Produced by Al Haines




FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN



CONTENTS

  A Story
  By the Almshouse Window
  The Angel
  Anne Lisbeth

  Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind
  The Beetle who went on his Travels
  The Bell
  The Bell-deep
  The Bird of Popular Song
  The Bishop of Borglum and his Warriors
  The Bottle Neck
  The Buckwheat
  The Butterfly

  A Cheerful Temper
  The Child in the Grave
  Children's Prattle
  The Farm-yard Cock and the Weather-cock

  The Daisy
  The Darning-Needle
  Delaying is not Forgetting
  The Drop of Water
  The Dryad
  Jack the Dullard
  The Dumb Cook

  The Elf of the Rose
  The Elfin Hill
  The Emperor's New Suit

  The Fir Tree
  The Flax
  The Flying Trunk
  The Shepherd's Story of the Bond of Friendship

  The Girl Who Trod on the Loaf
  The Goblin and the Huckster
  The Golden Treasure
  The Goloshes of Fortune
  She was Good for Nothing
  Grandmother
  A Great Grief

  The Happy Family
  A Leaf from Heaven
  Holger Danske

  Ib and Little Christina
  The Ice Maiden

  The Jewish Maiden
  The Jumper

  The Last Dream of the Old Oak
  The Last Pearl
  Little Claus and Big Claus
  The Little Elder-tree Mother
  Little Ida's Flowers
  The Little Match-seller
  The Little Mermaid
  Little Tiny or Thumbelina
  Little Tuk
  The Loveliest Rose in the World

  The Mail-coach Passengers
  The Marsh King's Daughter
  The Metal Pig
  The Money-box
  What the Moon Saw

  The Neighbouring Families
  The Nightingale
  There is no Doubt about it
  In the Nursery

  The Old Bachelor's Nightcap
  The Old Church Bell
  The Old Grave-stone
  The Old House
  What the Old Man Does is Always Right
  The Old Street Lamp
  Ole-Luk-Oie, the Dream God
  Ole the Tower-keeper
  Our Aunt

  The Garden of Paradise
  The Pea Blossom
  The Pen and the Inkstand
  The Philosopher's Stone
  The Phoenix Bird
  The Portuguese Duck
  The Porter's Son
  Poultry Meg's Family
  The Princess and the Pea
  The Psyche
  The Puppet-show Man

  The Races
  The Red Shoes
  Everything in the Right Place
  A Rose from Homer's Grave
  The Snail and the Rose-tree

  A Story from the Sand-hills
  The Saucy Boy
  The Shadow
  The Shepherdess and the Sheep
  The Silver Shilling
  The Shirt-collar
  The Snow Man
  The Snow Queen
  The Snowdrop
  Something
  Soup from a Sausage Skewer
  The Storks
  The Storm Shakes the Shield
  The Story of a Mother
  The Sunbeam and the Captive
  The Swan's Nest
  The Swineherd

  The Thistle's Experiences
  The Thorny Road of Honor
  In a Thousand Years
  The Brave Tin Soldier
  The Tinder-box
  The Toad
  The Top and Ball
  The Travelling Companion
  Two Brothers
  Two Maidens

  The Ugly Duckling
  Under the Willow Tree
  In the Uttermost Parts of the Sea

  What One Can Invent
  The Wicked Prince
  The Wild Swans
  The Will-o-the-Wisp in the Town, Says the Wild Woman
  The Story of the Wind
  The Windmill

  The Story of the Year




A STORY

In the garden all the apple-trees were in blossom.  They had
hastened to bring forth flowers before they got green leaves, and in
the yard all the ducklings walked up and down, and the cat too: it
basked in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws.  And
when one looked at the fields, how beautifully the corn stood and
how green it shone, without comparison! and there was a twittering and
a fluttering of all the little birds, as if the day were a great
festival; and so it was, for it was Sunday.  All the bells were
ringing, and all the people went to church, looking cheerful, and
dressed in their best clothes.  There was a look of cheerfulness on
everything.  The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have
said: "God's kindness to us men is beyond all limits."  But inside
the church the pastor stood in the pulpit, and spoke very loudly and
angrily.  He said that all men were wicked, and God would punish them
for their sins, and that the wicked, when they died, would be cast
into hell, to burn for ever and ever.  He spoke very excitedly,
saying that their evil propensities would not be destroyed, nor
would the fire be extinguished, and they should never find rest.
That was terrible to hear, and he said it in such a tone of
conviction; he described hell to them as a miserable hole where all
the refuse of the world gathers.  There was no air beside the hot
burning sulphur flame, and there was no ground under their feet; they,
the wicked ones, sank deeper and deeper, while eternal silence
surrounded them!  It was dreadful to hear all that, for the preacher
spoke from his heart, and all the people in the church were terrified.
Meanwhile, the birds sang merrily outside, and the sun was shining
so beautifully warm, it seemed as though every little flower said:
"God, Thy kindness towards us all is without limits."  Indeed,
outside it was not at all like the pastor's sermon.

The same evening, upon going to bed, the pastor noticed his wife
sitting there quiet and pensive.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked her.

"Well, the matter with me is," she said, "that I cannot collect my
thoughts, and am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said to-day
in church--that there are so many wicked people, and that they
should burn eternally.  Alas! eternally--how long!  I am only a woman
and a sinner before God, but I should not have the heart to let even
the worst sinner burn for ever, and how could our Lord to do so, who
is so infinitely good, and who knows how the wickedness comes from
without and within?  No, I am unable to imagine that, although you
say so."


It was autumn; the trees dropped their leaves, the earnest and
severe pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person.  A pious,
faithful soul closed her eyes for ever; she was the pastor's wife.

..."If any one shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our
Lord you shall certainly do so," said the pastor.  He folded her
hands and read a psalm over the dead woman.

She was buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the
earnest man, and in the parsonage it was empty and still, for its
sun had set for ever.  She had gone home.

It was night.  A cold wind swept over the pastor's head; he
opened his eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining
into his room.  It was not so, however; there was a being standing
before his bed, and looking like the ghost of his deceased wife.  She
fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression, just as
if she wished to say something to him.  The pastor raised himself in
bed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, "Not even you can find
eternal rest!  You suffer, you best and most pious woman?"

The dead woman nodded her head as if to say "Yes," and put her
hand on her breast.

"And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?"

"Yes," was the answer.

"And how?"

"Give me one hair--only one single hair--from the head of the
sinner for whom the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner
whom God will condemn to eternal punishment in hell."

"Yes, one ought to be able to redeem you so easily, you pure,
pious woman," he said.

"Follow me," said the dead woman.  "It is thus granted to us.  By my
side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go.
Invisible to men, we shall penetrate into their most secret
chambers; but with sure hand you must find out him who is destined
to eternal torture, and before the cock crows he must be found!"  As
quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great
city, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming
letters: pride, avarice, drunkenness, wantonness--in short, the
whole seven-coloured bow of sin.

"Yes, therein, as I believed, as I knew it," said the pastor, "are
living those who are abandoned to the eternal fire."  And they were
standing before the magnificently illuminated gate; the broad steps
were adorned with carpets and flowers, and dance music was sounding
through the festive halls.  A footman dressed in silk and velvet
stood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.

"Our ball can compare favourably with the king's," he said, and
turned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street.  What he
thought was sufficiently expressed in his features and movements:
"Miserable beggars, who are looking in, you are nothing in
comparison to me."

"Pride," said the dead woman; "do you see him?"

"The footman?" asked the pastor.  "He is but a poor fool, and not
doomed to be tortured eternally by fire!"

"Only a fool!"  It sounded through the whole house of pride: they
were all fools there.

Then they flew within the four naked walls of the miser.  Lean as a
skeleton, trembling with cold, and hunger, the old man was clinging
with all his thoughts to his money.  They saw him jump up feverishly
from his miserable couch and take a loose stone out of the wall; there
lay gold coins in an old stocking.  They saw him anxiously feeling over
an old ragged coat in which pieces of gold were sewn, and his clammy
fingers trembled.

"He is ill!  That is madness--a joyless madness--besieged by fear
and dreadful dreams!"

They quickly went away and came before the beds of the
criminals; these unfortunate people slept side by side, in long
rows.  Like a ferocious animal, one of them rose out of his sleep and
uttered a horrible cry, and gave his comrade a violent dig in the ribs
with his pointed elbow, and this one turned round in his sleep:

"Be quiet, monster--sleep!  This happens every night!"

"Every night!" repeated the other.  "Yes, every night he comes
and tortures me!  In my violence I have done this and that.  I was
born with an evil mind, which has brought me hither for the second
time; but if I have done wrong I suffer punishment for it.  One
thing, however, I have not yet confessed.  When I came out a little
while ago, and passed by the yard of my former master, evil thoughts
rose within me when I remembered this and that.  I struck a match a
little bit on the wall; probably it came a little too close to the
thatched roof.  All burnt down--a great heat rose, such as sometimes
overcomes me.  I myself helped to rescue cattle and things, nothing
alive burnt, except a flight of pigeons, which flew into the fire, and
the yard dog, of which I had not thought; one could hear him howl
out of the fire, and this howling I still hear when I wish to sleep;
and when I have fallen asleep, the great rough dog comes and places
himself upon me, and howls, presses, and tortures me.  Now listen to
what I tell you!  You can snore; you are snoring the whole night, and I
hardly a quarter of an hour!"  And the blood rose to the head of the
excited criminal; he threw himself upon his comrade, and beat him with
his clenched fist in the face.

"Wicked Matz has become mad again!" they said amongst
themselves.  The other criminals seized him, wrestled with him, and
bent him double, so that his head rested between his knees, and they
tied him, so that the blood almost came out of his eyes and out of all
his pores.

"You are killing the unfortunate man," said the pastor, and as
he stretched out his hand to protect him who already suffered too
much, the scene changed.  They flew through rich halls and wretched
hovels; wantonness and envy, all the deadly sins, passed before
them.  An angel of justice read their crimes and their defence; the
latter was not a brilliant one, but it was read before God, Who
reads the heart, Who knows everything, the wickedness that comes
from within and from without, Who is mercy and love personified.  The
pastor's hand trembled; he dared not stretch it out, he did not
venture to pull a hair out of the sinner's head.  And tears gushed from
his eyes like a stream of mercy and love, the cooling waters of
which extinguished the eternal fire of hell.

Just then the cock crowed.

"Father of all mercy, grant Thou to her the peace that I was
unable to procure for her!"

"I have it now!" said the dead woman.  "It was your hard words,
your despair of mankind, your gloomy belief in God and His creation,
which drove me to you.  Learn to know mankind!  Even in the wicked one
lives a part of God--and this extinguishes and conquers the flame of
hell!"


The pastor felt a kiss on his lips; a gleam of light surrounded
him--God's bright sun shone into the room, and his wife, alive,
sweet and full of love, awoke him from a dream which God had sent him!




BY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW

Near the grass-covered rampart which encircles Copenhagen lies a
great red house.  Balsams and other flowers greet us from the long rows
of windows in the house, whose interior is sufficiently
poverty-stricken; and poor and old are the people who inhabit it.
The building is the Warton Almshouse.

Look! at the window there leans an old maid.  She plucks the
withered leaf from the balsam, and looks at the grass-covered rampart,
on which many children are playing.  What is the old maid thinking
of?  A whole life drama is unfolding itself before her inward gaze.

"The poor little children, how happy they are--how merrily they
play and romp together!  What red cheeks and what angels' eyes! but
they have no shoes nor stockings.  They dance on the green rampart,
just on the place where, according to the old story, the ground always
sank in, and where a sportive, frolicsome child had been lured by
means of flowers, toys and sweetmeats into an open grave ready dug for
it, and which was afterwards closed over the child; and from that
moment, the old story says, the ground gave way no longer, the mound
remained firm and fast, and was quickly covered with the green turf.
The little people who now play on that spot know nothing of the old
tale, else would they fancy they heard a child crying deep below the
earth, and the dewdrops on each blade of grass would be to them
tears of woe.  Nor do they know anything of the Danish King who here,
in the face of the coming foe, took an oath before all his trembling
courtiers that he would hold out with the citizens of his capital, and
die here in his nest; they know nothing of the men who have fought
here, or of the women who from here have drenched with boiling water
the enemy, clad in white, and 'biding in the snow to surprise the
city.

"No! the poor little ones are playing with light, childish
spirits.  Play on, play on, thou little maiden!  Soon the years will
come--yes, those glorious years.  The priestly hands have been laid
on the candidates for confirmation; hand in hand they walk on the
green rampart.  Thou hast a white frock on; it has cost thy mother much
labor, and yet it is only cut down for thee out of an old larger
dress!  You will also wear a red shawl; and what if it hang too far
down?  People will only see how large, how very large it is.  You are
thinking of your dress, and of the Giver of all good--so glorious is
it to wander on the green rampart!

"And the years roll by; they have no lack of dark days, but you
have your cheerful young spirit, and you have gained a friend--you
know not how.  You met, oh, how often!  You walk together on the rampart
in the fresh spring, on the high days and holidays, when all the world
come out to walk upon the ramparts, and all the bells of the church
steeples seem to be singing a song of praise for the coming spring.

"Scarcely have the violets come forth, but there on the rampart,
just opposite the beautiful Castle of Rosenberg, there is a tree
bright with the first green buds.  Every year this tree sends forth
fresh green shoots.  Alas!  It is not so with the human heart!  Dark
mists, more in number than those that cover the northern skies,
cloud the human heart.  Poor child! thy friend's bridal chamber is a
black coffin, and thou becomest an old maid.  From the almshouse
window, behind the balsams, thou shalt look on the merry children at
play, and shalt see thine own history renewed."

And that is the life drama that passes before the old maid while
she looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny rampart, where the
children, with their red cheeks and bare shoeless feet, are
rejoicing merrily, like the other free little birds.




THE ANGEL

"Whenever a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from
heaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great
white wings, and flies with him over all the places which the child
had loved during his life.  Then he gathers a large handful of flowers,
which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more brightly
in heaven than they do on earth.  And the Almighty presses the
flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him
best, and it receives a voice, and is able to join the song of the
chorus of bliss."

These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead
child up to heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream.  Then they
passed over well-known spots, where the little one had often played,
and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.

"Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted
there?" asked the angel.

Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked
hand had broken the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded
and withered on the trailing branches.

"Poor rose-bush!" said the child, "let us take it with us to
heaven, that it may bloom above in God's garden."

The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the
little one half opened his eyes.  The angel gathered also some
beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and
heart's-ease.

"Now we have flowers enough," said the child; but the angel only
nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.

It was night, and quite still in the great town.  Here they
remained, and the angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in
which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweepings from the
houses of people who had removed.  There lay fragments of plates,
pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant to
see.  Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a
broken flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of
it.  The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a
withered field-flower, which had been thrown amongst the rubbish.

"We will take this with us," said the angel, "I will tell you
why as we fly along."

And as they flew the angel related the history.

"Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy;
he had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he
could just manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or
twice, but no more.  During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie
on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour.  In this spot the
poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine, and
watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held them
before his face.  Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew
nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor's
son brought him a green bough from a beech-tree.  This he would place
over his head, and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun
shone, and the birds carolled gayly.  One spring day the neighbor's boy
brought him some field-flowers, and among them was one to which the
root still adhered.  This he carefully planted in a flower-pot, and
placed in a window-seat near his bed.  And the flower had been
planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots,
and blossomed every year.  It became a splendid flower-garden to the
sick boy, and his little treasure upon earth.  He watered it, and
cherished it, and took care it should have the benefit of every
sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest
morning ray to the evening sunset.  The flower entwined itself even
in his dreams--for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume.  And
it gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death,
when the Lord called him.  He has been one year with God.  During that
time the flower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten,
till at length cast out among the sweepings into the street, on the
day of the lodgers' removal.  And this poor flower, withered and
faded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more
real joy than the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen."

"But how do you know all this?" asked the child whom the angel was
carrying to heaven.

"I know it," said the angel, "because I myself was the poor sick
boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well."

Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious
happy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found
themselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy.  And
God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so
that he could fly with the angel, hand in hand.  Then the Almighty
pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered
field-flower, and it received a voice.  Then it joined in the song of
the angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a
distant circle, but all equally happy.  They all joined in the chorus
of praise, both great and small,--the good, happy child, and the
poor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of
rubbish in a narrow, dark street.




ANNE LISBETH

Anne Lisbeth was a beautiful young woman, with a red and white
complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes; and her
footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was lighter still.  She
had a little child, not at all pretty; so he was put out to be
nursed by a laborer's wife, and his mother went to the count's castle.
She sat in splendid rooms, richly decorated with silk and velvet;
not a breath of air was allowed to blow upon her, and no one was
allowed to speak to her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's
child.  He was fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an
angel; and how she loved this child!  Her own boy was provided for by
being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently than
the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home to take care
of the child.  Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares
for; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and
while we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst.  Ah, yes;
sleep is a capital invention.

As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like weeds,
although they said his growth had been stunted.  He had become quite
a member of the family in which he dwelt; they received money to
keep him, so that his mother got rid of him altogether.  She had become
quite a lady; she had a comfortable home of her own in the town; and
out of doors, when she went for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she
never walked out to see the laborer: that was too far from the town,
and, indeed, she had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to
these laboring people.  He had food, and he could also do something
towards earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he
knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion sits
proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and barks at
every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps into his house,
and there he is warm and dry.  Anne Lisbeth's boy also sat in the
sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting out a little toy.  If it
was spring-time, he knew of three strawberry-plants in blossom,
which would certainly bear fruit.  This was his most hopeful thought,
though it often came to nothing.  And he had to sit out in the rain
in the worst weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind
dry the clothes on his back afterwards.  If he went near the farmyard
belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked about, for the men
and the maids said he was so horrible ugly; but he was used to all
this, for nobody loved him.  This was how the world treated Anne
Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be otherwise.  It was his fate to be
beloved by no one.  Hitherto he had been a land crab; the land at
last cast him adrift.  He went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat
at the helm, while the skipper sat over the grog-can.  He was dirty and
ugly, half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never
had enough to eat, which was really the case.

Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and wet,
and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing, especially at
sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only two men on board, or,
more correctly, a man and a half, for it was the skipper and his
boy.  There had only been a kind of twilight all day, and it soon
grew quite dark, and so bitterly cold, that the skipper took a dram to
warm him.  The bottle was old, and the glass too.  It was perfect in the
upper part, but the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been
fixed upon a little carved block of wood, painted blue.  A dram is a
great comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while
the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed
hands.  He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked crippled
and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy, though in the
church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son.  The wind cut
through the rigging, and the boat cut through the sea.  The sails,
filled by the wind, swelled out and carried them along in wild career.
It was wet and rough above and below, and might still be worse.
Hold!  what is that?  What has struck the boat?  Was it a waterspout,
or a heavy sea rolling suddenly upon them?

"Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat heeled
over and lay on its beam ends.  It had struck on a rock, which rose
from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like an old shoe in a
puddle.  "It sank at once with mouse and man," as the saying is.
There might have been mice on board, but only one man and a half,
the skipper and the laborer's boy.  No one saw it but the skimming
sea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not
see it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled
with water and sank.  There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the
surface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten.  The
glass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,
for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the
shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence.  It
had served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's
boy had not been.  But in heaven no soul will be able to say, "Never
loved."

Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was
called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the
old, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had
associated with countess and baroness.  Her beautiful, noble child
had been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved
her so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and
loved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life.  Now
he was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever.  She had
not seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been
for years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from
the town.

"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see my
darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my heart.  Certainly
he must long to see me, too, the young count; no doubt he thinks of me
and loves me, as in those days when he would fling his angel-arms
round my neck, and lisp 'Anne Liz.' It was music to my ears.  Yes, I
must make an effort to see him again."  She drove across the country in
a grazier's cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot,
and thus reached the count's castle.  It was as great and magnificent
as it had always been, and the garden looked the same as ever; all the
servants were strangers to her, not one of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor
of what consequence she had once been there; but she felt sure the
countess would soon let them know it, and her darling boy, too: how
she longed to see him!

Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was kept
waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes slowly.  But
before the great people went in to dinner, she was called in and
spoken to very graciously.  She was to go in again after dinner, and
then she would see her sweet boy once more.  How tall, and slender, and
thin he had grown; but the eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still
beautiful.  He looked at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did
not know who she was.  He turned round and was going away, but she
seized his hand and pressed it to her lips.

"Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the room.  He
who filled her every thought!  he whom she loved best, and who was
her whole earthly pride!

Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public road,
feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and night, and
even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold and strange, and
had not a word or thought respecting her.  A great black raven darted
down in front of her on the high road, and croaked dismally.

"Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?"  Presently she
passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the door, and the two
women spoke to each other.

"You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump; you are
well off."

"Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.

"The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans the
skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end of them.  I
always thought the boy would be able to help me with a few dollars.
He'll never cost you anything more, Anne Lisbeth."

"So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she said no
more, and the subject was dropped.  She felt very low-spirited, because
her count-child had shown no inclination to speak to her who loved him
so well, and who had travelled so far to see him.  The journey had cost
money too, and she had derived no great pleasure from it.  Still she
said not a word of all this; she could not relieve her heart by
telling the laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not
enjoy her former position at the castle.  Then the raven flew over her,
screaming again as he flew.

"The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by frightening
me today."  She had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she
thought it would be a charity to the poor woman to give them to her to
boil a cup of coffee, and then she would take a cup herself.

The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth
seated her in a chair and fell asleep.  Then she dreamed of something
which she had never dreamed before; singularly enough she dreamed of
her own child, who had wept and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had
been knocked about in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the
depths of the sea, in a spot only known by God.  She fancied she was
still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing the
coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting.  But
suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the threshold a
beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child, and this
apparition said to her, "The world is passing away; hold fast to me,
for you are my mother after all; you have an angel in heaven, hold
me fast;" and the child-angel stretched out his hand and seized her.
Then there was a terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces,
and the angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by
the sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the ground;
but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her feet and dragged
her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of women were clinging to
her, and crying, "If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too.
Hold fast, hold fast."  And then they all hung on her, but there were
too many; and as they clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell
down in horror, and awoke.  Indeed she was on the point of falling over
in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so startled
and alarmed that she could not remember what she had dreamed, only
that it was something very dreadful.

They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then Anne
Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the
carrier, who was to drive her back to her own home.  But when she
came to him she found that he would not be ready to start till the
evening of the next day.  Then she began to think of the expense, and
what the distance would be to walk.  She remembered that the route by
the sea-shore was two miles shorter than by the high road; and as
the weather was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to
make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might reach
home the next day.

The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the air
from the tower of the village church, but to her it was not the bells,
but the cry of the frogs in the marshes.  Then they ceased, and all
around became still; not a bird could be heard, they were all at rest,
even the owl had not left her hiding place; deep silence reigned on
the margin of the wood by the sea-shore.  As Anne Lisbeth walked on she
could hear her own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea
were at rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence.
There was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea.  Anne
Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say, or
rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for thought is
never absent from us, it only slumbers.  Many thoughts that have lain
dormant are roused at the proper time, and begin to stir in the mind
and the heart, and seem even to come upon us from above.  It is
written, that a good deed bears a blessing for its fruit; and it is
also written, that the wages of sin is death.  Much has been said and
much written which we pass over or know nothing of.  A light arises
within us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and
thus it was with Anne Lisbeth.  The germ of every vice and every virtue
lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie like little grains
of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the touch of an evil hand, or
you turn the corner to the right or to the left, and the decision is
made.  The little seed is stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours
its sap into your blood, directing your course either for good or
evil.  Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting
there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it were
slumbering; but still they are there.  Anne Lisbeth walked on thus with
her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were fermenting within her.

From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to weigh down
the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year; much may be forgotten,
sins against heaven in word and thought, sins against our neighbor,
and against our own conscience.  We are scarcely aware of their
existence; and Anne Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors.  She
had committed no crime against the law of the land; she was an
honorable person, in a good position--that she knew.

She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea.  What was it
she saw lying there?  An old hat; a man's hat.  Now when might that have
been washed overboard?  She drew nearer, she stopped to look at the
hat; "Ha!  what was lying yonder?" She shuddered; yet it was nothing
save a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone,
but it looked like a corpse.  Only tangled grass, and yet she was
frightened at it.  As she turned to walk away, much came into her
mind that she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of
spectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied
people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate beach.  The
body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but the spirit could
pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to him, and demand to be
carried to the churchyard, that it might rest in consecrated ground.
"Hold fast!  hold fast!" the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth
murmured these words to herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly
recalled to her memory, when the mother had clung to her, and
uttered these words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had
been torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who wanted
to hold her up in that terrible hour.  Her child, her own child,
which she had never loved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise
up, like a spectre, from the waters, and cry, "Hold fast; carry me
to consecrated ground!"

As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to
her feet, so that she walked faster and faster.  Fear came upon her
as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her heart, so that she
almost fainted.  As she looked across the sea, all there grew darker; a
heavy mist came rolling onwards, and clung to bush and tree,
distorting them into fantastic shapes.  She turned and glanced at the
moon, which had risen behind her.  It looked like a pale, rayless
surface, and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs.  "Hold,"
thought she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the
moon.  A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist, hanging
like a garment from its shoulders.  "Stop!  carry me to consecrated
earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow tones.  The sound did
not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures.  "A
grave!  dig me a grave!" was repeated quite loud.  Yes, it was indeed
the spectre of her child.  The child that lay beneath the ocean, and
whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the
churchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated
ground.  She would go there at once, and there she would dig.  She
turned in the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart
seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she
turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned.  "Stop!  stop!"
and the words came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a
frog, or the wail of a bird.  "A grave!  dig me a grave!"

The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist and
clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and clung to
her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had never before been
there.

In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a single
night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full glory of
youthful green.  So, in a single instant, can the consciousness of
the sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our
past life, be unfolded to us.  When once the conscience is awakened, it
springs up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the
conscience when we least expect it.  Then we can find no excuse for
ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us.  The
thoughts seem to become words, and to sound far out into the world.  We
are horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us, and at
the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil which has its
origin in thoughtlessness and pride.  The heart conceals within
itself the vices as well as the virtues, and they grow in the
shallowest ground.  Anne Lisbeth now experienced in thought what we
have clothed in words.  She was overpowered by them, and sank down
and crept along for some distance on the ground.  "A grave!  dig me a
grave!" sounded again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried
herself, if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her
actions.

It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish and
horror.  Superstition made her alternately shudder with cold or burn
with the heat of fever.  Many things, of which she had feared even to
speak, came into her mind.  Silently, as the cloud-shadows in the
moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted by her; she had heard of it
before.  Close by her galloped four snorting steeds, with fire flashing
from their eyes and nostrils.  They dragged a burning coach, and within
it sat the wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred
years before.  The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock,
he drove into his castleyard and out again.  He was not as pale as dead
men are, but black as a coal.  He nodded, and pointed to Anne
Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast!  hold fast!  and then you may ride
again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your child."

She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard; but black
crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and she could not
distinguish one from the other.  The ravens croaked as the raven had
done which she saw in the daytime, but now she understood what they
said.  "I am the raven-mother; I am the raven-mother," each raven
croaked, and Anne Lisbeth felt that the name also applied to her;
and she fancied she should be transformed into a black bird, and
have to cry as they cried, if she did not dig the grave.  And she threw
herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the hard
ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers.  "A grave!  dig me a
grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful that the cock might
crow, and the first red streak appear in the east, before she had
finished her work; and then she would be lost.  And the cock crowed,
and the day dawned in the east, and the grave was only half dug.  An
icy hand passed over her head and face, and down towards her heart.
"Only half a grave," a voice wailed, and fled away.  Yes, it fled
away over the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and
overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses left her.

It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men were
raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard, but on the
sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the sand, and cut her hand
with a piece of broken glass, whose sharp stern was stuck in a
little block of painted wood.  Anne Lisbeth was in a fever.
Conscience had roused the memories of superstitions, and had so
acted upon her mind, that she fancied she had only half a soul, and
that her child had taken the other half down into the sea.  Never would
she be able to cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered
this other half which was now held fast in the deep water.

Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer the woman
she had been.  Her thoughts were like a confused, tangled skein; only
one thread, only one thought was clear to her, namely that she must
carry the spectre of the sea-shore to the churchyard, and dig a
grave for him there; that by so doing she might win back her soul.
Many a night she was missed from her home, and was always found on the
sea-shore waiting for the spectre.

In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she vanished
again, and was not to be found.  The whole of the next day was spent in
a useless search after her.

Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll the
vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had spent the whole
day there.  Her powers of body were almost exhausted, but her eyes
flashed brightly, and on her cheeks was a rosy flush.  The last rays of
the setting sun shone upon her, and gleamed over the altar upon the
shining clasps of the Bible, which lay open at the words of the
prophet Joel, "Rend your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto
the Lord."

"That was just a chance," people said; but do things happen by
chance?  In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by the evening sun,
could be seen peace and rest.  She said she was happy now, for she
had conquered.  The spectre of the shore, her own child, had come to
her the night before, and had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half
a grave: but thou hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether
in thy heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And
then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the
church.  "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that house
we are happy."

When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that region
where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's troubles were at an
end.




THE CONCEITED APPLE-BRANCH

It was the month of May.  The wind still blew cold; but from bush
and tree, field and flower, came the welcome sound, "Spring is
come."  Wild-flowers in profusion covered the hedges.  Under the
little apple-tree, Spring seemed busy, and told his tale from one of
the branches which hung fresh and blooming, and covered with
delicate pink blossoms that were just ready to open.  The branch well
knew how beautiful it was; this knowledge exists as much in the leaf
as in the blood; I was therefore not surprised when a nobleman's
carriage, in which sat the young countess, stopped in the road just
by.  She said that an apple-branch was a most lovely object, and an
emblem of spring in its most charming aspect.  Then the branch was
broken off for her, and she held it in her delicate hand, and
sheltered it with her silk parasol.  Then they drove to the castle,
in which were lofty halls and splendid drawing-rooms.  Pure white
curtains fluttered before the open windows, and beautiful flowers
stood in shining, transparent vases; and in one of them, which
looked as if it had been cut out of newly fallen snow, the
apple-branch was placed, among some fresh, light twigs of beech.  It
was a charming sight.  Then the branch became proud, which was very
much like human nature.

People of every description entered the room, and, according to
their position in society, so dared they to express their
admiration.  Some few said nothing, others expressed too much, and
the apple-branch very soon got to understand that there was as much
difference in the characters of human beings as in those of plants and
flowers.  Some are all for pomp and parade, others have a great deal to
do to maintain their own importance, while the rest might be spared
without much loss to society.  So thought the apple-branch, as he stood
before the open window, from which he could see out over gardens and
fields, where there were flowers and plants enough for him to think
and reflect upon; some rich and beautiful, some poor and humble
indeed.

"Poor, despised herbs," said the apple-branch; "there is really
a difference between them and such as I am.  How unhappy they must
be, if they can feel as those in my position do!  There is a difference
indeed, and so there ought to be, or we should all be equals."

And the apple-branch looked with a sort of pity upon them,
especially on a certain little flower that is found in fields and in
ditches.  No one bound these flowers together in a nosegay; they were
too common; they were even known to grow between the paving-stones,
shooting up everywhere, like bad weeds; and they bore the very ugly
name of "dog-flowers" or "dandelions."

"Poor, despised plants," said the apple-bough, "it is not your
fault that you are so ugly, and that you have such an ugly name; but
it is with plants as with men,--there must be a difference."

"A difference!" cried the sunbeam, as he kissed the blooming
apple-branch, and then kissed the yellow dandelion out in the
fields.  All were brothers, and the sunbeam kissed them--the poor
flowers as well as the rich.

The apple-bough had never thought of the boundless love of God,
which extends over all the works of creation, over everything which
lives, and moves, and has its being in Him; he had never thought of
the good and beautiful which are so often hidden, but can never remain
forgotten by Him,--not only among the lower creation, but also among
men.  The sunbeam, the ray of light, knew better.

"You do not see very far, nor very clearly," he said to the
apple-branch.  "Which is the despised plant you so specially pity?"

"The dandelion," he replied.  "No one ever places it in a
nosegay; it is often trodden under foot, there are so many of them;
and when they run to seed, they have flowers like wool, which fly away
in little pieces over the roads, and cling to the dresses of the
people.  They are only weeds; but of course there must be weeds.  O, I
am really very thankful that I was not made like one of these
flowers."

There came presently across the fields a whole group of
children, the youngest of whom was so small that it had to be
carried by the others; and when he was seated on the grass, among
the yellow flowers, he laughed aloud with joy, kicked out his little
legs, rolled about, plucked the yellow flowers, and kissed them in
childlike innocence.  The elder children broke off the flowers with
long stems, bent the stalks one round the other, to form links, and
made first a chain for the neck, then one to go across the
shoulders, and hang down to the waist, and at last a wreath to wear
round the head, so that they looked quite splendid in their garlands
of green stems and golden flowers.  But the eldest among them
gathered carefully the faded flowers, on the stem of which was grouped
together the seed, in the form of a white feathery coronal.  These
loose, airy wool-flowers are very beautiful, and look like fine
snowy feathers or down.  The children held them to their mouths, and
tried to blow away the whole coronal with one puff of the breath.  They
had been told by their grandmothers that who ever did so would be sure
to have new clothes before the end of the year.  The despised flower
was by this raised to the position of a prophet or foreteller of
events.

"Do you see," said the sunbeam, "do you see the beauty of these
flowers?  do you see their powers of giving pleasure?"

"Yes, to children," said the apple-bough.

By-and-by an old woman came into the field, and, with a blunt
knife without a handle, began to dig round the roots of some of the
dandelion-plants, and pull them up.  With some of these she intended to
make tea for herself; but the rest she was going to sell to the
chemist, and obtain some money.

"But beauty is of higher value than all this," said the apple-tree
branch; "only the chosen ones can be admitted into the realms of the
beautiful.  There is a difference between plants, just as there is a
difference between men."

Then the sunbeam spoke of the boundless love of God, as seen in
creation, and over all that lives, and of the equal distribution of
His gifts, both in time and in eternity.

"That is your opinion," said the apple-bough.

Then some people came into the room, and, among them, the young
countess,--the lady who had placed the apple-bough in the
transparent vase, so pleasantly beneath the rays of the sunlight.
She carried in her hand something that seemed like a flower.  The
object was hidden by two or three great leaves, which covered it
like a shield, so that no draught or gust of wind could injure it, and
it was carried more carefully than the apple-branch had ever been.
Very cautiously the large leaves were removed, and there appeared
the feathery seed-crown of the despised dandelion.  This was what the
lady had so carefully plucked, and carried home so safely covered,
so that not one of the delicate feathery arrows of which its mist-like
shape was so lightly formed, should flutter away.  She now drew it
forth quite uninjured, and wondered at its beautiful form, and airy
lightness, and singular construction, so soon to be blown away by
the wind.

"See," she exclaimed, "how wonderfully God has made this little
flower.  I will paint it with the apple-branch together.  Every one
admires the beauty of the apple-bough; but this humble flower has been
endowed by Heaven with another kind of loveliness; and although they
differ in appearance, both are the children of the realms of beauty."

Then the sunbeam kissed the lowly flower, and he kissed the
blooming apple-branch, upon whose leaves appeared a rosy blush.




BEAUTY OF FORM AND BEAUTY OF MIND

There was once a sculptor, named Alfred, who having won the
large gold medal and obtained a travelling scholarship, went to Italy,
and then came back to his native land.  He was young at that
time--indeed, he is young still, although he is ten years older than he
was then.  On his return, he went to visit one of the little towns in
the island of Zealand.  The whole town knew who the stranger was; and
one of the richest men in the place gave a party in his honor, and all
who were of any consequence, or who possessed some property, were
invited.  It was quite an event, and all the town knew of it, so that
it was not necessary to announce it by beat of drum. Apprentice-boys,
children of the poor, and even the poor people themselves, stood
before the house, watching the lighted windows; and the watchman
might easily fancy he was giving a party also, there were so many
people in the streets.  There was quite an air of festivity about
it, and the house was full of it; for Mr. Alfred, the sculptor, was
there.  He talked and told anecdotes, and every one listened to him
with pleasure, not unmingled with awe; but none felt so much respect
for him as did the elderly widow of a naval officer. She seemed, so
far as Mr.  Alfred was concerned, to be like a piece of fresh
blotting-paper that absorbed all he said and asked for more.  She
was very appreciative, and incredibly ignorant--a kind of female
Gaspar Hauser.

"I should like to see Rome," she said; "it must be a lovely
city, or so many foreigners would not be constantly arriving there.
Now, do give me a description of Rome.  How does the city look when you
enter in at the gate?"

"I cannot very well describe it," said the sculptor; "but you
enter on a large open space, in the centre of which stands an obelisk,
which is a thousand years old."

"An organist!" exclaimed the lady, who had never heard the word
'obelisk.' Several of the guests could scarcely forbear laughing,
and the sculptor would have had some difficulty in keeping his
countenance, but the smile on his lips faded away; for he caught sight
of a pair of dark-blue eyes close by the side of the inquisitive lady.
They belonged to her daughter; and surely no one who had such a
daughter could be silly.  The mother was like a fountain of
questions; and the daughter, who listened but never spoke, might
have passed for the beautiful maid of the fountain.  How charming she
was!  She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to
converse with; for she did not speak, or, at least, very seldom.

"Has the pope a great family?" inquired the lady.

The young man answered considerately, as if the question had
been a different one, "No; he does not come from a great family."

"That is not what I asked," persisted the widow; "I mean, has he a
wife and children?"

"The pope is not allowed to marry," replied the gentleman.

"I don't like that," was the lady's remark.

She certainly might have asked more sensible questions; but if she
had not been allowed to say just what she liked, would her daughter
have been there, leaning so gracefully on her shoulder, and looking
straight before her, with a smile that was almost mournful on her
face?

Mr.  Alfred again spoke of Italy, and of the glorious colors in
Italian scenery; the purple hills, the deep blue of the Mediterranean,
the azure of southern skies, whose brightness and glory could only
be surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden; and he
said this with a peculiar intonation; but she who should have
understood his meaning looked quite unconscious of it, which also
was charming.

"Beautiful Italy!" sighed some of the guests.

"Oh, to travel there!" exclaimed others.

"Charming!  Charming!" echoed from every voice.

"I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery,"
said the naval officer's widow; "and if I do, we will travel--I and my
daughter; and you, Mr.  Alfred, must be our guide.  We can all three
travel together, with one or two more of our good friends."  And she
nodded in such a friendly way at the company, that each imagined
himself to be the favored person who was to accompany them to Italy.
"Yes, we must go," she continued; "but not to those parts where
there are robbers.  We will keep to Rome.  In the public roads one is
always safe."

The daughter sighed very gently; and how much there may be in a
sigh, or attributed to it!  The young man attributed a great deal of
meaning to this sigh.  Those deep-blue eyes, which had been lit up this
evening in honor of him, must conceal treasures, treasures of heart
and mind, richer than all the glories of Rome; and so when he left the
party that night, he had lost it completely to the young lady.  The
house of the naval officer's widow was the one most constantly visited
by Mr.  Alfred, the sculptor.  It was soon understood that his visits
were not intended for that lady, though they were the persons who kept
up the conversation.  He came for the sake of the daughter.  They called
her Kaela.  Her name was really Karen Malena, and these two names had
been contracted into the one name Kaela.  She was really beautiful; but
some said she was rather dull, and slept late of a morning.

"She has been accustomed to that," her mother said.  "She is a
beauty, and they are always easily tired.  She does sleep rather
late; but that makes her eyes so clear."

What power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes!  The
young man felt the truth of the proverb, "Still waters run deep:"
and his heart had sunk into their depths.  He often talked of his
adventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions
as on the first evening they met.  It was a pleasure to hear Alfred
describe anything.  He showed them colored plates of Naples, and
spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and the eruptions of fire
from it.  The naval officer's widow had never heard of them before.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed.  "So that is a burning mountain; but
is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?"

"Whole cities have been destroyed," he replied; "for instance,
Herculaneum and Pompeii."

"Oh, the poor people!  And you saw all that with your own eyes?"

"No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in
those pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own, which
represents an eruption I once saw."

He placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma, who had been
over-powered with the appearance of the colored plates, threw a glance
at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment, "What, did you see it
throw up white fire?"

For a moment, Alfred's respect for Kaela's mamma underwent a
sudden shock, and lessened considerably; but, dazzled by the light
which surrounded Kaela, he soon found it quite natural that the old
lady should have no eye for color.  After all, it was of very little
consequence; for Kaela's mamma had the best of all possessions;
namely, Kaela herself.

Alfred and Kaela were betrothed, which was a very natural
result; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little
town.  Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut
out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances.  The
betrothed pair were very happy, and the mother was happy too.  She said
it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.

"You are a true successor of Thorwalsden," she said to Alfred; and
it seemed to him as if, in this instance, mamma had said a clever
thing.  Kaela was silent; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every
movement was graceful,--in fact, she was beautiful; that cannot be
repeated too often.  Alfred decided to take a bust of Kaela as well
as of her mother.  They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he
moulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.

"I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this
common-place work yourself, instead of leaving it to your servant to
do all that sticking together."

"It is really necessary that I should mould the clay myself," he
replied.

"Ah, yes, you are always so polite," said mamma, with a smile; and
Kaela silently pressed his hand, all soiled as it was with the clay.

Then he unfolded to them both the beauties of Nature, in all her
works; he pointed out to them how, in the scale of creation, inanimate
matter was inferior to animate nature; the plant above the mineral,
the animal above the plant, and man above them all.  He strove to
show them how the beauty of the mind could be displayed in the outward
form, and that it was the sculptor's task to seize upon that beauty of
expression, and produce it in his works.  Kaela stood silent, but
nodded in approbation of what he said, while mamma-in-law made the
following confession:--

"It is difficult to follow you; but I go hobbling along after
you with my thoughts, though what you say makes my head whirl round
and round.  Still I contrive to lay hold on some of it."

Kaela's beauty had a firm hold on Alfred; it filled his soul,
and held a mastery over him.  Beauty beamed from Kaela's every feature,
glittered in her eyes, lurked in the corners of her mouth, and
pervaded every movement of her agile fingers.  Alfred, the sculptor,
saw this.  He spoke only to her, thought only of her, and the two
became one; and so it may be said she spoke much, for he was always
talking to her; and he and she were one.  Such was the betrothal, and
then came the wedding, with bride's-maids and wedding presents, all
duly mentioned in the wedding speech.  Mamma-in-law had set up
Thorwalsden's bust at the end of the table, attired in a
dressing-gown; it was her fancy that he should be a guest.  Songs
were sung, and cheers given; for it was a gay wedding, and they were a
handsome pair.  "Pygmalion loved his Galatea," said one of the songs.

"Ah, that is some of your mythologies," said mamma-in-law.

Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were
to live; mamma-in-law accompanied them, to attend to the "coarse
work," as she always called the domestic arrangements.  Kaela looked
like a doll in a doll's house, for everything was bright and new,
and so fine.  There they sat, all three; and as for Alfred, a proverb
may describe his position--he looked like a swan amongst the geese.
The magic of form had enchanted him; he had looked at the casket
without caring to inquire what it contained, and that omission often
brings the greatest unhappiness into married life.  The casket may be
injured, the gilding may fall off, and then the purchaser regrets
his bargain.

In a large party it is very disagreeable to find a button giving
way, with no studs at hand to fall back upon; but it is worse still in
a large company to be conscious that your wife and mother-in-law are
talking nonsense, and that you cannot depend upon yourself to
produce a little ready wit to carry off the stupidity of the whole
affair.

The young married pair often sat together hand in hand; he would
talk, but she could only now and then let fall a word in the same
melodious voice, the same bell-like tones.  It was a mental relief when
Sophy, one of her friends, came to pay them a visit.  Sophy was not,
pretty.  She was, however, quite free from any physical deformity,
although Kaela used to say she was a little crooked; but no eye,
save an intimate acquaintance, would have noticed it.  She was a very
sensible girl, yet it never occurred to her that she might be a
dangerous person in such a house.  Her appearance created a new
atmosphere in the doll's house, and air was really required, they
all owned that.  They felt the want of a change of air, and
consequently the young couple and their mother travelled to Italy.

"Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls,"
said mamma-in-law and daughter both, on their return after a year's
absence.

"There is no real pleasure in travelling," said mamma; "to tell
the truth, it's very wearisome; I beg pardon for saying so.  I was soon
very tired of it, although I had my children with me; and, besides,
it's very expensive work travelling, very expensive.  And all those
galleries one is expected to see, and the quantity of things you are
obliged to run after!  It must be done, for very shame; you are sure to
be asked when you come back if you have seen everything, and will most
likely be told that you've omitted to see what was best worth seeing
of all.  I got tired at last of those endless Madonnas; I began to
think I was turning into a Madonna myself."

"And then the living, mamma," said Kaela.

"Yes, indeed," she replied, "no such a thing as a respectable meat
soup--their cookery is miserable stuff."

The journey had also tired Kaela; but she was always fatigued,
that was the worst of it.  So they sent for Sophy, and she was taken
into the house to reside with them, and her presence there was a great
advantage.  Mamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy was not only a
clever housewife, but well-informed and accomplished, though that
could hardly be expected in a person of her limited means.  She was
also a generous-hearted, faithful girl; she showed that thoroughly
while Kaela lay sick, fading away.  When the casket is everything,
the casket should be strong, or else all is over.  And all was over
with the casket, for Kaela died.

"She was beautiful," said her mother; "she was quite different
from the beauties they call 'antiques,' for they are so damaged.  A
beauty ought to be perfect, and Kaela was a perfect beauty."

Alfred wept, and mamma wept, and they both wore mourning.  The
black dress suited mamma very well, and she wore mourning the longest.
She had also to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry again,
marry Sophy, who was nothing at all to look at.  "He's gone to the very
extreme," said mamma-in-law; "he has gone from the most beautiful to
the ugliest, and he has forgotten his first wife.  Men have no
constancy.  My husband was a very different man,--but then he died
before me."

"'Pygmalion loved his Galatea,' was in the song they sung at my
first wedding," said Alfred; "I once fell in love with a beautiful
statue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul, which is
a gift from heaven, the angel who can feel and sympathize with and
elevate us, I have not found and won till now.  You came, Sophy, not in
the glory of outward beauty, though you are even fairer than is
necessary.  The chief thing still remains.  You came to teach the
sculptor that his work is but dust and clay only, an outward form made
of a material that decays, and that what we should seek to obtain is
the ethereal essence of mind and spirit.  Poor Kaela!  our life was
but as a meeting by the way-side; in yonder world, where we shall know
each other from a union of mind, we shall be but mere acquaintances."

"That was not a loving speech," said Sophy, "nor spoken like a
Christian.  In a future state, where there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage, but where, as you say, souls are attracted to each
other by sympathy; there everything beautiful develops itself, and
is raised to a higher state of existence: her soul will acquire such
completeness that it may harmonize with yours, even more than mine,
and you will then once more utter your first rapturous exclamation
of your love, 'Beautiful, most beautiful!'"




THE BEETLE WHO WENT ON HIS TRAVELS

There was once an Emperor who had a horse shod with gold.  He had a
golden shoe on each foot, and why was this?  He was a beautiful
creature, with slender legs, bright, intelligent eyes, and a mane that
hung down over his neck like a veil.  He had carried his master through
fire and smoke in the battle-field, with the bullets whistling round
him; he had kicked and bitten, and taken part in the fight, when the
enemy advanced; and, with his master on his back, he had dashed over
the fallen foe, and saved the golden crown and the Emperor's life,
which was of more value than the brightest gold.  This is the reason of
the Emperor's horse wearing golden shoes.

A beetle came creeping forth from the stable, where the farrier
had been shoeing the horse.  "Great ones, first, of course," said he,
"and then the little ones; but size is not always a proof of
greatness."  He stretched out his thin leg as he spoke.

"And pray what do you want?" asked the farrier.

"Golden shoes," replied the beetle.

"Why, you must be out of your senses," cried the farrier.
"Golden shoes for you, indeed!"

"Yes, certainly; golden shoes," replied the beetle.  "Am I not just
as good as that great creature yonder, who is waited upon and brushed,
and has food and drink placed before him?  And don't I belong to the
royal stables?"

"But why does the horse have golden shoes?" asked the farrier; "of
course you understand the reason?"

"Understand!  Well, I understand that it is a personal slight to
me," cried the beetle.  "It is done to annoy me, so I intend to go
out into the world and seek my fortune."

"Go along with you," said the farrier.

"You're a rude fellow," cried the beetle, as he walked out of
the stable; and then he flew for a short distance, till he found
himself in a beautiful flower-garden, all fragrant with roses and
lavender.  The lady-birds, with red and black shells on their backs,
and delicate wings, were flying about, and one of them said, "Is it
not sweet and lovely here?  Oh, how beautiful everything is."

"I am accustomed to better things," said the beetle.  "Do you
call this beautiful?  Why, there is not even a dung-heap."  Then he went
on, and under the shadow of a large haystack he found a caterpillar
crawling along.  "How beautiful this world is!" said the caterpillar.
"The sun is so warm, I quite enjoy it.  And soon I shall go to sleep,
and die as they call it, but I shall wake up with beautiful wings to
fly with, like a butterfly."

