembling beam fell upon the white wall, but it wrote nothing there\nupon being made perfect in God, nothing of the hope of mercy, of the\nreliance on the divine love that thrills through the heart of the\nbeliever.\n\n\"The Psyche within can never die. Shall it live in\nconsciousness? Can the incomprehensible happen? Yes, yes. My being\nis incomprehensible. Thou art unfathomable, O Lord. Thy whole world is\nincomprehensible--a wonder-work of power, of glory and of love.\"\n\nHis eyes gleamed, and then closed in death. The tolling of the\nchurch bell was the last sound that echoed above him, above the dead\nman; and they buried him, covering him with earth that had been\nbrought from Jerusalem, and in which was mingled the dust of many of\nthe pious dead.\n\nWhen years had gone by his skeleton was dug up, as the skeletons\nof the monks who had died before him had been; it was clad in a\nbrown frock, a rosary was put into the bony hand, and the form was\nplaced among the ranks of other skeletons in the cloisters of the\nconvent. And the sun shone without, while within the censers were\nwaved and the Mass was celebrated.\n\n\nAnd years rolled by.\n\nThe bones fell asunder and became mingled with others. Skulls were\npiled up till they formed an outer wall around the church; and there\nlay also his head in the burning sun, for many dead were there, and no\none knew their names, and his name was forgotten also. And see,\nsomething was moving in the sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes!\nWhat might that be? A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull,\ngliding in and out through the sightless holes. The lizard now\nrepresented all the life left in that head, in which once great\nthoughts, bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had\narisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and immortality\nhad had their being. The lizard sprang away and disappeared, and the\nskull itself crumbled to pieces and became dust among dust.\n\nCenturies passed away. The bright Star gleamed unaltered,\nradiant and large, as it had gleamed for thousands of years, and the\nair glowed red with tints fresh as roses, crimson like blood.\n\nThere, where once had stood the narrow lane containing the ruins\nof the temple, a nunnery was now built. A grave was being dug in the\nconvent garden for a young nun who had died, and was to be laid in the\nearth this morning. The spade struck against a hard substance; it\nwas a stone, that shone dazzling white. A block of marble soon\nappeared, a rounded shoulder was laid bare; and now the spade was\nplied with a more careful hand, and presently a female head was\nseen, and butterflies' wings. Out of the grave in which the young\nnun was to be laid they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful\nstatue of a Psyche carved in white marble.\n\n\"How beautiful, how perfect it is!\" cried the spectators. \"A relic\nof the best period of art.\"\n\nAnd who could the sculptor have been? No one knew; no one\nremembered him, except the bright star that had gleamed for\nthousands of years. The star had seen the course of that life on\nearth, and knew of the man's trials, of his weakness--in fact, that he\nhad been but human. The man's life had passed away, his dust had\nbeen scattered abroad as dust is destined to be; but the result of his\nnoblest striving, the glorious work that gave token of the divine\nelement within him--the Psyche that never dies, that lives beyond\nposterity--the brightness even of this earthly Psyche remained here\nafter him, and was seen and acknowledged and appreciated.\n\nThe bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw its glancing\nray downward upon the Psyche, and upon the radiant countenances of the\nadmiring spectators, who here beheld the image of the soul portrayed\nin marble.\n\nWhat is earthly will pass away and be forgotten, and the Star in\nthe vast firmament knows it. What is heavenly will shine brightly\nthrough posterity; and when the ages of posterity are past, the\nPsyche--the soul--will still live on!\n\n\n\n\nTHE PUPPET-SHOW MAN\n\nOn board a steamer I once met an elderly man, with such a merry\nface that, if it was really an index of his mind, he must have been\nthe happiest fellow in creation; and indeed he considered himself\nso, for I heard it from his own mouth. He was a Dane, the owner of a\ntravelling theatre. He had all his company with him in a large box,\nfor he was the proprietor of a puppet-show. His inborn cheerfulness,\nhe said, had been tested by a member of the Polytechnic Institution,\nand the experiment had made him completely happy. I did not at first\nunderstand all this, but afterwards he explained the whole story to\nme; and here it is:--\n\n\"I was giving a representation,\" he said, \"in the hall of the\nposting-house in the little town of Slagelse; there was a splendid\naudience, entirely juvenile excepting two respectable matrons. All\nat once, a person in black, of student-like appearance, entered the\nroom, and sat down; he laughed aloud at the telling points, and\napplauded quite at the proper time. This was a very unusual\nspectator for me, and I felt anxious to know who he was. I heard\nthat he was a member of the Polytechnic Institution in Copenhagen, who\nhad been sent out to lecture to the people in the provinces.\nPunctually at eight o'clock my performance closed, for children must\ngo early to bed, and a manager must also consult the convenience of\nthe public.\n\n\"At nine o'clock the lecturer commenced his lecture and his\nexperiments, and then I formed a part of his audience. It was\nwonderful both to hear and to see. The greater part of it was beyond\nmy comprehension, but it led me to think that if we men can acquire so\nmuch, we must surely be intended to last longer than the little span\nwhich extends only to the time when we are hidden away under the\nearth. His experiments were quite miracles on a small scale, and yet\nthe explanations flowed as naturally as water from his lips. At the\ntime of Moses and the prophets, such a man would have been placed\namong the sages of the land; in the middle ages they would have\nburnt him at the stake.\n\n\"All night long I could not sleep; and the next evening when I\ngave another performance and the lecturer was present, I was in one of\nmy best moods.\n\n\"I once heard of an actor, who, when he had to act the part of a\nlover, always thought of one particular lady in the audience; he\nonly played for her, and forgot all the rest of the house, and now the\nPolytechnic lecturer was my she, my only auditor, for whom alone I\nplayed.\n\n\"When the performance was over, and the puppets removed behind the\ncurtain, the Polytechnic lecturer invited me into his room to take a\nglass of wine. He talked of my comedies, and I of his science, and I\nbelieve we were both equally pleased. But I had the best of it, for\nthere was much in what he did that he could not always explain to\nme. For instance, why a piece of iron which is rubbed on a cylinder,\nshould become magnetic. How does this happen? The magnetic sparks come\nto it,--but how? It is the same with people in the world; they are\nrubbed about on this spherical globe till the electric spark comes\nupon them, and then we have a Napoleon, or a Luther, or some one of\nthe kind.\n\n\"'The whole world is but a series of miracles,' said the lecturer,\n'but we are so accustomed to them that we call them everyday matters.'\nAnd he went on explaining things to me till my skull seemed lifted\nfrom my brain, and I declared that were I not such an old fellow, I\nwould at once become a member of the Polytechnic Institution, that I\nmight learn to look at the bright side of everything, although I was\none of the happiest of men.\n\n\"'One of the happiest!' said the lecturer, as if the idea\npleased him; 'are you really happy?'\n\n\"'Yes,' I replied; 'for I am welcomed in every town, when I arrive\nwith my company; but I certainly have one wish which sometimes\nweighs upon my cheerful temper like a mountain of lead. I should\nlike to become the manager of a real theatre, and the director of a\nreal troupe of men and women.'\n\n\"'I understand,' he said; 'you would like to have life breathed\ninto your puppets, so that they might be living actors, and you\ntheir director. And would you then be quite happy?'\n\n\"I said I believed so. But he did not; and we talked it over in\nall manner of ways, yet could not agree on the subject. However, the\nwine was excellent, and we clanked our glasses together as we drank.\nThere must have been magic in it, or I should most certainly become\ntipsy; but that did not happen, for my mind seemed quite clear; and,\nindeed, a kind of sunshine filled the room, and beamed from the eyes\nof the Polytechnic lecturer. It made me think of the old stories\nwhen the gods, in their immortal youth, wandered upon this earth,\nand paid visits to mankind. I said so to him, and he smiled; and I\ncould have sworn that he was one of these ancient deities in disguise,\nor, at all events, that he belonged to the race of the gods. The\nresult seemed to prove I was right in my suspicions; for it was\narranged that my highest wish should be granted, that my puppets\nwere to be gifted with life, and that I was to be the manager of a\nreal company. We drank to my success, and clanked our glasses. Then he\npacked all my dolls into the box, and fastened it on my back, and I\nfelt as if I were spinning round in a circle, and presently found\nmyself lying on the floor. I remember that quite well. And then the\nwhole company sprang from the box. The spirit had come upon us all;\nthe puppets had become distinguished actors--at least, so they said\nthemselves--and I was their director.\n\n\"When all was ready for the first representation, the whole\ncompany requested permission to speak to me before appearing in\npublic. The dancing lady said the house could not be supported\nunless she stood on one leg; for she was a great genius, and begged to\nbe treated as such. The lady who acted the part of the queen\nexpected to be treated as a queen off the stage, as well as on it,\nor else she said she should get out of practice. The man whose duty it\nwas to deliver a letter gave himself as many airs as he who took the\npart of first lover in the piece; he declared that the inferior\nparts were as important as the great ones, and deserving equal\nconsideration, as parts of an artistic whole. The hero of the piece\nwould only play in a part containing points likely to bring down the\napplause of the house. The 'prima donna' would only act when the\nlights were red, for she declared that a blue light 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 their director. My breath was taken\naway, my head whirled, and I was as miserable as a man could be. It\nwas quite a novel, strange set of beings among whom I now found\nmyself. I only wished I had them all in my box again, and that I had\nnever been their director. So I told them roundly that, after all,\nthey were nothing but puppets; and then they killed me. After a\nwhile I found myself lying on my bed in my room; but how I got\nthere, or how I got away at all from the Polytechnic professor, he may\nperhaps know, I don't. The moon shone upon the floor, the box lay\nopen, and the dolls were all scattered about in great confusion; but I\nwas not idle. I jumped off the bed, and into the box they all had to\ngo, some on their heads, some on their feet. Then I shut down the lid,\nand seated myself upon the box. 'Now you'll have to stay,' said I,\n'and I shall be cautious how I wish you flesh and blood again.'\n\n\"I felt quite light, my cheerfulness had returned, and I was the\nhappiest of mortals. The Polytechnic professor had fully cured me. I\nwas as happy as a king, and went to sleep on the box. Next\nmorning--correctly speaking, it was noon, for I slept remarkably late\nthat day--I found myself still sitting there, in happy consciousness that\nmy former wish had been a foolish one. I inquired for the Polytechnic\nprofessor; but he had disappeared like the Greek and Roman gods;\nfrom that time I have been the happiest man in the world. I am a happy\ndirector; for none of my company ever grumble, nor the public\neither, for I always make them merry. I can arrange my pieces just\nas I please. I choose out of every comedy what I like best, and no one\nis offended. Plays that are neglected now-a-days by the great public\nwere ran after thirty years ago, and listened to till the tears ran\ndown the cheeks of the audience. These are the pieces I bring forward.\nI place them before the little ones, who cry over them as papa and\nmamma used to cry thirty years ago. But I make them shorter, for the\nyoungsters don't like long speeches; and if they have anything\nmournful, they like it to be over quickly.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE RACES\n\nA prize, or rather two prizes, a great one and a small one, had\nbeen awarded for the greatest swiftness in running,--not in a single\nrace, but for the whole year.\n\n\"I obtained the first prize,\" said the hare. \"Justice must still\nbe carried out, even when one has relations and good friends among the\nprize committee; but that the snail should have received the second\nprize, I consider almost an insult to myself.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the fence-rail, who had been a witness at the\ndistribution of prizes; \"there should be some consideration for\nindustry and perseverance. I have heard many respectable people say\nso, and I can quite understand it. The snail certainly took half a\nyear to get over the threshold of the door; but he injured himself,\nand broke his collar-bone by the haste he made. He gave himself up\nentirely to the race, and ran with his house on his back, which was\nall, of course, very praiseworthy; and therefore he obtained the\nsecond prize.\"\n\n\"I think I ought to have had some consideration too,\" said the\nswallow. \"I should imagine no one can be swifter in soaring and flight\nthan I am; and how far I have been! far, far away.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is your misfortune,\" said the fence-rail; \"you are so\nfickle, so unsettled; you must always be travelling about into foreign\nlands when the cold commences here. You have no love of fatherland\nin you. There can be no consideration for you.\"\n\n\"But now, if I have been lying the whole winter in the moor,\" said\nthe swallow, \"and suppose I slept the whole time, would that be\ntaken into account?\"\n\n\"Bring a certificate from the old moor-hen,\" said he, \"that you\nhave slept away half your time in fatherland; then you will be treated\nwith some consideration.\"\n\n\"I deserved the first prize, and not the second,\" said the\nsnail. \"I know so much, at least, that the hare only ran from\ncowardice, and because he thought there was danger in delay. I, on the\nother hand, made running the business of my life, and have become a\ncripple in the service. If any one had a first prize, it ought to have\nbeen myself. But I do not understand chattering and boasting; on the\ncontrary, I despise it.\" And the snail spat at them with contempt.\n\n\"I am able to affirm with word of oath, that each prize--at least,\nthose for which I voted--was given with just and proper\nconsideration,\" said the old boundary post in the wood, who was a\nmember of the committee of judges. \"I always act with due order,\nconsideration, and calculation. Seven times have I already had the\nhonor to be present at the distribution of the prizes, and to vote;\nbut to-day is the first time I have been able to carry out my will.\nI always reckon the first prize by going through the alphabet from the\nbeginning, and the second by going through from the end. Be so kind as\nto give me your attention, and I will explain to you how I reckon from\nthe beginning. The eighth letter from A is H, and there we have H\nfor hare; therefore I awarded to the hare the first prize. The\neighth letter from the end of the alphabet is S, and therefore the\nsnail received the second prize. Next year, the letter I will have its\nturn for the first prize, and the letter R for the second.\"\n\n\"I should really have voted for myself,\" said the mule, \"if I\nhad not been one of the judges on the committee. Not only the rapidity\nwith which advance is made, but every other quality should have due\nconsideration; as, for instance, how much weight a candidate is able\nto draw; but I have not brought this quality forward now, nor the\nsagacity of the hare in his flight, nor the cunning with which he\nsuddenly springs aside and doubles, to lead people on a false track,\nthinking he has concealed himself. No; there is something else on\nwhich more stress should be laid, and which ought not be left\nunnoticed. I mean that which mankind call the beautiful. It is on\nthe beautiful that I particularly fix my eyes. I observed the\nwell-grown ears of the hare; it is a pleasure to me to observe how\nlong they are. It seemed as if I saw myself again in the days of my\nchildhood; and so I voted for the hare.\"\n\n\"Buz,\" said the fly; \"there, I'm not going to make a long\nspeech; but I wish to say something about hares. I have really\novertaken more than one hare, when I have been seated on the engine in\nfront of a railway train. I often do so. One can then so easily\njudge of one's own swiftness. Not long ago, I crushed the hind legs of\na young hare. He had been running a long time before the engine; he\nhad no idea that I was travelling there. At last he had to stop in his\ncareer, and the engine ran over his hind legs, and crushed them; for I\nset upon it. I left him lying there, and rode on farther. I call\nthat conquering him; but I do not want the prize.\"\n\n\"It really seems to me,\" thought the wild rose, though she did not\nexpress her opinion aloud--it is not in her nature to do so,--though\nit would have been quite as well if she had; \"it certainly seems to me\nthat the sunbeam ought to have had the honor of receiving the first\nprize. The sunbeam flies in a few minutes along the immeasurable\npath from the sun to us. It arrives in such strength, that all\nnature awakes to loveliness and beauty; we roses blush and exhale\nfragrance in its presence. Our worshipful judges don't appear to\nhave noticed this at all. Were I the sunbeam, I would give each one of\nthem a sun stroke; but that would only make them mad, and they are mad\nenough already. I only hope,\" continued the rose, \"that peace may\nreign in the wood. It is glorious to bloom, to be fragrant, and to\nlive; to live in story and in song. The sunbeam will outlive us all.\"\n\n\"What is the first prize?\" asked the earthworm, who had\noverslept the time, and only now came up.\n\n\"It contains a free admission to a cabbage-garden,\" replied the\nmule. \"I proposed that as one of the prizes. The hare most decidedly\nmust have it; and I, as an active and thoughtful member of the\ncommittee, took especial care that the prize should be one of\nadvantage to him; so now he is provided for. The snail can now sit\non the fence, and lick up moss and sunshine. He has also been\nappointed one of the first judges of swiftness in racing. It is\nworth much to know that one of the numbers is a man of talent in the\nthing men call a 'committee.' I must say I expect much in the\nfuture; we have already made such a good beginning.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE RED SHOES\n\nOnce upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But\nin summer time she was obliged to go barefooted because she was\npoor, and in winter she had to wear large wooden shoes, so that her\nlittle instep grew quite red.\n\nIn the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker's wife; she\nsat down and made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of\nsome old pieces of red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well,\nfor they were intended for the little girl, whose name was Karen.\n\nKaren received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the\nday of her mother's funeral. They were certainly not suitable for\nmourning; but she had no others, and so she put her bare feet into\nthem and walked behind the humble coffin.\n\nJust then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady;\nshe looked at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the\nclergyman, \"Look here, if you will give me the little girl, I will\ntake care of her.\"\n\nKaren believed that this was all on account of the red shoes,\nbut the old lady thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen\nherself was dressed very neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read\nand to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told\nher, \"You are more than pretty--you are beautiful.\"\n\nOne day the Queen was travelling through that part of the country,\nand had her little daughter, who was a princess, with her. All the\npeople, amongst them Karen too, streamed towards the castle, where the\nlittle princess, in fine white clothes, stood before the window and\nallowed herself to be stared at. She wore neither a train nor a golden\ncrown, but beautiful red morocco shoes; they were indeed much finer\nthan those which the shoemaker's wife had sewn for little Karen. There\nis really nothing in the world that can be compared to red shoes!\n\nKaren was now old enough to be confirmed; she received some new\nclothes, and she was also to have some new shoes. The rich shoemaker\nin the town took the measure of her little foot in his own room, in\nwhich there stood great glass cases full of pretty shoes and white\nslippers. It all looked very lovely, but the old lady could not see\nvery well, and therefore did not get much pleasure out of it.\nAmongst the shoes stood a pair of red ones, like those which the\nprincess had worn. How beautiful they were! and the shoemaker said\nthat they had been made for a count's daughter, but that they had\nnot fitted her.\n\n\"I suppose they are of shiny leather?\" asked the old lady. \"They\nshine so.\"\n\n\"Yes, they do shine,\" said Karen. They fitted her, and were\nbought. But the old lady knew nothing of their being red, for she\nwould never have allowed Karen to be confirmed in red shoes, as she\nwas now to be.\n\nEverybody looked at her feet, and the whole of the way from the\nchurch door to the choir it seemed to her as if even the ancient\nfigures on the monuments, in their stiff collars and long black robes,\nhad their eyes fixed on her red shoes. It was only of these that she\nthought when the clergyman laid his hand upon her head and spoke of\nthe holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and told her that she\nwas now to be a grown-up Christian. The organ pealed forth solemnly,\nand the sweet children's voices mingled with that of their old leader;\nbut Karen thought only of her red shoes. In the afternoon the old lady\nheard from everybody that Karen had worn red shoes. She said that it\nwas a shocking thing to do, that it was very improper, and that\nKaren was always to go to church in future in black shoes, even if\nthey were old.\n\nOn the following Sunday there was Communion. Karen looked first at\nthe black shoes, then at the red ones--looked at the red ones again,\nand put them on.\n\nThe sun was shining gloriously, so Karen and the old lady went\nalong the footpath through the corn, where it was rather dusty.\n\nAt the church door stood an old crippled soldier leaning on a\ncrutch; he had a wonderfully long beard, more red than white, and he\nbowed down to the ground and asked the old lady whether he might\nwipe her shoes. Then Karen put out her little foot too. \"Dear me, what\npretty dancing-shoes!\" said the soldier. \"Sit fast, when you dance,\"\nsaid he, addressing the shoes, and slapping the soles with his hand.\n\nThe old lady gave the soldier some money and then went with\nKaren into the church.\n\nAnd all the people inside looked at Karen's red shoes, and all the\nfigures gazed at them; when Karen knelt before the altar and put the\ngolden goblet to her mouth, she thought only of the red shoes. It\nseemed to her as though they were swimming about in the goblet, and\nshe forgot to sing the psalm, forgot to say the \"Lord's Prayer.\"\n\nNow every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into\nher carriage. But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too,\nthe old soldier said: \"Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!\" and\nKaren could not help it, she was obliged to dance a few steps; and\nwhen she had once begun, her legs continued to dance. It seemed as\nif the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church\ncorner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her\nand seize her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued\nto dance, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they\ntook off her shoes, and her legs were at rest.\n\nAt home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could\nnot help looking at them.\n\nNow the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise\nfrom her bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was\nno one's duty more than Karen's. But there was a grand ball in the\ntown, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, saying to\nherself that there was no sin in doing that; she put the red shoes on,\nthinking there was no harm in that either; and then she went to the\nball; and commenced to dance.\n\nBut when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced to the\nleft, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced\ndown the room, down the stairs through the street, and out through the\ngates of the town. She danced, and was obliged to dance, far out\ninto the dark wood. Suddenly something shone up among the trees, and\nshe believed it was the moon, for it was a face. But it was the old\nsoldier with the red beard; he sat there nodding his head and said:\n\"Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!\"\n\nShe was frightened, and wanted to throw the red shoes away; but\nthey stuck fast. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown\nfast to her feet. She danced and was obliged to go on dancing over\nfield and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by day--but by\nnight it was most horrible.\n\nShe danced out into the open churchyard; but the dead there did\nnot dance. They had something better to do than that. She wanted to\nsit down on the pauper's grave where the bitter fern grows; but for\nher there was neither peace nor rest. And as she danced past the\nopen church door she saw an angel there in long white robes, with\nwings reaching from his shoulders down to the earth; his face was\nstern and grave, and in his hand he held a broad shining sword.\n\n\"Dance you shall,\" said he, \"dance in your red shoes till you\nare pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a\nskeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and\nwicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and\nfear you! Dance you shall, dance--!\"\n\n\"Mercy!\" cried Karen. But she did not hear what the angel\nanswered, for the shoes carried her through the gate into the\nfields, along highways and byways, and unceasingly she had to dance.\n\nOne morning she danced past a door that she knew well; they were\nsinging a psalm inside, and a coffin was being carried out covered\nwith flowers. Then she knew that she was forsaken by every one and\ndamned by the angel of God.\n\nShe danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark\nnight. The shoes bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all\ntorn and bleeding; she danced away over the heath to a lonely little\nhouse. Here, she knew, lived the executioner; and she tapped with\nher finger at the window and said:\n\n\"Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.\"\n\nAnd the executioner said: \"I don't suppose you know who I am. I\nstrike off the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is\ntingling to do so.\"\n\n\"Don't cut off my head!\" said Karen, \"for then I could not\nrepent of my sin. But cut off my feet with the red shoes.\"\n\nAnd then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off\nher feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little\nfeet across the field into the deep forest.\n\nAnd he carved her a pair of wooden feet and some crutches, and\ntaught her a psalm which is always sung by sinners; she kissed the\nhand that guided the axe, and went away over the heath.\n\n\"Now, I have suffered enough for the red shoes,\" she said; \"I will\ngo to church, so that people can see me.\" And she went quickly up to\nthe church-door; but when she came there, the red shoes were dancing\nbefore her, and she was frightened, and turned back.\n\nDuring the whole week she was sad and wept many bitter tears,\nbut when Sunday came again she said: \"Now I have suffered and\nstriven enough. I believe I am quite as good as many of those who\nsit in church and give themselves airs.\" And so she went boldly on;\nbut she had not got farther than the churchyard gate when she saw\nthe red shoes dancing along before her. Then she became terrified, and\nturned back and repented right heartily of her sin.\n\nShe went to the parsonage, and begged that she might be taken into\nservice there. She would be industrious, she said, and do everything\nthat she could; she did not mind about the wages as long as she had\na roof over her, and was with good people. The pastor's wife had\npity on her, and took her into service. And she was industrious and\nthoughtful. She sat quiet and listened when the pastor read aloud from\nthe Bible in the evening. All the children liked her very much, but\nwhen they spoke about dress and grandeur and beauty she would shake\nher head.\n\nOn the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked\nwhether she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she\nlooked sadly at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God's\nWord, but she went alone into her little room; this was only large\nenough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down with her\nhymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind\ncarried the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in\ntears she lifted up her face and said: \"O God! help me!\"\n\nThen the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an\nangel of God in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen\nthat night at the church-door. He no longer carried the sharp sword,\nbut a beautiful green branch, full of roses; with this he touched\nthe ceiling, which rose up very high, and where he had touched it\nthere shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened wide\napart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the\npictures of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation\nsitting in the polished chairs and singing from their hymn-books.\nThe church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or the\nroom had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the\npastor's household, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up,\nthey nodded and said, \"It was right of you to come, Karen.\"\n\n\"It was mercy,\" said she.\n\nThe organ played and the children's voices in the choir sounded\nsoft and lovely. The bright warm sunshine streamed through the\nwindow into the pew where Karen sat, and her heart became so filled\nwith it, so filled with peace and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew on\nthe sunbeams to Heaven, and no one was there who asked after the Red\nShoes.\n\n\n\n\nEVERYTHING IN THE RIGHT PLACE\n\nIt is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood,\nnear a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded it\non every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by the\ndrawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bent\nover the reeds.\n\nFrom the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling of\nhorses' feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geese\nhastened to drive them away from the bridge, before the whole\nhunting party came galloping up; they came, however, so quickly,\nthat the girl, in order to avoid being run over, placed herself on one\nof the high corner-stones of the bridge. She was still half a child\nand very delicately built; she had bright blue eyes, and a gentle,\nsweet expression. But such things the baron did not notice; while he\nwas riding past the little goose-girl, he reversed his hunting crop,\nand in rough play gave her such a push with it that she fell\nbackward into the ditch.\n\n\"Everything in the right place!\" he cried. \"Into the ditch with\nyou.\"\n\nThen he burst out laughing, for that he called fun; the others\njoined in--the whole party shouted and cried, while the hounds barked.\n\nWhile the poor girl was falling she happily caught one of the\nbranches of the willow tree, by the help of which she held herself\nover the water, and as soon as the baron with his company and the dogs\nhad disappeared through the gate, the girl endeavoured to scramble up,\nbut the branch broke off, and she would have fallen backward among the\nrushes, had not a strong hand from above seized her at this moment. It\nwas the hand of a pedlar; he had witnessed what had happened from a\nshort distance, and now hastened to assist her.\n\n\"Everything in the right place,\" he said, imitating the noble\nbaron, and pulling the little maid up to the dry ground. He wished\nto put the branch back in the place it had been broken off, but it\nis not possible to put everything in the right place; therefore he\nstuck the branch into the soft ground.\n\n\"Grow and thrive if you can, and produce a good flute for them\nyonder at the mansion,\" he said; it would have given him great\npleasure to see the noble baron and his companions well thrashed. Then\nhe entered the castle--but not the banqueting hall; he was too\nhumble for that. No; he went to the servants' hall. The men-servants\nand maids looked over his stock of articles and bargained with him;\nloud crying and screaming were heard from the master's table above:\nthey called it singing--indeed, they did their best. Laughter and\nthe howls of dogs were heard through the open windows: there they were\nfeasting and revelling; wine and strong old ale were foaming in the\nglasses and jugs; the favourite dogs ate with their masters; now and\nthen the squires kissed one of these animals, after having wiped its\nmouth first with the tablecloth. They ordered the pedlar to come up,\nbut only to make fun of him. The wine had got into their heads, and\nreason had left them. They poured beer into a stocking that he could\ndrink with them, but quick. That's what they called fun, and it made\nthem laugh. Then meadows, peasants, and farmyards were staked on one\ncard and lost.\n\n\"Everything in the right place!\" the pedlar said when he had at\nlast safely got out of Sodom and Gomorrah, as he called it. \"The\nopen high road is my right place; up there I did not feel at ease.\"\n\nThe little maid, who was still watching the geese, nodded kindly\nto him as he passed through the gate.\n\nDays and weeks passed, and it was seen that the broken\nwillow-branch which the peddlar had stuck into the ground near the\nditch remained fresh and green--nay, it even put forth fresh twigs;\nthe little goose-girl saw that the branch had taken root, and was very\npleased; the tree, so she said, was now her tree. While the tree was\nadvancing, everything else at the castle was going backward, through\nfeasting and gambling, for these are two rollers upon which nobody\nstands safely. Less than six years afterwards the baron passed out\nof his castle-gate a poor beggar, while the baronial seat had been\nbought by a rich tradesman. He was the very pedlar they had made fun\nof and poured beer into a stocking for him to drink; but honesty and\nindustry bring one forward, and now the pedlar was the possessor of\nthe baronial estate. From that time forward no card-playing was\npermitted there.\n\n\"That's a bad pastime,\" he said; \"when the devil saw the Bible for\nthe first time he wanted to produce a caricature in opposition to\nit, and invented card-playing.\"\n\nThe new proprietor of the estate took a wife, and whom did he\ntake?--The little goose-girl, who had always remained good and kind,\nand who looked as beautiful in her new clothes as if she had been a\nlady of high birth. And how did all this come about? That would be too\nlong a tale to tell in our busy time, but it really happened, and\nthe most important events have yet to be told.\n\nIt was pleasant and cheerful to live in the old place now: the\nmother superintended the household, and the father looked after things\nout-of-doors, and they were indeed very prosperous.\n\nWhere honesty leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow. The old\nmansion was repaired and painted, the ditches were cleaned and\nfruit-trees planted; all was homely and pleasant, and the floors\nwere as white and shining as a pasteboard. In the long winter evenings\nthe mistress and her maids sat at the spinning-wheel in the large\nhall; every Sunday the counsellor--this title the pedlar had obtained,\nalthough only in his old days--read aloud a portion from the Bible.\nThe children (for they had children) all received the best\neducation, but they were not all equally clever, as is the case in all\nfamilies.\n\nIn the meantime the willow tree near the drawbridge had grown up\ninto a splendid tree, and stood there, free, and was never clipped.\n\"It is our genealogical tree,\" said the old people to their\nchildren, \"and therefore it must be honoured.\"\n\nA hundred years had elapsed. It was in our own days; the lake\nhad been transformed into marsh land; the whole baronial seat had,\nas it were, disappeared. A pool of water near some ruined walls was\nthe only remainder of the deep ditches; and here stood a magnificent\nold tree with overhanging branches--that was the genealogical tree.\nHere it stood, and showed how beautiful a willow can look if one\ndoes not interfere with it. The trunk, it is true, was cleft in the\nmiddle from the root to the crown; the storms had bent it a little,\nbut it still stood there, and out of every crevice and cleft, in which\nwind and weather had carried mould, blades of grass and flowers sprang\nforth. Especially above, where the large boughs parted, there was\nquite a hanging garden, in which wild raspberries and hart's-tongue\nferns throve, and even a little mistletoe had taken root, and grew\ngracefully in the old willow branches, which were reflected in the\ndark water beneath when the wind blew the chickweed into the corner of\nthe pool. A footpath which led across the fields passed close by the\nold tree. High up, on the woody hillside, stood the new mansion. It\nhad a splendid view, and was large and magnificent; its window panes\nwere so clear that one might have thought there were none there at\nall. The large flight of steps which led to the entrance looked like a\nbower covered with roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn was as\ngreen as if each blade of grass was cleaned separately morning and\nevening. Inside, in the hall, valuable oil paintings were hanging on\nthe walls. Here stood chairs and sofas covered with silk and velvet,\nwhich could be easily rolled about on castors; there were tables\nwith polished marble tops, and books bound in morocco with gilt edges.\nIndeed, well-to-do and distinguished people lived here; it was the\ndwelling of the baron and his family. Each article was in keeping with\nits surroundings. \"Everything in the right place\" was the motto\naccording to which they also acted here, and therefore all the\npaintings which had once been the honour and glory of the old\nmansion were now hung up in the passage which led to the servants'\nrooms. It was all old lumber, especially two portraits--one\nrepresenting a man in a scarlet coat with a wig, and the other a\nlady with powdered and curled hair holding a rose in her hand, each of\nthem being surrounded by a large wreath of willow branches. Both\nportraits had many holes in them, because the baron's sons used the\ntwo old people as targets for their crossbows. They represented the\ncounsellor and his wife, from whom the whole family descended. \"But\nthey did not properly belong to our family,\" said one of the boys; \"he\nwas a pedlar and she kept the geese. They were not like papa and\nmamma.\" The portraits were old lumber, and \"everything in its right\nplace.\" That was why the great-grandparents had been hung up in the\npassage leading to the servants' rooms.\n\nThe son of the village pastor was tutor at the mansion. One day he\nwent for a walk across the fields with his young pupils and their\nelder sister, who had lately been confirmed. They walked along the\nroad which passed by the old willow tree, and while they were on the\nroad she picked a bunch of field-flowers. \"Everything in the right\nplace,\" and indeed the bunch looked very beautiful. At the same time\nshe listened to all that was said, and she very much liked to hear the\npastor's son speak about the elements and of the great men and women\nin history. She had a healthy mind, noble in thought and deed, and\nwith a heart full of love for everything that God had created. They\nstopped at the old willow tree, as the youngest of the baron's sons\nwished very much to have a flute from it, such as had been cut for him\nfrom other willow trees; the pastor's son broke a branch off. \"Oh,\npray do not do it!\" said the young lady; but it was already done.\n\"That is our famous old tree. I love it very much. They often laugh at\nme at home about it, but that does not matter. There is a story\nattached to this tree.\" And now she told him all that we already\nknow about the tree--the old mansion, the pedlar and the goose-girl\nwho had met there for the first time, and had become the ancestors\nof the noble family to which the young lady belonged.\n\n\"They did not like to be knighted, the good old people,\" she said;\n\"their motto was 'everything in the right place,' and it would not\nbe right, they thought, to purchase a title for money. My grandfather,\nthe first baron, was their son. They say he was a very learned man,\na great favourite with the princes and princesses, and was invited\nto all court festivities. The others at home love him best; but, I\ndo not know why, there seemed to me to be something about the old\ncouple that attracts my heart! How homely, how patriarchal, it must\nhave been in the old mansion, where the mistress sat at the\nspinning-wheel with her maids, while her husband read aloud out of the\nBible!\"\n\n\"They must have been excellent, sensible people,\" said the\npastor's son. And with this the conversation turned naturally to\nnoblemen and commoners; from the manner in which the tutor spoke about\nthe significance of being noble, it seemed almost as if he did not\nbelong to a commoner's family.\n\n\"It is good fortune to be of a family who have distinguished\nthemselves, and to possess as it were a spur in oneself to advance\nto all that is good. It is a splendid thing to belong to a noble\nfamily, whose name serves as a card of admission to the highest\ncircles. Nobility is a distinction; it is a gold coin that bears the\nstamp of its own value. It is the fallacy of the time, and many\npoets express it, to say that all that is noble is bad and stupid, and\nthat, on the contrary, the lower one goes among the poor, the more\nbrilliant virtues one finds. I do not share this opinion, for it is\nwrong. In the upper classes one sees many touchingly beautiful traits;\nmy own mother has told me of such, and I could mention several. One\nday she was visiting a nobleman's house in town; my grandmother, I\nbelieve, had been the lady's nurse when she was a child. My mother and\nthe nobleman were alone in the room, when he suddenly noticed an old\nwoman on crutches come limping into the courtyard; she came every\nSunday to carry a gift away with her.\n\n\"'There is the poor old woman,' said the nobleman; 'it is so\ndifficult for her to walk.'\n\n\"My mother had hardly understood what he said before he\ndisappeared from the room, and went downstairs, in order to save her\nthe troublesome walk for the gift she came to fetch. Of course this is\nonly a little incident, but it has its good sound like the poor\nwidow's two mites in the Bible, the sound which echoes in the depth of\nevery human heart; and this is what the poet ought to show and point\nout--more especially in our own time he ought to sing of this; it does\ngood, it mitigates and reconciles! But when a man, simply because he\nis of noble birth and possesses a genealogy, stands on his hind legs\nand neighs in the street like an Arabian horse, and says when a\ncommoner has been in a room: 'Some people from the street have been\nhere,' there nobility is decaying; it has become a mask of the kind\nthat Thespis created, and it is amusing when such a person is\nexposed in satire.\"\n\nSuch was the tutor's speech; it was a little long, but while he\ndelivered it he had finished cutting the flute.\n\nThere was a large party at the mansion; many guests from the\nneighbourhood and from the capital had arrived. There were ladies with\ntasteful and with tasteless dresses; the big hall was quite crowded\nwith people. The clergymen stood humbly together in a corner, and\nlooked as if they were preparing for a funeral, but it was a\nfestival--only the amusement had not yet begun. A great concert was to\ntake place, and that is why the baron's young son had brought his willow\nflute with him; but he could not make it sound, nor could his\nfather, and therefore the flute was good for nothing.\n\nThere was music and songs of the kind which delight most those\nthat perform them; otherwise quite charming!\n\n\"Are you an artist?\" said a cavalier, the son of his father;\n\"you play on the flute, you have made it yourself; it is genius that\nrules--the place of honour is due to you.\"\n\n\"Certainly not! I only advance with the time, and that of course\none can't help.\"\n\n\"I hope you will delight us all with the little instrument--will\nyou not?\" Thus saying he handed to the tutor the flute which had\nbeen cut from the willow tree by the pool; and then announced in a\nloud voice that the tutor wished to perform a solo on the flute.\nThey wished to tease him--that was evident, and therefore the tutor\ndeclined to play, although he could do so very well. They urged and\nrequested him, however, so long, that at last he took up the flute and\nplaced it to his lips.\n\nThat was a marvellous flute! Its sound was as thrilling as the\nwhistle of a steam engine; in fact it was much stronger, for it\nsounded and was heard in the yard, in the garden, in the wood, and\nmany miles round in the country; at the same time a storm rose and\nroared; \"Everything in the right place.\" And with this the baron, as\nif carried by the wind, flew out of the hall straight into the\nshepherd's cottage, and the shepherd flew--not into the hall,\nthither he could not come--but into the servants' hall, among the\nsmart footmen who were striding about in silk stockings; these haughty\nmenials looked horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at\ntable with them. But in the hall the baron's daughter flew to the\nplace of honour at the end of the table--she was worthy to sit\nthere; the pastor's son had the seat next to her; the two sat there as\nif they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging to one of the\noldest families of the country, remained untouched in his place of\nhonour; the flute was just, and it is one's duty to be so. The\nsharp-tongued cavalier who had caused the flute to be played, and\nwho was the child of his parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house,\nbut not he alone.\n\nThe flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strange\nevents took place. A rich banker's family, who were driving in a coach\nand four, were blown out of it, and could not even find room behind it\nwith their footmen. Two rich farmers who had in our days shot up\nhigher than their own corn-fields, were flung into the ditch; it was a\ndangerous flute. Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was\na good thing, for then it was put back into its owner's pocket--\"its\nright place.\"\n\nThe next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken place; thus\noriginated the phrase, \"to pocket the flute.\" Everything was again\nin its usual order, except that the two old pictures of the peddlar\nand the goose-girl were hanging in the banqueting-hall. There they\nwere on the wall as if blown up there; and as a real expert said\nthat they were painted by a master's hand, they remained there and\nwere restored. \"Everything in the right place,\" and to this it will\ncome. Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.\n\n\n\n\nA ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE\n\nAl the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for\nthe rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster\nserenades the fragrant flowers.\n\nNot far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded\ncamels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the\nlofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The\nturtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the\nsunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were\nmother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than\nthem all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose\nremained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her\nleaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said,\n\"Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I\nspread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the\nstorm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that\nearth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty\nto bloom for a nightingale.\" Then the nightingale sung himself to\ndeath. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black\nslaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely\nsongster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in\nthe wind.\n\nThe evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely\nround her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.\n\nIt was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had\nundertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was\na minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant\nlights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in\na book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his\nfatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of\nthe book, which he opened in his own home, saying, \"Here is a rose\nfrom the grave of Homer.\"\n\nThen the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind.\nA drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun\nrose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was\nhot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps\napproached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came\nby, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose,\npressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the\nhome of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower\nnow rests in his \"Iliad,\" and, as in her dream, she hears him say,\nas he opens the book, \"Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNAIL AND THE ROSE-TREE\n\nRound about the garden ran a hedge of hazel-bushes; beyond the\nhedge were fields and meadows with cows and sheep; but in the middle\nof the garden stood a Rose-tree in bloom, under which sat a Snail,\nwhose shell contained a great deal--that is, himself.\n\n\"Only wait till my time comes,\" he said; \"I shall do more than\ngrow roses, bear nuts, or give milk, like the hazel-bush, the cows and\nthe sheep.\"\n\n\"I expect a great deal from you,\" said the rose-tree. \"May I ask\nwhen it will appear?\"\n\n\"I take my time,\" said the snail. \"You're always in such a\nhurry. That does not excite expectation.\"\n\nThe following year the snail lay in almost the same spot, in the\nsunshine under the rose-tree, which was again budding and bearing\nroses as fresh and beautiful as ever. The snail crept half out of\nhis shell, stretched out his horns, and drew them in again.\n\n\"Everything is just as it was last year! No progress at all; the\nrose-tree sticks to its roses and gets no farther.\"\n\nThe summer and the autumn passed; the rose-tree bore roses and\nbuds till the snow fell and the weather became raw and wet; then it\nbent down its head, and the snail crept into the ground.\n\nA new year began; the roses made their appearance, and the snail\nmade his too.\n\n\"You are an old rose-tree now,\" said the snail. \"You must make\nhaste and die. You have given the world all that you had in you;\nwhether it was of much importance is a question that I have not had\ntime to think about. But this much is clear and plain, that you have\nnot done the least for your inner development, or you would have\nproduced something else. Have you anything to say in defence? You will\nnow soon be nothing but a stick. Do you understand what I say?\"\n\n\"You frighten me,\" said the rose--tree. \"I have never thought of\nthat.\"\n\n\"No, you have never taken the trouble to think at all. Have you\never given yourself an account why you bloomed, and how your\nblooming comes about--why just in that way and in no other?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the rose-tree. \"I bloom in gladness, because I cannot\ndo otherwise. The sun shone and warmed me, and the air refreshed me; I\ndrank the clear dew and the invigorating rain. I breathed and I lived!\nOut of the earth there arose a power within me, whilst from above I\nalso received strength; I felt an ever-renewed and ever-increasing\nhappiness, and therefore I was obliged to go on blooming. That was\nmy life; I could not do otherwise.\"\n\n\"You have led a very easy life,\" remarked the snail.\n\n\"Certainly. Everything was given me,\" said the rose-tree. \"But\nstill more was given to you. Yours is one of those deep-thinking\nnatures, one of those highly gifted minds that astonishes the world.\"\n\n\"I have not the slightest intention of doing so,\" said the\nsnail. \"The world is nothing to me. What have I to do with the\nworld? I have enough to do with myself, and enough in myself.\"\n\n\"But must we not all here on earth give up our best parts to\nothers, and offer as much as lies in our power? It is true, I have\nonly given roses. But you--you who are so richly endowed--what have\nyou given to the world? What will you give it?\"\n\n\"What have I given? What am I going to give? I spit at it; it's\ngood for nothing, and does not concern me. For my part, you may go\non bearing roses; you cannot do anything else. Let the hazel bush bear\nnuts, and the cows and sheep give milk; they have each their public. I\nhave mine in myself. I retire within myself and there I stop. The\nworld is nothing to me.\"\n\nWith this the snail withdrew into his house and blocked up the\nentrance.\n\n\"That's very sad,\" said the rose tree. \"I cannot creep into\nmyself, however much I might wish to do so; I have to go on bearing\nroses. Then they drop their leaves, which are blown away by the\nwind. But I once saw how a rose was laid in the mistress's\nhymn-book, and how one of my roses found a place in the bosom of a\nyoung beautiful girl, and how another was kissed by the lips of a\nchild in the glad joy of life. That did me good; it was a real\nblessing. Those are my recollections, my life.\"\n\nAnd the rose tree went on blooming in innocence, while the snail\nlay idling in his house--the world was nothing to him.\n\nYears passed by.\n\nThe snail had turned to earth in the earth, and the rose tree too.\nEven the souvenir rose in the hymn-book was faded, but in the garden\nthere were other rose trees and other snails. The latter crept into\ntheir houses and spat at the world, for it did not concern them.\n\nShall we read the story all over again? It will be just the same.\n\n\n\n\nA STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS\n\nThis story is from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of Jutland, but it\ndoes not begin there in the North, but far away in the South, in\nSpain. The wide sea is the highroad from nation to nation; journey\nin thought; then, to sunny Spain. It is warm and beautiful there;\nthe fiery pomegranate flowers peep from among dark laurels; a cool\nrefreshing breeze from the mountains blows over the orange gardens,\nover the Moorish halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls.\nChildren go through the streets in procession with candles and\nwaving banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glittering\nstars, rises above them. Sounds of singing and castanets can be heard,\nand youths and maidens dance upon the flowering acacia trees, while\neven the beggar sits upon a block of marble, refreshing himself with a\njuicy melon, and dreamily enjoying life. It all seems like a beautiful\ndream.\n\nHere dwelt a newly married couple who completely gave themselves\nup to the charm of life; indeed they possessed every good thing they\ncould desire--health and happiness, riches and honour.\n\n\"We are as happy as human beings can be,\" said the young couple\nfrom the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only one step\nhigher to mount on the ladder of happiness--they hoped that God\nwould give them a child, a son like them in form and spirit. The happy\nlittle one was to be welcomed with rejoicing, to be cared for with\nlove and tenderness, and enjoy every advantage of wealth and luxury\nthat a rich and influential family can give. So the days went by\nlike a joyous festival.\n\n\"Life is a gracious gift from God, almost too great a gift for\nus to appreciate!\" said the young wife. \"Yet they say that fulness\nof joy for ever and ever can only be found in the future life. I\ncannot realise it!\"\n\n\"The thought arises, perhaps, 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 not these the words of the\nserpent, the father of lies?\"\n\n\"Surely you do not doubt the existence of a future life?\"\nexclaimed the young wife. It seemed as if one of the first shadows\npassed over her sunny thoughts.\n\n\"Faith realises it, and the priests tell us so,\" replied her\nhusband; \"but amid all my happiness I feel that it is arrogant to\ndemand a continuation of it--another life after this. Has not so\nmuch been given us in this world that we ought to be, we must be,\ncontented with it?\"\n\n\"Yes, it has been given to us,\" said the young wife, \"but this\nlife is nothing more than one long scene of trial and hardship to many\nthousands. How many have been cast into this world only to endure\npoverty, shame, illness, and misfortune? If there were no future life,\neverything here would be too unequally divided, and God would not be\nthe personification of justice.\"\n\n\"The beggar there,\" said her husband, \"has joys of his own which\nseem to him great, and cause him as much pleasure as a king would find\nin the magnificence of his palace. And then do you not think that\nthe beast of burden, which suffers blows and hunger, and works\nitself to death, suffers just as much from its miserable fate? The\ndumb creature might demand a future life also, and declare the law\nunjust that excludes it from the advantages of the higher creation.\"\n\n\"Christ said: 'In my father's house are many mansions,'\" she\nanswered. \"Heaven is as boundless as the love of our Creator; the dumb\nanimal is also His creature, and I firmly believe that no life will be\nlost, but each will receive as much happiness as he can enjoy, which\nwill be sufficient for him.\"\n\n\"This world is sufficient for me,\" said the husband, throwing\nhis arm round his beautiful, sweet-tempered wife. He sat by her side\non the open balcony, smoking a cigarette in the cool air, which was\nloaded with the sweet scent of carnations and orange blossoms.\nSounds of music and the clatter of castanets came from the road\nbeneath, the stars shone above then, and two eyes full of\naffection--those of his wife--looked upon him with the expression of\nundying love. \"Such a moment,\" he said, \"makes it worth while to be\nborn, to die, and to be annihilated!\" He smiled--the young wife raised\nher hand in gentle reproof, and the shadow passed away from her mind,\nand they were happy--quite happy.\n\nEverything seemed to work together for their good. They advanced\nin honour, in prosperity, and in happiness. A change came certainly,\nbut it was only a change of place and not of circumstances.\n\nThe young man was sent by his Sovereign as ambassador to the\nRussian Court. This was an office of high dignity, but his birth and\nhis acquirements entitled him to the honour. He possessed a large\nfortune, and his wife had brought him wealth equal to his own, for she\nwas the daughter of a rich and respected merchant. One of this\nmerchant's largest and finest ships was to be sent that year to\nStockholm, and it was arranged that the dear young couple, the\ndaughter and the son-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg.\nAll the arrangements on board were princely and silk and luxury on\nevery side.\n\nIn an old war song, called \"The King of England's Son,\" it says:\n\n  \"Farewell, he said, and sailed away.\n   And many recollect that day.\n   The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,\n   And everywhere riches and wealth untold.\"\n\n\nThese words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain, for here\nwas the same luxury, and the same parting thought naturally arose:\n\n  \"God grant that we once more may meet\n   In sweet unclouded peace and joy.\"\n\n\nThere was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanish\ncoast, and it would be but a short journey, for they hoped to reach\ntheir destination in a few weeks; but when they came out upon the wide\nocean the wind dropped, the sea became smooth and shining, and the\nstars shone brightly. Many festive evenings were spent on board. At\nlast the travellers began to wish for wind, for a favourable breeze;\nbut their wish was useless--not a breath of air stirred, or if it\ndid arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two whole\nmonths, and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The\nship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland; then the\nwind increased, just as it did in the old song of \"The King of\nEngland's Son.\"\n\n  \"'Mid storm and wind, and pelting hail,\n  Their efforts were of no avail.\n  The golden anchor forth they threw;\n  Towards Denmark the west wind blew.\"\n\n\nThis all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII, who sat\non the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has happened since\nthen, much has altered or been changed. Sea and moorland have been\nturned into green meadows, stretches of heather have become arable\nland, and in the shelter of the peasant's cottages, apple-trees and\nrose-bushes grow, though they certainly require much care, as the\nsharp west wind blows upon them. In West Jutland one may go back in\nthought to old times, farther back than the days when Christian VII\nruled. The purple heather still extends for miles, with its barrows\nand aerial spectacles, intersected with sandy uneven roads, just as it\ndid then; towards the west, where broad streams run into the bays, are\nmarshes and meadows encircled by lofty, sandy hills, which, like a\nchain of Alps, raise their pointed summits near the sea; they are only\nbroken by high ridges of clay, from which the sea, year by year, bites\nout great mouthfuls, so that the overhanging banks fall down as if\nby the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is there today and thus it\nwas long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.\n\nIt was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was\nshining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum\nwas carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches\nthere are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a\npiece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not\nbe disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells\nare hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the\ncongregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or\nbush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not\nplaced a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same\nnow. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank\ngrass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard;\nhere and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed\nwood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from\nthe forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and\nthe inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the\nwaves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by\nloving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had come out\nof the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on\nthe weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her\nhusband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and\nthey walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow\ntowards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.\n\n\"It was a good sermon to-day,\" the man said at last. \"If we had\nnot God to trust in, we should have nothing.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the woman, \"He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a\nright to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five\nyears old if we had been permitted to keep him.\"\n\n\"It is no use fretting, wife,\" said the man. \"The boy is well\nprovided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to.\"\n\nThey said nothing more, but went out towards their houses among\nthe sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where the\nsea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, what\nseemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushed\nbetween the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air;\nanother gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and\nbeat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything was\nquiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.\n\nThe man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken\noff their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the dunes\nwhich stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested in\ntheir course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish\nstalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also\ncame out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on the\nbeach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when\nthey went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones\nblew into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white foam,\nand the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam far and wide.\n\nEvening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a wailing or\nmoaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded above\nthe thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little cottage was on the\nvery margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; every\nnow and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation.\nIt was dark, but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on the\nair became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with\nundiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in\nsuch weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there\nwas a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice said:\n\n\"There's a large ship stranded on the farthest reef.\"\n\nIn a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and hastily\ndressed themselves. The moon had risen, and it was light enough to\nmake the surrounding objects visible to those who could open their\neyes in the blinding clouds of sand; the violence of the wind was\nterrible, and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if one\ncrept forward between the gusts; the salt spray flew up from the sea\nlike down, and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the\nbeach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in the\noffing; she was a fine brig, and the waves now lifted her over the\nreef, three or four cables' length out of the usual channel. She drove\ntowards the shore, struck on the second reef, and remained fixed.\n\nIt was impossible to render assistance; the sea rushed in upon the\nvessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought they\nheard cries for help from those on board, and could plainly\ndistinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors.\nNow a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on the\nbowsprit, tearing it from the vessel, and the stern was lifted high\nabove the water. Two people were seen to embrace and plunge together\ninto the sea, and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled\ntowards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a woman;\nthe sailors said that she was quite dead, but the women thought they\nsaw signs of life in her, so the stranger was carried across the\nsand-hills to the fisherman's cottage. How beautiful and fair she was!\nShe must be a great lady, they said.\n\nThey laid her upon the humble bed; there was not a yard of linen\non it, only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.\n\nLife returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew nothing of\nwhat had happened or where she was; and it was better so, for\neverything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The same\nthing happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about\n\"The King of England's Son.\"\n\n  \"Alas! how terrible to see\n  The gallant bark sink rapidly.\"\n\n\nFragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed ashore; they\nwere all that remained of the vessel. The wind still blew violently on\nthe coast.\n\nFor a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest; but she awoke\nin pain, and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened her\nwonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few words, but nobody\nunderstood her.--And lo! as a reward for the sorrow and suffering\nshe had undergone, she held in her arms a new-born babe. The child\nthat was to have rested upon a magnificent couch, draped with silken\ncurtains, in a luxurious home; it was to have been welcomed with joy\nto a life rich in all the good things of this world; and now Heaven\nhad ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat, that it\nshould not even receive a kiss from its mother, for when the\nfisherman's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom, it rested\non a heart that beat no more--she was dead.\n\nThe child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxury\nwas cast into the world, washed by the sea among the sand-hills to\nshare the fate and hardships of the poor.\n\nHere we are reminded again of the song about \"The King of\nEngland's Son,\" for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent at\nthe time, when knights and squires plundered those who had been\nsaved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south of\nNissum Bay, and the cruel, inhuman days, when, as we have just said,\nthe inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudely\nwere past, long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for\nthe unfortunate existed then, just as it does in our own time in\nmany a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child\nwould have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by\nthe winds, but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the\ncottage of the poor fisherman's wife, who had stood, only the day\nbefore, beside her child's grave, who would have been five years old\nthat day if God had spared it to her.\n\nNo one knew who the dead stranger was, they could not even form\na conjecture; the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.\n\nNo tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and\nson-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination, and violent\nstorms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given:\n\"Foundered at sea--all lost.\" But in the fisherman's cottage among the\nsand-hills near Hunsby, there lived a little scion of the rich Spanish\nfamily.\n\nWhere Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to find a\nmeal, and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for the\nhungry.\n\nThey called the boy Jurgen.\n\n\"It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so dark,\" the\npeople said.\n\n\"It might be an Italian or a Spaniard,\" remarked the clergyman.\n\nBut to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the same, and\nshe consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a\nChristian.\n\nThe boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and he\nbecame strong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the humble cottage,\nand the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language.\nThe pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of\nWest Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man's life!\nTo this home he clung with deep-rooted affection; he was to experience\ncold and hunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the\npoor; but he also tasted of their joys.\n\nChildhood has bright days for every one, and the memory of them\nshines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of\npleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and miles was full of\nplaythings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles, some red as coral or\nyellow as amber, and others again white and rounded like birds' eggs\nand smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes'\nskeletons, the water plants dried by the wind, and seaweed, white\nand shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones--all these\nseemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts,\nand he had an intelligent mind; many great talents lay dormant in him.\nHow readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard, and how\ndexterous he was with his fingers! With stones and mussel-shells he\ncould put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate\nthe room; and he could make wonderful things from a stick, his\nfoster-mother said, although he was still so young and little. He\nhad a sweet voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally from\nhis lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might have\nsounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else\nthan in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.\n\nOne day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among other\nthings a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore.\nSome were put into saucepans and cooked, for they were thought to be\nfit to eat, and others lay and shrivelled in the sand--they did not\naccomplish their purpose, or unfold their magnificent colours. Would\nJurgen fare better? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but\nhe had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his\nfriends noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followed\nanother, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself\nwas a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm\nor storm--the crested wave or the smooth surface.\n\nThe visits to the church were festive occasions, but among the\nfisherman's house one was especially looked forward to; this was, in\nfact, the visit of the brother of Jurgen's foster-mother, the\neel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a\ncart, painted red with blue and white tulips upon it, and full of\neels; it was covered and locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it,\nand Jurgen was allowed to guide them.\n\nThe eel-breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and brought a\nmeasure of brandy with him. They all received a small glassful or a\ncupful if there were not enough glasses; even Jurgen had about a\nthimbleful, that he might digest the fat eel, as the eel-breeder said;\nhe always told one story over and over again, and if his hearers\nlaughed he would immediately repeat it to them. Jurgen while still a\nboy, and also when he was older, used phrases from the eel-breeder's\nstory on various occasions, so it will be as well for us to listen\nto it. It runs thus:\n\n\"The eels went into the bay, and the young ones begged leave to go\na little farther out. 'Don't go too far,' said their mother; 'the ugly\neel-spearer might come and snap you all up.' But they went too far,\nand of eight daughters only three came back to the mother, and these\nwept and said, 'We only went a little way out, and the ugly\neel-spearer came immediately and stabbed five of our sisters to\ndeath.' 'They'll come back again,' said the mother eel. 'Oh, no,'\nexclaimed the daughters, 'for he skinned them, cut them in two, and\nfried them.' 'Oh, they'll come back again,' the mother eel\npersisted. 'No,' replied the daughters, 'for he ate them up.' 'They'll\ncome back again,' repeated the mother eel. 'But he drank brandy\nafter them,' said the daughters. 'Ah, then they'll never come back,'\nsaid the mother, and she burst out crying, 'it's the brandy that\nburies the eels.'\"\n\n\"And therefore,\" said the eel-breeder in conclusion, \"it is always\nthe proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels.\"\n\nThis story was the tinsel thread, the most humorous recollection\nof Jurgen's life. He also wanted to go a little way farther out and up\nthe bay--that is to say, out into the world in a ship--but his\nmother said, like the eel-breeder, \"There are so many bad people--eel\nspearers!\" He wished to go a little way past the sand-hills, out\ninto the dunes, and at last he did: four happy days, the brightest\nof his childhood, fell to his lot, and the whole beauty and\nsplendour of Jutland, all the happiness and sunshine of his home, were\nconcentrated in these. He went to a festival, but it was a burial\nfeast.\n\nA rich relation of the fisherman's family had died; the farm was\nsituated far eastward in the country and a little towards the north.\nJurgen's foster parents went there, and he also went with them from\nthe dunes, over heath and moor, where the Skjaerumaa takes its\ncourse through green meadows and contains many eels; mother eels\nlive there with their daughters, who are caught and eaten up by wicked\npeople. But do not men sometimes act quite as cruelly towards their\nown fellow-men? Was not the knight Sir Bugge murdered by wicked\npeople? And though he was well spoken of, did he not also wish to kill\nthe architect who built the castle for him, with its thick walls and\ntower, at the point where the Skjaerumaa falls into the bay? Jurgen\nand his parents now stood there; the wall and the ramparts still\nremained, and red crumbling fragments lay scattered around. Here it\nwas that Sir Bugge, after the architect had left him, said to one of\nhis men, \"Go after him and say, 'Master, the tower shakes.' If he\nturns round, kill him and take away the money I paid him, but if he\ndoes not turn round let him go in peace.\" The man did as he was\ntold; the architect did not turn round, but called back \"The tower\ndoes not shake in the least, but one day a man will come from the west\nin a blue cloak--he will cause it to shake!\" And so indeed it happened\na hundred years later, for the North Sea broke in and cast down the\ntower; but Predbjorn Gyldenstjerne, the man who then possessed the\ncastle, built a new castle higher up at the end of the meadow, and\nthat one is standing to this day, and is called Norre-Vosborg.\n\nJurgen and his foster parents went past this castle. They had told\nhim its story during the long winter evenings, and now he saw the\nstately edifice, with its double moat, and trees and bushes; the wall,\ncovered with ferns, rose within the moat, but the lofty lime-trees\nwere the most beautiful of all; they grew up to the highest windows,\nand the air was full of their sweet fragrance. In a north-west\ncorner of the garden stood a great bush full of blossom, like winter\nsnow amid the summer's green; it was a juniper bush, the first that\nJurgen had ever seen in bloom. He never forgot it, nor the lime-trees;\nthe child's soul treasured up these memories of beauty and fragrance\nto gladden the old man.\n\nFrom Norre-Vosborg, where the juniper blossomed, the journey\nbecame more pleasant, for they met some other people who were also\ngoing to the funeral and were riding in waggons. Our travellers had to\nsit all together on a little box at the back of the waggon, but even\nthis, they thought, was better than walking. So they continued their\njourney across the rugged heath. The oxen which drew the waggon\nstopped every now and then, where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid\nthe heather. The sun shone with considerable heat, and it was\nwonderful to behold how in the far distance something like smoke\nseemed to be rising; yet this smoke was clearer than the air; it was\ntransparent, and looked like rays of light rolling and dancing afar\nover the heath.