"How conceited you are!" exclaimed the beetle.  "Fly about as a
butterfly, indeed!  what of that.  I have come out of the Emperor's
stable, and no one there, not even the Emperor's horse, who, in
fact, wears my cast-off golden shoes, has any idea of flying,
excepting myself.  To have wings and fly!  why, I can do that
already;" and so saying, he spread his wings and flew away.  "I don't
want to be disgusted," he said to himself, "and yet I can't help
it."  Soon after, he fell down upon an extensive lawn, and for a time
pretended to sleep, but at last fell asleep in earnest.  Suddenly a
heavy shower of rain came falling from the clouds.  The beetle woke
up with the noise and would have been glad to creep into the earth for
shelter, but he could not.  He was tumbled over and over with the rain,
sometimes swimming on his stomach and sometimes on his back; and as
for flying, that was out of the question.  He began to doubt whether he
should escape with his life, so he remained, quietly lying where he
was.  After a while the weather cleared up a little, and the beetle was
able to rub the water from his eyes, and look about him.  He saw
something gleaming, and he managed to make his way up to it.  It was
linen which had been laid to bleach on the grass.  He crept into a fold
of the damp linen, which certainly was not so comfortable a place to
lie in as the warm stable, but there was nothing better, so he
remained lying there for a whole day and night, and the rain kept on
all the time.  Towards morning he crept out of his hiding-place,
feeling in a very bad temper with the climate.  Two frogs were
sitting on the linen, and their bright eyes actually glistened with
pleasure.

"Wonderful weather this," cried one of them, "and so refreshing.
This linen holds the water together so beautifully, that my hind
legs quiver as if I were going to swim."

"I should like to know," said another, "If the swallow who flies
so far in her many journeys to foreign lands, ever met with a better
climate than this.  What delicious moisture!  It is as pleasant as lying
in a wet ditch.  I am sure any one who does not enjoy this has no
love for his fatherland."

"Have you ever been in the Emperor's stable?" asked the beetle.
"There the moisture is warm and refreshing; that's the climate for me,
but I could not take it with me on my travels.  Is there not even a
dunghill here in this garden, where a person of rank, like myself,
could take up his abode and feel at home?" But the frogs either did
not or would not understand him.

"I never ask a question twice," said the beetle, after he had
asked this one three times, and received no answer.  Then he went on
a little farther and stumbled against a piece of broken crockery-ware,
which certainly ought not to have been lying there.  But as it was
there, it formed a good shelter against wind and weather to several
families of earwigs who dwelt in it.  Their requirements were not many,
they were very sociable, and full of affection for their children,
so much so that each mother considered her own child the most
beautiful and clever of them all.

"Our dear son has engaged himself," said one mother, "dear
innocent boy; his greatest ambition is that he may one day creep
into a clergyman's ear.  That is a very artless and loveable wish;
and being engaged will keep him steady.  What happiness for a mother!"

"Our son," said another, "had scarcely crept out of the egg,
when he was off on his travels.  He is all life and spirits, I expect
he will wear out his horns with running.  How charming this is for a
mother, is it not Mr.  Beetle?" for she knew the stranger by his
horny coat.

"You are both quite right," said he; so they begged him to walk
in, that is to come as far as he could under the broken piece of
earthenware.

"Now you shall also see my little earwigs," said a third and a
fourth mother, "they are lovely little things, and highly amusing.
They are never ill-behaved, except when they are uncomfortable in
their inside, which unfortunately often happens at their age."

Thus each mother spoke of her baby, and their babies talked
after their own fashion, and made use of the little nippers they
have in their tails to nip the beard of the beetle.

"They are always busy about something, the little rogues," said
the mother, beaming with maternal pride; but the beetle felt it a
bore, and he therefore inquired the way to the nearest dung-heap.

"That is quite out in the great world, on the other side of the
ditch," answered an earwig, "I hope none of my children will ever go
so far, it would be the death of me."

"But I shall try to get so far," said the beetle, and he walked
off without taking any formal leave, which is considered a polite
thing to do.

When he arrived at the ditch, he met several friends, all them
beetles; "We live here," they said, "and we are very comfortable.
May we ask you to step down into this rich mud, you must be fatigued
after your journey."

"Certainly," said the beetle, "I shall be most happy; I have
been exposed to the rain, and have had to lie upon linen, and
cleanliness is a thing that greatly exhausts me; I have also pains
in one of my wings from standing in the draught under a piece of
broken crockery.  It is really quite refreshing to be with one's own
kindred again."

"Perhaps you came from a dung-heap," observed the oldest of them.

"No, indeed, I came from a much grander place," replied the
beetle; "I came from the emperor's stable, where I was born, with
golden shoes on my feet.  I am travelling on a secret embassy, but
you must not ask me any questions, for I cannot betray my secret."

Then the beetle stepped down into the rich mud, where sat three
young-lady beetles, who tittered, because they did not know what to
say.

"None of them are engaged yet," said their mother, and the
beetle maidens tittered again, this time quite in confusion.

"I have never seen greater beauties, even in the royal stables,"
exclaimed the beetle, who was now resting himself.

"Don't spoil my girls," said the mother; "and don't talk to
them, pray, unless you have serious intentions."

But of course the beetle's intentions were serious, and after a
while our friend was engaged.  The mother gave them her blessing, and
all the other beetles cried "hurrah."

Immediately after the betrothal came the marriage, for there was
no reason to delay.  The following day passed very pleasantly, and
the next was tolerably comfortable; but on the third it became
necessary for him to think of getting food for his wife, and, perhaps,
for children.

"I have allowed myself to be taken in," said our beetle to
himself, "and now there's nothing to be done but to take them in, in
return."

No sooner said than done.  Away he went, and stayed away all day
and all night, and his wife remained behind a forsaken widow.

"Oh," said the other beetles, "this fellow that we have received
into our family is nothing but a complete vagabond.  He has gone away
and left his wife a burden upon our hands."

"Well, she can be unmarried again, and remain here with my other
daughters," said the mother.  "Fie on the villain that forsook her!"

In the mean time the beetle, who had sailed across the ditch on
a cabbage leaf, had been journeying on the other side.  In the
morning two persons came up to the ditch.  When they saw him they
took him up and turned him over and over, looking very learned all the
time, especially one, who was a boy.  "Allah sees the black beetle in
the black stone, and the black rock.  Is not that written in the
Koran?" he asked.

Then he translated the beetle's name into Latin, and said a
great deal upon the creature's nature and history.  The second
person, who was older and a scholar, proposed to carry the beetle
home, as they wanted just such good specimens as this.  Our beetle
considered this speech a great insult, so he flew suddenly out of
the speaker's hand.  His wings were dry now, so they carried him to a
great distance, till at last he reached a hothouse, where a sash of
the glass roof was partly open, so he quietly slipped in and buried
himself in the warm earth.  "It is very comfortable here," he said to
himself, and soon after fell asleep.  Then he dreamed that the
emperor's horse was dying, and had left him his golden shoes, and also
promised that he should have two more.  All this was very delightful,
and when the beetle woke up he crept forth and looked around him.  What
a splendid place the hothouse was!  At the back, large palm-trees
were growing; and the sunlight made the leaves--look quite glossy; and
beneath them what a profusion of luxuriant green, and of flowers red
like flame, yellow as amber, or white as new-fallen snow!  "What a
wonderful quantity of plants," cried the beetle; "how good they will
taste when they are decayed!  This is a capital store-room.  There
must certainly be some relations of mine living here; I will just
see if I can find any one with whom I can associate.  I'm proud,
certainly; but I'm also proud of being so."  Then he prowled about in
the earth, and thought what a pleasant dream that was about the
dying horse, and the golden shoes he had inherited.  Suddenly a hand
seized the beetle, and squeezed him, and turned him round and round.
The gardener's little son and his playfellow had come into the
hothouse, and, seeing the beetle, wanted to have some fun with him.
First, he was wrapped, in a vine-leaf, and put into a warm trousers'
pocket.  He twisted and turned about with all his might, but he got a
good squeeze from the boy's hand, as a hint for him to keep quiet.
Then the boy went quickly towards a lake that lay at the end of the
garden.  Here the beetle was put into an old broken wooden shoe, in
which a little stick had been fastened upright for a mast, and to this
mast the beetle was bound with a piece of worsted.  Now he was a
sailor, and had to sail away.  The lake was not very large, but to
the beetle it seemed an ocean, and he was so astonished at its size
that he fell over on his back, and kicked out his legs.  Then the
little ship sailed away; sometimes the current of the water seized it,
but whenever it went too far from the shore one of the boys turned
up his trousers, and went in after it, and brought it back to land.
But at last, just as it went merrily out again, the two boys were
called, and so angrily, that they hastened to obey, and ran away as
fast as they could from the pond, so that the little ship was left
to its fate.  It was carried away farther and farther from the shore,
till it reached the open sea.  This was a terrible prospect for the
beetle, for he could not escape in consequence of being bound to the
mast.  Then a fly came and paid him a visit.  "What beautiful
weather," said the fly; "I shall rest here and sun myself.  You must
have a pleasant time of it."

"You speak without knowing the facts," replied the beetle;
"don't you see that I am a prisoner?"

"Ah, but I'm not a prisoner," remarked the fly, and away he flew.

"Well, now I know the world," said the beetle to himself; "it's an
abominable world; I'm the only respectable person in it.  First, they
refuse me my golden shoes; then I have to lie on damp linen, and to
stand in a draught; and to crown all, they fasten a wife upon me.
Then, when I have made a step forward in the world, and found out a
comfortable position, just as I could wish it to be, one of these
human boys comes and ties me up, and leaves me to the mercy of the
wild waves, while the emperor's favorite horse goes prancing about
proudly on his golden shoes.  This vexes me more than anything.  But
it is useless to look for sympathy in this world.  My career has been
very interesting, but what's the use of that if nobody knows
anything about it?  The world does not deserve to be made acquainted
with my adventures, for it ought to have given me golden shoes when
the emperor's horse was shod, and I stretched out my feet to be
shod, too.  If I had received golden shoes I should have been an
ornament to the stable; now I am lost to the stable and to the
world.  It is all over with me."

But all was not yet over.  A boat, in which were a few young girls,
came rowing up.  "Look, yonder is an old wooden shoe sailing along,"
said one of the younger girls.

"And there's a poor little creature bound fast in it," said
another.

The boat now came close to our beetle's ship, and the young
girls fished it out of the water.  One of them drew a small pair of
scissors from her pocket, and cut the worsted without hurting the
beetle, and when she stepped on shore she placed him on the grass.
"There," she said, "creep away, or fly, if thou canst.  It is a
splendid thing to have thy liberty."  Away flew the beetle, straight
through the open window of a large building; there he sank down, tired
and exhausted, exactly on the mane of the emperor's favorite horse,
who was standing in his stable; and the beetle found himself at home
again.  For some time he clung to the mane, that he might recover
himself.  "Well," he said, "here I am, seated on the emperor's favorite
horse,--sitting upon him as if I were the emperor himself.  But what
was it the farrier asked me?  Ah, I remember now,--that's a good
thought,--he asked me why the golden shoes were given to the horse.
The answer is quite clear to me, now.  They were given to the horse
on my account."  And this reflection put the beetle into a good temper.
The sun's rays also came streaming into the stable, and shone upon
him, and made the place lively and bright.  "Travelling expands the
mind very much," said the beetle.  "The world is not so bad after
all, if you know how to take things as they come."




THE BELL

In the narrow streets of a large town people often heard in the
evening, when the sun was setting, and his last rays gave a golden
tint to the chimney-pots, a strange noise which resembled the sound of
a church bell; it only lasted an instant, for it was lost in the
continual roar of traffic and hum of voices which rose from the
town.  "The evening bell is ringing," people used to say; "the sun is
setting!"  Those who walked outside the town, where the houses were
less crowded and interspersed by gardens and little fields, saw the
evening sky much better, and heard the sound of the bell much more
clearly.  It seemed as though the sound came from a church, deep in the
calm, fragrant wood, and thither people looked with devout feelings.

A considerable time elapsed: one said to the other, "I really
wonder if there is a church out in the wood.  The bell has indeed a
strange sweet sound!  Shall we go there and see what the cause of it
is?"  The rich drove, the poor walked, but the way seemed to them
extraordinarily long, and when they arrived at a number of willow
trees on the border of the wood they sat down, looked up into the
great branches and thought they were now really in the wood.  A
confectioner from the town also came out and put up a stall there;
then came another confectioner who hung a bell over his stall, which
was covered with pitch to protect it from the rain, but the clapper
was wanting.

When people came home they used to say that it had been very
romantic, and that really means something else than merely taking tea.
Three persons declared that they had gone as far as the end of the
wood; they had always heard the strange sound, but there it seemed
to them as if it came from the town.  One of them wrote verses about
the bell, and said that it was like the voice of a mother speaking
to an intelligent and beloved child; no tune, he said, was sweeter
than the sound of the bell.

The emperor of the country heard of it, and declared that he who
would really find out where the sound came from should receive the
title of "Bellringer to the World," even if there was no bell at all.

Now many went out into the wood for the sake of this splendid
berth; but only one of them came back with some sort of explanation.
None of them had gone far enough, nor had he, and yet he said that the
sound of the bell came from a large owl in a hollow tree.  It was a
wisdom owl, which continually knocked its head against the tree, but
he was unable to say with certainty whether its head or the hollow
trunk of the tree was the cause of the noise.

He was appointed "Bellringer to the World," and wrote every year a
short dissertation on the owl, but by this means people did not become
any wiser than they had been before.

It was just confirmation-day.  The clergyman had delivered a
beautiful and touching sermon, the candidates were deeply moved by it;
it was indeed a very important day for them; they were all at once
transformed from mere children to grown-up people; the childish soul
was to fly over, as it were, into a more reasonable being.

The sun shone most brightly; and the sound of the great unknown
bell was heard more distinctly than ever.  They had a mind to go
thither, all except three.  One of them wished to go home and try on
her ball dress, for this very dress and the ball were the cause of her
being confirmed this time, otherwise she would not have been allowed
to go.  The second, a poor boy, had borrowed a coat and a pair of boots
from the son of his landlord to be confirmed in, and he had to
return them at a certain time.  The third said that he never went
into strange places if his parents were not with him; he had always
been a good child, and wished to remain so, even after being
confirmed, and they ought not to tease him for this; they, however,
did it all the same.  These three, therefore did not go; the others
went on.  The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the
confirmed children sang too, holding each other by the hand, for
they had no position yet, and they were all equal in the eyes of
God.  Two of the smallest soon became tired and returned to the town;
two little girls sat down and made garlands of flowers, they,
therefore, did not go on.  When the others arrived at the willow trees,
where the confectioner had put up his stall, they said: "Now we are
out here; the bell does not in reality exist--it is only something
that people imagine!"

Then suddenly the sound of the bell was heard so beautifully and
solemnly from the wood that four or five made up their minds to go
still further on.  The wood was very thickly grown.  It was difficult to
advance: wood lilies and anemones grew almost too high; flowering
convolvuli and brambles were hanging like garlands from tree to
tree; while the nightingales were singing and the sunbeams played.
That was very beautiful!  But the way was unfit for the girls; they
would have torn their dresses.  Large rocks, covered with moss of
various hues, were lying about; the fresh spring water rippled forth
with a peculiar sound.  "I don't think that can be the bell," said
one of the confirmed children, and then he lay down and listened.
"We must try to find out if it is!"  And there he remained, and let the
others walk on.

They came to a hut built of the bark of trees and branches; a
large crab-apple tree spread its branches over it, as if it intended
to pour all its fruit on the roof, upon which roses were blooming; the
long boughs covered the gable, where a little bell was hanging.  Was
this the one they had heard?  All agreed that it must be so, except one
who said that the bell was too small and too thin to be heard at
such a distance, and that it had quite a different sound to that which
had so touched men's hearts.

He who spoke was a king's son, and therefore the others said
that such a one always wishes to be cleverer than other people.

Therefore they let him go alone; and as he walked on, the solitude
of the wood produced a feeling of reverence in his breast; but still
he heard the little bell about which the others rejoiced, and
sometimes, when the wind blew in that direction, he could hear the
sounds from the confectioner's stall, where the others were singing at
tea.  But the deep sounds of the bell were much stronger; soon it
seemed to him as if an organ played an accompaniment--the sound came
from the left, from the side where the heart is.  Now something rustled
among the bushes, and a little boy stood before the king's son, in
wooden shoes and such a short jacket that the sleeves did not reach to
his wrists.  They knew each other: the boy was the one who had not been
able to go with them because he had to take the coat and boots back to
his landlord's son.  That he had done, and had started again in his
wooden shoes and old clothes, for the sound of the bell was too
enticing--he felt he must go on.

"We might go together," said the king's son.  But the poor boy with
the wooden shoes was quite ashamed; he pulled at the short sleeves
of his jacket, and said that he was afraid he could not walk so
fast; besides, he was of opinion that the bell ought to be sought at
the right, for there was all that was grand and magnificent.

"Then we shall not meet," said the king's son, nodding to the poor
boy, who went into the deepest part of the wood, where the thorns tore
his shabby clothes and scratched his hands, face, and feet until
they bled.  The king's son also received several good scratches, but
the sun was shining on his way, and it is he whom we will now
follow, for he was a quick fellow.  "I will and must find the bell," he
said, "if I have to go to the end of the world."

Ugly monkeys sat high in the branches and clenched their teeth.
"Shall we beat him?" they said.  "Shall we thrash him?  He is a king's
son!"

But he walked on undaunted, deeper and deeper into the wood, where
the most wonderful flowers were growing; there were standing white
star lilies with blood-red stamens, sky-blue tulips shining when the
wind moved them; apple-trees covered with apples like large glittering
soap bubbles: only think how resplendent these trees were in the
sunshine!  All around were beautiful green meadows, where hart and hind
played in the grass.  There grew magnificent oaks and beech-trees;
and if the bark was split of any of them, long blades of grass grew
out of the clefts; there were also large smooth lakes in the wood,
on which the swans were swimming about and flapping their wings.  The
king's son often stood still and listened; sometimes he thought that
the sound of the bell rose up to him out of one of these deep lakes,
but soon he found that this was a mistake, and that the bell was
ringing still farther in the wood.  Then the sun set, the clouds were
as red as fire; it became quiet in the wood; he sank down on his
knees, sang an evening hymn and said: "I shall never find what I am
looking for!  Now the sun is setting, and the night, the dark night, is
approaching.  Yet I may perhaps see the round sun once more before he
disappears beneath the horizon.  I will climb up these rocks, they
are as high as the highest trees!"  And then, taking hold of the
creepers and roots, he climbed up on the wet stones, where
water-snakes were wriggling and the toads, as it were, barked at
him: he reached the top before the sun, seen from such a height, had
quite set.  "Oh, what a splendour!"  The sea, the great majestic sea,
which was rolling its long waves against the shore, stretched out
before him, and the sun was standing like a large bright altar and
there where sea and heaven met--all melted together in the most
glowing colours; the wood was singing, and his heart too.  The whole of
nature was one large holy church, in which the trees and hovering
clouds formed the pillars, the flowers and grass the woven velvet
carpet, and heaven itself was the great cupola; up there the flame
colour vanished as soon as the sun disappeared, but millions of
stars were lighted; diamond lamps were shining, and the king's son
stretched his arms out towards heaven, towards the sea, and towards
the wood.  Then suddenly the poor boy with the short-sleeved jacket and
the wooden shoes appeared; he had arrived just as quickly on the
road he had chosen.  And they ran towards each other and took one
another's hand, in the great cathedral of nature and poesy, and
above them sounded the invisible holy bell; happy spirits surrounded
them, singing hallelujahs and rejoicing.




THE BELL-DEEP

"Ding-dong!  ding-dong!" It sounds up from the "bell-deep" in the
Odense-Au.  Every child in the old town of Odense, on the island of
Funen, knows the Au, which washes the gardens round about the town,
and flows on under the wooden bridges from the dam to the
water-mill.  In the Au grow the yellow water-lilies and brown
feathery reeds; the dark velvety flag grows there, high and thick; old
and decayed willows, slanting and tottering, hang far out over the
stream beside the monk's meadow and by the bleaching ground; but
opposite there are gardens upon gardens, each different from the rest,
some with pretty flowers and bowers like little dolls' pleasure
grounds, often displaying cabbage and other kitchen plants; and here
and there the gardens cannot be seen at all, for the great elder trees
that spread themselves out by the bank, and hang far out over the
streaming waters, which are deeper here and there than an oar can
fathom.  Opposite the old nunnery is the deepest place, which is called
the "bell-deep," and there dwells the old water spirit, the "Au-mann."
This spirit sleeps through the day while the sun shines down upon
the water; but in starry and moonlit nights he shows himself.  He is
very old.  Grandmother says that she has heard her own grandmother tell
of him; he is said to lead a solitary life, and to have nobody with
whom he can converse save the great old church Bell.  Once the Bell
hung in the church tower; but now there is no trace left of the
tower or of the church, which was called St.  Alban's.

"Ding-dong! ding-dong!" sounded the Bell, when the tower still
stood there; and one evening, while the sun was setting, and the
Bell was swinging away bravely, it broke loose and came flying down
through the air, the brilliant metal shining in the ruddy beam.

"Ding-dong! ding-dong!  Now I'll retire to rest!" sang the Bell,
and flew down into the Odense-Au, where it is deepest; and that is why
the place is called the "bell-deep."

But the Bell got neither rest nor sleep.  Down in the Au-mann's
haunt it sounds and rings, so that the tones sometimes pierce upward
through the waters; and many people maintain that its strains forebode
the death of some one; but that is not true, for the Bell is only
talking with the Au-mann, who is now no longer alone.

And what is the Bell telling?  It is old, very old, as we have
already observed; it was there long before grandmother's grandmother
was born; and yet it is but a child in comparison with the Au-mann,
who is quite an old quiet personage, an oddity, with his hose of
eel-skin, and his scaly Jacket with the yellow lilies for buttons, and
a wreath of reed in his hair and seaweed in his beard; but he looks
very pretty for all that.

What the Bell tells?  To repeat it all would require years and
days; for year by year it is telling the old stories, sometimes
short ones, sometimes long ones, according to its whim; it tells of
old times, of the dark hard times, thus:

"In the church of St.  Alban, the monk had mounted up into the
tower.  He was young and handsome, but thoughtful exceedingly.  He
looked through the loophole out upon the Odense-Au, when the bed of
the water was yet broad, and the monks' meadow was still a lake.  He
looked out over it, and over the rampart, and over the nuns' hill
opposite, where the convent lay, and the light gleamed forth from
the nun's cell.  He had known the nun right well, and he thought of
her, and his heart beat quicker as he thought.  Ding-dong! ding-dong!"

Yes, this was the story the Bell told.

"Into the tower came also the dapper man-servant of the bishop;
and when I, the Bell, who am made of metal, rang hard and loud, and
swung to and fro, I might have beaten out his brains.  He sat down
close under me, and played with two little sticks as if they had
been a stringed instrument; and he sang to it.  'Now I may sing it
out aloud, though at other times I may not whisper it.  I may sing of
everything that is kept concealed behind lock and bars.  Yonder it is
cold and wet.  The rats are eating her up alive!  Nobody knows of it!
Nobody hears of it!  Not even now, for the bell is ringing and
singing its loud Ding-dong, ding-dong!'

"There was a King in those days.  They called him Canute.  He
bowed himself before bishop and monk; but when he offended the free
peasants with heavy taxes and hard words, they seized their weapons
and put him to flight like a wild beast.  He sought shelter in the
church, and shut gate and door behind him.  The violent band surrounded
the church; I heard tell of it.  The crows, ravens and magpies
started up in terror at the yelling and shouting that sounded
around.  They flew into the tower and out again, they looked down
upon the throng below, and they also looked into the windows of the
church, and screamed out aloud what they saw there.  King Canute
knelt before the altar in prayer; his brothers Eric and Benedict stood
by him as a guard with drawn swords; but the King's servant, the
treacherous Blake, betrayed his master.  The throng in front of the
church knew where they could hit the King, and one of them flung a
stone through a pane of glass, and the King lay there dead!  The
cries and screams of the savage horde and of the birds sounded through
the air, and I joined in it also; for I sang 'Ding-dong! ding-dong!'

"The church bell hangs high, and looks far around, and sees the
birds around it, and understands their language.  The wind roars in
upon it through windows and loopholes; and the wind knows
everything, for he gets it from the air, which encircles all things,
and the church bell understands his tongue, and rings it out into
the world, 'Ding-dong! ding-dong!'

"But it was too much for me to hear and to know; I was not able
any longer to ring it out.  I became so tired, so heavy, that the
beam broke, and I flew out into the gleaming Au, where the water is
deepest, and where the Au-mann lives, solitary and alone; and year
by year I tell him what I have heard and what I know.  Ding-dong!
ding-dong!"

Thus it sounds complainingly out of the bell-deep in the
Odense-Au.  That is what grandmother told us.

But the schoolmaster says that there was not any bell that rung
down there, for that it could not do so; and that no Au-mann dwelt
yonder, for there was no Au-mann at all!  And when all the other church
bells are sounding sweetly, he says that it is not really the bells
that are sounding, but that it is the air itself which sends forth the
notes; and grandmother said to us that the Bell itself said it was the
air who told it to him, consequently they are agreed on that point,
and this much is sure.

"Be cautious, cautious, and take good heed to thyself," they
both say.

The air knows everything.  It is around us, it is in us, it talks
of our thoughts and of our deeds, and it speaks longer of them than
does the Bell down in the depths of the Odense-Au where the Au-mann
dwells.  It rings it out in the vault of heaven, far, far out,
forever and ever, till the heaven bells sound "Ding-dong! ding-dong!"




THE BIRD OF POPULAR SONG

In is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy garment, and looks like
marble hewn out of the rock; the air is bright and clear; the wind
is sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the trees stand like branches
of white coral or blooming almond twigs, and here it is keen as on the
lofty Alps.

The night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights, and
in the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.

But we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk about
the old times. And we listen to this story:

By the open sea was a giant's grave; and on the grave-mound sat at
midnight the spirit of the buried hero, who had been a king. The
golden circlet gleamed on his brow, his hair fluttered in the wind,
and he was clad in steel and iron. He bent his head mournfully, and
sighed in deep sorrow, as an unquiet spirit might sigh.

And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered the
anchor and landed. Among them was a singer, and he approached the
royal spirit, and said,

"Why mournest thou, and wherefore dost thou suffer thus?"

And the dead man answered,

"No one has sung the deeds of my life; they are dead and
forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands, nor into the
hearts of men; therefore I have no rest and no peace."

And he spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which his
contemporaries had known, but which had not been sung, because there
was no singer among his companions.

Then the old bard struck the strings of his harp, and sang of
the youthful courage of the hero, of the strength of the man, and of
the greatness of his good deeds. Then the face of the dead one gleamed
like the margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and of good
courage, the form arose in splendor and in majesty, and vanished
like the glancing of the northern light. Nought was to be seen but the
green turfy mound, with the stones on which no Runic record has been
graven; but at the last sound of the harp there soared over the
hill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little bird, a
charming singing-bird, with ringing voice of the thrush, with the
moving voice pathos of the human heart, with a voice that told of
home, like the voice that is heard by the bird of passage. The
singing-bird soared away, over mountain and valley, over field and
wood--he was the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies.

We hear his song--we hear it now in the room while the white
bees are swarming without, and the storm clutches the windows. The
bird sings not alone the requiem of heroes; he sings also sweet gentle
songs of love, so many and so warm, of Northern fidelity and truth. He
has stories in words and in tones; he has proverbs and snatches of
proverbs; songs which, like Runes laid under a dead man's tongue,
force him to speak; and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his
birth.

In the old heathen days, in the times of the Vikings, the
popular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.

In the days of knightly castles, when the strongest fist held
the scales of justice, when only might was right, and a peasant and
a dog were of equal importance, where did the Bird of Song find
shelter and protection? Neither violence nor stupidity gave him a
thought.

But in the gabled window of the knightly castle, the lady of the
castle sat with the parchment roll before her, and wrote down the
old recollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old
woman from the wood, and the travelling peddler who went wandering
through the country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around
them, with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never
dies so long as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.

And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night and
the snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we know the
land of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue, in the
voice of the Bird of Popular Song. The old remembrances awake, the
faded colors glow with a fresh lustre, and story and song pour us a
blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so that the
evening becomes as a Christmas festival.

The snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the storm
rules without, for he has the might, he is lord--but not the LORD OF
ALL.

It is winter time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the
snow-flakes chase each other; it seems as though it had been snowing
for days and weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the
whole town, like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on
the earth is hidden away, only the golden cross of the church, the
symbol of faith, arises over the snow grave, and gleams in the blue
air and in the bright sunshine.

And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the small and
the great; they twitter and they sing as best they may, each bird with
his beak.

First comes the band of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle in the
streets and lanes, in the nests and the houses; they have stories to
tell about the front buildings and the back buildings.

"We know the buried town," they say; "everything living in it is
piep! piep! piep!"

The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.

"Grub, grub!" they cried. "There's something to be got down there;
something to swallow, and that's most important. That's the opinion of
most of them down there, and the opinion is goo-goo-good!"

The wild swans come flying on whirring pinions, and sing of the
noble and the great, that will still sprout in the hearts of men, down
in the town which is resting beneath its snowy veil.

No death is there--life reigns yonder; we hear it on the notes
that swell onward like the tones of the church organ, which seize us
like sounds from the elf-hill, like the songs of Ossian, like the
rushing swoop of the wandering spirits' wings. What harmony! That
harmony speaks to our hearts, and lifts up our souls! It is the Bird
of Popular Song whom we hear.

And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the
sky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains, the sun shines into the
clefts; spring is coming, the birds are returning, and new races are
coming with the same home sounds in their hearts.

Hear the story of the year: "The night of the snow-storm, the
heavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved, all shall
rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song, who
never dies!"




THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS

Our scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called "wild
moor."  We hear what is called the "Wester-wow-wow"--the peculiar
roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of
Jutland.  It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for
miles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring.  Before us
rises a great mound of sand--a mountain we have long seen, and towards
which we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep
sand.  On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building--the convent of
Borglum.  In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church.
And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the
weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can
range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath
and meadow, and far across the deep blue sea.

Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm
buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle
Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls, and,
sheltered from the wind and weather, grow so luxuriantly that their
twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.

We mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the
long passages under the heavy roof-beams.  The wind moans very
strangely here, both within and without.  It is hardly known how, but
the people say--yes, people say a great many things when they are
frightened or want to frighten others--they say that the old dead
choir-men glide silently past us into the church, where mass is
sung.  They can be heard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing
brings up strange thoughts in the hearers--thoughts of the old times
into which we are carried back.

On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are
there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared.  The sea washes
away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls.  The stranded
goods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here.  The
sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the
convent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and
mead.  There is plenty in the kitchen--dead game and poultry, hams
and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

The Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord.  He has great
possessions, but still he longs for more--everything must bow before
the mighty Olaf Glob.  His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his
widow is to have the rich inheritance.  But how comes it that one
relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would
be?  The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland, with the
exception of the church property.  Her son was not at home.  In his
boyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see
foreign lands and strange people.  For years there had been no news
of him.  Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never
come back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.

"What has a woman to do with rule?" said the bishop.

He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain
thereby?  The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was
strong in her just rights.

Bishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose?  What writest
thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and
intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away,
to the city of the Pope?

It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
icy winter will come.

Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the
horsemen and servants back to their home.  They came from Rome with a
papal decree--a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to
offend the pious bishop.  "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her.
Let her be expelled from the congregation and the Church.  Let no man
stretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations
avoid her as a plague and a pestilence!"

"What will not bend must break," said the Bishop of Borglum

And all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God.  He is
her helper and defender.

One servant only--an old maid--remained faithful to her; and
with the old servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the
crop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the
bishop.

"Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose!"
cried the Bishop of Borglum.  "Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon
thee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee!"

Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her
to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and
travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land.  As a
stranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was
spoken and where new customs prevailed.  Farther and farther she
journeyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine
clothes their sides.  Strange merchants drive by her, and they look
anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise.  They fear an
attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights.  The two poor
women, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel
fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the
darksome forest.  And now they were in Franconia.  And there met them
a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers.  He
paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to
the goal of their journey and the place whence they came.  Then one
of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her
woes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed
it.  For the stranger knight is the widow's son!  He seized her hand, he
embraced her, and the mother wept.  For years she had not been able
to weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.


It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
will icy winter come.

The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar.
In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire.  At
Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold
winter raged without, when a piece of news was brought to the
bishop.  "Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back, and his mother with
him."  Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop, and summoned
him before the temporal and the spiritual court.

"That will avail him little," said the bishop.  "Best leave off thy
efforts, knight Jens."


Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships.  Icy
winter comes again, and the "white bees" are swarming, and sting the
traveller's face till they melt.

"Keen weather to-day!" say the people, as they step in.

Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he singes
the skirt of his wide garment.

"Thou Borglum bishop," he exclaims, "I shall subdue thee after
all!  Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens
Glob shall reach thee!"

Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, in
Sallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve, at
mass, in the church at Widberg.  The bishop himself is to read the
mass, and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland; and
this is known to Jens Glob.

Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow.  The marsh
will bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests and armed
men.  They ride the shortest way, through the waving reeds, where the
wind moans sadly.

Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin!  it
sounds merrily in the clear air.  So they ride on over heath and
moorland--over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer,
though now icy, like all the country--towards the church of Widberg.

The wind is blowing his trumpet too--blowing it harder and harder.
He blows up a storm--a terrible storm--that increases more and more.
Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.
The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and
moorland, over land and sea.

Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce
do so, however hard he may ride.  He journeys with his warriors on
the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,
now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of
the Highest.

The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.
The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra.  The storm reads
out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor
and heath, and over the rolling waters.  No ferry-boat can sail over
the bay in such weather as this.

Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde.  There he dismisses his
warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives
them leave to ride home and greet his wife.  He intends to risk his
life alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him
that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement
in the church at Widberg.  The faithful warriors will not leave him,
but follow him out into the deep waters.  Ten of them are carried away;
but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side.  They
have still four miles to ride.

It is past midnight.  It is Christmas.  The wind has abated.  The
church is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the
window-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath.  The mass has
long been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard
dropping from the candles to the stone pavement.  And now Olaf Hase
arrives.

In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,

"I have just made an agreement with the bishop."

"Sayest thou so?" replied Olaf Hase.  "Then neither thou nor the
bishop shall quit this church alive."

And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a
blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob
hastily closes between them, fly in fragments.

"Hold, brother!  First hear what the agreement was that I made.  I
have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests.  They will have
no word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the
wrong that my mother has endured."

The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a
redder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven
skull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy
Christmas night.

And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the
convent of Borglum.  The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and
priests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra
decked with crape.  There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought
with silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so
mighty.  The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral
hymn.  It sounds like a wail--it sounds like a sentence of wrath and
condemnation, that must be heard far over the land, carried by the
wind--sung by the wind--the wail that sometimes is silent, but never
dies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our own
time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew.  It is
heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in
the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum.  It is heard by the
sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum.  And not
only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of
hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the
convent door that has long been locked.  The door still seems to
open, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the
fragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient
splendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop,
who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the
crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams
the red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and the
wicked thoughts.

Sink down into his grave--into oblivion--ye terrible shapes of the
times of old!


Hark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling
sea!  A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives.  The
sea has not put on a new mind with the new time.  This night it is a
horrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a
glassy mirror--even as in the old time that we have buried.  Sleep
sweetly, if thou canst sleep!

Now it is morning.

The new time flings sunshine into the room.  The wind still keeps
up mightily.  A wreck is announced--as in the old time.

During the night, down yonder by Lokken, the little fishing
village with the red-tiled roofs--we can see it up here from the
window--a ship has come ashore.  It has struck, and is fast embedded in
the sand; but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board, and
formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board are
saved, and reach the land, and are wrapped in warm blankets; and
to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum.  In
comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces.
They are addressed in the language of their country, and the piano
sounds for them with melodies of their native land; and before these
have died away, the chord has been struck, the wire of thought that
reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are
rescued.  Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join
in the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Borglum.
Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and
melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.

Blessed be thou, new time!  Speak thou of summer and of purer
gales!  Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts!  On thy
glowing canvas let them be painted--the dark legends of the rough hard
times that are past!




THE BOTTLE NECK

Close to the corner of a street, among other abodes of poverty,
stood an exceedingly tall, narrow house, which had been so knocked
about by time that it seemed out of joint in every direction. This
house was inhabited by poor people, but the deepest poverty was
apparent in the garret lodging in the gable. In front of the little
window, an old bent bird-cage hung in the sunshine, which had not even
a proper water-glass, but instead of it the broken neck of a bottle,
turned upside down, and a cork stuck in to make it hold the water with
which it was filled. An old maid stood at the window; she had hung
chickweed over the cage, and the little linnet which it contained
hopped from perch to perch and sang and twittered merrily.

"Yes, it's all very well for you to sing," said the bottle neck:
that is, he did not really speak the words as we do, for the neck of a
bottle cannot speak; but he thought them to himself in his own mind,
just as people sometimes talk quietly to themselves.

"Yes, you may sing very well, you have all your limbs uninjured;
you should feel what it is like to lose your body, and only have a
neck and a mouth left, with a cork stuck in it, as I have: you
wouldn't sing then, I know. After all, it is just as well that there
are some who can be happy. I have no reason to sing, nor could I
sing now if I were ever so happy; but when I was a whole bottle, and
they rubbed me with a cork, didn't I sing then? I used to be called
a complete lark. I remember when I went out to a picnic with the
furrier's family, on the day his daughter was betrothed,--it seems
as if it only happened yesterday. I have gone through a great deal
in my time, when I come to recollect: I have been in the fire and in
the water, I have been deep in the earth, and have mounted higher in
the air than most other people, and now I am swinging here, outside
a bird-cage, in the air and the sunshine. Oh, indeed, it would be
worth while to hear my history; but I do not speak it aloud, for a
good reason--because I cannot."

Then the bottle neck related his history, which was really
rather remarkable; he, in fact, related it to himself, or, at least,
thought it in his own mind. The little bird sang his own song merrily;
in the street below there was driving and running to and fro, every
one thought of his own affairs, or perhaps of nothing at all; but
the bottle neck thought deeply. He thought of the blazing furnace in
the factory, where he had been blown into life; he remembered how
hot it felt when he was placed in the heated oven, the home from which
he sprang, and that he had a strong inclination to leap out again
directly; but after a while it became cooler, and he found himself
very comfortable. He had been placed in a row, with a whole regiment
of his brothers and sisters all brought out of the same furnace;
some of them had certainly been blown into champagne bottles, and
others into beer bottles, which made a little difference between them.
In the world it often happens that a beer bottle may contain the
most precious wine, and a champagne bottle be filled with blacking,
but even in decay it may always be seen whether a man has been well
born. Nobility remains noble, as a champagne bottle remains the
same, even with blacking in its interior. When the bottles were packed
our bottle was packed amongst them; it little expected then to
finish its career as a bottle neck, or to be used as a water-glass
to a bird's-cage, which is, after all, a place of honor, for it is
to be of some use in the world. The bottle did not behold the light of
day again, until it was unpacked with the rest in the wine
merchant's cellar, and, for the first time, rinsed with water, which
caused some very curious sensations. There it lay empty, and without a
cork, and it had a peculiar feeling, as if it wanted something it knew
not what. At last it was filled with rich and costly wine, a cork
was placed in it, and sealed down. Then it was labelled "first
quality," as if it had carried off the first prize at an
examination; besides, the wine and the bottle were both good, and
while we are young is the time for poetry. There were sounds of song
within the bottle, of things it could not understand, of green sunny
mountains, where the vines grow and where the merry vine-dressers
laugh, sing, and are merry. "Ah, how beautiful is life." All these
tones of joy and song in the bottle were like the working of a young
poet's brain, who often knows not the meaning of the tones which are
sounding within him. One morning the bottle found a purchaser in the
furrier's apprentice, who was told to bring one of the best bottles of
wine. It was placed in the provision basket with ham and cheese and
sausages. The sweetest fresh butter and the finest bread were put into
the basket by the furrier's daughter herself, for she packed it. She
was young and pretty; her brown eyes laughed, and a smile lingered
round her mouth as sweet as that in her eyes. She had delicate
hands, beautifully white, and her neck was whiter still. It could
easily be seen that she was a very lovely girl, and as yet she was not
engaged. The provision basket lay in the lap of the young girl as
the family drove out to the forest, and the neck of the bottle
peeped out from between the folds of the white napkin. There was the
red wax on the cork, and the bottle looked straight at the young
girl's face, and also at the face of the young sailor who sat near
her. He was a young friend, the son of a portrait painter. He had
lately passed his examination with honor, as mate, and the next
morning he was to sail in his ship to a distant coast. There had
been a great deal of talk on this subject while the basket was being
packed, and during this conversation the eyes and the mouth of the
furrier's daughter did not wear a very joyful expression. The young
people wandered away into the green wood, and talked together. What
did they talk about? The bottle could not say, for he was in the
provision basket. It remained there a long time; but when at last it
was brought forth it appeared as if something pleasant had happened,
for every one was laughing; the furrier's daughter laughed too, but
she said very little, and her cheeks were like two roses. Then her
father took the bottle and the cork-screw into his hands. What a
strange sensation it was to have the cork drawn for the first time!
The bottle could never after that forget the performance of that
moment; indeed there was quite a convulsion within him as the cork
flew out, and a gurgling sound as the wine was poured forth into the
glasses.

"Long life to the betrothed," cried the papa, and every glass
was emptied to the dregs, while the young sailor kissed his
beautiful bride.

"Happiness and blessing to you both," said the old people-father
and mother, and the young man filled the glasses again.

"Safe return, and a wedding this day next year," he cried; and
when the glasses were empty he took the bottle, raised it on high, and
said, "Thou hast been present here on the happiest day of my life;
thou shalt never be used by others!" So saying, he hurled it high in
the air.

The furrier's daughter thought she should never see it again,
but she was mistaken. It fell among the rushes on the borders of a
little woodland lake. The bottle neck remembered well how long it
lay there unseen. "I gave them wine, and they gave me muddy water," he
had said to himself, "but I suppose it was all well meant." He could
no longer see the betrothed couple, nor the cheerful old people; but
for a long time he could hear them rejoicing and singing. At length
there came by two peasant boys, who peeped in among the reeds and
spied out the bottle. Then they took it up and carried it home with
them, so that once more it was provided for. At home in their wooden
cottage these boys had an elder brother, a sailor, who was about to
start on a long voyage. He had been there the day before to say
farewell, and his mother was now very busy packing up various things
for him to take with him on his voyage. In the evening his father
was going to carry the parcel to the town to see his son once more,
and take him a farewell greeting from his mother. A small bottle had
already been filled with herb tea, mixed with brandy, and wrapped in a
parcel; but when the boys came in they brought with them a larger
and stronger bottle, which they had found. This bottle would hold so
much more than the little one, and they all said the brandy would be
so good for complaints of the stomach, especially as it was mixed with
medical herbs. The liquid which they now poured into the bottle was
not like the red wine with which it had once been filled; these were
bitter drops, but they are of great use sometimes-for the stomach. The
new large bottle was to go, not the little one: so the bottle once
more started on its travels. It was taken on board (for Peter Jensen
was one of the crew) the very same ship in which the young mate was to
sail. But the mate did not see the bottle: indeed, if he had he
would not have known it, or supposed it was the one out of which
they had drunk to the felicity of the betrothed and to the prospect of
a marriage on his own happy return. Certainly the bottle no longer
poured forth wine, but it contained something quite as good; and so it
happened that whenever Peter Jensen brought it out, his messmates gave
it the name of "the apothecary," for it contained the best medicine to
cure the stomach, and he gave it out quite willingly as long as a drop
remained. Those were happy days, and the bottle would sing when rubbed
with a cork, and it was called a great lark, "Peter Jensen's lark."

Long days and months rolled by, during which the bottle stood
empty in a corner, when a storm arose--whether on the passage out or
home it could not tell, for it had never been ashore. It was a
terrible storm, great waves arose, darkly heaving and tossing the
vessel to and fro. The main mast was split asunder, the ship sprang
a leak, and the pumps became useless, while all around was black as
night. At the last moment, when the ship was sinking, the young mate
wrote on a piece of paper, "We are going down: God's will be done."
Then he wrote the name of his betrothed, his own name, and that of the
ship. Then he put the leaf in an empty bottle that happened to be at
hand, corked it down tightly, and threw it into the foaming sea. He
knew not that it was the very same bottle from which the goblet of joy
and hope had once been filled for him, and now it was tossing on the
waves with his last greeting, and a message from the dead. The ship
sank, and the crew sank with her; but the bottle flew on like a
bird, for it bore within it a loving letter from a loving heart. And
as the sun rose and set, the bottle felt as at the time of its first
existence, when in the heated glowing stove it had a longing to fly
away. It outlived the storms and the calm, it struck against no rocks,
was not devoured by sharks, but drifted on for more than a year,
sometimes towards the north, sometimes towards the south, just as
the current carried it. It was in all other ways its own master, but
even of that one may get tired. The written leaf, the last farewell of
the bridegroom to his bride, would only bring sorrow when once it
reached her hands; but where were those hands, so soft and delicate,
which had once spread the table-cloth on the fresh grass in the
green wood, on the day of her betrothal? Ah, yes! where was the
furrier's daughter? and where was the land which might lie nearest
to her home?

The bottle knew not, it travelled onward and onward, and at last
all this wandering about became wearisome; at all events it was not
its usual occupation. But it had to travel, till at length it
reached land--a foreign country. Not a word spoken in this country
could the bottle understand; it was a language it had never before
heard, and it is a great loss not to be able to understand a language.
The bottle was fished out of the water, and examined on all sides. The
little letter contained within it was discovered, taken out, and
turned and twisted in every direction; but the people could not
understand what was written upon it. They could be quite sure that the
bottle had been thrown overboard from a vessel, and that something
about it was written on this paper: but what was written? that was the
question,--so the paper was put back into the bottle, and then both
were put away in a large cupboard of one of the great houses of the
town. Whenever any strangers arrived, the paper was taken out and
turned over and over, so that the address, which was only written in
pencil, became almost illegible, and at last no one could
distinguish any letters on it at all. For a whole year the bottle
remained standing in the cupboard, and then it was taken up to the
loft, where it soon became covered with dust and cobwebs. Ah! how
often then it thought of those better days--of the times when in the
fresh, green wood, it had poured forth rich wine; or, while rocked
by the swelling waves, it had carried in its bosom a secret, a letter,
a last parting sigh. For full twenty years it stood in the loft, and
it might have stayed there longer but that the house was going to be
rebuilt. The bottle was discovered when the roof was taken off; they
talked about it, but the bottle did not understand what they said--a
language is not to be learnt by living in a loft, even for twenty
years. "If I had been down stairs in the room," thought the bottle, "I
might have learnt it." It was now washed and rinsed, which process was
really quite necessary, and afterwards it looked clean and
transparent, and felt young again in its old age; but the paper
which it had carried so faithfully was destroyed in the washing.
They filled the bottle with seeds, though it scarcely knew what had
been placed in it. Then they corked it down tightly, and carefully
wrapped it up. There not even the light of a torch or lantern could
reach it, much less the brightness of the sun or moon. "And yet,"
thought the bottle, "men go on a journey that they may see as much
as possible, and I can see nothing." However, it did something quite
as important; it travelled to the place of its destination, and was
unpacked.

"What trouble they have taken with that bottle over yonder!"
said one, "and very likely it is broken after all." But the bottle
was not broken, and, better still, it understood every word that was
said: this language it had heard at the furnaces and at the wine
merchant's; in the forest and on the ship,--it was the only good old
language it could understand. It had returned home, and the language
was as a welcome greeting. For very joy, it felt ready to jump out
of people's hands, and scarcely noticed that its cork had been
drawn, and its contents emptied out, till it found itself carried to a
cellar, to be left there and forgotten. "There's no place like home,
even if it's a cellar." It never occurred to him to think that he
might lie there for years, he felt so comfortable. For many long years
he remained in the cellar, till at last some people came to carry away
the bottles, and ours amongst the number.

Out in the garden there was a great festival. Brilliant lamps hung
in festoons from tree to tree; and paper lanterns, through which the
light shone till they looked like transparent tulips. It was a
beautiful evening, and the weather mild and clear. The stars twinkled;
and the new moon, in the form of a crescent, was surrounded by the
shadowy disc of the whole moon, and looked like a gray globe with a
golden rim: it was a beautiful sight for those who had good eyes.
The illumination extended even to the most retired of the garden
walks, at least not so retired that any one need lose himself there.
In the borders were placed bottles, each containing a light, and among
them the bottle with which we are acquainted, and whose fate it was,
one day, to be only a bottle neck, and to serve as a water-glass to
a bird's-cage. Everything here appeared lovely to our bottle, for it
was again in the green wood, amid joy and feasting; again it heard
music and song, and the noise and murmur of a crowd, especially in
that part of the garden where the lamps blazed, and the paper lanterns
displayed their brilliant colors. It stood in a distant walk
certainly, but a place pleasant for contemplation; and it carried a
light; and was at once useful and ornamental. In such an hour it is
easy to forget that one has spent twenty years in a loft, and a good
thing it is to be able to do so. Close before the bottle passed a
single pair, like the bridal pair--the mate and the furrier's
daughter--who had so long ago wandered in the wood. It seemed to the
bottle as if he were living that time over again. Not only the
guests but other people were walking in the garden, who were allowed
to witness the splendor and the festivities. Among the latter came
an old maid, who seemed to be quite alone in the world. She was
thinking, like the bottle, of the green wood, and of a young betrothed
pair, who were closely connected with herself; she was thinking of
that hour, the happiest of her life, in which she had taken part, when
she had herself been one of that betrothed pair; such hours are
never to be forgotten, let a maiden be as old as she may. But she
did not recognize the bottle, neither did the bottle notice the old
maid. And so we often pass each other in the world when we meet, as
did these two, even while together in the same town.