\n\n\"That is Lokeman driving his sheep,\" said some one.\n\nAnd this was enough to excite Jurgen's imagination. He felt as\nif they were now about to enter fairyland, though everything was still\nreal. How quiet it was! The heath stretched far and wide around them\nlike a beautiful carpet. The heather was in blossom, and the\njuniper-bushes and fresh oak saplings rose like bouquets from the\nearth. An inviting place for a frolic, if it had not been for the\nnumber of poisonous adders of which the travellers spoke; they also\nmentioned that the place had formerly been infested with wolves, and\nthat the district was still called Wolfsborg for this reason. The\nold man who was driving the oxen told them that in the lifetime of his\nfather the horses had many a hard battle with the wild beasts that\nwere now exterminated. One morning, when he himself had gone out to\nbring in the horses, he found one of them standing with its forefeet\non a wolf it had killed, but the savage animal had torn and\nlacerated the brave horse's legs.\n\nThe journey over the heath and the deep sand was only too\nquickly at an end. They stopped before the house of mourning, where\nthey found plenty of guests within and without. Waggon after waggon\nstood side by side, while the horses and oxen had been turned out to\ngraze on the scanty pasture. Great sand-hills like those at home by\nthe North Sea rose behind the house and extended far and wide. How had\nthey come here, so many miles inland? They were as large and high as\nthose on the coast, and the wind had carried them there; there was\nalso a legend attached to them.\n\nPsalms were sung, and a few of the old people shed tears; with\nthis exception, the guests were cheerful enough, it seemed to\nJurgen, and there was plenty to eat and drink. There were eels of\nthe fattest, requiring brandy to bury them, as the eel-breeder said;\nand certainly they did not forget to carry out his maxim here.\n\nJurgen went in and out the house; and on the third day he felt\nas much at home as he did in the fisherman's cottage among the\nsand-hills, where he had passed his early days. Here on the heath were\nriches unknown to him until now; for flowers, blackberries, and\nbilberries were to be found in profusion, so large and sweet that when\nthey were crushed beneath the tread of passers-by the heather was\nstained with their red juice. Here was a barrow and yonder another.\nThen columns of smoke rose into the still air; it was a heath fire,\nthey told him--how brightly it blazed in the dark evening!\n\nThe fourth day came, and the funeral festivities were at an end;\nthey were to go back from the land-dunes to the sand-dunes.\n\n\"Ours are better,\" said the old fisherman, Jurgen's foster-father;\n\"these have no strength.\"\n\nAnd they spoke of the way in which the sand-dunes had come inland,\nand it seemed very easy to understand. This is how they explained it:\n\nA dead body had been found on the coast, and the peasants buried\nit in the churchyard. From that time the sand began to fly about and\nthe sea broke in with violence. A wise man in the district advised\nthem to open the grave and see if the buried man was not lying sucking\nhis thumb, for if so he must be a sailor, and the sea would not rest\nuntil it had got him back. 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 to it; and the oxen ran off with the sailor over\nheath and moor to the ocean, as if they had been stung by an adder.\nThen the sand ceased to fly inland, but the hills that had been\npiled up still remained.\n\nAll this Jurgen listened to and treasured up in his memory of\nthe happiest days of his childhood--the days of the burial feast.\n\nHow delightful it was to see fresh places and to mix with\nstrangers! And he was to go still farther, for he was not yet fourteen\nyears old when he went out in a ship to see the world. He\nencountered bad weather, heavy seas, unkindness, and hard men--such\nwere his experiences, for he became ship-boy. Cold nights, bad living,\nand blows had to be endured; then he felt his noble Spanish blood boil\nwithin him, and bitter, angry, words rose to his lips, but he gulped\nthem down; it was better, although he felt as the eel must feel when\nit is skinned, cut up, and put into the frying-pan.\n\n\"I shall get over it,\" said a voice within him.\n\nHe saw the Spanish coast, the native land of his parents. He\neven saw the town where they had lived in joy and prosperity, but he\nknew nothing of his home or his relations, and his relations knew just\nas little about him.\n\nThe poor ship boy was not permitted to land, but on the last day\nof their stay he managed to get ashore. There were several purchases\nto be made, and he was sent to carry them on board.\n\nJurgen stood there in his shabby clothes which looked as if they\nhad been washed in the ditch and dried in the chimney; he, who had\nalways dwelt among the sand-hills, now saw a great city for the\nfirst time. How lofty the houses seemed, and what a number of people\nthere were in the streets! some pushing this way, some that--a perfect\nmaelstrom of citizens and peasants, monks and soldiers--the jingling\nof bells on the trappings of asses and mules, the chiming of church\nbells, calling, shouting, hammering and knocking--all going on at\nonce. Every trade was located in the basement of the houses or in\nthe side thoroughfares; and the sun shone with such heat, and the\nair was so close, that one seemed to be in an oven full of beetles,\ncockchafers, bees and flies, all humming and buzzing together.\nJurgen scarcely knew where he was or which way he went. Then he saw\njust in front of him the great doorway of a cathedral; the lights were\ngleaming in the dark aisles, and the fragrance of incense was wafted\ntowards him. Even the poorest beggar ventured up the steps into the\nsanctuary. Jurgen followed the sailor he was with into the church, and\nstood in the sacred edifice. Coloured pictures gleamed from their\ngolden background, and on the altar stood the figure of the Virgin\nwith the child Jesus, surrounded by lights and flowers; priests in\nfestive robes were chanting, and choir boys in dazzling attire swung\nsilver censers. What splendour and magnificence he saw there! It\nstreamed in upon his soul and overpowered him: the church and the\nfaith of his parents surrounded him, and touched a chord in his\nheart that caused his eyes to overflow with tears.\n\nThey went from the church to the market-place. Here a quantity\nof provisions were given him to carry. The way to the harbour was\nlong; and weary and overcome with various emotions, he rested for a\nfew moments before a splendid house, with marble pillars, statues, and\nbroad steps. Here he rested his burden against the wall. Then a porter\nin livery came out, lifted up a silver-headed cane, and drove him\naway--him, the grandson of that house. But no one knew that, and he\njust as little as any one. Then he went on board again, and once\nmore encountered rough words and blows, much work and little\nsleep--such was his experience of life. They say it is good to suffer\nin one's young days, if age brings something to make up for it.\n\nHis period of service on board the ship came to an end, and the\nvessel lay once more at Ringkjobing in Jutland. He came ashore, and\nwent home to the sand-dunes near Hunsby; but his foster-mother had\ndied during his absence.\n\nA hard winter followed this summer. Snow-storms swept over land\nand sea, and there was difficulty in getting from one place to\nanother. How unequally things are distributed in this world! Here\nthere was bitter cold and snow-storms, while in Spain there was\nburning sunshine and oppressive heat. Yet, when a clear frosty day\ncame, and Jurgen saw the swans flying in numbers from the sea\ntowards the land, across to Norre-Vosborg, it seemed to him that\npeople could breathe more freely here; the summer also in this part of\nthe world was splendid. In imagination he saw the heath blossom and\nbecome purple with rich juicy berries, and the elder-bushes and\nlime-trees at Norre Vosborg in flower. He made up his mind to go there\nagain.\n\nSpring came, and the fishing began. Jurgen was now an active\nhelper in this, for he had grown during the last year, and was quick\nat work. He was full of life, and knew how to swim, to tread water,\nand to turn over and tumble in the strong tide. They often warned\nhim to beware of the sharks, which seize the best swimmer, draw him\ndown, and devour him; but such was not to be Jurgen's fate.\n\nAt a neighbour's house in the dunes there was a boy named\nMartin, with whom Jurgen was on very friendly terms, and they both\ntook service in the same ship to Norway, and also went together to\nHolland. They never had a quarrel, but a person can be easily\nexcited to quarrel when he is naturally hot tempered, for he often\nshows it in many ways; and this is just what Jurgen did one day when\nthey fell out about the merest trifle. They were sitting behind the\ncabin door, eating from a delft plate, which they had placed between\nthem. Jurgen held his pocket-knife in his hand and raised it towards\nMartin, and at the same time became ashy pale, and his eyes had an\nugly look. Martin only said, \"Ah! ah! you are one of that sort, are\nyou? Fond of using the knife!\"\n\nThe words were scarcely spoken, when Jurgen's hand sank down. He\ndid not answer a syllable, but went on eating, and afterwards returned\nto his work. When they were resting again he walked up to Martin and\nsaid:\n\n\"Hit me in the face! I deserve it. But sometimes I feel as if I\nhad a pot in me that boils over.\"\n\n\"There, let the thing rest,\" replied Martin.\n\nAnd after that they were almost better friends than ever; when\nafterwards they returned to the dunes and began telling their\nadventures, this was told among the rest. Martin said that Jurgen\nwas certainly passionate, but a good fellow after all.\n\nThey were both young and healthy, well-grown and strong; but\nJurgen was the cleverer of the two.\n\nIn Norway the peasants go into the mountains and take the cattle\nthere to find pasture. On the west coast of Jutland huts have been\nerected among the sand-hills; they are built of pieces of wreck, and\nthatched with turf and heather; there are sleeping places round the\nwalls, and here the fishermen live and sleep during the early\nspring. Every fisherman has a female helper, or manager as she is\ncalled, who baits his hooks, prepares warm beer for him when he\ncomes ashore, and gets the dinner cooked and ready for him by the time\nhe comes back to the hut tired and hungry. Besides this the managers\nbring up the fish from the boats, cut them open, prepare them, and\nhave generally a great deal to do.\n\nJurgen, his father, and several other fishermen and their managers\ninhabited the same hut; Martin lived in the next one.\n\nOne of the girls, whose name was Else, had known Jurgen from\nchildhood; they were glad to see each other, and were of the same\nopinion on many points, but in appearance they were entirely opposite;\nfor he was dark, and she was pale, and fair, and had flaxen hair,\nand eyes as blue as the sea in sunshine.\n\nAs they were walking together one day, Jurgen held her hand very\nfirmly in his, and she said to him:\n\n\"Jurgen, I have something I want to say to you; let me be your\nmanager, for you are like a brother to me; but Martin, whose\nhousekeeper I am--he is my lover--but you need not tell this to the\nothers.\"\n\nIt seemed to Jurgen as if the loose sand was giving way under\nhis feet. He did not speak a word, but nodded his head, and that meant\n\"yes.\" It was all that was necessary; but he suddenly felt in his\nheart that he hated Martin, and the more he thought the more he felt\nconvinced that Martin had stolen away from him the only being he\never loved, and that this was Else: he had never thought of Else in\nthis way before, but now it all became plain to him.\n\nWhen the sea is rather rough, and the fishermen are coming home in\ntheir great boats, it is wonderful to see how they cross the reefs.\nOne of them stands upright in the bow of the boat, and the others\nwatch him sitting with the oars in their hands. Outside the reef it\nlooks as if the boat was not approaching land but going back to sea;\nthen the man who is standing up gives them the signal that the great\nwave is coming which is to float them across the reef. The boat is\nlifted high into the air, so that the keel is seen from the shore; the\nnext moment nothing can be seen, mast, keel, and people are all\nhidden--it seems as though the sea had devoured them; but in a few\nmoments they emerge like a great sea animal climbing up the waves, and\nthe oars move as if the creature had legs. The second and third reef\nare passed in the same manner; then the fishermen jump into the\nwater and push the boat towards the shore--every wave helps them--and\nat length they have it drawn up, beyond the reach of the breakers.\n\nA wrong order given in front of the reef--the slightest\nhesitation--and the boat would be lost.\n\n\"Then it would be all over with me and Martin too!\"\n\nThis thought passed through Jurgen's mind one day while they\nwere out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken suddenly\nill. The fever had seized him. They were only a few oars' strokes from\nthe reef, and Jurgen sprang from his seat and stood up in the bow.\n\n\"Father-let me come!\" he said, and he glanced at Martin and across\nthe waves; every oar bent with the exertions of the rowers as the\ngreat wave came towards them, and he saw his father's pale face, and\ndared not obey the evil impulse that had shot through his brain. The\nboat came safely across the reef to land; but the evil thought\nremained in his heart, and roused up every little fibre of\nbitterness which he remembered between himself and Martin since they\nhad known each other. But he could not weave the fibres together,\nnor did he endeavour to do so. He felt that Martin had robbed him, and\nthis was enough to make him hate his former friend. Several of the\nfishermen saw this, but Martin did not--he remained as obliging and\ntalkative as ever, in fact he talked rather too much.\n\nJurgen's foster-father took to his bed, and it became his\ndeath-bed, for he died a week afterwards; and now Jurgen was heir to\nthe little house behind the sand-hills. It was small, certainly, but\nstill it was something, and Martin had nothing of the kind.\n\n\"You will not go to sea again, Jurgen, I suppose,\" observed one of\nthe old fishermen. \"You will always stay with us now.\"\n\nBut this was not Jurgen's intention; he wanted to see something of\nthe world. The eel-breeder of Fjaltring had an uncle at Old Skjagen,\nwho was a fisherman, but also a prosperous merchant with ships upon\nthe sea; he was said to be a good old man, and it would not be a bad\nthing to enter his service. Old Skjagen lies in the extreme north of\nJutland, as far away from the Hunsby dunes as one can travel in that\ncountry; and this is just what pleased Jurgen, for he did not want\nto remain till the wedding of Martin and Else, which would take\nplace in a week or two.\n\nThe old fisherman said it was foolish to go away, for now that\nJurgen had a home Else would very likely be inclined to take him\ninstead of Martin.\n\nJurgen gave such a vague answer that it was not easy to make out\nwhat he meant--the old man brought Else to him, and she said:\n\n\"You have a home now; you ought to think of that.\"\n\nAnd Jurgen thought of many things.\n\nThe sea has heavy waves, but there are heavier waves in the\nhuman heart. Many thoughts, strong and weak, rushed through Jurgen's\nbrain, and he said to Else:\n\n\"If Martin had a house like mine, which of us would you rather\nhave?\"\n\n\"But Martin has no house and cannot get one.\"\n\n\"Suppose he had one?\"\n\n\"Well, then I would certainly take Martin, for that is what my\nheart tells me; but one cannot live upon love.\"\n\nJurgen turned these things over in his mind all night. Something\nwas working within him, he hardly knew what it was, but it was even\nstronger than his love for Else; and so he went to Martin's, and\nwhat he said and did there was well considered. He let the house to\nMartin on most liberal terms, saying that he wished to go to sea\nagain, because he loved it. And Else kissed him when she heard of\nit, for she loved Martin best.\n\nJurgen proposed to start early in the morning, and on the\nevening before his departure, when it was already getting rather late,\nhe felt a wish to visit Martin once more. He started, and among the\ndunes met the old fisherman, who was angry at his leaving the place.\nThe old man made jokes about Martin, and declared there must be some\nmagic about that fellow, of whom the girls were so fond.\n\nJurgen did not pay any attention to his remarks, but said good-bye\nto the old man and went on towards the house where Martin dwelt. He\nheard loud talking inside; Martin was not alone, and this made\nJurgen waver in his determination, for he did not wish to see Else\nagain. On second thoughts, he decided that it was better not to hear\nany more thanks from Martin, and so he turned back.\n\nOn the following morning, before the sun rose, he fastened his\nknapsack on his back, took his wooden provision box in his hand, and\nwent away among the sand-hills towards the coast path. This way was\nmore pleasant than the heavy sand road, and besides it was shorter;\nand he intended to go first to Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg, where the\neel-breeder lived, to whom he had promised a visit.\n\nThe sea lay before him, clear and blue, and the mussel shells\nand pebbles, the playthings of his childhood, crunched over his\nfeet. While he thus walked on his nose suddenly began to bleed; it was\na trifling occurrence, but trifles sometimes are of great\nimportance. A few large drops of blood fell upon one of his sleeves.\nHe wiped them off and stopped the bleeding, and it seemed to him as if\nthis had cleared and lightened his brain. The sea-cale bloomed here\nand there in the sand as he passed. He broke off a spray and stuck\nit in his hat; he determined to be merry and light-hearted, for he was\ngoing out into the wide world--\"a little way out, beyond the bay,\"\nas the young eels had said. \"Beware of bad people who will catch\nyou, and skin you, and put you in the frying-pan!\" he repeated in\nhis mind, and smiled, for he thought he should find his way through\nthe world--good courage is a strong weapon!\n\nThe sun was high in the heavens when he approached the narrow\nentrance to Nissum Bay. He looked back and saw a couple of horsemen\ngalloping a long distance behind him, and there were other people with\nthem. But this did not concern him.\n\nThe ferry-boat was on the opposite side of the bay. Jurgen\ncalled to the ferry-man, and the latter came over with his boat.\nJurgen stepped in; but before he had got half-way across, the men whom\nhe had seen riding so hastily, came up, hailed the ferry-man, and\ncommanded him to return in the name of the law. Jurgen did not\nunderstand the reason of this, but he thought it would be best to turn\nback, and therefore he himself took an oar and returned. As soon as\nthe boat touched the shore, the men sprang on board, and before he was\naware of it, they had bound his hands with a rope.\n\n\"This wicked deed will cost you your life,\" they said. \"It is a\ngood thing we have caught you.\"\n\nHe was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had been\nfound dead, with his throat cut. One of the fishermen, late on the\nprevious evening, had met Jurgen going towards Martin's house; this\nwas not the first time Jurgen had raised his knife against Martin,\nso they felt sure that he was the murderer. The prison was in a town\nat a great distance, and the wind was contrary for going there by sea;\nbut it would not take half an hour to get across the bay, and\nanother quarter of an hour would bring them to Norre-Vosborg, the\ngreat castle with ramparts and moat. One of Jurgen's captors was a\nfisherman, a brother of the keeper of the castle, and he said it might\nbe managed that Jurgen should be placed for the present in the dungeon\nat Vosborg, where Long Martha the gipsy had been shut up till her\nexecution. They paid no attention to Jurgen's defence; the few drops\nof blood on his shirt-sleeve bore heavy witness against him. But he\nwas conscious of his innocence, and as there was no chance of clearing\nhimself at present he submitted to his fate.\n\nThe party landed just at the place where Sir Bugge's castle had\nstood, and where Jurgen had walked with his foster-parents after the\nburial feast, during the four happiest days of his childhood. He\nwas led by the well-known path, over the meadow to Vosborg; once\nmore the elders were in bloom and the lofty lime-trees gave forth\nsweet fragrance, and it seemed as if it were but yesterday that he had\nlast seen the spot. In each of the two wings of the castle there was a\nstaircase which led to a place below the entrance, from whence there\nis access to a low, vaulted cellar. In this dungeon Long Martha had\nbeen imprisoned, and from here she was led away to the scaffold. She\nhad eaten the hearts of five children, and had imagined that if she\ncould obtain two more she would be able to fly and make herself\ninvisible. In the middle of the roof of the cellar there was a\nlittle narrow air-hole, but no window. The flowering lime trees\ncould not breathe refreshing fragrance into that abode, where\neverything was dark and mouldy. There was only a rough bench in the\ncell; but a good conscience is a soft pillow, and therefore Jurgen\ncould sleep well.\n\nThe thick oaken door was locked, and secured on the outside by\nan iron bar; but the goblin of superstition can creep through a\nkeyhole into a baron's castle just as easily as it can into a\nfisherman's cottage, and why should he not creep in here, where Jurgen\nsat thinking of Long Martha and her wicked deeds? Her last thoughts on\nthe night before her execution had filled this place, and the magic\nthat tradition asserted to have been practised here, in Sir\nSvanwedel's time, came into Jurgen's mind, and made him shudder; but a\nsunbeam, a refreshing thought from without, penetrated his heart\neven here--it was the remembrance of the flowering elder and the sweet\nsmelling lime-trees.\n\nHe was not left there long. They took him away to the town of\nRingkjobing, where he was imprisoned with equal severity.\n\nThose times were not like ours. The common people were treated\nharshly; and it was just after the days when farms were converted into\nknights' estates, when coachmen and servants were often made\nmagistrates, and had power to sentence a poor man, for a small\noffence, to lose his property and to corporeal punishment. Judges of\nthis kind were still to be found; and in Jutland, so far from the\ncapital, and from the enlightened, well-meaning, head of the\nGovernment, the law was still very loosely administered sometimes--the\nsmallest grievance Jurgen could expect was that his case should be\ndelayed.\n\nHis dwelling was cold and comfortless; and how long would he be\nobliged to bear all this? It seemed his fate to suffer misfortune\nand sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to reflect on the\ndifference of fortune on earth, and to wonder why this fate had been\nallotted to him; yet he felt sure that all would be made clear in\nthe next life, the existence that awaits us when this life is over.\nHis faith had grown strong in the poor fisherman's cottage; the\nlight which had never shone into his father's mind, in all the\nrichness and sunshine of Spain, was sent to him to be his comfort in\npoverty and distress, a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.\n\nThe spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of the\nNorth Sea could be heard for miles inland when the wind was blowing,\nand then it sounded like the rushing of a thousand waggons over a hard\nroad with a mine underneath. Jurgen heard these sounds in his\nprison, and it was a relief to him. No music could have touched 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 goes, just as the snail\ncarries its home even into a strange country.\n\nHe listened eagerly to its deep murmur and then the thought\narose--\"Free! free! How happy to be free, even barefooted and in ragged\nclothes!\" Sometimes, when such thoughts crossed his mind, the fiery\nnature rose within him, and he beat the wall with his clenched fists.\n\nWeeks, months, a whole year had gone by, when Niels the thief,\ncalled also a horse-dealer, was arrested; and now better times came,\nand it was seen that Jurgen had been wrongly accused.\n\nOn the afternoon before Jurgen's departure from home, and before\nthe murder, Niels the thief, had met Martin at a beer-house in the\nneighbourhood of Ringkjobing. A few glasses were drank, not enough\nto cloud the brain, but enough to loosen Martin's tongue. He began\nto boast and to say that he had obtained a house and intended to\nmarry, and when Niels asked him where he was going to get the money,\nhe slapped his pocket proudly and said:\n\n\"The money is here, where it ought to be.\"\n\nThis boast cost him his life; for when he went home Niels followed\nhim, and cut his throat, intending to rob the murdered man of the\ngold, which did not exist.\n\nAll this was circumstantially explained; but it is enough for us\nto know that Jurgen was set free. But what compensation did he get for\nhaving been imprisoned a whole year, and shut out from all\ncommunication with his fellow creatures? They told him he was\nfortunate in being proved innocent, and that he might go. The\nburgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling expenses, and many\ncitizens offered him provisions and beer--there were still good\npeople; they were not all hard and pitiless. But the best thing of all\nwas that the merchant Bronne, of Skjagen, into whose service Jurgen\nhad proposed entering the year before, was just at that time on\nbusiness in the town of Ringkjobing. Bronne heard the whole story;\nhe was kind-hearted, and understood what Jurgen must have felt and\nsuffered. Therefore he 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 Jurgen went forth from prison as if to paradise, to find\nfreedom, affection, and trust. He was to travel this path now, for\nno goblet of life is all bitterness; no good man would pour out such a\ndraught for his fellow-man, and how should He do it, Who is love\npersonified?\n\n\"Let everything be buried and forgotten,\" said Bronne, the\nmerchant. \"Let us draw a thick line through last year: we will even\nburn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear, friendly,\npeaceful Skjagen. People call it an out-of-the-way corner; but it is a\ngood warm chimney-corner, and its windows open toward every part of\nthe world.\"\n\nWhat a journey that was: It was like taking fresh breath out of\nthe cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The heather bloomed in\npride and beauty, and the shepherd-boy sat on a barrow and blew his\npipe, which he had carved for himself out of a sheep bone. Fata\nMorgana, the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the wilderness, appeared\nwith hanging gardens and waving forests, and the wonderful cloud\ncalled \"Lokeman driving his sheep\" also was seen.\n\nUp towards Skjagen they went, through the land of the Wendels,\nwhence the men with long beards (the Longobardi or Lombards) had\nemigrated in the reign of King Snio, when all the children and old\npeople were to have been killed, till the noble Dame Gambaruk proposed\nthat the young people should emigrate. Jurgen knew all this, he had\nsome little knowledge; and although he did not know the land of the\nLombards beyond the lofty Alps, he had an idea that it must be\nthere, for in his boyhood he had been in the south, in Spain. He\nthought of the plenteousness of the southern fruit, of the red\npomegranate flowers, of the humming, buzzing, and toiling in the great\nbeehive of a city he had seen; but home is the best place after all,\nand Jurgen's home was Denmark.\n\nAt last they arrived at \"Vendilskaga,\" as Skjagen is called in old\nNorwegian and Icelandic writings. At that time Old Skjagen, with the\neastern and western town, extended for miles, with sand hills and\narable land as far as the lighthouse near \"Grenen.\" Then, as now,\nthe houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills--a\nwilderness in which the wind sports with the sand, and where the voice\nof the sea-gull and wild swan strikes harshly on the ear.\n\nIn the south-west, a mile from \"Grenen,\" lies Old Skjagen;\nmerchant Bronne dwelt here, and this was also to be Jurgen's home\nfor the future. The dwelling-house was tarred, and all the small\nout-buildings had been put together from pieces of wreck. There was no\nfence, for indeed there was nothing to fence in except the long rows\nof fishes which were hung upon lines, one above the other, to dry in\nthe wind. The entire coast was strewn with spoiled herrings, for there\nwere so many of these fish that a net was scarcely thrown into the sea\nbefore it was filled. They were caught by carloads, and many of them\nwere either thrown back into the sea or left to lie on the beach.\n\nThe old man's wife and daughter and his servants also came to meet\nhim with great rejoicing. There was a great squeezing of hands, and\ntalking and questioning. And the daughter, what a sweet face and\nbright eyes she had!\n\nThe inside of the house was comfortable and roomy. Fritters,\nthat a king would have looked upon as a dainty dish, were placed on\nthe table, and there was wine from the Skjagen vineyard--that is,\nthe sea; for there the grapes come ashore ready pressed and prepared\nin barrels and in bottles.\n\nWhen the mother and daughter heard who Jurgen was, and how\ninnocently he had suffered, they looked at him in a still more\nfriendly way; and pretty Clara's eyes had a look of especial\ninterest as she listened to his story. Jurgen found a happy home in\nOld Skjagen. It did his heart good, for it had been sorely tried. He\nhad drunk the bitter goblet of love which softens or hardens the\nheart, according to circumstances. Jurgen's heart was still soft--it\nwas young, and therefore it was a good thing that Miss Clara was going\nin three weeks' time to Christiansand in Norway, in her father's ship,\nto visit an aunt and to stay there the whole winter.\n\nOn the Sunday before she went away they all went to church, to the\nHoly Communion. The church was large and handsome, and had been\nbuilt centuries before by Scotchmen and Dutchmen; it stood some little\nway out of the town. It was rather ruinous certainly, and the road\nto it was heavy, through deep sand, but the people gladly surmounted\nthese difficulties to get to the house of God, to sing psalms and to\nhear the sermon. The sand had heaped itself up round the walls of\nthe church, but the graves were kept free from it.\n\nIt was the largest church north of the Limfjorden. The Virgin\nMary, with a golden crown on her head and the child Jesus in her arms,\nstood lifelike on the altar; the holy Apostles had been carved in\nthe choir, and on the walls there were portraits of the old\nburgomasters and councillors of Skjagen; the pulpit was of carved\nwork. The sun shone brightly into the church, and its radiance fell on\nthe polished brass chandelier and on the little ship that hung from\nthe vaulted roof.\n\nJurgen felt overcome by a holy, childlike feeling, like that which\npossessed him, when, as a boy, he stood in the splendid Spanish\ncathedral. But here the feeling was different, for he felt conscious\nof being one of the congregation.\n\nAfter the sermon followed Holy Communion. He partook of the\nbread and wine, and it so happened that he knelt by the side of Miss\nClara; but his thoughts were so fixed upon heaven and the Holy\nSacrament that he did not notice his neighbour until he rose from\nhis knees, and then he saw tears rolling down her cheeks.\n\nShe left Skjagen and went to Norway two days later. He remained\nbehind, and made himself useful on the farm and at the fishery. He\nwent out fishing, and in those days fish were more plentiful and\nlarger than they are now. The shoals of the mackerel glittered in\nthe dark nights, and indicated where they were swimming; the\ngurnards snarled, and the crabs gave forth pitiful yells when they\nwere chased, for fish are not so mute as people say.\n\nEvery Sunday Jurgen went to church; and when his eyes rested on\nthe picture of the Virgin Mary over the altar as he sat there, they\noften glided away to the spot where they had knelt side by side.\n\nAutumn came, and brought rain and snow with it; the water rose\nup right into the town of Skjagen, the sand could not suck it all\nin, one had to wade through it or go by boat. The storms threw\nvessel after vessel on the fatal reefs; there were snow-storm and\nsand-storms; the sand flew up to the houses, blocking the entrances,\nso that people had to creep up through the chimneys; that was\nnothing at all remarkable here. It was pleasant and cheerful\nindoors, where peat fuel and fragments of wood from the wrecks\nblazed and crackled upon the hearth. Merchant Bronne read aloud,\nfrom an old chronicle, about Prince Hamlet of Denmark, who had come\nover from England, landed near Bovbjerg, and fought a battle; close by\nRamme was his grave, only a few miles from the place where the\neel-breeder lived; hundreds of barrow rose there from the heath,\nforming as it were an enormous churchyard. Merchant Bronne had\nhimself been at Hamlet's grave; they spoke about old times, and about\ntheir neighbours, the English and the Scotch, and Jurgen sang the air\nof \"The King of England's Son,\" and of his splendid ship and its\noutfit.\n\n  \"In the hour of peril when most men fear,\n  He clasped the bride that he held so dear,\n  And proved himself the son of a King;\n  Of his courage and valour let us sing.\"\n\n\nThis verse Jurgen sang with so much feeling that his eyes\nbeamed, and they were black and sparkling since his infancy.\n\nThere was wealth, comfort, and happiness even among the domestic\nanimals, for they were all well cared for, and well kept. The\nkitchen looked bright with its copper and tin utensils, and white\nplates, and from the rafters hung hams, beef, and winter stores in\nplenty. This can still be seen in many rich farms on the west coast of\nJutland: plenty to eat and drink, clean, prettily decorated rooms,\nactive minds, cheerful tempers, and hospitality can be found there, as\nin an Arab's tent.\n\nJurgen had never spent such a happy time since the famous burial\nfeast, and yet Miss Clara was absent, except in the thoughts and\nmemory of all.\n\nIn April a ship was to start for Norway, and Jurgen was to sail in\nit. He was full of life and spirits, and looked so sturdy and well\nthat Dame Bronne said it did her good to see him.\n\n\"And it does one good to look at you also, old wife,\" said the\nmerchant. \"Jurgen has brought fresh life into our winter evenings, and\ninto you too, mother. You look younger than ever this year, and seem\nwell and cheerful. But then you were once the prettiest girl in\nViborg, and that is saying a great deal, for I have always found the\nViborg girls the prettiest of any.\"\n\nJurgen said nothing, but he thought of a certain maiden of\nSkjagen, whom he was soon to visit. The ship set sail for\nChristiansand in Norway, and as the wind was favourable it soon\narrived there.\n\nOne morning merchant Bronne went out to the lighthouse, which\nstands a little way out of Old Skjagen, not far from \"Grenen.\" The\nlight was out, and the sun was already high in the heavens, when he\nmounted the tower. The sand-banks extend a whole mile from the\nshore, beneath the water, outside these banks; many ships could be\nseen that day, and with the aid of his telescope the old man thought\nhe descried his own ship, the Karen Bronne. Yes! certainly, there\nshe was, sailing homewards with Clara and Jurgen on board.\n\nClara sat on deck, and saw the sand-hills gradually appearing in\nthe distance; the church and lighthouse looked like a heron and a swan\nrising from the blue waters. If the wind held good they might reach\nhome in about an hour. So near they were to home and all its joys--so\nnear to death and all its terrors! A plank in the ship gave way,\nand the water rushed in; the crew flew to the pumps, and did their\nbest to stop the leak. A signal of distress was hoisted, but they were\nstill fully a mile from the shore. Some fishing boats were in sight,\nbut they were too far off to be of any use. The wind blew towards\nthe land, the tide was in their favour, but it was all useless; the\nship could not be saved.\n\nJurgen threw his right arm round Clara, and pressed her to him.\nWith what a look she gazed up into his face, as with a prayer to God\nfor help he breasted the waves, which rushed over the sinking ship!\nShe uttered a cry, but she felt safe and certain that he would not\nleave her to sink. And in this hour of terror and danger Jurgen felt\nas the king's son did, as told in the old song:\n\n  \"In the hour of peril when most men fear,\n  He clasped the bride that he held so dear.\"\n\n\nHow glad he felt that he was a good swimmer! He worked his way\nonward with his feet and one arm, while he held the young girl up\nfirmly with the other. He rested on the waves, he trod the water--in\nfact, did everything he could think of, in order not to fatigue\nhimself, and to reserve strength enough to reach land. He heard\nClara sigh, and felt her shudder convulsively, and he pressed her more\nclosely to him. Now and then a wave rolled over them, the current\nlifted them; the water, although deep, was so clear that for a\nmoment he imagined he saw the shoals of mackerel glittering, or\nLeviathan himself ready to swallow them. Now the clouds cast a\nshadow over the water, then again came the playing sunbeams; flocks of\nloudly screaming birds passed over him, and the plump and lazy wild\nducks which allow themselves to be drifted by the waves rose up\nterrified at the sight of the swimmer. He began to feel his strength\ndecreasing, but he was only a few cable lengths' distance from the\nshore, and help was coming, for a boat was approaching him. At this\nmoment he distinctly saw a white staring figure under the water--a\nwave lifted him up, and he came nearer to the figure--he felt a\nviolent shock, and everything became dark around him.\n\nOn the sand reef lay the wreck of a ship, which was covered with\nwater at high tide; the white figure head rested against the anchor,\nthe sharp iron edge of which rose just above the surface. Jurgen had\ncome in contact with this; the tide had driven him against it with\ngreat force. He sank down stunned with the blow, but the next wave\nlifted him and the young girl up again. Some fishermen, coming with\na boat, seized them and dragged them into it. The blood streamed\ndown over Jurgen's face; he seemed dead, but still held the young girl\nso tightly that they were obliged to take her from him by force. She\nwas pale and lifeless; they laid her in the boat, and rowed as quickly\nas possible to the shore. They tried every means to restore Clara to\nlife, but it was all of no avail. Jurgen had been swimming for some\ndistance with a corpse in his arms, and had exhausted his strength for\none who was dead.\n\nJurgen still breathed, so the fishermen carried him to the nearest\nhouse upon the sand-hills, where a smith and general dealer lived\nwho knew something of surgery, and bound up Jurgen's wounds in a\ntemporary way until a surgeon could be obtained from the nearest\ntown the next day. The injured man's brain was affected, and in his\ndelirium he uttered wild cries; but on the third day he lay quiet\nand weak upon his bed; his life seemed to hang by a thread, and the\nphysician said it would be better for him if this thread broke. \"Let\nus pray that God may take him,\" he said, \"for he will never be the\nsame man again.\"\n\nBut life did not depart from him--the thread would not break,\nbut the thread of memory was severed; the thread of his mind had\nbeen cut through, and what was still more grievous, a body remained--a\nliving healthy body that wandered about like a troubled spirit.\n\nJurgen remained in merchant Bronne's house. \"He was hurt while\nendeavouring to save our child,\" said the old man, \"and now he is\nour son.\" People called Jurgen insane, but that was not exactly the\ncorrect term. He was like an instrument in which the strings are loose\nand will give no sound; only occasionally they regained their power\nfor a few minutes, and then they sounded as they used to do. He\nwould sing snatches of songs or old melodies, pictures of the past\nwould rise before him, and then disappear in the mist, as it were, but\nas a general rule he sat staring into vacancy, without a thought. We\nmay conjecture that he did not suffer, but his dark eyes lost their\nbrightness, and looked like clouded glass.\n\n\"Poor mad Jurgen,\" said the people. And this was the end of a life\nwhose infancy was to have been surrounded with wealth and splendour\nhad his parents lived! All his great mental abilities had been lost,\nnothing but hardship, sorrow, and disappointment had been his fate. He\nwas like a rare plant, torn from its native soil, and tossed upon\nthe beach to wither there. And was this one of God's creatures,\nfashioned in His own likeness, to have no better fate? Was he to be\nonly the plaything of fortune? No! the all-loving Creator would\ncertainly repay him in the life to come for what he had suffered and\nlost here. \"The Lord is good to all; and His mercy is over all His\nworks.\" The pious old wife of the merchant repeated these words from\nthe Psalms of David in patience and hope, and the prayer of her\nheart was that Jurgen might soon be called away to enter into\neternal life.\n\nIn the churchyard where the walls were surrounded with sand\nClara lay buried. Jurgen did not seem to know this; it did not enter\nhis mind, which could only retain fragments of the past. Every\nSunday he went to church with the old people, and sat there\nsilently, staring vacantly before him. One day, when the Psalms were\nbeing sung, he sighed deeply, and his eyes became bright; they were\nfixed upon a place near the altar where he had knelt with his friend\nwho was dead. He murmured her name, and became deadly pale, and\ntears rolled down his cheeks. They led him out of church; he told\nthose standing round him that he was well, and had never been ill; he,\nwho had been so grievously afflicted, the outcast, thrown upon the\nworld, could not remember his sufferings. The Lord our Creator is wise\nand full of loving kindness--who can doubt it?\n\nIn Spain, where balmy breezes blow over the Moorish cupolas and\ngently stir the orange and myrtle groves, where singing and the\nsound of the castanets are always heard, the richest merchant in the\nplace, a childless old man, sat in a luxurious house, while children\nmarched in procession through the streets with waving flags and\nlighted tapers. If he had been able to press his children to his\nheart, his daughter, or her child, that had, perhaps never seen the\nlight of day, far less the kingdom of heaven, how much of his wealth\nwould he not have given! \"Poor child!\" Yes, poor child--a child still,\nyet more than thirty years old, for Jurgen had arrived at this age\nin Old Skjagen.\n\nThe shifting sands had covered the graves in the courtyard,\nquite up to the church walls, but still, the dead must be buried among\ntheir relatives and the dear ones who had gone before them. Merchant\nBronne and his wife now rested with their children under the white\nsand.\n\nIt was in the spring--the season of storms. The sand from the\ndunes was whirled up in clouds; the sea was rough, and flocks of birds\nflew like clouds in the storm, screaming across the sand-hills.\nShipwreck followed upon shipwreck on the reefs between Old Skagen\nand the Hunsby dunes.\n\nOne evening Jurgen sat in his room alone: all at once his mind\nseemed to become clearer, and a restless feeling came over him, such\nas had often, in his younger days, driven him out to wander over the\nsand-hills or on the heath. \"Home, home!\" he cried. No one heard\nhim. He went out and walked towards the dunes. Sand and stones blew\ninto his face, and whirled round him; he went in the direction of\nthe church. The sand was banked up the walls, half covering the\nwindows, but it had been cleared away in front of the door, and the\nentrance was free and easy to open, so Jurgen went into the church.\n\nThe storm raged over the town of Skjagen; there had not been\nsuch a terrible tempest within the memory of the inhabitants, nor such\na rough sea. But Jurgen was in the temple of God, and while the\ndarkness of night reigned outside, a light arose in his soul that\nwas never to depart from it; the heavy weight that pressed on his\nbrain burst asunder. He fancied he heard the organ, but it was only\nthe storm and the moaning of the sea. He sat down on one of the seats,\nand lo! the candies were lighted one by one, and there was\nbrightness and grandeur such as he had only seen in the Spanish\ncathedral. The portraits of the old citizens became alive, stepped\ndown from the walls against which they had hung for centuries, and\ntook seats near the church door. The gates flew open, and all the dead\npeople from the churchyard came in, and filled the church, while\nbeautiful music sounded. Then the melody of the psalm burst forth,\nlike the sound of the waters, and Jurgen saw that his foster parents\nfrom the Hunsby dunes were there, also old merchant Bronne with his\nwife and their daughter Clara, who gave him her hand. They both went\nup to the altar where they had knelt before, and the priest joined\ntheir hands and united them for life. Then music was heard again; it\nwas wonderfully sweet, like a child's voice, full of joy and\nexpectation, swelling to the powerful tones of a full organ, sometimes\nsoft and sweet, then like the sounds of a tempest, delightful and\nelevating to hear, yet strong enough to burst the stone tombs of the\ndead. Then the little ship that hung from the roof of the choir was\nlet down and looked wonderfully large and beautiful with its silken\nsails and rigging:\n\n  \"The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,\n  And everywhere riches and pomp untold,\"\n\nas the old song says.\n\nThe young couple went on board, accompanied by the whole\ncongregation, for there was room and enjoyment for them all. Then\nthe walls and arches of the church were covered with flowering\njunipers and lime trees breathing forth fragrance; the branches waved,\ncreating a pleasant coolness; they bent and parted, and the ship\nsailed between them through the air and over the sea. Every candle\nin the church became a star, and the wind sang a hymn in which they\nall joined. \"Through love to glory, no life is lost, the future is\nfull of blessings and happiness. Hallelujah!\" These were the last\nwords Jurgen uttered in this world, for the thread that bound his\nimmortal soul was severed, and nothing but the dead body lay in the\ndark church, while the storm raged outside, covering it with loose\nsand.\n\nThe next day was Sunday, and the congregation and their pastor\nwent to the church. The road had always been heavy, but now it was\nalmost unfit for use, and when they at last arrived at the church, a\ngreat heap of sand lay piled up in front of them. The whole church was\ncompletely buried in sand. The clergyman offered a short prayer, and\nsaid that God had closed the door of His house here, and that the\ncongregation must go and build a new one for Him somewhere else. So\nthey sung a hymn in the open air, and went home again.\n\nJurgen could not be found anywhere in the town of Skjagen, nor\non the dunes, though they searched for him everywhere. They came to\nthe conclusion that one of the great waves, which had rolled far up\non the beach, had carried him away; but his body lay buried in a\ngreat sepulchre--the church itself. The Lord had thrown down a\ncovering for his grave during the storm, and the heavy mound of sand\nlies upon it to this day. The drifting sand had covered the vaulted\nroof of the church, the arched cloisters, and the stone aisles. The\nwhite thorn and the dog rose now blossom above the place where the\nchurch lies buried, but the spire, like an enormous monument over a\ngrave, can be seen for miles round. No king has a more splendid\nmemorial. Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the dead. I was the\nfirst to hear this story, for the storm sung it to me among the\nsand-hills.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SAUCY BOY\n\nOnce upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good\nold poets.\n\nOne evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm\ngoing on outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat\ncomfortably in his chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and\nthe apples were roasting.\n\n\"There will not be a dry thread left on the poor people who are\nout in this weather,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, open the door! I am so cold and wet through,\" called a little\nchild outside. It was crying and knocking at the door, whilst the rain\nwas pouring down and the wind was rattling all the windows.\n\n\"Poor creature!\" said the poet, and got up and opened the door.\nBefore him stood a little boy; he was naked, and the water flowed from\nhis long fair locks. He was shivering with cold; if he had not been\nlet in, he would certainly have perished in the storm.\n\n\"Poor little thing!\" said the poet, and took him by the hand.\n\"Come to me; I will soon warm you. You shall have some wine and an\napple, for you are such a pretty boy.\"\n\nAnd he was, too. His eyes sparkled like two bright stars, and\nalthough the water flowed down from his fair locks, they still\ncurled quite beautifully.\n\nHe looked like a little angel, but was pale with cold, and\ntrembling all over. In his hand he held a splendid bow, but it had\nbeen entirely spoilt by the rain, and the colours of the pretty arrows\nhad run into one another by getting wet.\n\nThe old man sat down by the fire, and taking the little boy on his\nknee, wrung the water out of his locks and warmed his hands in his\nown.\n\nHe then made him some hot spiced wine, which quickly revived\nhim; so that with reddening cheeks, he sprang upon the floor and\ndanced around the old man.\n\n\"You are a merry boy,\" said the latter. \"What is your name?\"\n\n\"My name is Cupid,\" he answered. \"Don't you know me? There lies my\nbow. I shoot with that, you know. Look, the weather is getting fine\nagain--the moon is shining.\"\n\n\"But your bow is spoilt,\" said the old poet.\n\n\"That would be unfortunate,\" said the little boy, taking it up and\nlooking at it. \"Oh, it's quite dry and isn't damaged at all. The\nstring is quite tight; I'll try it.\" So, drawing it back, he took an\narrow, aimed, and shot the good old poet right in the heart. \"Do you\nsee now that my bow was not spoilt?\" he said, and, loudly laughing,\nran away. What a naughty boy to shoot the old poet like that, who\nhad taken him into his warm room, had been so good to him, and had\ngiven him the nicest wine and the best apple!\n\nThe good old man lay upon the floor crying; he was really shot\nin the heart. \"Oh!\" he cried, \"what a naughty boy this Cupid is! I\nshall tell all the good children about this, so that they take care\nnever to play with him, lest he hurt them.\"\n\nAnd all good children, both girls and boys, whom he told about\nthis, were on their guard against wicked Cupid; but he deceives them\nall the same, for he is very deep. When the students come out of\nclass, he walks beside them with a book under his arm, and wearing a\nblack coat. They cannot recognize him. And then, if they take him by\nthe arm, believing him to be a student too, he sticks an arrow into\ntheir chest. And when the girls go to church to be confirmed, he is\namongst them too. In fact, he is always after people. He sits in the\nlarge chandelier in the theatre and blazes away, so that people\nthink it is a lamp; but they soon find out their mistake. He walks\nabout in the castle garden and on the promenades. Yes, once he shot\nyour father and your mother in the heart too. Just ask them, and you\nwill hear what they say. Oh! he is a bad boy, this Cupid, and you must\nnever have anything to do with him, for he is after every one. Just\nthink, he even shot an arrow at old grandmother; but that was a long\ntime ago. The wound has long been healed, but such things are never\nforgotten.\n\nNow you know what a bad boy this wicked Cupid is.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHADOW\n\nIn very hot climates, where the heat of the sun has great power,\npeople are usually as brown as mahogany; and in the hottest\ncountries they are negroes, with black skins. A learned man once\ntravelled into one of these warm climates, from the cold regions of\nthe north, and thought he would roam about as he did at home; but he\nsoon had to change his opinion. He found that, like all sensible\npeople, he must remain in the house during the whole day, with every\nwindow and door closed, so that it looked as if all in the house\nwere asleep or absent. The houses of the narrow street in which he\nlived were so lofty that the sun shone upon them from morning till\nevening, and it became quite unbearable. This learned man from the\ncold regions was young as well as clever; but it seemed to him as if\nhe were sitting in an oven, and he became quite exhausted and weak,\nand grew so thin that his shadow shrivelled up, and became much\nsmaller than it had been at home. The sun took away even what was left\nof it, and he saw nothing of it till the evening, after sunset. It was\nreally a pleasure, as soon as the lights were brought into the room,\nto see the shadow stretch itself against the wall, even to the\nceiling, so tall was it; and it really wanted a good stretch to\nrecover its strength. The learned man would sometimes go out into\nthe balcony to stretch himself also; and as soon as the stars came\nforth in the clear, beautiful sky, he felt revived. People at this\nhour began to make their appearance in all the balconies in the\nstreet; for in warm climates every window has a balcony, in which they\ncan breathe the fresh evening air, which is very necessary, even to\nthose who are used to a heat that makes them as brown as mahogany;\nso that the street presented a very lively appearance. Here were\nshoemakers, and tailors, and all sorts of people sitting. In the\nstreet beneath, they brought out tables and chairs, lighted candles by\nhundreds, talked and sang, and were very merry. There were people\nwalking, carriages driving, and mules trotting along, with their bells\non the harness, \"tingle, tingle,\" as they went. Then the dead were\ncarried to the grave with the sound of solemn music, and the tolling\nof the church bells. It was indeed a scene of varied life in the\nstreet. One house only, which was just opposite to the one in which\nthe foreign learned man lived, formed a contrast to all this, for it\nwas quite still; and yet somebody dwelt there, for flowers stood in\nthe balcony, blooming beautifully in the hot sun; and this could not\nhave been unless they had been watered carefully. Therefore some one\nmust be in the house to do this. The doors leading to the balcony were\nhalf opened in the evening; and although in the front room all was\ndark, music could be heard from the interior of the house. The foreign\nlearned man considered this music very delightful; but perhaps he\nfancied it; for everything in these warm countries pleased him,\nexcepting the heat of the sun. The foreign landlord said he did not\nknow who had taken the opposite house--nobody was to be seen there;\nand as to the music, he thought it seemed very tedious, to him most\nuncommonly so.\n\n\"It is just as if some one was practising a piece that he could\nnot manage; it is always the same piece. He thinks, I suppose, that he\nwill be able to manage it at last; but I do not think so, however long\nhe may play it.\"\n\nOnce the foreigner woke in the night. He slept with the door\nopen which led to the balcony; the wind had raised the curtain\nbefore it, and there appeared a wonderful brightness over all in the\nbalcony of the opposite house. The flowers seemed like flames of the\nmost gorgeous colors, and among the flowers stood a beautiful\nslender maiden. It was to him as if light streamed from her, and\ndazzled his eyes; but then he had only just opened them, as he awoke\nfrom his sleep. With one spring he was out of bed, and crept softly\nbehind the curtain. But she was gone--the brightness had\ndisappeared; the flowers no longer appeared like flames, although\nstill as beautiful as ever. The door stood ajar, and from an inner\nroom sounded music so sweet and so lovely, that it produced the most\nenchanting thoughts, and acted on the senses with magic power. Who\ncould live there? Where was the real entrance? for, both in the street\nand in the lane at the side, the whole ground floor was a continuation\nof shops; and people could not always be passing through them.\n\nOne evening the foreigner sat in the balcony. A light was\nburning in his own room, just behind him. It was quite natural,\ntherefore, that his shadow should fall on the wall of the opposite\nhouse; so that, as he sat amongst the flowers on his balcony, when\nhe moved, his shadow moved also.\n\n\"I think my shadow is the only living thing to be seen\nopposite,\" said the learned man; \"see how pleasantly it sits among the\nflowers. The door is only ajar; the shadow ought to be clever enough\nto step in and look about him, and then to come back and tell me\nwhat he has seen. You could make yourself useful in this way,\" said\nhe, jokingly; \"be so good as to step in now, will you?\" and then he\nnodded to the shadow, and the shadow nodded in return. \"Now go, but\ndon't stay away altogether.\"\n\nThen the foreigner stood up, and the shadow on the opposite\nbalcony stood up also; the foreigner turned round, the shadow\nturned; and if any one had observed, they might have seen it go\nstraight into the half-opened door of the opposite balcony, as the\nlearned man re-entered his own room, and let the curtain fall. The\nnext morning he went out to take his coffee and read the newspapers.\n\n\"How is this?\" he exclaimed, as he stood in the sunshine. \"I\nhave lost my shadow. So it really did go away yesterday evening, and\nit has not returned. This is very annoying.\"\n\nAnd it certainly did vex him, not so much because the shadow was\ngone, but because he knew there was a story of a man without a shadow.\nAll the people at home, in his country, knew this story; and when he\nreturned, and related his own adventures, they would say it was only\nan imitation; and he had no desire for such things to be said of\nhim. So he decided not to speak of it at all, which was a very\nsensible determination.\n\nIn the evening he went out again on his balcony, taking care to\nplace the light behind him; for he knew that a shadow always wants his\nmaster for a screen; but he could not entice him out. He made\nhimself little, and he made himself tall; but there was no shadow, and\nno shadow came. He said, \"Hem, a-hem;\" but it was all useless. That\nwas very vexatious; but in warm countries everything grows very\nquickly; and, after a week had passed, he saw, to his great joy,\nthat a new shadow was growing from his feet, when he walked in the\nsunshine; so that the root must have remained. After three weeks, he\nhad quite a respectable shadow, which, during his return journey to\nnorthern lands, continued to grow, and became at last so large that he\nmight very well have spared half of it. When this learned man\narrived at home, he wrote books about the true, the good, and the\nbeautiful, which are to be found in this world; and so days and\nyears passed--many, many years.\n\nOne evening, as he sat in his study, a very gentle tap was heard\nat the door. \"Come in,\" said he; but no one came. He opened the\ndoor, and there stood before him a man so remarkably thin that he felt\nseriously troubled at his appearance. He was, however, very well\ndressed, and looked like a gentleman. \"To whom have I the honor of\nspeaking?\" said he.\n\n\"Ah, I hoped you would recognize me,\" said the elegant stranger;\n\"I have gained so much that I have a body of flesh, and clothes to\nwear. You never expected to see me in such a condition. Do you not\nrecognize your old shadow? Ah, you never expected that I should return\nto you again. All has been prosperous with me since I was with you\nlast; I have become rich in every way, and, were I inclined to\npurchase my freedom from service, I could easily do so.\" And as he\nspoke he rattled between his fingers a number of costly trinkets which\nhung to a thick gold watch-chain he wore round his neck. Diamond rings\nsparkled on his fingers, and it was all real.\n\n\"I cannot recover from my astonishment,\" said the learned man.\n\"What does all this mean?\"\n\n\"Something rather unusual,\" said the shadow; \"but you are yourself\nan uncommon man, and you know very well that I have followed in your\nfootsteps ever since your childhood. As soon as you found that I\nhave travelled enough to be trusted alone, I went my own way, and I am\nnow in the most brilliant circumstances. But I felt a kind of\nlonging to see you once more before you die, and I wanted to see\nthis place again, for there is always a clinging to the land of\none's birth. I know that you have now another shadow; do I owe you\nanything? If so, have the goodness to say what it is.\"\n\n\"No! Is it really you?\" said the learned man. \"Well, this is\nmost remarkable; I never supposed it possible that a man's old\nshadow could become a human being.\"\n\n\"Just tell me what I owe you,\" said the shadow, \"for I do not like\nto be in debt to any man.\"\n\n\"How can you talk in that manner?\" said the learned man. \"What\nquestion of debt can there be between us? You are as free as any\none. I rejoice exceedingly to hear of your good fortune. Sit down, old\nfriend, and tell me a little of how it happened, and what you saw in\nthe house opposite to me while we were in those hot climates.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will tell you all about it,\" said the shadow, sitting\ndown; \"but then you must promise me never to tell in this city,\nwherever you may meet me, that I have been your shadow. I am\nthinking of being married, for I have more than sufficient to\nsupport a family.\"\n\n\"Make yourself quite easy,\" said the learned man; \"I will tell\nno one who you really are. Here is my hand,--I promise, and a word\nis sufficient between man and man.\"\n\n\"Between man and a shadow,\" said the shadow; for he could not help\nsaying so.\n\nIt was really most remarkable how very much he had become a man in\nappearance. He was dressed in a suit of the very finest black cloth,\npolished boots, and an opera crush hat, which could be folded together\nso that nothing could be seen but the crown and the rim, besides the\ntrinkets, the gold chain, and the diamond rings already spoken of. The\nshadow was, in fact, very well dressed, and this made a man of him.\n\"Now I will relate to you what you wish to know,\" said the shadow,\nplacing his foot with the polished leather boot as firmly as\npossible on the arm of the new shadow of the learned man, which lay at\nhis feet like a poodle dog. This was done, it might be from pride,\nor perhaps that the new shadow might cling to him, but the prostrate\nshadow remained quite quiet and at rest, in order that it might\nlisten, for it wanted to know how a shadow could be sent away by its\nmaster, and become a man itself. \"Do you know,\" said the shadow, \"that\nin the house opposite to you lived the most glorious creature in the\nworld? It was poetry. I remained there three weeks, and it was more\nlike three thousand years, for I read all that has ever been written\nin poetry or prose; and I may say, in truth, that I saw and learnt\neverything.\"\n\n\"Poetry!\" exclaimed the learned man. \"Yes, she lives as a hermit\nin great cities. Poetry! Well, I saw her once for a very short moment,\nwhile sleep weighed down my eyelids. She flashed upon me from the\nbalcony like the radiant aurora borealis, surrounded with flowers like\nflames of fire. Tell me, you were on the balcony that evening; you\nwent through the door, and what did you see?\"\n\n\"I found myself in an ante-room,\" said the shadow. \"You still\nsat opposite to me, looking into the room. There was no light, or at\nleast it seemed in partial darkness, for the door of a whole suite\nof rooms stood open, and they were brilliantly lighted. The blaze of\nlight would have killed me, had I approached too near the maiden\nmyself, but I was cautious, and took time, which is what every one\nought to do.\"\n\n\"And what didst thou see?\" asked the learned man.\n\n\"I saw everything, as you shall hear. But--it really is not\npride on my part, as a free man and possessing the knowledge that I\ndo, besides my position, not to speak of my wealth--I wish you would\nsay you to me instead of thou.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said the learned man; \"it is an old habit,\nwhich it is difficult to break. You are quite right; I will try to\nthink of it. But now tell me everything that you saw.\"\n\n\"Everything,\" said the shadow; \"for I saw and know everything.\"\n\n\"What was the appearance of the inner rooms?\" asked the scholar.\n\"Was it there like a cool grove, or like a holy temple? Were the\nchambers like a starry sky seen from the top of a high mountain?\"\n\n\"It was all that you describe,\" said the shadow; \"but I did not go\nquite in--I remained in the twilight of the ante-room--but I was in\na very good position,--I could see and hear all that was going on in\nthe court of poetry.\"\n\n\"But what did you see? Did the gods of ancient times pass\nthrough the rooms? Did old heroes fight their battles over again? Were\nthere lovely children at play, who related their dreams?\"\n\n\"I tell you I have been there, and therefore you may be sure\nthat I saw everything that was to be seen. If you had gone there,\nyou would not have remained a human being, whereas I became one; and\nat the same moment I became aware of my inner being, my inborn\naffinity to the nature of poetry. It is true I did not think much\nabout it while I was with you, but you will remember that I was always\nmuch larger at sunrise and sunset, and in the moonlight even more\nvisible than yourself, but I did not then understand my inner\nexistence. In the ante-room it was revealed to me. I became a man; I\ncame out in full maturity. But you had left the warm countries. As a\nman, I felt ashamed to go about without boots or clothes, and that\nexterior finish by which man is known. So I went my own way; I can\ntell you, for you will not put it in a book. I hid myself under the\ncloak of a cake woman, but she little thought who she concealed. It\nwas not till evening that I ventured out. I ran about the streets in\nthe moonlight. I drew myself up to my full height upon the walls,\nwhich tickled my back very pleasantly. I ran here and there, looked\nthrough the highest windows into the rooms, and over the roofs. I\nlooked in, and saw what nobody else could see, or indeed ought to see;\nin fact, it is a bad world, and I would not care to be a man, but that\nmen are of some importance. I saw the most miserable things going on\nbetween husbands and wives, parents and children,--sweet, incomparable\nchildren. I have seen what no human being has the power of knowing,\nalthough they would all be very glad to know--the evil conduct of\ntheir neighbors. Had I written a newspaper, how eagerly it would\nhave been read! Instead of which, I wrote directly to the persons\nthemselves, and great alarm arose in all the town I visited. They\nhad so much fear of me, and yet how dearly they loved me. The\nprofessor made me a professor. The tailor gave me new clothes; I am\nwell provided for in that way. The overseer of the mint struck coins\nfor me. The women declared that I was handsome, and so I became the\nman you now see me. And now I must say adieu. Here is my card. I\nlive on the sunny side of the street, and always stay at home in rainy\nweather.\" And the shadow departed.\n\n\"This is all very remarkable,\" said the learned man.\n\nYears passed, days and years went by, and the shadow came again.\n\"How are you going on now?\" he asked.\n\n\"Ah!\" said the learned man; \"I am writing about the true, the\nbeautiful, and the good; but no one cares to hear anything about it. I\nam quite in despair, for I take it to heart very much.\"\n\n\"That is what I never do,\" said the shadow; \"I am growing quite\nfat and stout, which every one ought to be. You do not understand\nthe world; you will make yourself ill about it; you ought to travel; I\nam going on a journey in the summer, will you go with me? I should\nlike a travelling companion; will you travel with me as my shadow?\nIt would give me great pleasure, and I will pay all expenses.\"\n\n\"Are you going to travel far?\" asked the learned man.\n\n\"That is a matter of opinion,\" replied the shadow. \"At all events,\na journey will do you good, and if you will be my shadow, then all\nyour journey shall be paid.\"\n\n\"It appears to me very absurd,\" said the learned man.\n\n\"But it is the way of the world,\" replied the shadow, \"and\nalways will be.\" Then he went away.\n\nEverything went wrong with the learned man. Sorrow and trouble\npursued him, and what he said about the good, the beautiful, and the\ntrue, was of as much value to most people as a nutmeg would be to a\ncow. At length he fell ill. \"You really look like a shadow,\" people\nsaid to him, and then a cold shudder would pass over him, for he had\nhis own thoughts on the subject.\n\n\"You really ought to go to some watering-place,\" said the shadow\non his next visit. \"There is no other chance for you. I will take\nyou with me, for the sake of old acquaintance. I will pay the expenses\nof your journey, and you shall write a description of it to amuse us\nby the way. I should like to go to a watering-place; my beard does not\ngrow as it ought, which is from weakness, and I must have a beard. Now\ndo be sensible and accept my proposal; we shall travel as intimate\nfriends.\"\n\nAnd at last they started together. The shadow was master now,\nand the master became the shadow. They drove together, and rode and\nwalked in company with each other, side by side, or one in front and\nthe other behind, according to the position of the sun. The shadow\nalways knew when to take the place of honor, but the learned man\ntook no notice of it, for he had a good heart, and was exceedingly\nmild and friendly.\n\nOne day the master said to the shadow, \"We have grown up\ntogether from our childhood, and now that we have become travelling\ncompanions, shall we not drink to our good fellowship, and say thee\nand thou to each other?\"\n\n\"What you say is very straightforward and kindly meant,\" said\nthe shadow, who was now really master. \"I will be equally kind and\nstraightforward. You are a learned man, and know how wonderful human\nnature is. There are some men who cannot endure the smell of brown\npaper; it makes them ill. Others will feel a shuddering sensation to\ntheir very marrow, if a nail is scratched on a pane of glass. I myself\nhave a similar kind of feeling when I hear any one say thou to me. I\nfeel crushed by it, as I used to feel in my former position with\nyou. You will perceive that this is a matter of feeling, not pride.\nI cannot allow you to say thou to me; I will gladly say it to you, and\ntherefore your wish will be half fulfilled.\" Then the shadow addressed\nhis former master as thou.\n\n\"It is going rather too far,\" said the latter, \"that I am to say\nyou when I speak to him, and he is to say thou to me.\" However, he was\nobliged to submit.\n\nThey arrived at length at the baths, where there were many\nstrangers, and among them a beautiful princess, whose real disease\nconsisted in being too sharp-sighted, which made every one very\nuneasy. She saw at once that the new comer was very different to every\none else. \"They say he is here to make his beard grow,\" she thought;\n\"but I know the real cause, he is unable to cast a shadow.\" Then she\nbecame very curious on the matter, and one day, while on the\npromenade, she entered into conversation with the strange gentleman.\nBeing a princess, she was not obliged to stand upon much ceremony,\nso she said to him without hesitation, \"Your illness consists in not\nbeing able to cast a shadow.\"\n\n\"Your royal highness must be on the high road to recovery from\nyour illness,\" said he. \"I know your complaint arose from being too\nsharp-sighted, and in this case it has entirely failed. I happen to\nhave a most unusual shadow. Have you not seen a person who is always\nat my side? Persons often give their servants finer cloth for their\nliveries than for their own clothes, and so I have dressed out my\nshadow like a man; nay, you may observe that I have even given him a\nshadow of his own; it is rather expensive, but I like to have things\nabout me that are peculiar.\"\n\n\"How is this?\" thought the princess; \"am I really cured? This must\nbe the best watering-place in existence. Water in our times has\ncertainly wonderful power. But I will not leave this place yet, just\nas it begins to be amusing. This foreign prince--for he must be a\nprince--pleases me above all things. I only hope his beard won't grow,\nor he will leave at once.\"\n\nIn the evening, the princess and the shadow danced together in the\nlarge assembly rooms. She was light, but he was lighter still; she had\nnever seen such a dancer before. She told him from what country she\nhad come, and found he knew it and had been there, but not while she\nwas at home. He had looked into the windows of her father's palace,\nboth the upper and the lower windows; he had seen many things, and\ncould therefore answer the princess, and make allusions which quite\nastonished her. She thought he must be the cleverest man in all the\nworld, and felt the greatest respect for his knowledge. When she\ndanced with him again she fell in love with him, which the shadow\nquickly discovered, for she had with her eyes looked him through and\nthrough. They danced once more, and she was nearly telling him, but\nshe had some discretion; she thought of her country, her kingdom,\nand the number of people over whom she would one day have to rule. \"He\nis a clever man,\" she thought to herself, \"which is a good thing,\nand he dances admirably, which is also good. But has he\nwell-grounded knowledge? that is an important question, and I must try\nhim.\" Then she asked him a most difficult question, she herself\ncould not have answered it, and the shadow made a most unaccountable\ngrimace.\n\n\"You cannot answer that,\" said the princess.\n\n\"I learnt something about it in my childhood,\" he replied; \"and\nbelieve that even my very shadow, standing over there by the door,\ncould answer it.\"\n\n\"Your shadow,\" said the princess; \"indeed that would be very\nremarkable.\"\n\n\"I do not say so positively,\" observed the shadow; \"but I am\ninclined to believe that he can do so. He has followed me for so\nmany years, and has heard so much from me, that I think it is very\nlikely. But your royal highness must allow me to observe, that he is\nvery proud of being considered a man, and to put him in a good\nhumor, so that he may answer correctly, he must be treated as a man.\"\n\n\"I shall be very pleased to do so,\" said the princess. So she\nwalked up to the learned man, who stood in the doorway, and spoke to\nhim of the sun, and the moon, of the green forests, and of people near\nhome and far off; and the learned man conversed with her pleasantly\nand sensibly.\n\n\"What a wonderful man he must be, to have such a clever shadow!\"\nthought she. \"If I were to choose him it would be a real blessing to\nmy country and my subjects, and I will do it.\" So the princess and the\nshadow were soon engaged to each other, but no one was to be told a\nword about it, till she returned to her kingdom.\n\n\"No one shall know,\" said the shadow; \"not even my own shadow;\"\nand he had very particular reasons for saying so.\n\nAfter a time, the princess returned to the land over which she\nreigned, and the shadow accompanied her.\n\n\"Listen my friend,\" said the shadow to the learned man; \"now\nthat I am as fortunate and as powerful as any man can be, I will do\nsomething unusually good for you. You shall live in my palace, drive\nwith me in the royal carriage, and have a hundred thousand dollars a\nyear; but you must allow every one to call you a shadow, and never\nventure to say that you have been a man. And once a year, when I sit\nin my balcony in the sunshine, you must lie at my feet as becomes a\nshadow to do; for I must tell you I am going to marry the princess,\nand our wedding will take place this evening.\"\n\n\"Now, really, this is too ridiculous,\" said the learned man. \"I\ncannot, and will not, submit to such folly. It would be cheating the\nwhole country, and the princess also. I will disclose everything,\nand say that I am the man, and that you are only a shadow dressed up\nin men's clothes.\"\n\n\"No one would believe you,\" said the shadow; \"be reasonable,\nnow, or I will call the guards.\"\n\n\"I will go straight to the princess,\" said the learned man.\n\n\"But I shall be there first,\" replied the shadow, \"and you will be\nsent to prison.\" And so it turned out, for the guards readily obeyed\nhim, as they knew he was going to marry the king's daughter.\n\n\"You tremble,\" said the princess, when the shadow appeared\nbefore her. \"Has anything happened? You must not be ill to-day, for\nthis evening our wedding will take place.\"\n\n\"I have gone through the most terrible affair that could\npossibly happen,\" said the shadow; \"only imagine, my shadow has gone\nmad; I suppose such a poor, shallow brain, could not bear much; he\nfancies that he has become a real man, and that I am his shadow.\"\n\n\"How very terrible,\" cried the princess; \"is he locked up?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, certainly; for I fear he will never recover.\"\n\n\"Poor shadow!\" said the princess; \"it is very unfortunate for him;\nit would really be a good deed to free him from his frail existence;\nand, indeed, when I think how often people take the part of the\nlower class against the higher, in these days, it would be policy to\nput him out of the way quietly.\"\n\n\"It is certainly rather hard upon him, for he was a faithful\nservant,\" said the shadow; and he pretended to sigh.\n\n\"Yours is a noble character,\" said the princess, and bowed herself\nbefore him.\n\nIn the evening the whole town was illuminated, and cannons fired\n\"boom,\" and the soldiers presented arms. It was indeed a grand\nwedding. The princess and the shadow stepped out on the balcony to\nshow themselves, and to receive one cheer more. But the learned man\nheard nothing of all these festivities, for he had already been\nexecuted.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHEPHERDESS AND THE SHEEP\n\nHave you ever seen an old wooden cupboard quite black with age,\nand ornamented with carved foliage and curious figures? Well, just\nsuch a cupboard stood in a parlor, and had been left to the family\nas a legacy by the great-grandmother. It was covered from top to\nbottom with carved roses and tulips; the most curious scrolls were\ndrawn upon it, and out of them peeped little stags' heads, with\nantlers. In the middle of the cupboard door was the carved figure of a\nman most ridiculous to look at. He grinned at you, for no one could\ncall it laughing. He had goat's legs, little horns on his head, and\na long beard; the children in the room always called him, \"Major\ngeneral-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs.\" It was\ncertainly a very difficult name to pronounce, and there are very few\nwho ever receive such a title, but then it seemed wonderful how he\ncame to be carved at all; yet there he was, always looking at the\ntable under the looking-glass, where stood a very pretty little\nshepherdess made of china. Her shoes were gilt, and her dress had a\nred rose or an ornament. She wore a hat, and carried a crook, that\nwere both gilded, and looked very bright and pretty. Close by her side\nstood a little chimney-sweep, as black as coal, and also made of\nchina. He was, however, quite as clean and neat as any other china\nfigure; he only represented a black chimney-sweep, and the china\nworkers might just as well have made him a prince, had they felt\ninclined to do so. He stood holding his ladder quite handily, and\nhis face was as fair and rosy as a girl's; indeed, that was rather a\nmistake, it should have had some black marks on it. He and the\nshepherdess had been placed close together, side by side; and, being\nso placed, they became engaged to each other, for they were very\nwell suited, being both made of the same sort of china, and being\nequally fragile. Close to them stood another figure, three times as\nlarge as they were, and also made of china. He was an old Chinaman,\nwho could nod his head, and used to pretend that he was the\ngrandfather of the shepherdess, although he could not prove it. He\nhowever assumed authority over her, and therefore when\n\"Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs\" asked for\nthe little shepherdess to be his wife, he nodded his head to show that\nhe consented. \"You will have a husband,\" said the old Chinaman to her,\n\"who I really believe is made of mahogany. He will make you a lady\nof Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs. He has\nthe whole cupboard full of silver plate, which he keeps locked up in\nsecret drawers.