The bottle was taken from the garden, and again sent to a wine
merchant, where it was once more filled with wine, and sold to an
aeronaut, who was to make an ascent in his balloon on the following
Sunday. A great crowd assembled to witness the sight; military music
had been engaged, and many other preparations made. The bottle saw
it all from the basket in which he lay close to a live rabbit. The
rabbit was quite excited because he knew that he was to be taken up,
and let down again in a parachute. The bottle, however, knew nothing
of the "up," or the "down;" he saw only that the balloon was
swelling larger and larger till it could swell no more, and began to
rise and be restless. Then the ropes which held it were cut through,
and the aerial ship rose in the air with the aeronaut and the basket
containing the bottle and the rabbit, while the music sounded and
all the people shouted "Hurrah."

"This is a wonderful journey up into the air," thought the bottle;
"it is a new way of sailing, and here, at least, there is no fear of
striking against anything."

Thousands of people gazed at the balloon, and the old maid who was
in the garden saw it also; for she stood at the open window of the
garret, by which hung the cage containing the linnet, who then had
no water-glass, but was obliged to be contented with an old cup. In
the window-sill stood a myrtle in a pot, and this had been pushed a
little on one side, that it might not fall out; for the old maid was
leaning out of the window, that she might see. And she did see
distinctly the aeronaut in the balloon, and how he let down the rabbit
in the parachute, and then drank to the health of all the spectators
in the wine from the bottle. After doing this, he hurled it high
into the air. How little she thought that this was the very same
bottle which her friend had thrown aloft in her honor, on that happy
day of rejoicing, in the green wood, in her youthful days. The
bottle had no time to think, when raised so suddenly; and before it
was aware, it reached the highest point it had ever attained in its
life. Steeples and roofs lay far, far beneath it, and the people
looked as tiny as possible. Then it began to descend much more rapidly
than the rabbit had done, made somersaults in the air, and felt itself
quite young and unfettered, although it was half full of wine. But
this did not last long. What a journey it was! All the people could
see the bottle; for the sun shone upon it. The balloon was already far
away, and very soon the bottle was far away also; for it fell upon a
roof, and broke in pieces. But the pieces had got such an impetus in
them, that they could not stop themselves. They went jumping and
rolling about, till at last they fell into the court-yard, and were
broken into still smaller pieces; only the neck of the bottle
managed to keep whole, and it was broken off as clean as if it had
been cut with a diamond.

"That would make a capital bird's glass," said one of the
cellar-men; but none of them had either a bird or a cage, and it was
not to be expected they would provide one just because they had
found a bottle neck that could be used as a glass. But the old maid
who lived in the garret had a bird, and it really might be useful to
her; so the bottle neck was provided with a cork, and taken up to her;
and, as it often happens in life, the part that had been uppermost was
now turned downwards, and it was filled with fresh water. Then they
hung it in the cage of the little bird, who sang and twittered more
merrily than ever.

"Ah, you have good reason to sing," said the bottle neck, which
was looked upon as something very remarkable, because it had been in a
balloon; nothing further was known of its history. As it hung there in
the bird's-cage, it could hear the noise and murmur of the people in
the street below, as well as the conversation of the old maid in the
room within. An old friend had just come to visit her, and they
talked, not about the bottle neck, but of the myrtle in the window.

"No, you must not spend a dollar for your daughter's bridal
bouquet," said the old maid; "you shall have a beautiful little
bunch for a nosegay, full of blossoms. Do you see how splendidly the
tree has grown? It has been raised from only a little sprig of
myrtle that you gave me on the day after my betrothal, and from
which I was to make my own bridal bouquet when a year had passed:
but that day never came; the eyes were closed which were to have
been my light and joy through life. In the depths of the sea my
beloved sleeps sweetly; the myrtle has become an old tree, and I am
a still older woman. Before the sprig you gave me faded, I took a
spray, and planted it in the earth; and now, as you see, it has become
a large tree, and a bunch of the blossoms shall at last appear at a
wedding festival, in the bouquet of your daughter."

There were tears in the eyes of the old maid, as she spoke of
the beloved of her youth, and of their betrothal in the wood. Many
thoughts came into her mind; but the thought never came, that quite
close to her, in that very window, was a remembrance of those olden
times,--the neck of the bottle which had, as it were shouted for joy
when the cork flew out with a bang on the betrothal day. But the
bottle neck did not recognize the old maid; he had not been
listening to what she had related, perhaps because he was thinking
so much about her.




THE BUCKWHEAT

Very often, after a violent thunder-storm, a field of buckwheat
appears blackened and singed, as if a flame of fire had passed over
it. The country people say that this appearance is caused by
lightning; but I will tell you what the sparrow says, and the
sparrow heard it from an old willow-tree which grew near a field of
buckwheat, and is there still. It is a large venerable tree, though
a little crippled by age. The trunk has been split, and out of the
crevice grass and brambles grow. The tree bends for-ward slightly, and
the branches hang quite down to the ground just like green hair.
Corn grows in the surrounding fields, not only rye and barley, but
oats,-pretty oats that, when ripe, look like a number of little golden
canary-birds sitting on a bough. The corn has a smiling look and the
heaviest and richest ears bend their heads low as if in pious
humility. Once there was also a field of buckwheat, and this field was
exactly opposite to old willow-tree. The buckwheat did not bend like
the other grain, but erected its head proudly and stiffly on the stem.
"I am as valuable as any other corn," said he, "and I am much
handsomer; my flowers are as beautiful as the bloom of the apple
blossom, and it is a pleasure to look at us. Do you know of anything
prettier than we are, you old willow-tree?"

And the willow-tree nodded his head, as if he would say, "Indeed I
do."

But the buckwheat spread itself out with pride, and said,
"Stupid tree; he is so old that grass grows out of his body."

There arose a very terrible storm. All the field-flowers folded
their leaves together, or bowed their little heads, while the storm
passed over them, but the buckwheat stood erect in its pride. "Bend
your head as we do," said the flowers.

"I have no occasion to do so," replied the buckwheat.

"Bend your head as we do," cried the ears of corn; "the angel of
the storm is coming; his wings spread from the sky above to the
earth beneath. He will strike you down before you can cry for mercy."

"But I will not bend my head," said the buckwheat.

"Close your flowers and bend your leaves," said the old
willow-tree. "Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts; even
men cannot do that. In a flash of lightning heaven opens, and we can
look in; but the sight will strike even human beings blind. What
then must happen to us, who only grow out of the earth, and are so
inferior to them, if we venture to do so?"

"Inferior, indeed!" said the buckwheat. "Now I intend to have a
peep into heaven." Proudly and boldly he looked up, while the
lightning flashed across the sky as if the whole world were in flames.

When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the corn
raised their drooping heads in the pure still air, refreshed by the
rain, but the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, burnt to
blackness by the lightning. The branches of the old willow-tree
rustled in the wind, and large water-drops fell from his green leaves
as if the old willow were weeping. Then the sparrows asked why he was
weeping, when all around him seemed so cheerful. "See," they said,
"how the sun shines, and the clouds float in the blue sky. Do you not
smell the sweet perfume from flower and bush? Wherefore do you weep,
old willow-tree?" Then the willow told them of the haughty pride of
the buckwheat, and of the punishment which followed in consequence.

This is the story told me by the sparrows one evening when I
begged them to relate some tale to me.




THE BUTTERFLY

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is that?" he asked.

"That is my sister," replied the pea-blossom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




A CHEERFUL TEMPER

From my father I received the best inheritance, namely a "good
temper."  "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do with the good
temper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat;
he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to
his profession.  "And pray what was his profession and his standing
in respectable society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a
book these were written and printed, many, when they read it, would
lay the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title, I
don't like things of this sort."  And yet my father was not a
skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employment
placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and it
was his place by right.  He had to precede the bishop, and even the
princes of the blood; he always went first,--he was a hearse driver!
There, now, the truth is out.  And I will own, that when people saw
my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in
his long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat
on his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as
the sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave.  That face
said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think."  So
I have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of
going often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper
humor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used to
do.

I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a
library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for
me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father.  It
is of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know;
the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which
are published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions may
be obtained.  And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and
what innocent verses!  Persons seeking interviews and engagements,
all so plainly and naturally stated.  Certainly, a man who takes in the
Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the
end of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can
lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his
resting-place.  The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting
objects to me.  My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my
good humor.  Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come
with me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are
green, and let us wander among the graves.  Each of them is like a
closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title
of what the book contains, but nothing more.  I had a great deal of
information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself.
I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure
a history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

Now we are in the churchyard.  Here, behind the white iron
railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of
evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils,
and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet
while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position.  He had
enough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his
refined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him.  If he went to
a theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite
annoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of
the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the scenes
when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree was
introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin,
or a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of
Norway.  As if these things were of any consequence!  Why did he not
leave them alone?  Who would trouble themselves about such trifles?
especially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused.  Then
sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him.
"They are like wet wood," he would say, looking round to see what sort
of people were present, "this evening; nothing fires them."  Then he
would vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right
time, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted
and worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself
into the grave.

Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth and
position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have been
scarcely worth notice.  It is beautiful to observe how wisely nature
orders these things.  He walked about in a coat embroidered all over,
and in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those rich
pearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind
them always hangs a good thick cord for use.  This man also had a
stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and
performed all his dirty work.  And there are still, even now, these
serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes.  It is all so
wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.

Here rests,--ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him!--but
here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was never
remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope of
having a good idea.  At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, that
he really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joy
at the thought of having at last caught an idea.  Nobody got anything
by it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was.  Now I can
imagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in
his grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is
necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can only
make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believed
generally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour,
and the man would have to carry it down again with him into the
grave--that must be a troubled grave.

The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that during
her life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighbors
might think she kept a cat.  What a miser she was!

Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always make
her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi manca la voce,"[1]
it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.

Here lies a maiden of another description.  She was engaged to be
married,--but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave her
to rest in the grave.

Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall in
her heart.  She used to go round among the families near, and search
out their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and malice
of her nature.  This is a family grave.  The members of this family held
so firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in no
other.  If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain
subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he had
learned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the only
true one, because he belonged to the family.  And it is well known that
if the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow at
midnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman and
all the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve at
night.

The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, "may
be continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued.
I come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not my
friends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of ground
in which to bury him or her.  Then I bury them, as it were; there
they lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and better
characters.  Their lives and their deeds, looked at after my own
fashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do.  Then,
if any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about
it.  Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good
temper.  They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper written
by the people, with their hands guided.  When the time comes for the
history of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will write
upon it as my epitaph--

  "The man with a cheerful temper."

And this is my story.


[1] "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."




THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE

It was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt the
deepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years old, the
joy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters, the elder of
whom was going to be confirmed, still remained: they were both good,
charming girls; but the lost child always seems the dearest; and
when it is youngest, and a son, it makes the trial still more heavy.
The sisters mourned as young hearts can mourn, and were especially
grieved at the sight of their parents' sorrow. The father's heart
was bowed down, but the mother sunk completely under the deep grief.
Day and night she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying
it in her bosom, as a part of herself. She could not realize the
fact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin to rest
in the ground. She thought God could not take her darling little one
from her; and when it did happen notwithstanding her hopes and her
belief, and there could be no more doubt on the subject, she said in
her feverish agony, "God does not know it. He has hard-hearted
ministering spirits on earth, who do according to their own will,
and heed not a mother's prayers." Thus in her great grief she fell
away from her faith in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind
respecting death and a future state. She tried to believe that man was
but dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these doubts
were no support to her, nothing on which she could rest, and she
sunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In her darkest hours she
ceased to weep, and thought not of the young daughters who were
still left to her. The tears of her husband fell on her forehead,
but she took no notice of him; her thoughts were with her dead
child; her whole existence seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of
the little one and of every innocent word it had uttered.

The day of the little child's funeral came. For nights
previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning twilight of
this day she sunk from weariness into a deep sleep; in the mean time
the coffin was carried into a distant room, and there nailed down,
that she might not hear the blows of the hammer. When she awoke, and
wanted to see her child, the husband, with tears, said, "We have
closed the coffin; it was necessary to do so."

"When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be better?"
she said with groans and tears.

The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate mother
sat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but she saw them
not; for her thoughts were far away from the domestic hearth. She gave
herself up to her grief, and it tossed her to and fro, as the sea
tosses a ship without compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral
passed away, and similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain.
With tearful eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and
the afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their words
of comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could they speak,
when they were themselves so full of grief? It seemed as if she
would never again know sleep, and yet it would have been her best
friend, one who would have strengthened her body and poured peace into
her soul. They at last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would
lie as still as if she slept.

One night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to her
breathing, he quite believed that she had at length found rest and
relief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and soon sunk
himself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not notice that his
wife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided silently from the
house, to go where her thoughts constantly lingered--to the grave of
her child. She passed through the garden, to a path across a field
that led to the churchyard. No one saw her as she walked, nor did
she see any one; for her eyes were fixed upon the one object of her
wanderings. It was a lovely starlight night in the beginning of
September, and the air was mild and still. She entered the
churchyard, and stood by the little grave, which looked like a large
nosegay of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over
the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth that
covered him--her little boy, whose smile was so vividly before her,
and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on his sick-bed, she
could not forget. How full of meaning that glance had been, as she
leaned over him, holding in hers the pale hand which he had no longer
strength to raise! As she had sat by his little cot, so now she sat
by his grave; and here she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon
it.

"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said a
voice quite close to her,--a voice that sounded so deep and clear,
that it went to her heart.

She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a black
cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her keen glance
could distinguish the face under the hood. It was stern, yet
awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with youthful radiance.

"Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and
entreaty sounded in the words.

"Darest thou to follow me?" asked the form. "I am Death."

She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it appeared
as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon on
the many-colored flowers that decked the grave. The earth that covered
it was drawn back like a floating drapery. She sunk down, and the
spectre covered her with a black cloak; night closed around her, the
night of death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could
penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then the cloak
was removed, and she found herself in a large hall, of wide-spreading
dimensions, in which there was a subdued light, like twilight,
reigning, and in a moment her child appeared before her, smiling,
and more beautiful than ever; with a silent cry she pressed him
to her heart. A glorious strain of music sounded--now distant, now
near. Never had she listened to such tones as these; they came from
beyond a large dark curtain which separated the regions of death
from the land of eternity.

"My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It was the
well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in boundless
delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain. "There is nothing
so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother, do you not see them
all? Oh, it is happiness indeed."

But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out, only the
dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the
child saw,--he whom God has called to be with Himself. She could
hear the sounds of music, but she heard not the words, the Word in
which she was to trust.

"I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with other
happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly
away now; but if you weep for me as you are weeping now, you may never
see me again. And yet I would go so gladly. May I not fly away? And
you will come to me soon, will you not, dear mother?"

"Oh, stay, stay!" implored the mother; "only one moment more; only
once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss thee, and press thee to
my heart."

Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name was
called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in a plaintive
voice.

"Hearest thou?" said the child. "It is my father who calls
thee." And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of children
weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child. "Mother, surely you
have not forgotten them."

And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great
terror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night. Dim
forms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as they
floated through the regions of death towards the dark curtain, where
they vanished. Would her husband and her daughters flit past? No;
their sighs and lamentations still sounded from above; and she had
nearly forgotten them, for the sake of him who was dead.

"Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing," said the child;
"mother, the sun is going to rise."

An overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had
vanished, and she was being borne upwards. All around her became cold;
she lifted her head, and saw that she was lying in the churchyard,
on the grave of her child. The Lord, in a dream, had been a guide to
her feet and a light to her spirit. She bowed her knees, and prayed
for forgiveness. She had wished to keep back a soul from its
immortal flight; she had forgotten her duties towards the living who
were left her. And when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt
lighter. The sun burst forth, over her head a little bird carolled his
song, and the church-bells sounded for the early service. Everything
around her seemed holy, and her heart was chastened. She
acknowledged the goodness of God, she acknowledged the duties she
had to perform, and eagerly she returned home. She bent over her
husband, who still slept; her warm, devoted kiss awakened him, and
words of heartfelt love fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle
and strong as a wife can be; and from her lips came the words of
faith: "Whatever He doeth is right and best."

Then her husband asked, "From whence hast thou all at once derived
such strength and comforting faith?"

And as she kissed him and her children, she said, "It came from
God, through my child in the grave."




CHILDREN'S PRATTLE

At a rich merchant's house there was a children's party, and the
children of rich and great people were there. The merchant was a
learned man, for his father had sent him to college, and he had passed
his examination. His father had been at first only a cattle dealer,
but always honest and industrious, so that he had made money, and
his son, the merchant, had managed to increase his store. Clever as he
was, he had also a heart; but there was less said of his heart than of
his money. All descriptions of people visited at the merchant's house,
well born, as well as intellectual, and some who possessed neither
of these recommendations.

Now it was a children's party, and there was children's prattle,
which always is spoken freely from the heart. Among them was a
beautiful little girl, who was terribly proud; but this had been
taught her by the servants, and not by her parents, who were far too
sensible people.

Her father was groom of the Chambers, which is a high office at
court, and she knew it. "I am a child of the court," she said; now she
might just as well have been a child of the cellar, for no one can
help his birth; and then she told the other children that she was
well-born, and said that no one who was not well-born could rise in
the world. It was no use to read and be industrious, for if a person
was not well-born, he could never achieve anything. "And those whose
names end with 'sen,'" said she, "can never be anything at all. We
must put our arms akimbo, and make the elbow quite pointed, so as to
keep these 'sen' people at a great distance." And then she stuck out
her pretty little arms, and made the elbows quite pointed, to show how
it was to be done; and her little arms were very pretty, for she was a
sweet-looking child.

But the little daughter of the merchant became very angry at
this speech, for her father's name was Petersen, and she knew that the
name ended in "sen," and therefore she said as proudly as she could,
"But my papa can buy a hundred dollars' worth of bonbons, and give
them away to children. Can your papa do that?"

"Yes; and my papa," said the little daughter of the editor of a
paper, "my papa can put your papa and everybody's papa into the
newspaper. All sorts of people are afraid of him, my mamma says, for
he can do as he likes with the paper." And the little maiden looked
exceedingly proud, as if she had been a real princess, who may be
expected to look proud.

But outside the door, which stood ajar, was a poor boy, peeping
through the crack of the door. He was of such a lowly station that
he had not been allowed even to enter the room. He had been turning
the spit for the cook, and she had given him permission to stand
behind the door and peep in at the well-dressed children, who were
having such a merry time within; and for him that was a great deal.
"Oh, if I could be one of them," thought he, and then he heard what
was said about names, which was quite enough to make him more unhappy.
His parents at home had not even a penny to spare to buy a
newspaper, much less could they write in one; and worse than all,
his father's name, and of course his own, ended in "sen," and
therefore he could never turn out well, which was a very sad
thought. But after all, he had been born into the world, and the
station of life had been chosen for him, therefore he must be content.

And this is what happened on that evening.


Many years passed, and most of the children became grown-up
persons.

There stood a splendid house in the town, filled with all kinds of
beautiful and valuable objects. Everybody wished to see it, and people
even came in from the country round to be permitted to view the
treasures it contained.

Which of the children whose prattle we have described, could
call this house his own? One would suppose it very easy to guess.
No, no; it is not so very easy. The house belonged to the poor
little boy who had stood on that night behind the door. He had
really become something great, although his name ended in "sen,"--for
it was Thorwaldsen.

And the three other children--the children of good birth, of
money, and of intellectual pride,--well, they were respected and
honored in the world, for they had been well provided for by birth and
position, and they had no cause to reproach themselves with what
they had thought and spoken on that evening long ago, for, after
all, it was mere "children's prattle."




THE FARM-YARD COCK AND THE WEATHER-COCK

There were two cocks--one on the dung-hill, the other on the roof.
They were both arrogant, but which of the two rendered most service?
Tell us your opinion--we'll keep to ours just the same though.

The poultry yard was divided by some planks from another yard in
which there was a dung-hill, and on the dung-hill lay and grew a large
cucumber which was conscious of being a hot-bed plant.

"One is born to that," said the cucumber to itself. "Not all can
be born cucumbers; there must be other things, too. The hens, the
ducks, and all the animals in the next yard are creatures too. Now I
have a great opinion of the yard cock on the plank; he is certainly of
much more importance than the weather-cock who is placed so high and
can't even creak, much less crow. The latter has neither hens nor
chicks, and only thinks of himself and perspires verdigris. No, the
yard cock is really a cock! His step is a dance! His crowing is music,
and wherever he goes one knows what a trumpeter is like! If he would
only come in here! Even if he ate me up stump, stalk, and all, and I
had to dissolve in his body, it would be a happy death," said the
cucumber.

In the night there was a terrible storm. The hens, chicks, and
even the cock sought shelter; the wind tore down the planks between
the two yards with a crash; the tiles came tumbling down, but the
weather-cock sat firm. He did not even turn round, for he could not;
and yet he was young and freshly cast, but prudent and sedate. He
had been born old, and did not at all resemble the birds flying in the
air--the sparrows, and the swallows; no, he despised them, these
mean little piping birds, these common whistlers. He admitted that the
pigeons, large and white and shining like mother-o'-pearl, looked like
a kind of weather-cock; but they were fat and stupid, and all their
thoughts and endeavours were directed to filling themselves with food,
and besides, they were tiresome things to converse with. The birds
of passage had also paid the weather-cock a visit and told him of
foreign countries, of airy caravans and robber stories that made one's
hair stand on end. All this was new and interesting; that is, for
the first time, but afterwards, as the weather-cock found out, they
repeated themselves and always told the same stories, and that's
very tedious, and there was no one with whom one could associate,
for one and all were stale and small-minded.

"The world is no good!" he said. "Everything in it is so stupid."

The weather-cock was puffed up, and that quality would have made
him interesting in the eyes of the cucumber if it had known it, but it
had eyes only for the yard cock, who was now in the yard with it.

The wind had blown the planks, but the storm was over.

"What do you think of that crowing?" said the yard cock to the
hens and chickens. "It was a little rough--it wanted elegance."

And the hens and chickens came up on the dung-hill, and the cock
strutted about like a lord.

"Garden plant!" he said to the cucumber, and in that one word
his deep learning showed itself, and it forgot that he was pecking
at her and eating it up. "A happy death!"

The hens and the chickens came, for where one runs the others
run too; they clucked, and chirped, and looked at the cock, and were
proud that he was of their kind.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" he crowed, "the chickens will grow up into
great hens at once, if I cry it out in the poultry-yard of the world!"

And hens and chicks clucked and chirped, and the cock announced
a great piece of news.

"A cock can lay an egg! And do you know what's in that egg? A
basilisk. No one can stand the sight of such a thing; people know
that, and now you know it too--you know what is in me, and what a
champion of all cocks I am!"

With that the yard cock flapped his wings, made his comb swell up,
and crowed again; and they all shuddered, the hens and the little
chicks--but they were very proud that one of their number was such a
champion of all cocks. They clucked and chirped till the
weather-cock heard; he heard it; but he did not stir.

"Everything is very stupid," the weather-cock said to himself.
"The yard cock lays no eggs, and I am too lazy to do so; if I liked, I
could lay a wind-egg. But the world is not worth even a wind-egg.
Everything is so stupid! I don't want to sit here any longer."

With that the weather-cock broke off; but he did not kill the yard
cock, although the hens said that had been his intention. And what
is the moral? "Better to crow than to be puffed up and break off!"




THE DAISY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE DARNING-NEEDLE

There was once a darning-needle who thought herself so fine that
she fancied she must be fit for embroidery. "Hold me tight," she would
say to the fingers, when they took her up, "don't let me fall; if
you do I shall never be found again, I am so very fine."

"That is your opinion, is it?" said the fingers, as they seized
her round the body.

"See, I am coming with a train," said the darning-needle,
drawing a long thread after her; but there was no knot in the thread.

The fingers then placed the point of the needle against the cook's
slipper. There was a crack in the upper leather, which had to be
sewn together.

"What coarse work!" said the darning-needle, "I shall never get
through. I shall break!--I am breaking!" and sure enough she broke.
"Did I not say so?" said the darning-needle, "I know I am too fine for
such work as that."

"This needle is quite useless for sewing now," said the fingers;
but they still held it fast, and the cook dropped some sealing-wax
on the needle, and fastened her handkerchief with it in front.

"So now I am a breast-pin," said the darning-needle; "I knew
very well I should come to honor some day: merit is sure to rise;" and
she laughed, quietly to herself, for of course no one ever saw a
darning-needle laugh. And there she sat as proudly as if she were in a
state coach, and looked all around her. "May I be allowed to ask if
you are made of gold?" she inquired of her neighbor, a pin; "you
have a very pretty appearance, and a curious head, although you are
rather small. You must take pains to grow, for it is not every one who
has sealing-wax dropped upon him;" and as she spoke, the
darning-needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the
handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was cleaning. "Now
I am going on a journey," said the needle, as she floated away with
the dirty water, "I do hope I shall not be lost." But she really was
lost in a gutter. "I am too fine for this world," said the
darning-needle, as she lay in the gutter; "but I know who I am, and
that is always some comfort." So the darning-needle kept up her
proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor. Then there floated
over her all sorts of things,--chips and straws, and pieces of old
newspaper. "See how they sail," said the darning-needle; "they do
not know what is under them. I am here, and here I shall stick. See,
there goes a chip, thinking of nothing in the world but himself--only
a chip. There's a straw going by now; how he turns and twists
about! Don't be thinking too much of yourself, or you may chance to
run against a stone. There swims a piece of newspaper; what is written
upon it has been forgotten long ago, and yet it gives itself airs. I
sit here patiently and quietly. I know who I am, so I shall not move."

One day something lying close to the darning-needle glittered so
splendidly that she thought it was a diamond; yet it was only a
piece of broken bottle. The darning-needle spoke to it, because it
sparkled, and represented herself as a breast-pin. "I suppose you
are really a diamond?" she said.

"Why yes, something of the kind," he replied; and so each believed
the other to be very valuable, and then they began to talk about the
world, and the conceited people in it.

"I have been in a lady's work-box," said the darning-needle,
"and this lady was the cook. She had on each hand five fingers, and
anything so conceited as these five fingers I have never seen; and yet
they were only employed to take me out of the box and to put me back
again."

"Were they not high-born?"

"High-born!" said the darning-needle, "no indeed, but so
haughty. They were five brothers, all born fingers; they kept very
proudly together, though they were of different lengths. The one who
stood first in the rank was named the thumb, he was short and thick,
and had only one joint in his back, and could therefore make but one
bow; but he said that if he were cut off from a man's hand, that man
would be unfit for a soldier. Sweet-tooth, his neighbor, dipped
himself into sweet or sour, pointed to the sun and moon, and formed
the letters when the fingers wrote. Longman, the middle finger, looked
over the heads of all the others. Gold-band, the next finger, wore a
golden circle round his waist. And little Playman did nothing at
all, and seemed proud of it. They were boasters, and boasters they
will remain; and therefore I left them."

"And now we sit here and glitter," said the piece of broken
bottle.

At the same moment more water streamed into the gutter, so that it
overflowed, and the piece of bottle was carried away.

"So he is promoted," said the darning-needle, "while I remain
here; I am too fine, but that is my pride, and what do I care?" And so
she sat there in her pride, and had many such thoughts as these,--"I
could almost fancy that I came from a sunbeam, I am so fine. It
seems as if the sunbeams were always looking for me under the water.
Ah! I am so fine that even my mother cannot find me. Had I still my
old eye, which was broken off, I believe I should weep; but no, I
would not do that, it is not genteel to cry."

One day a couple of street boys were paddling in the gutter, for
they sometimes found old nails, farthings, and other treasures. It was
dirty work, but they took great pleasure in it. "Hallo!" cried one, as
he pricked himself with the darning-needle, "here's a fellow for you."

"I am not a fellow, I am a young lady," said the darning-needle;
but no one heard her.

The sealing-wax had come off, and she was quite black; but black
makes a person look slender, so she thought herself even finer than
before.

"Here comes an egg-shell sailing along," said one of the boys;
so they stuck the darning-needle into the egg-shell.

"White walls, and I am black myself," said the darning-needle,
"that looks well; now I can be seen, but I hope I shall not be
sea-sick, or I shall break again." She was not sea-sick, and she did
not break. "It is a good thing against sea-sickness to have a steel
stomach, and not to forget one's own importance. Now my sea-sickness
has past: delicate people can bear a great deal."

Crack went the egg-shell, as a waggon passed over it. "Good
heavens, how it crushes!" said the darning-needle. "I shall be sick
now. I am breaking!" but she did not break, though the waggon went
over her as she lay at full length; and there let her lie.




DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING

There was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a
drawbridge which was but seldom let down:--not all guests are good
people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour
down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he
approach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings
of beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke
which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood
smouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and
proud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about
alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house,
to her belonged the castle.

Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her
people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennel
by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and
drank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was now
on the chain, she could not even bark.

But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;
they must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.

"Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember how
my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on the
wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride
until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as I
steal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of his
feet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretended
not to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. My
father has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will
free you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!"

Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain
and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.

"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly
rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.

"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.

The robbers were hanged.


There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.

We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt
knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the
water, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow
roses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she
beams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide
world, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.
Delaying is not forgetting!

Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the
field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little
room looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only
see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But
to-day the sun shines here--the warm, beautiful sun of God is within
the little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where
formerly the wall was.

The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the
wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and
only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.

"The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the joy it
afforded me was infinitely great and sweet!"

And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in the
humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are also
afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forget
it. Delayed is not forgotten!


An old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busy
traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, we
remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; the
copper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;
the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single
servant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go
to church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifies
mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,
neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day she
was engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.

One day he came to her and said:

"We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basement
has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in my
heart; what do you advise me to do?"

"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your
happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but remember
this; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again."

Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart
in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not help
asking him, "How are you?"

"Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the woman is
brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,
it will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now until
we meet before God!"

A week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,
that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old sweetheart is
dead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;
it sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.

The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points to the
same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and will
never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!


These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.
Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbook
are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!




THE DROP OF WATER

Of course you know what is meant by a magnifying glass--one of
those round spectacle-glasses that make everything look a hundred
times bigger than it is? When any one takes one of these and holds
it to his eye, and looks at a drop of water from the pond yonder, he
sees above a thousand wonderful creatures that are otherwise never
discerned in the water. But there they are, and it is no delusion.
It almost looks like a great plateful of spiders jumping about in a
crowd. And how fierce they are! They tear off each other's legs and
arms and bodies, before and behind; and yet they are merry and
joyful in their way.

Now, there once was an old man whom all the people called
Kribble-Krabble, for that was his name. He always wanted the best of
everything, and when he could not manage it otherwise, he did it by
magic.

There he sat one day, and held his magnifying-glass to his eye,
and looked at a drop of water that had been taken out of a puddle by
the ditch. But what a kribbling and krabbling was there! All the
thousands of little creatures hopped and sprang and tugged at one
another, and ate each other up.

"That is horrible!" said old Kribble-Krabble. "Can one not
persuade them to live in peace and quietness, so that each one may
mind his own business?"

And he thought it over and over, but it would not do, and so he
had recourse to magic.

"I must give them color, that they may be seen more plainly," said
he; and he poured something like a little drop of red wine into the
drop of water, but it was witches' blood from the lobes of the ear,
the finest kind, at ninepence a drop. And now the wonderful little
creatures were pink all over. It looked like a whole town of naked
wild men.

"What have you there?" asked another old magician, who had no
name--and that was the best thing about him.

"Yes, if you can guess what it is," said Kribble-Krabble, "I'll
make you a present of it."

But it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.

And the magician who had no name looked through the
magnifying-glass.

It looked really like a great town reflected there, in which all
the people were running about without clothes. It was terrible! But it
was still more terrible to see how one beat and pushed the other,
and bit and hacked, and tugged and mauled him. Those at the top were
being pulled down, and those at the bottom were struggling upwards.

"Look! look! his leg is longer than mine! Bah! Away with it! There
is one who has a little bruise. It hurts him, but it shall hurt him
still more."

And they hacked away at him, and they pulled at him, and ate him
up, because of the little bruise. And there was one sitting as still
as any little maiden, and wishing only for peace and quietness. But
now she had to come out, and they tugged at her, and pulled her about,
and ate her up.

"That's funny!" said the magician.

"Yes; but what do you think it is?" said Kribble-Krabble. "Can you
find that out?"

"Why, one can see that easily enough," said the other. "That's Paris,
or some other great city, for they're all alike. It's a great city!"

"It's a drop of puddle water!" said Kribble-Krabble.




THE DRYAD

We are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We
flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land.

Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers
ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door
we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come
to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the
shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly
opened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all
the other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck
out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots
exposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be
planted, and to flourish.

It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has
brought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For
years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree,
under which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children
listening to his stories.

The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for
the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time
when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above
the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever
be; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the
sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also,
as it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a
part of education.

The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine,
and the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human
voices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood
that of animals.

Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could
fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the
village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its
parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living
beings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one
place to another--beings with knowledge and delineation. They said
nothing at all; they were so clever!

And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little
goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The
swallow could describe all that very well, but, "Self is the man," she
said. "One ought to see these things one's self." But how was the
Dryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with
being able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy
industry of men.

It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman
sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of
her sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with
admiration through all time.

Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of
Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the
First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.

The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less
attentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds
that went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that
she heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.

She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of
genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting
remained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much
better off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the
world, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.

France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look
across a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide,
with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the
most splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she,
never!

Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a
pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and
twining red flowers in her black hair.

"Don't go to Paris!" the old clergyman warned her. "Poor child! if
you go there, it will be your ruin."

But she went for all that.

The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish, and
felt the same longing for the great city.


The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; the
birds were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.
Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a
grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat
a little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and
the old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw
her, and said:

"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor Mary!"

"That one poor?" thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress fit for
a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). "Oh, if
I were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up
into the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what
direction the town lies."

Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw
in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear
moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her
pictures of the city and pictures from history.

The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the
cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a
blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before
her.

It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the
glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were
torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the
gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris."

The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,
hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the
whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over
one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.

"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergyman
had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a
lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of
rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old
venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were
stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.

No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal
child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain
streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,
and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman
spoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a
drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.

"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like a
cloud, and never comes back!"

The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his
school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did
not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In
all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where,
at night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.

Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train,
whistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening,
towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the
trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the
country of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them
to Paris.

In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

"A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has
unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose
petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as
wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and
poetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands."

"A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored
lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet
over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer
will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it
away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain."


In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena
of war--a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe,
as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her
wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars,
however, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in
the East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into
reality.

"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it was said.
"Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor."

The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master
Bloodless" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great
circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in
Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in
every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of flowers, everything that
mind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been
placed here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old
graves and turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.

The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small
portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if it is to be
understood and described.

Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a
wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this knickknacks from
all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale, for every
nation found some remembrance of home.

Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of
the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his sunny country, and
hastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the
fiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple
straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish peasant, with the Dannebrog
flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's wooden house from Dalarne, with its
wonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions,
kiosks, theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the
fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes, rare
trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self transported into
the tropical forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming
under one roof. What colors, what fragrance!

Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water,
and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the visitor seemed
to wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.

"All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and around
the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings moves like a
busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all feet
are equal to such a fatiguing journey.

Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer
after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the Seine. The
number of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm of
people on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages
and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All
these tributary streams flow in one direction--towards the Exhibition.
On every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the
world's bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a
murmuring from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of
the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the churches
mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the East. It is a
kingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!

In very truth it was. That's what all the reports said, and who
did not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is told here of
the new wonder in the city of cities.

"Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back and
tell me," said the Dryad.

The wish became an intense desire--became the one thought of a
life. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full moon was
shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's disc, and fall
like a shooting star. And before the tree, whose leaves waved to and
fro as if they were stirred by a tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and
grand figure. In tones that were at once rich and strong, like the
trumpet of the Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to
the great account, it said:

"Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root there,
and enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the sunshine
there. But the time of thy life shall then be shortened; the line of
years that awaited thee here amid the free nature shall shrink to
but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It shall be thy destruction. Thy
yearning and longing will increase, thy desire will grow more
stormy, the tree itself will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit
thy cell and give up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men.
Then the years that would have belonged to thee will be contracted
to half the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one
night, and thy life-taper shall be blown out--the leaves of the tree
will wither and be blown away, to become green never again!"

Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but not the
longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever of expectation.

"I shall go there!" she cried, rejoicingly. "Life is beginning and
swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is hastening."

When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the clouds
were tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words of promise were
fulfilled.

People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the roots of
the tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon was brought
out, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted up, with its
roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to them; matting was
placed around the roots, as though the tree had its feet in a warm
bag. And now the tree was lifted on the wagon and secured with chains.
The journey began--the journey to Paris. There the tree was to grow as
an ornament to the city of French glory.

The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in the
first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled in the
pleasurable feeling of expectation.

"Away! away!" it sounded in every beat of her pulse. "Away!
away" sounded in words that flew trembling along. The Dryad forgot
to bid farewell to the regions of home; she thought not of the
waving grass and of the innocent daisies, which had looked up to her
as to a great lady, a young Princess playing at being a shepherdess
out in the open air.

The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his branches;
whether this meant "farewell" or "forward," the Dryad knew not; she
dreamed only of the marvellous new things, that seemed yet so
familiar, and that were to unfold themselves before her. No child's
heart rejoicing in innocence--no heart whose blood danced with
passion--had set out on the journey to Paris more full of
expectation than she.

Her "farewell" sounded in the words "Away! away!"

The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present vanished.
The region was changed, even as the clouds change. New vineyards,
forests, villages, villas appeared--came nearer--vanished!

The chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with it.
Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up into the air
vapory clouds, that formed figures which told of Paris, whence they
came, and whither the Dryad was going.

Everything around knew it, and must know whither she was bound. It
seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched out its leaves
towards her, with the prayer--"Take me with you! take me with you!"
for every tree enclosed a longing Dryad.

What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be rising out of
the earth--more and more--thicker and thicker. The chimneys rose
like flower-pots ranged side by side, or in rows one above the
other, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in letters a yard long, and
figures in various colors, covering the walls from cornice to
basement, came brightly out.

"Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?" asked the
Dryad.

The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle increased;
carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and people on
horseback were mingled together; all around were shops on shops, music
and song, crying and talking.

The Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The great
heavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square planted with trees.
The high houses around had all of them balconies to the windows,
from which the inhabitants looked down upon the young fresh chestnut
tree, which was coming to be planted here as a substitute for the dead
tree that lay stretched on the ground.

The passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its pure
vernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still closed,
whispered with their waving branches, "Welcome! welcome!" The
fountain, throwing its jet of water high up in the air, to let it fall
again in the wide stone basin, told the wind to sprinkle the new-comer
with pearly drops, as if it wished to give him a refreshing draught to
welcome him.

The Dryad felt how her tree was being lifted from the wagon to
be placed in the spot where it was to stand. The roots were covered
with earth, and fresh turf was laid on top. Blooming shrubs and
flowers in pots were ranged around; and thus a little garden arose
in the square.

The tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the steam of
kitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon the wagon and
driven away. The passers-by looked on. Children and old men sat upon
the bench, and looked at the green tree. And we who are telling this
story stood upon a balcony, and looked down upon the green spring
sight that had been brought in from the fresh country air, and said,
what the old clergyman would have said, "Poor Dryad!"

"I am happy! I am happy!" the Dryad cried, rejoicing; "and yet I
cannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything is as I
fancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it."

The houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight shone
on only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over with bills and
placards, before which the people stood still; and this made a crowd.

Carriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones and heavy
ones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded moving houses,
came rattling by; horsemen galloped among them; even carts and
wagons asserted their rights.

The Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which stood so
close around her, would not remove and take other shapes, like the
clouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that she might cast a glance
into Paris, and over it. Notre Dame must show itself, the Vendome
Column, and the wondrous building which had called and was still
calling so many strangers to the city.

But the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet day when
the lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the shops, and shone
even into the branches of the trees, so that it was like sunlight in
summer. The stars above made their appearance, the same to which the
Dryad had looked up in her home. She thought she felt a clear pure
stream of air which went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up
and strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through
every leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the noise and
the turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew herself watched by
mild eyes.

From the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles and
wind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to jollity and
pleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it was, that horses,
carriages, trees, and houses would have danced, if they had known how.
The charm of intoxicating delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.

"How glorious, how splendid it is!" she cried, rejoicingly. "Now I
am in Paris!"

The next day that dawned, the next night that fell, offered the
same spectacle, similar bustle, similar life; changing, indeed, yet
always the same; and thus it went on through the sequence of days.

"Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I know
every house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow cut-off
corner, where I am denied the sight of this great mighty city. Where
are the arches of triumph, the Boulevards, the wondrous building of
the world? I see nothing of all this. As if shut up in a cage, I stand
among the high houses, which I now know by heart, with their
inscriptions, signs, and placards; all the painted confectionery, that
is no longer to my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard,
for which I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what
have I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt before; I
feel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and to experience.
I must go out into the ranks of living men, and mingle among them. I
must fly about like a bird. I must see and feel, and become human
altogether. I must enjoy the one half-day, instead of vegetating for
years in every-day sameness and weariness, in which I become ill,
and at last sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will
gleam like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over the
whole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one knoweth whither."

Thus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:

"Take from me the years that were destined for me, and give me but
half of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me from my prison! Give
me human life, human happiness, only a short span, only the one night,
if it cannot be otherwise; and then punish me for my wish to live,
my longing for life! Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the
fresh young tree, wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and
scattered to all the winds!"

A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was a
trembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire streamed through
it. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and from the midst of that
crown a female figure came forth. In the same moment she was sitting
beneath the brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful
to behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, "The
great city will be thy destruction."

The Dryad sat at the foot of the tree--at her house door, which
she had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young! so fair!
The stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps saw her, and
gleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she was, and yet how
blooming!--a child, and yet a grown maiden! Her dress was fine as
silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves on the crown of the tree;
in her nut-brown hair clung a half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked
like the Goddess of Spring.

For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang up,
and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and sprang like the
reflection from the mirror that, carried by the sunshine, is cast, now
here, now there. Could any one have followed her with his eyes, he
would have seen how marvellously her dress and her form changed,
according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened
to shine upon her.

She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth
from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafes. Here
stood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its
Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast
pavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood
laden with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse
down to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues,
books, and colored stuffs.

From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the
terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of
rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among
them riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite
shore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now
lanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand;
suddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?

Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs
are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of
all, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the
moment, the exciting "Can-Can" music, which Orpheus never knew, and
which was never heard by the "Belle Helene." Even the barrow was
tempted to hop upon one of its wheels.

The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every
moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the
world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.

As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away
by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she
was another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize
her, or to look more closely at her.

Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a
thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a
single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She
thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red
flowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city,
rich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of
the old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.

Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps
she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in
waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen
in silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all
richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended
the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble
pillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There
Mary would certainly be found.

"Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense floated
through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight
reigned.

It was the Church of the Madeleine.

Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned
according to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris
glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were
engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and
embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with
Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer
before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.

Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if
she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the
abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in
whispers, every word was a mystery.

The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women
of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of
them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?

A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some
confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad?
She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not the
fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.

Away! away--a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knows
not repose, for her existence is flight.

She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a magnificent
fountain.

"All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocent
blood that was spilt here."

Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around, carrying on
a lively conversation, such as no one would have dared to carry on
in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.

A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not
understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. The
strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and the cheerful
life of the upper world behind them.

"I am afraid," said one of the women who stood around, to her
husband, "I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for the wonders
down yonder. You had better stay here with me."

"Indeed, and travel home," said the man, "and quit Paris without
having seen the most wonderful thing of all--the real wonder of the
present period, created by the power and resolution of one man!"

"I will not go down for all that," was the reply.

"The wonder of the present time," it had been called. The Dryad
had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing had
thus been reached, and here was the entrance to it. Down into the
depths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now she
heard it said, and saw the strangers descending, and went after them.

The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy. Below
there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They stood in a
labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all communicating with
each other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen here
again, as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every
house above had its number down here also, and struck its roots
under the macadamized quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water
flowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on
arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes and
telegraph-wires.

In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the
world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. This
came from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.

Whither had the Dryad come?

You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishing
points in that new underground world--that wonder of the present
day--the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and not in the
world's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.

She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.

"From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousands
up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with its manifold
blessings."

Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of those
creatures who had been born here, and who built and dwelt here--of the
rats, namely, who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of a
crumbling wall, quite plainly, and in a way the Dryad understood well.

A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was relieving
his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute of
concurrence to every word he said:

"I am disgusted with this man-mewing," he cried--"with these
outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all made up of gas
and petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that. Everything here is so
fine and bright now, that one's ashamed of one's self, without exactly
knowing why. Ah, if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! and
it does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as
one may say."

"What are you talking of there?" asked the Dryad. "I have never
seen you before. What is it you are talking about?"

"Of the glorious days that are gone," said the Rat--"of the
happy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then it
was a great thing to get down here. That was a rat's nest quite
different from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killed
people, but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely
here. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages,
whom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act
melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat's
nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in."

Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old time,
when Mother Plague was still alive.

A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift horses.
The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard de
Sebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over which
the well-known crowded street of that name extended.

The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared,
lifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and not below in the
vaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the wonder work must be found
which she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighter
than all the gas-flames, stronger than the moon that was just
gliding past.

Yes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it gleamed
before her, and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in the
sky.

She saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little garden,
where all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surrounded
little lakes, in which were water-plants of colored metal, from
whose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows,
real products of spring, hung their fresh branches over these lakes
like a fresh, green, transparent, and yet screening veil. In the
bushes burnt an open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts
of branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated--an ear
tickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing through the
veins.

Beautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on their
lips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts--"Marys," with
roses in their hair, but without carriage and postilion--flitted to
and fro in the wild dance.

Where were the heads, where the feet? As if stung by tarantulas,
they sprang, laughed, rejoiced, as if in their ecstacies they were
going to embrace all the world.

The Dryad felt herself torn with them into the whirl of the dance.
Round her delicate foot clung the silken boot, chestnut brown in
color, like the ribbon that floated from her hair down upon her bare
shoulders. The green silk dress waved in large folds, but did not
entirely hide the pretty foot and ankle.

Had she come to the enchanted Garden of Armida? What was the
name of the place?

The name glittered in gas-jets over the entrance. It was
"Mabille."

The soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of fountains, and
the popping of champagne corks accompanied the wild bacchantic
dance. Over the whole glided the moon through the air, clear, but with
a somewhat crooked face.

A wild joviality seemed to rush through the Dryad, as though she
were intoxicated with opium. Her eyes spoke, her lips spoke, but the
sound of violins and of flutes drowned the sound of her voice. Her
partner whispered words to her which she did not understand, nor do we
understand them. He stretched out his arms to draw her to him, but
he embraced only the empty air.

The Dryad had been carried away, like a rose-leaf on the wind.
Before her she saw a flame in the air, a flashing light high up on a
tower. The beacon light shone from the goal of her longing, shone from
the red lighthouse tower of the Fata Morgana of the Champ de Mars.
Thither she was carried by the wind. She circled round the tower;
the workmen thought it was a butterfly that had come too early, and
that now sank down dying.

The moon shone bright, gas-lamps spread light around, through
the halls, over the all-world's buildings scattered about, over the
rose-hills and the rocks produced by human ingenuity, from which
waterfalls, driven by the power of "Master Bloodless," fell down.
The caverns of the sea, the depths of the lakes, the kingdom of the
fishes were opened here. Men walked as in the depths of the deep pond,
and held converse with the sea, in the diving-bell of glass. The water
pressed against the strong glass walls above and on every side. The
polypi, eel-like living creatures, had fastened themselves to the
bottom, and stretched out arms, fathoms long, for prey. A big turbot
was making himself broad in front, quietly enough, but not without
casting some suspicious glances aside. A crab clambered over him,
looking like a gigantic spider, while the shrimps wandered about in
restless haste, like the butterflies and moths of the sea.

In the fresh water grew water-lilies, nymphaea, and reeds; the
gold-fishes stood up below in rank and file, all turning their heads
one way, that the streaming water might flow into their mouths. Fat
carps stared at the glass wall with stupid eyes. They knew that they
were here to be exhibited, and that they had made the somewhat
toilsome journey hither in tubs filled with water; and they thought
with dismay of the land-sickness from which they had suffered so
cruelly on the railway.

They had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated it
from their fresh or salt-water position. They looked attentively at
the crowds of people who passed by them early and late. All the
nations in the world, they thought, had made an exhibition of their
inhabitants, for the edification of the soles and haddocks, pike and
carp, that they might give their opinions upon the different kinds.

"Those are scaly animals" said a little slimy Whiting. "They put
on different scales two or three times a day, and they emit sounds
which they call speaking. We don't put on scales, and we make
ourselves understood in an easier way, simply by twitching the corners
of our mouths and staring with our eyes. We have a great many
advantages over mankind."

"But they have learned swimming of us," remarked a well-educated
Codling. "You must know I come from the great sea outside. In the
hot time of the year the people yonder go into the water; first they
take off their scales, and then they swim. They have learnt from the
frogs to kick out with their hind legs, and row with their fore
paws. But they cannot hold out long. They want to be like us, but they
cannot come up to us. Poor people!"

And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of people
whom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving around
them; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had first
caught their attention.

A pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round back,
declared that the "human fry" were still there.

"I can see a well set-up human figure quite well," said the
Barbel. "She was called 'contumacious lady,' or something of that
kind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and a great balloon
at the back of her head, and something like a shut-up umbrella in
front; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her.
She ought to take all the rubbish off, and go as we do; then she would
look something like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible for
a person to look like one!"

"What's become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? He
sat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote
down everything. They called him a 'writer.'"

"They're going about with him still," said a hoary old maid of a
Carp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so that she was quite
hoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook, and still swam
patiently about with it in her gullet. "A writer? That means, as we
fishes describe it, a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men."

Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the
artificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged to
take advantage of the hours of night to get their work done by
daybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and with
songs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad.

"So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty gold-fishes," she
said. "Yes, I know you;" and she waved her hand to them. "I have known
about you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. How
beautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kiss
every one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do not
know me."

The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a
word of it.

The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the
open air, where the different countries--the country of black bread,
the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks of
eau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil--exhaled their perfumes
from the world-wonder flower.

When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep and
half awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear
them, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the
murdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to it
for a time like a photographic picture.

So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet
disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew,
thus it will be repeated tomorrow.

The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knew
them, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red
pomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in her
dark hair.

Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her
thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, and
feverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.

A weariness that increased continually, took possession of her.
She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within, or
to lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for
the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had
completed its circle.

Her thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down on the
grass by the bubbling water.

"Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth," she said
mournfully. "Moisten my tongue--bring me a refreshing draught."

"I am no living water," was the answer. "I only spring upward when
the machine wills it."

"Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass," implored
the Dryad; "give me one of thy fragrant flowers."

"We must die if we are torn from our stalks," replied the
Flowers and the Grass.

"Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air--only a single
life-kiss."

"Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red," answered the Wind;
"then thou wilt be among the dead--blown away, as all the splendor
here will be blown away before the year shall have ended. Then I can
play again with the light loose sand on the place here, and whirl
the dust over the land and through the air. All is dust!"

The Dryad felt a terror like a woman who has cut asunder her
pulse-artery in the bath, but is filled again with the love of life,
even while she is bleeding to death. She raised herself, tottered
forward a few steps, and sank down again at the entrance to a little
church. The gate stood open, lights were burning upon the altar, and
the organ sounded.

What music! Such notes the Dryad had never yet heard; and yet it
seemed to her as if she recognized a number of well-known voices among
them. They came deep from the heart of all creation. She thought she
heard the stories of the old clergyman, of great deeds, and of the
celebrated names, and of the gifts that the creatures of God must
bestow upon posterity, if they would live on in the world.

The tones of the organ swelled, and in their song there sounded
these words:

"Thy wishing and thy longing have torn thee, with thy roots,
from the place which God appointed for thee. That was thy destruction,
thou poor Dryad!"

The notes became soft and gentle, and seemed to die away in a
wail.

In the sky the clouds showed themselves with a ruddy gleam. The
Wind sighed:

"Pass away, ye dead! now the sun is going to rise!"

The first ray fell on the Dryad. Her form was irradiated in
changing colors, like the soap-bubble when it is bursting and
becomes a drop of water; like a tear that falls and passes away like a
vapor.

Poor Dryad! Only a dew-drop, only a tear, poured upon the earth,
and vanished away!




JACK THE DULLARD

AN OLD STORY TOLD ANEW

Far in the interior of the country lay an old baronial hall, and
in it lived an old proprietor, who had two sons, which two young men
thought themselves too clever by half. They wanted to go out and woo
the King's daughter; for the maiden in question had publicly announced
that she would choose for her husband that youth who could arrange his
words best.

So these two geniuses prepared themselves a full week for the
wooing--this was the longest time that could be granted them; but it
was enough, for they had had much preparatory information, and
everybody knows how useful that is. One of them knew the whole Latin
dictionary by heart, and three whole years of the daily paper of the
little town into the bargain, and so well, indeed, that he could
repeat it all either backwards or forwards, just as he chose. The
other was deeply read in the corporation laws, and knew by heart
what every corporation ought to know; and accordingly he thought he
could talk of affairs of state, and put his spoke in the wheel in
the council. And he knew one thing more: he could embroider suspenders
with roses and other flowers, and with arabesques, for he was a tasty,
light-fingered fellow.

"I shall win the Princess!" So cried both of them. Therefore their
old papa gave to each of them a handsome horse. The youth who knew the
dictionary and newspaper by heart had a black horse, and he who knew
all about the corporation laws received a milk-white steed. Then
they rubbed the corners of their mouths with fish-oil, so that they
might become very smooth and glib. All the servants stood below in the
courtyard, and looked on while they mounted their horses; and just
by chance the third son came up. For the proprietor had really three
sons, though nobody counted the third with his brothers, because he
was not so learned as they, and indeed he was generally known as "Jack
the Dullard."

"Hallo!" said Jack the Dullard, "where are you going? I declare
you have put on your Sunday clothes!"

"We're going to the King's court, as suitors to the King's
daughter. Don't you know the announcement that has been made all
through the country?" And they told him all about it.

"My word! I'll be in it too!" cried Jack the Dullard; and his
two brothers burst out laughing at him, and rode away.

"Father, dear," said Jack, "I must have a horse too. I do feel
so desperately inclined to marry! If she accepts me, she accepts me;
and if she won't have me, I'll have her; but she shall be mine!"

"Don't talk nonsense," replied the old gentleman. "You shall
have no horse from me. You don't know how to speak--you can't
arrange your words. Your brothers are very different fellows from
you."

"Well," quoth Jack the Dullard, "If I can't have a horse, I'll
take the Billy-goat, who belongs to me, and he can carry me very
well!"

And so said, so done. He mounted the Billy-goat, pressed his heels
into its sides, and galloped down the high street like a hurricane.

"Hei, houp! that was a ride! Here I come!" shouted Jack the
Dullard, and he sang till his voice echoed far and wide.

But his brothers rode slowly on in advance of him. They spoke
not a word, for they were thinking about the fine extempore speeches
they would have to bring out, and these had to be cleverly prepared
beforehand.

"Hallo!" shouted Jack the Dullard. "Here am I! Look what I have
found on the high road." And he showed them what it was, and it was
a dead crow.

"Dullard!" exclaimed the brothers, "what are you going to do
with that?"

"With the crow? why, I am going to give it to the Princess."

"Yes, do so," said they; and they laughed, and rode on.

"Hallo, here I am again! just see what I have found now: you don't
find that on the high road every day!"

And the brothers turned round to see what he could have found now.

"Dullard!" they cried, "that is only an old wooden shoe, and the
upper part is missing into the bargain; are you going to give that
also to the Princess?"

"Most certainly I shall," replied Jack the Dullard; and again
the brothers laughed and rode on, and thus they got far in advance
of him; but--

"Hallo--hop rara!" and there was Jack the Dullard again. "It is
getting better and better," he cried. "Hurrah! it is quite famous."

"Why, what have you found this time?" inquired the brothers.

"Oh," said Jack the Dullard, "I can hardly tell you. How glad
the Princess will be!"

"Bah!" said the brothers; "that is nothing but clay out of the
ditch."

"Yes, certainly it is," said Jack the Dullard; "and clay of the
finest sort. See, it is so wet, it runs through one's fingers." And he
filled his pocket with the clay.

But his brothers galloped on till the sparks flew, and
consequently they arrived a full hour earlier at the town gate than
could Jack. Now at the gate each suitor was provided with a number,
and all were placed in rows immediately on their arrival, six in
each row, and so closely packed together that they could not move
their arms; and that was a prudent arrangement, for they would
certainly have come to blows, had they been able, merely because one
of them stood before the other.

All the inhabitants of the country round about stood in great
crowds around the castle, almost under the very windows, to see the
Princess receive the suitors; and as each stepped into the hall, his
power of speech seemed to desert him, like the light of a candle
that is blown out. Then the Princess would say, "He is of no use! Away
with him out of the hall!"

At last the turn came for that brother who knew the dictionary
by heart; but he did not know it now; he had absolutely forgotten it
altogether; and the boards seemed to re-echo with his footsteps, and
the ceiling of the hall was made of looking-glass, so that he saw
himself standing on his head; and at the window stood three clerks and
a head clerk, and every one of them was writing down every single word
that was uttered, so that it might be printed in the newspapers, and
sold for a penny at the street corners. It was a terrible ordeal,
and they had, moreover, made such a fire in the stove, that the room
seemed quite red hot.

"It is dreadfully hot here!" observed the first brother.

"Yes," replied the Princess, "my father is going to roast young
pullets today."

"Baa!" there he stood like a baa-lamb. He had not been prepared
for a speech of this kind, and had not a word to say, though he
intended to say something witty. "Baa!"

"He is of no use!" said the Princess. "Away with him!"

And he was obliged to go accordingly. And now the second brother
came in.

"It is terribly warm here!" he observed.

"Yes, we're roasting pullets to-day," replied the Princess.

"What--what were you--were you pleased to ob-" stammered he--and
all the clerks wrote down, "pleased to ob-"

"He is of no use!" said the Princess. "Away with him!"

Now came the turn of Jack the Dullard. He rode into the hall on
his goat.

"Well, it's most abominably hot here."

"Yes, because I'm roasting young pullets," replied the Princess.

"Ah, that's lucky!" exclaimed Jack the Dullard, "for I suppose
you'll let me roast my crow at the same time?"

"With the greatest pleasure," said the Princess. "But have you
anything you can roast it in? for I have neither pot nor pan."

"Certainly I have!" said Jack. "Here's a cooking utensil with a
tin handle."

And he brought out the old wooden shoe, and put the crow into it.

"Well, that is a famous dish!" said the Princess. "But what
shall we do for sauce?"

"Oh, I have that in my pocket," said Jack; "I have so much of it
that I can afford to throw some away;" and he poured some of the
clay out of his pocket.

"I like that!" said the Princess. "You can give an answer, and you
have something to say for yourself, and so you shall be my husband.
But are you aware that every word we speak is being taken down, and
will be published in the paper to-morrow? Look yonder, and you will
see in every window three clerks and a head clerk; and the old head
clerk is the worst of all, for he can't understand anything."

But she only said this to frighten Jack the Dullard; and the
clerks gave a great crow of delight, and each one spurted a blot out
of his pen on to the floor.

"Oh, those are the gentlemen, are they?" said Jack; "then I will
give the best I have to the head clerk." And he turned out his
pockets, and flung the wet clay full in the head clerk's face.

"That was very cleverly done," observed the Princess. "I could not
have done that; but I shall learn in time."

And accordingly Jack the Dullard was made a king, and received a
crown and a wife, and sat upon a throne. And this report we have wet
from the press of the head clerk and the corporation of printers--but
they are not to be depended upon in the least.




THE DUMB BOOK

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

"Who is the dead man?" we asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE ELF OF THE ROSE

In the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full blossom, and in
the prettiest of all the roses lived an elf. He was such a little
wee thing, that no human eye could see him. Behind each leaf of the
rose he had a sleeping chamber. He was as well formed and as beautiful
as a little child could be, and had wings that reached from his
shoulders to his feet. Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his
chambers! and how clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were
the blushing leaves of the rose.

During the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew
from flower to flower, and danced on the wings of the flying
butterflies. Then he took it into his head to measure how many steps
he would have to go through the roads and cross-roads that are on
the leaf of a linden-tree. What we call the veins on a leaf, he took
for roads; ay, and very long roads they were for him; for before he
had half finished his task, the sun went down: he had commenced his
work too late. It became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew;
so he thought the best thing he could do would be to return home. He
hurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses all closed
up, and he could not get in; not a single rose stood open. The poor
little elf was very much frightened. He had never before been out at
night, but had always slumbered secretly behind the warm
rose-leaves. Oh, this would certainly be his death. At the other end
of the garden, he knew there was an arbor, overgrown with beautiful
honey-suckles. The blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he
thought to himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the
morning. He flew thither; but "hush!" two people were in the arbor,--a
handsome young man and a beautiful lady. They sat side by side, and
wished that they might never be obliged to part. They loved each other
much more than the best child can love its father and mother.

"But we must part," said the young man; "your brother does not
like our engagement, and therefore he sends me so far away on
business, over mountains and seas. Farewell, my sweet bride; for so
you are to me."

And then they kissed each other, and the girl wept, and gave him a
rose; but before she did so, she pressed a kiss upon it so fervently
that the flower opened. Then the little elf flew in, and leaned his
head on the delicate, fragrant walls. Here he could plainly hear
them say, "Farewell, farewell;" and he felt that the rose had been
placed on the young man's breast. Oh, how his heart did beat! The
little elf could not go to sleep, it thumped so loudly. The young
man took it out as he walked through the dark wood alone, and kissed
the flower so often and so violently, that the little elf was almost
crushed. He could feel through the leaf how hot the lips of the
young man were, and the rose had opened, as if from the heat of the
noonday sun.

There came another man, who looked gloomy and wicked. He was the
wicked brother of the beautiful maiden. He drew out a sharp knife, and
while the other was kissing the rose, the wicked man stabbed him to
death; then he cut off his head, and buried it with the body in the
soft earth under the linden-tree.

"Now he is gone, and will soon be forgotten," thought the wicked
brother; "he will never come back again. He was going on a long
journey over mountains and seas; it is easy for a man to lose his life
in such a journey. My sister will suppose he is dead; for he cannot
come back, and she will not dare to question me about him."

Then he scattered the dry leaves over the light earth with his
foot, and went home through the darkness; but he went not alone, as he
thought,--the little elf accompanied him. He sat in a dry rolled-up
linden-leaf, which had fallen from the tree on to the wicked man's
head, as he was digging the grave. The hat was on the head now,
which made it very dark, and the little elf shuddered with fright
and indignation at the wicked deed.

It was the dawn of morning before the wicked man reached home;
he took off his hat, and went into his sister's room. There lay the
beautiful, blooming girl, dreaming of him whom she loved so, and who
was now, she supposed, travelling far away over mountain and sea.
Her wicked brother stopped over her, and laughed hideously, as
fiends only can laugh. The dry leaf fell out of his hair upon the
counterpane; but he did not notice it, and went to get a little
sleep during the early morning hours. But the elf slipped out of the
withered leaf, placed himself by the ear of the sleeping girl, and
told her, as in a dream, of the horrid murder; described the place
where her brother had slain her lover, and buried his body; and told
her of the linden-tree, in full blossom, that stood close by.

"That you may not think this is only a dream that I have told
you," he said, "you will find on your bed a withered leaf."

Then she awoke, and found it there. Oh, what bitter tears she
shed! and she could not open her heart to any one for relief.

The window stood open the whole day, and the little elf could
easily have reached the roses, or any of the flowers; but he could not
find it in his heart to leave one so afflicted. In the window stood
a bush bearing monthly roses. He seated himself in one of the flowers,
and gazed on the poor girl. Her brother often came into the room,
and would be quite cheerful, in spite of his base conduct; so she dare
not say a word to him of her heart's grief.

As soon as night came on, she slipped out of the house, and went
into the wood, to the spot where the linden-tree stood; and after
removing the leaves from the earth, she turned it up, and there
found him who had been murdered. Oh, how she wept and prayed that
she also might die! Gladly would she have taken the body home with
her; but that was impossible; so she took up the poor head with the
closed eyes, kissed the cold lips, and shook the mould out of the
beautiful hair.

"I will keep this," said she; and as soon as she had covered the
body again with the earth and leaves, she took the head and a little
sprig of jasmine that bloomed in the wood, near the spot where he
was buried, and carried them home with her. As soon as she was in
her room, she took the largest flower-pot she could find, and in
this she placed the head of the dead man, covered it up with earth,
and planted the twig of jasmine in it.

"Farewell, farewell," whispered the little elf. He could not any
longer endure to witness all this agony of grief, he therefore flew
away to his own rose in the garden. But the rose was faded; only a few
dry leaves still clung to the green hedge behind it.

"Alas! how soon all that is good and beautiful passes away,"
sighed the elf.

After a while he found another rose, which became his home, for
among its delicate fragrant leaves he could dwell in safety. Every
morning he flew to the window of the poor girl, and always found her
weeping by the flower pot. The bitter tears fell upon the jasmine
twig, and each day, as she became paler and paler, the sprig
appeared to grow greener and fresher. One shoot after another sprouted
forth, and little white buds blossomed, which the poor girl fondly
kissed. But her wicked brother scolded her, and asked her if she was
going mad. He could not imagine why she was weeping over that
flower-pot, and it annoyed him. He did not know whose closed eyes were
there, nor what red lips were fading beneath the earth. And one day
she sat and leaned her head against the flower-pot, and the little elf
of the rose found her asleep. Then he seated himself by her ear,
talked to her of that evening in the arbor, of the sweet perfume of
the rose, and the loves of the elves. Sweetly she dreamed, and while
she dreamt, her life passed away calmly and gently, and her spirit was
with him whom she loved, in heaven. And the jasmine opened its large
white bells, and spread forth its sweet fragrance; it had no other way
of showing its grief for the dead. But the wicked brother considered
the beautiful blooming plant as his own property, left to him by his
sister, and he placed it in his sleeping room, close by his bed, for
it was very lovely in appearance, and the fragrance sweet and
delightful. The little elf of the rose followed it, and flew from
flower to flower, telling each little spirit that dwelt in them the
story of the murdered young man, whose head now formed part of the
earth beneath them, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister. "We
know it," said each little spirit in the flowers, "we know it, for
have we not sprung from the eyes and lips of the murdered one. We know
it, we know it," and the flowers nodded with their heads in a peculiar
manner. The elf of the rose could not understand how they could rest
so quietly in the matter, so he flew to the bees, who were gathering
honey, and told them of the wicked brother. And the bees told it to
their queen, who commanded that the next morning they should go and
kill the murderer. But during the night, the first after the
sister's death, while the brother was sleeping in his bed, close to
where he had placed the fragrant jasmine, every flower cup opened, and
invisibly the little spirits stole out, armed with poisonous spears.
They placed themselves by the ear of the sleeper, told him dreadful
dreams and then flew across his lips, and pricked his tongue with
their poisoned spears. "Now have we revenged the dead," said they, and
flew back into the white bells of the jasmine flowers. When the
morning came, and as soon as the window was opened, the rose elf, with
the queen bee, and the whole swarm of bees, rushed in to kill him. But
he was already dead. People were standing round the bed, and saying
that the scent of the jasmine had killed him. Then the elf of the rose
understood the revenge of the flowers, and explained it to the queen
bee, and she, with the whole swarm, buzzed about the flower-pot. The
bees could not be driven away. Then a man took it up to remove it, and
one of the bees stung him in the hand, so that he let the flower-pot
fall, and it was broken to pieces. Then every one saw the whitened
skull, and they knew the dead man in the bed was a murderer. And the
queen bee hummed in the air, and sang of the revenge of the flowers,
and of the elf of the rose and said that behind the smallest leaf
dwells One, who can discover evil deeds, and punish them also.




THE ELFIN HILL

A few large lizards were running nimbly about in the clefts of
an old tree; they could understand one another very well, for they
spoke the lizard language.

"What a buzzing and a rumbling there is in the elfin hill," said
one of the lizards; "I have not been able to close my eyes for two
nights on account of the noise; I might just as well have had the
toothache, for that always keeps me awake."

"There is something going on within there," said the other lizard;
"they propped up the top of the hill with four red posts, till
cock-crow this morning, so that it is thoroughly aired, and the
elfin girls have learnt new dances; there is something."

"I spoke about it to an earth-worm of my acquaintance," said a
third lizard; "the earth-worm had just come from the elfin hill, where
he has been groping about in the earth day and night. He has heard a
great deal; although he cannot see, poor miserable creature, yet he
understands very well how to wriggle and lurk about. They expect
friends in the elfin hill, grand company, too; but who they are the
earth-worm would not say, or, perhaps, he really did not know. All the
will-o'-the-wisps are ordered to be there to hold a torch dance, as it
is called. The silver and gold which is plentiful in the hill will
be polished and placed out in the moonlight."

"Who can the strangers be?" asked the lizards; "what can the
matter be? Hark, what a buzzing and humming there is!"

Just at this moment the elfin hill opened, and an old elfin
maiden, hollow behind, came tripping out; she was the old elf king's
housekeeper, and a distant relative of the family; therefore she
wore an amber heart on the middle of her forehead. Her feet moved very
fast, "trip, trip;" good gracious, how she could trip right down to
the sea to the night-raven.

"You are invited to the elf hill for this evening," said she; "but
will you do me a great favor and undertake the invitations? you
ought to do something, for you have no housekeeping to attend to as
I have. We are going to have some very grand people, conjurors, who
have always something to say; and therefore the old elf king wishes to
make a great display."

"Who is to be invited?" asked the raven.

"All the world may come to the great ball, even human beings, if
they can only talk in their sleep, or do something after our
fashion. But for the feast the company must be carefully selected;
we can only admit persons of high rank; I have had a dispute myself
with the elf king, as he thought we could not admit ghosts. The merman
and his daughter must be invited first, although it may not be
agreeable to them to remain so long on dry land, but they shall have a
wet stone to sit on, or perhaps something better; so I think they will
not refuse this time. We must have all the old demons of the first
class, with tails, and the hobgoblins and imps; and then I think we
ought not to leave out the death-horse, or the grave-pig, or even
the church dwarf, although they do belong to the clergy, and are not
reckoned among our people; but that is merely their office, they are
nearly related to us, and visit us very frequently."

"Croak," said the night-raven as he flew away with the
invitations.

The elfin maidens we're already dancing on the elf hill, and
they danced in shawls woven from moonshine and mist, which look very
pretty to those who like such things. The large hall within the elf
hill was splendidly decorated; the floor had been washed with
moonshine, and the walls had been rubbed with magic ointment, so
that they glowed like tulip-leaves in the light. In the kitchen were
frogs roasting on the spit, and dishes preparing of snail skins,
with children's fingers in them, salad of mushroom seed, hemlock,
noses and marrow of mice, beer from the marsh woman's brewery, and
sparkling salt-petre wine from the grave cellars. These were all
substantial food. Rusty nails and church-window glass formed the
dessert. The old elf king had his gold crown polished up with powdered
slate-pencil; it was like that used by the first form, and very
difficult for an elf king to obtain. In the bedrooms, curtains were
hung up and fastened with the slime of snails; there was, indeed, a
buzzing and humming everywhere.

"Now we must fumigate the place with burnt horse-hair and pig's
bristles, and then I think I shall have done my part," said the elf
man-servant.

"Father, dear," said the youngest daughter, "may I now hear who
our high-born visitors are?"

"Well, I suppose I must tell you now," he replied; "two of my
daughters must prepare themselves to be married, for the marriages
certainly will take place. The old goblin from Norway, who lives in
the ancient Dovre mountains, and who possesses many castles built of
rock and freestone, besides a gold mine, which is better than all,
so it is thought, is coming with his two sons, who are both seeking
a wife. The old goblin is a true-hearted, honest, old Norwegian
graybeard; cheerful and straightforward. I knew him formerly, when
we used to drink together to our good fellowship: he came here once to
fetch his wife, she is dead now. She was the daughter of the king of
the chalk-hills at Moen. They say he took his wife from chalk; I shall
be delighted to see him again. It is said that the boys are
ill-bred, forward lads, but perhaps that is not quite correct, and
they will become better as they grow older. Let me see that you know
how to teach them good manners."

"And when are they coming?" asked the daughter.

"That depends upon wind and weather," said the elf king; "they
travel economically. They will come when there is the chance of a
ship. I wanted them to come over to Sweden, but the old man was not
inclined to take my advice. He does not go forward with the times, and
that I do not like."

Two will-o'-the-wisps came jumping in, one quicker than the other,
so of course, one arrived first. "They are coming! they are coming!"
he cried.

"Give me my crown," said the elf king, "and let me stand in the
moonshine."

The daughters drew on their shawls and bowed down to the ground.
There stood the old goblin from the Dovre mountains, with his crown of
hardened ice and polished fir-cones. Besides this, he wore a
bear-skin, and great, warm boots, while his sons went with their
throats bare and wore no braces, for they were strong men.

"Is that a hill?" said the youngest of the boys, pointing to the
elf hill, "we should call it a hole in Norway."

"Boys," said the old man, "a hole goes in, and a hill stands
out; have you no eyes in your heads?"

Another thing they wondered at was, that they were able without
trouble to understand the language.

"Take care," said the old man, "or people will think you have
not been well brought up."

Then they entered the elfin hill, where the select and grand
company were assembled, and so quickly had they appeared that they
seemed to have been blown together. But for each guest the neatest and
pleasantest arrangement had been made. The sea folks sat at table in
great water-tubs, and they said it was just like being at home. All
behaved themselves properly excepting the two young northern goblins;
they put their legs on the table and thought they were all right.

"Feet off the table-cloth!" said the old goblin. They obeyed,
but not immediately. Then they tickled the ladies who waited at table,
with the fir-cones, which they carried in their pockets. They took off
their boots, that they might be more at ease, and gave them to the
ladies to hold. But their father, the old goblin, was very
different; he talked pleasantly about the stately Norwegian rocks, and
told fine tales of the waterfalls which dashed over them with a
clattering noise like thunder or the sound of an organ, spreading
their white foam on every side. He told of the salmon that leaps in
the rushing waters, while the water-god plays on his golden harp. He
spoke of the bright winter nights, when the sledge bells are
ringing, and the boys run with burning torches across the smooth
ice, which is so transparent that they can see the fishes dart forward
beneath their feet. He described everything so clearly, that those who
listened could see it all; they could see the saw-mills going, the
men-servants and the maidens singing songs, and dancing a rattling
dance,--when all at once the old goblin gave the old elfin maiden a
kiss, such a tremendous kiss, and yet they were almost strangers to
each other.

Then the elfin girls had to dance, first in the usual way, and
then with stamping feet, which they performed very well; then followed
the artistic and solo dance. Dear me, how they did throw their legs
about! No one could tell where the dance begun, or where it ended, nor
indeed which were legs and which were arms, for they were all flying
about together, like the shavings in a saw-pit! And then they spun
round so quickly that the death-horse and the grave-pig became sick
and giddy, and were obliged to leave the table.

"Stop!" cried the old goblin, "is that the only house-keeping they
can perform? Can they do anything more than dance and throw about
their legs, and make a whirlwind?"

"You shall soon see what they can do," said the elf king. And then
he called his youngest daughter to him. She was slender and fair as
moonlight, and the most graceful of all the sisters. She took a
white chip in her mouth, and vanished instantly; this was her
accomplishment. But the old goblin said he should not like his wife to
have such an accomplishment, and thought his boys would have the
same objection. Another daughter could make a figure like herself
follow her, as if she had a shadow, which none of the goblin folk ever
had. The third was of quite a different sort; she had learnt in the
brew-house of the moor witch how to lard elfin puddings with
glow-worms.

"She will make a good housewife," said the old goblin, and then
saluted her with his eyes instead of drinking her health; for he did
not drink much.

Now came the fourth daughter, with a large harp to play upon;
and when she struck the first chord, every one lifted up the left
leg (for the goblins are left-legged), and at the second chord they
found they must all do just what she wanted.

"That is a dangerous woman," said the old goblin; and the two sons
walked out of the hill; they had had enough of it. "And what can the
next daughter do?" asked the old goblin.

"I have learnt everything that is Norwegian," said she; "and I
will never marry, unless I can go to Norway."

Then her youngest sister whispered to the old goblin, "That is
only because she has heard, in a Norwegian song, that when the world
shall decay, the cliffs of Norway will remain standing like monuments;
and she wants to get there, that she may be safe; for she is so afraid
of sinking."

"Ho! ho!" said the old goblin, "is that what she means? Well, what
can the seventh and last do?"

"The sixth comes before the seventh," said the elf king, for he
could reckon; but the sixth would not come forward.

"I can only tell people the truth," said she. "No one cares for
me, nor troubles himself about me; and I have enough to do to sew my
grave clothes."

So the seventh and last came; and what could she do? Why, she
could tell stories, as many as you liked, on any subject.

"Here are my five fingers," said the old goblin; "now tell me a
story for each of them."

So she took him by the wrist, and he laughed till he nearly
choked; and when she came to the fourth finger, there was a gold
ring on it, as if it knew there was to be a betrothal. Then the old
goblin said, "Hold fast what you have: this hand is yours; for I
will have you for a wife myself."

Then the elfin girl said that the stories about the ring-finger
and little Peter Playman had not yet been told.

"We will hear them in the winter," said the old goblin, "and
also about the fir and the birch-trees, and the ghost stories, and
of the tingling frost. You shall tell your tales, for no one over
there can do it so well; and we will sit in the stone rooms, where the
pine logs are burning, and drink mead out of the golden
drinking-horn of the old Norwegian kings. The water-god has given me
two; and when we sit there, Nix comes to pay us a visit, and will sing
you all the songs of the mountain shepherdesses. How merry we shall
be! The salmon will be leaping in the waterfalls, and dashing
against the stone walls, but he will not be able to come in. It is
indeed very pleasant to live in old Norway. But where are the lads?"

Where indeed were they? Why, running about the fields, and blowing
out the will-o'-the-wisps, who so good-naturedly came and brought
their torches.

"What tricks have you been playing?" said the old goblin. "I
have taken a mother for you, and now you may take one of your aunts."

But the youngsters said they would rather make a speech and
drink to their good fellowship; they had no wish to marry. Then they
made speeches and drank toasts, and tipped their glasses, to show that
they were empty. Then they took off their coats, and lay down on the
table to sleep; for they made themselves quite at home. But the old
goblin danced about the room with his young bride, and exchanged boots
with her, which is more fashionable than exchanging rings.

"The cock is crowing," said the old elfin maiden who acted as
housekeeper; "now we must close the shutters, that the sun may not
scorch us."

Then the hill closed up. But the lizards continued to run up and
down the riven tree; and one said to the other, "Oh, how much I was
pleased with the old goblin!"

"The boys pleased me better," said the earth-worm. But then the
poor miserable creature could not see.




THE EMPEROR'S NEW SUIT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE FIR TREE

Far down in the forest, where the warm sun and the fresh air
made a sweet resting-place, grew a pretty little fir-tree; and yet
it was not happy, it wished so much to be tall like its companions--the
pines and firs which grew around it. The sun shone, and the soft
air fluttered its leaves, and the little peasant children passed by,
prattling merrily, but the fir-tree heeded them not. Sometimes the
children would bring a large basket of raspberries or strawberries,
wreathed on a straw, and seat themselves near the fir-tree, and say,
"Is it not a pretty little tree?" which made it feel more unhappy than
before. And yet all this while the tree grew a notch or joint taller
every year; for by the number of joints in the stem of a fir-tree we
can discover its age. Still, as it grew, it complained, "Oh! how I
wish I were as tall as the other trees, then I would spread out my
branches on every side, and my top would over-look the wide world. I
should have the birds building their nests on my boughs, and when
the wind blew, I should bow with stately dignity like my tall
companions." The tree was so discontented, that it took no pleasure in
the warm sunshine, the birds, or the rosy clouds that floated over
it morning and evening. Sometimes, in winter, when the snow lay
white and glittering on the ground, a hare would come springing along,
and jump right over the little tree; and then how mortified it would
feel! Two winters passed, and when the third arrived, the tree had
grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run round it. Yet it
remained unsatisfied, and would exclaim, "Oh, if I could but keep on
growing tall and old! There is nothing else worth caring for in the
world!" In the autumn, as usual, the wood-cutters came and cut down
several of the tallest trees, and the young fir-tree, which was now
grown to its full height, shuddered as the noble trees fell to the
earth with a crash. After the branches were lopped off, the trunks
looked so slender and bare, that they could scarcely be recognized.
Then they were placed upon wagons, and drawn by horses out of the
forest. "Where were they going? What would become of them?" The
young fir-tree wished very much to know; so in the spring, when the
swallows and the storks came, it asked, "Do you know where those trees
were taken? Did you meet them?"

The swallows knew nothing, but the stork, after a little
reflection, nodded his head, and said, "Yes, I think I do. I met
several new ships when I flew from Egypt, and they had fine masts that
smelt like fir. I think these must have been the trees; I assure you
they were stately, very stately."

"Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea," said the
fir-tree. "What is the sea, and what does it look like?"

"It would take too much time to explain," said the stork, flying
quickly away.

"Rejoice in thy youth," said the sunbeam; "rejoice in thy fresh
growth, and the young life that is in thee."

And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew watered it with tears;
but the fir-tree regarded them not.

Christmas-time drew near, and many young trees were cut down, some
even smaller and younger than the fir-tree who enjoyed neither rest
nor peace with longing to leave its forest home. These young trees,
which were chosen for their beauty, kept their branches, and were also
laid on wagons and drawn by horses out of the forest.

"Where are they going?" asked the fir-tree. "They are not taller
than I am: indeed, one is much less; and why are the branches not
cut off? Where are they going?"

"We know, we know," sang the sparrows; "we have looked in at the
windows of the houses in the town, and we know what is done with them.
They are dressed up in the most splendid manner. We have seen them
standing in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with all sorts of
beautiful things,--honey cakes, gilded apples, playthings, and many
hundreds of wax tapers."

"And then," asked the fir-tree, trembling through all its
branches, "and then what happens?"

"We did not see any more," said the sparrows; "but this was enough
for us."

"I wonder whether anything so brilliant will ever happen to me,"
thought the fir-tree. "It would be much better than crossing the
sea. I long for it almost with pain. Oh! when will Christmas be
here? I am now as tall and well grown as those which were taken away
last year. Oh! that I were now laid on the wagon, or standing in the
warm room, with all that brightness and splendor around me!
Something better and more beautiful is to come after, or the trees
would not be so decked out. Yes, what follows will be grander and more
splendid. What can it be? I am weary with longing. I scarcely know how
I feel."

"Rejoice with us," said the air and the sunlight. "Enjoy thine own
bright life in the fresh air."

But the tree would not rejoice, though it grew taller every day;
and, winter and summer, its dark-green foliage might be seen in the
forest, while passers by would say, "What a beautiful tree!"

A short time before Christmas, the discontented fir-tree was the
first to fall. As the axe cut through the stem, and divided the
pith, the tree fell with a groan to the earth, conscious of pain and
faintness, and forgetting all its anticipations of happiness, in
sorrow at leaving its home in the forest. It knew that it should never
again see its dear old companions, the trees, nor the little bushes
and many-colored flowers that had grown by its side; perhaps not
even the birds. Neither was the journey at all pleasant. The tree
first recovered itself while being unpacked in the courtyard of a
house, with several other trees; and it heard a man say, "We only want
one, and this is the prettiest."

Then came two servants in grand livery, and carried the fir-tree
into a large and beautiful apartment. On the walls hung pictures,
and near the great stove stood great china vases, with lions on the
lids. There were rocking chairs, silken sofas, large tables, covered
with pictures, books, and playthings, worth a great deal of money,--at
least, the children said so. Then the fir-tree was placed in a large
tub, full of sand; but green baize hung all around it, so that no
one could see it was a tub, and it stood on a very handsome carpet.
How the fir-tree trembled! "What was going to happen to him now?" Some
young ladies came, and the servants helped them to adorn the tree.
On one branch they hung little bags cut out of colored paper, and each
bag was filled with sweetmeats; from other branches hung gilded apples
and walnuts, as if they had grown there; and above, and all round,
were hundreds of red, blue, and white tapers, which were fastened on
the branches. Dolls, exactly like real babies, were placed under the
green leaves,--the tree had never seen such things before,--and at the
very top was fastened a glittering star, made of tinsel. Oh, it was
very beautiful!

"This evening," they all exclaimed, "how bright it will be!"
"Oh, that the evening were come," thought the tree, "and the tapers
lighted! then I shall know what else is going to happen. Will the
trees of the forest come to see me? I wonder if the sparrows will peep
in at the windows as they fly? shall I grow faster here, and keep on
all these ornaments summer and winter?" But guessing was of very
little use; it made his bark ache, and this pain is as bad for a
slender fir-tree, as headache is for us. At last the tapers were
lighted, and then what a glistening blaze of light the tree presented!
It trembled so with joy in all its branches, that one of the candles
fell among the green leaves and burnt some of them. "Help! help!"
exclaimed the young ladies, but there was no danger, for they
quickly extinguished the fire. After this, the tree tried not to
tremble at all, though the fire frightened him; he was so anxious
not to hurt any of the beautiful ornaments, even while their
brilliancy dazzled him. And now the folding doors were thrown open,
and a troop of children rushed in as if they intended to upset the
tree; they were followed more silently by their elders. For a moment
the little ones stood silent with astonishment, and then they
shouted for joy, till the room rang, and they danced merrily round the
tree, while one present after another was taken from it.

"What are they doing? What will happen next?" thought the fir.
At last the candles burnt down to the branches and were put out.
Then the children received permission to plunder the tree.

Oh, how they rushed upon it, till the branches cracked, and had it
not been fastened with the glistening star to the ceiling, it must
have been thrown down. The children then danced about with their
pretty toys, and no one noticed the tree, except the children's maid
who came and peeped among the branches to see if an apple or a fig had
been forgotten.

"A story, a story," cried the children, pulling a little fat man
towards the tree.

"Now we shall be in the green shade," said the man, as he seated
himself under it, "and the tree will have the pleasure of hearing
also, but I shall only relate one story; what shall it be?
Ivede-Avede, or Humpty Dumpty, who fell down stairs, but soon got up
again, and at last married a princess."

"Ivede-Avede," cried some. "Humpty Dumpty," cried others, and
there was a fine shouting and crying out. But the fir-tree remained
quite still, and thought to himself, "Shall I have anything to do with
all this?" but he had already amused them as much as they wished. Then
the old man told them the story of Humpty Dumpty, how he fell down
stairs, and was raised up again, and married a princess. And the
children clapped their hands and cried, "Tell another, tell
another," for they wanted to hear the story of "Ivede-Avede;" but they
only had "Humpty Dumpty." After this the fir-tree became quite
silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the forest told such
tales as "Humpty Dumpty," who fell down stairs, and yet married a
princess.

"Ah! yes, so it happens in the world," thought the fir-tree; he
believed it all, because it was related by such a nice man. "Ah!
well," he thought, "who knows? perhaps I may fall down too, and
marry a princess;" and he looked forward joyfully to the next evening,
expecting to be again decked out with lights and playthings, gold
and fruit. "To-morrow I will not tremble," thought he; "I will enjoy
all my splendor, and I shall hear the story of Humpty Dumpty again,
and perhaps Ivede-Avede." And the tree remained quiet and thoughtful
all night. In the morning the servants and the housemaid came in.
"Now," thought the fir, "all my splendor is going to begin again." But
they dragged him out of the room and up stairs to the garret, and
threw him on the floor, in a dark corner, where no daylight shone, and
there they left him. "What does this mean?" thought the tree, "what am
I to do here? I can hear nothing in a place like this," and he had
time enough to think, for days and nights passed and no one came
near him, and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put
away large boxes in a corner. So the tree was completely hidden from
sight as if it had never existed. "It is winter now," thought the
tree, "the ground is hard and covered with snow, so that people cannot
plant me. I shall be sheltered here, I dare say, until spring comes.
How thoughtful and kind everybody is to me! Still I wish this place
were not so dark, as well as lonely, with not even a little hare to
look at. How pleasant it was out in the forest while the snow lay on
the ground, when the hare would run by, yes, and jump over me too,
although I did not like it then. Oh! it is terrible lonely here."

"Squeak, squeak," said a little mouse, creeping cautiously towards
the tree; then came another; and they both sniffed at the fir-tree and
crept between the branches.

"Oh, it is very cold," said the little mouse, "or else we should
be so comfortable here, shouldn't we, you old fir-tree?"

"I am not old," said the fir-tree, "there are many who are older
than I am."

"Where do you come from? and what do you know?" asked the mice,
who were full of curiosity. "Have you seen the most beautiful places
in the world, and can you tell us all about them? and have you been in
the storeroom, where cheeses lie on the shelf, and hams hang from
the ceiling? One can run about on tallow candles there, and go in thin
and come out fat."

"I know nothing of that place," said the fir-tree, "but I know the
wood where the sun shines and the birds sing." And then the tree
told the little mice all about its youth. They had never heard such an
account in their lives; and after they had listened to it attentively,
they said, "What a number of things you have seen? you must have
been very happy."

"Happy!" exclaimed the fir-tree, and then as he reflected upon
what he had been telling them, he said, "Ah, yes! after all those were
happy days." But when he went on and related all about Christmas-eve,
and how he had been dressed up with cakes and lights, the mice
said, "How happy you must have been, you old fir-tree."

"I am not old at all," replied the tree, "I only came from the
forest this winter, I am now checked in my growth."

"What splendid stories you can relate," said the little mice.
And the next night four other mice came with them to hear what the
tree had to tell. The more he talked the more he remembered, and
then he thought to himself, "Those were happy days, but they may
come again. Humpty Dumpty fell down stairs, and yet he married the
princess; perhaps I may marry a princess too." And the fir-tree
thought of the pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest, which
was to him a real beautiful princess.

"Who is Humpty Dumpty?" asked the little mice. And then the tree
related the whole story; he could remember every single word, and
the little mice was so delighted with it, that they were ready to jump
to the top of the tree. The next night a great many more mice made
their appearance, and on Sunday two rats came with them; but they
said, it was not a pretty story at all, and the little mice were
very sorry, for it made them also think less of it.

"Do you know only one story?" asked the rats.

"Only one," replied the fir-tree; "I heard it on the happiest
evening of my life; but I did not know I was so happy at the time."

"We think it is a very miserable story," said the rats. "Don't you
know any story about bacon, or tallow in the storeroom."

"No," replied the tree.

"Many thanks to you then," replied the rats, and they marched off.

The little mice also kept away after this, and the tree sighed,
and said, "It was very pleasant when the merry little mice sat round
me and listened while I talked. Now that is all passed too. However, I
shall consider myself happy when some one comes to take me out of this
place." But would this ever happen? Yes; one morning people came to
clear out the garret, the boxes were packed away, and the tree was
pulled out of the corner, and thrown roughly on the garret floor; then
the servant dragged it out upon the staircase where the daylight
shone. "Now life is beginning again," said the tree, rejoicing in
the sunshine and fresh air. Then it was carried down stairs and
taken into the courtyard so quickly, that it forgot to think of
itself, and could only look about, there was so much to be seen. The
court was close to a garden, where everything looked blooming. Fresh
and fragrant roses hung over the little palings. The linden-trees were
in blossom; while the swallows flew here and there, crying, "Twit,
twit, twit, my mate is coming,"--but it was not the fir-tree they
meant. "Now I shall live," cried the tree, joyfully spreading out
its branches; but alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it
lay in a corner amongst weeds and nettles. The star of gold paper
still stuck in the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine. In
the same courtyard two of the merry children were playing who had
danced round the tree at Christmas, and had been so happy. The
youngest saw the gilded star, and ran and pulled it off the tree.
"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir-tree," said the child,
treading on the branches till they crackled under his boots. And the
tree saw all the fresh bright flowers in the garden, and then looked
at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the
garret. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, of the merry
Christmas evening, and of the little mice who had listened to the
story of "Humpty Dumpty." "Past! past!" said the old tree; "Oh, had
I but enjoyed myself while I could have done so! but now it is too
late." Then a lad came and chopped the tree into small pieces, till
a large bundle lay in a heap on the ground. The pieces were placed
in a fire under the copper, and they quickly blazed up brightly, while
the tree sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a pistol-shot.
Then the children, who were at play, came and seated themselves in
front of the fire, and looked at it and cried, "Pop, pop." But at each
"pop," which was a deep sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in
the forest; and of Christmas evening, and of "Humpty Dumpty," the only
story it had ever heard or knew how to relate, till at last it was
consumed. The boys still played in the garden, and the youngest wore
the golden star on his breast, with which the tree had been adorned
during the happiest evening of its existence. Now all was past; the
tree's life was past, and the story also,--for all stories must come
to an end at last.




THE FLAX

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

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

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

  "Snip, snap, snurre,
   Basse lurre:
   The song is ended."


"No, it is not ended," said the flax. "To-morrow the sun will
shine, or the rain descend. I feel that I am growing. I feel that I am
in full blossom. I am the happiest of all creatures."

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

  'Snip, snap, snurre,
  Basse lurre.'

But the song is not ended yet, I am sure; it is only just beginning.
How wonderful it is, that after all I have suffered, I am made
something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world--so strong
and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something
different to being a mere plant and bearing flowers. Then I had no
attention, nor any water unless it rained; now, I am watched and taken
care of. Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a
shower-bath from the watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the
clergyman's wife noticed me, and said I was the best piece of linen in
the whole parish. I cannot be happier than I am now."

After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed
under the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked
with needles. This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made
into twelve garments of that kind which people do not like to name,
and yet everybody should wear one. "See, now, then," said the flax; "I
have become something of importance. This was my destiny; it is
quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as everyone
ought to be; it is the only way to be happy. I am now divided into
twelve pieces, and yet we are all one and the same in the whole dozen.
It is most extraordinary good fortune."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Snip, snap, snurre,
  Basse lure:
  The song is ended."


But the little invisible beings said, "The song is never ended;
the most beautiful is yet to come."

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




THE FLYING TRUNK

There was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved
the whole street with gold, and would even then have had enough for
a small alley. But he did not do so; he knew the value of money better
than to use it in this way. So clever was he, that every shilling he
put out brought him a crown; and so he continued till he died. His son
inherited his wealth, and he lived a merry life with it; he went to
a masquerade every night, made kites out of five pound notes, and
threw pieces of gold into the sea instead of stones, making ducks
and drakes of them. In this manner he soon lost all his money. At last
he had nothing left but a pair of slippers, an old dressing-gown,
and four shillings. And now all his friends deserted him, they could
not walk with him in the streets; but one of them, who was very
good-natured, sent him an old trunk with this message, "Pack up!"
"Yes," he said, "it is all very well to say 'pack up,'" but he had
nothing left to pack up, therefore he seated himself in the trunk.
It was a very wonderful trunk; no sooner did any one press on the lock
than the trunk could fly. He shut the lid and pressed the lock, when
away flew the trunk up the chimney with the merchant's son in it,
right up into the clouds. Whenever the bottom of the trunk cracked, he
was in a great fright, for if the trunk fell to pieces he would have
made a tremendous somerset over the trees. However, he got safely in
his trunk to the land of Turkey. He hid the trunk in the wood under
some dry leaves, and then went into the town: he could so this very
well, for the Turks always go about dressed in dressing-gowns and
slippers, as he was himself. He happened to meet a nurse with a little
child. "I say, you Turkish nurse," cried he, "what castle is that near
the town, with the windows placed so high?"

"The king's daughter lives there," she replied; "it has been
prophesied that she will be very unhappy about a lover, and
therefore no one is allowed to visit her, unless the king and queen
are present."

"Thank you," said the merchant's son. So he went back to the wood,
seated himself in his trunk, flew up to the roof of the castle, and
crept through the window into the princess's room. She lay on the sofa
asleep, and she was so beautiful that the merchant's son could not
help kissing her. Then she awoke, and was very much frightened; but he
told her he was a Turkish angel, who had come down through the air
to see her, which pleased her very much. He sat down by her side and
talked to her: he said her eyes were like beautiful dark lakes, in
which the thoughts swam about like little mermaids, and he told her
that her forehead was a snowy mountain, which contained splendid halls
full of pictures. And then he related to her about the stork who
brings the beautiful children from the rivers. These were delightful
stories; and when he asked the princess if she would marry him, she
consented immediately.

"But you must come on Saturday," she said; "for then the king
and queen will take tea with me. They will be very proud when they
find that I am going to marry a Turkish angel; but you must think of
some very pretty stories to tell them, for my parents like to hear
stories better than anything. My mother prefers one that is deep and
moral; but my father likes something funny, to make him laugh."

"Very well," he replied; "I shall bring you no other marriage
portion than a story," and so they parted. But the princess gave him a
sword which was studded with gold coins, and these he could use.

Then he flew away to the town and bought a new dressing-gown,
and afterwards returned to the wood, where he composed a story, so
as to be ready for Saturday, which was no easy matter. It was ready
however by Saturday, when he went to see the princess. The king, and
queen, and the whole court, were at tea with the princess; and he
was received with great politeness.

"Will you tell us a story?" said the queen,--"one that is
instructive and full of deep learning."

"Yes, but with something in it to laugh at," said the king.

"Certainly," he replied, and commenced at once, asking them to
listen attentively. "There was once a bundle of matches that were
exceedingly proud of their high descent. Their genealogical tree, that
is, a large pine-tree from which they had been cut, was at one time
a large, old tree in the wood. The matches now lay between a
tinder-box and an old iron saucepan, and were talking about their
youthful days. 'Ah! then we grew on the green boughs, and were as
green as they; every morning and evening we were fed with diamond
drops of dew. Whenever the sun shone, we felt his warm rays, and the
little birds would relate stories to us as they sung. We knew that
we were rich, for the other trees only wore their green dress in
summer, but our family were able to array themselves in green,
summer and winter. But the wood-cutter came, like a great
revolution, and our family fell under the axe. The head of the house
obtained a situation as mainmast in a very fine ship, and can sail
round the world when he will. The other branches of the family were
taken to different places, and our office now is to kindle a light for
common people. This is how such high-born people as we came to be in a
kitchen.'

"'Mine has been a very different fate,' said the iron pot, which
stood by the matches; 'from my first entrance into the world I have
been used to cooking and scouring. I am the first in this house,
when anything solid or useful is required. My only pleasure is to be
made clean and shining after dinner, and to sit in my place and have a
little sensible conversation with my neighbors. All of us, excepting
the water-bucket, which is sometimes taken into the courtyard, live
here together within these four walls. We get our news from the
market-basket, but he sometimes tells us very unpleasant things
about the people and the government. Yes, and one day an old pot was
so alarmed, that he fell down and was broken to pieces. He was a
liberal, I can tell you.'

"'You are talking too much,' said the tinder-box, and the steel
struck against the flint till some sparks flew out, crying, 'We want a
merry evening, don't we?'

"'Yes, of course,' said the matches, 'let us talk about those
who are the highest born.'

"'No, I don't like to be always talking of what we are,'
remarked the saucepan; 'let us think of some other amusement; I will
begin. We will tell something that has happened to ourselves; that
will be very easy, and interesting as well. On the Baltic Sea, near
the Danish shore'--

"'What a pretty commencement!' said the plates; 'we shall all
like that story, I am sure.'