\"\n\n\"I won't go into the dark cupboard,\" said the little\nshepherdess. \"I have heard that he has eleven china wives there\nalready.\"\n\n\"Then you shall be the twelfth,\" said the old Chinaman.\n\"To-night as soon as you hear a rattling in the old cupboard, you\nshall be married, as true as I am a Chinaman;\" and then he nodded\nhis head and fell asleep.\n\nThen the little shepherdess cried, and looked at her sweetheart,\nthe china chimney-sweep. \"I must entreat you,\" said she, \"to go out\nwith me into the wide world, for we cannot stay here.\"\n\n\"I will do whatever you wish,\" said the little chimney-sweep; \"let\nus go immediately: I think I shall be able to maintain you with my\nprofession.\"\n\n\"If we were but safely down from the table!\" said she; \"I shall\nnot be happy till we are really out in the world.\"\n\nThen he comforted her, and showed her how to place her little foot\non the carved edge and gilt-leaf ornaments of the table. He brought\nhis little ladder to help her, and so they contrived to reach the\nfloor. But when they looked at the old cupboard, they saw it was all\nin an uproar. The carved stags pushed out their heads, raised their\nantlers, and twisted their necks. The major-general sprung up in the\nair; and cried out to the old Chinaman, \"They are running away! they\nare running away!\" The two were rather frightened at this, so they\njumped into the drawer of the window-seat. Here were three or four\npacks of cards not quite complete, and a doll's theatre, which had\nbeen built up very neatly. A comedy was being performed in it, and all\nthe queens of diamonds, clubs, and hearts, and spades, sat in the\nfirst row fanning themselves with tulips, and behind them stood all\nthe knaves, showing that they had heads above and below as playing\ncards generally have. The play was about two lovers, who were not\nallowed to marry, and the shepherdess wept because it was so like\nher own story. \"I cannot bear it,\" said she, \"I must get out of the\ndrawer;\" but when they reached the floor, and cast their eyes on the\ntable, there was the old Chinaman awake and shaking his whole body,\ntill all at once down he came on the floor, \"plump.\" \"The old Chinaman\nis coming,\" cried the little shepherdess in a fright, and down she\nfell on one knee.\n\n\"I have thought of something,\" said the chimney-sweep; \"let us get\ninto the great pot-pourri jar which stands in the corner; there we can\nlie on rose-leaves and lavender, and throw salt in his eyes if he\ncomes near us.\"\n\n\"No, that will never do,\" said she, \"because I know that the\nChinaman and the pot-pourri jar were lovers once, and there always\nremains behind a feeling of good-will between those who have been so\nintimate as that. No, there is nothing left for us but to go out\ninto the wide world.\"\n\n\"Have you really courage enough to go out into the wide world with\nme?\" said the chimney-sweep; \"have you thought how large it is, and\nthat we can never come back here again?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have,\" she replied.\n\nWhen the chimney-sweep saw that she was quite firm, he said, \"My\nway is through the stove and up the chimney. Have you courage to creep\nwith me through the fire-box, and the iron pipe? When we get to the\nchimney I shall know how to manage very well. We shall soon climb\ntoo high for any one to reach us, and we shall come through a hole\nin the top out into the wide world.\" So he led her to the door of\nthe stove.\n\n\"It looks very dark,\" said she; still she went in with him through\nthe stove and through the pipe, where it was as dark as pitch.\n\n\"Now we are in the chimney,\" said he; \"and look, there is a\nbeautiful star shining above it.\" It was a real star shining down upon\nthem as if it would show them the way. So they clambered, and crept\non, and a frightful steep place it was; but the chimney-sweep helped\nher and supported her, till they got higher and higher. He showed\nher the best places on which to set her little china foot, so at\nlast they reached the top of the chimney, and sat themselves down, for\nthey were very tired, as may be supposed. The sky, with all its stars,\nwas over their heads, and below were the roofs of the town. They could\nsee for a very long distance out into the wide world, and the poor\nlittle shepherdess leaned her head on her chimney-sweep's shoulder,\nand wept till she washed the gilt off her sash; the world was so\ndifferent to what she expected. \"This is too much,\" she said; \"I\ncannot bear it, the world is too large. Oh, I wish I were safe back on\nthe table again, under the looking glass; I shall never be happy till\nI am safe back again. Now I have followed you out into the wide world,\nyou will take me back, if you love me.\"\n\nThen the chimney-sweep tried to reason with her, and spoke of\nthe old Chinaman, and of the Major-general-field-sergeant-commander\nBilly-goat's legs; but she sobbed so bitterly, and kissed her little\nchimney-sweep till he was obliged to do all she asked, foolish as it\nwas. And so, with a great deal of trouble, they climbed down the\nchimney, and then crept through the pipe and stove, which were\ncertainly not very pleasant places. Then they stood in the dark\nfire-box, and listened behind the door, to hear what was going on in\nthe room. As it was all quiet, they peeped out. Alas! there lay the\nold Chinaman on the floor; he had fallen down from the table as he\nattempted to run after them, and was broken into three pieces; his\nback had separated entirely, and his head had rolled into a corner\nof the room. The major-general stood in his old place, and appeared\nlost in thought.\n\n\"This is terrible,\" said the little shepherdess. \"My poor old\ngrandfather is broken to pieces, and it is our fault. I shall never\nlive after this;\" and she wrung her little hands.\n\n\"He can be riveted,\" said the chimney-sweep; \"he can be riveted.\nDo not be so hasty. If they cement his back, and put a good rivet in\nit, he will be as good as new, and be able to say as many disagreeable\nthings to us as ever.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said she; and then they climbed up to the\ntable, and stood in their old places.\n\n\"As we have done no good,\" said the chimney-sweep, \"we might as\nwell have remained here, instead of taking so much trouble.\"\n\n\"I wish grandfather was riveted,\" said the shepherdess. \"Will it\ncost much, I wonder?\"\n\nAnd she had her wish. The family had the Chinaman's back mended,\nand a strong rivet put through his neck; he looked as good as new, but\nhe could no longer nod his head.\n\n\"You have become proud since your fall broke you to pieces,\"\nsaid Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs. \"You\nhave no reason to give yourself such airs. Am I to have her or not?\"\n\nThe chimney-sweep and the little shepherdess looked piteously at\nthe old Chinaman, for they were afraid he might nod; but he was not\nable: besides, it was so tiresome to be always telling strangers he\nhad a rivet in the back of his neck.\n\nAnd so the little china people remained together, and were glad of\nthe grandfather's rivet, and continued to love each other till they\nwere broken to pieces.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SILVER SHILLING\n\nThere was once a shilling, which came forth from the mint\nspringing and shouting, \"Hurrah! now I am going out into the wide\nworld.\" And truly it did go out into the wide world. The children held\nit with warm hands, the miser with a cold and convulsive grasp, and\nthe old people turned it about, goodness knows how many times, while\nthe young people soon allowed it to roll away from them. The\nshilling was made of silver, it contained very little copper, and\nconsidered itself quite out in the world when it had been circulated\nfor a year in the country in which it had been coined. One day, it\nreally did go out into the world, for it belonged to a gentleman who\nwas about to travel in foreign lands. This gentleman was not aware\nthat the shilling lay at the bottom of his purse when he started, till\nhe one day found it between his fingers. \"Why,\" cried he, \"here is a\nshilling from home; well, it must go on its travels with me now!\"\nand the shilling jumped and rattled for joy, when it was put back\nagain into the purse.\n\nHere it lay among a number of foreign companions, who were\nalways coming and going, one taking the place of another, but the\nshilling from home was always put back, and had to remain in the\npurse, which was certainly a mark of distinction. Many weeks passed,\nduring which the shilling had travelled a long distance in the\npurse, without in the least knowing where he was. He had found out\nthat the other coins were French and Italian; and one coin said they\nwere in this town, and another said they were in that, but the\nshilling was unable to make out or imagine what they meant. A man\ncertainly cannot see much of the world if he is tied up in a bag,\nand this was really the shilling's fate. But one day, as he was\nlying in the purse, he noticed that it was not quite closed, and so he\nslipped near to the opening to have a little peep into society. He\ncertainly had not the least idea of what would follow, but he was\ncurious, and curiosity often brings its own punishment. In his\neagerness, he came so near the edge of the purse that he slipped out\ninto the pocket of the trousers; and when, in the evening, the purse\nwas taken out, the shilling was left behind in the corner to which\nit had fallen. As the clothes were being carried into the hall, the\nshilling fell out on the floor, unheard and unnoticed by any one.\nThe next morning the clothes were taken back to the room, the\ngentleman put them on, and started on his journey again; but the\nshilling remained behind on the floor. After a time it was found,\nand being considered a good coin, was placed with three other coins.\n\"Ah,\" thought the shilling, \"this is pleasant; I shall now see the\nworld, become acquainted with other people, and learn other customs.\"\n\n\"Do you call that a shilling?\" said some one the next moment.\n\"That is not a genuine coin of the country,--it is false; it is good\nfor nothing.\"\n\nNow begins the story as it was afterwards related by the\nshilling himself.\n\n\"'False! good for nothing!' said he. That remark went through\nand through me like a dagger. I knew that I had a true ring, and\nthat mine was a genuine stamp. These people must at all events be\nwrong, or they could not mean me. But yes, I was the one they called\n'false, and good for nothing.'\n\n\"'Then I must pay it away in the dark,' said the man who had\nreceived me. So I was to be got rid of in the darkness, and be again\ninsulted in broad daylight.\n\n\"'False! good for nothing!' Oh, I must contrive to get lost,\nthought I. And I trembled between the fingers of the people every time\nthey tried to pass me off slyly as a coin of the country. Ah!\nunhappy shilling that I was! Of what use were my silver, my stamp, and\nmy real value here, where all these qualities were worthless. In the\neyes of the world, a man is valued just according to the opinion\nformed of him. It must be a shocking thing to have a guilty\nconscience, and to be sneaking about on account of wicked deeds. As\nfor me, innocent as I was, I could not help shuddering before their\neyes whenever they brought me out, for I knew I should be thrown\nback again up the table as a false pretender. At length I was paid\naway to a poor old woman, who received me as wages for a hard day's\nwork. But she could not again get rid of me; no one would take me. I\nwas to the woman a most unlucky shilling. 'I am positively obliged\nto pass this shilling to somebody,' said she; 'I cannot, with the best\nintentions, lay by a bad shilling. The rich baker shall have it,--he\ncan bear the loss better than I can. But, after all, it is not a right\nthing to do.'\n\n\"'Ah!' sighed I to myself, 'am I also to be a burden on the\nconscience of this poor woman? Am I then in my old days so\ncompletely changed?' The woman offered me to the rich baker, but he\nknew the current money too well, and as soon as he received me he\nthrew me almost in the woman's face. She could get no bread for me,\nand I felt quite grieved to the heart that I should be cause of so\nmuch trouble to another, and be treated as a cast-off coin. I who,\nin my young days, felt so joyful in the certainty of my own value, and\nknew so well that I bore a genuine stamp. I was as sorrowful now as\na poor shilling can be when nobody will have him. The woman took me\nhome again with her, and looking at me very earnestly, she said,\n'No, I will not try to deceive any one with thee again. I will bore\na hole through thee, that everyone may know that thou art a false\nand worthless thing; and yet, why should I do that? Very likely thou\nart a lucky shilling. A thought has just struck me that it is so,\nand I believe it. Yes, I will make a hole in the shilling,' said\nshe, 'and run a string through it, and then give it to my neighbor's\nlittle one to hang round her neck, as a lucky shilling.' So she\ndrilled a hole through me.\n\n\"It is really not at all pleasant to have a hole bored through\none, but we can submit to a great deal when it is done with a good\nintention. A string was drawn through the hole, and I became a kind of\nmedal. They hung me round the neck of a little child, and the child\nlaughed at me and kissed me, and I rested for one whole night on the\nwarm, innocent breast of a child.\n\n\"In the morning the child's mother took me between her fingers,\nand had certain thoughts about me, which I very soon found out. First,\nshe looked for a pair of scissors, and cut the string.\n\n\"'Lucky shilling!' said she, 'certainly this is what I mean to\ntry.' Then she laid me in vinegar till I became quite green, and after\nthat she filled up the hole with cement, rubbed me a little to\nbrighten me up, and went out in the twilight hour to the lottery\ncollector, to buy herself a ticket, with a shilling that should\nbring luck. How everything seemed to cause me trouble. The lottery\ncollector pressed me so hard that I thought I should crack. I had been\ncalled false, I had been thrown away,--that I knew; and there were\nmany shillings and coins with inscriptions and stamps of all kinds\nlying about. I well knew how proud they were, so I avoided them from\nvery shame. With the collector were several men who seemed to have a\ngreat deal to do, so I fell unnoticed into a chest, among several\nother coins.\n\n\"Whether the lottery ticket gained a prize, I know not; but this I\nknow, that in a very few days after, I was recognized as a bad\nshilling, and laid aside. Everything that happened seemed always to\nadd to my sorrow. Even if a man has a good character, it is of no\nuse for him to deny what is said of him, for he is not considered an\nimpartial judge of himself.\n\n\"A year passed, and in this way I had been changed from hand to\nhand; always abused, always looked at with displeasure, and trusted by\nno one; but I trusted in myself, and had no confidence in the world.\nYes, that was a very dark time.\n\n\"At length one day I was passed to a traveller, a foreigner, the\nvery same who had brought me away from home; and he was simple and\ntrue-hearted enough to take me for current coin. But would he also\nattempt to pass me? and should I again hear the outcry, 'False!\ngood-for-nothing!' The traveller examined me attentively, 'I took thee\nfor good coin,' said he; then suddenly a smile spread all over his\nface. I have never seen such a smile on any other face as on his. 'Now\nthis is singular,' said he, 'it is a coin from my own country; a good,\ntrue, shilling from home. Some one has bored a hole through it, and\npeople have no doubt called it false. How curious that it should\ncome into my hands. I will take it home with me to my own house.'\n\n\"Joy thrilled through me when I heard this. I had been once more\ncalled a good, honest shilling, and I was to go back to my own home,\nwhere each and all would recognize me, and know that I was made of\ngood silver, and bore a true, genuine stamp. I should have been glad\nin my joy to throw out sparks of fire, but it has never at any time\nbeen my nature to sparkle. Steel can do so, but not silver. I was\nwrapped up in fine, white paper, that I might not mix with the other\ncoins and be lost; and on special occasions, when people from my own\ncountry happened to be present, I was brought forward and spoken of\nvery kindly. They said I was very interesting, and it was really quite\nworth while to notice that those who are interesting have often not\na single word to say for themselves.\n\n\"At length I reached home. All my cares were at an end. Joy\nagain overwhelmed me; for was I not good silver, and had I not a\ngenuine stamp? I had no more insults or disappointments to endure;\nalthough, indeed, there was a hole through me, as if I were false; but\nsuspicions are nothing when a man is really true, and every one should\npersevere in acting honestly, for an will be made right in time.\nThat is my firm belief,\" said the shilling.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHIRT-COLLAR\n\nThere was once a fine gentleman who possessed among other things a\nboot-jack and a hair-brush; but he had also the finest shirt-collar in\nthe world, and of this collar we are about to hear a story. The collar\nhad become so old that he began to think about getting married; and\none day he happened to find himself in the same washing-tub as a\ngarter. \"Upon my word,\" said the shirt-collar, \"I have never seen\nanything so slim and delicate, so neat and soft before. May I\nventure to ask your name?\"\n\n\"I shall not tell you,\" replied the garter.\n\n\"Where do you reside when you are at home?\" asked the\nshirt-collar. But the garter was naturally shy, and did not know how\nto answer such a question.\n\n\"I presume you are a girdle,\" said the shirt-collar, \"a sort of\nunder girdle. I see that you are useful, as well as ornamental, my\nlittle lady.\"\n\n\"You must not speak to me,\" said the garter; \"I do not think I\nhave given you any encouragement to do so.\"\n\n\"Oh, when any one is as beautiful as you are,\" said the\nshirt-collar, \"is not that encouragement enough?\"\n\n\"Get away; don't come so near me,\" said the garter, \"you appear to\nme quite like a man.\"\n\n\"I am a fine gentleman certainly,\" said the shirt-collar, \"I\npossess a boot-jack and a hair-brush.\" This was not true, for these\nthings belonged to his master; but he was a boaster.\n\n\"Don't come so near me,\" said the garter; \"I am not accustomed\nto it.\"\n\n\"Affectation!\" said the shirt-collar.\n\nThen they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and hung\nover a chair in the sunshine, and then laid on the ironing-board.\nAnd now came the glowing iron. \"Mistress widow,\" said the\nshirt-collar, \"little mistress widow, I feel quite warm. I am\nchanging, I am losing all my creases. You are burning a hole in me.\nUgh! I propose to you.\"\n\n\"You old rag,\" said the flat-iron, driving proudly over the\ncollar, for she fancied herself a steam-engine, which rolls over the\nrailway and draws carriages. \"You old rag!\" said she.\n\nThe edges of the shirt-collar were a little frayed, so the\nscissors were brought to cut them smooth. \"Oh!\" exclaimed the\nshirt-collar, \"what a first-rate dancer you would make; you can\nstretch out your leg so well. I never saw anything so charming; I am\nsure no human being could do the same.\"\n\n\"I should think not,\" replied the scissors.\n\n\"You ought to be a countess,\" said the shirt collar; \"but all I\npossess consists of a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a comb. I\nwish I had an estate for your sake.\"\n\n\"What! is he going to propose to me?\" said the scissors, and she\nbecame so angry that she cut too sharply into the shirt collar, and it\nwas obliged to be thrown by as useless.\n\n\"I shall be obliged to propose to the hair-brush,\" thought the\nshirt collar; so he remarked one day, \"It is wonderful what\nbeautiful hair you have, my little lady. Have you never thought of\nbeing engaged?\"\n\n\"You might know I should think of it,\" answered the hair brush; \"I\nam engaged to the boot-jack.\"\n\n\"Engaged!\" cried the shirt collar, \"now there is no one left to\npropose to;\" and then he pretended to despise all love-making.\n\nA long time passed, and the shirt collar was taken in a bag to the\npaper-mill. Here was a large company of rags, the fine ones lying by\nthemselves, separated from the coarser, as it ought to be. They had\nall many things to relate, especially the shirt collar, who was a\nterrible boaster. \"I have had an immense number of love affairs,\" said\nthe shirt collar, \"no one left me any peace. It is true I was a very\nfine gentleman; quite stuck up. I had a boot-jack and a brush that I\nnever used. You should have seen me then, when I was turned down. I\nshall never forget my first love; she was a girdle, so charming, and\nfine, and soft, and she threw herself into a washing tub for my\nsake. There was a widow too, who was warmly in love with me, but I\nleft her alone, and she became quite black. The next was a\nfirst-rate dancer; she gave me the wound from which I still suffer,\nshe was so passionate. Even my own hair-brush was in love with me, and\nlost all her hair through neglected love. Yes, I have had great\nexperience of this kind, but my greatest grief was for the garter--the\ngirdle I meant to say--that jumped into the wash-tub. I have a great\ndeal on my conscience, and it is really time I should be turned into\nwhite paper.\"\n\nAnd the shirt collar came to this at last. All the rags were\nmade into white paper, and the shirt collar became the very\nidentical piece of paper which we now see, and on which this story\nis printed. It happened as a punishment to him, for having boasted\nso shockingly of things which were not true. And this is a warning\nto us, to be careful how we act, for we may some day find ourselves in\nthe rag-bag, to be turned into white paper, on which our whole history\nmay be written, even its most secret actions. And it would not be\npleasant to have to run about the world in the form of a piece of\npaper, telling everything we have done, like the boasting shirt\ncollar.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOW MAN\n\n\"It is so delightfully cold,\" said the Snow Man, \"that it makes my\nwhole body crackle. This is just the kind of wind to blow life into\none. How that great red thing up there is staring at me!\" He meant the\nsun, who was just setting. \"It shall not make me wink. I shall\nmanage to keep the pieces.\"\n\nHe had two triangular pieces of tile in his head, instead of eyes;\nhis mouth was made of an old broken rake, and was, of course,\nfurnished with teeth. He had been brought into existence amidst the\njoyous shouts of boys, the jingling of sleigh-bells, and the\nslashing of whips. The sun went down, and the full moon rose, large,\nround, and clear, shining in the deep blue.\n\n\"There it comes again, from the other side,\" said the Snow Man,\nwho supposed the sun was showing himself once more. \"Ah, I have\ncured him of staring, though; now he may hang up there, and shine,\nthat I may see myself. If I only knew how to manage to move away\nfrom this place,--I should so like to move. If I could, I would\nslide along yonder on the ice, as I have seen the boys do; but I don't\nunderstand how; I don't even know how to run.\"\n\n\"Away, away,\" barked the old yard-dog. He was quite hoarse, and\ncould not pronounce \"Bow wow\" properly. He had once been an indoor\ndog, and lay by the fire, and he had been hoarse ever since. \"The\nsun will make you run some day. I saw him, last winter, make your\npredecessor run, and his predecessor before him. Away, away, they\nall have to go.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you, comrade,\" said the Snow Man. \"Is that\nthing up yonder to teach me to run? I saw it running itself a little\nwhile ago, and now it has come creeping up from the other side.\n\n\"You know nothing at all,\" replied the yard-dog; \"but then, you've\nonly lately been patched up. What you see yonder is the moon, and\nthe one before it was the sun. It will come again to-morrow, and\nmost likely teach you to run down into the ditch by the well; for I\nthink the weather is going to change. I can feel such pricks and stabs\nin my left leg; I am sure there is going to be a change.\"\n\n\"I don't understand him,\" said the Snow Man to himself; \"but I\nhave a feeling that he is talking of something very disagreeable.\nThe one who stared so just now, and whom he calls the sun, is not my\nfriend; I can feel that too.\"\n\n\"Away, away,\" barked the yard-dog, and then he turned round\nthree times, and crept into his kennel to sleep.\n\nThere was really a change in the weather. Towards morning, a thick\nfog covered the whole country round, and a keen wind arose, so that\nthe cold seemed to freeze one's bones; but when the sun rose, the\nsight was splendid. Trees and bushes were covered with hoar frost, and\nlooked like a forest of white coral; while on every twig glittered\nfrozen dew-drops. The many delicate forms concealed in summer by\nluxuriant foliage, were now clearly defined, and looked like\nglittering lace-work. From every twig glistened a white radiance.\nThe birch, waving in the wind, looked full of life, like trees in\nsummer; and its appearance was wondrously beautiful. And where the sun\nshone, how everything glittered and sparkled, as if diamond dust had\nbeen strewn about; while the snowy carpet of the earth appeared as\nif covered with diamonds, from which countless lights gleamed,\nwhiter than even the snow itself.\n\n\"This is really beautiful,\" said a young girl, who had come into\nthe garden with a young man; and they both stood still near the Snow\nMan, and contemplated the glittering scene. \"Summer cannot show a more\nbeautiful sight,\" she exclaimed, while her eyes sparkled.\n\n\"And we can't have such a fellow as this in the summer time,\"\nreplied the young man, pointing to the Snow Man; \"he is capital.\"\n\nThe girl laughed, and nodded at the Snow Man, and then tripped\naway over the snow with her friend. The snow creaked and crackled\nbeneath her feet, as if she had been treading on starch.\n\n\"Who are these two?\" asked the Snow Man of the yard-dog. \"You have\nbeen here longer than I have; do you know them?\"\n\n\"Of course I know them,\" replied the yard-dog; \"she has stroked my\nback many times, and he has given me a bone of meat. I never bite\nthose two.\"\n\n\"But what are they?\" asked the Snow Man.\n\n\"They are lovers,\" he replied; \"they will go and live in the\nsame kennel by-and-by, and gnaw at the same bone. Away, away!\"\n\n\"Are they the same kind of beings as you and I?\" asked the Snow\nMan.\n\n\"Well, they belong to the same master,\" retorted the yard-dog.\n\"Certainly people who were only born yesterday know very little. I can\nsee that in you. I have age and experience. I know every one here in\nthe house, and I know there was once a time when I did not lie out\nhere in the cold, fastened to a chain. Away, away!\"\n\n\"The cold is delightful,\" said the Snow Man; \"but do tell me\ntell me; only you must not clank your chain so; for it jars all\nthrough me when you do that.\"\n\n\"Away, away!\" barked the yard-dog; \"I'll tell you; they said I was\na pretty little fellow once; then I used to lie in a velvet-covered\nchair, up at the master's house, and sit in the mistress's lap. They\nused to kiss my nose, and wipe my paws with an embroidered\nhandkerchief, and I was called 'Ami, dear Ami, sweet Ami.' But after a\nwhile I grew too big for them, and they sent me away to the\nhousekeeper's room; so I came to live on the lower story. You can look\ninto the room from where you stand, and see where I was master once;\nfor I was indeed master to the housekeeper. It was certainly a smaller\nroom than those up stairs; but I was more comfortable; for I was not\nbeing continually taken hold of and pulled about by the children as\nI had been. I received quite as good food, or even better. I had my\nown cushion, and there was a stove--it is the finest thing in the\nworld at this season of the year. I used to go under the stove, and\nlie down quite beneath it. Ah, I still dream of that stove. Away,\naway!\"\n\n\"Does a stove look beautiful?\" asked the Snow Man, \"is it at all\nlike me?\"\n\n\"It is just the reverse of you,\" said the dog; \"it's as black as a\ncrow, and has a long neck and a brass knob; it eats firewood, so\nthat fire spurts out of its mouth. We should keep on one side, or\nunder it, to be comfortable. You can see it through the window, from\nwhere you stand.\"\n\nThen the Snow Man looked, and saw a bright polished thing with a\nbrazen knob, and fire gleaming from the lower part of it. The Snow Man\nfelt quite a strange sensation come over him; it was very odd, he knew\nnot what it meant, and he could not account for it. But there are\npeople who are not men of snow, who understand what it is. \"'And why\ndid you leave her?\" asked the Snow Man, for it seemed to him that\nthe stove must be of the female sex. \"How could you give up such a\ncomfortable place?\"\n\n\"I was obliged,\" replied the yard-dog. \"They turned me out of\ndoors, and chained me up here. I had bitten the youngest of my\nmaster's sons in the leg, because he kicked away the bone I was\ngnawing. 'Bone for bone,' I thought; but they were so angry, and\nfrom that time I have been fastened with a chain, and lost my bone.\nDon't you hear how hoarse I am. Away, away! I can't talk any more like\nother dogs. Away, away, that is the end of it all.\"\n\nBut the Snow Man was no longer listening. He was looking into\nthe housekeeper's room on the lower storey; where the stove stood on\nits four iron legs, looking about the same size as the Snow Man\nhimself. \"What a strange crackling I feel within me,\" he said.\n\"Shall I ever get in there? It is an innocent wish, and innocent\nwishes are sure to be fulfilled. I must go in there and lean against\nher, even if I have to break the window.\"\n\n\"You must never go in there,\" said the yard-dog, \"for if you\napproach the stove, you'll melt away, away.\"\n\n\"I might as well go,\" said the Snow Man, \"for I think I am\nbreaking up as it is.\"\n\nDuring the whole day the Snow Man stood looking in through the\nwindow, and in the twilight hour the room became still more\ninviting, for from the stove came a gentle glow, not like the sun or\nthe moon; no, only the bright light which gleams from a stove when\nit has been well fed. When the door of the stove was opened, the\nflames darted out of its mouth; this is customary with all stoves. The\nlight of the flames fell directly on the face and breast of the Snow\nMan with a ruddy gleam. \"I can endure it no longer,\" said he; \"how\nbeautiful it looks when it stretches out its tongue?\"\n\nThe night was long, but did not appear so to the Snow Man, who\nstood there enjoying his own reflections, and crackling with the cold.\nIn the morning, the window-panes of the housekeeper's room were\ncovered with ice. They were the most beautiful ice-flowers any Snow\nMan could desire, but they concealed the stove. These window-panes\nwould not thaw, and he could see nothing of the stove, which he\npictured to himself, as if it had been a lovely human being. The\nsnow crackled and the wind whistled around him; it was just the kind\nof frosty weather a Snow Man might thoroughly enjoy. But he did not\nenjoy it; how, indeed, could he enjoy anything when he was \"stove\nsick?\"\n\n\"That is terrible disease for a Snow Man,\" said the yard-dog; \"I\nhave suffered from it myself, but I got over it. Away, away,\" he\nbarked and then he added, \"the weather is going to change.\" And the\nweather did change; it began to thaw. As the warmth increased, the\nSnow Man decreased. He said nothing and made no complaint, which is\na sure sign. One morning he broke, and sunk down altogether; and,\nbehold, where he had stood, something like a broomstick remained\nsticking up in the ground. It was the pole round which the boys had\nbuilt him up. \"Ah, now I understand why he had such a great longing\nfor the stove,\" said the yard-dog. \"Why, there's the shovel that is\nused for cleaning out the stove, fastened to the pole.\" The Snow Man\nhad a stove scraper in his body; that was what moved him so. \"But it's\nall over now. Away, away.\" And soon the winter passed. \"Away, away,\"\nbarked the hoarse yard-dog. But the girls in the house sang,\n\n  \"Come from your fragrant home, green thyme;\n    Stretch your soft branches, willow-tree;\n  The months are bringing the sweet spring-time,\n    When the lark in the sky sings joyfully.\n  Come gentle sun, while the cuckoo sings,\n  And I'll mock his note in my wanderings.\"\n\n\nAnd nobody thought any more of the Snow Man.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOW QUEEN\n\nIN SEVEN STORIES\n\n\nSTORY THE FIRST\n\nWhich describes a looking-glass and the broken fragments.\n\nYou must attend to the commencement of this story, for when we get\nto the end we shall know more than we do now about a very wicked\nhobgoblin; he was one of the very worst, for he was a real demon.\nOne day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which\nhad the power of making everything good or beautiful that was\nreflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was\nworthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever. The\nmost lovely landscapes appeared like boiled spinach, and the people\nbecame hideous, and looked as if they stood on their heads and had\nno bodies. Their countenances were so distorted that no one could\nrecognize them, and even one freckle on the face appeared to spread\nover the whole of the nose and mouth. The demon said this was very\namusing. When a good or pious thought passed through the mind of any\none it was misrepresented in the glass; and then how the demon laughed\nat his cunning invention. All who went to the demon's school--for he\nkept a school--talked everywhere of the wonders they had seen, and\ndeclared that people could now, for the first time, see what the world\nand mankind were really like. They carried the glass about everywhere,\ntill at last there was not a land nor a people who had not been looked\nat through this distorted mirror. They wanted even to fly with it up\nto heaven to see the angels, but the higher they flew the more\nslippery the glass became, and they could scarcely hold it, till at\nlast it slipped from their hands, fell to the earth, and was broken\ninto millions of pieces. But now the looking-glass caused more\nunhappiness than ever, for some of the fragments were not so large\nas a grain of sand, and they flew about the world into every\ncountry. When one of these tiny atoms flew into a person's eye, it\nstuck there unknown to him, and from that moment he saw everything\nthrough a distorted medium, or could see only the worst side of what\nhe looked at, for even the smallest fragment retained the same power\nwhich had belonged to the whole mirror. Some few persons even got a\nfragment of the looking-glass in their hearts, and this was very\nterrible, for their hearts became cold like a lump of ice. A few of\nthe pieces were so large that they could be used as window-panes; it\nwould have been a sad thing to look at our friends through them. Other\npieces were made into spectacles; this was dreadful for those who wore\nthem, for they could see nothing either rightly or justly. At all this\nthe wicked demon laughed till his sides shook--it tickled him so to\nsee the mischief he had done. There were still a number of these\nlittle fragments of glass floating about in the air, and now you shall\nhear what happened with one of them.\n\n\nSECOND STORY\n\nA LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL\n\n\nIn a large town, full of houses and people, there is not room\nfor everybody to have even a little garden, therefore they are obliged\nto be satisfied with a few flowers in flower-pots. In one of these\nlarge towns lived two poor children who had a garden something\nlarger and better than a few flower-pots. They were not brother and\nsister, but they loved each other almost as much as if they had\nbeen. Their parents lived opposite to each other in two garrets, where\nthe roofs of neighboring houses projected out towards each other and\nthe water-pipe ran between them. In each house was a little window, so\nthat any one could step across the gutter from one window to the\nother. The parents of these children had each a large wooden box in\nwhich they cultivated kitchen herbs for their own use, and a little\nrose-bush in each box, which grew splendidly. Now after a while the\nparents decided to place these two boxes across the water-pipe, so\nthat they reached from one window to the other and looked like two\nbanks of flowers. Sweet-peas drooped over the boxes, and the\nrose-bushes shot forth long branches, which were trained round the\nwindows and clustered together almost like a triumphal arch of\nleaves and flowers. The boxes were very high, and the children knew\nthey must not climb upon them, without permission, but they were\noften, however, allowed to step out together and sit upon their little\nstools under the rose-bushes, or play quietly. In winter all this\npleasure came to an end, for the windows were sometimes quite frozen\nover. But then they would warm copper pennies on the stove, and hold\nthe warm pennies against the frozen pane; there would be very soon a\nlittle round hole through which they could peep, and the soft bright\neyes of the little boy and girl would beam through the hole at each\nwindow as they looked at each other. Their names were Kay and Gerda.\nIn summer they could be together with one jump from the window, but in\nwinter they had to go up and down the long staircase, and out\nthrough the snow before they could meet.\n\n\"See there are the white bees swarming,\" said Kay's old\ngrandmother one day when it was snowing.\n\n\"Have they a queen bee?\" asked the little boy, for he knew that\nthe real bees had a queen.\n\n\"To be sure they have,\" said the grandmother. \"She is flying there\nwhere the swarm is thickest. She is the largest of them all, and never\nremains on the earth, but flies up to the dark clouds. Often at\nmidnight she flies through the streets of the town, and looks in at\nthe windows, then the ice freezes on the panes into wonderful\nshapes, that look like flowers and castles.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have seen them,\" said both the children, and they knew\nit must be true.\n\n\"Can the Snow Queen come in here?\" asked the little girl.\n\n\"Only let her come,\" said the boy, \"I'll set her on the stove\nand then she'll melt.\"\n\nThen the grandmother smoothed his hair and told him some more\ntales. One evening, when little Kay was at home, half undressed, he\nclimbed on a chair by the window and peeped out through the little\nhole. A few flakes of snow were falling, and one of them, rather\nlarger than the rest, alighted on the edge of one of the flower boxes.\nThis snow-flake grew larger and larger, till at last it became the\nfigure of a woman, dressed in garments of white gauze, which looked\nlike millions of starry snow-flakes linked together. She was fair\nand beautiful, but made of ice--shining and glittering ice. Still\nshe was alive and her eyes sparkled like bright stars, but there was\nneither peace nor rest in their glance. She nodded towards the\nwindow and waved her hand. The little boy was frightened and sprang\nfrom the chair; at the same moment it seemed as if a large bird flew\nby the window. On the following day there was a clear frost, and\nvery soon came the spring. The sun shone; the young green leaves burst\nforth; the swallows built their nests; windows were opened, and the\nchildren sat once more in the garden on the roof, high above all the\nother rooms. How beautiful the roses blossomed this summer. The little\ngirl had learnt a hymn in which roses were spoken of, and then she\nthought of their own roses, and she sang the hymn to the little boy,\nand he sang too:--\n\n  \"Roses bloom and cease to be,\n  But we shall the Christ-child see.\"\n\nThen the little ones held each other by the hand, and kissed the\nroses, and looked at the bright sunshine, and spoke to it as if the\nChrist-child were there. Those were splendid summer days. How\nbeautiful and fresh it was out among the rose-bushes, which seemed\nas if they would never leave off blooming. One day Kay and Gerda sat\nlooking at a book full of pictures of animals and birds, and then just\nas the clock in the church tower struck twelve, Kay said, \"Oh,\nsomething has struck my heart!\" and soon after, \"There is something in\nmy eye.\"\n\nThe little girl put her arm round his neck, and looked into his\neye, but she could see nothing.\n\n\"I think it is gone,\" he said. But it was not gone; it was one\nof those bits of the looking-glass--that magic mirror, of which we\nhave spoken--the ugly glass which made everything great and good\nappear small and ugly, while all that was wicked and bad became more\nvisible, and every little fault could be plainly seen. Poor little Kay\nhad also received a small grain in his heart, which very quickly\nturned to a lump of ice. He felt no more pain, but the glass was there\nstill. \"Why do you cry?\" said he at last; \"it makes you look ugly.\nThere is nothing the matter with me now. Oh, see!\" he cried\nsuddenly, \"that rose is worm-eaten, and this one is quite crooked.\nAfter all they are ugly roses, just like the box in which they stand,\"\nand then he kicked the boxes with his foot, and pulled off the two\nroses.\n\n\"Kay, what are you doing?\" cried the little girl; and then, when\nhe saw how frightened she was, he tore off another rose, and jumped\nthrough his own window away from little Gerda.\n\nWhen she afterwards brought out the picture book, he said, \"It was\nonly fit for babies in long clothes,\" and when grandmother told any\nstories, he would interrupt her with \"but;\" or, when he could manage\nit, he would get behind her chair, put on a pair of spectacles, and\nimitate her very cleverly, to make people laugh. By-and-by he began to\nmimic the speech and gait of persons in the street. All that was\npeculiar or disagreeable in a person he would imitate directly, and\npeople said, \"That boy will be very clever; he has a remarkable\ngenius.\" But it was the piece of glass in his eye, and the coldness in\nhis heart, that made him act like this. He would even tease little\nGerda, who loved him with all her heart. His games, too, were quite\ndifferent; they were not so childish. One winter's day, when it\nsnowed, he brought out a burning-glass, then he held out the tail of\nhis blue coat, and let the snow-flakes fall upon it. \"Look in this\nglass, Gerda,\" said he; and she saw how every flake of snow was\nmagnified, and looked like a beautiful flower or a glittering star.\n\"Is it not clever?\" said Kay, \"and much more interesting than\nlooking at real flowers. There is not a single fault in it, and the\nsnow-flakes are quite perfect till they begin to melt.\"\n\nSoon after Kay made his appearance in large thick gloves, and with\nhis sledge at his back. He called up stairs to Gerda, \"I've got to\nleave to go into the great square, where the other boys play and\nride.\" And away he went.\n\nIn the great square, the boldest among the boys would often tie\ntheir sledges to the country people's carts, and go with them a good\nway. This was capital. But while they were all amusing themselves, and\nKay with them, a great sledge came by; it was painted white, and in it\nsat some one wrapped in a rough white fur, and wearing a white cap.\nThe sledge drove twice round the square, and Kay fastened his own\nlittle sledge to it, so that when it went away, he followed with it.\nIt went faster and faster right through the next street, and then\nthe person who drove turned round and nodded pleasantly to Kay, just\nas if they were acquainted with each other, but whenever Kay wished to\nloosen his little sledge the driver nodded again, so Kay sat still,\nand they drove out through the town gate. Then the snow began to\nfall so heavily that the little boy could not see a hand's breadth\nbefore him, but still they drove on; then he suddenly loosened the\ncord so that the large sled might go on without him, but it was of\nno use, his little carriage held fast, and away they went like the\nwind. Then he called out loudly, but nobody heard him, while the\nsnow beat upon him, and the sledge flew onwards. Every now and then it\ngave a jump as if it were going over hedges and ditches. The boy was\nfrightened, and tried to say a prayer, but he could remember nothing\nbut the multiplication table.\n\nThe snow-flakes became larger and larger, till they appeared\nlike great white chickens. All at once they sprang on one side, the\ngreat sledge stopped, and the person who had driven it rose up. The\nfur and the cap, which were made entirely of snow, fell off, and he\nsaw a lady, tall and white, it was the Snow Queen.\n\n\"We have driven well,\" said she, \"but why do you tremble? here,\ncreep into my warm fur.\" Then she seated him beside her in the sledge,\nand as she wrapped the fur round him he felt as if he were sinking\ninto a snow drift.\n\n\"Are you still cold,\" she asked, as she kissed him on the\nforehead. The kiss was colder than ice; it went quite through to his\nheart, which was already almost a lump of ice; he felt as if he were\ngoing to die, but only for a moment; he soon seemed quite well\nagain, and did not notice the cold around him.\n\n\"My sledge! don't forget my sledge,\" was his first thought, and\nthen he looked and saw that it was bound fast to one of the white\nchickens, which flew behind him with the sledge at its back. The\nSnow Queen kissed little Kay again, and by this time he had\nforgotten little Gerda, his grandmother, and all at home.\n\n\"Now you must have no more kisses,\" she said, \"or I should kiss\nyou to death.\"\n\nKay looked at her, and saw that she was so beautiful, he could not\nimagine a more lovely and intelligent face; she did not now seem to be\nmade of ice, as when he had seen her through his window, and she had\nnodded to him. In his eyes she was perfect, and she did not feel at\nall afraid. He told her he could do mental arithmetic, as far as\nfractions, and that he knew the number of square miles and the\nnumber of inhabitants in the country. And she always smiled so that he\nthought he did not know enough yet, and she looked round the vast\nexpanse as she flew higher and higher with him upon a black cloud,\nwhile the storm blew and howled as if it were singing old songs.\nThey flew over woods and lakes, over sea and land; below them roared\nthe wild wind; the wolves howled and the snow crackled; over them flew\nthe black screaming crows, and above all shone the moon, clear and\nbright,--and so Kay passed through the long winter's night, and by day\nhe slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.\n\n\nTHIRD STORY\n\nTHE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN WHO COULD CONJURE\n\n\nBut how fared little Gerda during Kay's absence? What had become\nof him, no one knew, nor could any one give the slightest information,\nexcepting the boys, who said that he had tied his sledge to another\nvery large one, which had driven through the street, and out at the\ntown gate. Nobody knew where it went; many tears were shed for him,\nand little Gerda wept bitterly for a long time. She said she knew he\nmust be dead; that he was drowned in the river which flowed close by\nthe school. Oh, indeed those long winter days were very dreary. But at\nlast spring came, with warm sunshine. \"Kay is dead and gone,\" said\nlittle Gerda.\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" said the sunshine.\n\n\"He is dead and gone,\" she said to the sparrows.\n\n\"We don't believe it,\" they replied; and at last little Gerda\nbegan to doubt it herself. \"I will put on my new red shoes,\" she\nsaid one morning, \"those that Kay has never seen, and then I will go\ndown to the river, and ask for him.\" It was quite early when she\nkissed her old grandmother, who was still asleep; then she put on\nher red shoes, and went quite alone out of the town gates toward the\nriver. \"Is it true that you have taken my little playmate away from\nme?\" said she to the river. \"I will give you my red shoes if you\nwill give him back to me.\" And it seemed as if the waves nodded to her\nin a strange manner. Then she took off her red shoes, which she\nliked better than anything else, and threw them both into the river,\nbut they fell near the bank, and the little waves carried them back to\nthe land, just as if the river would not take from her what she\nloved best, because they could not give her back little Kay. But she\nthought the shoes had not been thrown out far enough. Then she crept\ninto a boat that lay among the reeds, and threw the shoes again from\nthe farther end of the boat into the water, but it was not fastened.\nAnd her movement sent it gliding away from the land. When she saw this\nshe hastened to reach the end of the boat, but before she could so\nit was more than a yard from the bank, and drifting away faster than\never. Then little Gerda was very much frightened, and began to cry,\nbut no one heard her except the sparrows, and they could not carry her\nto land, but they flew along by the shore, and sang, as if to\ncomfort her, \"Here we are! Here we are!\" The boat floated with the\nstream; little Gerda sat quite still with only her stockings on her\nfeet; the red shoes floated after her, but she could not reach them\nbecause the boat kept so much in advance. The banks on each side of\nthe river were very pretty. There were beautiful flowers, old trees,\nsloping fields, in which cows and sheep were grazing, but not a man to\nbe seen. Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay, thought Gerda,\nand then she became more cheerful, and raised her head, and looked\nat the beautiful green banks; and so the boat sailed on for hours.\nAt length she came to a large cherry orchard, in which stood a small\nred house with strange red and blue windows. It had also a thatched\nroof, and outside were two wooden soldiers, that presented arms to her\nas she sailed past. Gerda called out to them, for she thought they\nwere alive, but of course they did not answer; and as the boat drifted\nnearer to the shore, she saw what they really were. Then Gerda\ncalled still louder, and there came a very old woman out of the house,\nleaning on a crutch. She wore a large hat to shade her from the sun,\nand on it were painted all sorts of pretty flowers. \"You poor little\nchild,\" said the old woman, \"how did you manage to come all this\ndistance into the wide world on such a rapid rolling stream?\" And then\nthe old woman walked in the water, seized the boat with her crutch,\ndrew it to land, and lifted Gerda out. And Gerda was glad to feel\nherself on dry ground, although she was rather afraid of the strange\nold woman. \"Come and tell me who you are,\" said she, \"and how came you\nhere.\"\n\nThen Gerda told her everything, while the old woman shook her\nhead, and said, \"Hem-hem;\" and when she had finished, Gerda asked if\nshe had not seen little Kay, and the old woman told her he had not\npassed by that way, but he very likely would come. So she told Gerda\nnot to be sorrowful, but to taste the cherries and look at the\nflowers; they were better than any picture-book, for each of them\ncould tell a story. Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into\nthe little house, and the old woman closed the door. The windows\nwere very high, and as the panes were red, blue, and yellow, the\ndaylight shone through them in all sorts of singular colors. On the\ntable stood beautiful cherries, and Gerda had permission to eat as\nmany as she would. While she was eating them the old woman combed\nout her long flaxen ringlets with a golden comb, and the glossy\ncurls hung down on each side of the little round pleasant face,\nwhich looked fresh and blooming as a rose. \"I have long been wishing\nfor a dear little maiden like you,\" said the old woman, \"and now you\nmust stay with me, and see how happily we shall live together.\" And\nwhile she went on combing little Gerda's hair, she thought less and\nless about her adopted brother Kay, for the old woman could conjure,\nalthough she was not a wicked witch; she conjured only a little for\nher own amusement, and now, because she wanted to keep Gerda.\nTherefore she went into the garden, and stretched out her crutch\ntowards all the rose-trees, beautiful though they were; and they\nimmediately sunk into the dark earth, so that no one could tell\nwhere they had once stood. The old woman was afraid that if little\nGerda saw roses she would think of those at home, and then remember\nlittle Kay, and run away. Then she took Gerda into the flower-garden.\nHow fragrant and beautiful it was! Every flower that could be\nthought of for every season of the year was here in full bloom;\nno picture-book could have more beautiful colors. Gerda jumped\nfor joy, and played till the sun went down behind the tall\ncherry-trees; then she slept in an elegant bed with red silk\npillows, embroidered with colored violets; and then she dreamed as\npleasantly as a queen on her wedding day. The next day, and for many\ndays after, Gerda played with the flowers in the warm sunshine. She\nknew every flower, and yet, although there were so many of them, it\nseemed as if one were missing, but which it was she could not tell.\nOne day, however, as she sat looking at the old woman's hat with the\npainted flowers on it, she saw that the prettiest of them all was a\nrose. The old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat when she\nmade all the roses sink into the earth. But it is difficult to keep\nthe thoughts together in everything; one little mistake upsets all our\narrangements.\n\n\"What, are there no roses here?\" cried Gerda; and she ran out into\nthe garden, and examined all the beds, and searched and searched.\nThere was not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept, and her\ntears fell just on the place where one of the rose-trees had sunk\ndown. The warm tears moistened the earth, and the rose-tree sprouted\nup at once, as blooming as when it had sunk; and Gerda embraced it and\nkissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful roses at home, and,\nwith them, of little Kay.\n\n\"Oh, how I have been detained!\" said the little maiden, \"I\nwanted to seek for little Kay. Do you know where he is?\" she asked the\nroses; \"do you think he is dead?\"\n\nAnd the roses answered, \"No, he is not dead. We have been in the\nground where all the dead lie; but Kay is not there.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said little Gerda, and then she went to the other\nflowers, and looked into their little cups, and asked, \"Do you know\nwhere little Kay is?\" But each flower, as it stood in the sunshine,\ndreamed only of its own little fairy tale of history. Not one knew\nanything of Kay. Gerda heard many stories from the flowers, as she\nasked them one after another about him.\n\nAnd what, said the tiger-lily? \"Hark, do you hear the drum?--'turn,\nturn,'--there are only two notes, always, 'turn, turn.' Listen\nto the women's song of mourning! Hear the cry of the priest! In\nher long red robe stands the Hindoo widow by the funeral pile. The\nflames rise around her as she places herself on the dead body of her\nhusband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking of the living one in that\ncircle; of him, her son, who lighted those flames. Those shining\neyes trouble her heart more painfully than the flames which will\nsoon consume her body to ashes. Can the fire of the heart be\nextinguished in the flames of the funeral pile?\"\n\n\"I don't understand that at all,\" said little Gerda.\n\n\"That is my story,\" said the tiger-lily.\n\nWhat, says the convolvulus? \"Near yonder narrow road stands an old\nknight's castle; thick ivy creeps over the old ruined walls, leaf over\nleaf, even to the balcony, in which stands a beautiful maiden. She\nbends over the balustrades, and looks up the road. No rose on its stem\nis fresher than she; no apple-blossom, wafted by the wind, floats more\nlightly than she moves. Her rich silk rustles as she bends over and\nexclaims, 'Will he not come?'\n\n\"Is it Kay you mean?\" asked Gerda.\n\n\"I am only speaking of a story of my dream,\" replied the flower.\n\nWhat, said the little snow-drop? \"Between two trees a rope is\nhanging; there is a piece of board upon it; it is a swing. Two\npretty little girls, in dresses white as snow, and with long green\nribbons fluttering from their hats, are sitting upon it swinging.\nTheir brother who is taller than they are, stands in the swing; he has\none arm round the rope, to steady himself; in one hand he holds a\nlittle bowl, and in the other a clay pipe; he is blowing bubbles. As\nthe swing goes on, the bubbles fly upward, reflecting the most\nbeautiful varying colors. The last still hangs from the bowl of the\npipe, and sways in the wind. On goes the swing; and then a little\nblack dog comes running up. He is almost as light as the bubble, and\nhe raises himself on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into the\nswing; but it does not stop, and the dog falls; then he barks and gets\nangry. The children stoop towards him, and the bubble bursts. A\nswinging plank, a light sparkling foam picture,--that is my story.\"\n\n\"It may be all very pretty what you are telling me,\" said little\nGerda, \"but you speak so mournfully, and you do not mention little Kay\nat all.\"\n\nWhat do the hyacinths say? \"There were three beautiful sisters,\nfair and delicate. The dress of one was red, of the second blue, and\nof the third pure white. Hand in hand they danced in the bright\nmoonlight, by the calm lake; but they were human beings, not fairy\nelves. The sweet fragrance attracted them, and they disappeared in the\nwood; here the fragrance became stronger. Three coffins, in which\nlay the three beautiful maidens, glided from the thickest part of\nthe forest across the lake. The fire-flies flew lightly over them,\nlike little floating torches. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are\nthey dead? The scent of the flower says that they are corpses. The\nevening bell tolls their knell.\"\n\n\"You make me quite sorrowful,\" said little Gerda; \"your perfume is\nso strong, you make me think of the dead maidens. Ah! is little Kay\nreally dead then? The roses have been in the earth, and they say no.\"\n\n\"Cling, clang,\" tolled the hyacinth bells. \"We are not tolling for\nlittle Kay; we do not know him. We sing our song, the only one we\nknow.\"\n\nThen Gerda went to the buttercups that were glittering amongst the\nbright green leaves.\n\n\"You are little bright suns,\" said Gerda; \"tell me if you know\nwhere I can find my play-fellow.\"\n\nAnd the buttercups sparkled gayly, and looked again at Gerda. What\nsong could the buttercups sing? It was not about Kay.\n\n\"The bright warm sun shone on a little court, on the first warm\nday of spring. His bright beams rested on the white walls of the\nneighboring house; and close by bloomed the first yellow flower of the\nseason, glittering like gold in the sun's warm ray. An old woman sat\nin her arm chair at the house door, and her granddaughter, a poor\nand pretty servant-maid came to see her for a short visit. When she\nkissed her grandmother there was gold everywhere: the gold of the\nheart in that holy kiss; it was a golden morning; there was gold in\nthe beaming sunlight, gold in the leaves of the lowly flower, and on\nthe lips of the maiden. There, that is my story,\" said the buttercup.\n\n\"My poor old grandmother!\" sighed Gerda; \"she is longing to see\nme, and grieving for me as she did for little Kay; but I shall soon go\nhome now, and take little Kay with me. It is no use asking the\nflowers; they know only their own songs, and can give me no\ninformation.\"\n\nAnd then she tucked up her little dress, that she might run\nfaster, but the narcissus caught her by the leg as she was jumping\nover it; so she stopped and looked at the tall yellow flower, and\nsaid, \"Perhaps you may know something.\"\n\nThen she stooped down quite close to the flower, and listened; and\nwhat did he say?\n\n\"I can see myself, I can see myself,\" said the narcissus. \"Oh, how\nsweet is my perfume! Up in a little room with a bow window, stands a\nlittle dancing girl, half undressed; she stands sometimes on one\nleg, and sometimes on both, and looks as if she would tread the\nwhole world under her feet. She is nothing but a delusion. She is\npouring water out of a tea-pot on a piece of stuff which she holds\nin her hand; it is her bodice. 'Cleanliness is a good thing,' she\nsays. Her white dress hangs on a peg; it has also been washed in the\ntea-pot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and ties a\nsaffron-colored handkerchief round her neck, which makes the dress\nlook whiter. See how she stretches out her legs, as if she were\nshowing off on a stem. I can see myself, I can see myself.\"\n\n\"What do I care for all that,\" said Gerda, \"you need not tell me\nsuch stuff.\" And then she ran to the other end of the garden. The door\nwas fastened, but she pressed against the rusty latch, and it gave\nway. The door sprang open, and little Gerda ran out with bare feet\ninto the wide world. She looked back three times, but no one seemed to\nbe following her. At last she could run no longer, so she sat down\nto rest on a great stone, and when she looked round she saw that the\nsummer was over, and autumn very far advanced. She had known nothing\nof this in the beautiful garden, where the sun shone and the flowers\ngrew all the year round.\n\n\"Oh, how I have wasted my time?\" said little Gerda; \"it is autumn.\nI must not rest any longer,\" and she rose up to go on. But her\nlittle feet were wounded and sore, and everything around her looked so\ncold and bleak. The long willow-leaves were quite yellow. The\ndew-drops fell like water, leaf after leaf dropped from the trees, the\nsloe-thorn alone still bore fruit, but the sloes were sour, and set\nthe teeth on edge. Oh, how dark and weary the whole world appeared!\n\n\nFOURTH STORY\n\nTHE PRINCE AND PRINCESS\n\n\nGerda was obliged to rest again, and just opposite the place where\nshe sat, she saw a great crow come hopping across the snow toward her.\nHe stood looking at her for some time, and then he wagged his head and\nsaid, \"Caw, caw; good-day, good-day.\" He pronounced the words as\nplainly as he could, because he meant to be kind to the little girl;\nand then he asked her where she was going all alone in the wide world.\n\nThe word alone Gerda understood very well, and knew how much it\nexpressed. So then she told the crow the whole story of her life and\nadventures, and asked him if he had seen little Kay.\n\nThe crow nodded his head very gravely, and said, \"Perhaps I\nhave--it may be.\"\n\n\"No! Do you think you have?\" cried little Gerda, and she kissed\nthe crow, and hugged him almost to death with joy.\n\n\"Gently, gently,\" said the crow. \"I believe I know. I think it may\nbe little Kay; but he has certainly forgotten you by this time for the\nprincess.\"\n\n\"Does he live with a princess?\" asked Gerda.\n\n\"Yes, listen,\" replied the crow, \"but it is so difficult to\nspeak your language. If you understand the crows' language then I\ncan explain it better. Do you?\"\n\n\"No, I have never learnt it,\" said Gerda, \"but my grandmother\nunderstands it, and used to speak it to me. I wish I had learnt it.\"\n\n\"It does not matter,\" answered the crow; \"I will explain as well\nas I can, although it will be very badly done;\" and he told her what\nhe had heard. \"In this kingdom where we now are,\" said he, \"there\nlives a princess, who is so wonderfully clever that she has read all\nthe newspapers in the world, and forgotten them too, although she is\nso clever. A short time ago, as she was sitting on her throne, which\npeople say is not such an agreeable seat as is often supposed, she\nbegan to sing a song which commences in these words:\n\n  'Why should I not be married?'\n\n'Why not indeed?' said she, and so she determined to marry if she\ncould find a husband who knew what to say when he was spoken to, and\nnot one who could only look grand, for that was so tiresome. Then\nshe assembled all her court ladies together at the beat of the drum,\nand when they heard of her intentions they were very much pleased. 'We\nare so glad to hear it,' said they, we were talking about it ourselves\nthe other day.' You may believe that every word I tell you is true,\"\nsaid the crow, \"for I have a tame sweetheart who goes freely about the\npalace, and she told me all this.\"\n\nOf course his sweetheart was a crow, for \"birds of a feather flock\ntogether,\" and one crow always chooses another crow.\n\n\"Newspapers were published immediately, with a border of hearts,\nand the initials of the princess among them. They gave notice that\nevery young man who was handsome was free to visit the castle and\nspeak with the princess; and those who could reply loud enough to be\nheard when spoken to, were to make themselves quite at home at the\npalace; but the one who spoke best would be chosen as a husband for\nthe princess. Yes, yes, you may believe me, it is all as true as I sit\nhere,\" said the crow. \"The people came in crowds. There was a great\ndeal of crushing and running about, but no one succeeded either on the\nfirst or second day. They could all speak very well while they were\noutside in the streets, but when they entered the palace gates, and\nsaw the guards in silver uniforms, and the footmen in their golden\nlivery on the staircase, and the great halls lighted up, they became\nquite confused. And when they stood before the throne on which the\nprincess sat, they could do nothing but repeat the last words she\nhad said; and she had no particular wish to hear her own words over\nagain. It was just as if they had all taken something to make them\nsleepy while they were in the palace, for they did not recover\nthemselves nor speak till they got back again into the street. There\nwas quite a long line of them reaching from the town-gate to the\npalace. I went myself to see them,\" said the crow. \"They were hungry\nand thirsty, for at the palace they did not get even a glass of water.\nSome of the wisest had taken a few slices of bread and butter with\nthem, but they did not share it with their neighbors; they thought\nif they went in to the princess looking hungry, there would be a\nbetter chance for themselves.\"\n\n\"But Kay! tell me about little Kay!\" said Gerda, \"was he amongst\nthe crowd?\"\n\n\"Stop a bit, we are just coming to him. It was on the third day,\nthere came marching cheerfully along to the palace a little personage,\nwithout horses or carriage, his eyes sparkling like yours; he had\nbeautiful long hair, but his clothes were very poor.\"\n\n\"That was Kay!\" said Gerda joyfully. \"Oh, then I have found\nhim;\" and she clapped her hands.\n\n\"He had a little knapsack on his back,\" added the crow.\n\n\"No, it must have been his sledge,\" said Gerda; \"for he went\naway with it.\"\n\n\"It may have been so,\" said the crow; \"I did not look at it very\nclosely. But I know from my tame sweetheart that he passed through the\npalace gates, saw the guards in their silver uniform, and the servants\nin their liveries of gold on the stairs, but he was not in the least\nembarrassed. 'It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs,' he\nsaid. 'I prefer to go in.' The rooms were blazing with light.\nCouncillors and ambassadors walked about with bare feet, carrying\ngolden vessels; it was enough to make any one feel serious. His\nboots creaked loudly as he walked, and yet he was not at all uneasy.\"\n\n\"It must be Kay,\" said Gerda, \"I know he had new boots on, I\nhave heard them creak in grandmother's room.\"\n\n\"They really did creak,\" said the crow, \"yet he went boldly up\nto the princess herself, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a\nspinning wheel, and all the ladies of the court were present with\ntheir maids, and all the cavaliers with their servants; and each of\nthe maids had another maid to wait upon her, and the cavaliers'\nservants had their own servants, as well as a page each. They all\nstood in circles round the princess, and the nearer they stood to\nthe door, the prouder they looked. The servants' pages, who always\nwore slippers, could hardly be looked at, they held themselves up so\nproudly by the door.\"\n\n\"It must be quite awful,\" said little Gerda, \"but did Kay win\nthe princess?\"\n\n\"If I had not been a crow,\" said he, \"I would have married her\nmyself, although I am engaged. He spoke just as well as I do, when I\nspeak the crows' language, so I heard from my tame sweetheart. He\nwas quite free and agreeable and said he had not come to woo the\nprincess, but to hear her wisdom; and he was as pleased with her as\nshe was with him.\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly that was Kay,\" said Gerda, \"he was so clever; he\ncould work mental arithmetic and fractions. Oh, will you take me to\nthe palace?\"\n\n\"It is very easy to ask that,\" replied the crow, \"but how are we\nto manage it? However, I will speak about it to my tame sweetheart,\nand ask her advice; for I must tell you it will be very difficult to\ngain permission for a little girl like you to enter the palace.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; but I shall gain permission easily,\" said Gerda, \"for\nwhen Kay hears that I am here, he will come out and fetch me in\nimmediately.\"\n\n\"Wait for me here by the palings,\" said the crow, wagging his head\nas he flew away.\n\nIt was late in the evening before the crow returned. \"Caw, caw,\"\nhe said, \"she sends you greeting, and here is a little roll which she\ntook from the kitchen for you; there is plenty of bread there, and she\nthinks you must be hungry. It is not possible for you to enter the\npalace by the front entrance. The guards in silver uniform and the\nservants in gold livery would not allow it. But do not cry, we will\nmanage to get you in; my sweetheart knows a little back-staircase that\nleads to the sleeping apartments, and she knows where to find the\nkey.\"\n\nThen they went into the garden through the great avenue, where the\nleaves were falling one after another, and they could see the light in\nthe palace being put out in the same manner. And the crow led little\nGerda to the back door, which stood ajar. Oh! how little Gerda's heart\nbeat with anxiety and longing; it was just as if she were going to\ndo something wrong, and yet she only wanted to know where little Kay\nwas. \"It must be he,\" she thought, \"with those clear eyes, and that\nlong hair.\" She could fancy she saw him smiling at her, as he used\nto at home, when they sat among the roses. He would certainly be\nglad to see her, and to hear what a long distance she had come for his\nsake, and to know how sorry they had been at home because he did not\ncome back. Oh what joy and yet fear she felt! They were now on the\nstairs, and in a small closet at the top a lamp was burning. In the\nmiddle of the floor stood the tame crow, turning her head from side to\nside, and gazing at Gerda, who curtseyed as her grandmother had taught\nher to do.\n\n\"My betrothed has spoken so very highly of you, my little lady,\"\nsaid the tame crow, \"your life-history, Vita, as it may be called,\nis very touching. If you will take the lamp I will walk before you. We\nwill go straight along this way, then we shall meet no one.\"\n\n\"It seems to me as if somebody were behind us,\" said Gerda, as\nsomething rushed by her like a shadow on the wall, and then horses\nwith flying manes and thin legs, hunters, ladies and gentlemen on\nhorseback, glided by her, like shadows on the wall.\n\n\"They are only dreams,\" said the crow, \"they are coming to fetch\nthe thoughts of the great people out hunting.\"\n\n\"All the better, for we shall be able to look at them in their\nbeds more safely. I hope that when you rise to honor and favor, you\nwill show a grateful heart.\"\n\n\"You may be quite sure of that,\" said the crow from the forest.\n\nThey now came into the first hall, the walls of which were hung\nwith rose-colored satin, embroidered with artificial flowers. Here the\ndreams again flitted by them but so quickly that Gerda could not\ndistinguish the royal persons. Each hall appeared more splendid than\nthe last, it was enought to bewilder any one. At length they reached a\nbedroom. The ceiling was like a great palm-tree, with glass leaves\nof the most costly crystal, and over the centre of the floor two beds,\neach resembling a lily, hung from a stem of gold. One, in which the\nprincess lay, was white, the other was red; and in this Gerda had to\nseek for little Kay. She pushed one of the red leaves aside, and saw a\nlittle brown neck. Oh, that must be Kay! She called his name out quite\nloud, and held the lamp over him. The dreams rushed back into the room\non horseback. He woke, and turned his head round, it was not little\nKay! The prince was only like him in the neck, still he was young\nand pretty. Then the princess peeped out of her white-lily bed, and\nasked what was the matter. Then little Gerda wept and told her\nstory, and all that the crows had done to help her.\n\n\"You poor child,\" said the prince and princess; then they\npraised the crows, and said they were not angry for what they had\ndone, but that it must not happen again, and this time they should\nbe rewarded.\n\n\"Would you like to have your freedom?\" asked the princess, \"or\nwould you prefer to be raised to the position of court crows, with all\nthat is left in the kitchen for yourselves?\"\n\nThen both the crows bowed, and begged to have a fixed appointment,\nfor they thought of their old age, and said it would be so comfortable\nto feel that they had provision for their old days, as they called it.\nAnd then the prince got out of his bed, and gave it up to Gerda,--he\ncould do no more; and she lay down. She folded her little hands, and\nthought, \"How good everyone is to me, men and animals too;\" then she\nclosed her eyes and fell into a sweet sleep. All the dreams came\nflying back again to her, and they looked like angels, and one of them\ndrew a little sledge, on which sat Kay, and nodded to her. But all\nthis was only a dream, and vanished as soon as she awoke.\n\nThe following day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and\nvelvet, and they invited her to stay at the palace for a few days, and\nenjoy herself, but she only begged for a pair of boots, and a little\ncarriage, and a horse to draw it, so that she might go into the wide\nworld to seek for Kay. And she obtained, not only boots, but also a\nmuff, and she was neatly dressed; and when she was ready to go, there,\nat the door, she found a coach made of pure gold, with the\ncoat-of-arms of the prince and princess shining upon it like a star,\nand the coachman, footman, and outriders all wearing golden crowns\non their heads. The prince and princess themselves helped her into the\ncoach, and wished her success. The forest crow, who was now married,\naccompanied her for the first three miles; he sat by Gerda's side,\nas he could not bear riding backwards. The tame crow stood in the\ndoor-way flapping her wings. She could not go with them, because she\nhad been suffering from headache ever since the new appointment, no\ndoubt from eating too much. The coach was well stored with sweet\ncakes, and under the seat were fruit and gingerbread nuts.\n\"Farewell, farewell,\" cried the prince and princess, and little\nGerda wept, and the crow wept; and then, after a few miles, the crow\nalso said \"Farewell,\" and this was the saddest parting. However, he\nflew to a tree, and stood flapping his black wings as long as he could\nsee the coach, which glittered in the bright sunshine.\n\n\nFIFTH STORY\n\nLITTLE ROBBER-GIRL\n\n\nThe coach drove on through a thick forest, where it lighted up the\nway like a torch, and dazzled the eyes of some robbers, who could\nnot bear to let it pass them unmolested.\n\n\"It is gold! it is gold!\" cried they, rushing forward, and seizing\nthe horses. Then they struck the little jockeys, the coachman, and the\nfootman dead, and pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.\n\n\"She is fat and pretty, and she has been fed with the kernels of\nnuts,\" said the old robber-woman, who had a long beard and eyebrows\nthat hung over her eyes. \"She is as good as a little lamb; how nice\nshe will taste!\" and as she said this, she drew forth a shining knife,\nthat glittered horribly. \"Oh!\" screamed the old woman the same moment;\nfor her own daughter, who held her back, had bitten her in the ear.\nShe was a wild and naughty girl, and the mother called her an ugly\nthing, and had not time to kill Gerda.\n\n\"She shall play with me,\" said the little robber-girl; \"she\nshall give me her muff and her pretty dress, and sleep with me in my\nbed.\" And then she bit her mother again, and made her spring in the\nair, and jump about; and all the robbers laughed, and said, \"See how\nshe is dancing with her young cub.\"\n\n\"I will have a ride in the coach,\" said the little robber-girl;\nand she would have her own way; for she was so self-willed and\nobstinate.\n\nShe and Gerda seated themselves in the coach, and drove away, over\nstumps and stones, into the depths of the forest. The little\nrobber-girl was about the same size as Gerda, but stronger; she had\nbroader shoulders and a darker skin; her eyes were quite black, and\nshe had a mournful look. She clasped little Gerda round the waist, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"They shall not kill you as long as you don't make us vexed with\nyou. I suppose you are a princess.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Gerda; and then she told her all her history, and how\nfond she was of little Kay.\n\nThe robber-girl looked earnestly at her, nodded her head slightly,\nand said, \"They sha'nt kill you, even if I do get angry with you;\nfor I will do it myself.\" And then she wiped Gerda's eyes, and stuck\nher own hands in the beautiful muff which was so soft and warm.\n\nThe coach stopped in the courtyard of a robber's castle, the walls\nof which were cracked from top to bottom. Ravens and crows flew in and\nout of the holes and crevices, while great bulldogs, either of which\nlooked as if it could swallow a man, were jumping about; but they were\nnot allowed to bark. In the large and smoky hall a bright fire was\nburning on the stone floor. There was no chimney; so the smoke went up\nto the ceiling, and found a way out for itself. Soup was boiling in\na large cauldron, and hares and rabbits were roasting on the spit.\n\n\"You shall sleep with me and all my little animals to-night,\" said\nthe robber-girl, after they had had something to eat and drink. So she\ntook Gerda to a corner of the hall, where some straw and carpets\nwere laid down. Above them, on laths and perches, were more than a\nhundred pigeons, who all seemed to be asleep, although they moved\nslightly when the two little girls came near them. \"These all belong\nto me,\" said the robber-girl; and she seized the nearest to her,\nheld it by the feet, and shook it till it flapped its wings. \"Kiss\nit,\" cried she, flapping it in Gerda's face. \"There sit the\nwood-pigeons,\" continued she, pointing to a number of laths and a cage\nwhich had been fixed into the walls, near one of the openings. \"Both\nrascals would fly away directly, if they were not closely locked up.\nAnd here is my old sweetheart 'Ba;'\" and she dragged out a reindeer\nby the horn; he wore a bright copper ring round his neck, and was tied\nup. \"We are obliged to hold him tight too, or else he would run away\nfrom us also. I tickle his neck every evening with my sharp knife,\nwhich frightens him very much.\" And then the robber-girl drew a long\nknife from a chink in the wall, and let it slide gently over the\nreindeer's neck. The poor animal began to kick, and the little\nrobber-girl laughed, and pulled down Gerda into bed with her.\n\n\"Will you have that knife with you while you are asleep?\" asked\nGerda, looking at it in great fright.\n\n\"I always sleep with the knife by me,\" said the robber-girl. \"No\none knows what may happen. But now tell me again all about little Kay,\nand why you went out into the world.\"\n\nThen Gerda repeated her story over again, while the wood-pigeons\nin the cage over her cooed, and the other pigeons slept. The little\nrobber-girl put one arm across Gerda's neck, and held the knife in the\nother, and was soon fast asleep and snoring. But Gerda could not close\nher eyes at all; she knew not whether she was to live or die. The\nrobbers sat round the fire, singing and drinking, and the old woman\nstumbled about. It was a terrible sight for a little girl to witness.\n\nThen the wood-pigeons said, \"Coo, coo; we have seen little Kay.\nA white fowl carried his sledge, and he sat in the carriage of the\nSnow Queen, which drove through the wood while we were lying in our\nnest. She blew upon us, and all the young ones died excepting us\ntwo. Coo, coo.\"\n\n\"What are you saying up there?\" cried Gerda. \"Where was the Snow\nQueen going? Do you know anything about it?\"\n\n\"She was most likely travelling to Lapland, where there is\nalways snow and ice. Ask the reindeer that is fastened up there with a\nrope.\"\n\n\"Yes, there is always snow and ice,\" said the reindeer; \"and it is\na glorious place; you can leap and run about freely on the sparkling\nice plains. The Snow Queen has her summer tent there, but her strong\ncastle is at the North Pole, on an island called Spitzbergen.\"\n\n\"Oh, Kay, little Kay!\" sighed Gerda.\n\n\"Lie still,\" said the robber-girl, \"or I shall run my knife into\nyour body.\"\n\nIn the morning Gerda told her all that the wood-pigeons had\nsaid; and the little robber-girl looked quite serious, and nodded\nher head, and said, \"That is all talk, that is all talk. Do you know\nwhere Lapland is?\" she asked the reindeer.\n\n\"Who should know better than I do?\" said the animal, while his\neyes sparkled. \"I was born and brought up there, and used to run about\nthe snow-covered plains.\"\n\n\"Now listen,\" said the robber-girl; \"all our men are gone away,--only\nmother is here, and here she will stay; but at noon she always\ndrinks out of a great bottle, and afterwards sleeps for a little\nwhile; and then, I'll do something for you.\" Then she jumped out of\nbed, clasped her mother round the neck, and pulled her by the beard,\ncrying, \"My own little nanny goat, good morning.\" Then her mother\nfilliped her nose till it was quite red; yet she did it all for love.\n\nWhen the mother had drunk out of the bottle, and was gone to\nsleep, the little robber-maiden went to the reindeer, and said, \"I\nshould like very much to tickle your neck a few times more with my\nknife, for it makes you look so funny; but never mind,--I will untie\nyour cord, and set you free, so that you may run away to Lapland;\nbut you must make good use of your legs, and carry this little\nmaiden to the castle of the Snow Queen, where her play-fellow is.\nYou have heard what she told me, for she spoke loud enough, and you\nwere listening.\"\n\nThen the reindeer jumped for joy; and the little robber-girl\nlifted Gerda on his back, and had the forethought to tie her on, and\neven to give her her own little cushion to sit on.\n\n\"Here are your fur boots for you,\" said she; \"for it will be\nvery cold; but I must keep the muff; it is so pretty. However, you\nshall not be frozen for the want of it; here are my mother's large\nwarm mittens; they will reach up to your elbows. Let me put them on.\nThere, now your hands look just like my mother's.\"\n\nBut Gerda wept for joy.\n\n\"I don't like to see you fret,\" said the little robber-girl;\n\"you ought to look quite happy now; and here are two loaves and a ham,\nso that you need not starve.\" These were fastened on the reindeer, and\nthen the little robber-maiden opened the door, coaxed in all the great\ndogs, and then cut the string with which the reindeer was fastened,\nwith her sharp knife, and said, \"Now run, but mind you take good\ncare of the little girl.\" And then Gerda stretched out her hand,\nwith the great mitten on it, towards the little robber-girl, and said,\n\"Farewell,\" and away flew the reindeer, over stumps and stones,\nthrough the great forest, over marshes and plains, as quickly as he\ncould. The wolves howled, and the ravens screamed; while up in the sky\nquivered red lights like flames of fire. \"There are my old northern\nlights,\" said the reindeer; \"see how they flash.\" And he ran on day\nand night still faster and faster, but the loaves and the ham were all\neaten by the time they reached Lapland.\n\n\nSIXTH STORY\n\nTHE LAPLAND WOMAN AND THE FINLAND WOMAN\n\n\nThey stopped at a little hut; it was very mean looking; the roof\nsloped nearly down to the ground, and the door was so low that the\nfamily had to creep in on their hands and knees, when they went in and\nout. There was no one at home but an old Lapland woman, who was\ncooking fish by the light of a train-oil lamp. The reindeer told her\nall about Gerda's story, after having first told his own, which seemed\nto him the most important, but Gerda was so pinched with the cold that\nshe could not speak. \"Oh, you poor things,\" said the Lapland woman,\n\"you have a long way to go yet. You must travel more than a hundred\nmiles farther, to Finland. The Snow Queen lives there now, and she\nburns Bengal lights every evening. I will write a few words on a dried\nstock-fish, for I have no paper, and you can take it from me to the\nFinland woman who lives there; she can give you better information\nthan I can.\" So when Gerda was warmed, and had taken something to\neat and drink, the woman wrote a few words on the dried fish, and told\nGerda to take great care of it. Then she tied her again on the\nreindeer, and he set off at full speed. Flash, flash, went the\nbeautiful blue northern lights in the air the whole night long. And at\nlength they reached Finland, and knocked at the chimney of the Finland\nwoman's hut, for it had no door above the ground. They crept in, but\nit was so terribly hot inside that that woman wore scarcely any\nclothes; she was small and very dirty looking. She loosened little\nGerda's dress, and took off the fur boots and the mittens, or Gerda\nwould have been unable to bear the heat; and then she placed a piece\nof ice on the reindeer's head, and read what was written on the\ndried fish. After she had read it three times, she knew it by heart,\nso she popped the fish into the soup saucepan, as she knew it was good\nto eat, and she never wasted anything. The reindeer told his own story\nfirst, and then little Gerda's, and the Finlander twinkled with her\nclever eyes, but she said nothing. \"You are so clever,\" said the\nreindeer; \"I know you can tie all the winds of the world with a\npiece of twine. If a sailor unties one knot, he has a fair wind;\nwhen he unties the second, it blows hard; but if the third and\nfourth are loosened, then comes a storm, which will root up whole\nforests. Cannot you give this little maiden something which will\nmake her as strong as twelve men, to overcome the Snow Queen?\"\n\n\"The Power of twelve men!\" said the Finland woman; \"that would\nbe of very little use.\" But she went to a shelf and took down and\nunrolled a large skin, on which were inscribed wonderful characters,\nand she read till the perspiration ran down from her forehead. But the\nreindeer begged so hard for little Gerda, and Gerda looked at the\nFinland woman with such beseeching tearful eyes, that her own eyes\nbegan to twinkle again; so she drew the reindeer into a corner, and\nwhispered to him while she laid a fresh piece of ice on his head,\n\"Little Kay is really with the Snow Queen, but he finds everything\nthere so much to his taste and his liking, that he believes it is\nthe finest place in the world; but this is because he has a piece of\nbroken glass in his heart, and a little piece of glass in his eye.\nThese must be taken out, or he will never be a human being again,\nand the Snow Queen will retain her power over him.\"\n\n\"But can you not give little Gerda something to help her to\nconquer this power?\"\n\n\"I can give her no greater power than she has already,\" said the\nwoman; \"don't you see how strong that is? How men and animals are\nobliged to serve her, and how well she has got through the world,\nbarefooted as she is. She cannot receive any power from me greater\nthan she now has, which consists in her own purity and innocence of\nheart. If she cannot herself obtain access to the Snow Queen, and\nremove the glass fragments from little Kay, we can do nothing to\nhelp her. Two miles from here the Snow Queen's garden begins; you\ncan carry the little girl so far, and set her down by the large bush\nwhich stands in the snow, covered with red berries. Do not stay\ngossiping, but come back here as quickly as you can.\" Then the Finland\nwoman lifted little Gerda upon the reindeer, and he ran away with\nher as quickly as he could.\n\n\"Oh, I have forgotten my boots and my mittens,\" cried little\nGerda, as soon as she felt the cutting cold, but the reindeer dared\nnot stop, so he ran on till he reached the bush with the red\nberries; here he set Gerda down, and he kissed her, and the great\nbright tears trickled over the animal's cheeks; then he left her and\nran back as fast as he could.\n\nThere stood poor Gerda, without shoes, without gloves, in the\nmidst of cold, dreary, ice-bound Finland. She ran forwards as\nquickly as she could, when a whole regiment of snow-flakes came\nround her; they did not, however, fall from the sky, which was quite\nclear and glittering with the northern lights. The snow-flakes ran\nalong the ground, and the nearer they came to her, the larger they\nappeared. Gerda remembered how large and beautiful they looked through\nthe burning-glass. But these were really larger, and much more\nterrible, for they were alive, and were the guards of the Snow\nQueen, and had the strangest shapes. Some were like great\nporcupines, others like twisted serpents with their heads stretching\nout, and some few were like little fat bears with their hair bristled;\nbut all were dazzlingly white, and all were living snow-flakes. Then\nlittle Gerda repeated the Lord's Prayer, and the cold was so great\nthat she could see her own breath come out of her mouth like steam\nas she uttered the words. The steam appeared to increase, as she\ncontinued her prayer, till it took the shape of little angels who grew\nlarger the moment they touched the earth. They all wore helmets on\ntheir heads, and carried spears and shields. Their number continued to\nincrease more and more; and by the time Gerda had finished her\nprayers, a whole legion stood round her. They thrust their spears into\nthe terrible snow-flakes, so that they shivered into a hundred pieces,\nand little Gerda could go forward with courage and safety. The\nangels stroked her hands and feet, so that she felt the cold less, and\nshe hastened on to the Snow Queen's castle.\n\nBut now we must see what Kay is doing. In truth he thought not\nof little Gerda, and never supposed she could be standing in the front\nof the palace.\n\n\nSEVENTH STORY\n\nOF THE PALACE OF THE SNOW QUEEN AND WHAT HAPPENED THERE AT LAST\n\n\nThe walls of the palace were formed of drifted snow, and the\nwindows and doors of the cutting winds. There were more than a hundred\nrooms in it, all as if they had been formed with snow blown\ntogether. The largest of them extended for several miles; they were\nall lighted up by the vivid light of the aurora, and they were so\nlarge and empty, so icy cold and glittering! There were no\namusements here, not even a little bear's ball, when the storm might\nhave been the music, and the bears could have danced on their hind\nlegs, and shown their good manners. There were no pleasant games of\nsnap-dragon, or touch, or even a gossip over the tea-table, for the\nyoung-lady foxes. Empty, vast, and cold were the halls of the Snow\nQueen. The flickering flame of the northern lights could be plainly\nseen, whether they rose high or low in the heavens, from every part of\nthe castle. In the midst of its empty, endless hall of snow was a\nfrozen lake, broken on its surface into a thousand forms; each piece\nresembled another, from being in itself perfect as a work of art,\nand in the centre of this lake sat the Snow Queen, when she was at\nhome. She called the lake \"The Mirror of Reason,\" and said that it was\nthe best, and indeed the only one in the world.\n\nLittle Kay was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black, but he\ndid not feel it; for the Snow Queen had kissed away the icy\nshiverings, and his heart was already a lump of ice. He dragged some\nsharp, flat pieces of ice to and fro, and placed them together in\nall kinds of positions, as if he wished to make something out of them;\njust as we try to form various figures with little tablets of wood\nwhich we call \"a Chinese puzzle.\" Kay's fingers were very artistic; it\nwas the icy game of reason at which he played, and in his eyes the\nfigures were very remarkable, and of the highest importance; this\nopinion was owing to the piece of glass still sticking in his eye.\nHe composed many complete figures, forming different words, but\nthere was one word he never could manage to form, although he wished\nit very much. It was the word \"Eternity.\" The Snow Queen had said to\nhim, \"When you can find out this, you shall be your own master, and\nI will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates.\" But he\ncould not accomplish it.\n\n\"Now I must hasten away to warmer countries,\" said the Snow Queen.\n\"I will go and look into the black craters of the tops of the\nburning mountains, Etna and Vesuvius, as they are called,--I shall\nmake them look white, which will be good for them, and for the\nlemons and the grapes.\" And away flew the Snow Queen, leaving little\nKay quite alone in the great hall which was so many miles in length;\nso he sat and looked at his pieces of ice, and was thinking so deeply,\nand sat so still, that any one might have supposed he was frozen.\n\nJust at this moment it happened that little Gerda came through the\ngreat door of the castle. Cutting winds were raging around her, but\nshe offered up a prayer and the winds sank down as if they were\ngoing to sleep; and she went on till she came to the large empty hall,\nand caught sight of Kay; she knew him directly; she flew to him and\nthrew her arms round his neck, and held him fast, while she exclaimed,\n\"Kay, dear little Kay, I have found you at last.\"\n\nBut he sat quite still, stiff and cold.\n\nThen little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell on his breast, and\npenetrated into his heart, and thawed the lump of ice, and washed away\nthe little piece of glass which had stuck there. Then he looked at\nher, and she sang--\n\n  \"Roses bloom and cease to be,\n  But we shall the Christ-child see.\"\n\n\nThen Kay burst into tears, and he wept so that the splinter of\nglass swam out of his eye. Then he recognized Gerda, and said,\njoyfully, \"Gerda, dear little Gerda, where have you been all this\ntime, and where have I been?\" And he looked all around him, and\nsaid, \"How cold it is, and how large and empty it all looks,\" and he\nclung to Gerda, and she laughed and wept for joy. It was so pleasing\nto see them that the pieces of ice even danced about; and when they\nwere tired and went to lie down, they formed themselves into the\nletters of the word which the Snow Queen had said he must find out\nbefore he could be his own master, and have the whole world and a pair\nof new skates. Then Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they became blooming;\nand she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his\nhands and his feet, and then he became quite healthy and cheerful. The\nSnow Queen might come home now when she pleased, for there stood his\ncertainty of freedom, in the word she wanted, written in shining\nletters of ice.\n\nThen they took each other by the hand, and went forth from the\ngreat palace of ice. They spoke of the grandmother, and of the roses\non the roof, and as they went on the winds were at rest, and the sun\nburst forth. When they arrived at the bush with red berries, there\nstood the reindeer waiting for them, and he had brought another\nyoung reindeer with him, whose udders were full, and the children\ndrank her warm milk and kissed her on the mouth. Then they carried Kay\nand Gerda first to the Finland woman, where they warmed themselves\nthoroughly in the hot room, and she gave them directions about their\njourney home. Next they went to the Lapland woman, who had made some\nnew clothes for them, and put their sleighs in order. Both the\nreindeer ran by their side, and followed them as far as the boundaries\nof the country, where the first green leaves were budding. And here\nthey took leave of the two reindeer and the Lapland woman, and all\nsaid--Farewell. Then the birds began to twitter, and the forest too\nwas full of green young leaves; and out of it came a beautiful\nhorse, which Gerda remembered, for it was one which had drawn the\ngolden coach. A young girl was riding upon it, with a shining red\ncap on her head, and pistols in her belt. It was the little\nrobber-maiden, who had got tired of staying at home; she was going\nfirst to the north, and if that did not suit her, she meant to try\nsome other part of the world. She knew Gerda directly, and Gerda\nremembered her: it was a joyful meeting.\n\n\"You are a fine fellow to go gadding about in this way,\" said\nshe to little Kay, \"I should like to know whether you deserve that any\none should go to the end of the world to find you.\"\n\nBut Gerda patted her cheeks, and asked after the prince and\nprincess.\n\n\"They are gone to foreign countries,\" said the robber-girl.\n\n\"And the crow?\" asked Gerda.\n\n\"Oh, the crow is dead,\" she replied; \"his tame sweetheart is now a\nwidow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her leg. She mourns very\npitifully, but it is all stuff. But now tell me how you managed to get\nhim back.\"\n\nThen Gerda and Kay told her all about it.\n\n\"Snip, snap, snare! it's all right at last,\" said the robber-girl.\n\nThen she took both their hands, and promised that if ever she\nshould pass through the town, she would call and pay them a visit. And\nthen she rode away into the wide world. But Gerda and Kay went\nhand-in-hand towards home; and as they advanced, spring appeared\nmore lovely with its green verdure and its beautiful flowers. Very\nsoon they recognized the large town where they lived, and the tall\nsteeples of the churches, in which the sweet bells were ringing a\nmerry peal as they entered it, and found their way to their\ngrandmother's door. They went upstairs into the little room, where all\nlooked just as it used to do. The old clock was going \"tick, tick,\"\nand the hands pointed to the time of day, but as they passed through\nthe door into the room they perceived that they were both grown up,\nand become a man and woman. The roses out on the roof were in full\nbloom, and peeped in at the window; and there stood the little chairs,\non which they had sat when children; and Kay and Gerda seated\nthemselves each on their own chair, and held each other by the hand,\nwhile the cold empty grandeur of the Snow Queen's palace vanished from\ntheir memories like a painful dream. The grandmother sat in God's\nbright sunshine, and she read aloud from the Bible, \"Except ye\nbecome as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the\nkingdom of God.\" And Kay and Gerda looked into each other's eyes,\nand all at once understood the words of the old song,\n\n  \"Roses bloom and cease to be,\n  But we shall the Christ-child see.\"\n\nAnd they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was\nsummer,--warm, beautiful summer.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOWDROP\n\nIt was winter-time; the air was cold, the wind was sharp, but\nwithin the closed doors it was warm and comfortable, and within the\nclosed door lay the flower; it lay in the bulb under the\nsnow-covered earth.\n\nOne day rain fell. The drops penetrated through the snowy covering\ndown into the earth, and touched the flower-bulb, and talked of the\nbright world above. Soon the Sunbeam pierced its way through the\nsnow to the root, and within the root there was a stirring.\n\n\"Come in,\" said the flower.\n\n\"I cannot,\" said the Sunbeam. \"I am not strong enough to unlock\nthe door! When the summer comes I shall be strong!\"\n\n\"When will it be summer?\" asked the Flower, and she repeated\nthis question each time a new sunbeam made its way down to her. But\nthe summer was yet far distant. The snow still lay upon the ground,\nand there was a coat of ice on the water every night.\n\n\"What a long time it takes! what a long time it takes!\" said the\nFlower. \"I feel a stirring and striving within me; I must stretch\nmyself, I must unlock the door, I must get out, and must nod a good\nmorning to the summer, and what a happy time that will be!\"\n\nAnd the Flower stirred and stretched itself within the thin rind\nwhich the water had softened from without, and the snow and the\nearth had warmed, and the Sunbeam had knocked at; and it shot forth\nunder the snow with a greenish-white blossom on a green stalk, with\nnarrow thick leaves, which seemed to want to protect it. The snow\nwas cold, but was pierced by the Sunbeam, therefore it was easy to get\nthrough it, and now the Sunbeam came with greater strength than\nbefore.\n\n\"Welcome, welcome!\" sang and sounded every ray, and the Flower\nlifted itself up over the snow into the brighter world. The Sunbeams\ncaressed and kissed it, so that it opened altogether, white as snow,\nand ornamented with green stripes. It bent its head in joy and\nhumility.\n\n\"Beautiful Flower!\" said the Sunbeams, \"how graceful and\ndelicate you are! You are the first, you are the only one! You are our\nlove! You are the bell that rings out for summer, beautiful summer,\nover country and town. All the snow will melt; the cold winds will\nbe driven away; we shall rule; all will become green, and then you\nwill have companions, syringas, laburnums, and roses; but you are\nthe first, so graceful, so delicate!\"\n\nThat was a great pleasure. It seemed as if the air were singing\nand sounding, as if rays of light were piercing through the leaves and\nthe stalks of the Flower. There it stood, so delicate and so easily\nbroken, and yet so strong in its young beauty; it stood there in its\nwhite dress with the green stripes, and made a summer. But there was a\nlong time yet to the summer-time. Clouds hid the sun, and bleak\nwinds were blowing.\n\n\"You have come too early,\" said Wind and Weather. \"We have still\nthe power, and you shall feel it, and give it up to us. You should\nhave stayed quietly at home and not have run out to make a display\nof yourself. Your time is not come yet!\"\n\nIt was a cutting cold! The days which now come brought not a\nsingle sunbeam. It was weather that might break such a little Flower\nin two with cold. But the Flower had more strength than she herself\nknew of. She was strong in joy and in faith in the summer, which would\nbe sure to come, which had been announced by her deep longing and\nconfirmed by the warm sunlight; and so she remained standing in\nconfidence in the snow in her white garment, bending her head even\nwhile the snow-flakes fell thick and heavy, and the icy winds swept\nover her.\n\n\"You'll break!\" they said, \"and fade, and fade! What did you\nwant out here? Why did you let yourself be tempted? The Sunbeam only\nmade game of you. Now you have what you deserve, you summer gauk.\"\n\n\"Summer gauk!\" she repeated in the cold morning hour.\n\n\"O summer gauk!\" cried some children rejoicingly; \"yonder stands\none--how beautiful, how beautiful! The first one, the only one!\"\n\nThese words did the Flower so much good, they seemed to her like\nwarm sunbeams. In her joy the Flower did not even feel when it was\nbroken off. It lay in a child's hand, and was kissed by a child's\nmouth, and carried into a warm room, and looked on by gentle eyes, and\nput into water. How strengthening, how invigorating! The Flower\nthought she had suddenly come upon the summer.\n\nThe daughter of the house, a beautiful little girl, was confirmed,\nand she had a friend who was confirmed, too. He was studying for an\nexamination for an appointment. \"He shall be my summer gauk,\" she\nsaid; and she took the delicate Flower and laid it in a piece of\nscented paper, on which verses were written, beginning with summer\ngauk and ending with summer gauk. \"My friend, be a winter gauk.\" She\nhad twitted him with the summer. Yes, all this was in the verses,\nand the paper was folded up like a letter, and the Flower was folded\nin the letter, too. It was dark around her, dark as in those days when\nshe lay hidden in the bulb. The Flower went forth on her journey,\nand lay in the post-bag, and was pressed and crushed, which was not at\nall pleasant; but that soon came to an end.\n\nThe journey was over; the letter was opened, and read by the\ndear friend. How pleased he was! He kissed the letter, and it was\nlaid, with its enclosure of verses, in a box, in which there were many\nbeautiful verses, but all of them without flowers; she was the\nfirst, the only one, as the Sunbeams had called her; and it was a\npleasant thing to think of that.\n\nShe had time enough, moreover, to think about it; she thought of\nit while the summer passed away, and the long winter went by, and\nthe summer came again, before she appeared once more. But now the\nyoung man was not pleased at all. He took hold of the letter very\nroughly, and threw the verses away, so that the Flower fell on the\nground. Flat and faded she certainly was, but why should she be thrown\non the ground? Still, it was better to be here than in the fire, where\nthe verses and the paper were being burnt to ashes. What had happened?\nWhat happens so often:--the Flower had made a gauk of him, that was\na jest; the girl had made a fool of him, that was no jest, she had,\nduring the summer, chosen another friend.\n\nNext morning the sun shone in upon the little flattened\nSnowdrop, that looked as if it had been painted upon the floor. The\nservant girl, who was sweeping out the room, picked it up, and laid it\nin one of the books which were upon the table, in the belief that it\nmust have fallen out while the room was being arranged. Again the\nflower lay among verses--printed verses--and they are better than\nwritten ones--at least, more money has been spent upon them.\n\nAnd after this years went by. The book stood upon the\nbook-shelf, and then it was taken up and somebody read out of it. It\nwas a good book; verses and songs by the old Danish poet, Ambrosius\nStub, which are well worth reading. The man who was now reading the\nbook turned over a page.\n\n\"Why, there's a flower!\" he said; \"a snowdrop, a summer gauk, a\npoet gauk! That flower must have been put in there with a meaning!\nPoor Ambrosius Stub! he was a summer fool too, a poet fool; he came\ntoo early, before his time, and therefore he had to taste the sharp\nwinds, and wander about as a guest from one noble landed proprietor to\nanother, like a flower in a glass of water, a flower in rhymed verses!\nSummer fool, winter fool, fun and folly--but the first, the only,\nthe fresh young Danish poet of those days. Yes, thou shalt remain as a\ntoken in the book, thou little snowdrop: thou hast been put there with\na meaning.\"\n\nAnd so the Snowdrop was put back into the book, and felt equally\nhonored and pleased to know that it was a token in the glorious book\nof songs, and that he who was the first to sing and to write had\nbeen also a snowdrop, had been a summer gauk, and had been looked upon\nin the winter-time as a fool. The Flower understood this, in her\nway, as we interpret everything in our way.\n\nThat is the story of the Snowdrop.\n\n\n\n\nSOMETHING\n\n\"I mean to be somebody, and do something useful in the world,\"\nsaid the eldest of five brothers. \"I don't care how humble my position\nis, so that I can only do some good, which will be something. I intend\nto be a brickmaker; bricks are always wanted, and I shall be really\ndoing something.\"\n\n\"Your 'something' is not enough for me,\" said the second\nbrother; \"what you talk of doing is nothing at all, it is journeyman's\nwork, or might even be done by a machine. No! I should prefer to be\na builder at once, there is something real in that. A man gains a\nposition, he becomes a citizen, has his own sign, his own house of\ncall for his workmen: so I shall be a builder. If all goes well, in\ntime I shall become a master, and have my own journeymen, and my\nwife will be treated as a master's wife. This is what I call\nsomething.\"\n\n\"I call it all nothing,\" said the third; \"not in reality any\nposition. There are many in a town far above a master builder in\nposition. You may be an upright man, but even as a master you will\nonly be ranked among common men. I know better what to do than that. I\nwill be an architect, which will place me among those who possess\nriches and intellect, and who speculate in art. I shall certainly have\nto rise by my own endeavors from a bricklayer's laborer, or as a\ncarpenter's apprentice--a lad wearing a paper cap, although I now wear\na silk hat. I shall have to fetch beer and spirits for the journeymen,\nand they will call me 'thou,' which will be an insult. I shall\nendure it, however, for I shall look upon it all as a mere\nrepresentation, a masquerade, a mummery, which to-morrow, that is,\nwhen I myself as a journeyman, shall have served my time, will vanish,\nand I shall go my way, and all that has passed will be nothing to\nme. Then I shall enter the academy, and get instructed in drawing, and\nbe called an architect. I may even attain to rank, and have\nsomething placed before or after my name, and I shall build as\nothers have done before me. By this there will be always 'something'\nto make me remembered, and is not that worth living for?\"\n\n\"Not in my opinion,\" said the fourth; \"I will never follow the\nlead of others, and only imitate what they have done. I will be a\ngenius, and become greater than all of you together. I will create a\nnew style of building, and introduce a plan for erecting houses\nsuitable to the climate, with material easily obtained in the country,\nand thus suit national feeling and the developments of the age,\nbesides building a storey for my own genius.\"\n\n\"But supposing the climate and the material are not good for\nmuch,\" said the fifth brother, \"that would be very unfortunate for\nyou, and have an influence over your experiments. Nationality may\nassert itself until it becomes affectation, and the developments of\na century may run wild, as youth often does. I see clearly that none\nof you will ever really be anything worth notice, however you may\nnow fancy it. But do as you like, I shall not imitate you. I mean to\nkeep clear of all these things, and criticize what you do. In every\naction something imperfect may be discovered, something not right,\nwhich I shall make it my business to find out and expose; that will be\nsomething, I fancy.\" And he kept his word, and became a critic.\n\nPeople said of this fifth brother, \"There is something very\nprecise about him; he has a good head-piece, but he does nothing.\" And\non that very account they thought he must be something.\n\nNow, you see, this is a little history which will never end; as\nlong as the world exists, there will always be men like these five\nbrothers. And what became of them? Were they each nothing or\nsomething? You shall hear; it is quite a history.\n\nThe eldest brother, he who fabricated bricks, soon discovered that\neach brick, when finished, brought him in a small coin, if only a\ncopper one; and many copper pieces, if placed one upon another, can be\nchanged into a shining shilling; and at whatever door a person knocks,\nwho has a number of these in his hands, whether it be the baker's, the\nbutcher's, or the tailor's, the door flies open, and he can get all he\nwants. So you see the value of bricks. Some of the bricks, however,\ncrumbled to pieces, or were broken, but the elder brother found a\nuse for even these.\n\nOn the high bank of earth, which formed a dyke on the sea-coast, a\npoor woman named Margaret wished to build herself a house, so all\nthe imperfect bricks were given to her, and a few whole ones with\nthem; for the eldest brother was a kind-hearted man, although he never\nachieved anything higher than making bricks. The poor woman built\nherself a little house--it was small and narrow, and the window was\nquite crooked, the door too low, and the straw roof might have been\nbetter thatched. But still it was a shelter, and from within you could\nlook far over the sea, which dashed wildly against the sea-wall on\nwhich the little house was built. The salt waves sprinkled their white\nfoam over it, but it stood firm, and remained long after he who had\ngiven the bricks to build it was dead and buried.\n\nThe second brother of course knew better how to build than poor\nMargaret, for he served an apprenticeship to learn it. When his time\nwas up, he packed up his knapsack, and went on his travels, singing\nthe journeyman's song,--\n\n  \"While young, I can wander without a care,\n  And build new houses everywhere;\n  Fair and bright are my dreams of home,\n  Always thought of wherever I roam.\n\n  Hurrah for a workman's life of glee!\n  There's a loved one at home who thinks of me;\n  Home and friends I can ne'er forget,\n  And I mean to be a master yet.\"\n\nAnd that is what he did. On his return home, he became a master\nbuilder,--built one house after another in the town, till they\nformed quite a street, which, when finished, became really an ornament\nto the town. These houses built a house for him in return, which was\nto be his own. But how can houses build a house? If the houses were\nasked, they could not answer; but the people would understand, and\nsay, \"Certainly the street built his house for him.\" It was not very\nlarge, and the floor was of lime; but when he danced with his bride on\nthe lime-covered floor, it was to him white and shining, and from\nevery stone in the wall flowers seemed to spring forth and decorate\nthe room as with the richest tapestry. It was really a pretty house,\nand in it were a happy pair. The flag of the corporation fluttered\nbefore it, and the journeymen and apprentices shouted \"Hurrah.\" He had\ngained his position, he had made himself something, and at last he\ndied, which was \"something\" too.\n\nNow we come to the architect, the third brother, who had been\nfirst a carpenter's apprentice, had worn a cap, and served as an\nerrand boy, but afterwards went to the academy, and risen to be an\narchitect, a high and noble gentleman. Ah yes, the houses of the new\nstreet, which the brother who was a master builder erected, may have\nbuilt his house for him, but the street received its name from the\narchitect, and the handsomest house in the street became his property.\nThat was something, and he was \"something,\" for he had a list of\ntitles before and after his name. His children were called \"wellborn,\"\nand when he died, his widow was treated as a lady of position, and\nthat was \"something.\" His name remained always written at the corner\nof the street, and lived in every one's mouth as its name. Yes, this\nalso was \"something.\"\n\nAnd what about the genius of the family--the fourth brother--who\nwanted to invent something new and original? He tried to build a lofty\nstorey himself, but it fell to pieces, and he fell with it and broke\nhis neck. However, he had a splendid funeral, with the city flags\nand music in the procession; flowers were strewn on the pavement,\nand three orations were spoken over his grave, each one longer than\nthe other. He would have liked this very much during his life, as well\nas the poems about him in the papers, for he liked nothing so well\nas to be talked of. A monument was also erected over his grave. It was\nonly another storey over him, but that was \"something,\" Now he was\ndead, like the three other brothers.\n\nThe youngest--the critic--outlived them all, which was quite right\nfor him. It gave him the opportunity of having the last word, which to\nhim was of great importance. People always said he had a good\nhead-piece. At last his hour came, and he died, and arrived at the\ngates of heaven. Souls always enter these gates in pairs; so he\nfound himself standing and waiting for admission with another; and who\nshould it be but old dame Margaret, from the house on the dyke! \"It is\nevidently for the sake of contrast that I and this wretched soul\nshould arrive here exactly at the same time,\" said the critic. \"Pray\nwho are you, my good woman?\" said he; \"do you want to get in here\ntoo?\"\n\nAnd the old woman curtsied as well as she could; she thought it\nmust be St. Peter himself who spoke to her. \"I am a poor old woman,\"\nshe said, \"without my family. I am old Margaret, that lived in the\nhouse on the dyke.\"\n\n\"Well, and what have you done--what great deed have you\nperformed down below?\"\n\n\"I have done nothing at all in the world that could give me a\nclaim to have these doors open for me,\" she said. \"It would be only\nthrough mercy that I can be allowed to slip in through the gate.\"\n\n\"In what manner did you leave the world?\" he asked, just for the\nsake of saying something; for it made him feel very weary to stand\nthere and wait.\n\n\"How I left the world?\" she replied; \"why, I can scarcely tell\nyou. During the last years of my life I was sick and miserable, and\nI was unable to bear creeping out of bed suddenly into the frost and\ncold. Last winter was a hard winter, but I have got over it all now.\nThere were a few mild days, as your honor, no doubt, knows. The ice\nlay thickly on the lake, as far one could see. The people came from\nthe town, and walked upon it, and they say there were dancing and\nskating upon it, I believe, and a great feasting. The sound of\nbeautiful music came into my poor little room where I lay. Towards\nevening, when the moon rose beautifully, though not yet in her full\nsplendor, I glanced from my bed over the wide sea; and there, just\nwhere the sea and sky met, rose a curious white cloud. I lay looking\nat the cloud till I observed a little black spot in the middle of\nit, which gradually grew larger and larger, and then I knew what it\nmeant--I am old and experienced; and although this token is not\noften seen, I knew it, and a shuddering seized me. Twice in my life\nhad I seen this same thing, and I knew that there would be an awful\nstorm, with a spring tide, which would overwhelm the poor people who\nwere now out on the ice, drinking, dancing, and making merry. Young\nand old, the whole city, were there; who was to warn them, if no one\nnoticed the sign, or knew what it meant as I did? I was so alarmed,\nthat I felt more strength and life than I had done for some time. I\ngot out of bed, and reached the window; I could not crawl any\nfarther from weakness and exhaustion; but I managed to open the\nwindow. I saw the people outside running and jumping about on the ice;\nI saw the beautiful flags waving in the wind; I heard the boys\nshouting, 'Hurrah!' and the lads and lasses singing, and everything\nfull of merriment and joy. But there was the white cloud with the\nblack spot hanging over them. I cried out as loudly as I could, but no\none heard me; I was too far off from the people. Soon would the\nstorm burst, the ice break, and all who were on it be irretrievably\nlost. They could not hear me, and to go to them was quite out of my\npower. Oh, if I could only get them safe on land! Then came the\nthought, as if from heaven, that I would rather set fire to my bed,\nand let the house be burnt down, than that so many people should\nperish miserably. I got a light, and in a few moments the red flames\nleaped up as a beacon to them. I escaped fortunately as far as the\nthreshold of the door; but there I fell down and remained: I could\ngo no farther. The flames rushed out towards me, flickered on the\nwindow, and rose high above the roof. The people on the ice became\naware of the fire, and ran as fast as possible to help a poor sick\nwoman, who, as they thought, was being burnt to death. There was not\none who did not run. I heard them coming, and I also at the same\ntime was conscious of a rush of air and a sound like the roar of heavy\nartillery. The spring flood was lifting the ice covering, which\nbrake into a thousand pieces. But the people had reached the sea-wall,\nwhere the sparks were flying round. I had saved them all; but I\nsuppose I could not survive the cold and fright; so I came up here\nto the gates of paradise. I am told they are open to poor creatures\nsuch as I am, and I have now no house left on earth; but I do not\nthink that will give me a claim to be admitted here.\"\n\nThen the gates were opened, and an angel led the old woman in. She\nhad dropped one little straw out of her straw bed, when she set it\non fire to save the lives of so many. It had been changed into the\npurest gold--into gold that constantly grew and expanded into\nflowers and fruit of immortal beauty.\n\n\"See,\" said the angel, pointing to the wonderful straw, \"this is\nwhat the poor woman has brought. What dost thou bring? I know thou\nhast accomplished nothing, not even made a single brick. Even if\nthou couldst return, and at least produce so much, very likely, when\nmade, the brick would be useless, unless done with a good will,\nwhich is always something. But thou canst not return to earth, and I\ncan do nothing for thee.\"\n\nThen the poor soul, the old mother who had lived in the house on\nthe dyke, pleaded for him. She said, \"His brother made all the stone\nand bricks, and sent them to me to build my poor little dwelling,\nwhich was a great deal to do for a poor woman like me. Could not all\nthese bricks and pieces be as a wall of stone to prevail for him? It\nis an act of mercy; he is wanting it now; and here is the very\nfountain of mercy.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said the angel, \"thy brother, he who has been looked\nupon as the meanest of you all, he whose honest deeds to thee appeared\nso humble,--it is he who has sent you this heavenly gift. Thou shalt\nnot be turned away. Thou shalt have permission to stand without the\ngate and reflect, and repent of thy life on earth; but thou shalt\nnot be admitted here until thou hast performed one good deed of\nrepentance, which will indeed for thee be something.\"\n\n\"I could have expressed that better,\" thought the critic; but he\ndid not say it aloud, which for him was SOMETHING, after all.\n\n\n\n\nSOUP FROM A SAUSAGE SKEWER\n\n\"We had such an excellent dinner yesterday,\" said an old mouse\nof the female sex to another who had not been present at the feast. \"I\nsat number twenty-one below the mouse-king, which was not a bad place.\nShall I tell you what we had? Everything was first rate. Mouldy bread,\ntallow candle, and sausage. And then, when we had finished that\ncourse, the same came on all over again; it was as good as two feasts.\nWe were very sociable, and there was as much joking and fun as if we\nhad been all of one family circle. Nothing was left but the sausage\nskewers, and this formed a subject of conversation, till at last it\nturned to the proverb, 'Soup from sausage skins;' or, as the people in\nthe neighboring country call it, 'Soup from a sausage skewer.' Every\none had heard the proverb, but no one had ever tasted the soup, much\nless prepared it. A capital toast was drunk to the inventor of the\nsoup, and some one said he ought to be made a relieving officer to the\npoor. Was not that witty? Then the old mouse-king rose and promised\nthat the young lady-mouse who should learn how best to prepare this\nmuch-admired and savory soup should be his queen, and a year and a day\nshould be allowed for the purpose.\"\n\n\"That was not at all a bad proposal,\" said the other mouse; \"but\nhow is the soup made?\"\n\n\"Ah, that is more than I can tell you. All the young lady mice\nwere asking the same question. They wished very much to be queen,\nbut they did not want to take the trouble of going out into the\nworld to learn how to make soup, which was absolutely necessary to\nbe done first. But it is not every one who would care to leave her\nfamily, or her happy corner by the fire-side at home, even to be\nmade queen. It is not always easy to find bacon and cheese-rind in\nforeign lands every day, and it is not pleasant to have to endure\nhunger, and be perhaps, after all, eaten up alive by the cat.\"\n\nMost probably some such thoughts as these discouraged the\nmajority from going out into the world to collect the required\ninformation. Only four mice gave notice that they were ready to set\nout on the journey. They were young and lively, but poor. Each of them\nwished to visit one of the four divisions of the world, so that it\nmight be seen which was the most favored by fortune. Every one took\na sausage skewer as a traveller's staff, and to remind them of the\nobject of their journey. They left home early in May, and none of them\nreturned till the first of May in the following year, and then only\nthree of them. Nothing was seen or heard of the fourth, although the\nday of decision was close at hand. \"Ah, yes, there is always some\ntrouble mixed up with the greatest pleasure,\" said the mouse-king; but\nhe gave orders that all the mice within a circle of many miles\nshould be invited at once. They were to assemble in the kitchen, and\nthe three travelled mice were to stand in a row before them, while a\nsausage skewer, covered with crape, was to be stuck up instead of\nthe missing mouse. No one dared to express an opinion until the king\nspoke, and desired one of them to go on with her story. And now we\nshall hear what she said.\n\n\nWHAT THE FIRST LITTLE MOUSE SAW AND HEARD ON HER TRAVELS\n\n\"When I first went out into the world,\" said the little mouse,\n\"I fancied, as so many of my age do, that I already knew everything,\nbut it was not so. It takes years to acquire great knowledge. I went\nat once to sea in a ship bound for the north. I had been told that the\nship's cook must know how to prepare every dish at sea, and it is easy\nenough to do that with plenty of sides of bacon, and large tubs of\nsalt meat and mouldy flour. There I found plenty of delicate food, but\nno opportunity for learning how to make soup from a sausage skewer. We\nsailed on for many days and nights; the ship rocked fearfully, and\nwe did not escape without a wetting. As soon as we arrived at the port\nto which the ship was bound, I left it, and went on shore at a place\nfar towards the north. It is a wonderful thing to leave your own\nlittle corner at home, to hide yourself in a ship where there are sure\nto be some nice snug corners for shelter, then suddenly to find\nyourself thousands of miles away in a foreign land. I saw large\npathless forests of pine and birch trees, which smelt so strong that I\nsneezed and thought of sausage. There were great lakes also which\nlooked as black as ink at a distance, but were quite clear when I came\nclose to them. Large swans were floating upon them, and I thought at\nfirst they were only foam, they lay so still; but when I saw them walk\nand fly, I knew what they were directly. They belong to the goose\nspecies, one can see that by their walk. No one can attempt to\ndisguise family descent. I kept with my own kind, and associated\nwith the forest and field mice, who, however, knew very little,\nespecially about what I wanted to know, and which had actually made me\ntravel abroad. The idea that soup could be made from a sausage\nskewer was to them such an out-of-the-way, unlikely thought, that it\nwas repeated from one to another through the whole forest. They\ndeclared that the problem would never be solved, that the thing was an\nimpossibility. How little I thought that in this place, on the very\nfirst night, I should be initiated into the manner of its preparation.\n\n\"It was the height of summer, which the mice told me was the\nreason that the forest smelt so strong, and that the herbs were so\nfragrant, and the lakes with the white swimming swans so dark, and yet\nso clear. On the margin of the wood, near to three or four houses, a\npole, as large as the mainmast of a ship, had been erected, and from\nthe summit hung wreaths of flowers and fluttering ribbons; it was\nthe Maypole. Lads and lasses danced round the pole, and tried to outdo\nthe violins of the musicians with their singing. They were as merry as\never at sunset and in the moonlight, but I took no part in the\nmerry-making. What has a little mouse to do with a Maypole dance? I\nsat in the soft moss, and held my sausage skewer tight. The moon threw\nits beams particularly on one spot where stood a tree covered with\nexceedingly fine moss. I may almost venture to say that it was as fine\nand soft as the fur of the mouse-king, but it was green, which is a\ncolor very agreeable to the eye. All at once I saw the most charming\nlittle people marching towards me. They did not reach higher than my\nknee; they looked like human beings, but were better proportioned, and\nthey called themselves elves. Their clothes were very delicate and\nfine, for they were made of the leaves of flowers, trimmed with the\nwings of flies and gnats, which had not a bad effect. By their manner,\nit appeared as if they were seeking for something. I knew not what,\ntill at last one of them espied me and came towards me, and the\nforemost pointed to my sausage skewer, and said, 'There, that is\njust what we want; see, it is pointed at the top; is it not\ncapital?' and the longer he looked at my pilgrim's staff, the more\ndelighted he became. 'I will lend it to you,' said I, 'but not to\nkeep.'\n\n\"'Oh no, we won't keep it!' they all cried; and then they seized\nthe skewer, which I gave up to them, and danced with it to the spot\nwhere the delicate moss grew, and set it up in the middle of the\ngreen. They wanted a maypole, and the one they now had seemed cut\nout on purpose for them. Then they decorated it so beautifully that it\nwas quite dazzling to look at. Little spiders spun golden threads\naround it, and then it was hung with fluttering veils and flags so\ndelicately white that they glittered like snow in the moonshine. After\nthat they took colors from the butterfly's wing, and sprinkled them\nover the white drapery which gleamed as if covered with flowers and\ndiamonds, so that I could not recognize my sausage skewer at all. Such\na maypole had never been seen in all the world as this. Then came a\ngreat company of real elves. Nothing could be finer than their\nclothes, and they invited me to be present at the feast; but I was\nto keep at a certain distance, because I was too large for them.\nThen commenced such music that it sounded like a thousand glass bells,\nand was so full and strong that I thought it must be the song of the\nswans. I fancied also that I heard the voices of the cuckoo and the\nblack-bird, and it seemed at last as if the whole forest sent forth\nglorious melodies--the voices of children, the tinkling of bells,\nand the songs of the birds; and all this wonderful melody came from\nthe elfin maypole. My sausage peg was a complete peal of bells. I\ncould scarcely believe that so much could have been produced from\nit, till I remembered into what hands it had fallen. I was so much\naffected that I wept tears such as a little mouse can weep, but they\nwere tears of joy. The night was far too short for me; there are no\nlong nights there in summer, as we often have in this part of the\nworld. When the morning dawned, and the gentle breeze rippled the\nglassy mirror of the forest lake, all the delicate veils and flags\nfluttered away into thin air; the waving garlands of the spider's web,\nthe hanging bridges and galleries, or whatever else they may be\ncalled, vanished away as if they had never been. Six elves brought\nme back my sausage skewer, and at the same time asked me to make any\nrequest, which they would grant if in their power; so I begged them,\nif they could, to tell me how to make soup from a sausage skewer.\n\n\"'How do we make it?' said the chief of the elves with a smile.\n'Why you have just seen it; you scarcely knew your sausage skewer\nagain, I am sure.'\n\n\"They think themselves very wise, thought I to myself. Then I told\nthem all about it, and why I had travelled so far, and also what\npromise had been made at home to the one who should discover the\nmethod of preparing this soup. 'What use will it be,' I asked, 'to the\nmouse-king or to our whole mighty kingdom that I have seen all these\nbeautiful things? I cannot shake the sausage peg and say, Look, here\nis the skewer, and now the soup will come. That would only produce a\ndish to be served when people were keeping a fast.'\n\n\"Then the elf dipped his finger into the cup of a violet, and said\nto me, 'Look here, I will anoint your pilgrim's staff, so that when\nyou return to your own home and enter the king's castle, you have only\nto touch the king with your staff, and violets will spring forth and\ncover the whole of it, even in the coldest winter time; so I think I\nhave given you really something to carry home, and a little more\nthan something.'\"\n\nBut before the little mouse explained what this something more\nwas, she stretched her staff out to the king, and as it touched him\nthe most beautiful bunch of violets sprang forth and filled the\nplace with perfume. The smell was so powerful that the mouse-king\nordered the mice who stood nearest the chimney to thrust their tails\ninto the fire, that there might be a smell of burning, for the perfume\nof the violets was overpowering, and not the sort of scent that\nevery one liked.\n\n\"But what was the something more of which you spoke just now?\"\nasked the mouse-king.\n\n\"Why,\" answered the little mouse, \"I think it is what they call\n'effect;'\" and thereupon she turned the staff round, and behold not\na single flower was to be seen upon it! She now only held the naked\nskewer, and lifted it up as a conductor lifts his baton at a\nconcert. \"Violets, the elf told me,\" continued the mouse, \"are for the\nsight, the smell, and the touch; so we have only now to produce the\neffect of hearing and tasting;\" and then, as the little mouse beat\ntime with her staff, there came sounds of music, not such music as was\nheard in the forest, at the elfin feast, but such as is often heard in\nthe kitchen--the sounds of boiling and roasting. It came quite\nsuddenly, like wind rushing through the chimneys, and seemed as if\nevery pot and kettle were boiling over. The fire-shovel clattered down\non the brass fender; and then, quite as suddenly, all was still,--nothing\ncould be heard but the light, vapory song of the tea-kettle,\nwhich was quite wonderful to hear, for no one could rightly\ndistinguish whether the kettle was just beginning to boil or going\nto stop. And the little pot steamed, and the great pot simmered, but\nwithout any regard for each; indeed there seemed no sense in the\npots at all. And as the little mouse waved her baton still more\nwildly, the pots foamed and threw up bubbles, and boiled over; while\nagain the wind roared and whistled through the chimney, and at last\nthere was such a terrible hubbub, that the little mouse let her\nstick fall.\n\n\"That is a strange sort of soup,\" said the mouse-king; \"shall we\nnot now hear about the preparation?\"\n\n\"That is all,\" answered the little mouse, with a bow.\n\n\"That all!\" said the mouse-king; \"then we shall be glad to hear\nwhat information the next may have to give us.\"\n\n\nWHAT THE SECOND MOUSE HAD TO TELL\n\n\"I was born in the library, at a castle,\" said the second mouse.\n\"Very few members of our family ever had the good fortune to get\ninto the dining-room, much less the store-room. On my journey, and\nhere to-day, are the only times I have ever seen a kitchen. We were\noften obliged to suffer hunger in the library, but then we gained a\ngreat deal of knowledge. The rumor reached us of the royal prize\noffered to those who should be able to make soup from a sausage\nskewer. Then my old grandmother sought out a manuscript which,\nhowever, she could not read, but had heard it read, and in it was\nwritten, 'Those who are poets can make soup of sausage skewers.' She\nthen asked me if I was a poet. I felt myself quite innocent of any\nsuch pretensions. Then she said I must go out and make myself a\npoet. I asked again what I should be required to do, for it seemed\nto me quite as difficult as to find out how to make soup of a\nsausage skewer. My grandmother had heard a great deal of reading in\nher day, and she told me three principal qualifications were\nnecessary--understanding, imagination, and feeling. 'If you can manage\nto acquire these three, you will be a poet, and the sausage-skewer\nsoup will be quite easy to you.'\n\n\"So I went forth into the world, and turned my steps towards the\nwest, that I might become a poet. Understanding is the most\nimportant matter in everything. I knew that, for the two other\nqualifications are not thought much of; so I went first to seek for\nunderstanding. Where was I to find it? 'Go to the ant and learn\nwisdom,' said the great Jewish king. I knew that from living in a\nlibrary. So I went straight on till I came to the first great\nant-hill, and then I set myself to watch, that I might become wise.\nThe ants are a very respectable people, they are wisdom itself. All\nthey do is like the working of a sum in arithmetic, which comes right.\n'To work and to lay eggs,' say they, and to provide for posterity,\nis to live out your time properly;' and that they truly do. They are\ndivided into the clean and the dirty ants, their rank is pointed out\nby a number, and the ant-queen is number ONE; and her opinion is the\nonly correct one on everything; she seems to have the whole wisdom\nof the world in her, which was just the important matter I wished to\nacquire. She said a great deal which was no doubt very clever; yet\nto me it sounded like nonsense. She said the ant-hill was the loftiest\nthing in the world, and yet close to the mound stood a tall tree,\nwhich no one could deny was loftier, much loftier, but no mention\nwas made of the tree. One evening an ant lost herself on this tree;\nshe had crept up the stem, not nearly to the top, but higher than\nany ant had ever ventured; and when at last she returned home she said\nthat she had found something in her travels much higher than the\nant-hill. The rest of the ants considered this an insult to the\nwhole community; so she was condemned to wear a muzzle and to live\nin perpetual solitude. A short time afterwards another ant got on\nthe tree, and made the same journey and the same discovery, but she\nspoke of it cautiously and indefinitely, and as she was one of the\nsuperior ants and very much respected, they believed her, and when she\ndied they erected an eggshell as a monument to her memory, for they\ncultivated a great respect for science. I saw,\" said the little mouse,\n\"that the ants were always running to and fro with her burdens on\ntheir backs. Once I saw one of them drop her load; she gave herself\na great deal of trouble in trying to raise it again, but she could not\nsucceed. Then two others came up and tried with all their strength\nto help her, till they nearly dropped their own burdens in doing so;\nthen they were obliged to stop for a moment in their help, for every\none must think of himself first. And the ant-queen remarked that their\nconduct that day showed that they possessed kind hearts and good\nunderstanding. 'These two qualities,' she continued, 'place us ants in\nthe highest degree above all other reasonable beings. Understanding\nmust therefore be seen among us in the most prominent manner, and my\nwisdom is greater than all.' And so saying she raised herself on her\ntwo hind legs, that no one else might be mistaken for her. I could not\ntherefore make an error, so I ate her up. We are to go to the ants\nto learn wisdom, and I had got the queen.\n\n\"I now turned and went nearer to the lofty tree already mentioned,\nwhich was an oak. It had a tall trunk with a wide-spreading top, and\nwas very old. I knew that a living being dwelt here, a dryad as she is\ncalled, who is born with the tree and dies with it. I had heard this\nin the library, and here was just such a tree, and in it an\noak-maiden. She uttered a terrible scream when she caught sight of\nme so near to her; like many women, she was very much afraid of\nmice. And she had more real cause for fear than they have, for I might\nhave gnawed through the tree on which her life depended. I spoke to\nher in a kind and friendly manner, and begged her to take courage.\nAt last she took me up in her delicate hand, and then I told her\nwhat had brought me out into the world, and she promised me that\nperhaps on that very evening she should be able to obtain for me one\nof the two treasures for which I was seeking. She told me that\nPhantaesus was her very dear friend, that he was as beautiful as the\ngod of love, that he remained often for many hours with her under\nthe leafy boughs of the tree which then rustled and waved more than\never over them both. He called her his dryad, she said, and the tree\nhis tree; for the grand old oak, with its gnarled trunk, was just to\nhis taste. The root, spreading deep into the earth, the top rising\nhigh in the fresh air, knew the value of the drifted snow, the keen\nwind, and the warm sunshine, as it ought to be known. 'Yes,' continued\nthe dryad, 'the birds sing up above in the branches, and talk to\neach other about the beautiful fields they have visited in foreign\nlands; and on one of the withered boughs a stork has built his\nnest,--it is beautifully arranged, and besides it is pleasant to\nhear a little about the land of the pyramids. All this pleases\nPhantaesus, but it is not enough for him; I am obliged to relate to\nhim of my life in the woods; and to go back to my childhood, when I\nwas little, and the tree so small and delicate that a stinging-nettle\ncould overshadow it, and I have to tell everything that has happened\nsince then till now that the tree is so large and strong. Sit you\ndown now under the green bindwood and pay attention, when Phantaesus\ncomes I will find an opportunity to lay hold of his wing and to pull\nout one of the little feathers. That feather you shall have; a\nbetter was never given to any poet, it will be quite enough for you.'\n\n\"And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked, and,\" said\nthe little mouse, \"I seized and put it in water, and kept it there\ntill it was quite soft. It was very heavy and indigestible, but I\nmanaged to nibble it up at last. It is not so easy to nibble one's\nself into a poet, there are so many things to get through. Now,\nhowever, I had two of them, understanding and imagination; and through\nthese I knew that the third was to be found in the library. A great\nman has said and written that there are novels whose sole and only use\nappeared to be that they might relieve mankind of overflowing tears--a\nkind of sponge, in fact, for sucking up feelings and emotions. I\nremembered a few of these books, they had always appeared tempting\nto the appetite; they had been much read, and were so greasy, that\nthey must have absorbed no end of emotions in themselves. I retraced\nmy steps to the library, and literally devoured a whole novel, that\nis, properly speaking, the interior or soft part of it; the crust,\nor binding, I left. When I had digested not only this, but a second, I\nfelt a stirring within me; then I ate a small piece of a third\nromance, and felt myself a poet. I said it to myself, and told\nothers the same. I had head-ache and back-ache, and I cannot tell what\naches besides. I thought over all the stories that may be said to be\nconnected with sausage pegs, and all that has ever been written\nabout skewers, and sticks, and staves, and splinters came to my\nthoughts; the ant-queen must have had a wonderfully clear\nunderstanding. I remembered the man who placed a white stick in his\nmouth by which he could make himself and the stick invisible. I\nthought of sticks as hobby-horses, staves of music or rhyme, of\nbreaking a stick over a man's back, and heaven knows how many more\nphrases of the same sort relating to sticks, staves, and skewers.\nAll my thoughts rein on skewers, sticks of wood, and staves; and as\nI am, at last, a poet, and I have worked terribly hard to make\nmyself one, I can of course make poetry on anything. I shall therefore\nbe able to wait upon you every day in the week with a poetical history\nof a skewer. And that is my soup.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said the mouse-king, \"we will hear what the\nthird mouse has to say.\"\n\n\"Squeak, squeak,\" cried a little mouse at the kitchen door; it was\nthe fourth, and not the third, of the four who were contending for the\nprize, one whom the rest supposed to be dead. She shot in like an\narrow, and overturned the sausage peg that had been covered with\ncrape. She had been running day and night. She had watched an\nopportunity to get into a goods train, and had travelled by the\nrailway; and yet she had arrived almost too late. She pressed forward,\nlooking very much ruffled. She had lost her sausage skewer, but not\nher voice; for she began to speak at once as if they only waited for\nher, and would hear her only, and as if nothing else in the world\nwas of the least consequence. She spoke out so clearly and plainly,\nand she had come in so suddenly, that no one had time to stop her or\nto say a word while she was speaking. And now let us hear what she\nsaid.\n\n\nWHAT THE FOURTH MOUSE, WHO SPOKE BEFORE THE THIRD, HAD TO TELL\n\n\"I started off at once to the largest town,\" said she, \"but the\nname of it has escaped me. I have a very bad memory for names. I was\ncarried from the railway, with some forfeited goods, to the jail,\nand on arriving I made my escape, and ran into the house of the\nturnkey. The turnkey was speaking of his prisoners, especially of\none who had uttered thoughtless words. These words had given rise to\nother words, and at length they were written down and registered: 'The\nwhole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers,' said he, 'but\nthe soup may cost him his neck.'\n\n\"Now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner,\" continued\nthe little mouse, \"and I watched my opportunity, and slipped into\nhis apartment, for there is a mouse-hole to be found behind every\nclosed door. The prisoner looked pale; he had a great beard and large,\nsparkling eyes. There was a lamp burning, but the walls were so\nblack that they only looked the blacker for it. The prisoner scratched\npictures and verses with white chalk on the black walls, but I did not\nread the verses. I think he found his confinement wearisome, so that I\nwas a welcome guest. He enticed me with bread-crumbs, with\nwhistling, and with gentle words, and seemed so friendly towards me,\nthat by degrees I gained confidence in him, and we became friends;\nhe divided his bread and water with me, gave me cheese and sausage,\nand I really began to love him. Altogether, I must own that it was a\nvery pleasant intimacy. He let me run about on his hand, and on his\narm, and into his sleeve; and I even crept into his beard, and he\ncalled me his little friend. I forgot what I had come out into the\nworld for; forgot my sausage skewer which I had laid in a crack in the\nfloor--it is lying there still. I wished to stay with him always where\nI was, for I knew that if I went away the poor prisoner would have\nno one to be his friend, which is a sad thing. I stayed, but he did\nnot. He spoke to me so mournfully for the last time, gave me double as\nmuch bread and cheese as usual, and kissed his hand to me. Then he\nwent away, and never came back. I know nothing more of his history.\n\n\"The jailer took possession of me now. He said something about\nsoup from a sausage skewer, but I could not trust him. He took me in\nhis hand certainly, but it was to place me in a cage like a\ntread-mill. Oh how dreadful it was! I had to run round and round\nwithout getting any farther in advance, and only to make everybody\nlaugh. The jailer's grand-daughter was a charming little thing. She\nhad curly hair like the brightest gold, merry eyes, and such a smiling\nmouth.\n\n\"'You poor little mouse,' said she, one day as she peeped into\nmy cage, 'I will set you free.' She then drew forth the iron\nfastening, and I sprang out on the window-sill, and from thence to the\nroof. Free! free! that was all I could think of; not of the object\nof my journey. It grew dark, and as night was coming on I found a\nlodging in an old tower, where dwelt a watchman and an owl. I had no\nconfidence in either of them, least of all in the owl, which is like a\ncat, and has a great failing, for she eats mice. One may however be\nmistaken sometimes; and so was I, for this was a respectable and\nwell-educated old owl, who knew more than the watchman, and even as\nmuch as I did myself. The young owls made a great fuss about\neverything, but the only rough words she would say to them were,\n'You had better go and make some soup from sausage skewers.' She was\nvery indulgent and loving to her children. Her conduct gave me such\nconfidence in her, that from the crack where I sat I called out\n'squeak.' This confidence of mine pleased her so much that she assured\nme she would take me under her own protection, and that not a creature\nshould do me harm. The fact was, she wickedly meant to keep me in\nreserve for her own eating in winter, when food would be scarce. Yet\nshe was a very clever lady-owl; she explained to me that the\nwatchman could only hoot with the horn that hung loose at his side;\nand then she said he is so terribly proud of it, that he imagines\nhimself an owl in the tower;--wants to do great things, but only\nsucceeds in small; all soup on a sausage skewer. Then I begged the owl\nto give me the recipe for this soup. 'Soup from a sausage skewer,'\nsaid she, 'is only a proverb amongst mankind, and may be understood in\nmany ways. Each believes his own way the best, and after all, the\nproverb signifies nothing.' 'Nothing!' I exclaimed. I was quite\nstruck. Truth is not always agreeable, but truth is above everything\nelse, as the old owl said. I thought over all this, and saw quite\nplainly that if truth was really so far above everything else, it must\nbe much more valuable than soup from a sausage skewer. So I hastened\nto get away, that I might be home in time, and bring what was\nhighest and best, and above everything--namely, the truth. The mice\nare an enlightened people, and the mouse-king is above them all. He is\ntherefore capable of making me queen for the sake of truth.\"\n\n\"Your truth is a falsehood,\" said the mouse who had not yet\nspoken; \"I can prepare the soup, and I mean to do so.\"\n\n\nHOW IT WAS PREPARED\n\n\"I did not travel,\" said the third mouse; \"I stayed in this country:\nthat was the right way. One gains nothing by travelling--everything\ncan be acquired here quite as easily; so I stayed at home. I\nhave not obtained what I know from supernatural beings. I have\nneither swallowed it, nor learnt it from conversing with owls. I\nhave got it all from my reflections and thoughts. Will you now set the\nkettle on the fire--so? Now pour the water in--quite full--up to the\nbrim; place it on the fire; make up a good blaze; keep it burning,\nthat the water may boil; it must boil over and over. There, now I\nthrow in the skewer. Will the mouse-king be pleased now to dip his\ntail into the boiling water, and stir it round with the tail. The\nlonger the king stirs it, the stronger the soup will become. Nothing\nmore is necessary, only to stir it.\"\n\n\"Can no one else do this?\" asked the king.\n\n\"No,\" said the mouse; \"only in the tail of the mouse-king is\nthis power contained.\"\n\nAnd the water boiled and bubbled, as the mouse-king stood close\nbeside the kettle. It seemed rather a dangerous performance; but he\nturned round, and put out his tail, as mice do in a dairy, when they\nwish to skim the cream from a pan of milk with their tails and\nafterwards lick it off. But the mouse-king's tail had only just\ntouched the hot steam, when he sprang away from the chimney in a great\nhurry, exclaiming, \"Oh, certainly, by all means, you must be my queen;\nand we will let the soup question rest till our golden wedding,\nfifty years hence; so that the poor in my kingdom, who are then to\nhave plenty of food, will have something to look forward to for a long\ntime, with great joy.\"\n\nAnd very soon the wedding took place. But many of the mice, as\nthey were returning home, said that the soup could not be properly\ncalled \"soup from a sausage skewer,\" but \"soup from a mouse's tail.\"\nThey acknowledged also that some of the stories were very well told;\nbut that the whole could have been managed differently. \"I should have\ntold it so--and so--and so.\" These were the critics who are always\nso clever afterwards.\n\nWhen this story was circulated all over the world, the opinions\nupon it were divided; but the story remained the same. And, after all,\nthe best way in everything you undertake, great as well as small, is\nto expect no thanks for anything you may do, even when it refers to\n\"soup from a sausage skewer.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORKS\n\nOn the last house in a little village the storks had built a nest,\nand the mother stork sat in it with her four young ones, who stretched\nout their necks and pointed their black beaks, which had not yet\nturned red like those of the parent birds. A little way off, on the\nedge of the roof, stood the father stork, quite upright and stiff; not\nliking to be quite idle, he drew up one leg, and stood on the other,\nso still that it seemed almost as if he were carved in wood. \"It\nmust look very grand,\" thought he, \"for my wife to have a sentry\nguarding her nest. They do not know that I am her husband; they will\nthink I have been commanded to stand here, which is quite\naristocratic;\" and so he continued standing on one leg.\n\nIn the street below were a number of children at play, and when\nthey caught sight of the storks, one of the boldest amongst the boys\nbegan to sing a song about them, and very soon he was joined by the\nrest. These are the words of the song, but each only sang what he\ncould remember of them in his own way.\n\n  \"Stork, stork, fly away,\n  Stand not on one leg, I pray,\n  See your wife is in her nest,\n  With her little ones at rest.\n  They will hang one,\n  And fry another;\n  They will shoot a third,\n  And roast his brother.\"\n\n\n\"Just hear what those boys are singing,\" said the young storks;\n\"they say we shall be hanged and roasted.\"\n\n\"Never mind what they say; you need not listen,\" said the\nmother. \"They can do no harm.\"\n\nBut the boys went on singing and pointing at the storks, and\nmocking at them, excepting one of the boys whose name was Peter; he\nsaid it was a shame to make fun of animals, and would not join with\nthem at all. The mother stork comforted her young ones, and told\nthem not to mind. \"See,\" she said, \"How quiet your father stands,\nalthough he is only on one leg.\"\n\n\"But we are very much frightened,\" said the young storks, and they\ndrew back their heads into the nests.\n\nThe next day when the children were playing together, and saw\nthe storks, they sang the song again--\n\n  \"They will hang one,\n  And roast another.\"\n\n\n\"Shall we be hanged and roasted?\" asked the young storks.\n\n\"No, certainly not,\" said the mother. \"I will teach you to fly,\nand when you have learnt, we will fly into the meadows, and pay a\nvisit to the frogs, who will bow themselves to us in the water, and\ncry 'Croak, croak,' and then we shall eat them up; that will be fun.\"\n\n\"And what next?\" asked the young storks.\n\n\"Then,\" replied the mother, \"all the storks in the country will\nassemble together, and go through their autumn manoeuvres, so that\nit is very important for every one to know how to fly properly. If\nthey do not, the general will thrust them through with his beak, and\nkill them. Therefore you must take pains and learn, so as to be\nready when the drilling begins.\"\n\n\"Then we may be killed after all, as the boys say; and hark!\nthey are singing again.\"\n\n\"Listen to me, and not to them,\" said the mother stork. \"After the\ngreat review is over, we shall fly away to warm countries far from\nhence, where there are mountains and forests. To Egypt, where we shall\nsee three-cornered houses built of stone, with pointed tops that reach\nnearly to the clouds. They are called Pyramids, and are older than a\nstork could imagine; and in that country, there is a river that\noverflows its banks, and then goes back, leaving nothing but mire;\nthere we can walk about, and eat frogs in abundance.\"\n\n\"Oh, o--h!\" cried the young storks.\n\n\"Yes, it is a delightful place; there is nothing to do all day\nlong but eat, and while we are so well off out there, in this\ncountry there will not be a single green leaf on the trees, and the\nweather will be so cold that the clouds will freeze, and fall on the\nearth in little white rags.\" The stork meant snow, but she could not\nexplain it in any other way.\n\n\"Will the naughty boys freeze and fall in pieces?\" asked the young\nstorks.\n\n\"No, they will not freeze and fall into pieces,\" said the\nmother, \"but they will be very cold, and be obliged to sit all day\nin a dark, gloomy room, while we shall be flying about in foreign\nlands, where there are blooming flowers and warm sunshine.\"\n\nTime passed on, and the young storks grew so large that they could\nstand upright in the nest and look about them. The father brought\nthem, every day, beautiful frogs, little snakes, and all kinds of\nstork-dainties that he could find. And then, how funny it was to see\nthe tricks he would perform to amuse them. He would lay his head quite\nround over his tail, and clatter with his beak, as if it had been a\nrattle; and then he would tell them stories all about the marshes\nand fens.\n\n\"Come,\" said the mother one day, \"Now you must learn to fly.\"\nAnd all the four young ones were obliged to come out on the top of the\nroof. Oh, how they tottered at first, and were obliged to balance\nthemselves with their wings, or they would have fallen to the ground\nbelow.\n\n\"Look at me,\" said the mother, \"you must hold your heads in this\nway, and place your feet so. Once, twice, once, twice--that is it. Now\nyou will be able to take care of yourselves in the world.\"\n\nThen she flew a little distance from them, and the young ones made\na spring to follow her; but down they fell plump, for their bodies\nwere still too heavy.\n\n\"I don't want to fly,\" said one of the young storks, creeping back\ninto the nest. \"I don't care about going to warm countries.\"\n\n\"Would you like to stay here and freeze when the winter comes?\"\nsaid the mother, \"or till the boys comes to hang you, or to roast\nyou?--Well then, I'll call them.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no,\" said the young stork, jumping out on the roof with\nthe others; and now they were all attentive, and by the third day\ncould fly a little. Then they began to fancy they could soar, so\nthey tried to do so, resting on their wings, but they soon found\nthemselves falling, and had to flap their wings as quickly as\npossible. The boys came again in the street singing their song:--\n\n  \"Stork, stork, fly away.\"\n\n\n\"Shall we fly down, and pick their eyes out?\" asked the young\nstorks.\n\n\"No; leave them alone,\" said the mother. \"Listen to me; that is\nmuch more important. Now then. One-two-three. Now to the right.\nOne-two-three. Now to the left, round the chimney. There now, that was\nvery good. That last flap of the wings was so easy and graceful,\nthat I shall give you permission to fly with me to-morrow to the\nmarshes. There will be a number of very superior storks there with\ntheir families, and I expect you to show them that my children are the\nbest brought up of any who may be present. You must strut about\nproudly--it will look well and make you respected.\"\n\n\"But may we not punish those naughty boys?\" asked the young\nstorks.\n\n\"No; let them scream away as much as they like. You can fly from\nthem now up high amid the clouds, and will be in the land of the\npyramids when they are freezing, and have not a green leaf on the\ntrees or an apple to eat.\"\n\n\"We will revenge ourselves,\" whispered the young storks to each\nother, as they again joined the exercising.