"'Yes; well in my youth, I lived in a quiet family, where the
furniture was polished, the floors scoured, and clean curtains put
up every fortnight.'

"'What an interesting way you have of relating a story,' said
the carpet-broom; 'it is easy to perceive that you have been a great
deal in women's society, there is something so pure runs through
what you say.'

"'That is quite true,' said the water-bucket; and he made a spring
with joy, and splashed some water on the floor.

"Then the saucepan went on with his story, and the end was as good
as the beginning.

"The plates rattled with pleasure, and the carpet-broom brought
some green parsley out of the dust-hole and crowned the saucepan,
for he knew it would vex the others; and he thought, 'If I crown him
to-day he will crown me to-morrow.'

"'Now, let us have a dance,' said the fire-tongs; and then how
they danced and stuck up one leg in the air. The chair-cushion in
the corner burst with laughter when she saw it.

"'Shall I be crowned now?' asked the fire-tongs; so the broom
found another wreath for the tongs.

"'They were only common people after all,' thought the matches.
The tea-urn was now asked to sing, but she said she had a cold, and
could not sing without boiling heat. They all thought this was
affectation, and because she did not wish to sing excepting in the
parlor, when on the table with the grand people.

"In the window sat an old quill-pen, with which the maid generally
wrote. There was nothing remarkable about the pen, excepting that it
had been dipped too deeply in the ink, but it was proud of that.

"'If the tea-urn won't sing,' said the pen, 'she can leave it
alone; there is a nightingale in a cage who can sing; she has not been
taught much, certainly, but we need not say anything this evening
about that.'

"'I think it highly improper,' said the tea-kettle, who was
kitchen singer, and half-brother to the tea-urn, 'that a rich
foreign bird should be listened to here. Is it patriotic? Let the
market-basket decide what is right.'

"'I certainly am vexed,' said the basket; 'inwardly vexed, more
than any one can imagine. Are we spending the evening properly?
Would it not be more sensible to put the house in order? If each
were in his own place I would lead a game; this would be quite another
thing.'

"'Let us act a play,' said they all. At the same moment the door
opened, and the maid came in. Then not one stirred; they all
remained quite still; yet, at the same time, there was not a single
pot amongst them who had not a high opinion of himself, and of what he
could do if he chose.

"'Yes, if we had chosen,' they each thought, 'we might have
spent a very pleasant evening.'

"The maid took the matches and lighted them; dear me, how they
sputtered and blazed up!

"'Now then,' they thought, 'every one will see that we are the
first. How we shine; what a light we give!' Even while they spoke
their light went out.

"What a capital story," said the queen, "I feel as if I were
really in the kitchen, and could see the matches; yes, you shall marry
our daughter."

"Certainly," said the king, "thou shalt have our daughter." The
king said thou to him because he was going to be one of the family.
The wedding-day was fixed, and, on the evening before, the whole
city was illuminated. Cakes and sweetmeats were thrown among the
people. The street boys stood on tiptoe and shouted "hurrah," and
whistled between their fingers; altogether it was a very splendid
affair.

"I will give them another treat," said the merchant's son. So he
went and bought rockets and crackers, and all sorts of fire-works that
could be thought of, packed them in his trunk, and flew up with it
into the air. What a whizzing and popping they made as they went
off! The Turks, when they saw such a sight in the air, jumped so
high that their slippers flew about their ears. It was easy to believe
after this that the princess was really going to marry a Turkish
angel.

As soon as the merchant's son had come down in his flying trunk to
the wood after the fireworks, he thought, "I will go back into the
town now, and hear what they think of the entertainment." It was
very natural that he should wish to know. And what strange things
people did say, to be sure! every one whom he questioned had a
different tale to tell, though they all thought it very beautiful.

"'I saw the Turkish angel myself," said one; "he had eyes like
glittering stars, and a head like foaming water."

"He flew in a mantle of fire," cried another, "and lovely little
cherubs peeped out from the folds."

He heard many more fine things about himself, and that the next
day he was to be married. After this he went back to the forest to
rest himself in his trunk. It had disappeared! A spark from the
fireworks which remained had set it on fire; it was burnt to ashes! So
the merchant's son could not fly any more, nor go to meet his bride.
She stood all day on the roof waiting for him, and most likely she
is waiting there still; while he wanders through the world telling
fairy tales, but none of them so amusing as the one he related about
the matches.




THE SHEPHERD'S STORY OF THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," we replied.

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

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

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

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

"I love Anastasia," I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF

There was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling her
shoes, and the misfortunes that happened to her in consequence are
well known. Her name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and
presuming, and with a bad and cruel disposition. When quite a little
child she would delight in catching flies, and tearing off their
wings, so as to make creeping things of them. When older, she would
take cockchafers and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she
pushed a green leaf, or a little scrap of paper towards their feet,
and when the poor creatures would seize it and hold it fast, and
turn over and over in their struggles to get free from the pin, she
would say, "The cockchafer is reading; see how he turns over the
leaf." She grew worse instead of better with years, and,
unfortunately, she was pretty, which caused her to be excused, when
she should have been sharply reproved.

"Your headstrong will requires severity to conquer it," her mother
often said to her. "As a little child you used to trample on my apron,
but one day I fear you will trample on my heart." And, alas! this fear
was realized.

Inge was taken to the house of some rich people, who lived at a
distance, and who treated her as their own child, and dressed her so
fine that her pride and arrogance increased.

When she had been there about a year, her patroness said to her,
"You ought to go, for once, and see your parents, Inge."

So Inge started to go and visit her parents; but she only wanted
to show herself in her native place, that the people might see how
fine she was. She reached the entrance of the village, and saw the
young laboring men and maidens standing together chatting, and her own
mother amongst them. Inge's mother was sitting on a stone to rest,
with a fagot of sticks lying before her, which she had picked up in
the wood. Then Inge turned back; she who was so finely dressed she
felt ashamed of her mother, a poorly clad woman, who picked up wood in
the forest. She did not turn back out of pity for her mother's
poverty, but from pride.

Another half-year went by, and her mistress said, "you ought to go
home again, and visit your parents, Inge, and I will give you a
large wheaten loaf to take to them, they will be glad to see you, I am
sure."

So Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, drew her dress
up around her, and set out, stepping very carefully, that she might be
clean and neat about the feet, and there was nothing wrong in doing
so. But when she came to the place where the footpath led across the
moor, she found small pools of water, and a great deal of mud, so
she threw the loaf into the mud, and trod upon it, that she might pass
without wetting her feet. But as she stood with one foot on the loaf
and the other lifted up to step forward, the loaf began to sink
under her, lower and lower, till she disappeared altogether, and
only a few bubbles on the surface of the muddy pool remained to show
where she had sunk. And this is the story.

But where did Inge go? She sank into the ground, and went down
to the Marsh Woman, who is always brewing there.

The Marsh Woman is related to the elf maidens, who are well-known,
for songs are sung and pictures painted about them. But of the Marsh
Woman nothing is known, excepting that when a mist arises from the
meadows, in summer time, it is because she is brewing beneath them. To
the Marsh Woman's brewery Inge sunk down to a place which no one can
endure for long. A heap of mud is a palace compared with the Marsh
Woman's brewery; and as Inge fell she shuddered in every limb, and
soon became cold and stiff as marble. Her foot was still fastened to
the loaf, which bowed her down as a golden ear of corn bends the stem.

An evil spirit soon took possession of Inge, and carried her to
a still worse place, in which she saw crowds of unhappy people,
waiting in a state of agony for the gates of mercy to be opened to
them, and in every heart was a miserable and eternal feeling of
unrest. It would take too much time to describe the various tortures
these people suffered, but Inge's punishment consisted in standing
there as a statue, with her foot fastened to the loaf. She could
move her eyes about, and see all the misery around her, but she
could not turn her head; and when she saw the people looking at her
she thought they were admiring her pretty face and fine clothes, for
she was still vain and proud. But she had forgotten how soiled her
clothes had become while in the Marsh Woman's brewery, and that they
were covered with mud; a snake had also fastened itself in her hair,
and hung down her back, while from each fold in her dress a great toad
peeped out and croaked like an asthmatic poodle. Worse than all was
the terrible hunger that tormented her, and she could not stoop to
break off a piece of the loaf on which she stood. No; her back was too
stiff, and her whole body like a pillar of stone. And then came
creeping over her face and eyes flies without wings; she winked and
blinked, but they could not fly away, for their wings had been
pulled off; this, added to the hunger she felt, was horrible torture.

"If this lasts much longer," she said, "I shall not be able to
bear it." But it did last, and she had to bear it, without being
able to help herself.

A tear, followed by many scalding tears, fell upon her head, and
rolled over her face and neck, down to the loaf on which she stood.
Who could be weeping for Inge? She had a mother in the world still,
and the tears of sorrow which a mother sheds for her child will always
find their way to the child's heart, but they often increase the
torment instead of being a relief. And Inge could hear all that was
said about her in the world she had left, and every one seemed cruel
to her. The sin she had committed in treading on the loaf was known on
earth, for she had been seen by the cowherd from the hill, when she
was crossing the marsh and had disappeared.

When her mother wept and exclaimed, "Ah, Inge! what grief thou
hast caused thy mother" she would say, "Oh that I had never been born!
My mother's tears are useless now."

And then the words of the kind people who had adopted her came
to her ears, when they said, "Inge was a sinful girl, who did not
value the gifts of God, but trampled them under her feet."

"Ah," thought Inge, "they should have punished me, and driven
all my naughty tempers out of me."

A song was made about "The girl who trod on a loaf to keep her
shoes from being soiled," and this song was sung everywhere. The story
of her sin was also told to the little children, and they called her
"wicked Inge," and said she was so naughty that she ought to be
punished. Inge heard all this, and her heart became hardened and
full of bitterness.

But one day, while hunger and grief were gnawing in her hollow
frame, she heard a little, innocent child, while listening to the tale
of the vain, haughty Inge, burst into tears and exclaim, "But will she
never come up again?"

And she heard the reply, "No, she will never come up again."

"But if she were to say she was sorry, and ask pardon, and promise
never to do so again?" asked the little one.

"Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon," was the
answer.

"Oh, I wish she would!" said the child, who was quite unhappy
about it. "I should be so glad. I would give up my doll and all my
playthings, if she could only come here again. Poor Inge! it is so
dreadful for her."

These pitying words penetrated to Inge's inmost heart, and
seemed to do her good. It was the first time any one had said, "Poor
Inge!" without saying something about her faults. A little innocent
child was weeping, and praying for mercy for her. It made her feel
quite strange, and she would gladly have wept herself, and it added to
her torment to find she could not do so. And while she thus suffered
in a place where nothing changed, years passed away on earth, and
she heard her name less frequently mentioned. But one day a sigh
reached her ear, and the words, "Inge! Inge! what a grief thou hast
been to me! I said it would be so." It was the last sigh of her
dying mother.

After this, Inge heard her kind mistress say, "Ah, poor Inge!
shall I ever see thee again? Perhaps I may, for we know not what may
happen in the future." But Inge knew right well that her mistress
would never come to that dreadful place.

Time-passed--a long bitter time--then Inge heard her name
pronounced once more, and saw what seemed two bright stars shining
above her. They were two gentle eyes closing on earth. Many years
had passed since the little girl had lamented and wept about "poor
Inge." That child was now an old woman, whom God was taking to
Himself. In the last hour of existence the events of a whole life
often appear before us; and this hour the old woman remembered how,
when a child, she had shed tears over the story of Inge, and she
prayed for her now. As the eyes of the old woman closed to earth,
the eyes of the soul opened upon the hidden things of eternity, and
then she, in whose last thoughts Inge had been so vividly present, saw
how deeply the poor girl had sunk. She burst into tears at the
sight, and in heaven, as she had done when a little child on earth,
she wept and prayed for poor Inge. Her tears and her prayers echoed
through the dark void that surrounded the tormented captive soul,
and the unexpected mercy was obtained for it through an angel's tears.
As in thought Inge seemed to act over again every sin she had
committed on earth, she trembled, and tears she had never yet been
able to weep rushed to her eyes. It seemed impossible that the gates
of mercy could ever be opened to her; but while she acknowledged
this in deep penitence, a beam of radiant light shot suddenly into the
depths upon her. More powerful than the sunbeam that dissolves the man
of snow which the children have raised, more quickly than the
snowflake melts and becomes a drop of water on the warm lips of a
child, was the stony form of Inge changed, and as a little bird she
soared, with the speed of lightning, upward to the world of mortals. A
bird that felt timid and shy to all things around it, that seemed to
shrink with shame from meeting any living creature, and hurriedly
sought to conceal itself in a dark corner of an old ruined wall; there
it sat cowering and unable to utter a sound, for it was voiceless. Yet
how quickly the little bird discovered the beauty of everything around
it. The sweet, fresh air; the soft radiance of the moon, as its
light spread over the earth; the fragrance which exhaled from bush and
tree, made it feel happy as it sat there clothed in its fresh,
bright plumage. All creation seemed to speak of beneficence and
love. The bird wanted to give utterance to thoughts that stirred in
his breast, as the cuckoo and the nightingale in the spring, but it
could not. Yet in heaven can be heard the song of praise, even from
a worm; and the notes trembling in the breast of the bird were as
audible to Heaven even as the psalms of David before they had
fashioned themselves into words and song.

Christmas-time drew near, and a peasant who dwelt close by the old
wall stuck up a pole with some ears of corn fastened to the top,
that the birds of heaven might have feast, and rejoice in the happy,
blessed time. And on Christmas morning the sun arose and shone upon
the ears of corn, which were quickly surrounded by a number of
twittering birds. Then, from a hole in the wall, gushed forth in
song the swelling thoughts of the bird as he issued from his hiding
place to perform his first good deed on earth,--and in heaven it was
well known who that bird was.

The winter was very hard; the ponds were covered with ice, and
there was very little food for either the beasts of the field or the
birds of the air. Our little bird flew away into the public roads, and
found here and there, in the ruts of the sledges, a grain of corn, and
at the halting places some crumbs. Of these he ate only a few, but
he called around him the other birds and the hungry sparrows, that
they too might have food. He flew into the towns, and looked about,
and wherever a kind hand had strewed bread on the window-sill for
the birds, he only ate a single crumb himself, and gave all the rest
to the rest of the other birds. In the course of the winter the bird
had in this way collected many crumbs and given them to other birds,
till they equalled the weight of the loaf on which Inge had trod to
keep her shoes clean; and when the last bread-crumb had been found and
given, the gray wings of the bird became white, and spread
themselves out for flight.

"See, yonder is a sea-gull!" cried the children, when they saw the
white bird, as it dived into the sea, and rose again into the clear
sunlight, white and glittering. But no one could tell whither it
went then although some declared it flew straight to the sun.




THE GOBLIN AND THE HUCKSTER

There was once a regular student, who lived in a garret, and had
no possessions. And there was also a regular huckster, to whom the
house belonged, and who occupied the ground floor. A goblin lived with
the huckster, because at Christmas he always had a large dish full
of jam, with a great piece of butter in the middle. The huckster could
afford this; and therefore the goblin remained with the huckster,
which was very cunning of him.

One evening the student came into the shop through the back door
to buy candles and cheese for himself, he had no one to send, and
therefore he came himself; he obtained what he wished, and then the
huckster and his wife nodded good evening to him, and she was a
woman who could do more than merely nod, for she had usually plenty to
say for herself. The student nodded in return as he turned to leave,
then suddenly stopped, and began reading the piece of paper in which
the cheese was wrapped. It was a leaf torn out of an old book, a
book that ought not to have been torn up, for it was full of poetry.

"Yonder lies some more of the same sort," said the huckster: "I
gave an old woman a few coffee berries for it; you shall have the rest
for sixpence, if you will."

"Indeed I will," said the student; "give me the book instead of
the cheese; I can eat my bread and butter without cheese. It would
be a sin to tear up a book like this. You are a clever man; and a
practical man; but you understand no more about poetry than that
cask yonder."

This was a very rude speech, especially against the cask; but
the huckster and the student both laughed, for it was only said in
fun. But the goblin felt very angry that any man should venture to say
such things to a huckster who was a householder and sold the best
butter. As soon as it was night, and the shop closed, and every one in
bed except the student, the goblin stepped softly into the bedroom
where the huckster's wife slept, and took away her tongue, which of
course, she did not then want. Whatever object in the room he placed
his tongue upon immediately received voice and speech, and was able to
express its thoughts and feelings as readily as the lady herself could
do. It could only be used by one object at a time, which was a good
thing, as a number speaking at once would have caused great confusion.
The goblin laid the tongue upon the cask, in which lay a quantity of
old newspapers.

"Is it really true," he asked, "that you do not know what poetry
is?"

"Of course I know," replied the cask: "poetry is something that
always stand in the corner of a newspaper, and is sometimes cut out;
and I may venture to affirm that I have more of it in me than the
student has, and I am only a poor tub of the huckster's."

Then the goblin placed the tongue on the coffee mill; and how it
did go to be sure! Then he put it on the butter tub and the cash
box, and they all expressed the same opinion as the waste-paper tub;
and a majority must always be respected.

"Now I shall go and tell the student," said the goblin; and with
these words he went quietly up the back stairs to the garret where the
student lived. He had a candle burning still, and the goblin peeped
through the keyhole and saw that he was reading in the torn book,
which he had brought out of the shop. But how light the room was! From
the book shot forth a ray of light which grew broad and full, like the
stem of a tree, from which bright rays spread upward and over the
student's head. Each leaf was fresh, and each flower was like a
beautiful female head; some with dark and sparkling eyes, and others
with eyes that were wonderfully blue and clear. The fruit gleamed like
stars, and the room was filled with sounds of beautiful music. The
little goblin had never imagined, much less seen or heard of, any
sight so glorious as this. He stood still on tiptoe, peeping in,
till the light went out in the garret. The student no doubt had
blown out his candle and gone to bed; but the little goblin remained
standing there nevertheless, and listening to the music which still
sounded on, soft and beautiful, a sweet cradle-song for the student,
who had lain down to rest.

"This is a wonderful place," said the goblin; "I never expected
such a thing. I should like to stay here with the student;" and the
little man thought it over, for he was a sensible little spirit. At
last he sighed, "but the student has no jam!" So he went down stairs
again into the huckster's shop, and it was a good thing he got back
when he did, for the cask had almost worn out the lady's tongue; he
had given a description of all that he contained on one side, and
was just about to turn himself over to the other side to describe what
was there, when the goblin entered and restored the tongue to the
lady. But from that time forward, the whole shop, from the cash box
down to the pinewood logs, formed their opinions from that of the
cask; and they all had such confidence in him, and treated him with so
much respect, that when the huckster read the criticisms on
theatricals and art of an evening, they fancied it must all come
from the cask.

But after what he had seen, the goblin could no longer sit and
listen quietly to the wisdom and understanding down stairs; so, as
soon as the evening light glimmered in the garret, he took courage,
for it seemed to him as if the rays of light were strong cables,
drawing him up, and obliging him to go and peep through the keyhole;
and, while there, a feeling of vastness came over him such as we
experience by the ever-moving sea, when the storm breaks forth; and it
brought tears into his eyes. He did not himself know why he wept,
yet a kind of pleasant feeling mingled with his tears. "How
wonderfully glorious it would be to sit with the student under such
a tree;" but that was out of the question, he must be content to
look through the keyhole, and be thankful for even that.

There he stood on the old landing, with the autumn wind blowing
down upon him through the trap-door. It was very cold; but the
little creature did not really feel it, till the light in the garret
went out, and the tones of music died away. Then how he shivered,
and crept down stairs again to his warm corner, where it felt
home-like and comfortable. And when Christmas came again, and
brought the dish of jam and the great lump of butter, he liked the
huckster best of all.

Soon after, in the middle of the night, the goblin was awoke by
a terrible noise and knocking against the window shutters and the
house doors, and by the sound of the watchman's horn; for a great fire
had broken out, and the whole street appeared full of flames. Was it
in their house, or a neighbor's? No one could tell, for terror had
seized upon all. The huckster's wife was so bewildered that she took
her gold ear-rings out of her ears and put them in her pocket, that
she might save something at least. The huckster ran to get his
business papers, and the servant resolved to save her blue silk
mantle, which she had managed to buy. Each wished to keep the best
things they had. The goblin had the same wish; for, with one spring,
he was up stairs and in the student's room, whom he found standing
by the open window, and looking quite calmly at the fire, which was
raging at the house of a neighbor opposite. The goblin caught up the
wonderful book which lay on the table, and popped it into his red cap,
which he held tightly with both hands. The greatest treasure in the
house was saved; and he ran away with it to the roof, and seated
himself on the chimney. The flames of the burning house opposite
illuminated him as he sat, both hands pressed tightly over his cap, in
which the treasure lay; and then he found out what feelings really
reigned in his heart, and knew exactly which way they tended. And yet,
when the fire was extinguished, and the goblin again began to reflect,
he hesitated, and said at last, "I must divide myself between the two;
I cannot quite give up the huckster, because of the jam."

And this is a representation of human nature. We are like the
goblin; we all go to visit the huckster "because of the jam."




THE GOLDEN TREASURE

The drummer's wife went into the church. She saw the new altar
with the painted pictures and the carved angels. Those upon the canvas
and in the glory over the altar were just as beautiful as the carved
ones; and they were painted and gilt into the bargain. Their hair
gleamed golden in the sunshine, lovely to behold; but the real
sunshine was more beautiful still. It shone redder, clearer through
the dark trees, when the sun went down. It was lovely thus to look
at the sunshine of heaven. And she looked at the red sun, and she
thought about it so deeply, and thought of the little one whom the
stork was to bring, and the wife of the drummer was very cheerful, and
looked and looked, and wished that the child might have a gleam of
sunshine given to it, so that it might at least become like one of the
shining angels over the altar.

And when she really had the little child in her arms, and held
it up to its father, then it was like one of the angels in the
church to behold, with hair like gold--the gleam of the setting sun
was upon it.

"My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine!" said the mother; and
she kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like music and song in
the room of the drummer; and there was joy, and life, and movement.
The drummer beat a roll--a roll of joy. And the Drum said--the
Fire-drum, that was beaten when there was a fire in the town:

"Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the drum, and
not what your mother says! Rub-a dub, rub-a dub!"

And the town repeated what the Fire-drum had said.

The boy was taken to church, the boy was christened. There was
nothing much to be said about his name; he was called Peter. The whole
town, and the Drum too, called him Peter the drummer's boy with the
red hair; but his mother kissed his red hair, and called him her
golden treasure.

In the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched their
names as a remembrance.

"Celebrity is always something!" said the drummer; and so he
scratched his own name there, and his little son's name likewise.

And the swallows came. They had, on their long journey, seen
more durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the walls of the
temples in Hindostan, mighty deeds of great kings, immortal names,
so old that no one now could read or speak them. Remarkable celebrity!

In the clayey bank the martens built their nest. They bored
holes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and the thin
mist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and the drummer's
name also, and that of his little son.

"Peter's name will last a full year and a half longer!" said the
father.

"Fool!" thought the Fire-drum; but it only said, "Dub, dub, dub,
rub-a-dub!"

He was a boy full of life and gladness, this drummer's son with
the red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and he sang like a
bird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet no melody.

"He must become a chorister boy," said his mother. "He shall
sing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded angels who
are like him!"

"Fiery cat!" said some of the witty ones of the town.

The Drum heard that from the neighbors' wives.

"Don't go home, Peter," cried the street boys. "If you sleep in
the garret, there'll be a fire in the house, and the fire-drum will
have to be beaten."

"Look out for the drumsticks," replied Peter; and, small as he
was, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a punch in the
body with his fist, that the fellow lost his legs and tumbled over,
and the others took their legs off with themselves very rapidly.

The town musician was very genteel and fine. He was the son of the
royal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and would sometimes
take him to his home; and he gave him a violin, and taught him to play
it. It seemed as if the whole art lay in the boy's fingers; and he
wanted to be more than a drummer--he wanted to become musician to
the town.

"I'll be a soldier," said Peter; for he was still quite a little
lad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world to carry a
gun, and to be able to march one, two--one, two, and to wear a uniform
and a sword.

"Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!" said
the Drum.

"Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!" observed
his father; "but before he can do that, there must be war."

"Heaven forbid!" said his mother.

"We have nothing to lose," remarked the father.

"Yes, we have my boy," she retorted.

"But suppose he came back a general!" said the father.

"Without arms and legs!" cried the mother. "No, I would rather
keep my golden treasure with me."

"Drum, dum, dum!" The Fire-drum and all the other drums were
beating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and the son of
the drummer followed them. "Red-head. Golden treasure!"

The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him "famous;" the town
musician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war, but should
stay at home and learn music.

"Red-head," said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed; but
when one of them sometimes said to another, "Foxey," he would bite his
teeth together and look another way--into the wide world. He did not
care for the nickname.

The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored; that
is the best canteen, said his old comrades.

And many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet through
with the driving rain or the falling mist; but his good humor never
forsook him. The drum-sticks sounded, "Rub-a-dub, all up, all up!"
Yes, he was certainly born to be a drummer.

The day of battle dawned. The sun had not yet risen, but the
morning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot; there was mist
in the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The bullets and shells
flew over the soldiers' heads, and into their heads--into their bodies
and limbs; but still they pressed forward. Here or there one or
other of them would sink on his knees, with bleeding temples and a
face as white as chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthy
color; he had suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog of
the regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole thing
had been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets were only
flying about that he might have a game of play with them.

"March! Forward! March!" This, was the word of command for the
drum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though they
might have done so, and perhaps there would have been much sense in
it; and now at last the word "Retire" was given; but our little
drummer beat "Forward! march!" for he had understood the command thus,
and the soldiers obeyed the sound of the drum. That was a good roll,
and proved the summons to victory for the men, who had already begun
to give way.

Life and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore away the
flesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a terrible glow the
strawheaps to which the wounded had dragged themselves, to lie
untended for many hours, perhaps for all the hours they had to live.

It's no use thinking of it; and yet one cannot help thinking of
it, even far away in the peaceful town. The drummer and his wife
also thought of it, for Peter was at the war.

"Now, I'm tired of these complaints," said the Fire-drum.

Again the day of battle dawned; the sun had not yet risen, but
it was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They had been
talking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost every night,
for he was out yonder in God's hand. And the father dreamt that the
war was over, that the soldiers had returned home, and that Peter wore
a silver cross on his breast. But the mother dreamt that she had
gone into the church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carved
angels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden treasure
of her heart, who was standing among the angels in white robes,
singing so sweetly, as surely only the angels can sing; and that he
had soared up with them into the sunshine, and nodded so kindly at his
mother.

"My golden treasure!" she cried out; and she awoke. "Now the
good God has taken him to Himself!" She folded her hands, and hid
her face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept. "Where does he
rest now? among the many in the big grave that they have dug for the
dead? Perhaps he's in the water in the marsh! Nobody knows his
grave; no holy words have been read over it!" And the Lord's Prayer
went inaudibly over her lips; she bowed her head, and was so weary
that she went to sleep.


And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

It was evening. Over the battle-field a rainbow spread, which
touched the forest and the deep marsh.

It has been said, and is preserved in popular belief, that where
the rainbow touches the earth a treasure lies buried, a golden
treasure; and here there was one. No one but his mother thought of the
little drummer, and therefore she dreamt of him.


And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

Not a hair of his head had been hurt, not a golden hair.

"Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum! there he is!" the Drum might have said,
and his mother might have sung, if she had seen or dreamt it.

With hurrah and song, adorned with green wreaths of victory,
they came home, as the war was at an end, and peace had been signed.
The dog of the regiment sprang on in front with large bounds, and made
the way three times as long for himself as it really was.

And days and weeks went by, and Peter came into his parents' room.
He was as brown as a wild man, and his eyes were bright, and his
face beamed like sunshine. And his mother held him in her arms; she
kissed his lips, his forehead, and his red hair. She had her boy
back again; he had not a silver cross on his breast, as his father had
dreamt, but he had sound limbs, a thing the mother had not dreamt. And
what a rejoicing was there! They laughed and they wept; and Peter
embraced the old Fire-drum.

"There stands the old skeleton still!" he said.

And the father beat a roll upon it.

"One would think that a great fire had broken out here," said
the Fire-drum. "Bright day! fire in the heart! golden treasure! skrat!
skr-r-at! skr-r-r-r-at!"


And what then? What then!--Ask the town musician.

"Peter's far outgrowing the drum," he said. "Peter will be greater
than I."

And yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer; but all that he
had learned in half a lifetime, Peter learned in half a year.

There was something so merry about him, something so truly
kind-hearted. His eyes gleamed, and his hair gleamed too--there was no
denying that!

"He ought to have his hair dyed," said the neighbor's wife.
"That answered capitally with the policeman's daughter, and she got
a husband."

"But her hair turned as green as duckweed, and was always having
to be colored up."

"She knows how to manage for herself," said the neighbors, "and so
can Peter. He comes to the most genteel houses, even to the
burgomaster's where he gives Miss Charlotte piano-forte lessons."

He could play! He could play, fresh out of his heart, the most
charming pieces, that had never been put upon music-paper. He played
in the bright nights, and in the dark nights, too. The neighbors
declared it was unbearable, and the Fire-drum was of the same opinion.

He played until his thoughts soared up, and burst forth in great
plans for the future:

"To be famous!"

And burgomaster's Charlotte sat at the piano. Her delicate fingers
danced over the keys, and made them ring into Peter's heart. It seemed
too much for him to bear; and this happened not once, but many
times; and at last one day he seized the delicate fingers and the
white hand, and kissed it, and looked into her great brown eyes.
Heaven knows what he said; but we may be allowed to guess at it.
Charlotte blushed to guess at it. She reddened from brow to neck,
and answered not a single word; and then strangers came into the room,
and one of them was the state councillor's son. He had a lofty white
forehead, and carried it so high that it seemed to go back into his
neck. And Peter sat by her a long time, and she looked at him with
gentle eyes.

At home that evening he spoke of travel in the wide world, and
of the golden treasure that lay hidden for him in his violin.

"To be famous!"

"Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum!" said the Fire-drum. "Peter
has gone clear out of his wits. I think there must be a fire in the
house."

Next day the mother went to market.

"Shall I tell you news, Peter?" she asked when she came home. "A
capital piece of news. Burgomaster's Charlotte has engaged herself
to the state councillor's son; the betrothal took place yesterday
evening."

"No!" cried Peter, and he sprang up from his chair. But his mother
persisted in saying "Yes." She had heard it from the baker's wife,
whose husband had it from the burgomaster's own mouth.

And Peter became as pale as death, and sat down again.

"Good Heaven! what's the matter with you?" asked his mother.

"Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself," he answered but the
tears were running down his cheeks.

"My sweet child, my golden treasure!" cried the mother, and she
wept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but inwardly.

"Charlotte's gone! Charlotte's gone! and now the song is done."

But the song was not done; there were many more verses in it, long
verses, the most beautiful verses, the golden treasures of a life.


"She behaves like a mad woman," said the neighbor's wife. "All the
world is to see the letters she gets from her golden treasure, and
to read the words that are written in the papers about his violin
playing. And he sends her money too, and that's very useful to her
since she has been a widow."

"He plays before emperors and kings," said the town musician. "I
never had that fortune, but he's my pupil, and he does not forget
his old master."

And his mother said,

"His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with a silver
cross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is still more
difficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the cross of honor. If
his father had only lived to see it!"

"He's grown famous!" said the Fire-drum, and all his native town
said the same thing, for the drummer's son, Peter with the red
hair--Peter whom they had known as a little boy, running about in
wooden shoes, and then as a drummer, playing for the dancers--was
become famous!

"He played at our house before he played in the presence of
kings," said the burgomaster's wife. "At that time he was quite
smitten with Charlotte. He was always of an aspiring turn. At that
time he was saucy and an enthusiast. My husband laughed when he
heard of the foolish affair, and now our Charlotte is a state
councillor's wife."

A golden treasure had been hidden in the heart and soul of the
poor child, who had beaten the roll as a drummer--a roll of victory
for those who had been ready to retreat. There was a golden treasure
in his bosom, the power of sound; it burst forth on his violin as if
the instrument had been a complete organ, and as if all the elves of a
midsummer night were dancing across the strings. In its sounds were
heard the piping of the thrush and the full clear note of the human
voice; therefore the sound brought rapture to every heart, and carried
his name triumphant through the land. That was a great firebrand--the
firebrand of inspiration.

"And then he looks so splendid!" said the young ladies and the old
ladies too; and the oldest of all procured an album for famous locks
of hair, wholly and solely that she might beg a lock of his rich
splendid hair, that treasure, that golden treasure.

And the son came into the poor room of the drummer, elegant as a
prince, happier than a king. His eyes were as clear and his face was
as radiant as sunshine; and he held his mother in his arms, and she
kissed his mouth, and wept as blissfully as any one can weep for
joy; and he nodded at every old piece of furniture in the room, at the
cupboard with the tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He nodded at the
sleeping-bench, where he had slept as a little boy; but the old
Fire-drum he brought out, and dragged it into the middle of the
room, and said to it and to his mother:

"My father would have beaten a famous roll this evening. Now I
must do it!"

And he beat a thundering roll-call on the instrument, and the Drum
felt so highly honored that the parchment burst with exultation.

"He has a splendid touch!" said the Drum. "I've a remembrance of
him now that will last. I expect that the same thing will happen to
his mother, from pure joy over her golden treasure."

And this is the story of the Golden Treasure.




THE GOLOSHES OF FORTUNE

A BEGINNING

In a house in Copenhagen, not far from the king's new market, a
very large party had assembled, the host and his family expecting,
no doubt, to receive invitations in return. One half of the company
were already seated at the card-tables, the other half seemed to be
waiting the result of their hostess's question, "Well, how shall we
amuse ourselves?"

Conversation followed, which, after a while, began to prove very
entertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon the events of the
middle ages, which some persons maintained were more full of
interest than our own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so
warmly that the lady of the house immediately went over to his side,
and both exclaimed against Oersted's Essays on Ancient and Modern
Times, in which the preference is given to our own. The counsellor
considered the times of the Danish king, Hans, as the noblest and
happiest.

The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a moment
by the arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however, contain much
worth reading, and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to
the ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks, and goloshes were carefully
placed. Here sat two maidens, one young, and the other old, as if they
had come and were waiting to accompany their mistresses home; but on
looking at them more closely, it could easily be seen that they were
no common servants. Their shapes were too graceful, their
complexions too delicate, and the cut of their dresses much too
elegant. They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune herself,
but the chambermaid of one of Fortune's attendants, who carries
about her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who was named Care,
looked rather gloomy; she always goes about to perform her own
business in person; for then she knows it is properly done. They
were telling each other where they had been during the day. The
messenger of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant matters;
for instance, she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain,
and obtained for an honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so
on; but she had something extraordinary to relate, after all.

"I must tell you," said she, "that to-day is my birthday; and in
honor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of goloshes, to
introduce amongst mankind. These goloshes have the property of
making every one who puts them on imagine himself in any place he
wishes, or that he exists at any period. Every wish is fulfilled at
the moment it is expressed, so that for once mankind have the chance
of being happy."

"No," replied Care; "you may depend upon it that whoever puts on
those goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the moment in which
he can get rid of them."

"What are you thinking of?" replied the other. "Now see; I will
place them by the door; some one will take them instead of his own,
and he will be the happy man."

This was the end of their conversation.


WHAT HAPPENED TO THE COUNSELLOR

It was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in thought about the times
of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so ordered it that he
put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own, and walked out into
the East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes, he was at
once carried back three hundred years, to the times of King Hans,
for which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he
immediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in
those days possessed no pavement.

"Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is!" said the
counsellor; "and the whole pavement has vanished, and the lamps are all
out."

The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick
foggy air, and all the objects around him were confused together in
the darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of
the Madonna; but the light it gave was almost useless, for he only
perceived it when he came quite close and his eyes fell on the painted
figures of the Mother and Child.

"That is most likely a museum of art," thought he, "and they
have forgotten to take down the sign."

Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.

"What odd figures!" thought he; "they must be returning from
some masquerade."

Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a
blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared
with astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before
him. First came a whole troop of drummers, beating their drums very
cleverly; they were followed by life-guards, with longbows and
crossbows. The principal person in the procession was a
clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it
all meant, and who the gentleman might be.

"That is the bishop of Zealand."

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed; "what in the world has happened
to the bishop? what can he be thinking about?" Then he shook his
head and said, "It cannot possibly be the bishop himself."

While musing on this strange affair, and without looking to the
right or left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge
Place. The bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere
to be found; but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and
two people, who sat in a boat.

"Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm?" asked one.

"To the Holm!" exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in what age
he was now existing; "I want to go to Christian's Haven, in Little
Turf Street." The men stared at him. "Pray tell me where the bridge
is!" said he. "It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here, and
it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh." But the more he
talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.

"I don't understand your outlandish talk," he cried at last,
angrily turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find the
bridge nor any railings.

"What a scandalous condition this place is in," said he; never,
certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening.
"I think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are
they?" There was not one to be seen! "I shall be obliged to go back to
the king's new market," said he, "where there are plenty of
carriages standing, or I shall never reach Christian's Haven." Then he
went towards East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the
moon burst forth from a cloud.

"Dear me, what have they been erecting here?" he cried, as he
caught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand at
the end of East Street. However, he found an opening through which
he passed, and came out upon where he expected to find the new market.
Nothing was to be seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes,
through which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking
wooden booths, for the accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the
opposite shore.

"Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy," groaned
the counsellor. "What can it be? What is the matter with me?" He
turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking
through the street this time, he examined the houses more closely;
he found that most of them were built of lath and plaster, and many
had only a thatched roof.

"I am certainly all wrong," said he, with a sigh; "and yet I only
drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that, and it was very
foolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak about it to our
hostess, the agent's lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how
ill I feel, I fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very
likely that I should find any one up." Then he looked for the house,
but it was not in existence.

"This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East Street.
Not a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down
houses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must
be ill! It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is
the agent's house. There is a house, but it is not his; and people
still up in it, I can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer." As he
reached the half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a
tavern of the olden times, and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had
the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people, consisting
of seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few scholars, sat in deep
conversation over their mugs, and took very little notice of the new
comer.

"Pardon me," said the counsellor, addressing the landlady, "I do
not feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you will send for
a fly to take me to Christian's Haven." The woman stared at him and
shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor
supposed from this that she did not understand Danish; he therefore
repeated his request in German. This, as well as his singular dress,
convinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood,
however, that he did not find himself quite well, and therefore
brought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater,
certainly, although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then
the counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep breath, and
pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.

"Is that to-day's number of the Day?" he asked, quite
mechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper.
She did not understand what he meant, but she handed him the sheet; it
was a woodcut, representing a meteor, which had appeared in the town
of Cologne.

"That is very old," said the counsellor, becoming quite cheerful
at the sight of this antique drawing. "Where did you get this singular
sheet? It is very interesting, although the whole affair is a fable.
Meteors are easily explained in these days; they are northern
lights, which are often seen, and are no doubt caused by electricity."

Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at him in
great astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat
respectfully, and said in a very serious manner, "You must certainly
be a very learned man, monsieur."

"Oh no," replied the counsellor; "I can only discourse on topics
which every one should understand."

"Modestia is a beautiful virtue," said the man. "Moreover, I
must add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case I would
suspend my judicium."

"May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"I am a Bachelor of Divinity," said the man. This answer satisfied
the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.

"This is surely," thought he, "an old village schoolmaster, a
perfect original, such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland."

"This is not certainly a locus docendi," began the man; "still I
must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in
ancient lore."

"Oh yes," replied the counsellor; "I am very fond of reading
useful old books, and modern ones as well, with the exception of
every-day stories, of which we really have more than enough.

"Every-day stories?" asked the bachelor.

"Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present day."

"Oh," replied the man, with a smile; "and yet they are very witty,
and are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of
Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his
knights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen
of his Court."

"Well, I have certainly not read that," replied the counsellor. "I
suppose it is quite new, and published by Heiberg."

"No," answered the man, "it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von
Gehman brought it out."

"Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name," said the
counsellor; "was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark?"

"Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now," replied
the scholar.

So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the citizens
began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few
years before, meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he
referred to the cholera, and they could discuss this without finding
out the mistake. The war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The
English pirates had taken some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the
counsellor, supposing they referred to these, agreed with them in
finding fault with the English. The rest of the talk, however, was not
so agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other. The good
bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark of the
counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared
at each other, and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin,
in the hope of being better understood; but it was all useless.

"How are you now?" asked the landlady, pulling the counsellor's
sleeve.

Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of
conversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.

"Goodness me! where am I?" said he. It bewildered him as he
thought of it.

"We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer," said one of
the guests; "will you drink with us?"

Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two
colors. They poured out the wine, bowed their heads, and withdrew.

The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. "What is this?
what does it mean?" said he; but he was obliged to drink with them,
for they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became
at last desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did
not doubt the man's word in the least--only begged them to get a
droschky; and then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite
language. Never before had he been in such rough and vulgar company.
"One might believe that the country was going back to heathenism,"
he observed. "This is the most terrible moment of my life."

Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the
table, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached
the entry, the rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by
the feet, when, luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with
them vanished the whole enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite
plainly a lamp, and a large building behind it; everything looked
familiar and beautiful. He was in East Street, as it now appears; he
lay with his legs turned towards a porch, and just by him sat the
watchman asleep.

"Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street
dreaming?" said he. "Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully
bright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass of
punch should have upset me like this."

Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to drive
him to Christian's Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety
which he had undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the
reality and comfort of modern times, which, with all their errors,
were far better than those in which he so lately found himself.


THE WATCHMAN'S ADVENTURES

"Well, I declare, there lies a pair of goloshes," said the
watchman. "No doubt, they belong to the lieutenant who lives up
stairs. They are lying just by his door." Gladly would the honest
man have rung, and given them in, for a light was still burning, but
he did not wish to disturb the other people in the house; so he let
them lie. "These things must keep the feet very warm," said he;
"they are of such nice soft leather." Then he tried them on, and
they fitted his feet exactly. "Now," said he, "how droll things are in
this world! There's that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he does
not do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a
happy man. He has neither wife nor children, and he goes out into
company every evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I should be a
happy man."

As he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on took
effect, and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood
in his room, holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers,
on which was a poem,--a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who
has not had, for once in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and
at such a moment, if the thoughts are written down, they flow in
poetry. The following verses were written on the pink paper:--

  "OH WERE I RICH!

  "Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth's bright hour,
    When youthful pleasures banish every care,
  I longed for riches but to gain a power,
    The sword and plume and uniform to wear!
  The riches and the honor came for me;
    Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:
        Ah, help and pity me!

  "Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,
    A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,
  Rich in its tender love and purity,
    Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.
  Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;
    She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.
        Thou knowest: ah, pity me!

  "Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:
    That child is now a woman, fair and free,
  As good and beautiful as angels are.
    Oh, were I rich in lovers' poetry,
  To tell my fairy tale, love's richest lore!
    But no; I must be silent--I am poor.
        Ah, wilt thou pity me?

  "Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,
    I need not then my poverty bewail.
  To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;
    Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?
  A leaf on which my sorrows I relate--
    Dark story of a darker night of fate.
        Ah, bless and pity me!"


"Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but a wise
man will not print them. A lieutenant in love, and poor. This is a
triangle, or more properly speaking, the half of the broken die of
fortune." The lieutenant felt this very keenly, and therefore leaned
his head against the window-frame, and sighed deeply. "The poor
watchman in the street," said he, "is far happier than I am. He
knows not what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife and children, who
weep at his sorrow and rejoice at his joy. Oh, how much happier I
should be could I change my being and position with him, and pass
through life with his humble expectations and hopes! Yes, he is indeed
happier than I am."

At this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for having,
through the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the existence of the
lieutenant, and found himself less contented than he expected, he
had preferred his former condition, and wished himself again a
watchman. "That was an ugly dream," said he, "but droll enough. It
seemed to me as if I were the lieutenant up yonder, but there was no
happiness for me. I missed my wife and the little ones, who are always
ready to smother me with kisses." He sat down again and nodded, but he
could not get the dream out of his thoughts, and he still had the
goloshes on his feet. A falling star gleamed across the sky. "There
goes one!" cried he. "However, there are quite enough left; I should
very much like to examine these a little nearer, especially the
moon, for that could not slip away under one's hands. The student, for
whom my wife washes, says that when we die we shall fly from one
star to another. If that were true, it would be very delightful, but I
don't believe it. I wish I could make a little spring up there now;
I would willingly let my body lie here on the steps."

There are certain things in the world which should be uttered very
cautiously; doubly so when the speaker has on his feet the goloshes of
Fortune. Now we shall hear what happened to the watchman.

Nearly every one is acquainted with the great power of steam; we
have proved it by the rapidity with which we can travel, both on a
railroad or in a steamship across the sea. But this speed is like
the movements of the sloth, or the crawling march of the snail, when
compared to the swiftness with which light travels; light flies
nineteen million times faster than the fleetest race-horse, and
electricity is more rapid still. Death is an electric shock which we
receive in our hearts, and on the wings of electricity the liberated
soul flies away swiftly, the light from the sun travels to our earth
ninety-five millions of miles in eight minutes and a few seconds;
but on the wings of electricity, the mind requires only a second to
accomplish the same distance. The space between the heavenly bodies
is, to thought, no farther than the distance which we may have to walk
from one friend's house to another in the same town; yet this electric
shock obliges us to use our bodies here below, unless, like the
watchman, we have on the goloshes of Fortune.

In a very few seconds the watchman had travelled more than two
hundred thousand miles to the moon, which is formed of a lighter
material than our earth, and may be said to be as soft as new fallen
snow. He found himself on one of the circular range of mountains which
we see represented in Dr. Madler's large map of the moon. The interior
had the appearance of a large hollow, bowl-shaped, with a depth
about half a mile from the brim. Within this hollow stood a large
town; we may form some idea of its appearance by pouring the white
of an egg into a glass of water. The materials of which it was built
seemed just as soft, and pictured forth cloudy turrets and sail-like
terraces, quite transparent, and floating in the thin air. Our earth
hung over his head like a great dark red ball. Presently he discovered
a number of beings, which might certainly be called men, but were very
different to ourselves. A more fantastical imagination than Herschel's
must have discovered these. Had they been placed in groups, and
painted, it might have been said, "What beautiful foliage!" They had
also a language of their own. No one could have expected the soul of
the watchman to understand it, and yet he did understand it, for our
souls have much greater capabilities then we are inclined to
believe. Do we not, in our dreams, show a wonderful dramatic talent?
each of our acquaintance appears to us then in his own character,
and with his own voice; no man could thus imitate them in his waking
hours. How clearly, too, we are reminded of persons whom we have not
seen for many years; they start up suddenly to the mind's eye with all
their peculiarities as living realities. In fact, this memory of the
soul is a fearful thing; every sin, every sinful thought it can
bring back, and we may well ask how we are to give account of "every
idle word" that may have been whispered in the heart or uttered with
the lips. The spirit of the watchman therefore understood very well
the language of the inhabitants of the moon. They were disputing about
our earth, and doubted whether it could be inhabited. The
atmosphere, they asserted, must be too dense for any inhabitants of
the moon to exist there. They maintained that the moon alone was
inhabited, and was really the heavenly body in which the old world
people lived. They likewise talked politics.

But now we will descend to East Street, and see what happened to
the watchman's body. He sat lifeless on the steps. His staff had
fallen out of his hand, and his eyes stared at the moon, about which
his honest soul was wandering.

"What is it o'clock, watchman?" inquired a passenger. But there
was no answer from the watchman.

The man then pulled his nose gently, which caused him to lose
his balance. The body fell forward, and lay at full length on the
ground as one dead.

All his comrades were very much frightened, for he seemed quite
dead; still they allowed him to remain after they had given notice
of what had happened; and at dawn the body was carried to the
hospital. We might imagine it to be no jesting matter if the soul of
the man should chance to return to him, for most probably it would
seek for the body in East Street without being able to find it. We
might fancy the soul inquiring of the police, or at the address
office, or among the missing parcels, and then at length finding it at
the hospital. But we may comfort ourselves by the certainty that the
soul, when acting upon its own impulses, is wiser than we are; it is
the body that makes it stupid.

As we have said, the watchman's body had been taken to the
hospital, and here it was placed in a room to be washed. Naturally,
the first thing done here was to take off the goloshes, upon which the
soul was instantly obliged to return, and it took the direct road to
the body at once, and in a few seconds the man's life returned to him.
He declared, when he quite recovered himself, that this had been the
most dreadful night he had ever passed; not for a hundred pounds would
he go through such feelings again. However, it was all over now.

The same day he was allowed to leave, but the goloshes remained at
the hospital.


THE EVENTFUL MOMENT--A MOST UNUSUAL JOURNEY

Every inhabitant of Copenhagen knows what the entrance to
Frederick's Hospital is like; but as most probably a few of those
who read this little tale may not reside in Copenhagen, we will give a
short description of it.

The hospital is separated from the street by an iron railing, in
which the bars stand so wide apart that, it is said, some very slim
patients have squeezed through, and gone to pay little visits in the
town. The most difficult part of the body to get through was the head;
and in this case, as it often happens in the world, the small heads
were the most fortunate. This will serve as sufficient introduction to
our tale. One of the young volunteers, of whom, physically speaking,
it might be said that he had a great head, was on guard that evening
at the hospital. The rain was pouring down, yet, in spite of these two
obstacles, he wanted to go out just for a quarter of an hour; it was
not worth while, he thought, to make a confidant of the porter, as
he could easily slip through the iron railings. There lay the
goloshes, which the watchman had forgotten. It never occurred to him
that these could be goloshes of Fortune. They would be very
serviceable to him in this rainy weather, so he drew them on. Now came
the question whether he could squeeze through the palings; he
certainly had never tried, so he stood looking at them. "I wish to
goodness my head was through," said he, and instantly, though it was
so thick and large, it slipped through quite easily. The goloshes
answered that purpose very well, but his body had to follow, and
this was impossible. "I am too fat," he said; "I thought my head would
be the worst, but I cannot get my body through, that is certain." Then
he tried to pull his head back again, but without success; he could
move his neck about easily enough, and that was all. His first feeling
was one of anger, and then his spirits sank below zero. The goloshes
of Fortune had placed him in this terrible position, and unfortunately
it never occurred to him to wish himself free. No, instead of
wishing he kept twisting about, yet did not stir from the spot. The
rain poured, and not a creature could be seen in the street. The
porter's bell he was unable to reach, and however was he to get loose!
He foresaw that he should have to stay there till morning, and then
they must send for a smith to file away the iron bars, and that
would be a work of time. All the charity children would just be
going to school: and all the sailors who inhabited that quarter of the
town would be there to see him standing in the pillory. What a crowd
there would be. "Ha," he cried, "the blood is rushing to my head,
and I shall go mad. I believe I am crazy already; oh, I wish I were
free, then all these sensations would pass off." This is just what
he ought to have said at first. The moment he had expressed the
thought his head was free. He started back, quite bewildered with
the fright which the goloshes of Fortune had caused him. But we must
not suppose it was all over; no, indeed, there was worse to come
yet. The night passed, and the whole of the following day; but no
one sent for the goloshes. In the evening a declamatory performance
was to take place at the amateur theatre in a distant street. The
house was crowded; among the audience was the young volunteer from the
hospital, who seemed to have quite forgotten his adventures of the
previous evening. He had on the goloshes; they had not been sent
for, and as the streets were still very dirty, they were of great
service to him. A new poem, entitled "My Aunt's Spectacles," was being
recited. It described these spectacles as possessing a wonderful
power; if any one put them on in a large assembly the people
appeared like cards, and the future events of ensuing years could be
easily foretold by them. The idea struck him that he should very
much like to have such a pair of spectacles; for, if used rightly,
they would perhaps enable him to see into the hearts of people,
which he thought would be more interesting than to know what was going
to happen next year; for future events would be sure to show
themselves, but the hearts of people never. "I can fancy what I should
see in the whole row of ladies and gentlemen on the first seat, if I
could only look into their hearts; that lady, I imagine, keeps a store
for things of all descriptions; how my eyes would wander about in that
collection; with many ladies I should no doubt find a large
millinery establishment. There is another that is perhaps empty, and
would be all the better for cleaning out. There may be some well
stored with good articles. Ah, yes," he sighed, "I know one, in
which everything is solid, but a servant is there already, and that is
the only thing against it. I dare say from many I should hear the
words, 'Please to walk in.' I only wish I could slip into the hearts
like a little tiny thought." This was the word of command for the
goloshes. The volunteer shrunk up together, and commenced a most
unusual journey through the hearts of the spectators in the first row.
The first heart he entered was that of a lady, but he thought he
must have got into one of the rooms of an orthopedic institution where
plaster casts of deformed limbs were hanging on the walls, with this
difference, that the casts in the institution are formed when the
patient enters, but here they were formed and preserved after the good
people had left. These were casts of the bodily and mental deformities
of the lady's female friends carefully preserved. Quickly he passed
into another heart, which had the appearance of a spacious, holy
church, with the white dove of innocence fluttering over the altar.
Gladly would he have fallen on his knees in such a sacred place; but
he was carried on to another heart, still, however, listening to the
tones of the organ, and feeling himself that he had become another and
a better man. The next heart was also a sanctuary, which he felt
almost unworthy to enter; it represented a mean garret, in which lay a
sick mother; but the warm sunshine streamed through the window, lovely
roses bloomed in a little flowerbox on the roof, two blue birds sang
of childlike joys, and the sick mother prayed for a blessing on her
daughter. Next he crept on his hands and knees through an overfilled
butcher's shop; there was meat, nothing but meat, wherever he stepped;
this was the heart of a rich, respectable man, whose name is doubtless
in the directory. Then he entered the heart of this man's wife; it was
an old, tumble-down pigeon-house; the husband's portrait served as a
weather-cock; it was connected with all the doors, which opened and
shut just as the husband's decision turned. The next heart was a
complete cabinet of mirrors, such as can be seen in the Castle of
Rosenberg. But these mirrors magnified in an astonishing degree; in
the middle of the floor sat, like the Grand Lama, the insignificant
I of the owner, astonished at the contemplation of his own features.
At his next visit he fancied he must have got into a narrow
needlecase, full of sharp needles: "Oh," thought he, "this must be the
heart of an old maid;" but such was not the fact; it belonged to a
young officer, who wore several orders, and was said to be a man of
intellect and heart.

The poor volunteer came out of the last heart in the row quite
bewildered. He could not collect his thoughts, and imagined his
foolish fancies had carried him away. "Good gracious!" he sighed, "I
must have a tendency to softening of the brain, and here it is so
exceedingly hot that the blood is rushing to my head." And then
suddenly recurred to him the strange event of the evening before, when
his head had been fixed between the iron railings in front of the
hospital. "That is the cause of it all!" he exclaimed, "I must do
something in time. A Russian bath would be a very good thing to
begin with. I wish I were lying on one of the highest shelves." Sure
enough, there he lay on an upper shelf of a vapor bath, still in his
evening costume, with his boots and goloshes on, and the hot drops
from the ceiling falling on his face. "Ho!" he cried, jumping down and
rushing towards the plunging bath. The attendant stopped him with a
loud cry, when he saw a man with all his clothes on. The volunteer
had, however, presence of mind enough to whisper, "It is for a wager;"
but the first thing he did, when he reached his own room, was to put a
large blister on his neck, and another on his back, that his crazy fit
might be cured. The next morning his back was very sore, which was all
he gained by the goloshes of Fortune.


THE CLERK'S TRANSFORMATION

The watchman, whom we of course have not forgotten, thought, after
a while, of the goloshes which he had found and taken to the hospital;
so he went and fetched them. But neither the lieutenant nor any one in
the street could recognize them as their own, so he gave them up to
the police. "They look exactly like my own goloshes," said one of
the clerks, examining the unknown articles, as they stood by the
side of his own. "It would require even more than the eye of a
shoemaker to know one pair from the other."

"Master clerk," said a servant who entered with some papers. The
clerk turned and spoke to the man; but when he had done with him, he
turned to look at the goloshes again, and now he was in greater
doubt than ever as to whether the pair on the right or on the left
belonged to him. "Those that are wet must be mine," thought he; but he
thought wrong, it was just the reverse. The goloshes of Fortune were
the wet pair; and, besides, why should not a clerk in a police
office be wrong sometimes? So he drew them on, thrust his papers
into his pocket, placed a few manuscripts under his arm, which he
had to take with him, and to make abstracts from at home. Then, as
it was Sunday morning and the weather very fine, he said to himself,
"A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good:" so away he went.

There could not be a quieter or more steady young man than this
clerk. We will not grudge him this little walk, it was just the
thing to do him good after sitting so much. He went on at first like a
mere automaton, without thought or wish; therefore the goloshes had no
opportunity to display their magic power. In the avenue he met with an
acquaintance, one of our young poets, who told him that he intended to
start on the following day on a summer excursion. "Are you really
going away so soon?" asked the clerk. "What a free, happy man you are.
You can roam about where you will, while such as we are tied by the
foot."

"But it is fastened to the bread-tree," replied the poet. "You
need have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old there is a
pension for you."

"Ah, yes; but you have the best of it," said the clerk; "it must
be so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world makes itself
agreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try how
you would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of
justice." The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each
retained his own opinion, and so they parted. "They are strange
people, these poets," thought the clerk. "I should like to try what it
is to have a poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I
should not write such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid
spring day for a poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the clouds
are so beautiful, and the green grass has such a sweet smell. For many
years I have not felt as I do at this moment."

We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a
poet. By most poets what he had said would be considered common-place,
or as the Germans call it, "insipid." It is a foolish fancy to look
upon poets as different to other men. There are many who are more
the poets of nature than those who are professed poets. The difference
is this, the poet's intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an
idea or a sentiment, until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in
words, which the others cannot do. But the transition from a character
of every-day life to one of a more gifted nature is a great
transition; and so the clerk became aware of the change after a
time. "What a delightful perfume," said he; "it reminds me of the
violets at Aunt Lora's. Ah, that was when I was a little boy. Dear me,
how long it seems since I thought of those days! She was a good old
maiden lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a
sprig or a few blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe.
I could smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny
pieces against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty
view it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships,
icebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented
the only living creature on board. But when the breezes of spring
came, everything started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the
ships were tarred and rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.

"I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my post at the
police office, and letting others take passports to distant lands.
Yes, this is my fate," and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. "Good
gracious, what has come over me? I never felt before as I do now; it
must be the air of spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is
delightful."

He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. "These will give me
something else to think of," said he. Casting his eyes on the first
page of one, he read, "'Mistress Sigbirth; an original Tragedy, in
Five Acts.' What is this?--in my own handwriting, too! Have I
written this tragedy?" He read again, "'The Intrigue on the Promenade;
or, the Fast-Day. A Vaudeville.' However did I get all this? Some
one must have put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!" It was
from the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all in
polite terms.

"Hem, hem!" said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts were
very elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily he
seized one of the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy.
All that botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a
moment by this little flower. It spoke of the glory of its birth; it
told of the strength of the sunlight, which had caused its delicate
leaves to expand, and given to it such sweet perfume. The struggles of
life which arouse sensations in the bosom have their type in the
tiny flowers. Air and light are the lovers of the flowers, but light
is the favored one; towards light it turns, and only when light
vanishes does it fold its leaves together, and sleep in the embraces
of the air."

"It is light that adorns me," said the flower.

"But the air gives you the breath of life," whispered the poet.

Just by him stood a boy, splashing with his stick in a marshy
ditch. The water-drops spurted up among the green twigs, and the clerk
thought of the millions of animalculae which were thrown into the
air with every drop of water, at a height which must be the same to
them as it would be to us if we were hurled beyond the clouds. As
the clerk thought of all these things, and became conscious of the
great change in his own feelings, he smiled, and said to himself, "I
must be asleep and dreaming; and yet, if so, how wonderful for a dream
to be so natural and real, and to know at the same time too that it is
but a dream. I hope I shall be able to remember it all when I wake
tomorrow. My sensations seem most unaccountable. I have a clear
perception of everything as if I were wide awake. I am quite sure if I
recollect all this tomorrow, it will appear utterly ridiculous and
absurd. I have had this happen to me before. It is with the clever
or wonderful things we say or hear in dreams, as with the gold which
comes from under the earth, it is rich and beautiful when we possess
it, but when seen in a true light it is but as stones and withered
leaves."

"Ah!" he sighed mournfully, as he gazed at the birds singing
merrily, or hopping from branch to branch, "they are much better off
than I. Flying is a glorious power. Happy is he who is born with
wings. Yes, if I could change myself into anything I would be a little
lark." At the same moment his coat-tails and sleeves grew together and
formed wings, his clothes changed to feathers, and his goloshes to
claws. He felt what was taking place, and laughed to himself. "Well,
now it is evident I must be dreaming; but I never had such a wild
dream as this." And then he flew up into the green boughs and sang,
but there was no poetry in the song, for his poetic nature had left
him. The goloshes, like all persons who wish to do a thing thoroughly,
could only attend to one thing at a time. He wished to be a poet,
and he became one. Then he wanted to be a little bird, and in this
change he lost the characteristics of the former one. "Well,"
thought he, "this is charming; by day I sit in a police-office,
amongst the dryest law papers, and at night I can dream that I am a
lark, flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg. Really a complete
comedy could be written about it." Then he flew down into the grass,
turned his head about in every direction, and tapped his beak on the
bending blades of grass, which, in proportion to his size, seemed to
him as long as the palm-leaves in northern Africa.

In another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed as if
something immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy had flung his
large cap over the bird, and a hand came underneath and caught the
clerk by the back and wings so roughly, that he squeaked, and then
cried out in his alarm, "You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the
police-office!" but it only sounded to the boy like "tweet, tweet;" so
he tapped the bird on the beak, and walked away with him. In the
avenue he met two school-boys, who appeared to belong to a better
class of society, but whose inferior abilities kept them in the lowest
class at school. These boys bought the bird for eightpence, and so the
clerk returned to Copenhagen. "It is well for me that I am
dreaming," he thought; "otherwise I should become really angry.
First I was a poet, and now I am a lark. It must have been the
poetic nature that changed me into this little creature. It is a
miserable story indeed, especially now I have fallen into the hands of
boys. I wonder what will be the end of it." The boys carried him
into a very elegant room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady
received them, but she was not at all gratified to find that they
had brought a lark--a common field-bird as she called it. However, she
allowed them for one day to place the bird in an empty cage that
hung near the window. "It will please Polly perhaps," she said,
laughing at a large gray parrot, who was swinging himself proudly on a
ring in a handsome brass cage. "It is Polly's birthday," she added
in a simpering tone, "and the little field-bird has come to offer
his congratulations."

Polly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing
proudly to and fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been brought
from his own warm, fragrant fatherland, the summer previous, began
to sing as loud as he could.

"You screamer!" said the lady, throwing a white handkerchief
over the cage.

"Tweet, tweet," sighed he, "what a dreadful snowstorm!" and then
he became silent.

The clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was placed in
a little cage close to the canary, and not far from the parrot. The
only human speech which Polly could utter, and which she sometimes
chattered forth most comically, was "Now let us be men." All besides
was a scream, quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the
canary-bird, excepting to the clerk, who being now a bird, could
understand his comrades very well.

"I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the blooming
almond-trees," sang the canary. "I flew with my brothers and sisters
over beautiful flowers, and across the clear, bright sea, which
reflected the waving foliage in its glittering depths; and I have seen
many gay parrots, who could relate long and delightful stories.

"They were wild birds," answered the parrot, "and totally
uneducated. Now let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the lady and
her visitors can laugh at this, surely you can. It is a great
failing not to be able to appreciate what is amusing. Now let us be
men."

"Do you remember," said the canary, "the pretty maidens who used
to dance in the tents that were spread out beneath the sweet blossoms?
Do you remember the delicious fruit and the cooling juice from the
wild herbs?"

"Oh, yes," said the parrot; "but here I am much better off. I am
well fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a clever head;
and what more do I want? Let us be men now. You have a soul for
poetry. I have deep knowledge and wit. You have genius, but no
discretion. You raise your naturally high notes so much, that you
get covered over. They never serve me so. Oh, no; I cost them
something more than you. I keep them in order with my beak, and
fling my wit about me. Now let us be men.

"O my warm, blooming fatherland," sang the canary bird, "I will
sing of thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams, where the
bending branches kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing of the
joy of my brothers and sisters, as their shining plumage flits among
the dark leaves of the plants which grow wild by the springs."

"Do leave off those dismal strains," said the parrot; "sing
something to make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the highest
order of intellect. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, they can cry;
but to man alone is the power of laughter given. Ha! ha! ha!"
laughed Polly, and repeated his witty saying, "Now let us be men."

"You little gray Danish bird," said the canary, "you also have
become a prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests, but still
there is liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten to close the
cage, and the window is open at the top. Fly, fly!"

Instinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the same
moment the half-opened door leading into the next room creaked on
its hinges, and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes, the cat crept in
and chased the lark round the room. The canary-bird fluttered in his
cage, and the parrot flapped his wings and cried, "Let us be men;" the
poor clerk, in the most deadly terror, flew through the window, over
the houses, and through the streets, till at length he was obliged
to seek a resting-place. A house opposite to him had a look of home. A
window stood open; he flew in, and perched upon the table. It was
his own room. "Let us be men now," said he, involuntarily imitating
the parrot; and at the same moment he became a clerk again, only
that he was sitting on the table. "Heaven preserve us!" said he;
"How did I get up here and fall asleep in this way? It was an uneasy
dream too that I had. The whole affair appears most absurd."


THE BEST THING THE GOLOSHES DID

Early on the following morning, while the clerk was still in
bed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who lodged on the same
storey, knocked at his door, and then walked in. "Lend me your
goloshes," said he; "it is so wet in the garden, but the sun is
shining brightly. I should like to go out there and smoke my pipe." He
put on the goloshes, and was soon in the garden, which contained
only one plum-tree and one apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small
garden like this is a great advantage.

The student wandered up and down the path; it was just six
o'clock, and he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the street.
"Oh, to travel, to travel!" cried he; "there is no greater happiness
in the world: it is the height of my ambition. This restless feeling
would be stilled, if I could take a journey far away from this
country. I should like to see beautiful Switzerland, to travel through
Italy, and,"--It was well for him that the goloshes acted immediately,
otherwise he might have been carried too far for himself as well as
for us. In a moment he found himself in Switzerland, closely packed
with eight others in the diligence. His head ached, his back was
stiff, and the blood had ceased to circulate, so that his feet were
swelled and pinched by his boots. He wavered in a condition between
sleeping and waking. In his right-hand pocket he had a letter of
credit; in his left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis
d'ors were sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his
breast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost one or
another of these possessions; then he would awake with a start, and
the first movements of his hand formed a triangle from his
right-hand pocket to his breast, and from his breast to his
left-hand pocket, to feel whether they were all safe. Umbrellas,
sticks, and hats swung in the net before him, and almost obstructed
the prospect, which was really very imposing; and as he glanced at it,
his memory recalled the words of one poet at least, who has sung of
Switzerland, and whose poems have not yet been printed:--

  "How lovely to my wondering eyes
  Mont Blanc's fair summits gently rise;
  'Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,--
  If you have gold enough to spare."

Grand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The
pine-forests looked like little groups of moss on high rocks, whose
summits were lost in clouds of mist. Presently it began to snow, and
the wind blew keen and cold. "Ah," he sighed, "if I were only on the
other side of the Alps now, it would be summer, and I should be able
to get money on my letter of credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter
prevents me from enjoying myself in Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on
the other side of the Alps."

And there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the midst of
Italy, between Florence and Rome, where the lake Thrasymene
glittered in the evening sunlight like a sheet of molten gold
between the dark blue mountains. There, where Hannibal defeated
Flaminius, the grape vines clung to each other with the friendly grasp
of their green tendril fingers; while, by the wayside, lovely
half-naked children were watching a herd of coal-black swine under the
blossoms of fragrant laurel. Could we rightly describe this
picturesque scene, our readers would exclaim, "Delightful Italy!"

But neither the student nor either of his travelling companions
felt the least inclination to think of it in this way. Poisonous flies
and gnats flew into the coach by thousands. In vain they drove them
away with a myrtle branch, the flies stung them notwithstanding. There
was not a man in the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured
with the stings. The poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on
their backs in swarms, and they were only relieved when the coachmen
got down and drove the creatures off.

As the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not however
of long duration. It produced the feeling which we experience when
we enter a vault at a funeral, on a summer's day; while the hills
and the clouds put on that singular green hue which we often notice in
old paintings, and look upon as unnatural until we have ourselves seen
nature's coloring in the south. It was a glorious spectacle; but the
stomachs of the travellers were empty, their bodies exhausted with
fatigue, and all the longings of their heart turned towards a
resting-place for the night; but where to find one they knew not.
All the eyes were too eagerly seeking for this resting-place, to
notice the beauties of nature.

The road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it reminded the
student of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a lonely inn, and
close by it a number of crippled beggars had placed themselves; the
brightest among them looked, to quote the words of Marryat, "like
the eldest son of Famine who had just come of age." The others were
either blind, or had withered legs, which obliged them to creep
about on their hands and knees, or they had shrivelled arms and
hands without fingers. It was indeed poverty arrayed in rags.
"Eccellenza, miserabili!" they exclaimed, stretching forth their
diseased limbs. The hostess received the travellers with bare feet,
untidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors were fastened together with
string; the floors of the rooms were of brick, broken in many
places; bats flew about under the roof; and as to the odor within--

"Let us have supper laid in the stable," said one of the
travellers; "then we shall know what we are breathing."

The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but
quicker than air came in the withered arms and the continual whining
sounds, "Miserabili, eccellenza." On the walls were inscriptions,
half of them against "la bella Italia."

The supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of watery
soup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last delicacy played a
principal part in the salad. Musty eggs and roasted cocks'-combs
were the best dishes on the table; even the wine had a strange
taste, it was certainly a mixture. At night, all the boxes were placed
against the doors, and one of the travellers watched while the
others slept. The student's turn came to watch. How close the air felt
in that room; the heat overpowered him. The gnats were buzzing about
and stinging, while the miserabili, outside, moaned in their dreams.

"Travelling would be all very well," said the student of
divinity to himself, "if we had no bodies, or if the body could rest
while the soul if flying. Wherever I go I feel a want which
oppresses my heart, for something better presents itself at the
moment; yes, something better, which shall be the best of all; but
where is that to be found? In fact, I know in my heart very well
what I want. I wish to attain the greatest of all happiness."

No sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long white
curtains shaded the windows of his room, and in the middle of the
floor stood a black coffin, in which he now lay in the still sleep
of death; his wish was fulfilled, his body was at rest, and his spirit
travelling.

"Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave," were the words
of Solon. Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every corpse
is a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might
unveil its own mystery in the words which the living had himself
written two days before--

  "Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;
    Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.
  Earth's garden reaper! from the grave's cold bed
    The soul on Jacob's ladder takes her flight.

  Man's greatest sorrows often are a part
    Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,
  Which press far heavier on the lonely heart
    Than now the earth that on his coffin lies."


Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was
the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent
over the dead.

"Look!" said Care; "what happiness have your goloshes brought to
mankind?"

"They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who
slumbers here," she said.

"Not so," said Care, "he went away of himself, he was not
summoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to discern the
treasures which he had been destined to discover. I will do him a
favor now." And she drew the goloshes from his feet.

The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised
himself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she
looked upon them as her own property.




SHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING

The mayor stood at the open window. He looked smart, for his
shirt-frill, in which he had stuck a breast-pin, and his ruffles, were
very fine. He had shaved his chin uncommonly smooth, although he had
cut himself slightly, and had stuck a piece of newspaper over the
place. "Hark 'ee, youngster!" cried he.

The boy to whom he spoke was no other than the son of a poor
washer-woman, who was just going past the house. He stopped, and
respectfully took off his cap. The peak of this cap was broken in
the middle, so that he could easily roll it up and put it in his
pocket. He stood before the mayor in his poor but clean and
well-mended clothes, with heavy wooden shoes on his feet, looking as
humble as if it had been the king himself.

"You are a good and civil boy," said the mayor. "I suppose your
mother is busy washing the clothes down by the river, and you are
going to carry that thing to her that you have in your pocket. It is
very bad for your mother. How much have you got in it?"

"Only half a quartern," stammered the boy in a frightened voice.

"And she has had just as much this morning already?"

"No, it was yesterday," replied the boy.

"Two halves make a whole," said the mayor. "She's good for
nothing. What a sad thing it is with these people. Tell your mother
she ought to be ashamed of herself. Don't you become a drunkard, but I
expect you will though. Poor child! there, go now."

The boy went on his way with his cap in his hand, while the wind
fluttered his golden hair till the locks stood up straight. He
turned round the corner of the street into the little lane that led to
the river, where his mother stood in the water by her washing bench,
beating the linen with a heavy wooden bar. The floodgates at the
mill had been drawn up, and as the water rolled rapidly on, the sheets
were dragged along by the stream, and nearly overturned the bench,
so that the washer-woman was obliged to lean against it to keep it
steady. "I have been very nearly carried away," she said; "it is a
good thing that you are come, for I want something to strengthen me.
It is cold in the water, and I have stood here six hours. Have you
brought anything for me?"

The boy drew the bottle from his pocket, and the mother put it
to her lips, and drank a little.

"Ah, how much good that does, and how it warms me," she said;
"it is as good as a hot meal, and not so dear. Drink a little, my boy;
you look quite pale; you are shivering in your thin clothes, and
autumn has really come. Oh, how cold the water is! I hope I shall
not be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of that. Give me a little
more, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you must not get
used to it, my poor, dear child." She stepped up to the bridge on
which the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water dripped
from the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from her
gown. "I work hard and suffer pain with my poor hands," said she, "but
I do it willingly, that I may be able to bring you up honestly and
truthfully, my dear boy."

At the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, came
towards them. She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, and
with a large false curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which was
blind. This curl was intended to conceal the blind eye, but it made
the defect only more visible. She was a friend of the laundress, and
was called, among the neighbors, "Lame Martha, with the curl." "Oh,
you poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the water!" she
exclaimed. "You really do need something to give you a little
warmth, and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take."
And then Martha repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes,
all that the mayor had said to her boy, which she had overheard; and
she felt very angry that any man could speak, as he had done, of a
mother to her own child, about the few drops she had taken; and she
was still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor was going to
have a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, rich
wine, drunk by the bottle. "Many will take more than they ought, but
they don't call that drinking! They are all right, you are good for
nothing indeed!" cried Martha indignantly.

"And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child?" said the
washer-woman, and her lips trembled as she spoke. "He says you have
a mother who is good for nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but he
should not have said it to my child. How much has happened to me
from that house!"

"Yes," said Martha; "I remember you were in service there, and
lived in the house when the mayor's parents were alive; how many years
ago that is. Bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and people
may well be thirsty," and Martha smiled. "The mayor's great
dinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but the news came
too late. The footman told me the dinner was already cooked, when a
letter came to say that the mayor's younger brother in Copenhagen is
dead."

"Dead!" cried the laundress, turning pale as death.

"Yes, certainly," replied Martha; "but why do you take it so
much to heart? I suppose you knew him years ago, when you were in
service there?"

"Is he dead?" she exclaimed. "Oh, he was such a kind, good-hearted
man, there are not many like him," and the tears rolled down her
cheeks as she spoke. Then she cried, "Oh, dear me; I feel quite ill:
everything is going round me, I cannot bear it. Is the bottle
empty?" and she leaned against the plank.

"Dear me, you are ill indeed," said the other woman. "Come,
cheer up; perhaps it will pass off. No, indeed, I see you are really
ill; the best thing for me to do is to lead you home."

"But my washing yonder?"

"I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can
stay here and take care of the linen, and I'll come back and finish
the washing; it is but a trifle."

The limbs of the laundress shook under her, and she said, "I
have stood too long in the cold water, and I have had nothing to eat
the whole day since the morning. O kind Heaven, help me to get home; I
am in a burning fever. Oh, my poor child," and she burst into tears.
And he, poor boy, wept also, as he sat alone by the river, near to and
watching the damp linen.

The two women walked very slowly. The laundress slipped and
tottered through the lane, and round the corner, into the street where
the mayor lived; and just as she reached the front of his house, she
sank down upon the pavement. Many persons came round her, and Lame
Martha ran into the house for help. The mayor and his guests came to
the window.

"Oh, it is the laundress," said he; "she has had a little drop too
much. She is good for nothing. It is a sad thing for her pretty little
son. I like the boy very well; but the mother is good for nothing."

After a while the laundress recovered herself, and they led her to
her poor dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha warmed a mug of
beer for her, with butter and sugar--she considered this the best
medicine--and then hastened to the river, washed and rinsed, badly
enough, to be sure, but she did her best. Then she drew the linen
ashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket. Before evening, she
was sitting in the poor little room with the laundress. The mayor's
cook had given her some roasted potatoes and a beautiful piece of
fat for the sick woman. Martha and the boy enjoyed these good things
very much; but the sick woman could only say that the smell was very
nourishing, she thought. By-and-by the boy was put to bed, in the same
bed as the one in which his mother lay; but he slept at her feet,
covered with an old quilt made of blue and white patchwork. The
laundress felt a little better by this time. The warm beer had
strengthened her, and the smell of the good food had been pleasant
to her.

"Many thanks, you good soul," she said to Martha. "Now the boy
is asleep, I will tell you all. He is soon asleep. How gentle and
sweet he looks as he lies there with his eyes closed! He does not know
how his mother has suffered; and Heaven grant he never may know it.
I was in service at the counsellor's, the father of the mayor, and
it happened that the youngest of his sons, the student, came home. I
was a young wild girl then, but honest; that I can declare in the
sight of Heaven. The student was merry and gay, brave and
affectionate; every drop of blood in him was good and honorable; a
better man never lived on earth. He was the son of the house, and I
was only a maid; but he loved me truly and honorably, and he told
his mother of it. She was to him as an angel upon earth; she was so
wise and loving. He went to travel, and before he started he placed
a gold ring on my finger; and as soon as he was out of the house, my
mistress sent for me. Gently and earnestly she drew me to her, and
spake as if an angel were speaking. She showed me clearly, in spirit
and in truth, the difference there was between him and me. 'He is
pleased now,' she said, 'with your pretty face; but good looks do
not last long. You have not been educated like he has. You are not
equals in mind and rank, and therein lies the misfortune. I esteem the
poor,' she added. 'In the sight of God, they may occupy a higher place
than many of the rich; but here upon earth we must beware of
entering upon a false track, lest we are overturned in our plans, like
a carriage that travels by a dangerous road. I know a worthy man, an
artisan, who wishes to marry you. I mean Eric, the glovemaker. He is a
widower, without children, and in a good position. Will you think it
over?' Every word she said pierced my heart like a knife; but I knew
she was right, and the thought pressed heavily upon me. I kissed her
hand, and wept bitter tears, and I wept still more when I went to my
room, and threw myself on the bed. I passed through a dreadful
night; God knows what I suffered, and how I struggled. The following
Sunday I went to the house of God to pray for light to direct my path.
It seemed like a providence that as I stepped out of church Eric
came towards me; and then there remained not a doubt in my mind. We
were suited to each other in rank and circumstances. He was, even
then, a man of good means. I went up to him, and took his hand, and
said, 'Do you still feel the same for me?' 'Yes; ever and always,'
said he. 'Will you, then, marry a maiden who honors and esteems you,
although she cannot offer you her love? but that may come.' 'Yes, it
will come,' said he; and we joined our hands together, and I went home
to my mistress. The gold ring which her son had given me I wore next
to my heart. I could not place it on my finger during the daytime, but
only in the evening, when I went to bed. I kissed the ring till my
lips almost bled, and then I gave it to my mistress, and told her that
the banns were to be put up for me and the glovemaker the following
week. Then my mistress threw her arms round me, and kissed me. She did
not say that I was 'good for nothing;' very likely I was better then
than I am now; but the misfortunes of this world, were unknown to me
then. At Michaelmas we were married, and for the first year everything
went well with us. We had a journeyman and an apprentice, and you were
our servant, Martha."

"Ah, yes, and you were a dear, good mistress," said Martha, "I
shall never forget how kind you and your husband were to me."

"Yes, those were happy years when you were with us, although we
had no children at first. The student I never met again. Yet I saw him
once, although he did not see me. He came to his mother's funeral. I
saw him, looking pale as death, and deeply troubled, standing at her
grave; for she was his mother. Sometime after, when his father died,
he was in foreign lands, and did not come home. I know that he never
married, I believe he became a lawyer. He had forgotten me, and even
had we met he would not have known me, for I have lost all my good
looks, and perhaps that is all for the best." And then she spoke of
the dark days of trial, when misfortune had fallen upon them.

"We had five hundred dollars," she said, "and there was a house in
the street to be sold for two hundred, so we thought it would be worth
our while to pull it down and build a new one in its place; so it
was bought. The builder and carpenter made an estimate that the new
house would cost ten hundred and twenty dollars to build. Eric had
credit, so he borrowed the money in the chief town. But the captain,
who was bringing it to him, was shipwrecked, and the money lost.
Just about this time, my dear sweet boy, who lies sleeping there,
was born, and my husband was attacked with a severe lingering illness.
For three quarters of a year I was obliged to dress and undress him.
We were backward in our payments, we borrowed more money, and all that
we had was lost and sold, and then my husband died. Since then I
have worked, toiled, and striven for the sake of the child. I have
scrubbed and washed both coarse and fine linen, but I have not been
able to make myself better off; and it was God's will. In His own time
He will take me to Himself, but I know He will never forsake my
boy." Then she fell asleep. In the morning she felt much refreshed,
and strong enough, as she thought, to go on with her work. But as soon
as she stepped into the cold water, a sudden faintness seized her; she
clutched at the air convulsively with her hand, took one step forward,
and fell. Her head rested on dry land, but her feet were in the water;
her wooden shoes, which were only tied on by a wisp of straw, were
carried away by the stream, and thus she was found by Martha when
she came to bring her some coffee.

In the meantime a messenger had been sent to her house by the
mayor, to say that she must come to him immediately, as he had
something to tell her. It was too late; a surgeon had been sent for to
open a vein in her arm, but the poor woman was dead.

"She has drunk herself to death," said the cruel mayor. In the
letter, containing the news of his brother's death, it was stated that
he had left in his will a legacy of six hundred dollars to the
glovemaker's widow, who had been his mother's maid, to be paid with
discretion, in large or small sums to the widow or her child.

"There was something between my brother and her, I remember," said
the mayor; "it is a good thing that she is out of the way, for now the
boy will have the whole. I will place him with honest people to
bring him up, that he may become a respectable working man." And the
blessing of God rested upon these words. The mayor sent for the boy to
come to him, and promised to take care of him, but most cruelly
added that it was a good thing that his mother was dead, for "she
was good for nothing." They carried her to the churchyard, the
churchyard in which the poor were buried. Martha strewed sand on the
grave and planted a rose-tree upon it, and the boy stood by her side.

"Oh, my poor mother!" he cried, while the tears rolled down his
cheeks. "Is it true what they say, that she was good for nothing?"

"No, indeed, it is not true," replied the old servant, raising her
eyes to heaven; "she was worth a great deal; I knew it years ago,
and since the last night of her life I am more certain of it than
ever. I say she was a good and worthy woman, and God, who is in
heaven, knows I am speaking the truth, though the world may say,
even now she was good for nothing."




GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is
quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild,
gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you
good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked
on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most
wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive
before father and mother--that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book
with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book,
between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so
pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she
smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes. "I
wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book
that way? Do you know?" Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the
rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room
with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around
her is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a
charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,
bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those
mild, saintly eyes, are the same,--they have been left to grandmother.
At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and
she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections
of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has
withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an
old woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.

Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,
telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she
said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could
hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter
and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It
was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and
then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking
mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though
her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.
We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had
been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose
still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and
then they buried grandmother.

On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among
the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church
sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were
written in the old book under the head of the dead one.

The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;
every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from
the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are
living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange
thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.
They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth
has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within
it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh
roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there
still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,
gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will
once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for
the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in
the grave.




A GREAT GRIEF

This story really consists of two parts. The first part might be
left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful.

We were staying in the country at a gentleman's seat, where it
happened that the master was absent for a few days. In the meantime,
there arrived from the next town a lady; she had a pug dog with her,
and came, she said, to dispose of shares in her tan-yard. She had
her papers with her, and we advised her to put them in an envelope,
and to write thereon the address of the proprietor of the estate,
"General War-Commissary Knight," &c.

She listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused, and begged
us to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and she wrote; but
in the midst of the "General War-" she struck fast, sighed deeply, and
said, "I am only a woman!" Her Puggie had seated itself on the
ground while she wrote, and growled; for the dog had come with her for
amusement and for the sake of its health; and then the bare floor
ought not to be offered to a visitor. His outward appearance was
characterized by a snub nose and a very fat back.

"He doesn't bite," said the lady; "he has no teeth. He is like one
of the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is my
grandchildren's fault, for they have teased him; they play at wedding,
and want to give him the part of the bridesmaid, and that's too much
for him, poor old fellow."

And she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her arm. And
this is the first part of the story which might have been left out.

PUGGIE DIED!! That's the second part.

It was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and put
up at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which was divided
into two parts by a partition of planks; in one half were many skins
and hides, raw and tanned. Here was all the apparatus necessary to
carry on a tannery, and it belonged to the widow. Puggie had died in
the morning, and was to be buried in this part of the yard; the
grandchildren of the widow (that is, of the tanner's widow, for Puggie
had never been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful
grave--it must have been quite pleasant to lie there.

The grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and strewn
over with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half a beer bottle,
with the neck upwards, and that was not at all allegorical.

The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys
among them, a practical youngster of seven years, made the proposition
that there should be an exhibition of Puggie's burial-place for all
who lived in the lane; the price of admission was to be a trouser
button, for every boy would be sure to have one, and each might also
give one for a little girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.

And all the children out of the lane--yes, even out of the
little lane at the back--flocked to the place, and each gave a button.
Many were noticed to go about on that afternoon with only one
suspender; but then they had seen Puggie's grave, and the sight was
worth much more.

But in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood a
little girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with curly
hair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure to look into
them. The child said not a word, nor did she cry; but each time the
little door was opened she gave a long, long look into the yard. She
had not a button--that she knew right well, and therefore she remained
standing sorrowfully outside, till all the others had seen the grave
and had gone away; then she sat down, held her little brown hands
before her eyes, and burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen
Puggie's grave. It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can
experience.

We saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many a grief
of our own and of others can make us smile! That is the story, and
whoever does not understand it may go and purchase a share in the
tan-yard from the window.




THE HAPPY FAMILY

The largest green leaf in this country is certainly the
burdock-leaf. If you hold it in front of you, it is large enough for
an apron; and if you hold it over your head, it is almost as good as
an umbrella, it is so wonderfully large. A burdock never grows
alone; where it grows, there are many more, and it is a splendid
sight; and all this splendor is good for snails. The great white
snails, which grand people in olden times used to have made into
fricassees; and when they had eaten them, they would say, "O, what a
delicious dish!" for these people really thought them good; and
these snails lived on burdock-leaves, and for them the burdock was
planted.

There was once an old estate where no one now lived to require
snails; indeed, the owners had all died out, but the burdock still
flourished; it grew over all the beds and walks of the garden--its
growth had no check--till it became at last quite a forest of
burdocks. Here and there stood an apple or a plum-tree; but for
this, nobody would have thought the place had ever been a garden. It
was burdock from one end to the other; and here lived the last two
surviving snails. They knew not themselves how old they were; but they
could remember the time when there were a great many more of them, and
that they were descended from a family which came from foreign
lands, and that the whole forest had been planted for them and theirs.
They had never been away from the garden; but they knew that another
place once existed in the world, called the Duke's Palace Castle, in
which some of their relations had been boiled till they became
black, and were then laid on a silver dish; but what was done
afterwards they did not know. Besides, they could not imagine
exactly how it felt to be boiled and placed on a silver dish; but no
doubt it was something very fine and highly genteel. Neither the
cockchafer, nor the toad, nor the earth-worm, whom they questioned
about it, would give them the least information; for none of their
relations had ever been cooked or served on a silver dish. The old
white snails were the most aristocratic race in the world,--they
knew that. The forest had been planted for them, and the nobleman's
castle had been built entirely that they might be cooked and laid on
silver dishes.

They lived quite retired and very happily; and as they had no
children of their own, they had adopted a little common snail, which
they brought up as their own child. The little one would not grow, for
he was only a common snail; but the old people, particularly the
mother-snail, declared that she could easily see how he grew; and when
the father said he could not perceive it, she begged him to feel the
little snail's shell, and he did so, and found that the mother was
right.

One day it rained very fast. "Listen, what a drumming there is
on the burdock-leaves; turn, turn, turn; turn, turn, turn," said the
father-snail.

"There come the drops," said the mother; "they are trickling
down the stalks. We shall have it very wet here presently. I am very
glad we have such good houses, and that the little one has one of
his own. There has been really more done for us than for any other
creature; it is quite plain that we are the most noble people in the
world. We have houses from our birth, and the burdock forest has
been planted for us. I should very much like to know how far it
extends, and what lies beyond it."

"There can be nothing better than we have here," said the
father-snail; "I wish for nothing more."

"Yes, but I do," said the mother; "I should like to be taken to
the palace, and boiled, and laid upon a silver dish, as was done to
all our ancestors; and you may be sure it must be something very
uncommon."

"The nobleman's castle, perhaps, has fallen to decay," said the
snail-father, "or the burdock wood may have grown out. You need not
be in a hurry; you are always so impatient, and the youngster is
getting just the same. He has been three days creeping to the top of
that stalk. I feel quite giddy when I look at him."

"You must not scold him," said the mother-snail; "he creeps so
very carefully. He will be the joy of our home; and we old folks
have nothing else to live for. But have you ever thought where we
are to get a wife for him? Do you think that farther out in the wood
there may be others of our race?"

"There may be black snails, no doubt," said the old snail;
"black snails without houses; but they are so vulgar and conceited
too. But we can give the ants a commission; they run here and there,
as if they all had so much business to get through. They, most likely,
will know of a wife for our youngster."

"I certainly know a most beautiful bride," said one of the ants;
"but I fear it would not do, for she is a queen."

"That does not matter," said the old snail; "has she a house?"

"She has a palace," replied the ant,--"a most beautiful ant-palace
with seven hundred passages."

"Thank-you," said the mother-snail; "but our boy shall not go to
live in an ant-hill. If you know of nothing better, we will give the
commission to the white gnats; they fly about in rain and sunshine;
they know the burdock wood from one end to the other."

"We have a wife for him," said the gnats; "a hundred man-steps
from here there is a little snail with a house, sitting on a
gooseberry-bush; she is quite alone, and old enough to be married.
It is only a hundred man-steps from here."

"Then let her come to him," said the old people. "He has the whole
burdock forest; she has only a bush."

So they brought the little lady-snail. She took eight days to
perform the journey; but that was just as it ought to be; for it
showed her to be one of the right breeding. And then they had a
wedding. Six glow-worms gave as much light as they could; but in other
respects it was all very quiet; for the old snails could not bear
festivities or a crowd. But a beautiful speech was made by the
mother-snail. The father could not speak; he was too much overcome.
Then they gave the whole burdock forest to the young snails as an
inheritance, and repeated what they had so often said, that it was the
finest place in the world, and that if they led upright and
honorable lives, and their family increased, they and their children
might some day be taken to the nobleman's palace, to be boiled
black, and laid on a silver dish. And when they had finished speaking,
the old couple crept into their houses, and came out no more; for they
slept.

The young snail pair now ruled in the forest, and had a numerous
progeny. But as the young ones were never boiled or laid in silver
dishes, they concluded that the castle had fallen into decay, and that
all the people in the world were dead; and as nobody contradicted
them, they thought they must be right. And the rain fell upon the
burdock-leaves, to play the drum for them, and the sun shone to
paint colors on the burdock forest for them, and they were very happy;
the whole family were entirely and perfectly happy.




A LEAF FROM HEAVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




HOLGER DANSKE

In Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close by
the Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, and
Prussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castle
with cannons, "Boom, boom," which is as if they said, "Good-day."
And the cannons of the old castle answer "Boom," which means "Many
thanks." In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered
with ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance
of a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes and
Swedes say, "Good-day," and "Thank you" to each other, not with
cannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchange
white bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articles
taste the best.

But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of
Kronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, into
which no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head on
his strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table,
into which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but in
his dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On each
Christmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he has
dreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, as
Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come,
then Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst
asunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his
strength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries of
the world.

An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this about
Holger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told him
must be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving an
image in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prow
of a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,
one who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to the
names given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood
there erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his
broad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.
The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danish
men and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so that
he fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, after
all, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, he
thought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against the
counterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had become
rooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and
carving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. And
when he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of all
he had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to his
little grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and put
them on, and said, "Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my
lifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live to
see him when the event really comes to pass." And the old
grandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the
more satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It
seemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like iron
and steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; while
the lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up. "That
is the most beautiful coat of arms in the world," said the old man.
"The lions represent strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love."
And as he gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute,
who chained great England to Denmark's throne; and he looked at the
second lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conquered
the Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who united
Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts,
their colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memory
followed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison,
in which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christian
the Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her
bosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this
noblest and best of all Danish women. "Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble
heart in the Danish arms," said the grandfather, and his spirit
followed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannons
roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heart
attached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbon
of an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in order
to save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland's wretched
huts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every word
and action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added another
heart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather's spirit followed
the next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In a
peasant woman's humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing his
name with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and in
his heart, and it was in the peasant's room that his heart became
one for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he
had known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blue
eyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remained
for some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it was
getting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supper
was on the table.

"What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,"
said she. "Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me as
if I have seen the face somewhere."

"No, that is impossible," replied the old grandfather; "but I have
seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained it
in my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay in
the roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true,
ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron;
I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He
sung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were
something more than a man. I still remember his face, but from
whence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I have
often thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swam
down to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. That
was my idea, and there stands his likeness."

The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even on
part of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stood
behind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by the
flame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-law
kissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by the
table; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man and
the father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper with
him. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish
hearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quite
clearly that there is another strength than that which lies in a
sword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,
and amongst them a collection of Holberg's plays, which are much
read and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we have
known the people of those days, who are described in them.

"He knew how to fight also," said the old man; "for he lashed
the follies and prejudices of people during his whole life."

Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,
where hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower upon
it, and said "Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, but
not one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of the
stars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whose
father belonged to my calling,--yes, he, the son of the old
image-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks
and his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;--yes, he
was a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear
in marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear of
the strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel."

But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of
Kronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far down
in the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming of
everything that was passing above him.

And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which the
image-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded in
his dream, saying, "Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep me
in your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need."

The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the wind
brought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboring
shores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom of
the cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, "Boom, boom." But
the roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only
"Good morning," and "Thank you." They must fire in another fashion
before he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet in
Holger Danske.




IB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA

In the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North
Jutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clear
stream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through the
wood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and not far from the
river, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that the sandy
soil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat which
grow in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived here
cultivated these fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen;
in fact they maintained themselves very well, they had quite enough to
live upon, as people generally have who are content with their lot.
They even could have afforded to keep two horses, but it was a
saying among the farmers in those parts, "The horse eats himself
up;" that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Jans
cultivated his fields in summer, and in the winter he made wooden
shoes. He also had an assistant, a lad who understood as well as he
himself did how to make wooden shoes strong, but light, and in the
fashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well; therefore no
one could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. Little
Ib, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by,
watching the workmen, or cutting a stick, and sometimes his finger
instead of the stick. But one day Ib succeeded so well in his
carving that he made two pieces of wood look really like two little
wooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to Little
Christina.

"And who was Little Christina?" She was the boatman's daughter,
graceful and delicate as the child of a gentleman; had she been
dressed differently, no one would have believed that she lived in a
hut on the neighboring heath with her father. He was a widower, and
earned his living by carrying firewood in his large boat from the
forest to the eel-pond and eel-weir, on the estate of Silkborg, and
sometimes even to the distant town of Randers. There was no one
under whose care he could leave Little Christina; so she was almost
always with him in his boat, or playing in the wood among the
blossoming heath, or picking the ripe wild berries. Sometimes, when
her father had to go as far as the town, he would take Little
Christina, who was a year younger than Ib, across the heath to the
cottage of Jeppe Jans, and leave her there. Ib and Christina agreed
together in everything; they divided their bread and berries when they
were hungry; they were partners in digging their little gardens;
they ran, and crept, and played about everywhere. Once they wandered a
long way into the forest, and even ventured together to climb the high
ridge. Another time they found a few snipes' eggs in the wood, which
was a great event. Ib had never been on the heath where Christina's
father lived, nor on the river; but at last came an opportunity.
Christina's father invited him to go for a sail in his boat; and the
evening before, he accompanied the boatman across the heath to his
house. The next morning early, the two children were placed on the top
of a high pile of firewood in the boat, and sat eating bread and
wild strawberries, while Christina's father and his man drove the boat
forward with poles. They floated on swiftly, for the tide was in their
favor, passing over lakes, formed by the stream in its course;
sometimes they seemed quite enclosed by reeds and water-plants, yet
there was always room for them to pass out, although the old trees
overhung the water and the old oaks stretched out their bare branches,
as if they had turned up their sleeves and wished to show their
knotty, naked arms. Old alder-trees, whose roots were loosened from
the banks, clung with their fibres to the bottom of the stream, and
the tops of the branches above the water looked like little woody
islands. The water-lilies waved themselves to and fro on the river,
everything made the excursion beautiful, and at last they came to
the great eel-weir, where the water rushed through the flood-gates;
and the children thought this a beautiful sight. In those days there
was no factory nor any town house, nothing but the great farm, with
its scanty-bearing fields, in which could be seen a few herd of
cattle, and one or two farm laborers. The rushing of the water through
the sluices, and the scream of the wild ducks, were almost the only
signs of active life at Silkborg. After the firewood had been
unloaded, Christina's father bought a whole bundle of eels and a
sucking-pig, which were all placed in a basket in the stern of the
boat. Then they returned again up the stream; and as the wind was
favorable, two sails were hoisted, which carried the boat on as well
as if two horses had been harnessed to it. As they sailed on, they
came by chance to the place where the boatman's assistant lived, at
a little distance from the bank of the river. The boat was moored; and
the two men, after desiring the children to sit still, both went on
shore. They obeyed this order for a very short time, and then forgot
it altogether. First they peeped into the basket containing the eels
and the sucking-pig; then they must needs pull out the pig and take it
in their hands, and feel it, and touch it; and as they both wanted
to hold it at the same time, the consequence was that they let it fall
into the water, and the pig sailed away with the stream.

Here was a terrible disaster. Ib jumped ashore, and ran a little
distance from the boat.

"Oh, take me with you," cried Christina; and she sprang after him.
In a few minutes they found themselves deep in a thicket, and could no
longer see the boat or the shore. They ran on a little farther, and
then Christina fell down, and began to cry.