\n\nOf all the boys in the street who sang the mocking song about\nthe storks, not one was so determined to go on with it as he who first\nbegan it. Yet he was a little fellow not more than six years old. To\nthe young storks he appeared at least a hundred, for he was so much\nbigger than their father and mother. To be sure, storks cannot be\nexpected to know how old children and grown-up people are. So they\ndetermined to have their revenge on this boy, because he began the\nsong first and would keep on with it. The young storks were very\nangry, and grew worse as they grew older; so at last their mother\nwas obliged to promise that they should be revenged, but not until the\nday of their departure.\n\n\"We must see first, how you acquit yourselves at the grand\nreview,\" said she. \"If you get on badly there, the general will thrust\nhis beak through you, and you will be killed, as the boys said, though\nnot exactly in the same manner. So we must wait and see.\"\n\n\"You shall see,\" said the young birds, and then they took such\npains and practised so well every day, that at last it was quite a\npleasure to see them fly so lightly and prettily. As soon as the\nautumn arrived, all the storks began to assemble together before\ntaking their departure for warm countries during the winter. Then\nthe review commenced. They flew over forests and villages to show what\nthey could do, for they had a long journey before them. The young\nstorks performed their part so well that they received a mark of\nhonor, with frogs and snakes as a present. These presents were the\nbest part of the affair, for they could eat the frogs and snakes,\nwhich they very quickly did.\n\n\"Now let us have our revenge,\" they cried.\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" cried the mother stork. \"I have thought upon the\nbest way to be revenged. I know the pond in which all the little\nchildren lie, waiting till the storks come to take them to their\nparents. The prettiest little babies lie there dreaming more sweetly\nthan they will ever dream in the time to come. All parents are glad to\nhave a little child, and children are so pleased with a little brother\nor sister. Now we will fly to the pond and fetch a little baby for\neach of the children who did not sing that naughty song to make game\nof the storks.\"\n\n\"But the naughty boy, who began the song first, what shall we do\nto him?\" cried the young storks.\n\n\"There lies in the pond a little dead baby who has dreamed\nitself to death,\" said the mother. \"We will take it to the naughty\nboy, and he will cry because we have brought him a little dead\nbrother. But you have not forgotten the good boy who said it was a\nshame to laugh at animals: we will take him a little brother and\nsister too, because he was good. He is called Peter, and you shall all\nbe called Peter in future.\"\n\nSo they all did what their mother had arranged, and from that day,\neven till now, all the storks have been called Peter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORM SHAKES THE SHIELD\n\nIn the old days, when grandpapa was quite a little boy, and ran\nabout in little red breeches and a red coat, and a feather in his\ncap--for that's the costume the little boys wore in his time when they were\ndressed in their best--many things were very different from what\nthey are now. There was often a good deal of show in the streets--show\nthat we don't see nowadays, because it has been abolished as too\nold-fashioned. Still, it is very interesting to hear grandfather\ntell about it.\n\nIt must really have been a gorgeous sight to behold, in those\ndays, when the shoemaker brought over the shield, when the court-house\nwas changed. The silken flag waved to and fro, on the shield itself\na double eagle was displayed, and a big boot; the youngest lads\ncarried the \"welcome,\" and the chest of the workmen's guild, and their\nshirt-sleeves were adorned with red and white ribbons; the elder\nones carried drawn swords, each with a lemon stuck on its point. There\nwas a full band of music, and the most splendid of all the instruments\nwas the \"bird,\" as grandfather called the big stick with the\ncrescent on the top, and all manner of dingle-dangles hanging to it--a\nperfect Turkish clatter of music. The stick was lifted high in the\nair, and swung up and down till it jingled again, and quite dazzled\none's eyes when the sun shone on all its glory of gold, and silver,\nand brass.\n\nIn front of the procession ran the Harlequin, dressed in clothes\nmade of all kinds of colored patches artfully sewn together, with a\nblack face, and bells on his head like a sledge horse. He beat the\npeople with his bat, which made a great clattering without hurting\nthem, and the people would crowd together and fall back, only to\nadvance again the next moment. Little boys and girls fell over their\nown toes into the gutter, old women dispensed digs with their\nelbows, and looked sour, and took snuff. One laughed, another chatted;\nthe people thronged the windows and door-steps, and even all the\nroofs. The sun shone; and although they had a little rain too, that\nwas good for the farmer; and when they got wetted thoroughly, they\nonly thought what a blessing it was for the country.\n\nAnd what stories grandpapa could tell! As a little boy he had seen\nall these fine doings in their greatest pomp. The oldest of the\npolicemen used to make a speech from the platform on which the\nshield was hung up, and the speech was in verse, as if it had been\nmade by a poet, as, indeed it had; for three people had concocted it\ntogether, and they had first drunk a good bowl of punch, so that the\nspeech might turn out well.\n\nAnd the people gave a cheer for the speech, but they shouted\nmuch louder for the Harlequin, when he appeared in front of the\nplatform, and made a grimace at them.\n\nThe fools played the fool most admirably, and drank mead out of\nspirit-glasses, which they then flung among the crowd, by whom they\nwere caught up. Grandfather was the possessor of one of these glasses,\nwhich had been given him by a working mason, who had managed to\ncatch it. Such a scene was really very pleasant; and the shield on the\nnew court-house was hung with flowers and green wreaths.\n\n\"One never forgets a feast like that, however old one may grow,\"\nsaid grandfather. Nor did he forget it, though he saw many other grand\nspectacles in his time, and could tell about them too; but it was most\npleasant of all to hear him tell about the shield that was brought\nin the town from the old to the new court-house.\n\nOnce, when he was a little boy, grandpapa had gone with his\nparents to see this festivity. He had never yet been in the metropolis\nof the country. There were so many people in the streets, that he\nthought that the shield was being carried. There were many shields\nto be seen; a hundred rooms might have been filled with pictures, if\nthey had been hung up inside and outside. At the tailor's were\npictures of all kinds of clothing, to show that he could stitch up\npeople from the coarsest to the finest; at the tobacco manufacturer's\nwere pictures of the most charming little boys, smoking cigars,\njust as they do in reality; there were signs with painted butter,\nand herring, clerical collars, and coffins, and inscriptions\nand announcements into the bargain. A person could walk up and down\nfor a whole day through the streets, and tire himself out with looking\nat the pictures; and then he would know all about what people lived in\nthe houses, for they had hung out their shields or signs; and, as\ngrandfather said, it was a very instructive thing, in a great town, to\nknow at once who the inhabitants were.\n\nAnd this is what happened with these shields, when grandpapa\ncame to the town. He told it me himself, and he hadn't \"a rogue on his\nback,\" as mother used to tell me he had when he wanted to make me\nbelieve something outrageous, for now he looked quite trustworthy.\n\nThe first night after he came to the town had been signalized by\nthe most terrible gale ever recorded in the newspapers--a gale such as\nnone of the inhabitants had ever before experienced. The air was\ndark with flying tiles; old wood-work crashed and fell; and a\nwheelbarrow ran up the streets all alone, only to get out of the\nway. There was a groaning in the air, and a howling and a shrieking,\nand altogether it was a terrible storm. The water in the canal rose\nover the banks, for it did not know where to run. The storm swept over\nthe town, carrying plenty of chimneys with it, and more than one proud\nweathercock on a church tower had to bow, and has never got over it\nfrom that time.\n\nThere was a kind of sentry-house, where dwelt the venerable old\nsuperintendent of the fire brigade, who always arrived with the last\nengine. The storm would not leave this little sentry-house alone,\nbut must needs tear it from its fastenings, and roll it down the\nstreet; and, wonderfully enough, it stopped opposite to the door of\nthe dirty journeyman plasterer, who had saved three lives at the\nlast fire, but the sentry-house thought nothing of that.\n\nThe barber's shield, the great brazen dish, was carried away,\nand hurled straight into the embrasure of the councillor of justice;\nand the whole neighborhood said this looked almost like malice,\ninasmuch as they, and nearly all the friends of the councillor's wife,\nused to call that lady \"the Razor\" for she was so sharp that she\nknew more about other people's business than they knew about it\nthemselves.\n\nA shield with a dried salt fish painted on it flew exactly in\nfront of the door of a house where dwelt a man who wrote a\nnewspaper. That was a very poor joke perpetrated by the gale, which\nseemed to have forgotten that a man who writes in a paper is not the\nkind of person to understand any liberty taken with him; for he is a\nking in his own newspaper, and likewise in his own opinion.\n\nThe weathercock flew to the opposite house, where he perched,\nlooking the picture of malice--so the neighbors said.\n\nThe cooper's tub stuck itself up under the head of \"ladies'\ncostumes.\"\n\nThe eating-house keeper's bill of fare, which had hung at his door\nin a heavy frame, was posted by the storm over the entrance to the\ntheatre, where nobody went. \"It was a ridiculous list--horse-radish,\nsoup, and stuffed cabbage.\" And now people came in plenty.\n\nThe fox's skin, the honorable sign of the furrier, was found\nfastened to the bell-pull of a young man who always went to early\nlecture, and looked like a furled umbrella. He said he was striving\nafter truth, and was considered by his aunt \"a model and an example.\"\n\nThe inscription \"Institution for Superior Education\" was found\nnear the billiard club, which place of resort was further adorned with\nthe words, \"Children brought up by hand.\" Now, this was not at all\nwitty; but, you see, the storm had done it, and no one has any control\nover that.\n\nIt was a terrible night, and in the morning--only think!--nearly\nall the shields had changed places. In some places the inscriptions\nwere so malicious, that grandfather would not speak of them at all;\nbut I saw that he was chuckling secretly, and there may have been some\ninaccuracy in his description, after all.\n\nThe poor people in the town, and still more the strangers, were\ncontinually making mistakes in the people they wanted to see; nor\nwas this to be avoided, when they went according to the shields that\nwere hung up. Thus, for instance, some who wanted to go to a very\ngrave assembly of elderly men, where important affairs were to be\ndiscussed, found themselves in a noisy boys' school, where all the\ncompany were leaping over the chairs and tables.\n\nThere were also people who made a mistake between the church and\nthe theatre, and that was terrible indeed!\n\nSuch a storm we have never witnessed in our day; for that only\nhappened in grandpapa's time, when he was quite a little boy.\nPerhaps we shall never experience a storm of the kind, but our\ngrandchildren may; and we can only hope and pray that all may stay\nat home while the storm is moving the shields.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF A MOTHER\n\nA mother sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared\nit would die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed,\nand sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and\nthen the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little\ncreature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked\nin. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great\nhorse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was\ncold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and\nthe wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face. The little child\nhad dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the\nold man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on\nthe stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle;\nand the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her\nsick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little\nhand.\n\n\"You think I shall keep him, do you not?\" she said. \"Our all-merciful\nGod will surely not take him away from me.\"\n\nThe old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a\npeculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the\nmother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks.\nThen her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for\nthree days and nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering\nwith cold, she started up and looked round the room. The old man was\ngone, and her child--it was gone too!--the old man had taken it with\nhim. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike;\n\"whirr\" went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and\nthe clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house calling\nfor her child. Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and\nshe said to the mother, \"Death has been with you in your room. I saw\nhim hastening away with your little child; he strides faster than\nthe wind, and never brings back what he has taken away.\"\n\n\"Only tell me which way he has gone,\" said the mother; \"tell me the\nway, I will find him.\"\n\n\"I know the way,\" said the woman in the black garments; \"but\nbefore I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have\nsung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard them before. I am\nNight, and I saw your tears flow as you sang.\"\n\n\"I will sing them all to you,\" said the mother; \"but do not detain\nme now. I must overtake him, and find my child.\"\n\nBut Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and\nwrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears;\ntill at length Night said, \"Go to the right, into the dark forest of\nfir-trees; for I saw Death take that road with your little child.\"\n\nWithin the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not\nwhich to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor\nflower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the\nbranches. \"Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the thorn-bush; \"but I will not tell you which\nway he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing\nto death here, and turning to ice.\"\n\nThen she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that\nit might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great\ndrops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh green\nleaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter's night, so warm is\nthe heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush told her the\npath she must take. She came at length to a great lake, on which there\nwas neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen\nsufficiently for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough\nfor her to wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to\nfind her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of\nthe lake, which was of course impossible for any human being to do;\nbut the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might take\nplace to help her. \"You will never succeed in this,\" said the lake;\n\"let us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to\ncollect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If\nyou will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, then I will\ntake you to the large hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers\nand trees, every one of which is a human life.\"\n\n\"Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!\" said the weeping\nmother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the\ndepths of the lake, and became two costly pearls.\n\nThen the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite\nshore as if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many\nmiles in length. No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered\nwith forests and full of caves, or whether it had been built. But\nthe poor mother could not see, for she had wept her eyes into the\nlake. \"Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little\nchild?\" she asked.\n\n\"He has not arrived here yet,\" said an old gray-haired woman,\nwho was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse. \"How have you\nfound your way here? and who helped you?\"\n\n\"God has helped me,\" she replied. \"He is merciful; will you not be\nmerciful too? Where shall I find my little child?\"\n\n\"I did not know the child,\" said the old woman; \"and you are\nblind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon\ncome to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a\nlife-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look\nlike other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children's hearts\nalso beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your\nchild. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will\nhave to do?\n\n\"I have nothing to give,\" said the afflicted mother; \"but I\nwould go to the ends of the earth for you.\"\n\n\"I can give you nothing to do for me there,\" said the old woman;\n\"but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it\nis beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in\nexchange, which will be something in return.\"\n\n\"Do you ask nothing more than that?\" said she. \"I will give it\nto you with pleasure.\"\n\nAnd she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the\nwhite locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's vast\nhothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful\nprofusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like\nstrong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others\nlooking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black\ncrabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and\nplantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and\nflower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to\nmen still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts\nof the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so\nthat they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot\nto pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil,\nwith moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The\nsorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human\nheart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child's\nheart among millions of others.\n\n\"That is it,\" she cried, stretching out her hand towards a\nlittle crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.\n\n\"Do not touch the flower,\" exclaimed the old woman; \"but place\nyourself here; and when Death comes--I expect him every minute--do not\nlet him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you\nwill serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him\nafraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be\nuprooted, unless he receives permission to do so.\"\n\nThere rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the\nblind mother felt that Death had arrived.\n\n\"How did you find your way hither?\" asked he; \"how could you\ncome here faster than I have?\"\n\n\"I am a mother,\" she answered.\n\nAnd Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little\nflower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at\nsame time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of\nthe leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his\nbreath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.\n\n\"You cannot prevail against me,\" said Death.\n\n\"But a God of mercy can,\" said she.\n\n\"I only do His will,\" replied Death. \"I am his gardener. I take\nall His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of\nParadise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that\ngarden resembles, I may not tell you.\"\n\n\"Give me back my child,\" said the mother, weeping and imploring;\nand she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death,\n\"I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair.\"\n\n\"Do not touch them,\" said Death. \"You say you are unhappy; and\nwould you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?\"\n\n\"Another mother!\" cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free\nfrom her hands.\n\n\"There are your eyes,\" said Death. \"I fished them up out of the\nlake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were\nyours. Take them back--they are clearer now than before--and then look\ninto the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names\nof the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the\nwhole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were\nabout to frustrate and destroy.\"\n\nThen she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to\nbehold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much\nhappiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the\nother was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.\n\n\"Both are the will of God,\" said Death.\n\n\"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"That I may not tell you,\" said Death; \"but thus far you may\nlearn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was\nthe fate of your child that you saw,--the future of your own child.\"\n\nThen the mother screamed aloud with terror, \"Which of them belongs\nto my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it\nfrom so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of\nGod. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or\ndone.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" said Death. \"Will you have your child\nback? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know?\"\n\nThen the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed\nto God, \"Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will,\nwhich at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;\" and her\nhead sank on her bosom.\n\nThen Death carried away her child to the unknown land.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SUNBEAM AND THE CAPTIVE\n\nIt is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea.\nWe look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on the\nopposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waters\nwhich mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood is\nsharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leaves\nflutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, stands\na gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between\nis dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron\ngratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows,\nfor in these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined.\nA ray of the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the\ncaptives, for God's sun shines upon the evil and the good. The\nhardened criminal casts an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a\nlittle bird flies towards the grating, for birds twitter to the just\nas well as to the unjust. He only cries, \"Tweet, tweet,\" and then\nperches himself near the grating, flutters his wings, pecks a\nfeather from one of them, puffs himself out, and sets his feathers\non end round his breast and throat. The bad, chained man looks at him,\nand a more gentle expression comes into his hard face. In his breast\nthere rises a thought which he himself cannot rightly analyze, but the\nthought has some connection with the sunbeam, with the bird, and\nwith the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in spring at the\nfoot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the hunter's horn,\nmerry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away, the sunbeam\ngradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room and in the\nheart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that heart, and\nthe twittering of the bird has touched it.\n\nSound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter's horn; continue\nyour stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the\nsea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SWAN'S NEST\n\nBetween the Baltic and the North Sea there lies an old swan's\nnest, wherein swans are born and have been born that shall never die.\n\nIn olden times a flock of swans flew over the Alps to the green\nplains around Milan, where it was delightful to dwell. This flight\nof swans men called the Lombards.\n\nAnother flock, with shining plumage and honest eyes, soared\nsouthward to Byzantium; the swans established themselves there close\nby the Emperor's throne, and spread their wings over him as shields to\nprotect him. They received the name of Varangians.\n\nOn the coast of France there sounded a cry of fear, for the\nblood-stained swans that came from the North with fire under their\nwings; and the people prayed, \"Heaven deliver us from the wild\nNorthmen.\"\n\nOn the fresh sward of England stood the Danish swan by the open\nseashore, with the crown of three kingdoms on his head; and he\nstretched out his golden sceptre over the land. The heathens on the\nPomerian coast bent the knee, and the Danish swans came with the\nbanner of the Cross and with the drawn sword.\n\n\"That was in the very old times,\" you say.\n\nIn later days two mighty swans have been seen to fly from the\nnest. A light shone far through the air, far over the lands of the\nearth; the swan, with the strong beating of his wings, scattered the\ntwilight mists, and the starry sky was seen, and it was as if it\ncame nearer to the earth. That was the swan Tycho Brahe.\n\n\"Yes, then,\" you say; \"but in our own days?\"\n\nWe have seen swan after swan soar by in glorious flight. One let\nhis pinions glide over the strings of the golden harp, and it\nresounded through the North. Norway's mountains seemed to rise\nhigher in the sunlight of former days; there was a rustling among\nthe pine trees and the birches; the gods of the North, the heroes, and\nthe noble women, showed themselves in the dark forest depths.\n\nWe have seen a swan beat with his wings upon the marble crag, so\nthat it burst, and the forms of beauty imprisoned in the stone stepped\nout to the sunny day, and men in the lands round about lifted up their\nheads to behold these mighty forms.\n\nWe have seen a third swan spinning the thread of thought that is\nfastened from country to country round the world, so that the word may\nfly with lightning speed from land to land.\n\nAnd our Lord loves the old swan's nest between the Baltic and\nthe North Sea. And when the mighty birds come soaring through the\nair to destroy it, even the callow young stand round in a circle on\nthe margin of the nest, and though their breasts may be struck so that\ntheir blood flows, they bear it, and strike with their wings and their\nclaws.\n\nCenturies will pass by, swans will fly forth from the nest, men\nwill see them and hear them in the world, before it shall be said in\nspirit and in truth, \"This is the last swan--the last song from the\nswan's nest.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SWINEHERD\n\nOnce upon a time lived a poor prince; his kingdom was very\nsmall, but it was large enough to enable him to marry, and marry he\nwould. It was rather bold of him that he went and asked the\nemperor's daughter: \"Will you marry me?\" but he ventured to do so, for\nhis name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses\nwho would have gladly accepted him, but would she do so? Now we\nshall see.\n\nOn the grave of the prince's father grew a rose-tree, the most\nbeautiful of its kind. It bloomed only once in five years, and then it\nhad only one single rose upon it, but what a rose! It had such a sweet\nscent that one instantly forgot all sorrow and grief when one smelt\nit. He had also a nightingale, which could sing as if every sweet\nmelody was in its throat. This rose and the nightingale he wished to\ngive to the princess; and therefore both were put into big silver\ncases and sent to her.\n\nThe emperor ordered them to be carried into the great hall where\nthe princess was just playing \"Visitors are coming\" with her\nladies-in-waiting; when she saw the large cases with the presents\ntherein, she clapped her hands for joy.\n\n\"I wish it were a little pussy cat,\" she said. But then the\nrose-tree with the beautiful rose was unpacked.\n\n\"Oh, how nicely it is made,\" exclaimed the ladies.\n\n\"It is more than nice,\" said the emperor, \"it is charming.\"\n\nThe princess touched it and nearly began to cry.\n\n\"For shame, pa,\" she said, \"it is not artificial, it is natural!\"\n\n\"For shame, it is natural,\" repeated all her ladies.\n\n\"Let us first see what the other case contains before we are\nangry,\" said the emperor; then the nightingale was taken out, and it\nsang so beautifully that no one could possibly say anything unkind\nabout it.\n\n\"Superbe, charmant,\" said the ladies of the court, for they all\nprattled French, one worse than the other.\n\n\"How much the bird reminds me of the musical box of the late\nlamented empress,\" said an old courtier, \"it has exactly the same\ntone, the same execution.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" said the emperor, and began to cry like a\nlittle child.\n\n\"I hope it is not natural,\" said the princess.\n\n\"Yes, certainly it is natural,\" replied those who had brought\nthe presents.\n\n\"Then let it fly,\" said the princess, and refused to see the\nprince.\n\nBut the prince was not discouraged. He painted his face, put on\ncommon clothes, pulled his cap over his forehead, and came back.\n\n\"Good day, emperor,\" he said, \"could you not give me some\nemployment at the court?\"\n\n\"There are so many,\" replied the emperor, \"who apply for places,\nthat for the present I have no vacancy, but I will remember you. But\nwait a moment; it just comes into my mind, I require somebody to\nlook after my pigs, for I have a great many.\"\n\nThus the prince was appointed imperial swineherd, and as such he\nlived in a wretchedly small room near the pigsty; there he worked\nall day long, and when it was night he had made a pretty little pot.\nThere were little bells round the rim, and when the water began to\nboil in it, the bells began to play the old tune:\n\n  \"A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,\n  Three little piggies had she,\" &c.\n\nBut what was more wonderful was that, when one put a finger into the\nsteam rising from the pot, one could at once smell what meals they\nwere preparing on every fire in the whole town. That was indeed much\nmore remarkable than the rose. When the princess with her ladies\npassed by and heard the tune, she stopped and looked quite pleased,\nfor she also could play it--in fact, it was the only tune she could\nplay, and she played it with one finger.\n\n\"That is the tune I know,\" she exclaimed. \"He must be a\nwell-educated swineherd. Go and ask him how much the instrument is.\"\n\nOne of the ladies had to go and ask; but she put on pattens.\n\n\"What will you take for your pot?\" asked the lady.\n\n\"I will have ten kisses from the princess,\" said the swineherd.\n\n\"God forbid,\" said the lady.\n\n\"Well, I cannot sell it for less,\" replied the swineherd.\n\n\"What did he say?\" said the princess.\n\n\"I really cannot tell you,\" replied the lady.\n\n\"You can whisper it into my ear.\"\n\n\"It is very naughty,\" said the princess, and walked off.\n\nBut when she had gone a little distance, the bells rang again so\nsweetly:\n\n  \"A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,\n  Three little piggies had she,\" &c.\n\n\n\"Ask him,\" said the princess, \"if he will be satisfied with ten\nkisses from one of my ladies.\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said the swineherd: \"ten kisses from the\nprincess, or I keep my pot.\"\n\n\"That is tiresome,\" said the princess. \"But you must stand\nbefore me, so that nobody can see it.\"\n\nThe ladies placed themselves in front of her and spread out\ntheir dresses, and she gave the swineherd ten kisses and received\nthe pot.\n\nThat was a pleasure! Day and night the water in the pot was\nboiling; there was not a single fire in the whole town of which they\ndid not know what was preparing on it, the chamberlain's as well as\nthe shoemaker's. The ladies danced and clapped their hands for joy.\n\n\"We know who will eat soup and pancakes; we know who will eat\nporridge and cutlets; oh, how interesting!\"\n\n\"Very interesting, indeed,\" said the mistress of the household.\n\"But you must not betray me, for I am the emperor's daughter.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" they all said.\n\nThe swineherd--that is to say, the prince--but they did not know\notherwise than that he was a real swineherd--did not waste a single\nday without doing something; he made a rattle, which, when turned\nquickly round, played all the waltzes, galops, and polkas known\nsince the creation of the world.\n\n\"But that is superbe,\" said the princess passing by. \"I have never\nheard a more beautiful composition. Go down and ask him what the\ninstrument costs; but I shall not kiss him again.\"\n\n\"He will have a hundred kisses from the princess,\" said the\nlady, who had gone down to ask him.\n\n\"I believe he is mad,\" said the princess, and walked off, but soon\nshe stopped. \"One must encourage art,\" she said. \"I am the emperor's\ndaughter! Tell him I will give him ten kisses, as I did the other day;\nthe remainder one of my ladies can give him.\n\n\"But we do not like to kiss him,\" said the ladies.\n\n\"That is nonsense,\" said the princess; \"if I can kiss him, you can\nalso do it. Remember that I give you food and employment.\" And the\nlady had to go down once more.\n\n\"A hundred kisses from the princess,\" said the swineherd, \"or\neverybody keeps his own.\"\n\n\"Place yourselves before me,\" said the princess then. They did\nas they were bidden, and the princess kissed him.\n\n\"I wonder what that crowd near the pigsty means!\" said the\nemperor, who had just come out on his balcony. He rubbed his eyes\nand put his spectacles on.\n\n\"The ladies of the court are up to some mischief, I think. I shall\nhave to go down and see.\" He pulled up his shoes, for they were down\nat the heels, and he was very quick about it. When he had come down\ninto the courtyard he walked quite softly, and the ladies were so\nbusily engaged in counting the kisses, that all should be fair, that\nthey did not notice the emperor. He raised himself on tiptoe.\n\n\"What does this mean?\" he said, when he saw that his daughter\nwas kissing the swineherd, and then hit their heads with his shoe just\nas the swineherd received the sixty-eighth kiss.\n\n\"Go out of my sight,\" said the emperor, for he was very angry; and\nboth the princess and the swineherd were banished from the empire.\nThere she stood and cried, the swineherd scolded her, and the rain\ncame down in torrents.\n\n\"Alas, unfortunate creature that I am!\" said the princess, \"I wish\nI had accepted the prince. Oh, how wretched I am!\"\n\nThe swineherd went behind a tree, wiped his face, threw off his\npoor attire and stepped forth in his princely garments; he looked so\nbeautiful that the princess could not help bowing to him.\n\n\"I have now learnt to despise you,\" he said. \"You refused an\nhonest prince; you did not appreciate the rose and the nightingale;\nbut you did not mind kissing a swineherd for his toys; you have no one\nbut yourself to blame!\"\n\nAnd then he returned into his kingdom and left her behind. She\ncould now sing at her leisure:\n\n  \"A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,\n  Three little piggies has she,\" &c.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THISTLE'S EXPERIENCES\n\nBelonging to the lordly manor-house was beautiful, well-kept\ngarden, with rare trees and flowers; the guests of the proprietor\ndeclared their admiration of it; the people of the neighborhood,\nfrom town and country, came on Sundays and holidays, and asked\npermission to see the garden; indeed, whole schools used to pay visits\nto it.\n\nOutside the garden, by the palings at the road-side, stood a great\nmighty Thistle, which spread out in many directions from the root,\nso that it might have been called a thistle bush. Nobody looked at it,\nexcept the old Ass which drew the milk-maid's cart. This Ass used to\nstretch out his neck towards the Thistle, and say, \"You are beautiful;\nI should like to eat you!\" But his halter was not long enough to let\nhim reach it and eat it.\n\nThere was great company at the manor-house--some very noble people\nfrom the capital; young pretty girls, and among them a young lady\nwho came from a long distance. She had come from Scotland, and was\nof high birth, and was rich in land and in gold--a bride worth\nwinning, said more than one of the young gentlemen; and their lady\nmothers said the same thing.\n\nThe young people amused themselves on the lawn, and played at\nball; they wandered among the flowers, and each of the young girls\nbroke off a flower, and fastened it in a young gentleman's buttonhole.\nBut the young Scotch lady looked round, for a long time, in an\nundecided way. None of the flowers seemed to suit her taste. Then\nher eye glanced across the paling--outside stood the great thistle\nbush, with the reddish-blue, sturdy flowers; she saw them, she smiled,\nand asked the son of the house to pluck one for her.\n\n\"It is the flower of Scotland,\" she said. \"It blooms in the\nscutcheon of my country. Give me yonder flower.\"\n\nAnd he brought the fairest blossom, and pricked his fingers as\ncompletely as if it had grown on the sharpest rose bush.\n\nShe placed the thistle-flower in the buttonhole of the young\nman, and he felt himself highly honored. Each of the other young\ngentlemen would willingly have given his own beautiful flower to\nhave worn this one, presented by the fair hand of the Scottish maiden.\nAnd if the son of the house felt himself honored, what were the\nfeelings of the Thistle bush? It seemed to him as if dew and\nsunshine were streaming through him.\n\n\"I am something more than I knew of,\" said the Thistle to\nitself. \"I suppose my right place is really inside the palings, and\nnot outside. One is often strangely placed in this world; but now I\nhave at least managed to get one of my people within the pale, and\nindeed into a buttonhole!\"\n\nThe Thistle told this event to every blossom that unfolded itself,\nand not many days had gone by before the Thistle heard, not from\nmen, not from the twittering of the birds, but from the air itself,\nwhich stores up the sounds, and carries them far around--out of the\nmost retired walks of the garden, and out of the rooms of the house,\nin which doors and windows stood open, that the young gentleman who\nhad received the thistle-flower from the hand of the fair Scottish\nmaiden had also now received the heart and hand of the lady in\nquestion. They were a handsome pair--it was a good match.\n\n\"That match I made up!\" said the Thistle; and he thought of the\nflower he had given for the buttonhole. Every flower that opened heard\nof this occurrence.\n\n\"I shall certainly be transplanted into the garden,\" thought the\nThistle, \"and perhaps put into a pot, which crowds one in. That is said\nto be the greatest of all honors.\"\n\nAnd the Thistle pictured this to himself in such a lively\nmanner, that at last he said, with full conviction, \"I am to be\ntransplanted into a pot.\"\n\nThen he promised every little thistle flower which unfolded itself\nthat it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a\nbuttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of\nthem was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in\nthe sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew\nby night; bloomed--were visited by bees and hornets, who looked\nafter the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and\nleft the flower where it was.\n\n\"The thievish rabble!\" said the Thistle. \"If I could only stab\nevery one of them! But I cannot.\"\n\nThe flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new\nones came.\n\n\"You come in good time,\" said the Thistle. \"I am expecting every\nmoment to get across the fence.\"\n\nA few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and\nlistened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.\n\nThe old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the\nfield-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his\nhalter was too short, and he could not reach it.\n\nAnd the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to\nwhose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he\nhad come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the\nnational escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great\nthistle has a right to a great thought.\n\n\"One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,\"\nsaid the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he\nmight be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.\n\nAnd the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell\nfrom the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less\nscent. The gardener's boy sang in the garden, across the palings:\n\n  \"Up the hill, down the dale we wend,\n  That is life, from beginning to end.\"\n\n\nThe young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but\nit was a long time to Christmas yet.\n\n\"Here I am standing yet!\" said the Thistle. \"It is as if nobody\nthought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and\nthey have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won't take a\nsingle step-because I can't.\"\n\nA few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last\nsingle flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the\nroots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the\nflower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.\n\nOne day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden.\nThey went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.\n\n\"There's the great thistle still growing,\" she said. \"It has no\nflowers now.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still,\" said he.\nAnd he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like\na flower themselves.\n\n\"It is pretty, certainly,\" she said. \"Such an one must be carved\non the frame of our picture.\"\n\nAnd the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to\nbreak off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then\nhe had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden,\nand into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a\npicture--\"Young Couple.\" A thistle-flower was painted in the\nbuttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about\nthe thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming\nlike silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.\n\nAnd the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.\n\n\"What one can experience!\" said the Thistle Bush. \"My first born\nwas put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame.\nWhere shall I go?\"\n\nAnd the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the\nThistle.\n\n\"Come to me, my nibble darling!\" said he. \"I can't get across to\nyou.\"\n\nBut the Thistle did not answer. He became more and more\nthoughtful--kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and\nthen a flower of thought came forth.\n\n\"If the children are only good, the parents do not mind standing\noutside the garden pale.\"\n\n\"That's an honorable thought,\" said the Sunbeam. \"You shall also\nhave a good place.\"\n\n\"In a pot or in a frame?\" asked the Thistle.\n\n\"In a story,\" replied the Sunbeam.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THORNY ROAD OF HONOR\n\nAn old story yet lives of the \"Thorny Road of Honor,\" of a\nmarksman, who indeed attained to rank and office, but only after a\nlifelong and weary strife against difficulties. Who has not, in\nreading this story, thought of his own strife, and of his own numerous\n\"difficulties?\" The story is very closely akin to reality; but still\nit has its harmonious explanation here on earth, while reality often\npoints beyond the confines of life to the regions of eternity. The\nhistory of the world is like a magic lantern that displays to us, in\nlight pictures upon the dark ground of the present, how the\nbenefactors of mankind, the martyrs of genius, wandered along the\nthorny road of honor.\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\nthe company of martyrs--the company which will receive new members\nuntil the world itself shall pass away.\n\nWe look down upon a crowded amphitheatre. Out of the \"Clouds\" of\nAristophanes, satire and humor 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\nlikeness between himself and the caricature on the stage. There he\nstands before 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 honor of giving birth to Homer--that\nis to say, they contended after his death! Let us look at him\nas he was in his lifetime. He wanders on foot through the cities,\nand recites his verses for a livelihood; the thought for the morrow\nturns his hair gray! He, the great seer, is blind, and painfully\npursues his way--the sharp thorn tears the mantle of the king of\npoets. His song yet lives, and through that alone live all the\nheroes and gods of antiquity.\n\nOne picture after another springs up from the east, from the west,\nfar removed from each other in time and place, and yet each one\nforming a portion of the thorny road of honor, on which the thistle\nindeed displays a flower, but only to adorn the grave.\n\nThe camels pass along under the palm trees; they are richly\nladen with indigo and other treasures of value, sent by the ruler of\nthe land to him whose songs are the delight of the people, the fame of\nthe country. He whom envy and falsehood have driven into exile has\nbeen found, 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 honor even to the end.\n\nThe African, with blunt features, thick lips, and woolly hair,\nsits on the marble steps of the palace in the capital of Portugal, and\nbegs. He is the submissive slave of Camoens, and but for him, and\nfor the copper coins thrown to him by the passers-by, his master,\nthe poet of the \"Lusiad,\" would die of hunger. Now, a costly\nmonument marks the grave 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\nmade for centuries; and they have kept me locked up here for more than\ntwenty years!\"\n\nWho is the man?\n\n\"A madman,\" replies the keeper of the madhouse. \"What whimsical\nideas these lunatics have! He imagines that one can propel things by\nmeans of steam.\"\n\nIt is Solomon de Cares, the discoverer of the power of steam,\nwhose theory, expressed in dark words, is not understood by Richelieu;\nand 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\nof bells sounds to celebrate his triumphant return; but the clash of\nthe bells 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\nhis king--he is rewarded with iron chains. He wishes that these chains\nmay be placed in his coffin, for they witness to the world of the\nway in which a man's contemporaries reward good service.\n\nOne picture after another comes crowding on; the thorny path of\nhonor and of fame is over-filled.\n\nHere in dark night sits the man who measured the mountains in\nthe moon; he who forced his way out into the endless space, among\nstars and planets; he, the mighty man who understood the spirit of\nnature, and felt the earth moving beneath his feet--Galileo. Blind and\ndeaf he sits--an old man thrust through with the spear of suffering,\nand amid the torments of neglect, scarcely able to lift his foot--that\nfoot with which, in the anguish of his soul, when men denied the\ntruth, he stamped upon the ground, with the exclamation, \"Yet it\nmoves!\"\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\nlaws of the king. They flame up high, illuminating the period and\nthe lawgiver, and throw a glory into the dark prison tower, where an\nold man is growing gray and bent. With his finger he marks out a\ngroove in the stone table. It is the popular king who sits there, once\nthe ruler of three kingdoms, the friend of the citizen and the\npeasant. It is Christian the Second. Enemies wrote his history. Let us\nremember his improvements of seven and twenty years, if we cannot\nforget his crime.\n\nA ship sails away, quitting the Danish shores. A man leans against\nthe mast, casting a last glance towards the Island Hueen. It is\nTycho Brahe. He raised the name of Denmark to the stars, and was\nrewarded with injury, loss and sorrow. He is going to a strange\ncountry.\n\n\"The vault of heaven is above me everywhere,\" he says, \"and what\ndo I want more?\"\n\nAnd away sails the famous Dane, the astronomer, to live honored\nand free in a strange land.\n\n\"Ay, free, if only from the unbearable sufferings of the body!\"\ncomes in a sigh through time, and strikes upon our ear. What a\npicture! Griffenfeldt, a Danish Prometheus, bound to the rocky\nisland of Munkholm.\n\nWe are in America, on the margin of one of the largest rivers;\nan innumerable crowd has gathered, for it is said that a ship is to\nsail against the wind and weather, bidding defiance to the elements.\nThe man who thinks he can solve the problem is named Robert Fulton.\nThe ship begins its passage, but suddenly it stops. The crowd begins\nto laugh and whistle and hiss--the very father of the man whistles\nwith the rest.\n\n\"Conceit! Foolery!\" is the cry. \"It has happened just as he\ndeserved. Put the crack-brain under lock and key!\"\n\nThen suddenly a little nail breaks, which had stopped the\nmachine for a few moments; and now the wheels turn again, the floats\nbreak the force of the waters, and the ship continues its course;\nand the beam of the steam engine shortens the distance between far\nlands from hours into 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 one's\nown fault--is changed into health and strength and clearness--when\ndiscord is converted to harmony--the minute in which men seem to\nrecognize the manifestation of the heavenly grace in one man, and feel\nhow this one imparts it to all?\n\nThus the thorny path of honor 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 honor, which does not, like a fairy tale, end in brilliancy and joy\nhere on earth, but stretches out beyond all time, even into eternity!\n\n\n\n\nIN A THOUSAND YEARS\n\nYes, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam\nthrough the air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America will\nbecome visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the\nmonuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as\nwe in our time make pilgrimages to the tottering splendors of Southern\nAsia. In a thousand years they will come!\n\nThe Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course,\nMont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the Northern\nLights gleam over the land of the North; but generation after\ngeneration has become dust, whole rows of the mighty of the moment are\nforgotten, like those who already slumber under the hill on which\nthe rich trader, whose ground it is, has built a bench, on which he\ncan sit and look out across 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\nthe transit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire under\nthe ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan.\nEurope is in sight. It is the coast of Ireland that they see, but\nthe passengers 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\nour time does not know, but who will be born after our time in\nParis, the centre of Europe, and elsewhere.\n\nThe air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went\nforth, where Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang dramas in\nsounding verse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in the\nblooming valleys, and the oldest songs speak of the Cid and the\nAlhambra.\n\nThen through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once lay\nold, everlasting Rome. It has vanished! The Campagna lies desert. A\nsingle ruined wall is shown as the remains of St. Peter's, but there\nis a doubt if this ruin be genuine.\n\nNext to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top\nof Mount 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\nwhich we in our time know not, the travellers pass; but here and\nthere, on the rich sites of those that time shall bring forth, the\ncaravan sometimes descends, and departs thence again.\n\nDown below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of\nrailway and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe\nsang, and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony. Great names shine\nthere, in science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day\ndevoted to seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of\nOersted and Linnaeus, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and\nthe young Normans. Iceland is visited on the journey home. The geysers\nburn no more, Hecla is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is\nstill fixed in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of\nlegend and poetry.\n\n\"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe,\" says the\nyoung American, \"and we have seen it in a week, according to the\ndirections of the great traveller\" (and here he mentions the name of\none of his contemporaries) \"in his celebrated work, 'How to See All\nEurope in a Week.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRAVE TIN SOLDIER\n\nThere were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were all\nbrothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon. They\nshouldered arms and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid\nuniform, red and blue. The first thing in the world they ever heard\nwere the words, \"Tin soldiers!\" uttered by a little boy, who clapped\nhis hands with delight when the lid of the box, in which they lay, was\ntaken off. They were given him for a birthday present, and he stood at\nthe table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly alike,\nexcepting one, who had only one leg; he had been left to the last, and\nthen there was not enough of the melted tin to finish him, so they\nmade him to stand firmly on one leg, and this caused him to be very\nremarkable.\n\nThe table on which the tin soldiers stood, was covered with\nother playthings, but the most attractive to the eye was a pretty\nlittle paper castle. Through the small windows the rooms could be\nseen. In front of the castle a number of little trees surrounded a\npiece of looking-glass, which was intended to represent a\ntransparent lake. Swans, made of wax, swam on the lake, and were\nreflected in it. All this was very pretty, but the prettiest of all\nwas a tiny little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she,\nalso, was made of paper, and she wore a dress of clear muslin, with\na narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders just like a scarf. In front of\nthese was fixed a glittering tinsel rose, as large as her whole\nface. The little lady was a dancer, and she stretched out both her\narms, and raised one of her legs so high, that the tin soldier could\nnot see it at all, and he thought that she, like himself, had only one\nleg. \"That is the wife for me,\" he thought; \"but she is too grand, and\nlives in a castle, while I have only a box to live in, five-and-twenty\nof us altogether, that is no place for her. Still I must try and\nmake her acquaintance.\" Then he laid himself at full length on the\ntable behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could peep\nat the little delicate lady, who continued to stand on one leg without\nlosing her balance. When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all\nplaced in the box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the\nplaythings began to have their own games together, to pay visits, to\nhave sham fights, and to give balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their\nbox; they wanted to get out and join the amusements, but they could\nnot open the lid. The nut-crackers played at leap-frog, and the pencil\njumped about the table. There was such a noise that the canary woke up\nand began to talk, and in poetry too. Only the tin soldier and the\ndancer remained in their places. She stood on tiptoe, with her legs\nstretched out, as firmly as he did on his one leg. He never took his\neyes from her for even a moment. The clock struck twelve, and, with\na bounce, up sprang the lid of the snuff-box; but, instead of snuff,\nthere jumped up a little black goblin; for the snuff-box was a toy\npuzzle.\n\n\"Tin soldier,\" said the goblin, \"don't wish for what does not\nbelong to you.\"\n\nBut the tin soldier pretended not to hear.\n\n\"Very well; wait till to-morrow, then,\" said the goblin.\n\nWhen the children came in the next morning, they placed the tin\nsoldier in the window. Now, whether it was the goblin who did it, or\nthe draught, is not known, but the window flew open, and out fell\nthe tin soldier, heels over head, from the third story, into the\nstreet beneath. It was a terrible fall; for he came head downwards,\nhis helmet and his bayonet stuck in between the flagstones, and his\none leg up in the air. The servant maid and the little boy went down\nstairs directly to look for him; but he was nowhere to be seen,\nalthough once they nearly trod upon him. If he had called out, \"Here I\nam,\" it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out for\nhelp while he wore a uniform.\n\nPresently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and\nfaster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two boys\nhappened to pass by, and one of them said, \"Look, there is a tin\nsoldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in.\"\n\nSo they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin soldier\nin it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while the two boys ran by\nthe side of it, and clapped their hands. Good gracious, what large\nwaves arose in that gutter! and how fast the stream rolled on! for the\nrain had been very heavy. The paper boat rocked up and down, and\nturned itself round sometimes so quickly that the tin soldier\ntrembled; yet he remained firm; his countenance did not change; he\nlooked straight before him, and shouldered his musket. Suddenly the\nboat shot under a bridge which formed a part of a drain, and then it\nwas as dark as the tin soldier's box.\n\n\"Where am I going now?\" thought he. \"This is the black goblin's\nfault, I am sure. Ah, well, if the little lady were only here with\nme in the boat, I should not care for any darkness.\"\n\nSuddenly there appeared a great water-rat, who lived in the drain.\n\n\"Have you a passport?\" asked the rat, \"give it to me at once.\" But\nthe tin soldier remained silent and held his musket tighter than ever.\nThe boat sailed on and the rat followed it. How he did gnash his teeth\nand cry out to the bits of wood and straw, \"Stop him, stop him; he has\nnot paid toll, and has not shown his pass.\" But the stream rushed on\nstronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already see daylight\nshining where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound quite\nterrible enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the\ntunnel the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place, which\nmade it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to us. He was too\nclose to it to stop, so the boat rushed on, and the poor tin soldier\ncould only hold himself as stiffly as possible, without moving an\neyelid, to show that he was not afraid. The boat whirled round three\nor four times, and then filled with water to the very edge; nothing\ncould save it from sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water,\nwhile deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and\nloose with the wet, till at last the water closed over the soldier's\nhead. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should never see\nagain, and the words of the song sounded in his ears--\n\n  \"Farewell, warrior! ever brave,\n  Drifting onward to thy grave.\"\n\n\nThen the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank into\nthe water and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by a great fish.\nOh how dark it was inside the fish! A great deal darker than in the\ntunnel, and narrower too, but the tin soldier continued firm, and\nlay at full length shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro,\nmaking the most wonderful movements, but at last he became quite\nstill. After a while, a flash of lightning seemed to pass through him,\nand then the daylight approached, and a voice cried out, \"I declare\nhere is the tin soldier.\" The fish had been caught, taken to the\nmarket and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen and cut him\nopen with a large knife. She picked up the soldier and held him by the\nwaist between her finger and thumb, and carried him into the room.\nThey were all anxious to see this wonderful soldier who had\ntravelled about inside a fish; but he was not at all proud. They\nplaced him on the table, and--how many curious things do happen in the\nworld!--there he was in the very same room from the window of which he\nhad fallen, there were the same children, the same playthings,\nstanding on the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little\ndancer at the door; she still balanced herself on one leg, and held up\nthe other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched the tin soldier\nso much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them\nback. He only looked at her and they both remained silent. Presently\none of the little boys took up the tin soldier, and threw him into the\nstove. He had no reason for doing so, therefore it must have been\nthe fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box. The flames\nlighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very terrible,\nbut whether it proceeded from the real fire or from the fire of love\nhe could not tell. Then he could see that the bright colors were faded\nfrom his uniform, but whether they had been washed off during his\njourney or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say. He looked\nat the little lady, and she looked at him. He felt himself melting\naway, but he still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder.\nSuddenly the door of the room flew open and the draught of air\ncaught up the little dancer, she fluttered like a sylph right into the\nstove by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in flames\nand was gone. The tin soldier melted down into a lump, and the next\nmorning, when the maid servant took the ashes out of the stove, she\nfound him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer\nnothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a\ncinder.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TINDER-BOX\n\nA soldier came marching along the high road: \"Left, right--left,\nright.\" He had his knapsack on his back, and a sword at his side; he\nhad been to the wars, and was now returning home.\n\nAs he walked on, he met a very frightful-looking old witch in\nthe road. Her under-lip hung quite down on her breast, and she stopped\nand said, \"Good evening, soldier; you have a very fine sword, and a\nlarge knapsack, and you are a real soldier; so you shall have as\nmuch money as ever you like.\"\n\n\"Thank you, old witch,\" said the soldier.\n\n\"Do you see that large tree,\" said the witch, pointing to a tree\nwhich stood beside them. \"Well, it is quite hollow inside, and you\nmust climb to the top, when you will see a hole, through which you can\nlet yourself down into the tree to a great depth. I will tie a rope\nround your body, so that I can pull you up again when you call out\nto me.\"\n\n\"But what am I to do, down there in the tree?\" asked the soldier.\n\n\"Get money,\" she replied; \"for you must know that when you reach\nthe ground under the tree, you will find yourself in a large hall,\nlighted up by three hundred lamps; you will then see three doors,\nwhich can be easily opened, for the keys are in all the locks. On\nentering the first of the chambers, to which these doors lead, you\nwill see a large chest, standing in the middle of the floor, and\nupon it a dog seated, with a pair of eyes as large as teacups. But you\nneed not be at all afraid of him; I will give you my blue checked\napron, which you must spread upon the floor, and then boldly seize\nhold of the dog, and place him upon it. You can then open the chest,\nand take from it as many pence as you please, they are only copper\npence; but if you would rather have silver money, you must go into the\nsecond chamber. Here you will find another dog, with eyes as big as\nmill-wheels; but do not let that trouble you. Place him upon my apron,\nand then take what money you please. If, however, you like gold\nbest, enter the third chamber, where there is another chest full of\nit. The dog who sits on this chest is very dreadful; his eyes are as\nbig as a tower, but do not mind him. If he also is placed upon my\napron, he cannot hurt you, and you may take from the chest what gold\nyou will.\"\n\n\"This is not a bad story,\" said the soldier; \"but what am I to\ngive you, you old witch? for, of course, you do not mean to tell me\nall this for nothing.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the witch; \"but I do not ask for a single penny. Only\npromise to bring me an old tinder-box, which my grandmother left\nbehind the last time she went down there.\"\n\n\"Very well; I promise. Now tie the rope round my body.\"\n\n\"Here it is,\" replied the witch; \"and here is my blue checked\napron.\"\n\nAs soon as the rope was tied, the soldier climbed up the tree, and\nlet himself down through the hollow to the ground beneath; and here he\nfound, as the witch had told him, a large hall, in which many\nhundred lamps were all burning. Then he opened the first door. \"Ah!\"\nthere sat the dog, with the eyes as large as teacups, staring at him.\n\n\"You're a pretty fellow,\" said the soldier, seizing him, and\nplacing him on the witch's apron, while he filled his pockets from the\nchest with as many pieces as they would hold. Then he closed the\nlid, seated the dog upon it again, and walked into another chamber,\nAnd, sure enough, there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels.\n\n\"You had better not look at me in that way,\" said the soldier;\n\"you will make your eyes water;\" and then he seated him also upon\nthe apron, and opened the chest. But when he saw what a quantity of\nsilver money it contained, he very quickly threw away all the\ncoppers he had taken, and filled his pockets and his knapsack with\nnothing but silver.\n\nThen he went into the third room, and there the dog was really\nhideous; his eyes were, truly, as big as towers, and they turned round\nand round in his head like wheels.\n\n\"Good morning,\" said the soldier, touching his cap, for he had\nnever seen such a dog in his life. But after looking at him more\nclosely, he thought he had been civil enough, so he placed him on\nthe floor, and opened the chest. Good gracious, what a quantity of\ngold there was! enough to buy all the sugar-sticks of the\nsweet-stuff women; all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking-horses\nin the world, or even the whole town itself There was, indeed, an\nimmense quantity. So the soldier now threw away all the silver money\nhe had taken, and filled his pockets and his knapsack with gold\ninstead; and not only his pockets and his knapsack, but even his cap\nand boots, so that he could scarcely walk.\n\nHe was really rich now; so he replaced the dog on the chest,\nclosed the door, and called up through the tree, \"Now pull me out, you\nold witch.\"\n\n\"Have you got the tinder-box?\" asked the witch.\n\n\"No; I declare I quite forgot it.\" So he went back and fetched the\ntinderbox, and then the witch drew him up out of the tree, and he\nstood again in the high road, with his pockets, his knapsack, his cap,\nand his boots full of gold.\n\n\"What are you going to do with the tinder-box?\" asked the soldier.\n\n\"That is nothing to you,\" replied the witch; \"you have the\nmoney, now give me the tinder-box.\"\n\n\"I tell you what,\" said the soldier, \"if you don't tell me what\nyou are going to do with it, I will draw my sword and cut off your\nhead.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the witch.\n\nThe soldier immediately cut off her head, and there she lay on the\nground. Then he tied up all his money in her apron, and slung it on\nhis back like a bundle, put the tinderbox in his pocket, and walked\noff to the nearest town. It was a very nice town, and he put up at the\nbest inn, and ordered a dinner of all his favorite dishes, for now\nhe was rich and had plenty of money.\n\nThe servant, who cleaned his boots, thought they certainly were\na shabby pair to be worn by such a rich gentleman, for he had not\nyet bought any new ones. The next day, however, he procured some\ngood clothes and proper boots, so that our soldier soon became known\nas a fine gentleman, and the people visited him, and told him all\nthe wonders that were to be seen in the town, and of the king's\nbeautiful daughter, the princess.\n\n\"Where can I see her?\" asked the soldier.\n\n\"She is not to be seen at all,\" they said; \"she lives in a large\ncopper castle, surrounded by walls and towers. No one but the king\nhimself can pass in or out, for there has been a prophecy that she\nwill marry a common soldier, and the king cannot bear to think of such\na marriage.\"\n\n\"I should like very much to see her,\" thought the soldier; but\nhe could not obtain permission to do so. However, he passed a very\npleasant time; went to the theatre, drove in the king's garden, and\ngave a great deal of money to the poor, which was very good of him; he\nremembered what it had been in olden times to be without a shilling.\nNow he was rich, had fine clothes, and many friends, who all\ndeclared he was a fine fellow and a real gentleman, and all this\ngratified him exceedingly. But his money would not last forever; and\nas he spent and gave away a great deal daily, and received none, he\nfound himself at last with only two shillings left. So he was\nobliged to leave his elegant rooms, and live in a little garret\nunder the roof, where he had to clean his own boots, and even mend\nthem with a large needle. None of his friends came to see him, there\nwere too many stairs to mount up. One dark evening, he had not even\na penny to buy a candle; then all at once he remembered that there was\na piece of candle stuck in the tinder-box, which he had brought from\nthe old tree, into which the witch had helped him.\n\nHe found the tinder-box, but no sooner had he struck a few\nsparks from the flint and steel, than the door flew open and the dog\nwith eyes as big as teacups, whom he had seen while down in the\ntree, stood before him, and said, \"What orders, master?\"\n\n\"Hallo,\" said the soldier; \"well this is a pleasant tinderbox,\nif it brings me all I wish for.\"\n\n\"Bring me some money,\" said he to the dog.\n\nHe was gone in a moment, and presently returned, carrying a\nlarge bag of coppers in his month. The soldier very soon discovered\nafter this the value of the tinder-box. If he struck the flint once,\nthe dog who sat on the chest of copper money made his appearance; if\ntwice, the dog came from the chest of silver; and if three times,\nthe dog with eyes like towers, who watched over the gold. The\nsoldier had now plenty of money; he returned to his elegant rooms, and\nreappeared in his fine clothes, so that his friends knew him again\ndirectly, and made as much of him as before.\n\nAfter a while he began to think it was very strange that no one\ncould get a look at the princess. \"Every one says she is very\nbeautiful,\" thought he to himself; \"but what is the use of that if she\nis to be shut up in a copper castle surrounded by so many towers.\nCan I by any means get to see her. Stop! where is my tinder-box?\" Then\nhe struck a light, and in a moment the dog, with eyes as big as\nteacups, stood before him.\n\n\"It is midnight,\" said the soldier, \"yet I should very much like\nto see the princess, if only for a moment.\"\n\nThe dog disappeared instantly, and before the soldier could even\nlook round, he returned with the princess. She was lying on the\ndog's back asleep, and looked so lovely, that every one who saw her\nwould know she was a real princess. The soldier could not help kissing\nher, true soldier as he was. Then the dog ran back with the\nprincess; but in the morning, while at breakfast with the king and\nqueen, she told them what a singular dream she had had during the\nnight, of a dog and a soldier, that she had ridden on the dog's\nback, and been kissed by the soldier.\n\n\"That is a very pretty story, indeed,\" said the queen. So the next\nnight one of the old ladies of the court was set to watch by the\nprincess's bed, to discover whether it really was a dream, or what\nelse it might be.\n\nThe soldier longed very much to see the princess once more, so\nhe sent for the dog again in the night to fetch her, and to run with\nher as fast as ever he could. But the old lady put on water boots, and\nran after him as quickly as he did, and found that he carried the\nprincess into a large house. She thought it would help her to remember\nthe place if she made a large cross on the door with a piece of chalk.\nThen she went home to bed, and the dog presently returned with the\nprincess. But when he saw that a cross had been made on the door of\nthe house, where the soldier lived, he took another piece of chalk and\nmade crosses on all the doors in the town, so that the lady-in-waiting\nmight not be able to find out the right door.\n\nEarly the next morning the king and queen accompanied the lady and\nall the officers of the household, to see where the princess had been.\n\n\"Here it is,\" said the king, when they came to the first door with\na cross on it.\n\n\"No, my dear husband, it must be that one,\" said the queen, pointing\nto a second door having a cross also.\n\n\"And here is one, and there is another!\" they all exclaimed; for\nthere were crosses on all the doors in every direction.\n\nSo they felt it would be useless to search any farther. But the\nqueen was a very clever woman; she could do a great deal more than\nmerely ride in a carriage. She took her large gold scissors, cut a\npiece of silk into squares, and made a neat little bag. This bag she\nfilled with buckwheat flour, and tied it round the princess's neck;\nand then she cut a small hole in the bag, so that the flour might be\nscattered on the ground as the princess went along. During the\nnight, the dog came again and carried the princess on his back, and\nran with her to the soldier, who loved her very much, and wished\nthat he had been a prince, so that he might have her for a wife. The\ndog did not observe how the flour ran out of the bag all the way\nfrom the castle wall to the soldier's house, and even up to the\nwindow, where he had climbed with the princess. Therefore in the\nmorning the king and queen found out where their daughter had been,\nand the soldier was taken up and put in prison. Oh, how dark and\ndisagreeable it was as he sat there, and the people said to him,\n\"To-morrow you will be hanged.\" It was not very pleasant news, and\nbesides, he had left the tinder-box at the inn. In the morning he\ncould see through the iron grating of the little window how the people\nwere hastening out of the town to see him hanged; he heard the drums\nbeating, and saw the soldiers marching. Every one ran out to look at\nthem, and a shoemaker's boy, with a leather apron and slippers on,\ngalloped by so fast, that one of his slippers flew off and struck\nagainst the wall where the soldier sat looking through the iron\ngrating. \"Hallo, you shoemaker's boy, you need not be in such a\nhurry,\" cried the soldier to him. \"There will be nothing to see till I\ncome; but if you will run to the house where I have been living, and\nbring me my tinder-box, you shall have four shillings, but you must\nput your best foot foremost.\"\n\nThe shoemaker's boy liked the idea of getting the four\nshillings, so he ran very fast and fetched the tinder-box, and gave it\nto the soldier. And now we shall see what happened. Outside the town a\nlarge gibbet had been erected, round which stood the soldiers and\nseveral thousands of people. The king and the queen sat on splendid\nthrones opposite to the judges and the whole council. The soldier\nalready stood on the ladder; but as they were about to place the\nrope around his neck, he said that an innocent request was often\ngranted to a poor criminal before he suffered death. He wished very\nmuch to smoke a pipe, as it would be the last pipe he should ever\nsmoke in the world. The king could not refuse this request, so the\nsoldier took his tinder-box, and struck fire, once, twice, thrice,--and\nthere in a moment stood all the dogs;--the one with eyes as big as\nteacups, the one with eyes as large as mill-wheels, and the third,\nwhose eyes were like towers. \"Help me now, that I may not be\nhanged,\" cried the soldier.\n\nAnd the dogs fell upon the judges and all the councillors;\nseized one by the legs, and another by the nose, and tossed them\nmany feet high in the air, so that they fell down and were dashed to\npieces.\n\n\"I will not be touched,\" said the king. But the largest dog seized\nhim, as well as the queen, and threw them after the others. Then the\nsoldiers and all the people were afraid, and cried, \"Good soldier, you\nshall be our king, and you shall marry the beautiful princess.\"\n\nSo they placed the soldier in the king's carriage, and the three\ndogs ran on in front and cried \"Hurrah!\" and the little boys\nwhistled through their fingers, and the soldiers presented arms. The\nprincess came out of the copper castle, and became queen, which was\nvery pleasing to her. The wedding festivities lasted a whole week, and\nthe dogs sat at the table, and stared with all their eyes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOAD\n\nThe well was deep, and therefore the rope had to be a long one; it\nwas heavy work turning the handle when any one had to raise a\nbucketful of water over the edge of the well. Though the water was\nclear, the sun never looked down far enough into the well to mirror\nitself in the waters; but as far as its beams could reach, green\nthings grew forth between the stones in the sides of the well.\n\nDown below dwelt a family of the Toad race. They had, in fact,\ncome head-over-heels down the well, in the person of the old\nMother-Toad, who was still alive. The green Frogs, who had been\nestablished there a long time, and swam about in the water, called\nthem \"well-guests.\" But the new-comers seemed determined to stay where\nthey were, for they found it very agreeable living \"in a dry place,\"\nas they called the wet stones.\n\nThe Mother-Frog had once been a traveller. She happened to be in\nthe water-bucket when it was drawn up, but the light became too strong\nfor her, and she got a pain in her eyes. Fortunately she scrambled out\nof the bucket; but she fell into the water with a terrible flop, and\nhad to lie sick for three days with pains in her back. She certainly\nhad not much to tell of the things up above, but she knew this, and\nall the Frogs knew it, that the well was not all the world. The\nMother-Toad might have told this and that, if she had chosen, but\nshe never answered when they asked her anything, and so they left\noff asking.\n\n\"She's thick, and fat and ugly,\" said the young green Frogs;\n\"and her children will be just as ugly as she is.\"\n\n\"That may be,\" retorted the mother-Toad, \"but one of them has a\njewel in his head, or else I have the jewel.\"\n\nThe young frogs listened and stared; and as these words did not\nplease them, they made grimaces and dived down under the water. But\nthe little Toads kicked up their hind legs from mere pride, for each\nof them thought that he must have the jewel; and then they sat and\nheld their heads quite still. But at length they asked what it was\nthat made them so proud, and what kind of a thing a jewel might be.