Ib helped her up, and said, "Never mind; follow me. Yonder is
the house." But the house was not yonder; and they wandered still
farther, over the dry rustling leaves of the last year, and treading
on fallen branches that crackled under their little feet; then they
heard a loud, piercing cry, and they stood still to listen.
Presently the scream of an eagle sounded through the wood; it was an
ugly cry, and it frightened the children; but before them, in the
thickest part of the forest, grew the most beautiful blackberries,
in wonderful quantities. They looked so inviting that the children
could not help stopping; and they remained there so long eating,
that their mouths and cheeks became quite black with the juice.

Presently they heard the frightful scream again, and Christina
said, "We shall get into trouble about that pig."

"Oh, never mind," said Ib; "we will go home to my father's
house. It is here in the wood." So they went on, but the road led them
out of the way; no house could be seen, it grew dark, and the children
were afraid. The solemn stillness that reigned around them was now and
then broken by the shrill cries of the great horned owl and other
birds that they knew nothing of. At last they both lost themselves
in the thicket; Christina began to cry, and then Ib cried too; and,
after weeping and lamenting for some time, they stretched themselves
down on the dry leaves and fell asleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when the two children woke. They
felt cold; but not far from their resting-place, on a hill, the sun
was shining through the trees. They thought if they went there they
should be warm, and Ib fancied he should be able to see his father's
house from such a high spot. But they were far away from home now,
in quite another part of the forest. They clambered to the top of
the rising ground, and found themselves on the edge of a declivity,
which sloped down to a clear transparent lake. Great quantities of
fish could be seen through the clear water, sparkling in the sun's
rays; they were quite surprised when they came so suddenly upon such
an unexpected sight.

Close to where they stood grew a hazel-bush, covered with
beautiful nuts. They soon gathered some, cracked them, and ate the
fine young kernels, which were only just ripe. But there was another
surprise and fright in store for them. Out of the thicket stepped a
tall old woman, her face quite brown, and her hair of a deep shining
black; the whites of her eyes glittered like a Moor's; on her back she
carried a bundle, and in her hand a knotted stick. She was a gypsy.
The children did not at first understand what she said. She drew out
of her pocket three large nuts, in which she told them were hidden the
most beautiful and lovely things in the world, for they were wishing
nuts. Ib looked at her, and as she spoke so kindly, he took courage,
and asked her if she would give him the nuts; and the woman gave
them to him, and then gathered some more from the bushes for
herself, quite a pocket full. Ib and Christina looked at the wishing
nuts with wide open eyes.

"Is there in this nut a carriage, with a pair of horses?" asked
Ib.

"Yes, there is a golden carriage, with two golden horses," replied
the woman.

"Then give me that nut," said Christina; so Ib gave it to her, and
the strange woman tied up the nut for her in her handkerchief.

Ib held up another nut. "Is there, in this nut, a pretty little
neckerchief like the one Christina has on her neck?" asked Ib.

"There are ten neckerchiefs in it," she replied, "as well as
beautiful dresses, stockings, and a hat and veil."

"Then I will have that one also," said Christina; "and it is a
pretty one too." And then Ib gave her the second nut.

The third was a little black thing. "You may keep that one,"
said Christina; "it is quite as pretty."

"What is in it?" asked Ib.

"The best of all things for you," replied the gypsy. So Ib held
the nut very tight.

Then the woman promised to lead the children to the right path,
that they might find their way home: and they went forward certainly
in quite another direction to the one they meant to take; therefore no
one ought to speak against the woman, and say that she wanted to steal
the children. In the wild wood-path they met a forester who knew Ib,
and, by his help, Ib and Christina reached home, where they found
every one had been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and
forgiven, although they really had both done wrong, and deserved to
get into trouble; first, because they had let the sucking-pig fall
into the water; and, secondly, because they had run away. Christina
was taken back to her father's house on the heath, and Ib remained
in the farm-house on the borders of the wood, near the great land
ridge.

The first thing Ib did that evening was to take out of his
pocket the little black nut, in which the best thing of all was said
to be enclosed. He laid it carefully between the door and the
door-post, and then shut the door so that the nut cracked directly.
But there was not much kernel to be seen; it was what we should call
hollow or worm-eaten, and looked as if it had been filled with tobacco
or rich black earth. "It is just what I expected!" exclaimed Ib.
"How should there be room in a little nut like this for the best thing
of all? Christina will find her two nuts just the same; there will
be neither fine clothes or a golden carriage in them."

Winter came; and the new year, and indeed many years passed
away; until Ib was old enough to be confirmed, and, therefore, he went
during a whole winter to the clergyman of the nearest village to be
prepared.

One day, about this time, the boatman paid a visit to Ib's
parents, and told them that Christina was going to service, and that
she had been remarkably fortunate in obtaining a good place, with most
respectable people. "Only think," he said, "She is going to the rich
innkeeper's, at the hotel in Herning, many miles west from here. She
is to assist the landlady in the housekeeping; and, if afterwards
she behaves well and remains to be confirmed, the people will treat
her as their own daughter."

So Ib and Christina took leave of each other. People already
called them "the betrothed," and at parting the girl showed Ib the two
nuts, which she had taken care of ever since the time that they lost
themselves in the wood; and she told him also that the little wooden
shoes he once carved for her when he was a boy, and gave her as a
present, had been carefully kept in a drawer ever since. And so they
parted.

After Ib's confirmation, he remained at home with his mother,
for he had become a clever shoemaker, and in summer managed the farm
for her quite alone. His father had been dead some time, and his
mother kept no farm servants. Sometimes, but very seldom, he heard
of Christina, through a postillion or eel-seller who was passing.
But she was well off with the rich innkeeper; and after being
confirmed she wrote a letter to her father, in which was a kind
message to Ib and his mother. In this letter, she mentioned that her
master and mistress had made her a present of a beautiful new dress,
and some nice under-clothes. This was, of course, pleasant news.

One day, in the following spring, there came a knock at the door
of the house where Ib's old mother lived; and when they opened it,
lo and behold, in stepped the boatman and Christina. She had come to
pay them a visit, and to spend the day. A carriage had to come from
the Herning hotel to the next village, and she had taken the
opportunity to see her friends once more. She looked as elegant as a
real lady, and wore a pretty dress, beautifully made on purpose for
her. There she stood, in full dress, while Ib wore only his working
clothes. He could not utter a word; he could only seize her hand and
hold it fast in his own, but he felt too happy and glad to open his
lips. Christina, however, was quite at her ease; she talked and
talked, and kissed him in the most friendly manner. Even afterwards,
when they were left alone, and she asked, "Did you know me again, Ib?"
he still stood holding her hand, and said at last, "You are become
quite a grand lady, Christina, and I am only a rough working man;
but I have often thought of you and of old times." Then they
wandered up the great ridge, and looked across the stream to the
heath, where the little hills were covered with the flowering broom.
Ib said nothing; but before the time came for them to part, it
became quite clear to him that Christina must be his wife: had they
not even in childhood been called the betrothed? To him it seemed as
if they were really engaged to each other, although not a word had
been spoken on the subject. They had only a few more hours to remain
together, for Christina was obliged to return that evening to the
neighboring village, to be ready for the carriage which was to start
the next morning early for Herning. Ib and her father accompanied
her to the village. It was a fine moonlight evening; and when they
arrived, Ib stood holding Christina's hand in his, as if he could
not let her go. His eyes brightened, and the words he uttered came
with hesitation from his lips, but from the deepest recesses of his
heart: "Christina, if you have not become too grand, and if you can be
contented to live in my mother's house as my wife, we will be
married some day. But we can wait for a while."

"Oh yes," she replied; "Let us wait a little longer, Ib. I can
trust you, for I believe that I do love you. But let me think it
over." Then he kissed her lips; and so they parted.

On the way home, Ib told the boatman that he and Christina were as
good as engaged to each other; and the boatman found out that he had
always expected it would be so, and went home with Ib that evening,
and remained the night in the farmhouse; but nothing further was
said of the engagement. During the next year, two letters passed
between Ib and Christina. They were signed, "Faithful till death;" but
at the end of that time, one day the boatman came over to see Ib, with
a kind greeting from Christina. He had something else to say, which
made him hesitate in a strange manner. At last it came out that
Christina, who had grown a very pretty girl, was more lucky than ever.
She was courted and admired by every one; but her master's son, who
had been home on a visit, was so much pleased with Christina that he
wished to marry her. He had a very good situation in an office at
Copenhagen, and as she had also taken a liking for him, his parents
were not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart, often
thought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt
inclined to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib
said not a word, but he became as white as the wall, and shook his
head gently, and then he spoke,--"Christina must not refuse this
good fortune."

"Then will you write a few words to her?" said the boatman.

Ib sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words
were not what he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The
following morning, however, a letter lay ready to be sent to
Christina, and the following is what he wrote:--

"The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see
from it that you are prosperous in everything, and that still better
fortune is in store for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and
think over carefully what awaits you if you take me for your
husband, for I possess very little in the world. Do not think of me or
of my position; think only of your own welfare. You are bound to me by
no promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release you
from it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you,
Christina. Heaven will give me the heart's consolation."

"Ever your sincere friend, IB."


This letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In
the course of the following November, her banns were published in
the church on the heath, and also in Copenhagen, where the
bridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen under the protection
of her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not spare
time from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into
Jutland. On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the
villages through which they passed, and here he took leave of her.
Very little was said about the matter to Ib, and he did not refer to
it; his mother, however, noticed that he had grown very silent and
pensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the three nuts
came into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child,
and of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts,
after all, had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded
carriage and noble horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of
these Christina would now have in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part
had come true. And for him the nut had contained only black earth. The
gypsy woman had said it was the best for him. Perhaps it was, and this
also would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman's meaning
now. The black earth--the dark grave--was the best thing for him now.

Again years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to
Ib. The old innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the
whole of their property, many thousand dollars, was inherited by their
son. Christina could have the golden carriage now, and plenty of
fine clothes. During the two long years which followed, no letter came
from Christina to her father; and when at last her father received one
from her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor Christina!
Neither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save, and
the riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked
for it.

Years passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with
bloom; in winter the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew
across the ridge under which stood Ib's sheltered home. One spring day
the sun shone brightly, and he was guiding the plough across his
field. The ploughshare struck against something which he fancied was a
firestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a splinter of
shining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed
brightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet
of superior workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had
disturbed a Hun's grave. He searched further, and found more
valuable treasures, which Ib showed to the clergyman, who explained
their value to him. Then he went to the magistrate, who informed the
president of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to take the
treasures himself to the president.

"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,"
said the magistrate.

"The best thing," thought Ib; "the very best thing for me,--and
found in the earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was
right in her prophecy."

So Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who
had only sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this
seemed like a voyage on the ocean; and at length he arrived at
Copenhagen. The value of the gold he had found was paid to him; it was
a large sum--six hundred dollars. Then Ib of the heath went out, and
wandered about in the great city.

On the evening before the day he had settled to return with the
captain of the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and
took quite a different turning to the one he wished to follow. He
wandered on till he found himself in a poor street of the suburb
called Christian's Haven. Not a creature could be seen. At last a very
little girl came out of one of the wretched-looking houses, and Ib
asked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked up
timidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the
matter; but what she said he could not understand. So he went along
the street with her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell
on the little girl's face. A strange sensation came over Ib, as he
caught sight of it. The living, breathing embodiment of Little
Christina stood before him, just as he remembered her in the days of
her childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in
the roof. The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was
burning, and from one corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It
was the mother of the child who lay there on a miserable bed. With the
help of a match, Ib struck a light, and approached her.

"Can I be of any service to you?" he asked. "This little girl
brought me up here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no
neighbors or any one whom I can call?"

Then he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her
pillow. He started as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one
had mentioned her name to Ib for years; it would have disturbed his
peace of mind, especially as the reports respecting her were not good.
The wealth which her husband had inherited from his parents had made
him proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment, and
travelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had
lived in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had
trembled on the high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till
at last he toppled over, and ruin came. His numerous merry companions,
and the visitors at his table, said it served him right, for he had
kept house like a madman. One morning his corpse was found in the
canal. The cold hand of death had already touched the heart of
Christina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of
prosperity, had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and
at last Christina herself became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken
and dying, in a miserable room, amid poverty she might have borne in
her younger days, but which was now more painful to her from the
luxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her eldest
child, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home,
where she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.

"It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor
child," sighed she. "Oh, what will become of her?" She could say no
more.

Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle
which he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the
wretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of
Christina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love this
child, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dying
woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He
never knew; for not another word escaped her lips.

      *      *      *      *      *

In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and
beneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and
whitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the
heath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the
boatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood
safely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turf
blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the
sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones
from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All
was life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to her
both father and mother; her own parents had vanished from her
memory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib's
house was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man
now, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at
Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now--money
which had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina for
his own, after all.




THE ICE MAIDEN

I. LITTLE RUDY

We will pay a visit to Switzerland, and wander through that
country of mountains, whose steep and rocky sides are overgrown with
forest trees. Let us climb to the dazzling snow-fields at their
summits, and descend again to the green meadows beneath, through which
rivers and brooks rush along as if they could not quickly enough reach
the sea and vanish. Fiercely shines the sun over those deep valleys,
as well as upon the heavy masses of snow which lie on the mountains.

During the year these accumulations thaw or fall in the rolling
avalance, or are piled up in shining glaciers. Two of these glaciers
lie in the broad, rocky cliffs, between the Schreckhorn and the
Wetterhorn, near the little town of Grindelwald. They are wonderful to
behold, and therefore in the summer time strangers come here from
all parts of the world to see them. They cross snow-covered mountains,
and travel through the deep valleys, or ascend for hours, higher and
still higher, the valleys appearing to sink lower and lower as they
proceed, and become as small as if seen from an air balloon. Over
the lofty summits of these mountains the clouds often hang like a dark
veil; while beneath in the valley, where many brown, wooden houses are
scattered about, the bright rays of the sun may be shining upon a
little brilliant patch of green, making it appear almost
transparent. The waters foam and dash along in the valleys beneath;
the streams from above trickle and murmur as they fall down the
rocky mountain's side, looking like glittering silver bands.

On both sides of the mountain-path stand these little wooden
houses; and, as within, there are many children and many mouths to
feed, each house has its own little potato garden. These children rush
out in swarms, and surround travellers, whether on foot or in
carriages. They are all clever at making a bargain. They offer for
sale the sweetest little toy-houses, models of the mountain cottages
in Switzerland. Whether it be rain or sunshine, these crowds of
children are always to be seen with their wares.

About twenty years ago, there might be seen occasionally, standing
at a short distance from the other children, a little boy, who was
also anxious to sell his curious wares. He had an earnest,
expressive countenance, and held the box containing his carved toys
tightly with both hands, as if unwilling to part with it. His
earnest look, and being also a very little boy, made him noticed by
the strangers; so that he often sold the most, without knowing why. An
hour's walk farther up the ascent lived his grandfather, who cut and
carved the pretty little toy-houses; and in the old man's room stood a
large press, full of all sorts of carved things--nut-crackers,
knives and forks, boxes with beautifully carved foliage, leaping
chamois. It contained everything that could delight the eyes of a
child. But the boy, who was named Rudy, looked with still greater
pleasure and longing at some old fire-arms which hung upon the
rafters, under the ceiling of the room. His grandfather promised him
that he should have them some day, but that he must first grow big and
strong, and learn how to use them. Small as he was, the goats were
placed in his care, and a good goat-keeper should also be a good
climber, and such Rudy was; he sometimes, indeed, climbed higher
than the goats, for he was fond of seeking for birds'-nests at the top
of high trees; he was bold and daring, but was seldom seen to smile,
excepting when he stood by the roaring cataract, or heard the
descending roll of the avalanche. He never played with the other
children, and was not seen with them, unless his grandfather sent
him down to sell his curious workmanship. Rudy did not much like
trade; he loved to climb the mountains, or to sit by his grandfather
and listen to his tales of olden times, or of the people in Meyringen,
the place of his birth.

"In the early ages of the world," said the old man, "these
people could not be found in Switzerland. They are a colony from the
north, where their ancestors still dwell, and are called Swedes."

This was something for Rudy to know, but he learnt more from other
sources, particularly from the domestic animals who belonged to the
house. One was a large dog, called Ajola, which had belonged to his
father; and the other was a tom-cat. This cat stood very high in
Rudy's favor, for he had taught him to climb.

"Come out on the roof with me," said the cat; and Rudy quite
understood him, for the language of fowls, ducks, cats, and dogs, is
as easily understood by a young child as his own native tongue. But it
must be at the age when grandfather's stick becomes a neighing
horse, with head, legs, and tail. Some children retain these ideas
later than others, and they are considered backwards and childish
for their age. People say so; but is it so?

"Come out on the roof with me, little Rudy," was the first thing
he heard the cat say, and Rudy understood him. "What people say
about falling down is all nonsense," continued the cat; "you will
not fall, unless you are afraid. Come, now, set one foot here and
another there, and feel your way with your fore-feet. Keep your eyes
wide open, and move softly, and if you come to a hole jump over it,
and cling fast as I do." And this was just what Rudy did. He was often
on the sloping roof with the cat, or on the tops of high trees. But,
more frequently, higher still on the ridges of the rocks where puss
never came.

"Higher, higher!" cried the trees and the bushes, "see to what
height we have grown, and how fast we hold, even to the narrow edges
of the rocks."

Rudy often reached the top of the mountain before the sunrise, and
there inhaled his morning draught of the fresh, invigorating
mountain air,--God's own gift, which men call the sweet fragrance of
plant and herb on the mountain-side, and the mint and wild thyme in
the valleys. The overhanging clouds absorb all heaviness from the air,
and the winds convey them away over the pine-tree summits. The
spirit of fragrance, light and fresh, remained behind, and this was
Rudy's morning draught. The sunbeams--those blessing-bringing
daughters of the sun--kissed his cheeks. Vertigo might be lurking on
the watch, but he dared not approach him. The swallows, who had not
less than seven nests in his grandfather's house, flew up to him and
his goats, singing, "We and you, you and we." They brought him
greetings from his grandfather's house, even from two hens, the only
birds of the household; but Rudy was not intimate with them.

Although so young and such a little fellow, Rudy had travelled a
great deal. He was born in the canton of Valais, and brought to his
grandfather over the mountains. He had walked to Staubbach--a little
town that seems to flutter in the air like a silver veil--the
glittering, snow-clad mountain Jungfrau. He had also been to the great
glaciers; but this is connected with a sad story, for here his
mother met her death, and his grandfather used to say that all
Rudy's childish merriment was lost from that time. His mother had
written in a letter, that before he was a year old he had laughed more
than he cried; but after his fall into the snow-covered crevasse,
his disposition had completely changed. The grandfather seldom spoke
of this, but the fact was generally known. Rudy's father had been a
postilion, and the large dog which now lived in his grandfather's
cottage had always followed him on his journeys over the Simplon to
the lake of Geneva. Rudy's relations, on his father's side, lived in
the canton of Valais, in the valley of the Rhone. His uncle was a
chamois hunter, and a well-known guide. Rudy was only a year old
when his father died, and his mother was anxious to return with her
child to her own relations, who lived in the Bernese Oberland. Her
father dwelt at a few hours' distance from Grindelwald; he was a
carver in wood, and gained so much by it that he had plenty to live
upon. She set out homewards in the month of June, carrying her
infant in her arms, and, accompanied by two chamois hunters, crossed
the Gemmi on her way to Grindelwald. They had already left more than
half the journey behind them. They had crossed high ridges, and
traversed snow-fields; they could even see her native valley, with its
familiar wooden cottages. They had only one more glacier to climb.
Some newly fallen snow concealed a cleft which, though it did not
extend to the foaming waters in the depths beneath, was still much
deeper than the height of a man. The young woman, with the child in
her arms, slipped upon it, sank in, and disappeared. Not a shriek, not
a groan was heard; nothing but the whining of a little child. More
than an hour elapsed before her two companions could obtain from the
nearest house ropes and poles to assist in raising them; and it was
with much exertion that they at last succeeded in raising from the
crevasse what appeared to be two dead bodies. Every means was used
to restore them to life. With the child they were successful, but
not with the mother; so the old grandfather received his daughter's
little son into his house an orphan,--a little boy who laughed more
than he cried; but it seemed as if laughter had left him in the cold
ice-world into which he had fallen, where, as the Swiss peasants
say, the souls of the lost are confined till the judgment-day.

The glaciers appear as if a rushing stream had been frozen in
its course, and pressed into blocks of green crystal, which,
balanced one upon another, form a wondrous palace of crystal for the
Ice Maiden--the queen of the glaciers. It is she whose mighty power
can crush the traveller to death, and arrest the flowing river in
its course. She is also a child of the air, and with the swiftness
of the chamois she can reach the snow-covered mountain tops, where the
boldest mountaineer has to cut footsteps in the ice to ascend. She
will sail on a frail pine-twig over the raging torrents beneath, and
spring lightly from one iceberg to another, with her long,
snow-white hair flowing around her, and her dark-green robe glittering
like the waters of the deep Swiss lakes. "Mine is the power to seize
and crush," she cried. "Once a beautiful boy was stolen from me by
man,--a boy whom I had kissed, but had not kissed to death. He is
again among mankind, and tends the goats on the mountains. He is
always climbing higher and higher, far away from all others, but not
from me. He is mine; I will send for him." And she gave Vertigo the
commission.

It was summer, and the Ice Maiden was melting amidst the green
verdure, when Vertigo swung himself up and down. Vertigo has many
brothers, quite a troop of them, and the Ice Maiden chose the
strongest among them. They exercise their power in different ways, and
everywhere. Some sit on the banisters of steep stairs, others on the
outer rails of lofty towers, or spring like squirrels along the ridges
of the mountains. Others tread the air as a swimmer treads the
water, and lure their victims here and there till they fall into the
deep abyss. Vertigo and the Ice Maiden clutch at human beings, as
the polypus seizes upon all that comes within its reach. And now
Vertigo was to seize Rudy.

"Seize him, indeed," cried Vertigo; "I cannot do it. That
monster of a cat has taught him her tricks. That child of the human
race has a power within him which keeps me at a distance; I cannot
possibly reach the boy when he hangs from the branches of trees,
over the precipice; or I would gladly tickle his feet, and send him
heels over head through the air; but I cannot accomplish it."

"We must accomplish it," said the Ice Maiden; "either you or I
must; and I will--I will!"

"No, no!" sounded through the air, like an echo on the mountain
church bells chime. It was an answer in song, in the melting tones
of a chorus from others of nature's spirits--good and loving
spirits, the daughters of the sunbeam. They who place themselves in
a circle every evening on the mountain peaks; there they spread out
their rose-colored wings, which, as the sun sinks, become more flaming
red, until the lofty Alps seem to burn with fire. Men call this the
Alpine glow. After the sun has set, they disappear within the white
snow on the mountain-tops, and slumber there till sunrise, when they
again come forth. They have great love for flowers, for butterflies,
and for mankind; and from among the latter they had chosen little
Rudy. "You shall not catch him; you shall not seize him!" they sang.

"Greater and stronger than he have I seized!" said the Ice Maiden.

Then the daughters of the sun sang a song of the traveller,
whose cloak had been carried away by the wind. "The wind took the
covering, but not the man; it could even seize upon him, but not
hold him fast. The children of strength are more powerful, more
ethereal, even than we are. They can rise higher than our parent,
the sun. They have the magic words that rule the wind and the waves,
and compel them to serve and obey; and they can, at last, cast off the
heavy, oppressive weight of mortality, and soar upwards." Thus sweetly
sounded the bell-like tones of the chorus.

And each morning the sun's rays shone through the one little
window of the grandfather's house upon the quiet child. The
daughters of the sunbeam kissed him; they wished to thaw, and melt,
and obliterate the ice kiss which the queenly maiden of the glaciers
had given him as he lay in the lap of his dead mother, in the deep
crevasse of ice from which he had been so wonderfully rescued.


II. THE JOURNEY TO THE NEW HOME

Rudy was just eight years old, when his uncle, who lived on the
other side of the mountain, wished to have the boy, as he thought he
might obtain a better education with him, and learn something more.
His grandfather thought the same, so he consented to let him go.
Rudy had many to say farewell to, as well as his grandfather. First,
there was Ajola, the old dog.

"Your father was the postilion, and I was the postilion's dog,"
said Ajola. "We have often travelled the same journey together; I knew
all the dogs and men on this side of the mountain. It is not my
habit to talk much; but now that we have so little time to converse
together, I will say something more than usual. I will relate to you a
story, which I have reflected upon for a long time. I do not
understand it, and very likely you will not, but that is of no
consequence. I have, however, learnt from it that in this world things
are not equally divided, neither for dogs nor for men. All are not
born to lie on the lap and to drink milk: I have never been petted
in this way, but I have seen a little dog seated in the place of a
gentleman or lady, and travelling inside a post-chaise. The lady,
who was his mistress, or of whom he was master, carried a bottle of
milk, of which the little dog now and then drank; she also offered him
pieces of sugar to crunch. He sniffed at them proudly, but would not
eat one, so she ate them herself. I was running along the dirty road
by the side of the carriage as hungry as a dog could be, chewing the
cud of my own thoughts, which were rather in confusion. But many other
things seemed in confusion also. Why was not I lying on a lap and
travelling in a coach? I could not tell; yet I knew I could not
alter my own condition, either by barking or growling."

This was Ajola's farewell speech, and Rudy threw his arms round
the dog's neck and kissed his cold nose. Then he took the cat in his
arms, but he struggled to get free.

"You are getting too strong for me," he said; "but I will not
use my claws against you. Clamber away over the mountains; it was I
who taught you to climb. Do not fancy you are going to fall, and you
will be quite safe." Then the cat jumped down and ran away; he did not
wish Rudy to see that there were tears in his eyes.

The hens were hopping about the floor; one of them had no tail;
a traveller, who fancied himself a sportsman, had shot off her tail,
he had mistaken her for a bird of prey.

"Rudy is going away over the mountains," said one of the hens.

"He is always in such a hurry," said the other; "and I don't
like taking leave," so they both hopped out.

But the goats said farewell; they bleated and wanted to go with
him, they were so very sorry.

Just at this time two clever guides were going to cross the
mountains to the other side of the Gemmi, and Rudy was to go with them
on foot. It was a long walk for such a little boy, but he had plenty
of strength and invincible courage. The swallows flew with him a
little way, singing, "We and you--you and we." The way led across
the rushing Lutschine, which falls in numerous streams from the dark
clefts of the Grindelwald glaciers. Trunks of fallen trees and
blocks of stone form bridges over these streams. After passing a
forest of alders, they began to ascend, passing by some blocks of
ice that had loosened themselves from the side of the mountain and lay
across their path; they had to step over these ice-blocks or walk
round them. Rudy crept here and ran there, his eyes sparkling with
joy, and he stepped so firmly with his iron-tipped mountain shoe, that
he left a mark behind him wherever he placed his foot.

The earth was black where the mountain torrents or the melted
ice had poured upon it, but the bluish green, glassy ice sparkled
and glittered. They had to go round little pools, like lakes, enclosed
between large masses of ice; and, while thus wandering out of their
path, they came near an immense stone, which lay balanced on the
edge of an icy peak. The stone lost its balance just as they reached
it, and rolled over into the abyss beneath, while the noise of its
fall was echoed back from every hollow cliff of the glaciers.

They were always going upwards. The glaciers seemed to spread
above them like a continued chain of masses of ice, piled up in wild
confusion between bare and rugged rocks. Rudy thought for a moment
of what had been told him, that he and his mother had once lain buried
in one of these cold, heart-chilling fissures; but he soon banished
such thoughts, and looked upon the story as fabulous, like many
other stories which had been told him. Once or twice, when the men
thought the way was rather difficult for such a little boy, they
held out their hands to assist him; but he would not accept their
assistance, for he stood on the slippery ice as firmly as if he had
been a chamois. They came at length to rocky ground; sometimes
stepping upon moss-covered stones, sometimes passing beneath stunted
fir-trees, and again through green meadows. The landscape was always
changing, but ever above them towered the lofty snow-clad mountains,
whose names not only Rudy but every other child knew--"The
Jungfrau," "The Monk and the Eiger."

Rudy had never been so far away before; he had never trodden on
the wide-spreading ocean of snow that lay here with its immovable
billows, from which the wind blows off the snowflake now and then,
as it cuts the foam from the waves of the sea. The glaciers stand here
so close together it might almost be said they are hand-in-hand; and
each is a crystal palace for the Ice Maiden, whose power and will it
is to seize and imprison the unwary traveller.

The sun shone warmly, and the snow sparkled as if covered with
glittering diamonds. Numerous insects, especially butterflies and
bees, lay dead in heaps on the snow. They had ventured too high, or
the wind had carried them here and left them to die of cold.

Around the Wetterhorn hung a feathery cloud, like a woolbag, and a
threatening cloud too, for as it sunk lower it increased in size,
and concealed within was a "fohn," fearful in its violence should it
break loose. This journey, with its varied incidents,--the wild paths,
the night passed on the mountain, the steep rocky precipices, the
hollow clefts, in which the rustling waters from time immemorial had
worn away passages for themselves through blocks of stone,--all
these were firmly impressed on Rudy's memory.

In a forsaken stone building, which stood just beyond the seas
of snow, they one night took shelter. Here they found some charcoal
and pine branches, so that they soon made a fire. They arranged
couches to lie on as well as they could, and then the men seated
themselves by the fire, took out their pipes, and began to smoke. They
also prepared a warm, spiced drink, of which they partook and Rudy was
not forgotten--he had his share. Then they began to talk of those
mysterious beings with which the land of the Alps abounds; the hosts
of apparitions which come in the night, and carry off the sleepers
through the air, to the wonderful floating town of Venice; of the wild
herds-man, who drives the black sheep across the meadows. These flocks
are never seen, yet the tinkle of their little bells has often been
heard, as well as their unearthly bleating. Rudy listened eagerly, but
without fear, for he knew not what fear meant; and while he
listened, he fancied he could hear the roaring of the spectral herd.
It seemed to come nearer and roar louder, till the men heard it also
and listened in silence, till, at length, they told Rudy that he
must not dare to sleep. It was a "fohn," that violent storm-wind which
rushes from the mountain to the valley beneath, and in its fury
snaps asunder the trunks of large trees as if they were but slender
reeds, and carries the wooden houses from one side of a river to the
other as easily as we could move the pieces on a chess-board. After an
hour had passed, they told Rudy that it was all over, and he might
go to sleep; and, fatigued with his long walk, he readily slept at the
word of command.

Very early the following morning they again set out. The sun on
this day lighted up for Rudy new mountains, new glaciers, and new
snow-fields. They had entered the Canton Valais, and found
themselves on the ridge of the hills which can be seen from
Grindelwald; but he was still far from his new home. They pointed
out to him other clefts, other meadows, other woods and rocky paths,
and other houses. Strange men made their appearance before him, and
what men! They were misshapen, wretched-looking creatures, with yellow
complexions; and on their necks were dark, ugly lumps of flesh,
hanging down like bags. They were called cretins. They dragged
themselves along painfully, and stared at the strangers with vacant
eyes. The women looked more dreadful than the men. Poor Rudy! were
these the sort of people he should see at his new home?


III. THE UNCLE

Rudy arrived at last at his uncle's house, and was thankful to
find the people like those he had been accustomed to see. There was
only one cretin amongst them, a poor idiot boy, one of those
unfortunate beings who, in their neglected conditions, go from house
to house, and are received and taken care of in different families,
for a month or two at a time.

Poor Saperli had just arrived at his uncle's house when Rudy came.
The uncle was an experienced hunter; he also followed the trade of a
cooper; his wife was a lively little person, with a face like a
bird, eyes like those of an eagle, and a long, hairy throat.
Everything was new to Rudy--the fashion of the dress, the manners, the
employments, and even the language; but the latter his childish ear
would soon learn. He saw also that there was more wealth here, when
compared with his former home at his grandfather's. The rooms were
larger, the walls were adorned with the horns of the chamois, and
brightly polished guns. Over the door hung a painting of the Virgin
Mary, fresh alpine roses and a burning lamp stood near it. Rudy's
uncle was, as we have said, one of the most noted chamois hunters in
the whole district, and also one of the best guides. Rudy soon
became the pet of the house; but there was another pet, an old
hound, blind and lazy, who would never more follow the hunt, well as
he had once done so. But his former good qualities were not forgotten,
and therefore the animal was kept in the family and treated with every
indulgence. Rudy stroked the old hound, but he did not like strangers,
and Rudy was as yet a stranger; he did not, however, long remain so,
he soon endeared himself to every heart, and became like one of the
family.

"We are not very badly off, here in the canton Valais," said his
uncle one day; "we have the chamois, they do not die so fast as the
wild goats, and it is certainly much better here now than in former
times. How highly the old times have been spoken of, but ours is
better. The bag has been opened, and a current of air now blows
through our once confined valley. Something better always makes its
appearance when old, worn-out things fail."

When his uncle became communicative, he would relate stories of
his youthful days, and farther back still of the warlike times in
which his father had lived. Valais was then, as he expressed it,
only a closed-up bag, quite full of sick people, miserable cretins;
but the French soldiers came, and they were capital doctors, they soon
killed the disease and the sick people, too. The French people knew
how to fight in more ways than one, and the girls knew how to
conquer too; and when he said this the uncle nodded at his wife, who
was a French woman by birth, and laughed. The French could also do
battle on the stones. "It was they who cut a road out of the solid
rock over the Simplon--such a road, that I need only say to a child of
three years old, 'Go down to Italy, you have only to keep in the
high road,' and the child will soon arrive in Italy, if he followed my
directions."

Then the uncle sang a French song, and cried, "Hurrah! long live
Napoleon Buonaparte." This was the first time Rudy had ever heard of
France, or of Lyons, that great city on the Rhone where his uncle
had once lived. His uncle said that Rudy, in a very few years, would
become a clever hunter, he had quite a talent for it; he taught the
boy to hold a gun properly, and to load and fire it. In the hunting
season he took him to the hills, and made him drink the warm blood
of the chamois, which is said to prevent the hunter from becoming
giddy; he taught him to know the time when, from the different
mountains, the avalanche is likely to fall, namely, at noontide or
in the evening, from the effects of the sun's rays; he made him
observe the movements of the chamois when he gave a leap, so that he
might fall firmly and lightly on his feet. He told him that when on
the fissures of the rocks he could find no place for his feet, he must
support himself on his elbows, and cling with his legs, and even
lean firmly with his back, for this could be done when necessary. He
told him also that the chamois are very cunning, they place
lookers-out on the watch; but the hunter must be more cunning than
they are, and find them out by the scent.

One day, when Rudy went out hunting with his uncle, he hung a coat
and hat on an alpine staff, and the chamois mistook it for a man, as
they generally do. The mountain path was narrow here; indeed it was
scarcely a path at all, only a kind of shelf, close to the yawning
abyss. The snow that lay upon it was partially thawed, and the
stones crumbled beneath the feet. Every fragment of stone broken off
struck the sides of the rock in its fall, till it rolled into the
depths beneath, and sunk to rest. Upon this shelf Rudy's uncle laid
himself down, and crept forward. At about a hundred paces behind him
stood Rudy, upon the highest point of the rock, watching a great
vulture hovering in the air; with a single stroke of his wing the bird
might easily cast the creeping hunter into the abyss beneath, and make
him his prey. Rudy's uncle had eyes for nothing but the chamois,
who, with its young kid, had just appeared round the edge of the rock.
So Rudy kept his eyes fixed on the bird, he knew well what the great
creature wanted; therefore he stood in readiness to discharge his
gun at the proper moment. Suddenly the chamois made a spring, and
his uncle fired and struck the animal with the deadly bullet; while
the young kid rushed away, as if for a long life he had been
accustomed to danger and practised flight. The large bird, alarmed
at the report of the gun, wheeled off in another direction, and Rudy's
uncle was saved from danger, of which he knew nothing till he was told
of it by the boy.

While they were both in pleasant mood, wending their way
homewards, and the uncle whistling the tune of a song he had learnt in
his young days, they suddenly heard a peculiar sound which seemed to
come from the top of the mountain. They looked up, and saw above them,
on the over-hanging rock, the snow-covering heave and lift itself as a
piece of linen stretched on the ground to dry raises itself when the
wind creeps under it. Smooth as polished marble slabs, the waves of
snow cracked and loosened themselves, and then suddenly, with the
rumbling noise of distant thunder, fell like a foaming cataract into
the abyss. An avalanche had fallen, not upon Rudy and his uncle, but
very near them. Alas, a great deal too near!

"Hold fast, Rudy!" cried his uncle; "hold fast, with all your
might."

Then Rudy clung with his arms to the trunk of the nearest tree,
while his uncle climbed above him, and held fast by the branches.
The avalanche rolled past them at some distance; but the gust of
wind that followed, like the storm-wings of the avalanche, snapped
asunder the trees and bushes over which it swept, as if they had
been but dry rushes, and threw them about in every direction. The tree
to which Rudy clung was thus overthrown, and Rudy dashed to the
ground. The higher branches were snapped off, and carried away to a
great distance; and among these shattered branches lay Rudy's uncle,
with his skull fractured. When they found him, his hand was still
warm; but it would have been impossible to recognize his face. Rudy
stood by, pale and trembling; it was the first shock of his life,
the first time he had ever felt fear. Late in the evening he
returned home with the fatal news,--to that home which was now to be
so full of sorrow. His uncle's wife uttered not a word, nor shed a
tear, till the corpse was brought in; then her agony burst forth.
The poor cretin crept away to his bed, and nothing was seen of him
during the whole of the following day. Towards evening, however, he
came to Rudy, and said, "Will you write a letter for me? Saperli
cannot write; Saperli can only take the letters to the post."

"A letter for you!" said Rudy; "who do you wish to write to?"

"To the Lord Christ," he replied.

"What do you mean?" asked Rudy.

Then the poor idiot, as the cretin was often called, looked at
Rudy with a most touching expression in his eyes, clasped his hands,
and said, solemnly and devoutly, "Saperli wants to send a letter to
Jesus Christ, to pray Him to let Saperli die, and not the master of
the house here."

Rudy pressed his hand, and replied, "A letter would not reach
Him up above; it would not give him back whom we have lost."

It was not, however, easy for Rudy to convince Saperli of the
impossibility of doing what he wished.

"Now you must work for us," said his foster-mother; and Rudy
very soon became the entire support of the house.


IV. BABETTE

Who was the best marksman in the canton Valais? The chamois knew
well. "Save yourselves from Rudy," they might well say. And who is the
handsomest marksman? "Oh, it is Rudy," said the maidens; but they
did not say, "Save yourselves from Rudy." Neither did anxious
mothers say so; for he bowed to them as pleasantly as to the young
girls. He was so brave and cheerful. His cheeks were brown, his
teeth white, and his eyes dark and sparkling. He was now a handsome
young man of twenty years. The most icy water could not deter him from
swimming; he could twist and turn like a fish. None could climb like
he, and he clung as firmly to the edges of the rocks as a limpet. He
had strong muscular power, as could be seen when he leapt from rock to
rock. He had learnt this first from the cat, and more lately from
the chamois. Rudy was considered the best guide over the mountains;
every one had great confidence in him. He might have made a great deal
of money as guide. His uncle had also taught him the trade of a
cooper; but he had no inclination for either; his delight was in
chamois-hunting, which also brought him plenty of money. Rudy would be
a very good match, as people said, if he would not look above his
own station. He was also such a famous partner in dancing, that the
girls often dreamt about him, and one and another thought of him
even when awake.

"He kissed me in the dance," said Annette, the schoolmaster's
daughter, to her dearest friend; but she ought not to have told
this, even to her dearest friend. It is not easy to keep such secrets;
they are like sand in a sieve; they slip out. It was therefore soon
known that Rudy, so brave and so good as he was, had kissed some one
while dancing, and yet he had never kissed her who was dearest to him.

"Ah, ah," said an old hunter, "he has kissed Annette, has he? he
has begun with A, and I suppose he will kiss through the whole
alphabet."

But a kiss in the dance was all the busy tongues could accuse
him of. He certainly had kissed Annette, but she was not the flower of
his heart.

Down in the valley, near Bex, among the great walnut-trees, by the
side of a little rushing mountain-stream, lived a rich miller. His
dwelling-house was a large building, three storeys high, with little
turrets. The roof was covered with chips, bound together with tin
plates, that glittered in sunshine and in the moonlight. The largest
of the turrets had a weather-cock, representing an apple pierced by
a glittering arrow, in memory of William Tell. The mill was a neat and
well-ordered place, that allowed itself to be sketched and written
about; but the miller's daughter did not permit any to sketch or write
about her. So, at least, Rudy would have said, for her image was
pictured in his heart; her eyes shone in it so brightly, that quite
a flame had been kindled there; and, like all other fires, it had
burst forth so suddenly, that the miller's daughter, the beautiful
Babette, was quite unaware of it. Rudy had never spoken a word to
her on the subject. The miller was rich, and, on that account, Babette
stood very high, and was rather difficult to aspire to. But said
Rudy to himself, "Nothing is too high for a man to reach: he must
climb with confidence in himself, and he will not fail." He had learnt
this lesson in his youthful home.

It happened once that Rudy had some business to settle at Bex.
It was a long journey at that time, for the railway had not been
opened. From the glaciers of the Rhone, at the foot of the Simplon,
between its ever-changing mountain summits, stretches the valley of
the canton Valais. Through it runs the noble river of the Rhone, which
often overflows its banks, covering fields and highways, and
destroying everything in its course. Near the towns of Sion and St.
Maurice, the valley takes a turn, and bends like an elbow, and
behind St. Maurice becomes so narrow that there is only space enough
for the bed of the river and a narrow carriage-road. An old tower
stands here, as if it were guardian to the canton Valais, which ends
at this point; and from it we can look across the stone bridge to
the toll-house on the other side, where the canton Vaud commences. Not
far from this spot stands the town of Bex, and at every step can be
seen an increase of fruitfulness and verdure. It is like entering a
grove of chestnut and walnut-trees. Here and there the cypress and
pomegranate blossoms peep forth; and it is almost as warm as an
Italian climate. Rudy arrived at Bex, and soon finished the business
which had brought him there, and then walked about the town; but not
even the miller's boy could be seen, nor any one belonging to the
mill, not to mention Babette. This did not please him at all.
Evening came on. The air was filled with the perfume of the wild thyme
and the blossoms of the lime-trees, and the green woods on the
mountains seemed to be covered with a shining veil, blue as the sky.
Over everything reigned a stillness, not of sleep or of death, but
as if Nature were holding her breath, that her image might be
photographed on the blue vault of heaven. Here and there, amidst the
trees of the silent valley, stood poles which supported the wires of
the electric telegraph. Against one of these poles leaned an object so
motionless that it might have been mistaken for the trunk of a tree;
but it was Rudy, standing there as still as at that moment was
everything around him. He was not asleep, neither was he dead; but
just as the various events in the world--matters of momentous
importance to individuals--were flying through the telegraph wires,
without the quiver of a wire or the slightest tone, so, through the
mind of Rudy, thoughts of overwhelming importance were passing,
without an outward sign of emotion. The happiness of his future life
depended upon the decision of his present reflections. His eyes were
fixed on one spot in the distance--a light that twinkled through the
foliage from the parlor of the miller's house, where Babette dwelt.
Rudy stood so still, that it might have been supposed he was
watching for a chamois; but he was in reality like a chamois, who will
stand for a moment, looking as if it were chiselled out of the rock,
and then, if only a stone rolled by, would suddenly bound forward with
a spring, far away from the hunter. And so with Rudy: a sudden roll of
his thoughts roused him from his stillness, and made him bound forward
with determination to act.

"Never despair!" cried he. "A visit to the mill, to say good
evening to the miller, and good evening to little Babette, can do no
harm. No one ever fails who has confidence in himself. If I am to be
Babette's husband, I must see her some time or other."

Then Rudy laughed joyously, and took courage to go to the mill. He
knew what he wanted; he wanted to marry Babette. The clear water of
the river rolled over its yellow bed, and willows and lime-trees
were reflected in it, as Rudy stepped along the path to the miller's
house. But, as the children sing--

  "There was no one at home in the house,
  Only a kitten at play."


The cat standing on the steps put up its back and cried "mew." But
Rudy had no inclination for this sort of conversation; he passed on,
and knocked at the door. No one heard him, no one opened the door.
"Mew," said the cat again; and had Rudy been still a child, he would
have understood this language, and known that the cat wished to tell
him there was no one at home. So he was obliged to go to the mill
and make inquiries, and there he heard that the miller had gone on a
journey to Interlachen, and taken Babette with him, to the great
shooting festival, which began that morning, and would continue for
eight days, and that people from all the German settlements would be
there.

Poor Rudy! we may well say. It was not a fortunate day for his
visit to Bex. He had just to return the way he came, through St.
Maurice and Sion, to his home in the valley. But he did not despair.
When the sun rose the next morning, his good spirits had returned;
indeed he had never really lost them. "Babette is at Interlachen,"
said Rudy to himself, "many days' journey from here. It is certainly a
long way for any one who takes the high-road, but not so far if he
takes a short cut across the mountain, and that just suits a
chamois-hunter. I have been that way before, for it leads to the
home of my childhood, where, as a little boy, I lived with my
grandfather. And there are shooting matches at Interlachen. I will go,
and try to stand first in the match. Babette will be there, and I
shall be able to make her acquaintance."

Carrying his light knapsack, which contained his Sunday clothes,
on his back, and with his musket and his game-bag over his shoulder,
Rudy started to take the shortest way across the mountain. Still it
was a great distance. The shooting matches were to commence on that
day, and to continue for a whole week. He had been told also that
the miller and Babette would remain that time with some relatives at
Interlachen. So over the Gemmi Rudy climbed bravely, and determined to
descend the side of the Grindelwald. Bright and joyous were his
feelings as he stepped lightly onwards, inhaling the invigorating
mountain air. The valley sunk as he ascended, the circle of the
horizon expanded. One snow-capped peak after another rose before
him, till the whole of the glittering Alpine range became visible.
Rudy knew each ice-clad peak, and he continued his course towards
the Schreckhorn, with its white powdered stone finger raised high in
the air. At length he had crossed the highest ridges, and before him
lay the green pasture lands sloping down towards the valley, which was
once his home. The buoyancy of the air made his heart light. Hill
and valley were blooming in luxuriant beauty, and his thoughts were
youthful dreams, in which old age or death were out of the question.
Life, power, and enjoyment were in the future, and he felt free and
light as a bird. And the swallows flew round him, as in the days of
his childhood, singing "We and you--you and we." All was overflowing
with joy. Beneath him lay the meadows, covered with velvety green,
with the murmuring river flowing through them, and dotted here and
there were small wooden houses. He could see the edges of the
glaciers, looking like green glass against the soiled snow, and the
deep chasms beneath the loftiest glacier. The church bells were
ringing, as if to welcome him to his home with their sweet tones.
His heart beat quickly, and for a moment he seemed to have
foregotten Babette, so full were his thoughts of old recollections. He
was, in imagination, once more wandering on the road where, when a
little boy, he, with other children, came to sell their curiously
carved toy houses. Yonder, behind the fir-trees, still stood his
grandfather's house, his mother's father, but strangers dwelt in it
now. Children came running to him, as he had once done, and wished
to sell their wares. One of them offered him an Alpine rose. Rudy took
the rose as a good omen, and thought of Babette. He quickly crossed
the bridge where the two rivers flow into each other. Here he found
a walk over-shadowed with large walnut-trees, and their thick
foliage formed a pleasant shade. Very soon he perceived in the
distance, waving flags, on which glittered a white cross on a red
ground--the standard of the Danes as well as of the Swiss--and
before him lay Interlachen.

"It is really a splendid town, like none other that I have ever
seen," said Rudy to himself. It was indeed a Swiss town in its holiday
dress. Not like the many other towns, crowded with heavy stone houses,
stiff and foreign looking. No; here it seemed as if the wooden
houses on the hills had run into the valley, and placed themselves
in rows and ranks by the side of the clear river, which rushes like an
arrow in its course. The streets were rather irregular, it is true,
but still this added to their picturesque appearance. There was one
street which Rudy thought the prettiest of them all; it had been built
since he had visited the town when a little boy. It seemed to him as
if all the neatest and most curiously carved toy houses which his
grandfather once kept in the large cupboard at home, had been
brought out and placed in this spot, and that they had increased in
size since then, as the old chestnut trees had done. The houses were
called hotels; the woodwork on the windows and balconies was curiously
carved. The roofs were gayly painted, and before each house was a
flower garden, which separated it from the macadamized high-road.
These houses all stood on the same side of the road, so that the
fresh, green meadows, in which were cows grazing, with bells on
their necks, were not hidden. The sound of these bells is often
heard amidst Alpine scenery. These meadows were encircled by lofty
hills, which receded a little in the centre, so that the most
beautifully formed of Swiss mountains--the snow-crowned Jungfrau--could
be distinctly seen glittering in the distance. A number of
elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies from foreign lands, and
crowds of country people from the neighboring cantons, were
assembled in the town. Each marksman wore the number of hits he had
made twisted in a garland round his hat. Here were music and singing
of all descriptions: hand-organs, trumpets, shouting, and noise. The
houses and bridges were adorned with verses and inscriptions. Flags
and banners were waving. Shot after shot was fired, which was the best
music to Rudy's ears. And amidst all this excitement he quite forgot
Babette, on whose account only he had come. The shooters were
thronging round the target, and Rudy was soon amongst them. But when
he took his turn to fire, he proved himself the best shot, for he
always struck the bull's-eye.

"Who may that young stranger be?" was the inquiry on all sides.
"He speaks French as it is spoken in the Swiss cantons."

"And makes himself understood very well when he speaks German,"
said some.

"He lived here, when a child, with his grandfather, in a house
on the road to Grindelwald," remarked one of the sportsmen.