\n\n\"Oh, it is such a splendid and precious thing, that I cannot\ndescribe it,\" said the Mother-Toad. \"It's something which one\ncarries about for one's own pleasure, and that makes other people\nangry. But don't ask me any questions, for I shan't answer you.\"\n\n\"Well, I haven't got the jewel,\" said the smallest of the Toads;\nshe was as ugly as a toad can be. \"Why should I have such a precious\nthing? And if it makes others angry, it can't give me any pleasure.\nNo, I only wish I could get to the edge of the well, and look out;\nit must be beautiful up there.\"\n\n\"You'd better stay where you are,\" said the old Mother-Toad,\n\"for you know everything here, and you can tell what you have. Take\ncare of the bucket, for it will crush you to death; and even if you\nget into it safely, you may fall out. And it's not every one who falls\nso cleverly as I did, and gets away with whole legs and whole bones.\n\n\"Quack!\" said the little Toad; and that's just as if one of us\nwere to say, \"Aha!\"\n\nShe had an immense desire to get to the edge of the well, and to\nlook over; she felt such a longing for the green, up there; and the\nnext morning, when it chanced that the bucket was being drawn up,\nfilled with water, and stopped for a moment just in front of the stone\non which the Toad sat, the little creature's heart moved within it,\nand our Toad jumped into the filled bucket, which presently was\ndrawn to the top, and emptied out.\n\n\"Ugh, you beast!\" said the farm laborer who emptied the bucket,\nwhen he saw the toad. \"You're the ugliest thing I've seen for one\nwhile.\" And he made a kick with his wooden shoe at the toad, which\njust escaped being crushed by managing to scramble into the nettles\nwhich grew high by the well's brink. Here she saw stem by stem, but\nshe looked up also; the sun shone through the leaves, which were quite\ntransparent; and she felt as a person would feel who steps suddenly\ninto a great forest, where the sun looks in between the branches and\nleaves.\n\n\"It's much nicer here than down in the well! I should like to stay\nhere my whole life long!\" said the little Toad. So she lay there for\nan hour, yes, for two hours. \"I wonder what is to be found up here? As\nI have come so far, I must try to go still farther.\" And so she\ncrawled on as fast as she could crawl, and got out upon the highway,\nwhere the sun shone upon her, and the dust powdered her all over as\nshe marched across the way.\n\n\"I've got to a dry place now, and no mistake,\" said the Toad.\n\"It's almost too much of a good thing here; it tickles one so.\"\n\nShe came to the ditch; and forget-me-nots were growing there,\nand meadow-sweet; and a very little way off was a hedge of whitethorn,\nand elder bushes grew there, too, and bindweed with white flowers. Gay\ncolors were to be seen here, and a butterfly, too, was flitting by.\nThe Toad thought it was a flower which had broken loose that it\nmight look about better in the world, which was quite a natural\nthing to do.\n\n\"If one could only make such a journey as that!\" said the Toad.\n\"Croak! how capital that would be.\"\n\nEight days and eight nights she stayed by the well, and\nexperienced no want of provisions. On the ninth day she thought,\n\"Forward! onward!\" But what could she find more charming and\nbeautiful? Perhaps a little toad or a few green frogs. During the last\nnight there had been a sound borne on the breeze, as if there were\ncousins in the neighborhood.\n\n\"It's a glorious thing to live! glorious to get out of the well,\nand to lie among the stinging-nettles, and to crawl along the dusty\nroad. But onward, onward! that we may find frogs or a little toad.\nWe can't do without that; nature alone is not enough for one.\" And\nso she went forward on her journey.\n\nShe came out into the open field, to a great pond, round about\nwhich grew reeds; and she walked into it.\n\n\"It will be too damp for you here,\" said the Frogs; \"but you are\nvery welcome! Are you a he or a she? But it doesn't matter; you are\nequally welcome.\"\n\nAnd she was invited to the concert in the evening--the family\nconcert; great enthusiasm and thin voices; we know the sort of\nthing. No refreshments were given, only there was plenty to drink, for\nthe whole pond was free.\n\n\"Now I shall resume my journey,\" said the little Toad; for she\nalways felt a longing for something better.\n\nShe saw the stars shining, so large and so bright, and she saw the\nmoon gleaming; and then she saw the sun rise, and mount higher and\nhigher.\n\n\"Perhaps after all, I am still in a well, only in a larger well. I\nmust get higher yet; I feel a great restlessness and longing.\" And\nwhen the moon became round and full, the poor creature thought, \"I\nwonder if that is the bucket which will be let down, and into which\nI must step to get higher up? Or is the sun the great bucket? How\ngreat it is! how bright it is! It can take up all. I must look out,\nthat I may not miss the opportunity. Oh, how it seems to shine in my\nhead! I don't think the jewel can shine brighter. But I haven't the\njewel; not that I cry about that--no, I must go higher up, into\nsplendor and joy! I feel so confident, and yet I am afraid. It's a\ndifficult step to take, and yet it must be taken. Onward, therefore,\nstraight onward!\"\n\nShe took a few steps, such as a crawling animal may take, and soon\nfound herself on a road beside which people dwelt; but there were\nflower gardens as well as kitchen gardens. And she sat down to rest by\na kitchen garden.\n\n\"What a number of different creatures there are that I never knew!\nand how beautiful and great the world is! But one must look round in\nit, and not stay in one spot.\" And then she hopped into the kitchen\ngarden. \"How green it is here! how beautiful it is here!\"\n\n\"I know that,\" said the Caterpillar, on the leaf, \"my leaf is\nthe largest here. It hides half the world from me, but I don't care\nfor the world.\"\n\n\"Cluck, cluck!\" And some fowls came. They tripped about in the\ncabbage garden. The Fowl who marched at the head of them had a long\nsight, and she spied the Caterpillar on the green leaf, and pecked\nat it, so that the Caterpillar fell on the ground, where it twisted\nand writhed.\n\nThe Fowl looked at it first with one eye and then with the\nother, for she did not know what the end of this writhing would be.\n\n\"It doesn't do that with a good will,\" thought the Fowl, and\nlifted up her head to peck at the Caterpillar.\n\nThe Toad was so horrified at this, that she came crawling straight\nup towards the Fowl.\n\n\"Aha, it has allies,\" quoth the Fowl. \"Just look at the crawling\nthing!\" And then the Fowl turned away. \"I don't care for the little\ngreen morsel; it would only tickle my throat.\" The other fowls took\nthe same view of it, and they all turned away together.\n\n\"I writhed myself free,\" said the Caterpillar. \"What a good\nthing it is when one has presence of mind! But the hardest thing\nremains to be done, and that is to get on my leaf again. Where is it?\"\n\nAnd the little Toad came up and expressed her sympathy. She was\nglad that in her ugliness she had frightened the fowls.\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" cried the Caterpillar. \"I wriggled\nmyself free from the Fowl. You are very disagreeable to look at.\nCannot I be left in peace on my own property? Now I smell cabbage; now\nI am near my leaf. Nothing is so beautiful as property. But I must\ngo higher up.\"\n\n\"Yes, higher up,\" said the little Toad; \"higher-up! She feels just\nas I do; but she's not in a good humor to-day. That's because of the\nfright. We all want to go higher up.\" And she looked up as high as\never she could.\n\nThe stork sat in his nest on the roof of the farm-house. He\nclapped with his beak, and the Mother-stork clapped with hers.\n\n\"How high up they live!\" thought the Toad. \"If one could only\nget as high as that!\"\n\nIn the farm-house lived two young students; the one was a poet and\nthe other a scientific searcher into the secrets of nature. The one\nsang and wrote joyously of everything that God had created, and how it\nwas mirrored in his heart. He sang it out clearly, sweetly, richly, in\nwell-sounding verses; while the other investigated created matter\nitself, and even cut it open where need was. He looked upon God's\ncreation as a great sum in arithmetic--subtracted, multiplied, and\ntried to know it within and without, and to talk with understanding\nconcerning it; and that was a very sensible thing; and he spoke\njoyously and cleverly of it. They were good, joyful men, those two.\n\n\"There sits a good specimen of a toad,\" said the naturalist. \"I\nmust have that fellow in a bottle of spirits.\"\n\n\"You have two of them already,\" replied the poet. \"Let the thing\nsit there and enjoy its life.\"\n\n\"But it's so wonderfully ugly,\" persisted the first.\n\n\"Yes, if we could find the jewel in its head,\" said the poet, \"I\ntoo should be for cutting it open.'\n\n\"A jewel!\" cried the naturalist. \"You seem to know a great deal\nabout natural history.\"\n\n\"But is there not something beautiful in the popular belief that\njust as the toad is the ugliest of animals, it should often carry\nthe most precious jewel in its head? Is it not just the same thing\nwith men? What a jewel that was that Aesop had, and still more,\nSocrates!\"\n\nThe Toad did not hear any more, nor did she understand half of\nwhat she had heard. The two friends walked on, and thus she escaped\nthe fate of being bottled up in spirits.\n\n\"Those two also were speaking of the jewel,\" said the Toad to\nherself. \"What a good thing that I have not got it! I might have\nbeen in a very disagreeable position.\"\n\nNow there was a clapping on the roof of the farm-house.\nFather-Stork was making a speech to his family, and his family was\nglancing down at the two young men in the kitchen garden.\n\n\"Man is the most conceited creature!\" said the Stork. \"Listen\nhow their jaws are wagging; and for all that they can't clap properly.\nThey boast of their gifts of eloquence and their language! Yes, a fine\nlanguage truly! Why, it changes in every day's journey we make. One of\nthem doesn't understand another. Now, we can speak our language over\nthe whole earth--up in the North and in Egypt. And then men are not\nable to fly, moreover. They rush along by means of an invention they\ncall 'railway;' but they often break their necks over it. It makes\nmy beak turn cold when I think of it. The world could get on without\nmen. We could do without them very well, so long as we only keep frogs\nand earth-worms.\"\n\n\"That was a powerful speech,\" thought the little Toad. \"What a\ngreat man that is yonder! and how high he sits! Higher than ever I saw\nany one sit yet; and how he can swim!\" she cried, as the Stork\nsoared away through the air with outspread pinions.\n\nAnd the Mother-Stork began talking in the nest, and told about\nEgypt and the waters of the Nile, and the incomparable mud that was to\nbe found in that strange land; and all this sounded new and very\ncharming to the little Toad.\n\n\"I must go to Egypt!\" said she. \"If the Stork or one of his\nyoung ones would only take me! I would oblige him in return. Yes, I\nshall get to Egypt, for I feel so happy! All the longing and all the\npleasure that I feel is much better than having a jewel in one's\nhead.\"\n\nAnd it was just she who had the jewel. That jewel was the\ncontinual striving and desire to go upward--ever upward. It gleamed in\nher head, gleamed in joy, beamed brightly in her longing.\n\nThen, suddenly, up came the Stork. He had seen the Toad in the\ngrass, and stooped down and seized the little creature anything but\ngently. The Stork's beak pinched her, and the wind whistled; it was\nnot exactly agreeable, but she was going upward--upward towards\nEgypt--and she knew it; and that was why her eyes gleamed, and a spark\nseemed to fly out of them.\n\n\"Quunk!--ah!\"\n\nThe body was dead--the Toad was killed! But the spark that had\nshot forth from her eyes; what became of that?\n\nThe sunbeam took it up; the sunbeam carried the jewel from the\nhead of the toad. Whither?\n\nAsk not the naturalist; rather ask the poet. He will tell it\nthee under the guise of a fairy tale; and the Caterpillar on the\ncabbage, and the Stork family belong to the story. Think! the\nCaterpillar is changed, and turns into a beautiful butterfly; the\nStork family flies over mountains and seas, to the distant Africa, and\nyet finds the shortest way home to the same country--to the same roof.\nNay, that is almost too improbable; and yet it is true. You may ask\nthe naturalist, he will confess it is so; and you know it yourself,\nfor you have seen it.\n\nBut the jewel in the head of the toad?\n\nSeek it in the sun; see it there if you can.\n\nThe brightness is too dazzling there. We have not yet such eyes as\ncan see into the glories which God has created, but we shall receive\nthem by-and-by; and that will be the most beautiful story of all,\nand we shall all have our share in it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOP AND BALL\n\nA whipping top and a little ball lay together in a box, among\nother toys, and the top said to the ball, \"Shall we be married, as\nwe live in the same box?\"\n\nBut the ball, which wore a dress of morocco leather, and thought\nas much of herself as any other young lady, would not even\ncondescend to reply.\n\nThe next day came the little boy to whom the playthings\nbelonged, and he painted the top red and yellow, and drove a\nbrass-headed nail into the middle, so that while the top was\nspinning round it looked splendid.\n\n\"Look at me,\" said the top to the ball. \"What do you say now?\nShall we be engaged to each other? We should suit so well; you spring,\nand I dance. No one could be happier than we should be.\"\n\n\"Indeed! do you think so? Perhaps you do not know that my father\nand mother were morocco slippers, and that I have a Spanish cork in my\nbody.\"\n\n\"Yes; but I am made of mahogany,\" said the top. \"The major himself\nturned me. He has a turning lathe of his own, and it is a great\namusement to him.\"\n\n\"Can I believe it?\" asked the ball.\n\n\"May I never be whipped again,\" said the top, \"if I am not telling\nyou the truth.\"\n\n\"You certainly know how to speak for yourself very well,\" said the\nball; \"but I cannot accept your proposal. I am almost engaged to a\nswallow. Every time I fly up in the air, he puts his head out of the\nnest, and says, 'Will you?' and I have said, 'Yes,' to myself\nsilently, and that is as good as being half engaged; but I will\npromise never to forget you.\"\n\n\"Much good that will be to me,\" said the top; and they spoke to\neach other no more.\n\nNext day the ball was taken out by the boy. The top saw it\nflying high in the air, like a bird, till it would go quite out of\nsight. Each time it came back, as it touched the earth, it gave a\nhigher leap than before, either because it longed to fly upwards, or\nfrom having a Spanish cork in its body. But the ninth time it rose\nin the air, it remained away, and did not return. The boy searched\neverywhere for it, but he searched in vain, for it could not be found;\nit was gone.\n\n\"I know very well where she is,\" sighed the top; \"she is in the\nswallow's nest, and has married the swallow.\"\n\nThe more the top thought of this, the more he longed for the ball.\nHis love increased the more, just because he could not get her; and\nthat she should have been won by another, was the worst of all. The\ntop still twirled about and hummed, but he continued to think of the\nball; and the more he thought of her, the more beautiful she seemed to\nhis fancy.\n\nThus several years passed by, and his love became quite old. The\ntop, also, was no longer young; but there came a day when he looked\nhandsomer than ever; for he was gilded all over. He was now a golden\ntop, and whirled and danced about till he hummed quite loud, and was\nsomething worth looking at; but one day he leaped too high, and then\nhe, also, was gone. They searched everywhere, even in the cellar,\nbut he was nowhere to be found. Where could he be? He had jumped\ninto the dust-bin, where all sorts of rubbish were lying:\ncabbage-stalks, dust, and rain-droppings that had fallen down from the\ngutter under the roof.\n\n\"Now I am in a nice place,\" said he; \"my gilding will soon be\nwashed off here. Oh dear, what a set of rabble I have got amongst!\"\nAnd then he glanced at a curious round thing like an old apple,\nwhich lay near a long, leafless cabbage-stalk. It was, however, not an\napple, but an old ball, which had lain for years in the gutter, and\nwas soaked through with water.\n\n\"Thank goodness, here comes one of my own class, with whom I can\ntalk,\" said the ball, examining the gilded top. \"I am made of\nmorocco,\" she said. \"I was sewn together by a young lady, and I have a\nSpanish cork in my body; but no one would think it, to look at me now.\nI was once engaged to a swallow; but I fell in here from the gutter\nunder the roof, and I have lain here more than five years, and have\nbeen thoroughly drenched. Believe me, it is a long time for a young\nmaiden.\"\n\nThe top said nothing, but he thought of his old love; and the more\nshe said, the more clear it became to him that this was the same ball.\n\nThe servant then came to clean out the dust-bin.\n\n\"Ah,\" she exclaimed, \"here is a gilt top.\" So the top was\nbrought again to notice and honor, but nothing more was heard of the\nlittle ball. He spoke not a word about his old love; for that soon\ndied away. When the beloved object has lain for five years in a\ngutter, and has been drenched through, no one cares to know her\nagain on meeting her in a dust-bin.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAVELLING COMPANION\n\nPoor John was very sad; for his father was so ill, he had no\nhope of his recovery. John sat alone with the sick man in the little\nroom, and the lamp had nearly burnt out; for it was late in the night.\n\n\"You have been a good son, John,\" said the sick father, \"and God\nwill help you on in the world.\" He looked at him, as he spoke, with\nmild, earnest eyes, drew a deep sigh, and died; yet it appeared as\nif he still slept.\n\nJohn wept bitterly. He had no one in the wide world now; neither\nfather, mother, brother, nor sister. Poor John! he knelt down by the\nbed, kissed his dead father's hand, and wept many, many bitter\ntears. But at last his eyes closed, and he fell asleep with his head\nresting against the hard bedpost. Then he dreamed a strange dream;\nhe thought he saw the sun shining upon him, and his father alive and\nwell, and even heard him laughing as he used to do when he was very\nhappy. A beautiful girl, with a golden crown on her head, and long,\nshining hair, gave him her hand; and his father said, \"See what a\nbride you have won. She is the loveliest maiden on the whole earth.\"\nThen he awoke, and all the beautiful things vanished before his\neyes, his father lay dead on the bed, and he was all alone. Poor John!\n\nDuring the following week the dead man was buried. The son\nwalked behind the coffin which contained his father, whom he so dearly\nloved, and would never again behold. He heard the earth fall on the\ncoffin-lid, and watched it till only a corner remained in sight, and\nat last that also disappeared. He felt as if his heart would break\nwith its weight of sorrow, till those who stood round the grave sang a\npsalm, and the sweet, holy tones brought tears into his eyes, which\nrelieved him. The sun shone brightly down on the green trees, as if it\nwould say, \"You must not be so sorrowful, John. Do you see the\nbeautiful blue sky above you? Your father is up there, and he prays to\nthe loving Father of all, that you may do well in the future.\"\n\n\"I will always be good,\" said John, \"and then I shall go to be\nwith my father in heaven. What joy it will be when we see each other\nagain! How much I shall have to relate to him, and how many things\nhe will be able to explain to me of the delights of heaven, and\nteach me as he once did on earth. Oh, what joy it will be!\"\n\nHe pictured it all so plainly to himself, that he smiled even\nwhile the tears ran down his cheeks.\n\nThe little birds in the chestnut-trees twittered, \"Tweet,\ntweet;\" they were so happy, although they had seen the funeral; but\nthey seemed as if they knew that the dead man was now in heaven, and\nthat he had wings much larger and more beautiful than their own; and\nhe was happy now, because he had been good here on earth, and they\nwere glad of it. John saw them fly away out of the green trees into\nthe wide world, and he longed to fly with them; but first he cut out a\nlarge wooden cross, to place on his father's grave; and when he\nbrought it there in the evening, he found the grave decked out with\ngravel and flowers. Strangers had done this; they who had known the\ngood old father who was now dead, and who had loved him very much.\n\nEarly the next morning, John packed up his little bundle of\nclothes, and placed all his money, which consisted of fifty dollars\nand a few shillings, in his girdle; with this he determined to try his\nfortune in the world. But first he went into the churchyard; and, by\nhis father's grave, he offered up a prayer, and said, \"Farewell.\"\n\nAs he passed through the fields, all the flowers looked fresh\nand beautiful in the warm sunshine, and nodded in the wind, as if they\nwished to say, \"Welcome to the green wood, where all is fresh and\nbright.\"\n\nThen John turned to have one more look at the old church, in which\nhe had been christened in his infancy, and where his father had\ntaken him every Sunday to hear the service and join in singing the\npsalms. As he looked at the old tower, he espied the ringer standing\nat one of the narrow openings, with his little pointed red cap on\nhis head, and shading his eyes from the sun with his bent arm. John\nnodded farewell to him, and the little ringer waved his red cap,\nlaid his hand on his heart, and kissed his hand to him a great many\ntimes, to show that he felt kindly towards him, and wished him a\nprosperous journey.\n\nJohn continued his journey, and thought of all the wonderful\nthings he should see in the large, beautiful world, till he found\nhimself farther away from home than ever he had been before. He did\nnot even know the names of the places he passed through, and could\nscarcely understand the language of the people he met, for he was\nfar away, in a strange land. The first night he slept on a haystack,\nout in the fields, for there was no other bed for him; but it seemed\nto him so nice and comfortable that even a king need not wish for a\nbetter. The field, the brook, the haystack, with the blue sky above,\nformed a beautiful sleeping-room. The green grass, with the little red\nand white flowers, was the carpet; the elder-bushes and the hedges\nof wild roses looked like garlands on the walls; and for a bath he\ncould have the clear, fresh water of the brook; while the rushes bowed\ntheir heads to him, to wish him good morning and good evening. The\nmoon, like a large lamp, hung high up in the blue ceiling, and he\nhad no fear of its setting fire to his curtains. John slept here quite\nsafely all night; and when he awoke, the sun was up, and all the\nlittle birds were singing round him, \"Good morning, good morning.\nAre you not up yet?\"\n\nIt was Sunday, and the bells were ringing for church. As the\npeople went in, John followed them; he heard God's word, joined in\nsinging the psalms, and listened to the preacher. It seemed to him\njust as if he were in his own church, where he had been christened,\nand had sung the psalms with his father. Out in the churchyard were\nseveral graves, and on some of them the grass had grown very high.\nJohn thought of his father's grave, which he knew at last would look\nlike these, as he was not there to weed and attend to it. Then he\nset to work, pulled up the high grass, raised the wooden crosses which\nhad fallen down, and replaced the wreaths which had been blown away\nfrom their places by the wind, thinking all the time, \"Perhaps some\none is doing the same for my father's grave, as I am not there to do\nit.\"\n\nOutside the church door stood an old beggar, leaning on his\ncrutch. John gave him his silver shillings, and then he continued\nhis journey, feeling lighter and happier than ever. Towards evening,\nthe weather became very stormy, and he hastened on as quickly as he\ncould, to get shelter; but it was quite dark by the time he reached\na little lonely church which stood on a hill. \"I will go in here,\"\nhe said, \"and sit down in a corner; for I am quite tired, and want\nrest.\"\n\nSo he went in, and seated himself; then he folded his hands, and\noffered up his evening prayer, and was soon fast asleep and\ndreaming, while the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed\nwithout. When he awoke, it was still night; but the storm had\nceased, and the moon shone in upon him through the windows. Then he\nsaw an open coffin standing in the centre of the church, which\ncontained a dead man, waiting for burial. John was not at all timid;\nhe had a good conscience, and he knew also that the dead can never\ninjure any one. It is living wicked men who do harm to others. Two\nsuch wicked persons stood now by the dead man, who had been brought to\nthe church to be buried. Their evil intentions were to throw the\npoor dead body outside the church door, and not leave him to rest in\nhis coffin.\n\n\"Why do you do this?\" asked John, when he saw what they were going\nto do; \"it is very wicked. Leave him to rest in peace, in Christ's\nname.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" replied the two dreadful men. \"He has cheated us; he\nowed us money which he could not pay, and now he is dead we shall\nnot get a penny; so we mean to have our revenge, and let him lie\nlike a dog outside the church door.\"\n\n\"I have only fifty dollars,\" said John, \"it is all I possess in\nthe world, but I will give it to you if you will promise me faithfully\nto leave the dead man in peace. I shall be able to get on without\nthe money; I have strong and healthy limbs, and God will always help\nme.\"\n\n\"Why, of course,\" said the horrid men, \"if you will pay his debt\nwe will both promise not to touch him. You may depend upon that;\"\nand then they took the money he offered them, laughed at him for his\ngood nature, and went their way.\n\nThen he laid the dead body back in the coffin, folded the hands,\nand took leave of it; and went away contentedly through the great\nforest. All around him he could see the prettiest little elves dancing\nin the moonlight, which shone through the trees. They were not\ndisturbed by his appearance, for they knew he was good and harmless\namong men. They are wicked people only who can never obtain a\nglimpse of fairies. Some of them were not taller than the breadth of a\nfinger, and they wore golden combs in their long, yellow hair. They\nwere rocking themselves two together on the large dew-drops with which\nthe leaves and the high grass were sprinkled. Sometimes the\ndew-drops would roll away, and then they fell down between the stems\nof the long grass, and caused a great deal of laughing and noise among\nthe other little people. It was quite charming to watch them at\nplay. Then they sang songs, and John remembered that he had learnt\nthose pretty songs when he was a little boy. Large speckled spiders,\nwith silver crowns on their heads, were employed to spin suspension\nbridges and palaces from one hedge to another, and when the tiny drops\nfell upon them, they glittered in the moonlight like shining glass.\nThis continued till sunrise. Then the little elves crept into the\nflower-buds, and the wind seized the bridges and palaces, and\nfluttered them in the air like cobwebs.\n\nAs John left the wood, a strong man's voice called after him,\n\"Hallo, comrade, where are you travelling?\"\n\n\"Into the wide world,\" he replied; \"I am only a poor lad, I have\nneither father nor mother, but God will help me.\"\n\n\"I am going into the wide world also,\" replied the stranger;\n\"shall we keep each other company?\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" he said, and so they went on together. Soon\nthey began to like each other very much, for they were both good;\nbut John found out that the stranger was much more clever than\nhimself. He had travelled all over the world, and could describe\nalmost everything. The sun was high in the heavens when they seated\nthemselves under a large tree to eat their breakfast, and at the\nsame moment an old woman came towards them. She was very old and\nalmost bent double. She leaned upon a stick and carried on her back\na bundle of firewood, which she had collected in the forest; her apron\nwas tied round it, and John saw three great stems of fern and some\nwillow twigs peeping out. Just as she came close up to them, her\nfoot slipped and she fell to the ground screaming loudly; poor old\nwoman, she had broken her leg! John proposed directly that they should\ncarry the old woman home to her cottage; but the stranger opened his\nknapsack and took out a box, in which he said he had a salve that\nwould quickly make her leg well and strong again, so that she would be\nable to walk home herself, as if her leg had never been broken. And\nall that he would ask in return was the three fern stems which she\ncarried in her apron.\n\n\"That is rather too high a price,\" said the old woman, nodding her\nhead quite strangely. She did not seem at all inclined to part with\nthe fern stems. However, it was not very agreeable to lie there with a\nbroken leg, so she gave them to him; and such was the power of the\nointment, that no sooner had he rubbed her leg with it than the old\nmother rose up and walked even better than she had done before. But\nthen this wonderful ointment could not be bought at a chemist's.\n\n\"What can you want with those three fern rods?\" asked John of\nhis fellow-traveller.\n\n\"Oh, they will make capital brooms,\" said he; \"and I like them\nbecause I have strange whims sometimes.\" Then they walked on\ntogether for a long distance.\n\n\"How dark the sky is becoming,\" said John; \"and look at those\nthick, heavy clouds.\"\n\n\"Those are not clouds,\" replied his fellow-traveller; \"they are\nmountains--large lofty mountains--on the tops of which we should be\nabove the clouds, in the pure, free air. Believe me, it is\ndelightful to ascend so high, tomorrow we shall be there.\" But the\nmountains were not so near as they appeared; they had to travel a\nwhole day before they reached them, and pass through black forests and\npiles of rock as large as a town. The journey had been so fatiguing\nthat John and his fellow-traveller stopped to rest at a roadside\ninn, so that they might gain strength for their journey on the morrow.\nIn the large public room of the inn a great many persons were\nassembled to see a comedy performed by dolls. The showman had just\nerected his little theatre, and the people were sitting round the room\nto witness the performance. Right in front, in the very best place,\nsat a stout butcher, with a great bull-dog by his side who seemed very\nmuch inclined to bite. He sat staring with all his eyes, and so indeed\ndid every one else in the room. And then the play began. It was a\npretty piece, with a king and a queen in it, who sat on a beautiful\nthrone, and had gold crowns on their heads. The trains to their\ndresses were very long, according to the fashion; while the\nprettiest of wooden dolls, with glass eyes and large mustaches,\nstood at the doors, and opened and shut them, that the fresh air might\ncome into the room. It was a very pleasant play, not at all\nmournful; but just as the queen stood up and walked across the\nstage, the great bull-dog, who should have been held back by his\nmaster, made a spring forward, and caught the queen in the teeth by\nthe slender wrist, so that it snapped in two. This was a very dreadful\ndisaster. The poor man, who was exhibiting the dolls, was much\nannoyed, and quite sad about his queen; she was the prettiest doll\nhe had, and the bull-dog had broken her head and shoulders off. But\nafter all the people were gone away, the stranger, who came with John,\nsaid that he could soon set her to rights. And then he brought out his\nbox and rubbed the doll with some of the salve with which he had cured\nthe old woman when she broke her leg. As soon as this was done the\ndoll's back became quite right again; her head and shoulders were\nfixed on, and she could even move her limbs herself: there was now\nno occasion to pull the wires, for the doll acted just like a living\ncreature, excepting that she could not speak. The man to whom the show\nbelonged was quite delighted at having a doll who could dance of\nherself without being pulled by the wires; none of the other dolls\ncould do this.\n\nDuring the night, when all the people at the inn were gone to bed,\nsome one was heard to sigh so deeply and painfully, and the sighing\ncontinued for so long a time, that every one got up to see what\ncould be the matter. The showman went at once to his little theatre\nand found that it proceeded from the dolls, who all lay on the floor\nsighing piteously, and staring with their glass eyes; they all\nwanted to be rubbed with the ointment, so that, like the queen, they\nmight be able to move of themselves. The queen threw herself on her\nknees, took off her beautiful crown, and, holding it in her hand,\ncried, \"Take this from me, but do rub my husband and his courtiers.\"\n\nThe poor man who owned the theatre could scarcely refrain from\nweeping; he was so sorry that he could not help them. Then he\nimmediately spoke to John's comrade, and promised him all the money he\nmight receive at the next evening's performance, if he would only\nrub the ointment on four or five of his dolls. But the fellow-traveller\nsaid he did not require anything in return, excepting the sword\nwhich the showman wore by his side. As soon as he received the\nsword he anointed six of the dolls with the ointment, and they\nwere able immediately to dance so gracefully that all the living girls\nin the room could not help joining in the dance. The coachman danced\nwith the cook, and the waiters with the chambermaids, and all the\nstrangers joined; even the tongs and the fire-shovel made an\nattempt, but they fell down after the first jump. So after all it\nwas a very merry night. The next morning John and his companion left\nthe inn to continue their journey through the great pine-forests and\nover the high mountains. They arrived at last at such a great height\nthat towns and villages lay beneath them, and the church steeples\nlooked like little specks between the green trees. They could see\nfor miles round, far away to places they had never visited, and John\nsaw more of the beautiful world than he had ever known before. The sun\nshone brightly in the blue firmament above, and through the clear\nmountain air came the sound of the huntsman's horn, and the soft,\nsweet notes brought tears into his eyes, and he could not help\nexclaiming, \"How good and loving God is to give us all this beauty and\nloveliness in the world to make us happy!\"\n\nHis fellow-traveller stood by with folded hands, gazing on the\ndark wood and the towns bathed in the warm sunshine. At this moment\nthere sounded over their heads sweet music. They looked up, and\ndiscovered a large white swan hovering in the air, and singing as\nnever bird sang before. But the song soon became weaker and weaker,\nthe bird's head drooped, and he sunk slowly down, and lay dead at\ntheir feet.\n\n\"It is a beautiful bird,\" said the traveller, \"and these large\nwhite wings are worth a great deal of money. I will take them with me.\nYou see now that a sword will be very useful.\"\n\nSo he cut off the wings of the dead swan with one blow, and\ncarried them away with him.\n\nThey now continued their journey over the mountains for many\nmiles, till they at length reached a large city, containing hundreds\nof towers, that shone in the sunshine like silver. In the midst of the\ncity stood a splendid marble palace, roofed with pure red gold, in\nwhich dwelt the king. John and his companion would not go into the\ntown immediately; so they stopped at an inn outside the town, to\nchange their clothes; for they wished to appear respectable as they\nwalked through the streets. The landlord told them that the king was a\nvery good man, who never injured any one: but as to his daughter,\n\"Heaven defend us!\"\n\nShe was indeed a wicked princess. She possessed beauty enough--nobody\ncould be more elegant or prettier than she was; but what of\nthat? for she was a wicked witch; and in consequence of her conduct\nmany noble young princes had lost their lives. Any one was at\nliberty to make her an offer; were he a prince or a beggar, it\nmattered not to her. She would ask him to guess three things which she\nhad just thought of, and if he succeed, he was to marry her, and be\nking over all the land when her father died; but if he could not guess\nthese three things, then she ordered him to be hanged or to have his\nhead cut off. The old king, her father, was very much grieved at her\nconduct, but he could not prevent her from being so wicked, because he\nonce said he would have nothing more to do with her lovers; she\nmight do as she pleased. Each prince who came and tried the three\nguesses, so that he might marry the princess, had been unable to\nfind them out, and had been hanged or beheaded. They had all been\nwarned in time, and might have left her alone, if they would. The\nold king became at last so distressed at all these dreadful\ncircumstances, that for a whole day every year he and his soldiers\nknelt and prayed that the princess might become good; but she\ncontinued as wicked as ever. The old women who drank brandy would\ncolor it quite black before they drank it, to show how they mourned;\nand what more could they do?\n\n\"What a horrible princess!\" said John; \"she ought to be well\nflogged. If I were the old king, I would have her punished in some\nway.\"\n\nJust then they heard the people outside shouting, \"Hurrah!\" and,\nlooking out, they saw the princess passing by; and she was really so\nbeautiful that everybody forgot her wickedness, and shouted\n\"Hurrah!\" Twelve lovely maidens in white silk dresses, holding\ngolden tulips in their hands, rode by her side on coal-black horses.\nThe princess herself had a snow-white steed, decked with diamonds\nand rubies. Her dress was of cloth of gold, and the whip she held in\nher hand looked like a sunbeam. The golden crown on her head glittered\nlike the stars of heaven, and her mantle was formed of thousands of\nbutterflies' wings sewn together. Yet she herself was more beautiful\nthan all.\n\nWhen John saw her, his face became as red as a drop of blood,\nand he could scarcely utter a word. The princess looked exactly like\nthe beautiful lady with the golden crown, of whom he had dreamed on\nthe night his father died. She appeared to him so lovely that he could\nnot help loving her.\n\n\"It could not be true,\" he thought, \"that she was really a\nwicked witch, who ordered people to be hanged or beheaded, if they\ncould not guess her thoughts. Every one has permission to go and ask\nher hand, even the poorest beggar. I shall pay a visit to the palace,\"\nhe said; \"I must go, for I cannot help myself.\"\n\nThen they all advised him not to attempt it; for he would be\nsure to share the same fate as the rest. His fellow-traveller also\ntried to persuade him against it; but John seemed quite sure of\nsuccess. He brushed his shoes and his coat, washed his face and his\nhands, combed his soft flaxen hair, and then went out alone into the\ntown, and walked to the palace.\n\n\"Come in,\" said the king, as John knocked at the door. John opened\nit, and the old king, in a dressing gown and embroidered slippers,\ncame towards him. He had the crown on his head, carried his sceptre in\none hand, and the orb in the other. \"Wait a bit,\" said he, and he\nplaced the orb under his arm, so that he could offer the other hand to\nJohn; but when he found that John was another suitor, he began to weep\nso violently, that both the sceptre and the orb fell to the floor, and\nhe was obliged to wipe his eyes with his dressing gown. Poor old king!\n\"Let her alone,\" he said; \"you will fare as badly as all the others.\nCome, I will show you.\" Then he led him out into the princess's\npleasure gardens, and there he saw a frightful sight. On every tree\nhung three or four king's sons who had wooed the princess, but had not\nbeen able to guess the riddles she gave them. Their skeletons\nrattled in every breeze, so that the terrified birds never dared to\nventure into the garden. All the flowers were supported by human bones\ninstead of sticks, and human skulls in the flower-pots grinned\nhorribly. It was really a doleful garden for a princess. \"Do you see\nall this?\" said the old king; \"your fate will be the same as those who\nare here, therefore do not attempt it. You really make me very\nunhappy,--I take these things to heart so very much.\"\n\nJohn kissed the good old king's hand, and said he was sure it\nwould be all right, for he was quite enchanted with the beautiful\nprincess. Then the princess herself came riding into the palace yard\nwith all her ladies, and he wished her \"Good morning.\" She looked\nwonderfully fair and lovely when she offered her hand to John, and\nhe loved her more than ever. How could she be a wicked witch, as all\nthe people asserted? He accompanied her into the hall, and the\nlittle pages offered them gingerbread nuts and sweetmeats, but the old\nking was so unhappy he could eat nothing, and besides, gingerbread\nnuts were too hard for him. It was decided that John should come to\nthe palace the next day, when the judges and the whole of the\ncounsellors would be present, to try if he could guess the first\nriddle. If he succeeded, he would have to come a second time; but if\nnot, he would lose his life,--and no one had ever been able to guess\neven one. However, John was not at all anxious about the result of his\ntrial; on the contrary, he was very merry. He thought only of the\nbeautiful princess, and believed that in some way he should have help,\nbut how he knew not, and did not like to think about it; so he\ndanced along the high-road as he went back to the inn, where he had\nleft his fellow-traveller waiting for him. John could not refrain from\ntelling him how gracious the princess had been, and how beautiful\nshe looked. He longed for the next day so much, that he might go to\nthe palace and try his luck at guessing the riddles. But his comrade\nshook his head, and looked very mournful. \"I do so wish you to do\nwell,\" said he; \"we might have continued together much longer, and now\nI am likely to lose you; you poor dear John! I could shed tears, but I\nwill not make you unhappy on the last night we may be together. We\nwill be merry, really merry this evening; to-morrow, after you are\ngone, shall be able to weep undisturbed.\"\n\nIt was very quickly known among the inhabitants of the town that\nanother suitor had arrived for the princess, and there was great\nsorrow in consequence. The theatre remained closed, the women who sold\nsweetmeats tied crape round the sugar-sticks, and the king and the\npriests were on their knees in the church. There was a great\nlamentation, for no one expected John to succeed better than those who\nhad been suitors before.\n\nIn the evening John's comrade prepared a large bowl of punch,\nand said, \"Now let us be merry, and drink to the health of the\nprincess.\" But after drinking two glasses, John became so sleepy, that\nhe could not keep his eyes open, and fell fast asleep. Then his\nfellow-traveller lifted him gently out of his chair, and laid him on\nthe bed; and as soon as it was quite dark, he took the two large wings\nwhich he had cut from the dead swan, and tied them firmly to his own\nshoulders. Then he put into his pocket the largest of the three rods\nwhich he had obtained from the old woman who had fallen and broken her\nleg. After this he opened the window, and flew away over the town,\nstraight towards the palace, and seated himself in a corner, under the\nwindow which looked into the bedroom of the princess.\n\nThe town was perfectly still when the clocks struck a quarter to\ntwelve. Presently the window opened, and the princess, who had large\nblack wings to her shoulders, and a long white mantle, flew away\nover the city towards a high mountain. The fellow-traveller, who had\nmade himself invisible, so that she could not possibly see him, flew\nafter her through the air, and whipped the princess with his rod, so\nthat the blood came whenever he struck her. Ah, it was a strange\nflight through the air! The wind caught her mantle, so that it\nspread out on all sides, like the large sail of a ship, and the moon\nshone through it. \"How it hails, to be sure!\" said the princess, at\neach blow she received from the rod; and it served her right to be\nwhipped.\n\nAt last she reached the side of the mountain, and knocked. The\nmountain opened with a noise like the roll of thunder, and the\nprincess went in. The traveller followed her; no one could see him, as\nhe had made himself invisible. They went through a long, wide passage.\nA thousand gleaming spiders ran here and there on the walls, causing\nthem to glitter as if they were illuminated with fire. They next\nentered a large hall built of silver and gold. Large red and blue\nflowers shone on the walls, looking like sunflowers in size, but no\none could dare to pluck them, for the stems were hideous poisonous\nsnakes, and the flowers were flames of fire, darting out of their\njaws. Shining glow-worms covered the ceiling, and sky-blue bats\nflapped their transparent wings. Altogether the place had a\nfrightful appearance. In the middle of the floor stood a throne\nsupported by four skeleton horses, whose harness had been made by\nfiery-red spiders. The throne itself was made of milk-white glass, and\nthe cushions were little black mice, each biting the other's tail.\nOver it hung a canopy of rose-colored spider's webs, spotted with\nthe prettiest little green flies, which sparkled like precious stones.\nOn the throne sat an old magician with a crown on his ugly head, and a\nsceptre in his hand. He kissed the princess on the forehead, seated\nher by his side on the splendid throne, and then the music\ncommenced. Great black grasshoppers played the mouth organ, and the\nowl struck herself on the body instead of a drum. It was altogether\na ridiculous concert. Little black goblins with false lights in\ntheir caps danced about the hall; but no one could see the\ntraveller, and he had placed himself just behind the throne where he\ncould see and hear everything. The courtiers who came in afterwards\nlooked noble and grand; but any one with common sense could see what\nthey really were, only broomsticks, with cabbages for heads. The\nmagician had given them life, and dressed them in embroidered robes.\nIt answered very well, as they were only wanted for show. After\nthere had been a little dancing, the princess told the magician that\nshe had a new suitor, and asked him what she could think of for the\nsuitor to guess when he came to the castle the next morning.\n\n\"Listen to what I say,\" said the magician, \"you must choose\nsomething very easy, he is less likely to guess it then. Think of\none of your shoes, he will never imagine it is that. Then cut his head\noff; and mind you do not forget to bring his eyes with you to-morrow\nnight, that I may eat them.\"\n\nThe princess curtsied low, and said she would not forget the eyes.\n\nThe magician then opened the mountain and she flew home again, but\nthe traveller followed and flogged her so much with the rod, that\nshe sighed quite deeply about the heavy hail-storm, and made as much\nhaste as she could to get back to her bedroom through the window.\nThe traveller then returned to the inn where John still slept, took\noff his wings and laid down on the bed, for he was very tired. Early\nin the morning John awoke, and when his fellow-traveller got up, he\nsaid that he had a very wonderful dream about the princess and her\nshoe, he therefore advised John to ask her if she had not thought of\nher shoe. Of course the traveller knew this from what the magician\nin the mountain had said.\n\n\"I may as well say that as anything,\" said John. \"Perhaps your\ndream may come true; still I will say farewell, for if I guess wrong I\nshall never see you again.\"\n\nThen they embraced each other, and John went into the town and\nwalked to the palace. The great hall was full of people, and the\njudges sat in arm-chairs, with eider-down cushions to rest their heads\nupon, because they had so much to think of. The old king stood near,\nwiping his eyes with his white pocket-handkerchief. When the\nprincess entered, she looked even more beautiful than she had appeared\nthe day before, and greeted every one present most gracefully; but\nto John she gave her hand, and said, \"Good morning to you.\"\n\nNow came the time for John to guess what she was thinking of;\nand oh, how kindly she looked at him as she spoke. But when he uttered\nthe single word shoe, she turned as pale as a ghost; all her wisdom\ncould not help her, for he had guessed rightly. Oh, how pleased the\nold king was! It was quite amusing to see how he capered about. All\nthe people clapped their hands, both on his account and John's, who\nhad guessed rightly the first time. His fellow-traveller was glad\nalso, when he heard how successful John had been. But John folded\nhis hands, and thanked God, who, he felt quite sure, would help him\nagain; and he knew he had to guess twice more. The evening passed\npleasantly like the one preceding. While John slept, his companion\nflew behind the princess to the mountain, and flogged her even\nharder than before; this time he had taken two rods with him. No one\nsaw him go in with her, and he heard all that was said. The princess\nthis time was to think of a glove, and he told John as if he had again\nheard it in a dream. The next day, therefore, he was able to guess\ncorrectly the second time, and it caused great rejoicing at the\npalace. The whole court jumped about as they had seen the king do\nthe day before, but the princess lay on the sofa, and would not say\na single word. All now depended upon John. If he only guessed\nrightly the third time, he would marry the princess, and reign over\nthe kingdom after the death of the old king: but if he failed, he\nwould lose his life, and the magician would have his beautiful blue\neyes. That evening John said his prayers and went to bed very early,\nand soon fell asleep calmly. But his companion tied on his wings to\nhis shoulders, took three rods, and, with his sword at his side,\nflew to the palace. It was a very dark night, and so stormy that the\ntiles flew from the roofs of the houses, and the trees in the garden\nupon which the skeletons hung bent themselves like reeds before the\nwind. The lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled in one\nlong-continued peal all night. The window of the castle opened, and\nthe princess flew out. She was pale as death, but she laughed at the\nstorm as if it were not bad enough. Her white mantle fluttered in\nthe wind like a large sail, and the traveller flogged her with the\nthree rods till the blood trickled down, and at last she could\nscarcely fly; she contrived, however, to reach the mountain. \"What a\nhail-storm!\" she said, as she entered; \"I have never been out in\nsuch weather as this.\"\n\n\"Yes, there may be too much of a good thing sometimes,\" said the\nmagician.\n\nThen the princess told him that John had guessed rightly the\nsecond time, and if he succeeded the next morning, he would win, and\nshe could never come to the mountain again, or practice magic as she\nhad done, and therefore she was quite unhappy. \"I will find out\nsomething for you to think of which he will never guess, unless he\nis a greater conjuror than myself. But now let us be merry.\"\n\nThen he took the princess by both hands, and they danced with\nall the little goblins and Jack-o'-lanterns in the room. The red\nspiders sprang here and there on the walls quite as merrily, and the\nflowers of fire appeared as if they were throwing out sparks. The\nowl beat the drum, the crickets whistled and the grasshoppers played\nthe mouth-organ. It was a very ridiculous ball. After they had\ndanced enough, the princess was obliged to go home, for fear she\nshould be missed at the palace. The magician offered to go with her,\nthat they might be company to each other on the way. Then they flew\naway through the bad weather, and the traveller followed them, and\nbroke his three rods across their shoulders. The magician had never\nbeen out in such a hail-storm as this. Just by the palace the magician\nstopped to wish the princess farewell, and to whisper in her ear,\n\"To-morrow think of my head.\"\n\nBut the traveller heard it, and just as the princess slipped\nthrough the window into her bedroom, and the magician turned round\nto fly back to the mountain, he seized him by the long black beard,\nand with his sabre cut off the wicked conjuror's head just behind\nthe shoulders, so that he could not even see who it was. He threw\nthe body into the sea to the fishes, and after dipping the head into\nthe water, he tied it up in a silk handkerchief, took it with him to\nthe inn, and then went to bed. The next morning he gave John the\nhandkerchief, and told him not to untie it till the princess asked him\nwhat she was thinking of. There were so many people in the great\nhall of the palace that they stood as thick as radishes tied\ntogether in a bundle. The council sat in their arm-chairs with the\nwhite cushions. The old king wore new robes, and the golden crown\nand sceptre had been polished up so that he looked quite smart. But\nthe princess was very pale, and wore a black dress as if she were\ngoing to a funeral.\n\n\"What have I thought of?\" asked the princess, of John. He\nimmediately untied the handkerchief, and was himself quite\nfrightened when he saw the head of the ugly magician. Every one\nshuddered, for it was terrible to look at; but the princess sat like a\nstatue, and could not utter a single word. At length she rose and gave\nJohn her hand, for he had guessed rightly.\n\nShe looked at no one, but sighed deeply, and said, \"You are my\nmaster now; this evening our marriage must take place.\"\n\n\"I am very pleased to hear it,\" said the old king. \"It is just\nwhat I wish.\"\n\nThen all the people shouted \"Hurrah.\" The band played music in the\nstreets, the bells rang, and the cake-women took the black crape off\nthe sugar-sticks. There was universal joy. Three oxen, stuffed with\nducks and chickens, were roasted whole in the market-place, where\nevery one might help himself to a slice. The fountains spouted forth\nthe most delicious wine, and whoever bought a penny loaf at the\nbaker's received six large buns, full of raisins, as a present. In the\nevening the whole town was illuminated. The soldiers fired off\ncannons, and the boys let off crackers. There was eating and drinking,\ndancing and jumping everywhere. In the palace, the high-born gentlemen\nand beautiful ladies danced with each other, and they could be heard\nat a great distance singing the following song:--\n\n  \"Here are maidens, young and fair,\n  Dancing in the summer air;\n  Like two spinning-wheels at play,\n  Pretty maidens dance away--\n  Dance the spring and summer through\n  Till the sole falls from your shoe.\"\n\n\nBut the princess was still a witch, and she could not love John.\nHis fellow-traveller had thought of that, so he gave John three\nfeathers out of the swan's wings, and a little bottle with a few drops\nin it. He told him to place a large bath full of water by the\nprincess's bed, and put the feathers and the drops into it. Then, at\nthe moment she was about to get into bed, he must give her a little\npush, so that she might fall into the water, and then dip her three\ntimes. This would destroy the power of the magician, and she would\nlove him very much. John did all that his companion told him to do.\nThe princess shrieked aloud when he dipped her under the water the\nfirst time, and struggled under his hands in the form of a great black\nswan with fiery eyes. As she rose the second time from the water,\nthe swan had become white, with a black ring round its neck. John\nallowed the water to close once more over the bird, and at the same\ntime it changed into a most beautiful princess. She was more lovely\neven than before, and thanked him, while her eyes sparkled with tears,\nfor having broken the spell of the magician. The next day, the king\ncame with the whole court to offer their congratulations, and stayed\ntill quite late. Last of all came the travelling companion; he had his\nstaff in his hand and his knapsack on his back. John kissed him many\ntimes and told him he must not go, he must remain with him, for he was\nthe cause of all his good fortune. But the traveller shook his head,\nand said gently and kindly, \"No: my time is up now; I have only paid\nmy debt to you. Do you remember the dead man whom the bad people\nwished to throw out of his coffin? You gave all you possessed that\nhe might rest in his grave; I am that man.\" As he said this, he\nvanished.\n\nThe wedding festivities lasted a whole month. John and his\nprincess loved each other dearly, and the old king lived to see many a\nhappy day, when he took their little children on his knees and let\nthem play with his sceptre. And John became king over the whole\ncountry.\n\n\n\n\nTWO BROTHERS\n\nOn one of the Danish islands, where old Thingstones, the seats\nof justice of our forefathers, still stand in the cornfields, and huge\ntrees rise in the forests of beech, there lies a little town whose low\nhouses are covered with red tiles. In one of these houses strange\nthings were brewing over the glowing coals on the open hearth; there\nwas a boiling going on in glasses, and a mixing and distilling,\nwhile herbs were being cut up and pounded in mortars. An elderly man\nlooked after it all.\n\n\"One must only do the right thing,\" he said; \"yes, the right--the\ncorrect thing. One must find out the truth concerning every\ncreated particle, and keep to that.\"\n\nIn the room with the good housewife sat her two sons; they were\nstill small, but had great thoughts. Their mother, too, had always\nspoken to them of right and justice, and exhorted them to keep to\nthe truth, which she said was the countenance of the Lord in this\nworld.\n\nThe elder of the boys looked roguish and enterprising. He took a\ndelight in reading of the forces of nature, of the sun and the moon;\nno fairy tale pleased him so much. Oh, how beautiful it must be, he\nthought, to go on voyages of discovery, or to find out how to\nimitate the wings of birds and then to be able to fly! Yes, to find\nthat out was the right thing. Father was right, and mother was\nright--truth holds the world together.\n\nThe younger brother was quieter, and buried himself entirely in\nhis books. When he read about Jacob dressing himself in sheep-skins to\npersonify Esau, and so to usurp his brother's birthright, he would\nclench his little fist in anger against the deceiver; when he read\nof tyrants and of the injustice and wickedness of the world, tears\nwould come into his eyes, and he was quite filled with the thought\nof the justice and truth which must and would triumph.\n\nOne evening he was lying in bed, but the curtains were not yet\ndrawn close, and the light streamed in upon him; he had taken his book\ninto bed with him, for he wanted to finish reading the story of Solon.\nHis thoughts lifted and carried him away a wonderful distance; it\nseemed to him as if the bed had become a ship flying along under\nfull sail. Was he dreaming, or what was happening? It glided over\nthe rolling waves and across the ocean of time, and to him came the\nvoice of Solon; spoken in a strange tongue, yet intelligible to him,\nhe heard the Danish motto: \"By law the land is ruled.\"\n\nThe genius of the human race stood in the humble room, bent down\nover the bed and imprinted a kiss on the boy's forehead: \"Be thou\nstrong in fame and strong in the battle of life! With truth in thy\nheart fly toward the land of truth!\"\n\nThe elder brother was not yet in bed; he was standing at the\nwindow looking out at the mist which rose from the meadows. They\nwere not elves dancing out there, as their old nurse had told him;\nhe knew better--they were vapours which were warmer than the air,\nand that is why they rose. A shooting star lit up the sky, and the\nboy's thoughts passed in a second from the vapours of the earth up\nto the shining meteor. The stars gleamed in the heavens, and it seemed\nas if long golden threads hung down from them to the earth.\n\n\"Fly with me,\" sang a voice, which the boy heard in his heart. And\nthe mighty genius of mankind, swifter than a bird and than an\narrow--swifter than anything of earthly origin--carried him out into\nspace, where the heavenly bodies are bound together by the rays that\npass from star to star. Our earth revolved in the thin air, and the\ncities upon it seemed to lie close to each other. Through the\nspheres echoed the words:\n\n\"What is near, what is far, when thou art lifted by the mighty\ngenius of mind?\"\n\nAnd again the boy stood by the window, gazing out, whilst his\nyounger brother lay in bed. Their mother called them by their names:\n\"Anders Sandoe\" and \"Hans Christian.\"\n\nDenmark and the whole world knows them--the two brothers Oersted.\n\n\n\n\nTWO MAIDENS\n\nHave you ever seen a maiden? I mean what our pavers call a maiden,\na thing with which they ram down the paving-stones in the roads. A\nmaiden of this kind is made altogether of wood, broad below, and\ngirt round with iron rings. At the top she is narrow, and has a\nstick passed across through her waist, and this stick forms the arms\nof the maiden.\n\nIn the shed stood two Maidens of this kind. They had their place\namong shovels, hand-carts, wheelbarrows, and measuring-tapes; and to\nall this company the news had come that the Maidens were no longer\nto be called \"maidens,\" but \"hand-rammers,\" which word was the\nnewest and the only correct designation among the pavers for the thing\nwe all know from the old times by the name of \"the maiden.\"\n\nNow, there are among us human creatures certain individuals who\nare known as \"emancipated women,\" as, for instance, principals of\ninstitutions, dancers who stand professionally on one leg,\nmilliners, and sick-nurses; and with this class of emancipated women\nthe two Maidens in the shed associated themselves. They were \"maidens\"\namong the paver folk, and determined not to give up this honorable\nappellation, and let themselves be miscalled \"rammers.\n\n\"Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a thing, and we\nwon't be called 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 paver's hammer; and the hammer is the\nthing which drives great piles into the earth, like a machine, and\ntherefore does on a large scale what ten maidens effect in a similar\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\nbroken off.\"\n\nBut the Wheelbarrow was of a different opinion; and the\nWheelbarrow was looked upon as of some consequence, for he\nconsidered himself a quarter of a coach, because he went about upon\none wheel.\n\n\"I must submit to your notice,\" he said, \"that the name 'maiden'\nis common enough, and not nearly so refined as 'hand-rammer,' or\n'stamper,' which latter has also been proposed, and through which\nyou would be introduced into the category of seals; and only think\nof the great stamp of state, which impresses the royal seal that gives\neffect to the laws! No, in your case I would surrender my maiden\nname.\"\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\nto adapt one's self to time and circumstances, and if there is a law\nthat the 'maiden' is to be called 'hand-rammer,' why, she must be\ncalled 'hand-rammer,' and no pouting will avail, for everything has\nits measure.\"\n\n\"No; if there must be a change,\" said the younger, \"I should\nprefer to be called 'Missy,' for that reminds one a little of\nmaidens.\"\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\nwere put in a wheelbarrow, and that was a distinction; but still\nthey were called \"hand-rammers.\"\n\n\"Mai--!\" they said, as they were bumped upon the pavement.\n\"Mai--!\" and they were very nearly pronouncing the whole word \"maiden;\"\nbut they broke off short, and swallowed the last syllable; for after\nmature deliberation they considered it beneath their dignity to\nprotest. But they always called each other \"maiden,\" and praised the\ngood old days in which everything had been called by its right name,\nand those who were maidens were called maidens. And they remained as\nthey were; for the hammer really broke off his engagement with the\nyounger one, for nothing would suit him but he must have a maiden\nfor his bride.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UGLY DUCKLING\n\nIt was lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden\ncorn, the green oats, and the haystacks piled up in the meadows looked\nbeautiful. The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in\nthe Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The\ncorn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst\nof which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about\nin the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house\nclose by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side\ngrew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a\nlittle child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre\nof a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on her nest, watching\nfor her young brood to hatch; she was beginning to get tired of her\ntask, for the little ones were a long time coming out of their shells,\nand she seldom had any visitors. The other ducks liked much better\nto swim about in the river than to climb the slippery banks, and sit\nunder a burdock leaf, to have a gossip with her. At length one shell\ncracked, and then another, and from each egg came a living creature\nthat lifted its head and cried, \"Peep, peep.\" \"Quack, quack,\" said the\nmother, and then they all quacked as well as they could, and looked\nabout them on every side at the large green leaves. Their mother\nallowed them to look as much as they liked, because green is good\nfor the eyes. \"How large the world is,\" said the young ducks, when\nthey found how much more room they now had than while they were inside\nthe egg-shell. \"Do you imagine this is the whole world?\" asked the\nmother; \"Wait till you have seen the garden; it stretches far beyond\nthat to the parson's field, but I have never ventured to such a\ndistance. Are you all out?\" she continued, rising; \"No, I declare, the\nlargest egg lies there still. I wonder how long this is to last, I\nam quite tired of it;\" and she seated herself again on the nest.\n\n\"Well, how are you getting on?\" asked an old duck, who paid her\na visit.\n\n\"One egg is not hatched yet,\" said the duck, \"it will not break.\nBut just look at all the others, are they not the prettiest little\nducklings you ever saw? They are the image of their father, who is\nso unkind, he never comes to see.\"\n\n\"Let me see the egg that will not break,\" said the duck; \"I have\nno doubt it is a turkey's egg. I was persuaded to hatch some once, and\nafter all my care and trouble with the young ones, they were afraid of\nthe water. I quacked and clucked, but all to no purpose. I could not\nget them to venture in. Let me look at the egg. Yes, that is a\nturkey's egg; take my advice, leave it where it is and teach the other\nchildren to swim.\"\n\n\"I think I will sit on it a little while longer,\" said the duck;\n\"as I have sat so long already, a few days will be nothing.\"\n\n\"Please yourself,\" said the old duck, and she went away.\n\nAt last the large egg broke, and a young one crept forth crying,\n\"Peep, peep.\" It was very large and ugly. The duck stared at it and\nexclaimed, \"It is very large and not at all like the others. I\nwonder if it really is a turkey. We shall soon find it out, however\nwhen we go to the water. It must go in, if I have to push it myself.\"\n\nOn the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun shone\nbrightly on the green burdock leaves, so the mother duck took her\nyoung brood down to the water, and jumped in with a splash. \"Quack,\nquack,\" cried she, and one after another the little ducklings jumped\nin. The water closed over their heads, but they came up again in an\ninstant, and swam about quite prettily with their legs paddling\nunder them as easily as possible, and the ugly duckling was also in\nthe water swimming with them.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the mother, \"that is not a turkey; how well he uses his\nlegs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he\nis not so very ugly after all if you look at him properly. Quack,\nquack! come with me now, I will take you into grand society, and\nintroduce you to the farmyard, but you must keep close to me or you\nmay be trodden upon; and, above all, beware of the cat.\"\n\nWhen they reached the farmyard, there was a great disturbance, two\nfamilies were fighting for an eel's head, which, after all, was\ncarried off by the cat. \"See, children, that is the way of the world,\"\nsaid the mother duck, whetting her beak, for she would have liked\nthe eel's head herself. \"Come, now, use your legs, and let me see\nhow well you can behave. You must bow your heads prettily to that\nold duck yonder; she is the highest born of them all, and has\nSpanish blood, therefore, she is well off. Don't you see she has a red\nflag tied to her leg, which is something very grand, and a great honor\nfor a duck; it shows that every one is anxious not to lose her, as she\ncan be recognized both by man and beast. Come, now, don't turn your\ntoes, a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart, just like\nhis father and mother, in this way; now bend your neck, and say\n'quack.'\"\n\nThe ducklings did as they were bid, but the other duck stared, and\nsaid, \"Look, here comes another brood, as if there were not enough\nof us already! and what a queer looking object one of them is; we\ndon't want him here,\" and then one flew out and bit him in the neck.\n\n\"Let him alone,\" said the mother; \"he is not doing any harm.\"\n\n\"Yes, but he is so big and ugly,\" said the spiteful duck \"and\ntherefore he must be turned out.\"\n\n\"The others are very pretty children,\" said the old duck, with the\nrag on her leg, \"all but that one; I wish his mother could improve him\na little.\"\n\n\"That is impossible, your grace,\" replied the mother; \"he is not\npretty; but he has a very good disposition, and swims as well or\neven better than the others. I think he will grow up pretty, and\nperhaps be smaller; he has remained too long in the egg, and therefore\nhis figure is not properly formed;\" and then she stroked his neck\nand smoothed the feathers, saying, \"It is a drake, and therefore not\nof so much consequence. I think he will grow up strong, and able to\ntake care of himself.\"\n\n\"The other ducklings are graceful enough,\" said the old duck. \"Now\nmake yourself at home, and if you can find an eel's head, you can\nbring it to me.\"\n\nAnd so they made themselves comfortable; but the poor duckling,\nwho had crept out of his shell last of all, and looked so ugly, was\nbitten and pushed and made fun of, not only by the ducks, but by all\nthe poultry. \"He is too big,\" they all said, and the turkey cock,\nwho had been born into the world with spurs, and fancied himself\nreally an emperor, puffed himself out like a vessel in full sail,\nand flew at the duckling, and became quite red in the head with\npassion, so that the poor little thing did not know where to go, and\nwas quite miserable because he was so ugly and laughed at by the whole\nfarmyard. So it went on from day to day till it got worse and worse.\nThe poor duckling was driven about by every one; even his brothers and\nsisters were unkind to him, and would say, \"Ah, you ugly creature, I\nwish the cat would get you,\" and his mother said she wished he had\nnever been born. The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him, and\nthe girl who fed the poultry kicked him with her feet. So at last he\nran away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over\nthe palings.\n\n\"They are afraid of me because I am ugly,\" he said. So he closed\nhis eyes, and flew still farther, until he came out on a large moor,\ninhabited by wild ducks. Here he remained the whole night, feeling\nvery tired and sorrowful.\n\nIn the morning, when the wild ducks rose in the air, they stared\nat their new comrade. \"What sort of a duck are you?\" they all said,\ncoming round him.\n\nHe bowed to them, and was as polite as he could be, but he did not\nreply to their question. \"You are exceedingly ugly,\" said the wild\nducks, \"but that will not matter if you do not want to marry one of\nour family.\"\n\nPoor thing! he had no thoughts of marriage; all he wanted was\npermission to lie among the rushes, and drink some of the water on the\nmoor. After he had been on the moor two days, there came two wild\ngeese, or rather goslings, for they had not been out of the egg\nlong, and were very saucy. \"Listen, friend,\" said one of them to the\nduckling, \"you are so ugly, that we like you very well. Will you go\nwith us, and become a bird of passage? Not far from here is another\nmoor, in which there are some pretty wild geese, all unmarried. It\nis a chance for you to get a wife; you may be lucky, ugly as you are.\"\n\n\"Pop, pop,\" sounded in the air, and the two wild geese fell dead\namong the rushes, and the water was tinged with blood. \"Pop, pop,\"\nechoed far and wide in the distance, and whole flocks of wild geese\nrose up from the rushes. The sound continued from every direction, for\nthe sportsmen surrounded the moor, and some were even seated on\nbranches of trees, overlooking the rushes. The blue smoke from the\nguns rose like clouds over the dark trees, and as it floated away\nacross the water, a number of sporting dogs bounded in among the\nrushes, which bent beneath them wherever they went. How they terrified\nthe poor duckling! He turned away his head to hide it under his\nwing, and at the same moment a large terrible dog passed quite near\nhim. His jaws were open, his tongue hung from his mouth, and his\neyes glared fearfully. He thrust his nose close to the duckling,\nshowing his sharp teeth, and then, \"splash, splash,\" he went into\nthe water without touching him, \"Oh,\" sighed the duckling, \"how\nthankful I am for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me.\" And\nso he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes,\nand gun after gun was fired over him. It was late in the day before\nall became quiet, but even then the poor young thing did not dare to\nmove. He waited quietly for several hours, and then, after looking\ncarefully around him, hastened away from the moor as fast as he could.\nHe ran over field and meadow till a storm arose, and he could hardly\nstruggle against it. Towards evening, he reached a poor little cottage\nthat seemed ready to fall, and only remained standing because it could\nnot decide on which side to fall first. The storm continued so\nviolent, that the duckling could go no farther; he sat down by the\ncottage, and then he noticed that the door was not quite closed in\nconsequence of one of the hinges having given way. There was therefore\na narrow opening near the bottom large enough for him to slip through,\nwhich he did very quietly, and got a shelter for the night. A woman, a\ntom cat, and a hen lived in this cottage. The tom cat, whom the\nmistress called, \"My little son,\" was a great favorite; he could raise\nhis back, and purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur if it\nwere stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs, so she was\ncalled \"Chickie short legs.\" She laid good eggs, and her mistress\nloved her as if she had been her own child. In the morning, the\nstrange visitor was discovered, and the tom cat began to purr, and the\nhen to cluck.\n\n\"What is that noise about?\" said the old woman, looking round\nthe room, but her sight was not very good; therefore, when she saw the\nduckling she thought it must be a fat duck, that had strayed from\nhome. \"Oh what a prize!\" she exclaimed, \"I hope it is not a drake, for\nthen I shall have some duck's eggs. I must wait and see.\" So the\nduckling was allowed to remain on trial for three weeks, but there\nwere no eggs. Now the tom cat was the master of the house, and the hen\nwas mistress, and they always said, \"We and the world,\" for they\nbelieved themselves to be half the world, and the better half too. The\nduckling thought that others might hold a different opinion on the\nsubject, but the hen would not listen to such doubts. \"Can you lay\neggs?\" she asked. \"No.\" \"Then have the goodness to hold your\ntongue.\" \"Can you raise your back, or purr, or throw out sparks?\" said\nthe tom cat. \"No.\" \"Then you have no right to express an opinion\nwhen sensible people are speaking.\" So the duckling sat in a corner,\nfeeling very low spirited, till the sunshine and the fresh air came\ninto the room through the open door, and then he began to feel such\na great longing for a swim on the water, that he could not help\ntelling the hen.\n\n\"What an absurd idea,\" said the hen. \"You have nothing else to do,\ntherefore you have foolish fancies. If you could purr or lay eggs,\nthey would pass away.\"\n\n\"But it is so delightful to swim about on the water,\" said the\nduckling, \"and so refreshing to feel it close over your head, while\nyou dive down to the bottom.\"\n\n\"Delightful, indeed!\" said the hen, \"why you must be crazy! Ask\nthe cat, he is the cleverest animal I know, ask him how he would\nlike to swim about on the water, or to dive under it, for I will not\nspeak of my own opinion; ask our mistress, the old woman--there is\nno one in the world more clever than she is. Do you think she would\nlike to swim, or to let the water close over her head?\"\n\n\"You don't understand me,\" said the duckling.\n\n\"We don't understand you? Who can understand you, I wonder? Do you\nconsider yourself more clever than the cat, or the old woman? I will\nsay nothing of myself. Don't imagine such nonsense, child, and thank\nyour good fortune that you have been received here. Are you not in a\nwarm room, and in society from which you may learn something. But\nyou are a chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable. Believe\nme, I speak only for your own good. I may tell you unpleasant\ntruths, but that is a proof of my friendship. I advise you, therefore,\nto lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible.\"\n\n\"I believe I must go out into the world again,\" said the duckling.\n\n\"Yes, do,\" said the hen. So the duckling left the cottage, and\nsoon found water on which it could swim and dive, but was avoided by\nall other animals, because of its ugly appearance. Autumn came, and\nthe leaves in the forest turned to orange and gold. Then, as winter\napproached, the wind caught them as they fell and whirled them in\nthe cold air. The clouds, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, hung low in\nthe sky, and the raven stood on the ferns crying, \"Croak, croak.\" It\nmade one shiver with cold to look at him. All this was very sad for\nthe poor little duckling. One evening, just as the sun set amid\nradiant clouds, there came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the\nbushes. The duckling had never seen any like them before. They were\nswans, and they curved their graceful necks, while their soft\nplumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a singular cry, as\nthey spread their glorious wings and flew away from those cold regions\nto warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher and\nhigher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange\nsensation as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water like a\nwheel, stretched out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so\nstrange that it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those\nbeautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight,\nhe dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself with\nexcitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they had\nflown, but he felt towards them as he had never felt for any other\nbird in the world. He was not envious of these beautiful creatures,\nbut wished to be as lovely as they. Poor ugly creature, how gladly\nhe would have lived even with the ducks had they only given him\nencouragement. The winter grew colder and colder; he was obliged to\nswim about on the water to keep it from freezing, but every night\nthe space on which he swam became smaller and smaller. At length it\nfroze so hard that the ice in the water crackled as he moved, and\nthe duckling had to paddle with his legs as well as he could, to\nkeep the space from closing up. He became exhausted at last, and lay\nstill and helpless, frozen fast in the ice.\n\nEarly in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw what\nhad happened. He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and\ncarried the duckling home to his wife. The warmth revived the poor\nlittle creature; but when the children wanted to play with him, the\nduckling thought they would do him some harm; so he started up in\nterror, fluttered into the milk-pan, and splashed the milk about the\nroom. Then the woman clapped her hands, which frightened him still\nmore. He flew first into the butter-cask, then into the meal-tub,\nand out again. What a condition he was in! The woman screamed, and\nstruck at him with the tongs; the children laughed and screamed, and\ntumbled over each other, in their efforts to catch him; but luckily he\nescaped. The door stood open; the poor creature could just manage to\nslip out among the bushes, and lie down quite exhausted in the newly\nfallen snow.\n\nIt would be very sad, were I to relate all the misery and\nprivations which the poor little duckling endured during the hard\nwinter; but when it had passed, he found himself lying one morning\nin a moor, amongst the rushes. He felt the warm sun shining, and heard\nthe lark singing, and saw that all around was beautiful spring. Then\nthe young bird felt that his wings were strong, as he flapped them\nagainst his sides, and rose high into the air. They bore him\nonwards, until he found himself in a large garden, before he well knew\nhow it had happened. The apple-trees were in full blossom, and the\nfragrant elders bent their long green branches down to the stream\nwhich wound round a smooth lawn. Everything looked beautiful, in the\nfreshness of early spring. From a thicket close by came three\nbeautiful white swans, rustling their feathers, and swimming lightly\nover the smooth water. The duckling remembered the lovely birds, and\nfelt more strangely unhappy than ever.\n\n\"I will fly to those royal birds,\" he exclaimed, \"and they will\nkill me, because I am so ugly, and dare to approach them; but it\ndoes not matter: better be killed by them than pecked by the ducks,\nbeaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden who feeds the\npoultry, or starved with hunger in the winter.\"\n\nThen he flew to the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans.\nThe moment they espied the stranger, they rushed to meet him with\noutstretched wings.\n\n\"Kill me,\" said the poor bird; and he bent his head down to the\nsurface of the water, and awaited death.\n\nBut what did he see in the clear stream below? His own image; no\nlonger a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a\ngraceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck's nest, in a\nfarmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a\nswan's egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble,\nbecause it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and\nhappiness around him; for the great swans swam round the new-comer,\nand stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.\n\nInto the garden presently came some little children, and threw\nbread and cake into the water.\n\n\"See,\" cried the youngest, \"there is a new one;\" and the rest were\ndelighted, and ran to their father and mother, dancing and clapping\ntheir hands, and shouting joyously, \"There is another swan come; a new\none has arrived.\"\n\nThen they threw more bread and cake into the water, and said, \"The\nnew one is the most beautiful of all; he is so young and pretty.\"\nAnd the old swans bowed their heads before him.\n\nThen he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing; for\nhe did not know what to do, he was so happy, and yet not at all proud.\nHe had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard\nthem say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the\nelder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun\nshone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his\nslender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, \"I\nnever dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly\nduckling.\"\n\n\n\n\nUNDER THE WILLOW-TREE\n\nThe region round the little town of Kjoge is very bleak and\ncold. The town lies on the sea shore, which is always beautiful; but\nhere it might be more beautiful than it is, for on every side the\nfields are flat, and it is a long way to the forest. But when\npersons reside in a place and get used to it, they can always find\nsomething beautiful in it,--something for which they long, even in the\nmost charming spot in the world which is not home. It must be owned\nthat there are in the outskirts of the town some humble gardens on the\nbanks of a little stream that runs on towards the sea, and in summer\nthese gardens look very pretty. Such indeed was the opinion of two\nlittle children, whose parents were neighbors, and who played in these\ngardens, and forced their way from one garden to the other through the\ngooseberry-bushes that divided them. In one of the gardens grew an\nelder-tree, and in the other an old willow, under which the children\nwere very fond of playing. They had permission to do so, although\nthe tree stood close by the stream, and they might easily have\nfallen into the water; but the eye of God watches over the little\nones, otherwise they would never be safe. At the same time, these\nchildren were very careful not to go too near the water; indeed, the\nboy was so afraid of it, that in the summer, while the other\nchildren were splashing about in the sea, nothing could entice him\nto join them. They jeered and laughed at him, and he was obliged to\nbear it all as patiently as he could. Once the neighbor's little girl,\nJoanna, dreamed that she was sailing in a boat, and the boy--Knud\nwas his name--waded out in the water to join her, and the water came\nup to his neck, and at last closed over his head, and in a moment he\nhad disappeared. When little Knud heard this dream, it seemed as if he\ncould not bear the mocking and jeering again; how could he dare to\ngo into the water now, after Joanna's dream! He never would do it, for\nthis dream always satisfied him. The parents of these children, who\nwere poor, often sat together while Knud and Joanna played in the\ngardens or in the road. Along this road--a row of willow-trees had\nbeen planted to separate it from a ditch on one side of it. They\nwere not very handsome trees, for the tops had been cut off;\nhowever, they were intended for use, and not for show. The old\nwillow-tree in the garden was much handsomer, and therefore the\nchildren were very fond of sitting under it. The town had a large\nmarket-place; and at the fair-time there would be whole rows, like\nstreets, of tents and booths containing silks and ribbons, and toys\nand cakes, and everything that could be wished for. There were\ncrowds of people, and sometimes the weather would be rainy, and splash\nwith moisture the woollen jackets of the peasants; but it did not\ndestroy the beautiful fragrance of the honey-cakes and gingerbread\nwith which one booth was filled; and the best of it was, that the\nman who sold these cakes always lodged during the fair-time with\nlittle Knud's parents. So every now and then he had a present of\ngingerbread, and of course Joanna always had a share. And, more\ndelightful still, the gingerbread seller knew all sorts of things to\ntell and could even relate stories about his own gingerbread. So one\nevening he told them a story that made such a deep impression on the\nchildren that they never forgot it; and therefore I think we may as\nwell hear it too, for it is not very long.\n\n\"Once upon a time,\" said he, \"there lay on my counter two\ngingerbread cakes, one in the shape of a man wearing a hat, the\nother of a maiden without a bonnet. Their faces were on the side\nthat was uppermost, for on the other side they looked very\ndifferent. Most people have a best side to their characters, which\nthey take care to show to the world. On the left, just where the heart\nis, the gingerbread man had an almond stuck in to represent it, but\nthe maiden was honey cake all over. They were placed on the counter as\nsamples, and after lying there a long time they at last fell in love\nwith each other; but neither of them spoke of it to the other, as they\nshould have done if they expected anything to follow. 'He is a man, he\nought to speak the first word,' thought the gingerbread maiden; but\nshe felt quite happy--she was sure that her love was returned. But his\nthoughts were far more ambitious, as the thoughts of a man often\nare. He dreamed that he was a real street boy, that he possessed\nfour real pennies, and that he had bought the gingerbread lady, and\nate her up. And so they lay on the counter for days and weeks, till\nthey grew hard and dry; but the thoughts of the maiden became ever\nmore tender and womanly. 'Ah well, it is enough for me that I have\nbeen able to live on the same counter with him,' said she one day;\nwhen suddenly, 'crack,' and she broke in two. 'Ah,' said the\ngingerbread man to himself, 'if she had only known of my love, she\nwould have kept together a little longer.' And here they both are, and\nthat is their history,\" said the cake man. \"You think the history of\ntheir lives and their silent love, which never came to anything,\nvery remarkable; and there they are for you.\" So saying, he gave\nJoanna the gingerbread man, who was still quite whole--and to Knud the\nbroken maiden; but the children had been so much impressed by the\nstory, that they had not the heart to eat the lovers up.\n\nThe next day they went into the churchyard, and took the two\ncake figures with them, and sat down under the church wall, which\nwas covered with luxuriant ivy in summer and winter, and looked as\nif hung with rich tapestry. They stuck up the two gingerbread\nfigures in the sunshine among the green leaves, and then told the\nstory, and all about the silent love which came to nothing, to a group\nof children. They called it, \"love,\" because the story was so\nlovely, and the other children had the same opinion. But when they\nturned to look at the gingerbread pair, the broken maiden was gone!\nA great boy, out of wickedness, had eaten her up. At first the\nchildren cried about it; but afterwards, thinking very probably that\nthe poor lover ought not to be left alone in the world, they ate him\nup too: but they never forgot the story.\n\nThe two children still continued to play together by the\nelder-tree, and under the willow; and the little maiden sang beautiful\nsongs, with a voice that was as clear as a bell. Knud, on the\ncontrary, had not a note of music in him, but knew the words of the\nsongs, and that of course is something. The people of Kjoge, and\neven the rich wife of the man who kept the fancy shop, would stand and\nlisten while Joanna was singing, and say, \"She has really a very sweet\nvoice.\"\n\nThose were happy days; but they could not last forever. The\nneighbors were separated, the mother of the little girl was dead,\nand her father had thoughts of marrying again and of residing in the\ncapital, where he had been promised a very lucrative appointment as\nmessenger. The neighbors parted with tears, the children wept sadly;\nbut their parents promised that they should write to each other at\nleast once a year.\n\nAfter this, Knud was bound apprentice to a shoemaker; he was\ngrowing a great boy, and could not be allowed to run wild any\nlonger. Besides, he was going to be confirmed. Ah, how happy he\nwould have been on that festal day in Copenhagen with little Joanna;\nbut he still remained at Kjoge, and had never seen the great city,\nthough the town is not five miles from it. But far across the bay,\nwhen the sky was clear, the towers of Copenhagen could be seen; and on\nthe day of his confirmation he saw distinctly the golden cross on\nthe principal church glittering in the sun. How often his thoughts\nwere with Joanna! but did she think of him? Yes. About Christmas\ncame a letter from her father to Knud's parents, which stated that\nthey were going on very well in Copenhagen, and mentioning\nparticularly that Joanna's beautiful voice was likely to bring her a\nbrilliant fortune in the future. She was engaged to sing at a concert,\nand she had already earned money by singing, out of which she sent her\ndear neighbors at Kjoge a whole dollar, for them to make merry on\nChristmas eve, and they were to drink her health. She had herself\nadded this in a postscript, and in the same postscript she wrote,\n\"Kind regards to Knud.\"\n\nThe good neighbors wept, although the news was so pleasant; but\nthey wept tears of joy. Knud's thoughts had been daily with Joanna,\nand now he knew that she also had thought of him; and the nearer the\ntime came for his apprenticeship to end, the clearer did it appear\nto him that he loved Joanna, and that she must be his wife; and a\nsmile came on his lips at the thought, and at one time he drew the\nthread so fast as he worked, and pressed his foot so hard against\nthe knee strap, that he ran the awl into his finger; but what did he\ncare for that? He was determined not to play the dumb lover as both\nthe gingerbread cakes had done; the story was a good lesson to him.\n\nAt length he become a journeyman; and then, for the first time, he\nprepared for a journey to Copenhagen, with his knapsack packed and\nready. A master was expecting him there, and he thought of Joanna, and\nhow glad she would be to see him. She was now seventeen, and he\nnineteen years old. He wanted to buy a gold ring for her in Kjoge, but\nthen he recollected how far more beautiful such things would be in\nCopenhagen. So he took leave of his parents, and on a rainy day,\nlate in the autumn, wandered forth on foot from the town of his birth.\nThe leaves were falling from the trees; and, by the time he arrived at\nhis new master's in the great metropolis, he was wet through. On the\nfollowing Sunday he intended to pay his first visit to Joanna's\nfather. When the day came, the new journeyman's clothes were brought\nout, and a new hat, which he had brought in Kjoge. The hat became\nhim very well, for hitherto he had only worn a cap. He found the house\nthat he sought easily, but had to mount so many stairs that he\nbecame quite giddy; it surprised him to find how people lived over one\nanother in this dreadful town.\n\nOn entering a room in which everything denoted prosperity,\nJoanna's father received him very kindly. The new wife was a\nstranger to him, but she shook hands with him, and offered him coffee.\n\n\"Joanna will be very glad to see you,\" said her father. \"You\nhave grown quite a nice young man, you shall see her presently; she is\na good child, and is the joy of my heart, and, please God, she will\ncontinue to be so; she has her own room now, and pays us rent for it.\"\nAnd the father knocked quite politely at a door, as if he were a\nstranger, and then they both went in. How pretty everything was in\nthat room! a more beautiful apartment could not be found in the\nwhole town of Kjoge; the queen herself could scarcely be better\naccommodated. There were carpets, and rugs, and window curtains\nhanging to the ground. Pictures and flowers were scattered about.\nThere was a velvet chair, and a looking-glass against the wall, into\nwhich a person might be in danger of stepping, for it was as large\nas a door. All this Knud saw at a glance, and yet, in truth, he saw\nnothing but Joanna. She was quite grown up, and very different from\nwhat Knud had fancied her, and a great deal more beautiful. In all\nKjoge there was not a girl like her; and how graceful she looked,\nalthough her glance at first was odd, and not familiar; but for a\nmoment only, then she rushed towards him as if she would have kissed\nhim; she did not, however, although she was very near it. Yes, she\nreally was joyful at seeing the friend of her childhood once more, and\nthe tears even stood in her eyes. Then she asked so many questions\nabout Knud's parents, and everything, even to the elder-tree and the\nwillow, which she called \"elder-mother and willow-father,\" as if\nthey had been human beings; and so, indeed, they might be, quite as\nmuch as the gingerbread cakes. Then she talked about them, and the\nstory of their silent love, and how they lay on the counter together\nand split in two; and then she laughed heartily; but the blood\nrushed into Knud's cheeks, and his heart beat quickly. Joanna was\nnot proud at all; he noticed that through her he was invited by her\nparents to remain the whole evening with them, and she poured out\nthe tea and gave him a cup herself; and afterwards she took a book and\nread aloud to them, and it seemed to Knud as if the story was all\nabout himself and his love, for it agreed so well with his own\nthoughts. And then she sang a simple song, which, through her singing,\nbecame a true story, and as if she poured forth the feelings of her\nown heart.\n\n\"Oh,\" he thought, \"she knows I am fond of her.\" The tears he could\nnot restrain rolled down his cheeks, and he was unable to utter a\nsingle word; it seemed as if he had been struck dumb.\n\nWhen he left, she pressed his hand, and said, \"You have a kind\nheart, Knud: remain always as you are now.\" What an evening of\nhappiness this had been; to sleep after it was impossible, and Knud\ndid not sleep.\n\nAt parting, Joanna's father had said, \"Now, you won't quite forget\nus; you must not let the whole winter go by without paying us\nanother visit;\" so that Knud felt himself free to go again the\nfollowing Sunday evening, and so he did. But every evening after\nworking hours--and they worked by candle-light then--he walked out\ninto the town, and through the street in which Joanna lived, to look\nup at her window. It was almost always lighted up; and one evening\nhe saw the shadow of her face quite plainly on the window blind;\nthat was a glorious evening for him. His master's wife did not like\nhis always going out in the evening, idling, wasting time, as she\ncalled it, and she shook her head.\n\nBut his master only smiled, and said, \"He is a young man, my dear,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"On Sunday I shall see her,\" said Knud to himself, \"and I will\ntell her that I love her with my whole heart and soul, and that she\nmust be my little wife. I know I am now only a poor journeyman\nshoemaker, but I will work and strive, and become a master in time.\nYes, I will speak to her; nothing comes from silent love. I learnt\nthat from the gingerbread-cake story.\"\n\nSunday came, but when Knud arrived, they were all unfortunately\ninvited out to spend the evening, and were obliged to tell him so.\n\nJoanna pressed his hand, and said, \"Have you ever been to the\ntheatre? you must go once; I sing there on Wednesday, and if you\nhave time on that day, I will send you a ticket; my father knows where\nyour master lives.\" How kind this was of her! And on Wednesday,\nabout noon, Knud received a sealed packet with no address, but the\nticket was inside; and in the evening Knud went, for the first time in\nhis life, to a theatre. And what did he see? He saw Joanna, and how\nbeautiful and charming she looked! He certainly saw her being\nmarried to a stranger, but that was all in the play, and only a\npretence; Knud well knew that. She could never have the heart, he\nthought, to send him a ticket to go and see it, if it had been real.\nSo he looked on, and when all the people applauded and clapped their\nhands, he shouted \"hurrah.\" He could see that even the king smiled\nat Joanna, and seemed delighted with her singing. How small Knud felt;\nbut then he loved her so dearly, and thought she loved him, and the\nman must speak the first word, as the gingerbread maiden had\nthought. Ah, how much there was for him in that childish story. As\nsoon as Sunday arrived, he went again, and felt as if he were about to\nenter on holy ground. Joanna was alone to welcome him, nothing could\nbe more fortunate.\n\n\"I am so glad you are come,\" she said. \"I was thinking of sending\nmy father for you, but I had a presentiment that you would be here\nthis evening. The fact is, I wanted to tell you that I am going to\nFrance. I shall start on Friday. It is necessary for me to go there,\nif I wish to become a first-rate performer.\"\n\nPoor Knud! it seemed to him as if the whole room was whirling\nround with him. His courage failed, and he felt as if his heart\nwould burst. He kept down the tears, but it was easy to see how\nsorrowful he was.\n\n\"You honest, faithful soul,\" she exclaimed; and the words loosened\nKnud's tongue, and he told her how truly he had loved her, and that\nshe must be his wife; and as he said this, he saw Joanna change color,\nand turn pale. She let his hand fall, and said, earnestly and\nmournfully, \"Knud, do not make yourself and me unhappy. I will\nalways be a good sister to you, one in whom you can trust; but I can\nnever be anything more.\" And she drew her white hand over his\nburning forehead, and said, \"God gives strength to bear a great\ndeal, if we only strive ourselves to endure.\"\n\nAt this moment her stepmother came into the room, and Joanna\nsaid quickly, \"Knud is so unhappy, because I am going away;\" and it\nappeared as if they had only been talking of her journey. \"Come, be\na man,\" she added, placing her hand on his shoulder; \"you are still a\nchild, and you must be good and reasonable, as you were when we were\nboth children, and played together under the willow-tree.\"\n\nKnud listened, but he felt as if the world had slid out of its\ncourse. His thoughts were like a loose thread fluttering to and fro in\nthe wind. He stayed, although he could not tell whether she had\nasked him to do so. But she was kind and gentle to him; she poured out\nhis tea, and sang to him; but the song had not the old tone in it,\nalthough it was wonderfully beautiful, and made his heart feel ready\nto burst. And then he rose to go. He did not offer his hand, but she\nseized it, and said--\n\n\"Will you not shake hands with your sister at parting, my old\nplayfellow?\" and she smiled through the tears that were rolling down\nher cheeks. Again she repeated the word \"brother,\" which was a great\nconsolation certainly; and thus they parted.\n\nShe sailed to France, and Knud wandered about the muddy streets of\nCopenhagen. The other journeymen in the shop asked him why he looked\nso gloomy, and wanted him to go and amuse himself with them, as he was\nstill a young man. So he went with them to a dancing-room. He saw many\nhandsome girls there, but none like Joanna; and here, where he thought\nto forget her, she was more life-like before his mind than ever.\n\"God gives us strength to bear much, if we try to do our best,\" she\nhad said; and as he thought of this, a devout feeling came into his\nmind, and he folded his hands. Then, as the violins played and the\ngirls danced round the room, he started; for it seemed to him as if he\nwere in a place where he ought not to have brought Joanna, for she was\nhere with him in his heart; and so he went out at once. As he went\nthrough the streets at a quick pace, he passed the house where she\nused to live; it was all dark, empty, and lonely. But the world went\non its course, and Knud was obliged to go on too.\n\nWinter came; the water was frozen, and everything seemed buried in\na cold grave. But when spring returned, and the first steamer prepared\nto sail, Knud was seized with a longing to wander forth into the\nworld, but not to France. So he packed his knapsack, and travelled\nthrough Germany, going from town to town, but finding neither rest\nor peace. It was not till he arrived at the glorious old town of\nNuremberg that he gained the mastery over himself, and rested his\nweary feet; and here he remained.\n\nNuremberg is a wonderful old city, and looks as if it had been cut\nout of an old picture-book. The streets seem to have arranged\nthemselves according to their own fancy, and as if the houses objected\nto stand in rows or rank and file. Gables, with little towers,\nornamented columns, and statues, can be seen even to the city gate;\nand from the singular-shaped roofs, waterspouts, formed like\ndragons, or long lean dogs, extend far across to the middle of the\nstreet. Here, in the market-place, stood Knud, with his knapsack on\nhis back, close to one of the old fountains which are so beautifully\nadorned with figures, scriptural and historical, and which spring up\nbetween the sparkling jets of water. A pretty servant-maid was just\nfilling her pails, and she gave Knud a refreshing draught; she had a\nhandful of roses, and she gave him one, which appeared to him like a\ngood omen for the future. From a neighboring church came the sounds of\nmusic, and the familiar tones reminded him of the organ at home at\nKjoge; so he passed into the great cathedral. The sunshine streamed\nthrough the painted glass windows, and between two lofty slender\npillars. His thoughts became prayerful, and calm peace rested on his\nsoul. He next sought and found a good master in Nuremberg, with whom\nhe stayed and learnt the German language.\n\nThe old moat round the town had been converted into a number of\nlittle kitchen gardens; but the high walls, with their heavy-looking\ntowers, are still standing. Inside these walls the ropemaker twisted\nhis ropes along a walk built like a gallery, and in the cracks and\ncrevices of the walls elderbushes grow and stretch their green\nboughs over the small houses which stand below. In one of these houses\nlived the master for whom Knud worked; and over the little garret\nwindow where he sat, the elder-tree waved its branches. Here he\ndwelt through one summer and winter, but when spring came again, he\ncould endure it no longer. The elder was in blossom, and its fragrance\nwas so homelike, that he fancied himself back again in the gardens\nof Kjoge. So Knud left his master, and went to work for another who\nlived farther in the town, where no elder grew. His workshop was quite\nclose to one of the old stone bridges, near to a water-mill, round\nwhich the roaring stream rushed and foamed always, yet restrained by\nthe neighboring houses, whose old, decayed balconies hung over, and\nseemed ready to fall into the water. Here grew no elder; here was\nnot even a flower-pot, with its little green plant; but just\nopposite the workshop stood a great willow-tree, which seemed to\nhold fast to the house for fear of being carried away by the water. It\nstretched its branches over the stream just as those of the\nwillow-tree in the garden at Kjoge had spread over the river. Yes,\nhe had indeed gone from elder-mother to willow-father. There was a\nsomething about the tree here, especially in the moonlight nights,\nthat went direct to his heart; yet it was not in reality the\nmoonlight, but the old tree itself. However, he could not endure it:\nand why? Ask the willow, ask the blossoming elder! At all events, he\nbade farewell to Nuremberg and journeyed onwards. He never spoke of\nJoanna to any one; his sorrow was hidden in his heart. The old\nchildish story of the two cakes had a deep meaning for him. He\nunderstood now why the gingerbread man had a bitter almond in his left\nside; his was the feeling of bitterness, and Joanna, so mild and\nfriendly, was represented by the honeycake maiden. As he thought\nupon all this, the strap of his knapsack pressed across his chest so\nthat he could hardly breathe; he loosened it, but gained no relief. He\nsaw but half the world around him; the other half he carried with\nhim in his inward thoughts; and this is the condition in which he left\nNuremberg. Not till he caught sight of the lofty mountains did the\nworld appear more free to him; his thoughts were attracted to outer\nobjects, and tears came into his eyes. The Alps appeared to him like\nthe wings of earth folded together; unfolded, they would display the\nvariegated pictures of dark woods, foaming waters, spreading clouds,\nand masses of snow. \"At the last day,\" thought he, \"the earth will\nunfold its great wings, and soar upwards to the skies, there to\nburst like a soap-bubble in the radiant glance of the Deity. Oh,\"\nsighed he, \"that the last day were come!\"\n\nSilently he wandered on through the country of the Alps, which\nseemed to him like a fruit garden, covered with soft turf. From the\nwooden balconies of the houses the young lacemakers nodded as he\npassed. The summits of the mountains glowed in the red evening sunset,\nand the green lakes beneath the dark trees reflected the glow. Then he\nthought of the sea coast by the bay Kjoge, with a longing in his heart\nthat was, however, without pain. There, where the Rhine rolls onward\nlike a great billow, and dissolves itself into snowflakes, where\nglistening clouds are ever changing as if here was the place of\ntheir creation, while the rainbow flutters about them like a\nmany-colored ribbon, there did Knud think of the water-mill at\nKjoge, with its rushing, foaming waters. Gladly would he have remained\nin the quiet Rhenish town, but there were too many elders and\nwillow-trees.\n\nSo he travelled onwards, over a grand, lofty chain of mountains,\nover rugged,--rocky precipices, and along roads that hung on the\nmountain's side like a swallow's nest. The waters foamed in the depths\nbelow him. The clouds lay beneath him. He wandered on, treading upon\nAlpine roses, thistles, and snow, with the summer sun shining upon\nhim, till at length he bid farewell to the lands of the north. Then he\npassed on under the shade of blooming chestnut-trees, through\nvineyards, and fields of Indian corn, till conscious that the\nmountains were as a wall between him and his early recollections;\nand he wished it to be so.\n\nBefore him lay a large and splendid city, called Milan, and here\nhe found a German master who engaged him as a workman. The master\nand his wife, in whose workshop he was employed, were an old, pious\ncouple; and the two old people became quite fond of the quiet\njourneyman, who spoke but little, but worked more, and led a pious,\nChristian life; and even to himself it seemed as if God had removed\nthe heavy burden from his heart. His greatest pleasure was to climb,\nnow and then, to the roof of the noble church, which was built of\nwhite marble. The pointed towers, the decorated and open cloisters,\nthe stately columns, the white statues which smiled upon him from\nevery corner and porch and arch,--all, even the church itself,\nseemed to him to have been formed from the snow of his native land.\nAbove him was the blue sky; below him, the city and the wide-spreading\nplains of Lombardy; and towards the north, the lofty mountains,\ncovered with perpetual snow. And then he thought of the church of\nKjoge, with its red, ivy-clad walls, but he had no longing to go\nthere; here, beyond the mountains, he would die and be buried.\n\nThree years had passed away since he left his home; one year of\nthat time he had dwelt at Milan.\n\nOne day his master took him into the town; not to the circus in\nwhich riders performed, but to the opera, a large building, itself a\nsight well worth seeing. The seven tiers of boxes, which reached\nfrom the ground to a dizzy height, near the ceiling, were hung with\nrich, silken curtains; and in them were seated elegantly-dressed\nladies, with bouquets of flowers in their hands. The gentlemen were\nalso in full dress, and many of them wore decorations of gold and\nsilver. The place was so brilliantly lighted that it seemed like\nsunshine, and glorious music rolled through the building. Everything\nlooked more beautiful than in the theatre at Copenhagen, but then\nJoanna had been there, and--could it be? Yes--it was like magic,--she\nwas here also: for, when the curtain rose, there stood Joanna,\ndressed in silk and gold, and with a golden crown upon her head. She\nsang, he thought, as only an angel could sing; and then she stepped\nforward to the front and smiled, as only Joanna could smile, and\nlooked directly at Knud. Poor Knud! he seized his master's hand, and\ncried out loud, \"Joanna,\" but no one heard him, excepting his\nmaster, for the music sounded above everything.\n\n\"Yes, yes, it is Joanna,\" said his master; and he drew forth a\nprinted bill, and pointed to her name, which was there in full. Then\nit was not a dream. All the audience applauded her, and threw\nwreaths of flowers at her; and every time she went away they called\nfor her again, so that she was always coming and going. In the\nstreet the people crowded round her carriage, and drew it away\nthemselves without the horses. Knud was in the foremost row, and\nshouted as joyously as the rest; and when the carriage stopped\nbefore a brilliantly lighted house, Knud placed himself close to the\ndoor of her carriage. It flew open, and she stepped out; the light\nfell upon her dear face, and he could see that she smiled as she\nthanked them, and appeared quite overcome. Knud looked straight in her\nface, and she looked at him, but she did not recognize him. A man,\nwith a glittering star on his breast, gave her his arm, and people\nsaid the two were engaged to be married. Then Knud went home and\npacked up his knapsack; he felt he must return to the home of his\nchildhood, to the elder-tree and the willow. \"Ah, under that\nwillow-tree!\" A man may live a whole life in one single hour.\n\nThe old couple begged him to remain, but words were useless. In\nvain they reminded him that winter was coming, and that the snow had\nalready fallen on the mountains. He said he could easily follow the\ntrack of the closely-moving carriages, for which a path must be kept\nclear, and with nothing but his knapsack on his back, and leaning on\nhis stick, he could step along briskly. So he turned his steps to\nthe mountains, ascended one side and descended the other, still\ngoing northward till his strength began to fail, and not a house or\nvillage could be seen. The stars shone in the sky above him, and\ndown in the valley lights glittered like stars, as if another sky were\nbeneath him; but his head was dizzy and his feet stumbled, and he felt\nill. The lights in the valley grew brighter and brighter, and more\nnumerous, and he could see them moving to and fro, and then he\nunderstood that there must be a village in the distance; so he exerted\nhis failing strength to reach it, and at length obtained shelter in\na humble lodging. He remained there that night and the whole of the\nfollowing day, for his body required rest and refreshment, and in\nthe valley there was rain and a thaw. But early in the morning of\nthe third day, a man came with an organ and played one of the melodies\nof home; and after that Knud could remain there no longer, so he\nstarted again on his journey toward the north. He travelled for many\ndays with hasty steps, as if he were trying to reach home before all\nwhom he remembered should die; but he spoke to no one of this longing.\nNo one would have believed or understood this sorrow of his heart, the\ndeepest that can be felt by human nature. Such grief is not for the\nworld; it is not entertaining even to friends, and poor Knud had no\nfriends; he was a stranger, wandering through strange lands to his\nhome in the north.\n\nHe was walking one evening through the public roads, the country\naround him was flatter, with fields and meadows, the air had a\nfrosty feeling. A willow-tree grew by the roadside, everything\nreminded him of home. He felt very tired; so he sat down under the\ntree, and very soon began to nod, then his eyes closed in sleep. Yet\nstill he seemed conscious that the willow-tree was stretching its\nbranches over him; in his dreaming state the tree appeared like a\nstrong, old man--the \"willow-father\" himself, who had taken his\ntired son up in his arms to carry him back to the land of home, to the\ngarden of his childhood, on the bleak open shores of Kjoge. And then\nhe dreamed that it was really the willow-tree itself from Kjoge, which\nhad travelled out in the world to seek him, and now had found him\nand carried him back into the little garden on the banks of the\nstreamlet; and there stood Joanna, in all her splendor, with the\ngolden crown on her head, as he had last seen her, to welcome him\nback. And then there appeared before him two remarkable shapes,\nwhich looked much more like human beings than when he had seen them in\nhis childhood; they were changed, but he remembered that they were the\ntwo gingerbread cakes, the man and the woman, who had shown their best\nsides to the world and looked so good.\n\n\"We thank you,\" they said to Knud, \"for you have loosened our\ntongues; we have learnt from you that thoughts should be spoken\nfreely, or nothing will come of them; and now something has come of\nour thoughts, for we are engaged to be married.\" Then they walked\naway, hand-in-hand, through the streets of Kjoge, looking very\nrespectable on the best side, which they were quite right to show.\nThey turned their steps to the church, and Knud and Joanna followed\nthem, also walking hand-in-hand; there stood the church, as of old,\nwith its red walls, on which the green ivy grew.\n\nThe great church door flew open wide, and as they walked up the\nbroad aisle, soft tones of music sounded from the organ. \"Our master\nfirst,\" said the gingerbread pair, making room for Knud and Joanna. As\nthey knelt at the altar, Joanna bent her head over him, and cold,\nicy tears fell on his face from her eyes. They were indeed tears of\nice, for her heart was melting towards him through his strong love,\nand as her tears fell on his burning cheeks he awoke. He was still\nsitting under the willow-tree in a strange land, on a cold winter\nevening, with snow and hail falling from the clouds, and beating\nupon his face.\n\n\"That was the most delightful hour of my life,\" said he, \"although\nit was only a dream. Oh, let me dream again.\" Then he closed his\neyes once more, and slept and dreamed.\n\nTowards morning there was a great fall of snow; the wind drifted\nit over him, but he still slept on. The villagers came forth to go\nto church; by the roadside they found a workman seated, but he was\ndead! frozen to death under a willow-tree.\n\n\n\n\nIN THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA\n\nSome years ago, large ships were sent towards the north pole, to\nexplore the distant coasts, and to try how far men could penetrate\ninto those unknown regions. For more than a year one of these ships\nhad been pushing its way northward, amid snow and ice, and the sailors\nhad endured many hardships; till at length winter set in, and the\nsun entirely disappeared; for many weeks there would be constant\nnight. All around, as far as the eye could reach, nothing could be\nseen but fields of ice, in which the ship remained stuck fast. The\nsnow lay piled up in great heaps, and of these the sailors made\nhuts, in the form of bee-hives, some of them as large and spacious\nas one of the \"Huns' graves,\" and others only containing room enough\nto hold three or four men. It was not quite dark; the northern\nlights shot forth red and blue flames, like continuous fireworks,\nand the snow glittered, and reflected back the light, so that the\nnight here was one long twilight. When the moon was brightest, the\nnatives came in crowds to see the sailors. They had a very singular\nappearance in their rough, hairy dresses of fur, and riding in sledges\nover the ice. They brought with them furs and skins in great\nabundance, so that the snow-houses were soon provided with warm\ncarpets, and the furs also served for the sailors to wrap themselves\nin, when they slept under the roofs of snow, while outside it was\nfreezing with a cold far more severe than in the winter with us. In\nour country it was still autumn, though late in the season; and they\nthought of that in their distant exile, and often pictured to\nthemselves the yellow leaves on the trees at home. Their watches\npointed to the hours of evening, and time to go to sleep, although\nin these regions it was now always night.\n\nIn one of the huts, two of the men laid themselves down to rest.\nThe younger of these men had brought with him from home his best,\nhis dearest treasure--a Bible, which his grandmother had given him\non his departure. Every night the sacred volume rested under his head,\nand he had known from his childhood what was written in it. Every\nday he read in the book, and while stretched on his cold couch, the\nholy words he had learnt would come into his mind: \"If I take the\nwings of the morning, and fly to the uttermost parts of the sea,\neven there Thou art with me, and Thy right hand shall uphold me;\"\nand under the influence of that faith which these holy words inspired,\nsleep came upon him, and dreams, which are the manifestations of God\nto the spirit. The soul lives and acts, while the body is at rest.\nHe felt this life in him, and it was as if he heard the sound of dear,\nwell-known melodies, as if the breezes of summer floated around him;\nand over his couch shone a ray of brightness, as if it were shining\nthrough the covering of his snow-roof. He lifted his head, and saw\nthat the bright gleaming was not the reflection of the glittering\nsnow, but the dazzling brightness of the pinions of a mighty angel,\ninto whose beaming face he was gazing. As from the cup of a lily,\nthe angel rose from amidst the leaves of the Bible; and, stretching\nout his arm, the walls of the hut sunk down, as though they had been\nformed of a light, airy veil of mist, and the green hills and\nmeadows of home, with its ruddy woods, lay spread around him in the\nquiet sunshine of a lovely autumn day. The nest of the stork was\nempty, but ripe fruit still hung on the wild apple-tree, although\nthe leaves had fallen. The red hips gleamed on the hedges, and the\nstarling which hung in the green cage outside the window of the\npeasant's hut, which was his home, whistled the tune which he had\ntaught him. His grandmother hung green birds'-food around the cage, as\nhe, her grandson, had been accustomed to do. The daughter of the\nvillage blacksmith, who was young and fair, stood at the well, drawing\nwater. She nodded to the grandmother, and the old woman nodded to her,\nand pointed to a letter which had come from a long way off. That\nvery morning the letter had arrived from the cold regions of the\nnorth; there, where the absent one was sweetly sleeping under the\nprotecting hand of God. They laughed and wept over the letter; and he,\nfar away, amid ice and snow, under the shadow of the angel's wings,\nwept and smiled with them in spirit; for he saw and heard it all in\nhis dream. From the letter they read aloud the words of Holy Writ: \"In\nthe uttermost parts of the sea, Thy right hand shall uphold me.\" And\nas the angel spread his wings like a veil over the sleeper, there\nwas the sound of beautiful music and a hymn. Then the vision fled.\nIt was dark again in the snow-hut: but the Bible still rested\nbeneath his head, and faith and hope dwelt in his heart. God was\nwith him, and he carried home in his heart, even \"in the uttermost\nparts of the sea.\"\n\n\n\n\nWHAT ONE CAN INVENT\n\nThere was once a young man who was studying to be a poet. He\nwanted to become one by Easter, and to marry, and to live by poetry.\nTo write poems, he knew, only consists in being able to invent\nsomething; but he could not invent anything. He had been born too\nlate--everything had been taken up before he came into the world,\nand everything had been written and told about.\n\n\"Happy people who were born a thousand years ago!\" said he. \"It\nwas an easy matter for them to become immortal. Happy even was he\nwho was born a hundred years ago, for then there was still something\nabout which a poem could be written. Now the world is written out, and\nwhat can I write poetry about?\"\n\nThen he studied till he became ill and wretched, the wretched man!\nNo doctor could help him, but perhaps the wise woman could. She\nlived in the little house by the wayside, where the gate is that she\nopened for those who rode and drove. But she could do more than unlock\nthe gate. She was wiser than the doctor who drives in his own carriage\nand pays tax for his rank.\n\n\"I must go to her,\" said the young man.\n\nThe house in which she dwelt was small and neat, but dreary to\nbehold, for there were no flowers near it--no trees. By the door stood\na bee-hive, which was very useful. There was also a little\npotato-field, very useful, and an earth bank, with sloe bushes upon\nit, which had done blossoming, and now bore fruit, sloes, that draw\none's mouth together if one tastes them before the frost has touched\nthem.\n\n\"That's a true picture of our poetryless time, that I see before\nme now,\" thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a\ngrain of gold that he found by the door of the wise woman.\n\n\"Write that down!\" said she. \"Even crumbs are bread. I know why\nyou come hither. You cannot invent anything, and yet you want to be\na poet by Easter.\"\n\n\"Everything has been written down,\" said he. \"Our time is not\nthe old time.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the woman. \"In the old time wise women were burnt,\nand poets went about with empty stomachs, and very much out at elbows.\nThe present time is good, it is the best of times; but you have not\nthe right way of looking at it. Your ear is not sharpened to hear, and\nI fancy you do not say the Lord's Prayer in the evening. There is\nplenty here to write poems about, and to tell of, for any one who\nknows the way. You can read it in the fruits of the earth, you can\ndraw it from the flowing and the standing water; but you must\nunderstand how--you must understand how to catch a sunbeam. Now just\nyou try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then\npray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself.\"\n\nThe last was a very difficult thing to do--more than a wise\nwoman ought to ask.\n\nHe received the spectacles and the ear-trumpet, and was posted\nin the middle of the potato-field. She put a great potato into his\nhand. Sounds came from within it; there came a song with words, the\nhistory of the potato, an every-day story in ten parts, an interesting\nstory. And ten lines were enough to tell it in.\n\nAnd what did the potato sing?\n\nShe sang of herself and of her family, of the arrival of the\npotato in Europe, of the misrepresentation to which she had been\nexposed before she was acknowledged, as she is now, to be a greater\ntreasure than a lump of gold.\n\n\"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the\ncouncil-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of\nour great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how\nto plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole\nbushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in\nthe ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from\nwhich he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and\nproduced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away.\nNobody thought of what was in the ground--the blessing--the potato.\nYes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers\nhave; they and we, it is all one.\"\n\nWhat a story it was!\n\n\"Well, and that will do,\" said the woman. \"Now look at the sloe\nbush.\"\n\n\"We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but\nhigher towards the north than they grew,\" said the Sloes. \"There\nwere Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and\nstorm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found\nplants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes--sloe\nbushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And\nthey called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or\n'Sloeland.'\"\n\n\"That is quite a romantic story,\" said the young man.\n\n\"Yes, certainly. But now come with me,\" said the wise woman, and\nshe led him to the bee-hive.\n\nHe looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing\nin all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught\nof air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their\nbusiness. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with\nlittle baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was\npoured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew\nin and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other\nbees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but\nstill she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's\nwings, and she had to stay where she was.\n\n\"Now get upon the earth bank,\" said the wise woman. \"Come and look\nout over the highway, where you can see the people.\"\n\n\"What a crowd it is!\" said the young man. \"One story after\nanother. It whirls and whirls! It's quite a confusion before my\neyes. I shall go out at the back.\"\n\n\"No, go straight forward,\" said the woman. \"Go straight into the\ncrowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear\nand the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something.\nBut, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my\near-trumpet again.\"\n\nAnd so saying, she took both from him.\n\n\"Now I do not see the smallest thing,\" said the young man, \"and\nnow I don't hear anything more.\"\n\n\"Why, then, you can't be a poet by Easter,\" said the wise woman.\n\n\"But, by what time can I be one?\" asked he.\n\n\"Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to\ninvent anything.\"\n\n\"What must I do to earn my bread by poetry?\"\n\n\"You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their\nwritings and thus you will kill them. Don't be put out of countenance.\nStrike at them boldly, and you'll have carnival cake, on which you can\nsupport yourself and your wife too.\"\n\n\"What one can invent!\" cried the young man. And so he hit out\nboldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.\n\nWe have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WICKED PRINCE\n\nThere lived once upon a time a wicked prince whose heart and\nmind were set upon conquering all the countries of the world, and on\nfrightening the people; he devastated their countries with fire and\nsword, and his soldiers trod down the crops in the fields and\ndestroyed the peasants' huts by fire, so that the flames licked the\ngreen leaves off the branches, and the fruit hung dried up on the\nsinged black trees. Many a poor mother fled, her naked baby in her\narms, behind the still smoking walls of her cottage; but also there\nthe soldiers followed her, and when they found her, she served as\nnew nourishment to their diabolical enjoyments; demons could not\npossibly have done worse things than these soldiers! The prince was of\nopinion that all this was right, and that it was only the natural\ncourse which things ought to take. His power increased day by day, his\nname was feared by all, and fortune favoured his deeds.\n\nHe brought enormous wealth home from the conquered towns, and\ngradually accumulated in his residence riches which could nowhere be\nequalled. He erected magnificent palaces, churches, and halls, and all\nwho saw these splendid buildings and great treasures exclaimed\nadmiringly: \"What a mighty prince!\" But they did not know what endless\nmisery he had brought upon other countries, nor did they hear the\nsighs and lamentations which rose up from the debris of the\ndestroyed cities.\n\nThe prince often looked with delight upon his gold and his\nmagnificent edifices, and thought, like the crowd: \"What a mighty\nprince! But I must have more--much more. No power on earth must\nequal mine, far less exceed it.\"\n\nHe made war with all his neighbours, and defeated them. The\nconquered kings were chained up with golden fetters to his chariot\nwhen he drove through the streets of his city. These kings had to\nkneel at his and his courtiers' feet when they sat at table, and\nlive on the morsels which they left. At last the prince had his own\nstatue erected on the public places and fixed on the royal palaces;\nnay, he even wished it to be placed in the churches, on the altars,\nbut in this the priests opposed him, saying: \"Prince, you are mighty\nindeed, but God's power is much greater than yours; we dare not obey\nyour orders.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the prince. \"Then I will conquer God too.\" And in his\nhaughtiness and foolish presumption he ordered a magnificent ship to\nbe constructed, with which he could sail through the air; it was\ngorgeously fitted out and of many colours; like the tail of a peacock,\nit was covered with thousands of eyes, but each eye was the barrel\nof a gun. The prince sat in the centre of the ship, and had only to\ntouch a spring in order to make thousands of bullets fly out in all\ndirections, while the guns were at once loaded again. Hundreds of\neagles were attached to this ship, and it rose with the swiftness of\nan arrow up towards the sun. The earth was soon left far below, and\nlooked, with its mountains and woods, like a cornfield where the\nplough had made furrows which separated green meadows; soon it\nlooked only like a map with indistinct lines upon it; and at last it\nentirely disappeared in mist and clouds. Higher and higher rose the\neagles up into the air; then God sent one of his numberless angels\nagainst the ship. The wicked prince showered thousands of bullets upon\nhim, but they rebounded from his shining wings and fell down like\nordinary hailstones. One drop of blood, one single drop, came out of\nthe white feathers of the angel's wings and fell upon the ship in\nwhich the prince sat, burnt into it, and weighed upon it like\nthousands of hundredweights, dragging it rapidly down to the earth\nagain; the strong wings of the eagles gave way, the wind roared\nround the prince's head, and the clouds around--were they formed by\nthe smoke rising up from the burnt cities?--took strange shapes,\nlike crabs many, many miles long, which stretched their claws out\nafter him, and rose up like enormous rocks, from which rolling\nmasses dashed down, and became fire-spitting dragons.\n\nThe prince was lying half-dead in his ship, when it sank at last\nwith a terrible shock into the branches of a large tree in the wood.\n\n\"I will conquer God!\" said the prince. \"I have sworn it: my will\nmust be done!\"\n\nAnd he spent seven years in the construction of wonderful ships to\nsail through the air, and had darts cast from the hardest steel to\nbreak the walls of heaven with. He gathered warriors from all\ncountries, so many that when they were placed side by side they\ncovered the space of several miles. They entered the ships and the\nprince was approaching his own, when God sent a swarm of gnats--one\nswarm of little gnats. They buzzed round the prince and stung his face\nand hands; angrily he drew his sword and brandished it, but he only\ntouched the air and did not hit the gnats. Then he ordered his\nservants to bring costly coverings and wrap him in them, that the\ngnats might no longer be able to reach him. The servants carried out\nhis orders, but one single gnat had placed itself inside one of the\ncoverings, crept into the prince's ear and stung him. The place\nburnt like fire, and the poison entered into his blood. Mad with pain,\nhe tore off the coverings and his clothes too, flinging them far away,\nand danced about before the eyes of his ferocious soldiers, who now\nmocked at him, the mad prince, who wished to make war with God, and\nwas overcome by a single little gnat.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WILD SWANS\n\nFar away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is\nwinter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named\nEliza. The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school\nwith a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They wrote with\ndiamond pencils on gold slates, and learnt their lessons so quickly\nand read so easily that every one might know they were princes.\nTheir sister Eliza sat on a little stool of plate-glass, and had a\nbook full of pictures, which had cost as much as half a kingdom. Oh,\nthese children were indeed happy, but it was not to remain so\nalways. Their father, who was king of the country, married a very\nwicked queen, who did not love the poor children at all. They knew\nthis from the very first day after the wedding. In the palace there\nwere great festivities, and the children played at receiving\ncompany; but instead of having, as usual, all the cakes and apples\nthat were left, she gave them some sand in a tea-cup, and told them to\npretend it was cake. The week after, she sent little Eliza into the\ncountry to a peasant and his wife, and then she told the king so\nmany untrue things about the young princes, that he gave himself no\nmore trouble respecting them.\n\n\"Go out into the world and get your own living,\" said the queen.\n\"Fly like great birds, who have no voice.\" But she could not make them\nugly as she wished, for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild\nswans. Then, with a strange cry, they flew through the windows of\nthe palace, over the park, to the forest beyond. It was early\nmorning when they passed the peasant's cottage, where their sister\nEliza lay asleep in her room. They hovered over the roof, twisted\ntheir long necks and flapped their wings, but no one heard them or saw\nthem, so they were at last obliged to fly away, high up in the clouds;\nand over the wide world they flew till they came to a thick, dark\nwood, which stretched far away to the seashore. Poor little Eliza\nwas alone in her room playing with a green leaf, for she had no\nother playthings, and she pierced a hole through the leaf, and\nlooked through it at the sun, and it was as if she saw her brothers'\nclear eyes, and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks, she thought\nof all the kisses they had given her. One day passed just like\nanother; sometimes the winds rustled through the leaves of the\nrose-bush, and would whisper to the roses, \"Who can be more\nbeautiful than you!\" But the roses would shake their heads, and say,\n\"Eliza is.\" And when the old woman sat at the cottage door on\nSunday, and read her hymn-book, the wind would flutter the leaves, and\nsay to the book, \"Who can be more pious than you?\" and then the\nhymn-book would answer \"Eliza.\" And the roses and the hymn-book told\nthe real truth. At fifteen she returned home, but when the queen saw\nhow beautiful she was, she became full of spite and hatred towards\nher. Willingly would she have turned her into a swan, like her\nbrothers, but she did not dare to do so yet, because the king wished\nto see his daughter. Early one morning the queen went into the\nbath-room; it was built of marble, and had soft cushions, trimmed with\nthe most beautiful tapestry. She took three toads with her, and kissed\nthem, and said to one, \"When Eliza comes to the bath, seat yourself\nupon her head, that she may become as stupid as you are.\" Then she\nsaid to another, \"Place yourself on her forehead, that she may\nbecome as ugly as you are, and that her father may not know her.\"\n\"Rest on her heart,\" she whispered to the third, \"then she will have\nevil inclinations, and suffer in consequence.\" So she put the toads\ninto the clear water, and they turned green immediately. She next\ncalled Eliza, and helped her to undress and get into the bath. As\nEliza dipped her head under the water, one of the toads sat on her\nhair, a second on her forehead, and a third on her breast, but she did\nnot seem to notice them, and when she rose out of the water, there\nwere three red poppies floating upon it. Had not the creatures been\nvenomous or been kissed by the witch, they would have been changed\ninto red roses. At all events they became flowers, because they had\nrested on Eliza's head, and on her heart. She was too good and too\ninnocent for witchcraft to have any power over her. When the wicked\nqueen saw this, she rubbed her face with walnut-juice, so that she was\nquite brown; then she tangled her beautiful hair and smeared it with\ndisgusting ointment, till it was quite impossible to recognize the\nbeautiful Eliza.\n\nWhen her father saw her, he was much shocked, and declared she was\nnot his daughter. No one but the watch-dog and the swallows knew\nher; and they were only poor animals, and could say nothing. Then poor\nEliza wept, and thought of her eleven brothers, who were all away.\nSorrowfully, she stole away from the palace, and walked, the whole\nday, over fields and moors, till she came to the great forest. She\nknew not in what direction to go; but she was so unhappy, and longed\nso for her brothers, who had been, like herself, driven out into the\nworld, that she was determined to seek them. She had been but a\nshort time in the wood when night came on, and she quite lost the\npath; so she laid herself down on the soft moss, offered up her\nevening prayer, and leaned her head against the stump of a tree. All\nnature was still, and the soft, mild air fanned her forehead. The\nlight of hundreds of glow-worms shone amidst the grass and the moss,\nlike green fire; and if she touched a twig with her hand, ever so\nlightly, the brilliant insects fell down around her, like\nshooting-stars.\n\nAll night long she dreamt of her brothers. She and they were\nchildren again, playing together. She saw them writing with their\ndiamond pencils on golden slates, while she looked at the beautiful\npicture-book which had cost half a kingdom. They were not writing\nlines and letters, as they used to do; but descriptions of the noble\ndeeds they had performed, and of all they had discovered and seen.\nIn the picture-book, too, everything was living. The birds sang, and\nthe people came out of the book, and spoke to Eliza and her\nbrothers; but, as the leaves turned over, they darted back again to\ntheir places, that all might be in order.\n\nWhen she awoke, the sun was high in the heavens; yet she could not\nsee him, for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly over her\nhead; but his beams were glancing through the leaves here and there,\nlike a golden mist. There was a sweet fragrance from the fresh green\nverdure, and the birds almost perched upon her shoulders. She heard\nwater rippling from a number of springs, all flowing in a lake with\ngolden sands. Bushes grew thickly round the lake, and at one spot an\nopening had been made by a deer, through which Eliza went down to\nthe water. The lake was so clear that, had not the wind rustled the\nbranches of the trees and the bushes, so that they moved, they would\nhave appeared as if painted in the depths of the lake; for every\nleaf was reflected in the water, whether it stood in the shade or\nthe sunshine. As soon as Eliza saw her own face, she was quite\nterrified at finding it so brown and ugly; but when she wetted her\nlittle hand, and rubbed her eyes and forehead, the white skin\ngleamed forth once more; and, after she had undressed, and dipped\nherself in the fresh water, a more beautiful king's daughter could not\nbe found in the wide world. As soon as she had dressed herself\nagain, and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring, and\ndrank some water out of the hollow of her hand. Then she wandered\nfar into the forest, not knowing whither she went. She thought of\nher brothers, and felt sure that God would not forsake her. It is\nGod who makes the wild apples grow in the wood, to satisfy the hungry,\nand He now led her to one of these trees, which was so loaded with\nfruit, that the boughs bent beneath the weight. Here she held her\nnoonday repast, placed props under the boughs, and then went into\nthe gloomiest depths of the forest. It was so still that she could\nhear the sound of her own footsteps, as well as the rustling of\nevery withered leaf which she crushed under her feet. Not a bird was\nto be seen, not a sunbeam could penetrate through the large, dark\nboughs of the trees. Their lofty trunks stood so close together, that,\nwhen she looked before her, it seemed as if she were enclosed within\ntrellis-work. Such solitude she had never known before. The night\nwas very dark. Not a single glow-worm glittered in the moss.\n\nSorrowfully she laid herself down to sleep; and, after a while, it\nseemed to her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head,\nand that the mild eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven.\nWhen she awoke in the morning, she knew not whether she had dreamt\nthis, or if it had really been so. Then she continued her wandering;\nbut she had not gone many steps forward, when she met an old woman\nwith berries in her basket, and she gave her a few to eat. Then\nEliza asked her if she had not seen eleven princes riding through\nthe forest.\n\n\"No,\" replied the old woman, \"But I saw yesterday eleven swans,\nwith gold crowns on their heads, swimming on the river close by.\" Then\nshe led Eliza a little distance farther to a sloping bank, and at\nthe foot of it wound a little river. The trees on its banks\nstretched their long leafy branches across the water towards each\nother, and where the growth prevented them from meeting naturally, the\nroots had torn themselves away from the ground, so that the branches\nmight mingle their foliage as they hung over the water. Eliza bade the\nold woman farewell, and walked by the flowing river, till she\nreached the shore of the open sea. And there, before the young\nmaiden's eyes, lay the glorious ocean, but not a sail appeared on\nits surface, not even a boat could be seen. How was she to go farther?\nShe noticed how the countless pebbles on the sea-shore had been\nsmoothed and rounded by the action of the water. Glass, iron,\nstones, everything that lay there mingled together, had taken its\nshape from the same power, and felt as smooth, or even smoother than\nher own delicate hand. \"The water rolls on without weariness,\" she\nsaid, \"till all that is hard becomes smooth; so will I be unwearied\nin my task. Thanks for your lessons, bright rolling waves; my heart\ntells me you will lead me to my dear brothers.\" On the foam-covered\nsea-weeds, lay eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered up and\nplaced together. Drops of water lay upon them; whether they were\ndew-drops or tears no one could say. Lonely as it was on the\nsea-shore, she did not observe it, for the ever-moving sea showed more\nchanges in a few hours than the most varying lake could produce during\na whole year. If a black heavy cloud arose, it was as if the sea said,\n\"I can look dark and angry too;\" and then the wind blew, and the waves\nturned to white foam as they rolled. When the wind slept, and the\nclouds glowed with the red sunlight, then the sea looked like a rose\nleaf. But however quietly its white glassy surface rested, there was\nstill a motion on the shore, as its waves rose and fell like the\nbreast of a sleeping child. When the sun was about to set, Eliza saw\neleven white swans with golden crowns on their heads, flying towards\nthe land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon. Then Eliza\nwent down the slope from the shore, and hid herself behind the bushes.\nThe swans alighted quite close to her and flapped their great white\nwings. As soon as the sun had disappeared under the water, the\nfeathers of the swans fell off, and eleven beautiful princes,\nEliza's brothers, stood near her. She uttered a loud cry, for,\nalthough they were very much changed, she knew them immediately. She\nsprang into their arms, and called them each by name. Then, how\nhappy the princes were at meeting their little sister again, for\nthey recognized her, although she had grown so tall and beautiful.\nThey laughed, and they wept, and very soon understood how wickedly\ntheir mother had acted to them all. \"We brothers,\" said the eldest,\n\"fly about as wild swans, so long as the sun is in the sky; but as\nsoon as it sinks behind the hills, we recover our human shape.\nTherefore must we always be near a resting place for our feet before\nsunset; for if we should be flying towards the clouds at the time we\nrecovered our natural shape as men, we should sink deep into the\nsea. We do not dwell here, but in a land just as fair, that lies\nbeyond the ocean, which we have to cross for a long distance; there is\nno island in our passage upon which we could pass, the night;\nnothing but a little rock rising out of the sea, upon which we can\nscarcely stand with safety, even closely crowded together. If the\nsea is rough, the foam dashes over us, yet we thank God even for\nthis rock; we have passed whole nights upon it, or we should never\nhave reached our beloved fatherland, for our flight across the sea\noccupies two of the longest days in the year. We have permission to\nvisit out home once in every year, and to remain eleven days, during\nwhich we fly across the forest to look once more at the palace where\nour father dwells, and where we were born, and at the church, where\nour mother lies buried. Here it seems as if the very trees and\nbushes were related to us. The wild horses leap over the plains as\nwe have seen them in our childhood. The charcoal burners sing the\nold songs, to which we have danced as children. This is our\nfatherland, to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have\nfound you, our dear little sister. Two days longer we can remain\nhere, and then must we fly away to a beautiful land which is not our\nhome; and how can we take you with us? We have neither ship nor boat.\"\n\n\"How can I break this spell?\" said their sister. And then she\ntalked about it nearly the whole night, only slumbering for a few\nhours. Eliza was awakened by the rustling of the swans' wings as\nthey soared above. Her brothers were again changed to swans, and\nthey flew in circles wider and wider, till they were far away; but one\nof them, the youngest swan, remained behind, and laid his head in\nhis sister's lap, while she stroked his wings; and they remained\ntogether the whole day. Towards evening, the rest came back, and as\nthe sun went down they resumed their natural forms. \"To-morrow,\"\nsaid one, \"we shall fly away, not to return again till a whole year\nhas passed. But we cannot leave you here. Have you courage to go\nwith us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood; and\nwill not all our wings be strong enough to fly with you over the sea?\"\n\n\"Yes, take me with you,\" said Eliza. Then they spent the whole\nnight in weaving a net with the pliant willow and rushes. It was\nvery large and strong. Eliza laid herself down on the net, and when\nthe sun rose, and her brothers again became wild swans, they took up\nthe net with their beaks, and flew up to the clouds with their dear\nsister, who still slept. The sunbeams fell on her face, therefore\none of the swans soared over her head, so that his broad wings might\nshade her. They were far from the land when Eliza woke. She thought\nshe must still be dreaming, it seemed so strange to her to feel\nherself being carried so high in the air over the sea. By her side lay\na branch full of beautiful ripe berries, and a bundle of sweet\nroots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them for her, and\nplaced them by her side. She smiled her thanks to him; she knew it was\nthe same who had hovered over her to shade her with his wings. They\nwere now so high, that a large ship beneath them looked like a white\nsea-gull skimming the waves. A great cloud floating behind them\nappeared like a vast mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow\nand those of the eleven swans, looking gigantic in size. Altogether it\nformed a more beautiful picture than she had ever seen; but as the sun\nrose higher, and the clouds were left behind, the shadowy picture\nvanished away. Onward the whole day they flew through the air like a\nwinged arrow, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their sister to\ncarry. The weather seemed inclined to be stormy, and Eliza watched the\nsinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was\nnot yet in sight. It appeared to her as if the swans were making great\nefforts with their wings. Alas! she was the cause of their not\nadvancing more quickly. When the sun set, they would change to men,\nfall into the sea and be drowned. Then she offered a prayer from her\ninmost heart, but still no appearance of the rock. Dark clouds came\nnearer, the gusts of wind told of a coming storm, while from a\nthick, heavy mass of clouds the lightning burst forth flash after\nflash. The sun had reached the edge of the sea, when the swans\ndarted down so swiftly, that Eliza's head trembled; she believed\nthey were falling, but they again soared onward. Presently she\ncaught sight of the rock just below them, and by this time the sun was\nhalf hidden by the waves. The rock did not appear larger than a seal's\nhead thrust out of the water. They sunk so rapidly, that at the moment\ntheir feet touched the rock, it shone only like a star, and at last\ndisappeared like the last spark in a piece of burnt paper. Then she\nsaw her brothers standing closely round her with their arms linked\ntogether. There was but just room enough for them, and not the\nsmallest space to spare. The sea dashed against the rock, and\ncovered them with spray. The heavens were lighted up with continual\nflashes, and peal after peal of thunder rolled. But the sister and\nbrothers sat holding each other's hands, and singing hymns, from which\nthey gained hope and courage. In the early dawn the air became calm\nand still, and at sunrise the swans flew away from the rock with\nEliza. The sea was still rough, and from their high position in the\nair, the white foam on the dark green waves looked like millions of\nswans swimming on the water. As the sun rose higher, Eliza saw\nbefore her, floating on the air, a range of mountains, with shining\nmasses of ice on their summits. In the centre, rose a castle\napparently a mile long, with rows of columns, rising one above\nanother, while, around it, palm-trees waved and flowers bloomed as\nlarge as mill wheels. She asked if this was the land to which they\nwere hastening. The swans shook their heads, for what she beheld\nwere the beautiful ever-changing cloud palaces of the \"Fata\nMorgana,\" into which no mortal can enter. Eliza was still gazing at\nthe scene, when mountains, forests, and castles melted away, and\ntwenty stately churches rose in their stead, with high towers and\npointed gothic windows. Eliza even fancied she could hear the tones of\nthe organ, but it was the music of the murmuring sea which she\nheard. As they drew nearer to the churches, they also changed into a\nfleet of ships, which seemed to be sailing beneath her; but as she\nlooked again, she found it was only a sea mist gliding over the ocean.\nSo there continued to pass before her eyes a constant change of scene,\ntill at last she saw the real land to which they were bound, with\nits blue mountains, its cedar forests, and its cities and palaces.\nLong before the sun went down, she sat on a rock, in front of a\nlarge cave, on the floor of which the over-grown yet delicate green\ncreeping plants looked like an embroidered carpet. \"Now we shall\nexpect to hear what you dream of to-night,\" said the youngest brother,\nas he showed his sister her bedroom.\n\n\"Heaven grant that I may dream how to save you,\" she replied.\nAnd this thought took such hold upon her mind that she prayed\nearnestly to God for help, and even in her sleep she continued to\npray. Then it appeared to her as if she were flying high in the air,\ntowards the cloudy palace of the \"Fata Morgana,\" and a fairy came\nout to meet her, radiant and beautiful in appearance, and yet very\nmuch like the old woman who had given her berries in the wood, and who\nhad told her of the swans with golden crowns on their heads. \"Your\nbrothers can be released,\" said she, \"if you have only courage and\nperseverance. True, water is softer than your own delicate hands,\nand yet it polishes stones into shapes; it feels no pain as your\nfingers would feel, it has no soul, and cannot suffer such agony and\ntorment as you will have to endure. Do you see the stinging nettle\nwhich I hold in my hand? Quantities of the same sort grow round the\ncave in which you sleep, but none will be of any use to you unless\nthey grow upon the graves in a churchyard. These you must gather\neven while they burn blisters on your hands. Break them to pieces with\nyour hands and feet, and they will become flax, from which you must\nspin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves; if these are then\nthrown over the eleven swans, the spell will be broken. But\nremember, that from the moment you commence your task until it is\nfinished, even should it occupy years of your life, you must not\nspeak. The first word you utter will pierce through the hearts of your\nbrothers like a deadly dagger. Their lives hang upon your tongue.\nRemember all I have told you.\" And as she finished speaking, she\ntouched her hand lightly with the nettle, and a pain, as of burning\nfire, awoke Eliza.\n\nIt was broad daylight, and close by where she had been sleeping\nlay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream. She fell on her\nknees and offered her thanks to God. Then she went forth from the cave\nto begin her work with her delicate hands. She groped in amongst the\nugly nettles, which burnt great blisters on her hands and arms, but\nshe determined to bear it gladly if she could only release her dear\nbrothers. So she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the\nflax. At sunset her brothers returned and were very much frightened\nwhen they found her dumb. They believed it to be some new sorcery of\ntheir wicked step-mother. But when they saw her hands they\nunderstood what she was doing on their behalf, and the youngest\nbrother wept, and where his tears fell the pain ceased, and the\nburning blisters vanished. She kept to her work all night, for she\ncould not rest till she had released her dear brothers. During the\nwhole of the following day, while her brothers were absent, she sat in\nsolitude, but never before had the time flown so quickly. One coat was\nalready finished and she had begun the second, when she heard the\nhuntsman's horn, and was struck with fear. The sound came nearer and\nnearer, she heard the dogs barking, and fled with terror into the\ncave. She hastily bound together the nettles she had gathered into a\nbundle and sat upon them. Immediately a great dog came bounding\ntowards her out of the ravine, and then another and another; they\nbarked loudly, ran back, and then came again. In a very few minutes\nall the huntsmen stood before the cave, and the handsomest of them was\nthe king of the country. He advanced towards her, for he had never\nseen a more beautiful maiden.\n\n\"How did you come here, my sweet child?\" he asked. But Eliza shook\nher head. She dared not speak, at the cost of her brothers' lives. And\nshe hid her hands under her apron, so that the king might not see\nhow she must be suffering.\n\n\"Come with me,\" he said; \"here you cannot remain. If you are as\ngood as you are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, I will\nplace a golden crown upon your head, and you shall dwell, and rule,\nand make your home in my richest castle.\" And then he lifted her on\nhis horse. She wept and wrung her hands, but the king said, \"I wish\nonly for your happiness. A time will come when you will thank me for\nthis.\" And then he galloped away over the mountains, holding her\nbefore him on this horse, and the hunters followed behind them. As the\nsun went down, they approached a fair royal city, with churches, and\ncupolas. On arriving at the castle the king led her into marble halls,\nwhere large fountains played, and where the walls and the ceilings\nwere covered with rich paintings. But she had no eyes for all these\nglorious sights, she could only mourn and weep. Patiently she\nallowed the women to array her in royal robes, to weave pearls in\nher hair, and draw soft gloves over her blistered fingers. As she\nstood before them in all her rich dress, she looked so dazzlingly\nbeautiful that the court bowed low in her presence. Then the king\ndeclared his intention of making her his bride, but the archbishop\nshook his head, and whispered that the fair young maiden was only a\nwitch who had blinded the king's eyes and bewitched his heart. But the\nking would not listen to this; he ordered the music to sound, the\ndaintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance.\nAfter-wards he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but\nnot a smile appeared on her lips or sparkled in her eyes. She looked\nthe very picture of grief. Then the king opened the door of a little\nchamber in which she was to sleep; it was adorned with rich green\ntapestry, and resembled the cave in which he had found her. On the\nfloor lay the bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles,\nand under the ceiling hung the coat she had made. These things had\nbeen brought away from the cave as curiosities by one of the huntsmen.\n\n\"Here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the\ncave,\" said the king; \"here is the work with which you employed\nyourself. It will amuse you now in the midst of all this splendor to\nthink of that time.\"\n\nWhen Eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a\nsmile played around her mouth, and the crimson blood rushed to her\ncheeks. She thought of her brothers, and their release made her so\njoyful that she kissed the king's hand. Then he pressed her to his\nheart. Very soon the joyous church bells announced the marriage feast,\nand that the beautiful dumb girl out of the wood was to be made the\nqueen of the country. Then the archbishop whispered wicked words in\nthe king's ear, but they did not sink into his heart. The marriage was\nstill to take place, and the archbishop himself had to place the crown\non the bride's head; in his wicked spite, he pressed the narrow\ncirclet so tightly on her forehead that it caused her pain. But a\nheavier weight encircled her heart--sorrow for her brothers. She\nfelt not bodily pain. Her mouth was closed; a single word would cost\nthe lives of her brothers. But she loved the kind, handsome king,\nwho did everything to make her happy more and more each day; she loved\nhim with all her heart, and her eyes beamed with the love she dared\nnot speak. Oh! if she had only been able to confide in him and tell\nhim of her grief. But dumb she must remain till her task was finished.\nTherefore at night she crept away into her little chamber, which had\nbeen decked out to look like the cave, and quickly wove one coat after\nanother. But when she began the seventh she found she had no more\nflax. She knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew in the\nchurchyard, and that she must pluck them herself. How should she get\nout there? \"Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which my\nheart endures?\" said she. \"I must venture, I shall not be denied\nhelp from heaven.\" Then with a trembling heart, as if she were about\nto perform a wicked deed, she crept into the garden in the broad\nmoonlight, and passed through the narrow walks and the deserted\nstreets, till she reached the churchyard. Then she saw on one of the\nbroad tombstones a group of ghouls. These hideous creatures took off\ntheir rags, as if they intended to bathe, and then clawing open the\nfresh graves with their long, skinny fingers, pulled out the dead\nbodies and ate the flesh! Eliza had to pass close by them, and they\nfixed their wicked glances upon her, but she prayed silently, gathered\nthe burning nettles, and carried them home with her to the castle. One\nperson only had seen her, and that was the archbishop--he was awake\nwhile everybody was asleep. Now he thought his opinion was evidently\ncorrect. All was not right with the queen. She was a witch, and had\nbewitched the king and all the people. Secretly he told the king\nwhat he had seen and what he feared, and as the hard words came from\nhis tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads as if\nthey would say. \"It is not so. Eliza is innocent.\"\n\nBut the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that\nthey witnessed against her, and were shaking their heads at her\nwickedness. Two large tears rolled down the king's cheeks, and he went\nhome with doubt in his heart, and at night he pretended to sleep,\nbut there came no real sleep to his eyes, for he saw Eliza get up\nevery night and disappear in her own chamber. From day to day his brow\nbecame darker, and Eliza saw it and did not understand the reason, but\nit alarmed her and made her heart tremble for her brothers. Her hot\ntears glittered like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while\nall who saw her were wishing they could be queens. In the mean time\nshe had almost finished her task; only one coat of mail was wanting,\nbut she had no flax left, and not a single nettle. Once more only, and\nfor the last time, must she venture to the churchyard and pluck a\nfew handfuls. She thought with terror of the solitary walk, and of the\nhorrible ghouls, but her will was firm, as well as her trust in\nProvidence. Eliza went, and the king and the archbishop followed\nher. They saw her vanish through the wicket gate into the\nchurchyard, and when they came nearer they saw the ghouls sitting on\nthe tombstone, as Eliza had seen them, and the king turned away his\nhead, for he thought she was with them--she whose head had rested on\nhis breast that very evening. \"The people must condemn her,\" said\nhe, and she was very quickly condemned by every one to suffer death by\nfire. Away from the gorgeous regal halls was she led to a dark, dreary\ncell, where the wind whistled through the iron bars. Instead of the\nvelvet and silk dresses, they gave her the coats of mail which she had\nwoven to cover her, and the bundle of nettles for a pillow; but\nnothing they could give her would have pleased her more. She continued\nher task with joy, and prayed for help, while the street-boys sang\njeering songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with a kind\nword. Towards evening, she heard at the grating the flutter of a\nswan's wing, it was her youngest brother--he had found his sister, and\nshe sobbed for joy, although she knew that very likely this would be\nthe last night she would have to live. But still she could hope, for\nher task was almost finished, and her brothers were come. Then the\narchbishop arrived, to be with her during her last hours, as he had\npromised the king. But she shook her head, and begged him, by looks\nand gestures, not to stay; for in this night she knew she must\nfinish her task, otherwise all her pain and tears and sleepless nights\nwould have been suffered in vain. The archbishop withdrew, uttering\nbitter words against her; but poor Eliza knew that she was innocent,\nand diligently continued her work.\n\nThe little mice ran about the floor, they dragged the nettles to\nher feet, to help as well as they could; and the thrush sat outside\nthe grating of the window, and sang to her the whole night long, as\nsweetly as possible, to keep up her spirits.\n\nIt was still twilight, and at least an hour before sunrise, when\nthe eleven brothers stood at the castle gate, and demanded to be\nbrought before the king. They were told it could not be, it was yet\nalmost night, and as the king slept they dared not disturb him. They\nthreatened, they entreated. Then the guard appeared, and even the king\nhimself, inquiring what all the noise meant. At this moment the sun\nrose. The eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven wild swans\nflew away over the castle.\n\nAnd now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of\nthe city, to see the witch burnt. An old horse drew the cart on\nwhich she sat. They had dressed her in a garment of coarse\nsackcloth. Her lovely hair hung loose on her shoulders, her cheeks\nwere deadly pale, her lips moved silently, while her fingers still\nworked at the green flax. Even on the way to death, she would not give\nup her task. The ten coats of mail lay at her feet, she was working\nhard at the eleventh, while the mob jeered her and said, \"See the\nwitch, how she mutters! She has no hymn-book in her hand. She sits\nthere with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it in a thousand pieces.\"\n\nAnd then they pressed towards her, and would have destroyed the\ncoats of mail, but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her,\nand alighted on the cart. Then they flapped their large wings, and the\ncrowd drew on one side in alarm.\n\n\"It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent,\" whispered many of\nthem; but they ventured not to say it aloud.\n\nAs the executioner seized her by the hand, to lift her out of\nthe cart, she hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans,\nand they immediately became eleven handsome princes; but the\nyoungest had a swan's wing, instead of an arm; for she had not been\nable to finish the last sleeve of the coat.\n\n\"Now I may speak,\" she exclaimed. \"I am innocent.\"\n\nThen the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her, as before\na saint; but she sank lifeless in her brothers' arms, overcome with\nsuspense, anguish, and pain.\n\n\"Yes, she is innocent,\" said the eldest brother; and then he\nrelated all that had taken place; and while he spoke there rose in the\nair a fragrance as from millions of roses. Every piece of faggot in\nthe pile had taken root, and threw out branches, and appeared a\nthick hedge, large and high, covered with roses; while above all\nbloomed a white and shining flower, that glittered like a star. This\nflower the king plucked, and placed in Eliza's bosom, when she awoke\nfrom her swoon, with peace and happiness in her heart. And all the\nchurch bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great troops.\nAnd a marriage procession returned to the castle, such as no king\nhad ever before seen.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN, SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN\n\nThere was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slipped\naway from him--so he said. The Story that used to visit him of its own\naccord no longer came and knocked at his door. And why did it come\nno longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had not\nthought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he had\nexpected it, it would certainly not have come; for without there was\nwar, and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it.\n\nThe stork and the swallows came back from their long journey,\nfor they thought of no danger; and, behold, when they arrived, the\nnest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were all\nin disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses were\nstamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but they\ncame to an end.\n\nAnd now they were past and gone--so people said; yet no Story came\nand knocked at the door, or gave any tidings of its presence.\n\n\"I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many other\nthings,\" said the man.\n\nBut the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by,\nand he longed--oh, so very much!--for the Story.\n\n\"I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock?\"\n\nAnd he remembered it so well in all the various forms in which\nit had come to him, sometimes young and charming, like spring\nitself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in her\nhair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamed\nlike deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.\n\nSometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and had\nopened its box and let silver ribbon come fluttering out, with\nverses and inscriptions of old remembrances.\n\nBut it was most charming of all when it came as an old\ngrandmother, with silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. She\nknew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before the\nprincesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay\noutside the castles, guarding them. She told with such an air of\ntruth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her,\nand the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and to\nhear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passed\nsince it all happened.\n\n\"Will it ever knock at my door again?\" said the man, and he\ngazed at the door, so that black spots came before his eyes and upon\nthe floor; he did not know if it was blood, or mourning crape from the\ndark heavy days.\n\nAnd as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story\nmight not have hidden itself, like the princess in the old tale. And\nhe would now go in search of it; if he found it, it would beam in\nnew splendor, lovelier than ever.\n\n\"Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that\nbalances on the margin of the well. Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it\nlies hidden in a certain flower--that flower in one of the great books\non the book-shelf.\"\n\nAnd the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain\ninformation on this point; but there was no flower to be found.\nThere he read about Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale\nhad been invented and put together by a monk in France, that it was\na romance, \"translated into Danish and printed in that language;\" that\nHolger Danske had never really lived, and consequently could never\ncome again, as we have sung, and have been so glad to believe. And\nWilliam Tell was treated just like Holger Danske. These were all\nonly myths--nothing on which we could depend; and yet it is all\nwritten in a very learned book.\n\n\"Well, I shall believe what I believe!\" said the man. \"There grows\nno plantain where no foot has trod.\"\n\nAnd he closed the book and put it back in its place, and went to\nthe fresh flowers at the window. Perhaps the Story might have hidden\nitself in the red tulips, with the golden yellow edges, or in the\nfresh rose, or in the beaming camellia. The sunshine lay among the\nflowers, but no Story.\n\nThe flowers which had been here in the dark troublous time had\nbeen much more beautiful; but they had been cut off, one after\nanother, to be woven into wreaths and placed in coffins, and the\nflag had waved over them! Perhaps the Story had been buried with the\nflowers; but then the flowers would have known of it, and the coffin\nwould have heard it, and every little blade of grass that shot forth\nwould have told of it. The Story never dies.\n\nPerhaps it has been here once, and has knocked; but who had eyes\nor ears for it in those times? People looked darkly, gloomily, and\nalmost angrily at the sunshine of spring, at the twittering birds, and\nall the cheerful green; the tongue could not even bear the old\nmerry, popular songs, and they were laid in the coffin with so much\nthat our heart held dear. The Story may have knocked without obtaining\na hearing; there was none to bid it welcome, and so it may have gone\naway.\n\n\"I will go forth and seek it. Out in the country! out in the wood!\nand on the open sea beach!\"\n\nOut in the country lies an old manor house, with red walls,\npointed gables, and a red flag that floats on the tower. The\nnightingale sings among the finely-fringed beech-leaves, looking at\nthe blooming apple trees of the garden, and thinking that they bear\nroses. Here the bees are mightily busy in the summer-time, and hover\nround their queen with their humming song. The autumn has much to tell\nof the wild chase, of the leaves of the trees, and of the races of men\nthat are passing away together. The wild swans sing at Christmas-time\non the open water, while in the old hall the guests by the fireside\ngladly listen to songs and to old legends.\n\nDown into the old part of the garden, where the great avenue of\nwild chestnut trees lures the wanderer to tread its shades, went the\nman who was in search of the Story; for here the wind had once\nmurmured something to him of \"Waldemar Daa and his Daughters.\" The\nDryad in the tree, who was the Story-mother herself, had here told him\nthe \"Dream of the Old Oak Tree.\" Here, in the time of the ancestral\nmother, had stood clipped hedges, but now only ferns and stinging\nnettles grew there, hiding the scattered fragments of old sculptured\nfigures; the moss is growing in their eyes, but they can see as well\nas ever, which was more than the man could do who was in search of the\nStory, for he could not find that. Where could it be?\n\nThe crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees, and\nscreamed, \"Krah! da!--Krah! da!\"\n\nAnd he went out of the garden and over the grass-plot of the yard,\ninto the alder grove; there stood a little six-sided house, with a\npoultry-yard and a duck-yard. In the middle of the room sat the old\nwoman who had the management of the whole, and who knew accurately\nabout every egg that was laid, and about every chicken that could\ncreep out of an egg. But she was not the Story of which the man was in\nsearch; that she could attest with a Christian certificate of\nbaptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer.\n\nWithout, not far from the house, is a hill covered with\nred-thorn and broom. Here lies an old grave-stone, which was brought\nhere many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial town, a\nremembrance of one of the most honored councillors of the place; his\nwife and his five daughters, all with folded hands and stiff ruffs,\nstand round him. One could look at them so long, that it had an effect\nupon the thoughts, and these reacted upon the stones, as if they\nwere telling of old times; at least it had been so with the man who\nwas in search of the Story.\n\nAs he came nearer, he noticed a living butterfly sitting on the\nforehead of the sculptured councillor. The butterfly flapped its\nwings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned fatigued to\nsit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.\nFour-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were seven specimens close\nto each other. When fortune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked\nthe shamrocks and put them in his pocket.\n\n\"Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be\nbetter still,\" thought the man; but he could not find it here.\n\nAnd the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered\nwith vapor. The moor-woman was at her brewing.\n\n\nIt was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon\nthe sea, over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone\nbright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look like a great\nlake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells--and in the\nmoonlight the eye realizes these myths.\n\nThen the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that\nWilliam Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in\npopular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths.\nYes, Holger Danske will return again!\n\nAs he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly\nagainst the window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not\nlet in, even when they knock. The window flew open of itself, and an\nold woman looked in at the man.\n\n\"What's your pleasure?\" said he. \"Who are you? You're looking in\nat the first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder?\"\n\n\"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket,\" she replied.\n\"Indeed, you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" asked the man again.\n\n\"The Moor-woman,\" she replied. \"The Moor-woman who brews. I was at\nit. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled\nit out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat\nagainst the window; and now the beer's running out of the cask, and\nthat won't do good to anybody.\"\n\n\"Pray tell me some more!\" said the man.\n\n\"Yes, wait a little,\" answered the Moor-woman. \"I've something\nelse to do just now.\" And she was gone.\n\nThe man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood\nbefore him again.\n\n\"Now it's done,\" she said; \"but I shall have half the beer to brew\nover again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have\nyou to ask me? I've come back, for I always keep my word, and you have\nseven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a\nsix-leaved one. That inspires respect, for that's an order that\ngrows beside the sandy way; but that every one does not find. What\nhave you to ask me? Don't stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for I\nmust go back again directly to my bung and my cask.\"\n\nAnd the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the\nMoor-woman had met it in her journeyings.\n\n\"By the big brewing-vat!\" exclaimed the woman, \"haven't you got\nstories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.\nHere are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even\nthe children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and\nthe little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen\nto stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done\nhere, and other things to notice!\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" asked the man, \"and what do you know\nof the world? You don't see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps!\"\n\n\"Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps,\" said the Moor-woman,\n\"for they're out--they're let loose--that's what we must talk about!\nCome to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will\ntell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your\nseven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still\nfresh, and the moon stands high!\"\n\nAnd the Moor-woman was gone.\n\nIt struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had\ndied away, the man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood\nin the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her\nbrewing.\n\n\"You've been a long time coming!\" said the Moor-woman. \"Witches\nget forward faster than men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch\nfolk!\"\n\n\"What have you to say to me now?\" asked the man. \"Is it anything\nabout the Story?\"\n\n\"Can you never get beyond asking about that?\" retorted the woman.\n\n\"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?\" resumed\nthe man.\n\n\"Don't get on your stilts,\" said the crone, \"and I'll answer\nyou. You think of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story,\nas if she were the lady of the whole troop. She's the oldest of us\nall, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I've\nbeen young, too, and she's no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty\nelf-maiden, and have danced in my time with the others in the\nmoonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the\nforest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there,\nrunning about. Sometimes she took up her night's lodging in a\nhalf-blown tulip, or in a field flower; sometimes she would slip\ninto the church, and wrap herself in the mourning crape that hung down\nfrom the candles on the altar.\"\n\n\"You are capitally well-informed,\" said the man.\n\n\"I ought at least to know as much as you,\" answered the\nMoor-woman. \"Stories and poetry--yes, they're like two yards of the\nsame piece of stuff; they can go and lie down where they like, and one\ncan brew all their prattle, and have it all the better and cheaper.\nYou shall have it from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard-full of\npoetry in bottles. It makes essences; and that's the best of\nit--bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people want of\npoetry, in bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief,\non holidays, to smell.\"\n\n\"Why, these are wonderful things that you're telling!\" said the\nman. \"You have poetry in bottles?\"\n\n\"More than you can require,\" said the woman. \"I suppose you know\nthe history of 'the Girl who Trod on the Loaf, so that she might not\nsoil her shoes'? That has been written, and printed too.\"\n\n\"I told that story myself,\" said the man.\n\n\"Yes, then you must know it; and you must know also that the\ngirl sank into the earth directly, to the Moor-woman, just as Old\nBogey's grandmother was paying her morning visit to inspect the\nbrewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and asked to have her as a\nremembrance of her visit, and got her too; while I received a\npresent that's of no use to me--a travelling druggist's shop--a\nwhole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grandmother told me where\nthe cupboard was to be placed, and there it's standing still. Just\nlook! You've your seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, one of\nwhich is a six-leaved one, and so you will be able to see it.\"\n\nAnd really in the midst of the moor lay something like a great\nknotted block of alder, and that was the old grandmother's cupboard.\nThe Moor-woman said that this was always open to her and to every\none in the land, if they only knew where the cupboard stood. It\ncould be opened either at the front or at the back, and at every\nside and corner--a perfect work of art, and yet only an old alder\nstump in appearance. The poets of all lands, and especially those of\nour own country, had been arranged here; the spirit of them had been\nextracted, refined, criticised and renovated, and then stored up in\nbottles. With what may be called great aptitude, if it was not\ngenius the grandmother had taken as it were the flavor of this and\nof that poet, and had added a little devilry, and then corked up the\nbottles for use during all future times.\n\n\"Pray let me see,\" said the man.\n\n\"Yes, but there are more important things to hear,\" replied the\nMoor-woman.\n\n\"But now we are at the cupboard!\" said the man. And he looked\nin. \"Here are bottles of all sizes. What is in this one? and what in\nthat one yonder?\"\n\n\"Here is what they call may-balm,\" replied the woman. \"I have\nnot tried it myself. But I have not yet told you the 'more\nimportant' thing you were to hear. THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP'S IN THE TOWN!\nThat's of much more consequence than poetry and stories. I ought,\nindeed, to hold my tongue; but there must be a necessity--a fate--a\nsomething that sticks in my throat, and that wants to come out. Take\ncare, you mortals!\"\n\n\"I don't understand a word of all this!\" cried the man.\n\n\"Be kind enough to seat yourself on that cupboard,\" she retorted,\n\"but take care you don't fall through and break the bottles--you know\nwhat's inside of them. I must tell of the great event. It occurred no\nlonger ago than the day before yesterday. It did not happen earlier.\nIt has now three hundred and sixty-three days to run about. I suppose\nyou know how many days there are in a year?\"\n\nAnd this is what the Moor-woman told:\n\n\"There was a great commotion yesterday out here in the marsh!\nThere was a christening feast! A little Will-o'-the-Wisp was born\nhere--in fact, twelve of them were born all together; and they have\npermission, if they choose to use it, to go abroad among men, and to\nmove about and command among them, just as if they were born\nmortals. That was a great event in the marsh, and accordingly all\nthe Will-o'-the-Wisps, male and female, went dancing like little\nlights across the moor. There are some of them of the dog species, but\nthose are not worth mentioning. I sat there on the cupboard, and had\nall the twelve little new-born Will-o'-the-Wisps upon my lap. They\nshone like glow-worms; they already began to hop, and increased in\nsize every moment, so that before a quarter of an hour had elapsed,\neach of them looked just as large as his father or his uncle. Now,\nit's an old-established regulation and favor, that when the moon\nstands just as it did yesterday, and the wind blows just as it blew\nthen, it is allowed and accorded to all Will-o'-the-Wisps--that is, to\nall those who are born at that minute of time--to become mortals,\nand individually to exert their power for the space of one year.\n\n\"The Will-o'-the-Wisp may run about in the country and through the\nworld, if it is not afraid of falling into the sea, or of being\nblown out by a heavy storm. It can enter into a person and speak for\nhim, and make all the movements it pleases. The Will-o'-the-Wisp may\ntake whatever form he likes, of man or woman, and can act in their\nspirit and in their disguise in such a way that he can effect whatever\nhe wishes to do. But he must manage, in the course of the year, to\nlead three hundred and sixty-five people into a bad way, and in a\ngrand style, too. To lead them away from the right and the truth;\nand then he reaches the highest point. Such a Will-o'-the-Wisp can\nattain to the honor of being a runner before the devil's state\ncoach; and then he'll wear clothes of fiery yellow, and breathe\nforth flames out of his throat. That's enough to make a simple\nWill-o'-the-Wisp smack his lips. But there's some danger in this,\nand a great deal of work for a Will-o'-the-Wisp who aspires to play so\ndistinguished a part. If the eyes of the man are opened to what he is,\nand if the man can then blow him away, it's all over with him, and\nhe must come back into the marsh; or if, before the year is up, the\nWill-o'-the-Wisp is seized with a longing to see his family, and so\nreturns to it and gives the matter up, it is over with him likewise,\nand he can no longer burn clear, and soon becomes extinguished, and\ncannot be lit up again; and when the year has elapsed, and he has\nnot led three hundred and sixty-five people away from the truth and\nfrom all that is grand and noble, he is condemned to be imprisoned\nin decayed wood, and to lie glimmering there, without being able to\nmove; and that's the most terrible punishment that can be inflicted on\na lively Will-o'-the-Wisp.\n\n\"Now, all this I know, and all this I told to the twelve little\nWill-o'-the-Wisps whom I had on my lap, and who seemed quite crazy\nwith joy.\n\n\"I told them that the safest and most convenient course was to\ngive up the honor, and do nothing at all; but the little flames\nwould not agree to this, and already fancied themselves clad in\nfiery yellow clothes, breathing flames from their throats.\n\n\"'Stay with us,' said some of the older ones.\n\n\"'Carry on your sport with mortals,' said the others.\n\n\"'The mortals are drying up our meadows; they've taken to\ndraining. What will our successors do?'\n\n\"'We want to flame; we will flame--flame!' cried the new-born\nWill-o'the-Wisps.\n\n\"And thus the affair was settled.\n\n\"And now a ball was given, a minute long; it could not well be\nshorter. The little elf-maidens whirled round three times with the\nrest, that they might not appear proud, but they preferred dancing\nwith one another.\n\n\"And now the sponsors' gifts were presented, and presents were\nthrown them. These presents flew like pebbles across the sea-water.\nEach of the elf-maidens gave a little piece of her veil.\n\n\"'Take that,' they said, 'and then you'll know the higher dance,\nthe most difficult turns and twists--that is to say, if you should\nfind them necessary. You'll know the proper deportment, and then you\ncan show yourself in the very pick of society.'\n\n\"The night raven taught each of the young Will-o'-the-Wisps to\nsay, 'Goo-goo-good,' and to say it in the right place; and that's a\ngreat gift which brings its own reward.\n\n\"The owl and the stork--but they said it was not worth mentioning,\nand so we won't mention it.\n\n\"King Waldemar's wild chase was just then rushing over the moor,\nand when the great lords heard of the festivities that were going\non, they sent a couple of handsome dogs, which hunt on the spoor of\nthe wind, as a present; and these might carry two or three of the\nWill-o'-the-Wisps. A couple of old Alpas, spirits who occupy\nthemselves with Alp-pressing, were also at the feast; and from these\nthe young Will-o'-the-Wisps learned the art of slipping through\nevery key-hole, as if the door stood open before them. These Alpas\noffered to carry the youngsters to the town, with which they were well\nacquainted. They usually rode through the atmosphere on their own back\nhair, which is fastened into a knot, for they love a hard seat; but\nnow they sat sideways on the wild hunting dogs, took the young\nWill-o'-the-Wisps in their laps, who wanted to go into the town to\nmislead and entice mortals, and, whisk! away they were. Now, this is\nwhat happened last night. To-day the Will-o'-the-Wisps are in the\ntown, and have taken the matter in hand--but where and how? Ah, can\nyou tell me that? Still, I've a lightning conductor in my great toe,\nand that will always tell me something.\"\n\n\"Why, this is a complete story,\" exclaimed the man.\n\n\"Yes, but it is only the beginning,\" replied the woman. \"Can you\ntell me how the Will-o'-the-Wisps deport themselves, and how they\nbehave? and in what shapes they have aforetime appeared and led people\ninto crooked paths?\"\n\n\"I believe,\" replied the man, \"that one could tell quite a romance\nabout the Will-o'-the-Wisps, in twelve parts; or, better still, one\nmight make quite a popular play of them.\"\n\n\"You might write that,\" said the woman, \"but it's best let alone.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's better and more agreeable,\" the man replied, \"for\nthen we shall escape from the newspapers, and not be tied up by\nthem, which is just as uncomfortable as for a Will-o'-the-Wisp to\nlie in decaying wood, to have to gleam, and not to be able to stir.\"\n\n\"I don't care about it either way,\" cried the woman. \"Let the rest\nwrite, those who can, and those who cannot likewise. I'll grant you an\nold bung from my cask that will open the cupboard where poetry's\nkept in bottles, and you may take from that whatever may be wanting.\nBut you, my good man, seem to have blotted your hands sufficiently\nwith ink, and to have come to that age of satiety that you need not be\nrunning about every year for stories, especially as there are much\nmore important things to be done. You must have understood what is\ngoing on?\"\n\n\"The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in town,\" said the man. \"I've heard it,\nand I have understood it. But what do you think I ought to do? I\nshould be thrashed if I were to go to the people and say, 'Look,\nyonder goes a Will-o'-the-Wisp in his best clothes!'\n\n\"They also go in undress,\" replied the woman. \"The\nWill-o'-the-Wisp can assume all kinds of forms, and appear in every\nplace. He goes into the church, but not for the sake of the service;\nand perhaps he may enter into one or other of the priests. He speaks\nin the Parliament, not for the benefit of the country, but only for\nhimself. He's an artist with the color-pot as well as in the\ntheatre; but when he gets all the power into his own hands, then the\npot's empty! I chatter and chatter, but it must come out, what's\nsticking in my throat, to the disadvantage of my own family. But I\nmust now be the woman that will save a good many people. It is not\ndone with my good will, or for the sake of a medal. I do the most\ninsane things I possibly can, and then I tell a poet about it, and\nthus the whole town gets to know of it directly.\"\n\n\"The town will not take that to heart,\" observed the man; \"that\nwill not disturb a single person; for they will all think I'm only\ntelling them a story if I say, 'The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the town,\nsays the Moor-woman. Take care of yourselves!'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE WIND\n\n\"Near the shores of the great Belt, which is one of the straits\nthat connect the Cattegat with the Baltic, stands an old mansion\nwith thick red walls. I know every stone of it,\" says the Wind. \"I saw\nit when it was part of the castle of Marck Stig on the promontory. But\nthe castle was obliged to be pulled down, and the stone was used again\nfor the walls of a new mansion on another spot--the baronial residence\nof Borreby, which still stands near the coast. I knew them well, those\nnoble lords and ladies, the successive generations that dwelt there;\nand now I'm going to tell you of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. How\nproud was his bearing, for he was of royal blood, and could boast of\nmore noble deeds than merely hunting the stag and emptying the\nwine-cup. His rule was despotic: 'It shall be,' he was accustomed to\nsay. His wife, in garments embroidered with gold, stepped proudly over\nthe polished marble floors. The tapestries were gorgeous, and the\nfurniture of costly and artistic taste. She had brought gold and plate\nwith her into the house. The cellars were full of wine. Black, fiery\nhorses, neighed in the stables. There was a look of wealth about the\nhouse of Borreby at that time. They had three children, daughters,\nfair and delicate maidens--Ida, Joanna, and Anna Dorothea; I have\nnever forgotten their names. They were a rich, noble family, born in\naffluence and nurtured in luxury.\n\n\"Whir-r-r, whir-r-r!\" roared the Wind, and went on, \"I did not see\nin this house, as in other great houses, the high-born lady sitting\namong her women, turning the spinning-wheel. She could sweep the\nsounding chords of the guitar, and sing to the music, not always\nDanish melodies, but the songs of a strange land. It was 'Live and let\nlive,' here. Stranger guests came from far and near, music sounded,\ngoblets clashed, and I,\" said the Wind, \"was not able to drown the\nnoise. Ostentation, pride, splendor, and display ruled, but not the\nfear of the Lord.\n\n\"It was on the evening of the first day of May,\" the Wind\ncontinued, \"I came from the west, and had seen the ships overpowered\nwith the waves, when all on board persisted or were cast shipwrecked\non the coast of Jutland. I had hurried across the heath and over\nJutland's wood-girt eastern coast, and over the island of Funen, and\nthen I drove across the great belt, sighing and moaning. At length I\nlay down to rest on the shores of Zeeland, near to the great house\nof Borreby, where the splendid forest of oaks still flourished. The\nyoung men of the neighborhood were collecting branches and brushwood\nunder the oak-trees. The largest and dryest they could find they\ncarried into the village, and piled them up in a heap and set them\non fire. Then the men and maidens danced, and sung in a circle round\nthe blazing pile. I lay quite quiet,\" said the Wind, \"but I silently\ntouched a branch which had been brought by one of the handsomest of\nthe young men, and the wood blazed up brightly, blazed brighter than\nall the rest. Then he was chosen as the chief, and received the name\nof the Shepherd; and might choose his lamb from among the maidens.\nThere was greater mirth and rejoicing than I had ever heard in the\nhalls of the rich baronial house. Then the noble lady drove by towards\nthe baron's mansion with her three daughters, in a gilded carriage\ndrawn by six horses. The daughters were young and beautiful--three\ncharming blossoms--a rose, a lily, and a white hyacinth. The mother\nwas a proud tulip, and never acknowledged the salutations of any of\nthe men or maidens who paused in their sport to do her honor. The\ngracious lady seemed like a flower that was rather stiff in the stalk.\nRose, lily, and hyacinth--yes, I saw them all three. Whose little\nlambs will they one day become? thought I; their shepherd will be a\ngallant knight, perhaps a prince. The carriage rolled on, and the\npeasants resumed their dancing. They drove about the summer through\nall the villages near. But one night, when I rose again, the high-born\nlady lay down to rise again no more; that thing came to her which\ncomes to us all, in which there is nothing new. Waldemar Daa\nremained for a time silent and thoughtful. 'The loftiest tree may be\nbowed without being broken,' said a voice within him. His daughters\nwept; all the people in the mansion wiped their eyes, but Lady Daa had\ndriven away, and I drove away too,\" said the Wind. \"Whir-r-r,\nwhir-r-r-!\n\n\"I returned again; I often returned and passed over the island\nof Funen and the shores of the Belt. Then I rested by Borreby, near\nthe glorious wood, where the heron made his nest, the haunt of the\nwood-pigeons, the blue-birds, and the black stork. It was yet\nspring, some were sitting on their eggs, others had already hatched\ntheir young broods; but how they fluttered about and cried out when\nthe axe sounded through the forest, blow upon blow! The trees of the\nforest were doomed. Waldemar Daa wanted to build a noble ship, a\nman-of-war, a three-decker, which the king would be sure to buy; and\nthese, the trees of the wood, the landmark of the seamen, the refuge\nof the birds, must be felled. The hawk started up and flew away, for\nits nest was destroyed; the heron and all the birds of the forest\nbecame homeless, and flew about in fear and anger. I could well\nunderstand how they felt. Crows and ravens croaked, as if in scorn,\nwhile the trees were cracking and falling around them. Far in the\ninterior of the wood, where a noisy swarm of laborers were working,\nstood Waldemar Daa and his three daughters, and all were laughing at\nthe wild cries of the birds, excepting one, the youngest, Anna\nDorothea, who felt grieved to the heart; and when they made\npreparations to fell a tree that was almost dead, and on whose naked\nbranches the black stork had built her nest, she saw the poor little\nthings stretching out their necks, and she begged for mercy for\nthem, with the tears in her eyes. So the tree with the black stork's\nnest was left standing; the tree itself, however, was not worth much\nto speak of. Then there was a great deal of hewing and sawing, and\nat last the three-decker was built. The builder was a man of low\norigin, but possessing great pride; his eyes and forehead spoke of\nlarge intellect, and Waldemar Daa was fond of listening to him, and so\nwas Waldemar's daughter Ida, the eldest, now about fifteen years\nold; and while he was building the ship for the father, he was\nbuilding for himself a castle in the air, in which he and Ida were\nto live when they were married. This might have happened, indeed, if\nthere had been a real castle, with stone walls, ramparts, and a\nmoat. But in spite of his clever head, the builder was still but a\npoor, inferior bird; and how can a sparrow expect to be admitted\ninto the society of peacocks?\n\n\"I passed on in my course,\" said the Wind, \"and he passed away\nalso. He was not allowed to remain, and little Ida got over it,\nbecause she was obliged to do so. Proud, black horses, worth looking\nat, were neighing in the stable. And they were locked up; for the\nadmiral, who had been sent by the king to inspect the new ship, and\nmake arrangements for its purchase, was loud in admiration of these\nbeautiful horses. I heard it all,\" said the Wind, \"for I accompanied\nthe gentlemen through the open door of the stable, and strewed\nstalks of straw, like bars of gold, at their feet. Waldemar Daa wanted\ngold, and the admiral wished for the proud black horses; therefore\nhe praised them so much. But the hint was not taken, and\nconsequently the ship was not bought. It remained on the shore covered\nwith boards,--a Noah's ark that never got to the water--Whir-r-r-r--and\nthat was a pity.\n\n\"In the winter, when the fields were covered with snow, and the\nwater filled with large blocks of ice which I had blown up to the\ncoast,\" continued the Wind, \"great flocks of crows and ravens, dark\nand black as they usually are, came and alighted on the lonely,\ndeserted ship. Then they croaked in harsh accents of the forest that\nnow existed no more, of the many pretty birds' nests destroyed and the\nlittle ones left without a home; and all for the sake of that great\nbit of lumber, that proud ship, that never sailed forth. I made the\nsnowflakes whirl till the snow lay like a great lake round the ship,\nand drifted over it. I let it hear my voice, that it might know what\nthe storm has to say. Certainly I did my part towards teaching it\nseamanship.\n\n\"That winter passed away, and another winter and summer both\npassed, as they are still passing away, even as I pass away. The\nsnow drifts onwards, the apple-blossoms are scattered, the leaves\nfall,--everything passes away, and men are passing away too. But the\ngreat man's daughters are still young, and little Ida is a rose as\nfair to look upon as on the day when the shipbuilder first saw her.\nI often tumbled her long, brown hair, while she stood in the garden by\nthe apple-tree, musing, and not heeding how I strewed the blossoms\non her hair, and dishevelled it; or sometimes, while she stood\ngazing at the red sun and the golden sky through the opening\nbranches of the dark, thick foliage of the garden trees. Her sister\nJoanna was bright and slender as a lily; she had a tall and lofty\ncarriage and figure, though, like her mother, rather stiff in back.\nShe was very fond of walking through the great hall, where hung the\nportraits of her ancestors. The women were represented in dresses of\nvelvet and silk, with tiny little hats, embroidered with pearls, on\ntheir braided hair. They were all handsome women. The gentlemen\nappeared clad in steel, or in rich cloaks lined with squirrel's fur;\nthey wore little ruffs, and swords at their sides. Where would\nJoanna's place be on that wall some day? and how would he look,--her\nnoble lord and husband? This is what she thought of, and often spoke\nof in a low voice to herself. I heard it as I swept into the long\nhall, and turned round to come out again. Anna Dorothea, the pale\nhyacinth, a child of fourteen, was quiet and thoughtful; her large,\ndeep, blue eyes had a dreamy look, but a childlike smile still\nplayed round her mouth. I was not able to blow it away, neither did\nI wish to do so. We have met in the garden, in the hollow lane, in the\nfield and meadow, where she gathered herbs and flowers which she\nknew would be useful to her father in preparing the drugs and mixtures\nhe was always concocting. Waldemar Daa was arrogant and proud, but\nhe was also a learned man, and knew a great deal. It was no secret,\nand many opinions were expressed on what he did. In his fireplace\nthere was a fire, even in summer time. He would lock himself in his\nroom, and for days the fire would be kept burning; but he did not talk\nmuch of what he was doing. The secret powers of nature are generally\ndiscovered in solitude, and did he not soon expect to find out the art\nof making the greatest of all good things--the art of making gold?\nSo he fondly hoped; therefore the chimney smoked and the fire crackled\nso constantly. Yes, I was there too,\" said the Wind. \"'Leave it\nalone,' I sang down the chimney; 'leave it alone, it will all end in\nsmoke, air, coals, and ashes, and you will burn your fingers.' But\nWaldemar Daa did not leave it alone, and all he possessed vanished\nlike smoke blown by me. The splendid black horses, where are they?\nWhat became of the cows in the field, the old gold and silver\nvessels in cupboards and chests, and even the house and home itself?\nIt was easy to melt all these away in the gold-making crucible, and\nyet obtain no gold. And so it was. Empty are the barns and\nstore-rooms, the cellars and cupboards; the servants decreased in\nnumber, and the mice multiplied. First one window became broken, and\nthen another, so that I could get in at other places besides the door.\n'Where the chimney smokes, the meal is being cooked,' says the\nproverb; but here a chimney smoked that devoured all the meals for the\nsake of gold. I blew round the courtyard,\" said the Wind, \"like a\nwatchman blowing his home, but no watchman was there. I twirled the\nweather-cock round on the summit of the tower, and it creaked like the\nsnoring of a warder, but no warder was there; nothing but mice and\nrats. Poverty laid the table-cloth; poverty sat in the wardrobe and in\nthe larder. The door fell off its hinges, cracks and fissures made\ntheir appearance everywhere; so that I could go in and out at\npleasure, and that is how I know all about it. Amid smoke and ashes,\nsorrow, and sleepless nights, the hair and beard of the master of\nthe house turned gray, and deep furrows showed themselves around his\ntemples; his skin turned pale and yellow, while his eyes still\nlooked eagerly for gold, the longed-for gold, and the result of his\nlabor was debt instead of gain. I blew the smoke and ashes into his\nface and beard; I moaned through the broken window-panes, and the\nyawning clefts in the walls; I blew into the chests and drawers\nbelonging to his daughters, wherein lay the clothes that had become\nfaded and threadbare, from being worn over and over again. Such a song\nhad not been sung, at the children's cradle as I sung now. The\nlordly life had changed to a life of penury. I was the only one who\nrejoiced aloud in that castle,\" said the Wind. \"At last I snowed\nthem up, and they say snow keeps people warm. It was good for them,\nfor they had no wood, and the forest, from which they might have\nobtained it, had been cut down. The frost was very bitter, and I\nrushed through loop-holes and passages, over gables and roofs with\nkeen and cutting swiftness. The three high-born daughters were lying\nin bed because of the cold, and their father crouching beneath his\nleather coverlet. Nothing to eat, nothing to burn, no fire on the\nhearth! Here was a life for high-born people! 'Give it up, give it\nup!' But my Lord Daa would not do that. 'After winter, spring will\ncome,' he said, 'after want, good times. We must not lose patience, we\nmust learn to wait. Now my horses and lands are all mortgaged, it is\nindeed high time; but gold will come at last--at Easter.'\n\n\"I heard him as he thus spoke; he was looking at a spider's web,\nand he continued, 'Thou cunning little weaver, thou dost teach me\nperseverance. Let any one tear thy web, and thou wilt begin again\nand repair it. Let it be entirely destroyed, thou wilt resolutely\nbegin to make another till it is completed. So ought we to do, if we\nwish to succeed at last.'\n\n\"It was the morning of Easter-day. The bells sounded from the\nneighboring church, and the sun seemed to rejoice in the sky. The\nmaster of the castle had watched through the night, in feverish\nexcitement, and had been melting and cooling, distilling and mixing. I\nheard him sighing like a soul in despair; I heard him praying, and I\nnoticed how he held his breath. The lamp burnt out, but he did not\nobserve it. I blew up the fire in the coals on the hearth, and it\nthrew a red glow on his ghastly white face, lighting it up with a\nglare, while his sunken eyes looked out wildly from their cavernous\ndepths, and appeared to grow larger and more prominent, as if they\nwould burst from their sockets. 'Look at the alchymic glass,' he\ncried; 'something glows in the crucible, pure and heavy.' He lifted it\nwith a trembling hand, and exclaimed in a voice of agitation, 'Gold!\ngold!' He was quite giddy, I could have blown him down,\" said the\nWind; \"but I only fanned the glowing coals, and accompanied him\nthrough the door to the room where his daughter sat shivering. His\ncoat was powdered with ashes, and there were ashes in his beard and in\nhis tangled hair. He stood erect, and held high in the air the brittle\nglass that contained his costly treasure. 'Found! found! Gold!\ngold!' he shouted, again holding the glass aloft, that it might\nflash in the sunshine; but his hand trembled, and the alchymic glass\nfell from it, clattering to the ground, and brake in a thousand\npieces. The last bubble of his happiness had burst, with a whiz and\na whir, and I rushed away from the gold-maker's house.\n\n\"Late in the autumn, when the days were short, and the mist\nsprinkled cold drops on the berries and the leafless branches, I\ncame back in fresh spirits, rushed through the air, swept the sky\nclear, and snapped off the dry twigs, which is certainly no great\nlabor to do, yet it must be done. There was another kind of sweeping\ntaking place at Waldemar Daa's, in the castle of Borreby. His enemy,\nOwe Ramel, of Basnas, was there, with the mortgage of the house and\neverything it contained, in his pocket. I rattled the broken\nwindows, beat against the old rotten doors, and whistled through\ncracks and crevices, so that Mr. Owe Ramel did not much like to remain\nthere. Ida and Anna Dorothea wept bitterly, Joanna stood, pale and\nproud, biting her lips till the blood came; but what could that avail?\nOwe Ramel offered Waldemar Daa permission to remain in the house\ntill the end of his life. No one thanked him for the offer, and I\nsaw the ruined old gentleman lift his head, and throw it back more\nproudly than ever. Then I rushed against the house and the old\nlime-trees with such force, that one of the thickest branches, a\ndecayed one, was broken off, and the branch fell at the entrance,\nand remained there. It might have been used as a broom, if any one had\nwanted to sweep the place out, and a grand sweeping-out there really\nwas; I thought it would be so. It was hard for any one to preserve\ncomposure on such a day; but these people had strong wills, as\nunbending as their hard fortune. There was nothing they could call\ntheir own, excepting the clothes they wore. Yes, there was one thing\nmore, an alchymist's glass, a new one, which had been lately bought,\nand filled with what could be gathered from the ground of the treasure\nwhich had promised so much but failed in keeping its promise. Waldemar\nDaa hid the glass in his bosom, and, taking his stick in his hand, the\nonce rich gentleman passed with his daughters out of the house of\nBorreby. I blew coldly upon his flustered cheeks, I stroked his gray\nbeard and his long white hair, and I sang as well as I was able,\n'Whir-r-r, whir-r-r. Gone away! Gone away!' Ida walked on one side\nof the old man, and Anna Dorothea on the other; Joanna turned round,\nas they left the entrance. Why? Fortune would not turn because she\nturned. She looked at the stone in the walls which had once formed\npart of the castle of Marck Stig, and perhaps she thought of his\ndaughters and of the old song,--\n\n  \"The eldest and youngest, hand-in-hand,\n  Went forth alone to a distant land.\"\n\nThese were only two; here there were three, and their father with them\nalso. They walked along the high-road, where once they had driven in\ntheir splendid carriage; they went forth with their father as beggars.\nThey wandered across an open field to a mud hut, which they rented for\na dollar and a half a year, a new home, with bare walls and empty\ncupboards. Crows and magpies fluttered about them, and cried, as if in\ncontempt, 'Caw, caw, turned out of our nest--caw, caw,' as they had\ndone in the wood at Borreby, when the trees were felled. Daa and his\ndaughters could not help hearing it, so I blew about their ears to\ndrown the noise; what use was it that they should listen? So they went\nto live in the mud hut in the open field, and I wandered away, over\nmoor and meadow, through bare bushes and leafless forests, to the open\nsea, to the broad shores in other lands, 'Whir-r-r, whir-r-r! Away,\naway!' year after year.\"\n\nAnd what became of Waldemar Daa and his daughters? Listen; the\nWind will tell us:\n\n\"The last I saw of them was the pale hyacinth, Anna Dorothea. She\nwas old and bent then; for fifty years had passed and she had outlived\nthem all. She could relate the history. Yonder, on the heath, near the\ntown of Wiborg, in Jutland, stood the fine new house of the canon. It\nwas built of red brick, with projecting gables. It was inhabited, for\nthe smoke curled up thickly from the chimneys. 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 fell upon a stork's nest, which was built\nupon an old tumbledown hut. The roof, as far as one existed at all,\nwas covered with moss and lichen. The stork's nest covered the greater\npart of it, and that alone was in a good condition; for it was kept in\norder by the stork himself. That is a house to be looked at, and not\nto be touched,\" said the Wind. \"For the sake of the stork's nest it\nhad been allowed to remain, although it is a blot on the landscape.\nThey did not like to drive the stork away; therefore the old shed was\nleft standing, and the poor woman who dwelt in it allowed to stay. She\nhad the Egyptian bird to thank for that; or was it perchance her\nreward for having once interceded for the preservation of the nest of\nits black brother in the forest of Borreby? At that time she, the\npoor woman, was a young child, a white hyacinth in a rich garden. She\nremembered that time well; for it was Anna Dorothea.\n\n\"'O-h, o-h,' she sighed; for people can sigh like the moaning of\nthe wind among the reeds and rushes. 'O-h, o-h,' she would say, 'no\nbell sounded at thy burial, Waldemar Daa. The poor school-boys did not\neven sing a psalm when the former lord of Borreby was laid in the\nearth to rest. O-h, everything has an end, even misery. Sister Ida\nbecame the wife of a peasant; that was the hardest trial which\nbefell our father, that the husband of his own daughter should be a\nmiserable serf, whom his owner could place for punishment on the\nwooden horse. I suppose he is under the ground now; and Ida--alas!\nalas! it is not ended yet; miserable that I am! Kind Heaven, grant\nme that I may die.'\n\n\"That was Anna Dorothea's prayer in the wretched hut that was left\nstanding for the sake of the stork. I took pity on the proudest of the\nsisters,\" said the Wind. \"Her courage was like that of a man; and in\nman's clothes she served as a sailor on board ship. She was of few\nwords, and of a dark countenance; but she did not know how to climb,\nso I blew her overboard before any one found out that she was a woman;\nand, in my opinion, that was well done,\" said the Wind.\n\nOn such another Easter morning as that on which Waldemar Daa\nimagined he had discovered the art of making gold, I heard the tones\nof a psalm under the stork's nest, and within the crumbling walls.\nIt was Anna Dorothea's last song. There was no window in the hut, only\na hole in the wall; and the sun rose like a globe of burnished gold,\nand looked through. With what splendor he filled that dismal dwelling!\nHer eyes were glazing, and her heart breaking; but so it would have\nbeen, even had the sun not shone that morning on Anna Dorothea. The\nstork's nest had secured her a home till her death. I sung over her\ngrave; I sung at her father's grave. I know where it lies, and where\nher grave is too, but nobody else knows it.\n\n\"New times now; all is changed. The old high-road is lost amid\ncultivated fields; the new one now winds along over covered graves;\nand soon the railway will come, with its train of carriages, and\nrush over graves where lie those whose very names are forgoten. All\npassed away, passed away!\n\n\"This is the story of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. Tell it\nbetter, any of you, if you know how,\" said the Wind; and he rushed\naway, and was gone.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WINDMILL\n\nA windmill stood upon the hill, proud to look at, and it was proud\ntoo.\n\n\"I am not proud at all,\" it said, \"but I am very much\nenlightened without and within. I have sun and moon for my outward\nuse, and for inward use too; and into the bargain I have stearine\ncandles, train oil and lamps, and tallow candles. I may well say\nthat I'm enlightened. I'm a thinking being, and so well constructed\nthat it's quite delightful. I have a good windpipe in my chest, and\nI have four wings that are placed outside my head, just beneath my\nhat. The birds have only two wings, and are obliged to carry them on\ntheir backs. I am a Dutchman by birth, that may be seen by my\nfigure--a flying Dutchman. They are considered supernatural beings,\nI know, and yet I am quite natural. I have a gallery round my chest,\nand house-room beneath it; that's where my thoughts dwell. My\nstrongest thought, who rules and reigns, is called by others 'The\nMan in the Mill.' He knows what he wants, and is lord over the meal\nand the bran; but he has his companion, too, and she calls herself\n'Mother.' She is the very heart of me. She does not run about stupidly\nand awkwardly, for she knows what she wants, she knows what she can\ndo, she's as soft as a zephyr and as strong as a storm; she knows\nhow to begin a thing carefully, and to have her own way. She is my\nsoft temper, and the father is my hard one. They are two, and yet one;\nthey each call the other 'My half.' These two have some little boys,\nyoung thoughts, that can grow. The little ones keep everything in\norder. When, lately, in my wisdom, I let the father and the boys\nexamine my throat and the hole in my chest, to see what was going on\nthere,--for something in me was out of order, and it's well to examine\none's self,--the little ones made a tremendous noise. The youngest\njumped up into my hat, and shouted so there that it tickled me. The\nlittle thoughts may grow--I know that very well; and out in the\nworld thoughts come too, and not only of my kind, for as far as I\ncan see, I cannot discern anything like myself; but the wingless\nhouses, whose throats make no noise, have thoughts too, and these come\nto my thoughts, and make love to them, as it is called. It's wonderful\nenough--yes, there are many wonderful things. Something has come\nover me, or into me,--something has changed in the mill-work. It seems\nas if the one half, the father, had altered, and had received a better\ntemper and a more affectionate helpmate--so young and good, and yet\nthe same, only more gentle and good through the course of time. What\nwas bitter has passed away, and the whole is much more comfortable.\n\n\"The days go on, and the days come nearer and nearer to\nclearness and to joy; and then a day will come when it will be over\nwith me; but not over altogether. I must be pulled down that I may\nbe built up again; I shall cease, but yet shall live on. To become\nquite a different being, and yet remain the same! That's difficult for\nme to understand, however enlightened I may be with sun, moon,\nstearine, train oil, and tallow. My old wood-work and my old\nbrick-work will rise again from the dust!\n\n\"I will hope that I may keep my old thoughts, the father in the\nmill, and the mother, great ones and little ones--the family; for I\ncall them all, great and little, the company of thoughts, because I\nmust, and cannot refrain from it.\n\n\"And I must also remain 'myself,' with my throat in my chest, my\nwings on my head, the gallery round my body; else I should not know\nmyself, nor could the others know me, and say, 'There's the mill on\nthe hill, proud to look at, and yet not proud at all.'\"\n\nThat is what the mill said. Indeed, it said much more, but that is\nthe most important part.\n\nAnd the days came, and the days went, and yesterday was the last\nday.\n\nThen the mill caught fire. The flames rose up high, and beat out\nand in, and bit at the beams and planks, and ate them up. The mill\nfell, and nothing remained of it but a heap of ashes. The smoke\ndrove across the scene of the conflagration, and the wind carried it\naway.\n\nWhatever had been alive in the mill remained, and what had been\ngained by it has nothing to do with this story.\n\nThe miller's family--one soul, many thoughts, and yet only one--built\na new, a splendid mill, which answered its purpose. It was quite\nlike the old one, and people said, \"Why, yonder is the mill on the\nhill, proud to look at!\" But this mill was better arranged, more\naccording to the time than the last, so that progress might be made.\nThe old beams had become worm-eaten and spongy--they lay in dust and\nashes. The body of the mill did not rise out of the dust as they had\nbelieved it would do. They had taken it literally, and all things\nare not to be taken literally.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE YEAR\n\nIt was near the end of January, and a terrible fall of snow was\npelting down, and whirling through the streets and lanes; the\nwindows were plastered with snow on the outside, snow fell in masses\nfrom the roofs. Every one seemed in a great hurry; they ran, they\nflew, fell into each other's arms, holding fast for a moment as long\nas they could stand safely. Coaches and horses looked as if they had\nbeen frosted with sugar. The footmen stood with their backs against\nthe carriages, so as to turn their faces from the wind. The foot\npassengers kept within the shelter of the carriages, which could\nonly move slowly on in the deep snow. At last the storm abated, and\na narrow path was swept clean in front of the houses; when two persons\nmet in this path they stood still, for neither liked to take the first\nstep on one side into the deep snow to let the other pass him. There\nthey stood silent and motionless, till at last, as if by tacit\nconsent, they each sacrificed a leg and buried it in the deep snow.\nTowards evening, the weather became calm. The sky, cleared from the\nsnow, looked more lofty and transparent, while the stars shone with\nnew brightness and purity. The frozen snow crackled under foot, and\nwas quite firm enough to bear the sparrows, who hopped upon it in\nthe morning dawn. They searched for food in the path which had been\nswept, but there was very little for them, and they were terribly\ncold. \"Tweet, tweet,\" said one to another; \"they call this a new\nyear, but I think it is worse than the last. We might just as well\nhave kept the old year; I'm quite unhappy, and I have a right to be\nso.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have; and yet the people ran about and fired off guns,\nto usher in the new year,\" said a little shivering sparrow. \"They\nthrew things against the doors, and were quite beside themselves\nwith joy, because the old year had disappeared. I was glad too, for\nI expected we should have some warm days, but my hopes have come to\nnothing. It freezes harder than ever; I think mankind have made a\nmistake in reckoning time.\"\n\n\"That they have,\" said a third, an old sparrow with a white\npoll; \"they have something they call a calendar; it's an invention\nof their own, and everything must be arranged according to it, but\nit won't do. When spring comes, then the year begins. It is the\nvoice of nature, and I reckon by that.\"\n\n\"But when will spring come?\" asked the others.\n\n\"It will come when the stork returns, but he is very uncertain,\nand here in the town no one knows anything about it. In the country\nthey have more knowledge; shall we fly away there and wait? we shall\nbe nearer to spring then, certainly.\"\n\n\"That may be all very well,\" said another sparrow, who had been\nhopping about for a long time, chirping, but not saying anything of\nconsequence, \"but I have found a few comforts here in town which,\nI'm afraid, I should miss out in the country. Here in this\nneighborhood, there lives a family of people who have been so sensible\nas to place three or four flower-pots against the wall in the\ncourt-yard, so that the openings are all turned inward, and the bottom\nof each points outward. In the latter a hole has been cut large enough\nfor me to fly in and out. I and my husband have built a nest in one of\nthese pots, and all our young ones, who have now flown away, were\nbrought up there. The people who live there of course made the whole\narrangement that they might have the pleasure of seeing us, or they\nwould not have done it. It pleased them also to strew bread-crumbs for\nus, and so we have food, and may consider ourselves provided for. So I\nthink my husband and I will stay where we are; although we are not\nvery happy, but we shall stay.\"\n\n\"And we will fly into the country,\" said the others, \"to see if\nspring is coming.\" And away they flew.\n\nIn the country it was really winter, a few degrees colder than\nin the town. The sharp winds blew over the snow-covered fields. The\nfarmer, wrapped in warm clothing, sat in his sleigh, and beat his arms\nacross his chest to keep off the cold. The whip lay on his lap. The\nhorses ran till they smoked. The snow crackled, the sparrows hopped\nabout in the wheel-ruts, and shivered, crying, \"Tweet, tweet; when\nwill spring come? It is very long in coming.\"\n\n\"Very long indeed,\" sounded over the field, from the nearest\nsnow-covered hill. It might have been the echo which people heard,\nor perhaps the words of that wonderful old man, who sat high on a heap\nof snow, regardless of wind or weather. He was all in white; he had on\na peasant's coarse white coat of frieze. He had long white hair, a\npale face, and large clear blue eyes. \"Who is that old man?\" asked the\nsparrows.\n\n\"I know who he is,\" said an old raven, who sat on the fence, and\nwas condescending enough to acknowledge that we are all equal in the\nsight of Heaven, even as little birds, and therefore he talked with\nthe sparrows, and gave them the information they wanted. \"I know who\nthe old man is,\" he said. \"It is Winter, the old man of last year;\nhe is not dead yet, as the calendar says, but acts as guardian to\nlittle Prince Spring who is coming. Winter rules here still. Ugh!\nthe cold makes you shiver, little ones, does it not?\"\n\n\"There! Did I not tell you so?\" said the smallest of the sparrows.\n\"The calendar is only an invention of man, and is not arranged\naccording to nature. They should leave these things to us; we are\ncreated so much more clever than they are.\"\n\nOne week passed, and then another. The forest looked dark, the\nhard-frozen lake lay like a sheet of lead. The mountains had\ndisappeared, for over the land hung damp, icy mists. Large black crows\nflew about in silence; it was as if nature slept. At length a\nsunbeam glided over the lake, and it shone like burnished silver.\nBut the snow on the fields and the hills did not glitter as before.\nThe white form of Winter sat there still, with his un-wandering gaze\nfixed on the south. He did not perceive that the snowy carpet seemed\nto sink as it were into the earth; that here and there a little\ngreen patch of grass appeared, and that these patches were covered\nwith sparrows.\n\n\"Tee-wit, tee-wit; is spring coming at last?\"\n\nSpring! How the cry resounded over field and meadow, and through\nthe dark-brown woods, where the fresh green moss still gleamed on\nthe trunks of the trees, and from the south came the two first\nstorks flying through the air, and on the back of each sat a lovely\nlittle child, a boy and a girl. They greeted the earth with a kiss,\nand wherever they placed their feet white flowers sprung up from\nbeneath the snow. Hand in hand they approached the old ice-man,\nWinter, embraced him and clung to his breast; and as they did so, in a\nmoment all three were enveloped in a thick, damp mist, dark and heavy,\nthat closed over them like a veil. The wind arose with mighty rustling\ntone, and cleared away the mist. Then the sun shone out warmly. Winter\nhad vanished away, and the beautiful children of Spring sat on the\nthrone of the year.\n\n\"This is really a new year,\" cried all the sparrows, \"now we shall\nget our rights, and have some return for what we suffered in winter.\"\n\nWherever the two children wandered, green buds burst forth on bush\nand tree, the grass grew higher, and the corn-fields became lovely\nin delicate green.\n\nThe little maiden strewed flowers in her path. She held her\napron before her: it was full of flowers; it was as if they sprung\ninto life there, for the more she scattered around her, the more\nflowers did her apron contain. Eagerly she showered snowy blossoms\nover apple and peach-trees, so that they stood in full beauty before\neven their green leaves had burst from the bud. Then the boy and the\ngirl clapped their hands, and troops of birds came flying by, no one\nknew from whence, and they all twittered and chirped, singing\n\"Spring has come!\" How beautiful everything was! Many an old dame came\nforth from her door into the sunshine, and shuffled about with great\ndelight, glancing at the golden flowers which glittered everywhere\nin the fields, as they used to do in her young days. The world grew\nyoung again to her, as she said, \"It is a blessed time out here\nto-day.\" The forest already wore its dress of dark-green buds. The\nthyme blossomed in fresh fragrance. Primroses and anemones sprung\nforth, and violets bloomed in the shade, while every blade of grass\nwas full of strength and sap. Who could resist sitting down on such\na beautiful carpet? and then the young children of Spring seated\nthemselves, holding each other's hands, and sang, and laughed, and\ngrew. A gentle rain fell upon them from the sky, but they did not\nnotice it, for the rain-drops were their own tears of joy. They kissed\neach other, and were betrothed; and in the same moment the buds of the\ntrees unfolded, and when the sun rose, the forest was green. Hand in\nhand the two wandered beneath the fresh pendant canopy of foliage,\nwhile the sun's rays gleamed through the opening of the shade, in\nchanging and varied colors. The delicate young leaves filled the air\nwith refreshing odor. Merrily rippled the clear brooks and rivulets\nbetween the green, velvety rushes, and over the many-colored pebbles\nbeneath. All nature spoke of abundance and plenty. The cuckoo sang,\nand the lark carolled, for it was now beautiful spring. The careful\nwillows had, however, covered their blossoms with woolly gloves; and\nthis carefulness is rather tedious. Days and weeks went by, and the\nheat increased. Warm air waved the corn as it grew golden in the\nsun. The white northern lily spread its large green leaves over the\nglossy mirror of the woodland lake, and the fishes sought the\nshadows beneath them. In a sheltered part of the wood, the sun shone\nupon the walls of a farm-house, brightening the blooming roses, and\nripening the black juicy berries, which hung on the loaded\ncherry-trees, with his hot beams. Here sat the lovely wife of\nSummer, the same whom we have seen as a child and a bride; her eyes\nwere fixed on dark gathering clouds, which in wavy outlines of black\nand indigo were piling themselves up like mountains, higher and\nhigher. They came from every side, always increasing like a rising,\nrolling sea. Then they swooped towards the forest, where every sound\nhad been silenced as if by magic, every breath hushed, every bird\nmute. All nature stood still in grave suspense. But in the lanes and\nthe highways, passengers on foot or in carriages were hurrying to find\na place of shelter. Then came a flash of light, as if the sun had\nrushed forth from the sky, flaming, burning, all-devouring, and\ndarkness returned amid a rolling crash of thunder. The rain poured\ndown in streams,--now there was darkness, then blinding light,--now\nthrilling silence, then deafening din. The young brown reeds on the\nmoor waved to and fro in feathery billows; the forest boughs were\nhidden in a watery mist, and still light and darkness followed each\nother, still came the silence after the roar, while the corn and the\nblades of grass lay beaten down and swamped, so that it seemed\nimpossible they could ever raise themselves again. But after a while\nthe rain began to fall gently, the sun's rays pierced the clouds,\nand the water-drops glittered like pearls on leaf and stem. The\nbirds sang, the fishes leaped up to the surface of the water, the\ngnats danced in the sunshine, and yonder, on a rock by the heaving\nsalt sea, sat Summer himself, a strong man with sturdy limbs and long,\ndripping hair. Strengthened by the cool bath, he sat in the warm\nsunshine, while all around him renewed nature bloomed strong,\nluxuriant, and beautiful: it was summer, warm, lovely summer. Sweet\nand pleasant was the fragrance wafted from the clover-field, where the\nbees swarmed round the ruined tower, the bramble twined itself over\nthe old altar, which, washed by the rain, glittered in the sunshine;\nand thither flew the queen bee with her swarm, and prepared wax and\nhoney. But Summer and his bosom-wife saw it with different eyes, to\nthem the altar-table was covered with the offerings of nature. The\nevening sky shone like gold, no church dome could ever gleam so\nbrightly, and between the golden evening and the blushing morning\nthere was moonlight. It was indeed summer. And days and weeks\npassed, the bright scythes of the reapers glittered in the\ncorn-fields, the branches of the apple-trees bent low, heavy with\nthe red and golden fruit. The hop, hanging in clusters, filled the air\nwith sweet fragrance, and beneath the hazel-bushes, where the nuts\nhung in great bunches, rested a man and a woman--Summer and his\ngrave consort.\n\n\"See,\" she exclaimed, \"what wealth, what blessings surround us.\nEverything is home-like and good, and yet, I know not why, I long\nfor rest and peace; I can scarcely express what I feel. They are\nalready ploughing the fields again; more and more the people wish\nfor gain. See, the storks are flocking together, and following the\nplough at a short distance. They are the birds from Egypt, who carried\nus through the air. Do you remember how we came as children to this\nland of the north; we brought with us flowers and bright sunshine, and\ngreen to the forests, but the wind has been rough with them, and\nthey are now become dark and brown, like the trees of the south, but\nthey do not, like them, bear golden fruit.\"\n\n\"Do you wish to see golden fruit?\" said the man, \"then rejoice,\"\nand he lifted his arm. The leaves of the forest put on colors of red\nand gold, and bright tints covered the woodlands. The rose-bushes\ngleamed with scarlet hips, and the branches of the elder-trees hung\ndown with the weight of the full, dark berries. The wild chestnuts\nfell ripe from their dark, green shells, and in the forests the\nviolets bloomed for the second time. But the queen of the year\nbecame more and more silent and pale.\n\n\"It blows cold,\" she said, \"and night brings the damp mist; I long\nfor the land of my childhood.\" Then she saw the storks fly away\nevery one, and she stretched out her hands towards them. She looked at\nthe empty nests; in one of them grew a long-stalked corn flower, in\nanother the yellow mustard seed, as if the nest had been placed\nthere only for its comfort and protection, and the sparrows were\nflying round them all.\n\n\"Tweet, where has the master of the nest gone?\" cried one, \"I\nsuppose he could not bear it when the wind blew, and therefore he\nhas left this country. I wish him a pleasant journey.\"\n\nThe forest leaves became more and more yellow, leaf after leaf\nfell, and the stormy winds of Autumn howled. The year was now far\nadvanced, and upon the fallen, yellow leaves, lay the queen of the\nyear, looking up with mild eyes at a gleaming star, and her husband\nstood by her. A gust of wind swept through the foliage, and the leaves\nfell in a shower. The summer queen was gone, but a butterfly, the last\nof the year, flew through the cold air. Damp fogs came, icy winds\nblew, and the long, dark nights of winter approached. The ruler of the\nyear appeared with hair white as snow, but he knew it not; he\nthought snow-flakes falling from the sky covered his head, as they\ndecked the green fields with a thin, white covering of snow. And\nthen the church bells rang out for Christmas time.\n\n\"The bells are ringing for the new-born year,\" said the ruler,\n\"soon will a new ruler and his bride be born, and I shall go to\nrest with my wife in yonder light-giving star.\"\n\nIn the fresh, green fir-wood, where the snow lay all around, stood\nthe angel of Christmas, and consecrated the young trees that were to\nadorn his feast.\n\n\"May there be joy in the rooms, and under the green boughs,\"\nsaid the old ruler of the year. In a few weeks he had become a very\nold man, with hair as white as snow. \"My resting-time draws near;\nthe young pair of the year will soon claim my crown and sceptre.\"\n\n\"But the night is still thine,\" said the angel of Christmas,\n\"for power, but not for rest. Let the snow lie warmly upon the\ntender seed. Learn to endure the thought that another is worshipped\nwhilst thou art still lord. Learn to endure being forgotten while\nyet thou livest. The hour of thy freedom will come when Spring\nappears.\"\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 the ice, old Winter sat on the\nsnowdrift-covered hill, looking towards the south, where Winter had\nsat before, and gazed. The ice glittered, the snow crackled, the\nskaters skimmed over the polished surface of the lakes; ravens and\ncrows formed a pleasing contrast to the white ground, and not a breath\nof wind stirred, and in the still air old Winter clenched his fists,\nand the ice lay fathoms deep between the lands. Then came the sparrows\nagain out of the town, and asked, \"Who is that old man?\" The raven sat\nthere still, or it might be his son, which is the same thing, and he\nsaid to them,--\n\n\"It is Winter, the old man of the former year; he is not dead,\nas the calendar says, but he is guardian to the spring, which is\ncoming.\"\n\n\"When will Spring come?\" asked the sparrows, \"for we shall have\nbetter times then, and a better rule. The old times are worth\nnothing.\"\n\nAnd in quiet thought old Winter looked at the leafless forest,\nwhere the graceful form and bends of each tree and branch could be\nseen; and while Winter slept, icy mists came from the clouds, and\nthe ruler dreamt of his youthful days and of his manhood, and in the\nmorning dawn the whole forest glittered with hoar frost, which the sun\nshook from the branches,--and this was the summer dream of Winter.\n\n\"When will Spring come?\" asked the sparrows. \"Spring!\" Again the\necho sounded from the hills on which the snow lay. The sunshine became\nwarmer, the snow melted, and the birds twittered, \"Spring is\ncoming!\" And high in the air flew the first stork, and the second\nfollowed; a lovely child sat on the back of each, and they sank down\non the open field, kissed the earth, and kissed the quiet old man;\nand, as the mist from the mountain top, he vanished away and\ndisappeared. And the story of the year was finished.\n\n\"This is all very fine, no doubt,\" said the sparrows, \"and it is\nvery beautiful; but it is not according to the calendar, therefore, it\nmust be all wrong.\"","title":"Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":371306}