And full of life was this young stranger; his eyes sparkled, his
glance was steady, and his arm sure, therefore he always hit the mark.
Good fortune gives courage, and Rudy was always courageous. He soon
had a circle of friends gathered round him. Every one noticed him, and
did him homage. Babette had quite vanished from his thoughts, when
he was struck on the shoulder by a heavy hand, and a deep voice said
to him in French, "You are from the canton Valais."

Rudy turned round, and beheld a man with a ruddy, pleasant face,
and a stout figure. It was the rich miller from Bex. His broad, portly
person, hid the slender, lovely Babette; but she came forward and
glanced at him with her bright, dark eyes. The rich miller was very
much flattered at the thought that the young man, who was acknowledged
to be the best shot, and was so praised by every one, should be from
his own canton. Now was Rudy really fortunate: he had travelled all
this way to this place, and those he had forgotten were now come to
seek him. When country people go far from home, they often meet with
those they know, and improve their acquaintance. Rudy, by his
shooting, had gained the first place in the shooting-match, just as
the miller at home at Bex stood first, because of his money and his
mill. So the two men shook hands, which they had never done before.
Babette, too, held out her hand to Rudy frankly, and he pressed it
in his, and looked at her so earnestly, that she blushed deeply. The
miller talked of the long journey they had travelled, and of the
many towns they had seen. It was his opinion that he had really made
as great a journey as if he had travelled in a steamship, a railway
carriage, or a post-chaise.

"I came by a much shorter way," said Rudy; "I came over the
mountains. There is no road so high that a man may not venture upon
it."

"Ah, yes; and break your neck," said the miller; "and you look
like one who will break his neck some day, you are so daring."

"Oh, nothing ever happens to a man if he has confidence in
himself," replied Rudy.

The miller's relations at Interlachen, with whom the miller and
Babette were staying, invited Rudy to visit them, when they found he
came from the same canton as the miller. It was a most pleasant visit.
Good fortune seemed to follow him, as it does those who think and
act for themselves, and who remember the proverb, "Nuts are given to
us, but they are not cracked for us." And Rudy was treated by the
miller's relations almost like one of the family, and glasses of
wine were poured out to drink to the welfare of the best shooter.
Babette clinked glasses with Rudy, and he returned thanks for the
toast. In the evening they all took a delightful walk under the
walnut-trees, in front of the stately hotels; there were so many
people, and such crowding, that Rudy was obliged to offer his arm to
Babette. Then he told her how happy it made him to meet people from
the canton Vaud,--for Vaud and Valais were neighboring cantons. He
spoke of this pleasure so heartily that Babette could not resist
giving his arm a slight squeeze; and so they walked on together, and
talked and chatted like old acquaintances. Rudy felt inclined to laugh
sometimes at the absurd dress and walk of the foreign ladies; but
Babette did not wish to make fun of them, for she knew there must be
some good, excellent people amongst them; she, herself, had a
godmother, who was a high-born English lady. Eighteen years before,
when Babette was christened, this lady was staying at Bex, and she
stood godmother for her, and gave her the valuable brooch she now wore
in her bosom.

Her godmother had twice written to her, and this year she was
expected to visit Interlachen with her two daughters; "but they are
old-maids," added Babette, who was only eighteen: "they are nearly
thirty." Her sweet little mouth was never still a moment, and all that
she said sounded in Rudy's ears as matters of the greatest importance,
and at last he told her what he was longing to tell. How often he
had been at Bex, how well he knew the mill, and how often he had
seen Babette, when most likely she had not noticed him; and lastly,
that full of many thoughts which he could not tell her, he had been to
the mill on the evening when she and her father has started on their
long journey, but not too far for him to find a way to overtake
them. He told her all this, and a great deal more; he told her how
much he could endure for her; and that it was to see her, and not
the shooting-match, which had brought him to Interlachen. Babette
became quite silent after hearing all this; it was almost too much,
and it troubled her.

And while they thus wandered on, the sun sunk behind the lofty
mountains. The Jungfrau stood out in brightness and splendor, as a
back-ground to the green woods of the surrounding hills. Every one
stood still to look at the beautiful sight, Rudy and Babette among
them.

"Nothing can be more beautiful than this," said Babette.

"Nothing!" replied Rudy, looking at Babette.

"To-morrow I must return home," remarked Rudy a few minutes
afterwards.

"Come and visit us at Bex," whispered Babette; "my father will
be pleased to see you."


V. ON THE WAY HOME

Oh, what a number of things Rudy had to carry over the
mountains, when he set out to return home! He had three silver cups,
two handsome pistols, and a silver coffee-pot. This latter would be
useful when he began housekeeping. But all these were not the heaviest
weight he had to bear; something mightier and more important he
carried with him in his heart, over the high mountains, as he
journeyed homeward.

The weather was dismally dark, and inclined to rain; the clouds
hung low, like a mourning veil on the tops of the mountains, and
shrouded their glittering peaks. In the woods could be heard the sound
of the axe and the heavy fall of the trunks of the trees, as they
rolled down the slopes of the mountains. When seen from the heights,
the trunks of these trees looked like slender stems; but on a nearer
inspection they were found to be large and strong enough for the masts
of a ship. The river murmured monotonously, the wind whistled, and the
clouds sailed along hurriedly.

Suddenly there appeared, close by Rudy's side, a young maiden;
he had not noticed her till she came quite near to him. She was also
going to ascend the mountain. The maiden's eyes shone with an
unearthly power, which obliged you to look into them; they were
strange eyes,--clear, deep, and unfathomable.

"Hast thou a lover?" asked Rudy; all his thoughts were naturally
on love just then.

"I have none," answered the maiden, with a laugh; it was as if she
had not spoken the truth.

"Do not let us go such a long way round," said she. "We must
keep to the left; it is much shorter."

"Ah, yes," he replied; "and fall into some crevasse. Do you
pretend to be a guide, and not know the road better than that?"

"I know every step of the way," said she; "and my thoughts are
collected, while yours are down in the valley yonder. We should
think of the Ice Maiden while we are up here; men say she is not
kind to their race."

"I fear her not," said Rudy. "She could not keep me when I was a
child; I will not give myself up to her now I am a man."

Darkness came on, the rain fell, and then it began to snow, and
the whiteness dazzled the eyes.

"Give me your hand," said the maiden; "I will help you to
mount." And he felt the touch of her icy fingers.

"You help me," cried Rudy; "I do not yet require a woman to help
me to climb." And he stepped quickly forwards away from her.

The drifting snow-shower fell like a veil between them, the wind
whistled, and behind him he could hear the maiden laughing and
singing, and the sound was most strange to hear.

"It certainly must be a spectre or a servant of the Ice Maiden,"
thought Rudy, who had heard such things talked about when he was a
little boy, and had stayed all night on the mountain with the guides.

The snow fell thicker than ever, the clouds lay beneath him; he
looked back, there was no one to be seen, but he heard sounds of
mocking laughter, which were not those of a human voice.

When Rudy at length reached the highest part of the mountain,
where the path led down to the valley of the Rhone, the snow had
ceased, and in the clear heavens he saw two bright stars twinkling.
They reminded him of Babette and of himself, and of his future
happiness, and his heart glowed at the thought.


VI. THE VISIT TO THE MILL

"What beautiful things you have brought home!" said his old
foster-mother; and her strange-looking eagle-eyes sparkled, while
she wriggled and twisted her skinny neck more quickly and strangely
than ever. "You have brought good luck with you, Rudy. I must give you
a kiss, my dear boy."

Rudy allowed himself to be kissed; but it could be seen by his
countenance that he only endured the infliction as a homely duty.

"How handsome you are, Rudy!" said the old woman.

"Don't flatter," said Rudy, with a laugh; but still he was
pleased.

"I must say once more," said the old woman, "that you are very
lucky."

"Well, in that I believe you are right," said he, as he thought of
Babette. Never had he felt such a longing for that deep valley as he
now had. "They must have returned home by this time," said he to
himself, "it is already two days over the time which they fixed
upon. I must go to Bex."

So Rudy set out to go to Bex; and when he arrived there, he
found the miller and his daughter at home. They received him kindly,
and brought him many greetings from their friends at Interlachen.
Babette did not say much. She seemed to have become quite silent;
but her eyes spoke, and that was quite enough for Rudy. The miller had
generally a great deal to talk about, and seemed to expect that
every one should listen to his jokes, and laugh at them; for was not
he the rich miller? But now he was more inclined to hear Rudy's
adventures while hunting and travelling, and to listen to his
descriptions of the difficulties the chamois-hunter has to overcome on
the mountain-tops, or of the dangerous snow-drifts which the wind
and weather cause to cling to the edges of the rocks, or to lie in the
form of a frail bridge over the abyss beneath. The eyes of the brave
Rudy sparkled as he described the life of a hunter, or spoke of the
cunning of the chamois and their wonderful leaps; also of the powerful
fohn and the rolling avalanche. He noticed that the more he described,
the more interested the miller became, especially when he spoke of the
fierce vulture and of the royal eagle. Not far from Bex, in the canton
Valais, was an eagle's nest, more curiously built under a high,
over-hanging rock. In this nest was a young eagle; but who would
venture to take it? A young Englishman had offered Rudy a whole
handful of gold, if he would bring him the young eagle alive.

"There is a limit to everything," was Rudy's reply. "The eagle
could not be taken; it would be folly to attempt it."

The wine was passed round freely, and the conversation kept up
pleasantly; but the evening seemed too short for Rudy, although it was
midnight when he left the miller's house, after this his first visit.

While the lights in the windows of the miller's house still
twinkled through the green foliage, out through the open skylight came
the parlor-cat on to the roof, and along the water-pipe walked the
kitchen-cat to meet her.

"What is the news at the mill?" asked the parlor-cat. "Here in the
house there is secret love-making going on, which the father knows
nothing about. Rudy and Babette have been treading on each other's
paws, under the table, all the evening. They trod on my tail twice,
but I did not mew; that would have attracted notice."

"Well, I should have mewed," said the kitchen-cat.

"What might suit the kitchen would not suit the parlor," said
the other. "I am quite curious to know what the miller will say when
he finds out this engagement."

Yes, indeed; what would the miller say? Rudy himself was anxious
to know that; but to wait till the miller heard of it from others
was out of the question. Therefore, not many days after this visit, he
was riding in the omnibus that runs between the two cantons, Valais
and Vaud. These cantons are separated by the Rhone, over which is a
bridge that unites them. Rudy, as usual, had plenty of courage, and
indulged in pleasant thoughts of the favorable answer he should
receive that evening. And when the omnibus returned, Rudy was again
seated in it, going homewards; and at the same time the parlor-cat
at the miller's house ran out quickly, crying,--

"Here, you from the kitchen, what do you think? The miller knows
all now. Everything has come to a delightful end. Rudy came here
this evening, and he and Babette had much whispering and secret
conversation together. They stood in the path near the miller's
room. I lay at their feet; but they had no eyes or thoughts for me.

"'I will go to your father at once,' said he; 'it is the most
honorable way.'

"'Shall I go with you?' asked Babette; 'it will give you courage.'

"'I have plenty of courage,' said Rudy; 'but if you are with me,
he must be friendly, whether he says Yes or No.'

"So they turned to go in, and Rudy trod heavily on my tail; he
certainly is very clumsy. I mewed; but neither he nor Babette had
any ears for me. They opened the door, and entered together. I was
before them, and jumped on the back of a chair. I hardly know what
Rudy said; but the miller flew into a rage, and threatened to kick him
out of the house. He told him he might go to the mountains, and look
after the chamois, but not after our little Babette."

"And what did they say? Did they speak?" asked the kitchen-cat.

"What did they say! why, all that people generally do say when
they go a-wooing--'I love her, and she loves me; and when there is
milk in the can for one, there is milk in the can for two.'

"'But she is so far above you,' said the miller; 'she has heaps of
gold, as you know. You should not attempt to reach her.'

"'There is nothing so high that a man cannot reach, if he will,'
answered Rudy; for he is a brave youth.

"'Yet you could not reach the young eagle,' said the miller,
laughing. 'Babette is higher than the eagle's nest.'

"'I will have them both,' said Rudy.

"'Very well; I will give her to you when you bring me the young
eaglet alive,' said the miller; and he laughed till the tears stood in
his eyes. 'But now I thank you for this visit, Rudy; and if you come
to-morrow, you will find nobody at home. Good-bye, Rudy.'

"Babette also wished him farewell; but her voice sounded as
mournful as the mew of a little kitten that has lost its mother.

"'A promise is a promise between man and man,' said Rudy. 'Do
not weep, Babette; I shall bring the young eagle.'

"'You will break your neck, I hope,' said the miller, 'and we
shall be relieved from your company.'

"I call that kicking him out of the house," said the parlor-cat.
"And now Rudy is gone, and Babette sits and weeps, while the miller
sings German songs that he learnt on his journey; but I do not trouble
myself on the matter,--it would be of no use."

"Yet, for all that, it is a very strange affair," said the
kitchen-cat.


VII. THE EAGLE'S NEST

From the mountain-path came a joyous sound of some person
whistling, and it betokened good humor and undaunted courage. It was
Rudy, going to meet his friend Vesinaud. "You must come and help,"
said he. "I want to carry off the young eaglet from the top of the
rock. We will take young Ragli with us."

"Had you not better first try to take down the moon? That would be
quite as easy a task," said Vesinaud. "You seem to be in good
spirits."

"Yes, indeed I am. I am thinking of my wedding. But to be serious,
I will tell you all about it, and how I am situated."

Then he explained to Vesinaud and Ragli what he wished to do,
and why.

"You are a daring fellow," said they; "but it is no use; you
will break your neck."

"No one falls, unless he is afraid," said Rudy.

So at midnight they set out, carrying with them poles, ladders,
and ropes. The road lay amidst brushwood and underwood, over rolling
stones, always upwards higher and higher in the dark night. Waters
roared beneath them, or fell in cascades from above. Humid clouds were
driving through the air as the hunters reached the precipitous ledge
of the rock. It was even darker here, for the sides of the rocks
almost met, and the light penetrated only through a small opening at
the top. At a little distance from the edge could be heard the sound
of the roaring, foaming waters in the yawning abyss beneath them.
The three seated themselves on a stone, to await in stillness the dawn
of day, when the parent eagle would fly out, as it would be
necessary to shoot the old bird before they could think of gaining
possession of the young one. Rudy sat motionless, as if he had been
part of the stone on which he sat. He held his gun ready to fire, with
his eyes fixed steadily on the highest point of the cliff, where the
eagle's nest lay concealed beneath the overhanging rock.

The three hunters had a long time to wait. At last they heard a
rustling, whirring sound above them, and a large hovering object
darkened the air. Two guns were ready to aim at the dark body of the
eagle as it rose from the nest. Then a shot was fired; for an
instant the bird fluttered its wide-spreading wings, and seemed as
if it would fill up the whole of the chasm, and drag down the
hunters in its fall. But it was not so; the eagle sunk gradually
into the abyss beneath, and the branches of trees and bushes were
broken by its weight. Then the hunters roused themselves: three of the
longest ladders were brought and bound together; the topmost ring of
these ladders would just reach the edge of the rock which hung over
the abyss, but no farther. The point beneath which the eagle's nest
lay sheltered was much higher, and the sides of the rock were as
smooth as a wall. After consulting together, they determined to bind
together two more ladders, and to hoist them over the cavity, and so
form a communication with the three beneath them, by binding the upper
ones to the lower. With great difficulty they contrived to drag the
two ladders over the rock, and there they hung for some moments,
swaying over the abyss; but no sooner had they fastened them together,
than Rudy placed his foot on the lowest step.

It was a bitterly cold morning; clouds of mist were rising from
beneath, and Rudy stood on the lower step of the ladder as a fly rests
on a piece of swinging straw, which a bird may have dropped from the
edge of the nest it was building on some tall factory chimney; but the
fly could fly away if the straw were shaken, Rudy could only break his
neck. The wind whistled around him, and beneath him the waters of
the abyss, swelled by the thawing of the glaciers, those palaces of
the Ice Maiden, foamed and roared in their rapid course. When Rudy
began to ascend, the ladder trembled like the web of the spider,
when it draws out the long, delicate threads; but as soon as he
reached the fourth of the ladders, which had been bound together, he
felt more confidence,--he knew that they had been fastened securely by
skilful hands. The fifth ladder, that appeared to reach the nest,
was supported by the sides of the rock, yet it swung to and fro, and
flapped about like a slender reed, and as if it had been bound by
fishing lines. It seemed a most dangerous undertaking to ascend it,
but Rudy knew how to climb; he had learnt that from the cat, and he
had no fear. He did not observe Vertigo, who stood in the air behind
him, trying to lay hold of him with his outstretched polypous arms.

When at length he stood on the topmost step of the ladder, he
found that he was still some distance below the nest, and not even
able to see into it. Only by using his hands and climbing could he
possibly reach it. He tried the strength of the stunted trees, and the
thick underwood upon which the nest rested, and of which it was
formed, and finding they would support his weight, he grasped them
firmly, and swung himself up from the ladder till his head and
breast were above the nest, and then what an overpowering stench
came from it, for in it lay the putrid remains of lambs, chamois,
and birds. Vertigo, although he could not reach him, blew the
poisonous vapor in his face, to make him giddy and faint; and beneath,
in the dark, yawning deep, on the rushing waters, sat the Ice
Maiden, with her long, pale, green hair falling around her, and her
death-like eyes fixed upon him, like the two barrels of a gun. "I have
thee now," she cried.

In a corner of the eagle's nest sat the young eaglet, a large
and powerful bird, though still unable to fly. Rudy fixed his eyes
upon it, held on by one hand with all his strength, and with the other
threw a noose round the young eagle. The string slipped to its legs.
Rudy tightened it, and thus secured the bird alive. Then flinging
the sling over his shoulder, so that the creature hung a good way down
behind him, he prepared to descend with the help of a rope, and his
foot soon touched safely the highest step of the ladder. Then Rudy,
remembering his early lesson in climbing, "Hold fast, and do not
fear," descended carefully down the ladders, and at last stood
safely on the ground with the young living eaglet, where he was
received with loud shouts of joy and congratulations.


VIII. WHAT FRESH NEWS THE PARLOR-CAT HAD TO TELL

"There is what you asked for," said Rudy, as he entered the
miller's house at Bex, and placed on the floor a large basket. He
removed the lid as he spoke, and a pair of yellow eyes, encircled by a
black ring, stared forth with a wild, fiery glance, that seemed
ready to burn and destroy all that came in its way. Its short,
strong beak was open, ready to bite, and on its red throat were
short feathers, like stubble.

"The young eaglet!" cried the miller.

Babette screamed, and started back, while her eyes wandered from
Rudy to the bird in astonishment.

"You are not to be discouraged by difficulties, I see," said the
miller.

"And you will keep your word," replied Rudy. "Each has his own
characteristic, whether it is honor or courage."

"But how is it you did not break your neck?" asked the miller.

"Because I held fast," answered Rudy; "and I mean to hold fast
to Babette."

"You must get her first," said the miller, laughing; and Babette
thought this a very good sign.

"We must take the bird out of the basket," said she. "It is
getting into a rage; how its eyes glare. How did you manage to conquer
it?"

Then Rudy had to describe his adventure, and the miller's eyes
opened wide as he listened.

"With your courage and your good fortune you might win three
wives," said the miller.

"Oh, thank you," cried Rudy.

"But you have not won Babette yet," said the miller, slapping
the young Alpine hunter on the shoulder playfully.

"Have you heard the fresh news at the mill?" asked the
parlor-cat of the kitchen-cat. "Rudy has brought us the young eagle,
and he is to take Babette in exchange. They kissed each other in the
presence of the old man, which is as good as an engagement. He was
quite civil about it; drew in his claws, and took his afternoon nap,
so that the two were left to sit and wag their tails as much as they
pleased. They have so much to talk about that it will not be
finished till Christmas." Neither was it finished till Christmas.

The wind whirled the faded, fallen leaves; the snow drifted in the
valleys, as well as upon the mountains, and the Ice Maiden sat in
the stately palace which, in winter time, she generally occupied.
The perpendicular rocks were covered with slippery ice, and where in
summer the stream from the rocks had left a watery veil, icicles large
and heavy hung from the trees, while the snow-powdered fir-trees
were decorated with fantastic garlands of crystal. The Ice Maiden rode
on the howling wind across the deep valleys, the country, as far as
Bex, was covered with a carpet of snow, so that the Ice Maiden could
follow Rudy, and see him, when he visited the mill; and while in the
room at the miller's house, where he was accustomed to spend so much
of his time with Babette. The wedding was to take place in the
following summer, and they heard enough of it, for so many of their
friends spoke of the matter.

Then came sunshine to the mill. The beautiful Alpine roses
bloomed, and joyous, laughing Babette, was like the early spring,
which makes all the birds sing of summer time and bridal days.

"How those two do sit and chatter together," said the
parlor-cat; "I have had enough of their mewing."


IX. THE ICE MAIDEN

The walnut and chestnut trees, which extend from the bridge of St.
Maurice, by the river Rhone, to the shores of the lake of Geneva, were
already covered with the delicate green garlands of early spring, just
bursting into bloom, while the Rhone rushed wildly from its source
among the green glaciers which form the ice palace of the Ice
Maiden. She sometimes allows herself to be carried by the keen wind to
the lofty snow-fields, where she stretches herself in the sunshine
on the soft snowy-cushions. From thence she throws her far-seeing
glance into the deep valley beneath, where human beings are busily
moving about like ants on a stone in the sun. "Spirits of strength, as
the children of the sun call you," cried the Ice Maiden, "ye are but
worms! Let but a snow-ball roll, and you and your houses and your
towns are crushed and swept away." And she raised her proud head,
and looked around her with eyes that flashed death from their
glance. From the valley came a rumbling sound; men were busily at work
blasting the rocks to form tunnels, and laying down roads for the
railway. "They are playing at work underground, like moles," said she.
"They are digging passages beneath the earth, and the noise is like
the reports of cannons. I shall throw down my palaces, for the
clamor is louder than the roar of thunder." Then there ascended from
the valley a thick vapor, which waved itself in the air like a
fluttering veil. It rose, as a plume of feathers, from a steam engine,
to which, on the lately-opened railway, a string of carriages was
linked, carriage to carriage, looking like a winding serpent. The
train shot past with the speed of an arrow. "They play at being
masters down there, those spirits of strength!" exclaimed the Ice
Maiden; "but the powers of nature are still the rulers." And she
laughed and sang till her voice sounded through the valley, and people
said it was the rolling of an avalanche. But the children of the sun
sang in louder strains in praise of the mind of man, which can span
the sea as with a yoke, can level mountains, and fill up valleys. It
is the power of thought which gives man the mastery over nature.

Just at this moment there came across the snow-field, where the
Ice Maiden sat, a party of travellers. They had bound themselves
fast to each other, so that they looked like one large body on the
slippery plains of ice encircling the deep abyss.

"Worms!" exclaimed the Ice Maiden. "You, the lords of the powers
of nature!" And she turned away and looked maliciously at the deep
valley where the railway train was rushing by. "There they sit,
these thoughts!" she exclaimed. "There they sit in their power over
nature's strength. I see them all. One sits proudly apart, like a
king; others sit together in a group; yonder, half of them are asleep;
and when the steam dragon stops, they will get out and go their way.
The thoughts go forth into the world," and she laughed.

"There goes another avalanche," said those in the valley beneath.

"It will not reach us," said two who sat together behind the steam
dragon. "Two hearts and one beat," as people say. They were Rudy and
Babette, and the miller was with them. "I am like the luggage," said
he; "I am here as a necessary appendage."

"There sit those two," said the Ice Maiden. "Many a chamois have I
crushed. Millions of Alpine roses have I snapped and broken off; not a
root have I spared. I know them all, and their thoughts, those spirits
of strength!" and again she laughed.

"There rolls another avalanche," said those in the valley.


X. THE GODMOTHER

At Montreux, one of the towns which encircle the northeast part of
the lake of Geneva, lived Babette's godmother, the noble English lady,
with her daughters and a young relative. They had only lately arrived,
yet the miller had paid them a visit, and informed them of Babette's
engagement to Rudy. The whole story of their meeting at Interlachen,
and his brave adventure with the eaglet, were related to them, and
they were all very much interested, and as pleased about Rudy and
Babette as the miller himself. The three were invited to come to
Montreux; it was but right for Babette to become acquainted with her
godmother, who wished to see her very much. A steam-boat started
from the town of Villeneuve, at one end of the lake of Geneva, and
arrived at Bernex, a little town beyond Montreux, in about half an
hour. And in this boat, the miller, with his daughter and Rudy, set
out to visit her godmother. They passed the coast which has been so
celebrated in song. Here, under the walnut-trees, by the deep blue
lake, sat Byron, and wrote his melodious verses about the prisoner
confined in the gloomy castle of Chillon. Here, where Clarens, with
its weeping-willows, is reflected in the clear water, wandered
Rousseau, dreaming of Heloise. The river Rhone glides gently by
beneath the lofty snow-capped hills of Savoy, and not far from its
mouth lies a little island in the lake, so small that, seen from the
shore, it looks like a ship. The surface of the island is rocky; and
about a hundred years ago, a lady caused the ground to be covered with
earth, in which three acacia-trees were planted, and the whole
enclosed with stone walls. The acacia-trees now overshadow every
part of the island. Babette was enchanted with the spot; it seemed
to her the most beautiful object in the whole voyage, and she
thought how much she should like to land there. But the steam-ship
passed it by, and did not stop till it reached Bernex. The little
party walked slowly from this place to Montreux, passing the sun-lit
walls with which the vineyards of the little mountain town of Montreux
are surrounded, and peasants' houses, overshadowed by fig-trees,
with gardens in which grow the laurel and the cypress.

Halfway up the hill stood the boarding-house in which Babette's
godmother resided. She was received most cordially; her godmother
was a very friendly woman, with a round, smiling countenance. When a
child, her head must have resembled one of Raphael's cherubs; it was
still an angelic face, with its white locks of silvery hair. The
daughters were tall, elegant, slender maidens.

The young cousin, whom they had brought with them, was dressed
in white from head to foot; he had golden hair and golden whiskers,
large enough to be divided amongst three gentlemen; and he began
immediately to pay the greatest attention to Babette.

Richly bound books, note-paper, and drawings, lay on the large
table. The balcony window stood open, and from it could be seen the
beautiful wide extended lake, the water so clear and still, that the
mountains of Savoy, with their villages, woods, and snow-crowned
peaks, were clearly reflected in it.

Rudy, who was usually so lively and brave, did not in the least
feel himself at home; he acted as if he were walking on peas, over a
slippery floor. How long and wearisome the time appeared; it was
like being in a treadmill. And then they went out for a walk, which
was very slow and tedious. Two steps forward and one backwards had
Rudy to take to keep pace with the others. They walked down to
Chillon, and went over the old castle on the rocky island. They saw
the implements of torture, the deadly dungeons, the rusty fetters in
the rocky walls, the stone benches for those condemned to death, the
trap-doors through which the unhappy creatures were hurled upon iron
spikes, and impaled alive. They called looking at all these a
pleasure. It certainly was the right place to visit. Byron's poetry
had made it celebrated in the world. Rudy could only feel that it
was a place of execution. He leaned against the stone framework of the
window, and gazed down into the deep, blue water, and over to the
little island with the three acacias, and wished himself there, away
and free from the whole chattering party. But Babette was most
unusually lively and good-tempered.

"I have been so amused," she said.

The cousin had found her quite perfect.

"He is a perfect fop," said Rudy; and this was the first time Rudy
had said anything that did not please Babette.

The Englishman had made her a present of a little book, in
remembrance of their visit to Chillon. It was Byron's poem, "The
Prisoner of Chillon," translated into French, so that Babette could
read it.

"The book may be very good," said Rudy; "but that finely combed
fellow who gave it to you is not worth much."

"He looks something like a flour-sack without any flour," said the
miller, laughing at his own wit. Rudy laughed, too, for so had he
appeared to him.


XI. THE COUSIN

When Rudy went a few days after to pay a visit to the mill, he
found the young Englishman there. Babette was just thinking of
preparing some trout to set before him. She understood well how to
garnish the dish with parsley, and make it look quite tempting. Rudy
thought all this quite unnecessary. What did the Englishman want
there? What was he about? Why should he be entertained, and waited
upon by Babette? Rudy was jealous, and that made Babette happy. It
amused her to discover all the feelings of his heart; the strong
points and weak ones. Love was to her as yet only a pastime, and she
played with Rudy's whole heart. At the same time it must be
acknowledged that her fortune, her whole life, her inmost thoughts,
her best and most noble feelings in this world were all for him. Still
the more gloomy he looked, the more her eyes laughed. She could almost
have kissed the fair Englishman, with the golden whiskers, if by so
doing she could have put Rudy in a rage, and made him run out of the
house. That would have proved how much he loved her. All this was
not right in Babette, but she was only nineteen years of age, and
she did not reflect on what she did, neither did she think that her
conduct would appear to the young Englishman as light, and not even
becoming the modest and much-loved daughter of the miller.

The mill at Bex stood in the highway, which passed under the
snow-clad mountains, and not far from a rapid mountain-stream, whose
waters seemed to have been lashed into a foam like soap-suds. This
stream, however, did not pass near enough to the mill, and therefore
the mill-wheel was turned by a smaller stream which tumbled down the
rocks on the opposite side, where it was opposed by a stone
mill-dam, and obtained greater strength and speed, till it fell into a
large basin, and from thence through a channel to the mill-wheel. This
channel sometimes overflowed, and made the path so slippery that any
one passing that way might easily fall in, and be carried towards
the mill wheel with frightful rapidity. Such a catastrophe nearly
happened to the young Englishman. He had dressed himself in white
clothes, like a miller's man, and was climbing the path to the
miller's house, but he had never been taught to climb, and therefore
slipped, and nearly went in head-foremost. He managed, however, to
scramble out with wet sleeves and bespattered trousers. Still, wet and
splashed with mud, he contrived to reach Babette's window, to which he
had been guided by the light that shone from it. Here he climbed the
old linden-tree that stood near it, and began to imitate the voice
of an owl, the only bird he could venture to mimic. Babette heard
the noise, and glanced through the thin window curtain; but when she
saw the man in white, and guessed who he was, her little heart beat
with terror as well as anger. She quickly put out the light, felt if
the fastening of the window was secure, and then left him to howl as
long as he liked. How dreadful it would be, thought Babette, if Rudy
were here in the house. But Rudy was not in the house. No, it was much
worse, he was outside, standing just under the linden-tree. He was
speaking loud, angry words. He could fight, and there might be murder!
Babette opened the window in alarm, and called Rudy's name; she told
him to go away, she did not wish him to remain there.

"You do not wish me to stay," cried he; "then this is an
appointment you expected--this good friend whom you prefer to me.
Shame on you, Babette!"

"You are detestable!" exclaimed Babette, bursting into tears.
"Go away. I hate you."

"I have not deserved this," said Rudy, as he turned away, his
cheeks burning, and his heart like fire.

Babette threw herself on the bed, and wept bitterly. "So much as I
loved thee, Rudy, and yet thou canst think ill of me."

Thus her anger broke forth; it relieved her, however: otherwise
she would have been more deeply grieved; but now she could sleep
soundly, as youth only can sleep.


XII. EVIL POWERS

Rudy left Bex, and took his way home along the mountain path.
The air was fresh, but cold; for here amidst the deep snow, the Ice
Maiden reigned. He was so high up that the large trees beneath him,
with their thick foliage, appeared like garden plants, and the pines
and bushes even less. The Alpine roses grew near the snow, which lay
in detached stripes, and looked like linen laid out to bleach. A
blue gentian grew in his path, and he crushed it with the butt end
of his gun. A little higher up, he espied two chamois. Rudy's eyes
glistened, and his thoughts flew at once in a different direction; but
he was not near enough to take a sure aim. He ascended still higher,
to a spot where a few rough blades of grass grew between the blocks of
stone and the chamois passed quietly on over the snow-fields. Rudy
walked hurriedly, while the clouds of mist gathered round him.
Suddenly he found himself on the brink of a precipitous rock. The rain
was falling in torrents. He felt a burning thirst, his head was hot,
and his limbs trembled with cold. He seized his hunting-flask, but
it was empty; he had not thought of filling it before ascending the
mountain. He had never been ill in his life, nor ever experienced such
sensations as those he now felt. He was so tired that he could
scarcely resist lying down at his full length to sleep, although the
ground was flooded with the rain. Yet when he tried to rouse himself a
little, every object around him danced and trembled before his eyes.

Suddenly he observed in the doorway of a hut newly built under the
rock, a young maiden. He did not remember having seen this hut before,
yet there it stood; and he thought, at first, that the young maiden
was Annette, the schoolmaster's daughter, whom he had once kissed in
the dance. The maiden was not Annette; yet it seemed as if he had seen
her somewhere before, perhaps near Grindelwald, on the evening of
his return home from Interlachen, after the shooting-match.

"How did you come here?" he asked.

"I am at home," she replied; "I am watching my flocks."

"Your flocks!" he exclaimed; "where do they find pasture? There is
nothing here but snow and rocks."

"Much you know of what grows here," she replied, laughing. "Not
far beneath us there is beautiful pasture-land. My goats go there. I
tend them carefully; I never miss one. What is once mine remains
mine."

"You are bold," said Rudy.

"And so are you," she answered.

"Have you any milk in the house?" he asked; "if so, give me some
to drink; my thirst is intolerable."

"I have something better than milk," she replied, "which I will
give you. Some travellers who were here yesterday with their guide
left behind them a half a flask of wine, such as you have never
tasted. They will not come back to fetch it, I know, and I shall not
drink it; so you shall have it."

Then the maiden went to fetch the wine, poured some into a
wooden cup, and offered it to Rudy.

"How good it is!" said he; "I have never before tasted such
warm, invigorating wine." And his eyes sparkled with new life; a
glow diffused itself over his frame; it seemed as if every sorrow,
every oppression were banished from his mind, and a fresh, free nature
were stirring within him. "You are surely Annette, the schoolmaster's
daughter," cried he; "will you give me a kiss?"

"Yes, if you will give me that beautiful ring which you wear on
your finger."

"My betrothal ring?" he replied.

"Yes, just so," said the maiden, as she poured out some more wine,
and held it to his lips. Again he drank, and a living joy streamed
through every vein.

"The whole world is mine, why therefore should I grieve?"
thought he. "Everything is created for our enjoyment and happiness.
The stream of life is a stream of happiness; let us flow on with it to
joy and felicity."

Rudy gazed on the young maiden; it was Annette, and yet it was not
Annette; still less did he suppose it was the spectral phantom, whom
he had met near Grindelwald. The maiden up here on the mountain was
fresh as the new fallen snow, blooming as an Alpine rose, and as
nimble-footed as a young kid. Still, she was one of Adam's race,
like Rudy. He flung his arms round the beautiful being, and gazed into
her wonderfully clear eyes,--only for a moment; but in that moment
words cannot express the effect of his gaze. Was it the spirit of life
or of death that overpowered him? Was he rising higher, or sinking
lower and lower into the deep, deadly abyss? He knew not; but the
walls of ice shone like blue-green glass; innumerable clefts yawned
around him, and the water-drops tinkled like the chiming of church
bells, and shone clearly as pearls in the light of a pale-blue
flame. The Ice Maiden, for she it was, kissed him, and her kiss sent a
chill as of ice through his whole frame. A cry of agony escaped from
him; he struggled to get free, and tottered from her. For a moment all
was dark before his eyes, but when he opened them again it was
light, and the Alpine maiden had vanished. The powers of evil had
played their game; the sheltering hut was no more to be seen. The
water trickled down the naked sides of the rocks, and snow lay thickly
all around. Rudy shivered with cold; he was wet through to the skin;
and his ring was gone,--the betrothal ring that Babette had given him.
His gun lay near him in the snow; he took it up and tried to discharge
it, but it missed fire. Heavy clouds lay on the mountain clefts,
like firm masses of snow. Upon one of these Vertigo sat, lurking after
his powerless prey, and from beneath came a sound as if a piece of
rock had fallen from the cleft, and was crushing everything that stood
in its way or opposed its course.

But, at the miller's, Babette sat alone and wept. Rudy had not
been to see her for six days. He who was in the wrong, and who ought
to ask her forgiveness; for did she not love him with her whole heart?


XIII. AT THE MILL

"What strange creatures human beings are," said the parlor-cat
to the kitchen-cat; "Babette and Rudy have fallen out with each other.
She sits and cries, and he thinks no more about her."

"That does not please me to hear," said the kitchen-cat.

"Nor me either," replied the parlor-cat; "but I do not take it
to heart. Babette may fall in love with the red whiskers, if she
likes, but he has not been here since he tried to get on the roof."

The powers of evil carry on their game both around us and within
us. Rudy knew this, and thought a great deal about it. What was it
that had happened to him on the mountain? Was it really a ghostly
apparition, or a fever dream? Rudy knew nothing of fever, or any other
ailment. But, while he judged Babette, he began to examine his own
conduct. He had allowed wild thoughts to chase each other in his
heart, and a fierce tornado to break loose. Could he confess to
Babette, indeed, every thought which in the hour of temptation might
have led him to wrong doing? He had lost her ring, and that very
loss had won him back to her. Could she expect him to confess? He felt
as if his heart would break while he thought of it, and while so
many memories lingered on his mind. He saw her again, as she once
stood before him, a laughing, spirited child; many loving words, which
she had spoken to him out of the fulness of her love, came like a
ray of sunshine into his heart, and soon it was all sunshine as he
thought of Babette. But she must also confess she was wrong; that
she should do.

He went to the mill--he went to confession. It began with a
kiss, and ended with Rudy being considered the offender. It was such a
great fault to doubt Babette's truth--it was most abominable of him.
Such mistrust, such violence, would cause them both great unhappiness.
This certainly was very true, she knew that; and therefore Babette
preached him a little sermon, with which she was herself much
amused, and during the preaching of which she looked quite lovely. She
acknowledged, however, that on one point Rudy was right. Her
godmother's nephew was a fop: she intended to burn the book which he
had given her, so that not the slightest thing should remain to remind
her of him.

"Well, that quarrel is all over," said the kitchen-cat. "Rudy is
come back, and they are friends again, which they say is the
greatest of all pleasures."

"I heard the rats say one night," said the kitchen-cat, "that
the greatest pleasure in the world was to eat tallow candles and to
feast on rancid bacon. Which are we to believe, the rats or the
lovers?"

"Neither of them," said the parlor-cat; "it is always the safest
plan to believe nothing you hear."

The greatest happiness was coming for Rudy and Babette. The
happy day, as it is called, that is, their wedding-day, was near at
hand. They were not to be married at the church at Bex, nor at the
miller's house; Babette's godmother wished the nuptials to be
solemnized at Montreux, in the pretty little church in that town.
The miller was very anxious that this arrangement should be agreed to.
He alone knew what the newly-married couple would receive from
Babette's godmother, and he knew also that it was a wedding present
well worth a concession. The day was fixed, and they were to travel as
far as Villeneuve the evening before, to be in time for the steamer
which sailed in the morning for Montreux, and the godmother's
daughters were to dress and adorn the bride.

"Here in this house there ought to be a wedding-day kept," said
the parlor-cat, "or else I would not give a mew for the whole affair."

"There is going to be great feasting," replied the kitchen-cat.
"Ducks and pigeons have been killed, and a whole roebuck hangs on
the wall. It makes me lick my lips when I think of it."

"To-morrow morning they will begin the journey."

Yes, to-morrow! And this evening, for the last time, Rudy and
Babette sat in the miller's house as an engaged couple. Outside, the
Alps glowed in the evening sunset, the evening bells chimed, and the
children of the sunbeam sang, "Whatever happens is best."


XIV. NIGHT VISIONS

The sun had gone down, and the clouds lay low on the valley of the
Rhone. The wind blew from the south across the mountains; it was an
African wind, a wind which scattered the clouds for a moment, and then
suddenly fell. The broken clouds hung in fantastic forms upon the
wood-covered hills by the rapid Rhone. They assumed the shapes of
antediluvian animals, of eagles hovering in the air, of frogs
leaping over a marsh, and then sunk down upon the rushing stream and
appeared to sail upon it, although floating in the air. An uprooted
fir-tree was being carried away by the current, and marking out its
path by eddying circles on the water. Vertigo and his sisters were
dancing upon it, and raising these circles on the foaming river. The
moon lighted up the snow on the mountain-tops, shone on the dark
woods, and on the drifting clouds those fantastic forms which at night
might be taken for spirits of the powers of nature. The
mountain-dweller saw them through the panes of his little window. They
sailed in hosts before the Ice Maiden as she came out of her palace of
ice. Then she seated herself on the trunk of the fir-tree as on a
broken skiff, and the water from the glaciers carried her down the
river to the open lake.

"The wedding guests are coming," sounded from air and sea. These
were the sights and sounds without; within there were visions, for
Babette had a wonderful dream. She dreamt that she had been married to
Rudy for many years, and that, one day when he was out chamois
hunting, and she alone in their dwelling at home, the young Englishman
with the golden whiskers sat with her. His eyes were quite eloquent,
and his words possessed a magic power; he offered her his hand, and
she was obliged to follow him. They went out of the house and
stepped downwards, always downwards, and it seemed to Babette as if
she had a weight on her heart which continually grew heavier. She felt
she was committing a sin against Rudy, a sin against God. Suddenly she
found herself forsaken, her clothes torn by the thorns, and her hair
gray; she looked upwards in her agony, and there, on the edge of the
rock, she espied Rudy. She stretched out her arms to him, but she
did not venture to call him or to pray; and had she called him, it
would have been useless, for it was not Rudy, only his hunting coat
and hat hanging on an alpenstock, as the hunters sometimes arrange
them to deceive the chamois. "Oh!" she exclaimed in her agony; "oh,
that I had died on the happiest day of my life, my wedding-day. O my
God, it would have been a mercy and a blessing had Rudy travelled
far away from me, and I had never known him. None know what will
happen in the future." And then, in ungodly despair, she cast
herself down into the deep rocky gulf. The spell was broken; a cry
of terror escaped her, and she awoke.

The dream was over; it had vanished. But she knew she had dreamt
something frightful about the young Englishman, yet months had
passed since she had seen him or even thought of him. Was he still
at Montreux, and should she meet him there on her wedding day? A
slight shadow passed over her pretty mouth as she thought of this, and
she knit her brows; but the smile soon returned to her lip, and joy
sparkled in her eyes, for this was the morning of the day on which she
and Rudy were to be married, and the sun was shining brightly. Rudy
was already in the parlor when she entered it, and they very soon
started for Villeneuve. Both of them were overflowing with
happiness, and the miller was in the best of tempers, laughing and
merry; he was a good, honest soul, and a kind father.

"Now we are masters of the house," said the parlor-cat.


XV. THE CONCLUSION

It was early in the afternoon, and just at dinner-time, when the
three joyous travellers reached Villeneuve. After dinner, the miller
placed himself in the arm-chair, smoked his pipe, and had a little
nap. The bridal pair went arm-in-arm out through the town and along
the high road, at the foot of the wood-covered rocks, and by the deep,
blue lake.

The gray walls, and the heavy clumsy-looking towers of the
gloomy castle of Chillon, were reflected in the clear flood. The
little island, on which grew the three acacias, lay at a short
distance, looking like a bouquet rising from the lake. "How delightful
it must be to live there," said Babette, who again felt the greatest
wish to visit the island; and an opportunity offered to gratify her
wish at once, for on the shore lay a boat, and the rope by which it
was moored could be very easily loosened. They saw no one near, so
they took possession of it without asking permission of any one, and
Rudy could row very well. The oars divided the pliant water like the
fins of a fish--that water which, with all its yielding softness, is
so strong to bear and to carry, so mild and smiling when at rest,
and yet so terrible in its destroying power. A white streak of foam
followed in the wake of the boat, which, in a few minutes, carried
them both to the little island, where they went on shore; but there
was only just room enough for two to dance. Rudy swung Babette round
two or three times; and then, hand-in-hand, they sat down on a
little bench under the drooping acacia-tree, and looked into each
other's eyes, while everything around them glowed in the rays of the
setting sun.

The fir-tree forests on the mountains were covered with a purple
hue like the heather bloom; and where the woods terminated, and the
rocks became prominent, they looked almost transparent in the rich
crimson glow of the evening sky. The surface of the lake was like a
bed of pink rose-leaves.

As the evening advanced, the shadows fell upon the snow-capped
mountains of Savoy painting them in colors of deep blue, while their
topmost peaks glowed like red lava; and for a moment this light was
reflected on the cultivated parts of the mountains, making them appear
as if newly risen from the lap of earth, and giving to the
snow-crested peak of the Dent du Midi the appearance of the full
moon as it rises above the horizon.

Rudy and Babette felt that they had never seen the Alpine glow
in such perfection before. "How very beautiful it is, and what
happiness to be here!" exclaimed Babette.

"Earth has nothing more to bestow upon me," said Rudy; "an evening
like this is worth a whole life. Often have I realized my good
fortune, but never more than in this moment. I feel that if my
existence were to end now, I should still have lived a happy life.
What a glorious world this is; one day ends, and another begins even
more beautiful than the last. How infinitely good God is, Babette!"

"I have such complete happiness in my heart," said she.

"Earth has no more to bestow," answered Rudy. And then came the
sound of the evening bells, borne upon the breeze over the mountains
of Switzerland and Savoy, while still, in the golden splendor of the
west, stood the dark blue mountains of Jura.

"God grant you all that is brightest and best!" exclaimed Babette.

"He will," said Rudy. "He will to-morrow. To-morrow you will be
wholly mine, my own sweet wife."

"The boat!" cried Babette, suddenly. The boat in which they were
to return had broken loose, and was floating away from the island.

"I will fetch it back," said Rudy; throwing off his coat and
boots, he sprang into the lake, and swam with strong efforts towards
it.

The dark-blue water, from the glaciers of the mountains, was icy
cold and very deep. Rudy gave but one glance into the water beneath;
but in that one glance he saw a gold ring rolling, glittering, and
sparkling before him. His engaged ring came into his mind; but this
was larger, and spread into a glittering circle, in which appeared a
clear glacier. Deep chasms yawned around it, the water-drops glittered
as if lighted with blue flame, and tinkled like the chiming of
church bells. In one moment he saw what would require many words to
describe. Young hunters, and young maidens--men and women who had sunk
in the deep chasms of the glaciers--stood before him here in
lifelike forms, with eyes open and smiles on their lips; and far
beneath them could be heard the chiming of the church bells of
buried villages, where the villagers knelt beneath the vaulted
arches of churches in which ice-blocks formed the organ pipes, and the
mountain stream the music.

On the clear, transparent ground sat the Ice Maiden. She raised
herself towards Rudy, and kissed his feet; and instantly a cold,
deathly chill, like an electric shock, passed through his limbs. Ice
or fire! It was impossible to tell, the shock was so instantaneous.

"Mine! mine!" sounded around him, and within him; "I kissed thee
when thou wert a little child. I once kissed thee on the mouth, and
now I have kissed thee from heel to toe; thou art wholly mine." And
then he disappeared in the clear, blue water.

All was still. The church bells were silent; the last tone floated
away with the last red glimmer on the evening clouds. "Thou art mine,"
sounded from the depths below: but from the heights above, from the
eternal world, also sounded the words, "Thou art mine!" Happy was he
thus to pass from life to life, from earth to heaven. A chord was
loosened, and tones of sorrow burst forth. The icy kiss of death had
overcome the perishable body; it was but the prelude before life's
real drama could begin, the discord which was quickly lost in harmony.
Do you think this a sad story? Poor Babette! for her it was
unspeakable anguish.

The boat drifted farther and farther away. No one on the
opposite shore knew that the betrothed pair had gone over to the
little island. The clouds sunk as the evening drew on, and it became
dark. Alone, in despair, she waited and trembled. The weather became
fearful; flash after flash lighted up the mountains of Jura, Savoy,
and Switzerland, while peals of thunder, that lasted for many minutes,
rolled over her head. The lightning was so vivid that every single
vine stem could be seen for a moment as distinctly as in the
sunlight at noon-day; and then all was veiled in darkness. It
flashed across the lake in winding, zigzag lines, lighting it up on
all sides; while the echoes of the thunder grew louder and stronger.
On land, the boats were all carefully drawn up on the beach, every
living thing sought shelter, and at length the rain poured down in
torrents.

"Where can Rudy and Babette be in this awful weather?" said the
miller.

Poor Babette sat with her hands clasped, and her head bowed
down, dumb with grief; she had ceased to weep and cry for help.

"In the deep water!" she said to herself; "far down he lies, as if
beneath a glacier."

Deep in her heart rested the memory of what Rudy had told her of
the death of his mother, and of his own recovery, even after he had
been taken up as dead from the cleft in the glacier.

"Ah," she thought, "the Ice Maiden has him at last."

Suddenly there came a flash of lightning, as dazzling as the
rays of the sun on the white snow. The lake rose for a moment like a
shining glacier; and before Babette stood the pallid, glittering,
majestic form of the Ice Maiden, and at her feet lay Rudy's corpse.

"Mine!" she cried, and again all was darkness around the heaving
water.

"How cruel," murmured Babette; "why should he die just as the
day of happiness drew near? Merciful God, enlighten my understanding,
shed light upon my heart; for I cannot comprehend the arrangements
of Thy providence, even while I bow to the decree of Thy almighty
wisdom and power." And God did enlighten her heart.

A sudden flash of thought, like a ray of mercy, recalled her dream
of the preceding night; all was vividly represented before her. She
remembered the words and wishes she had then expressed, that what
was best for her and for Rudy she might piously submit to.

"Woe is me," she said; "was the germ of sin really in my heart?
was my dream a glimpse into the course of my future life, whose thread
must be violently broken to rescue me from sin? Oh, miserable creature
that I am!"

Thus she sat lamenting in the dark night, while through the deep
stillness the last words of Rudy seemed to ring in her ears. "This
earth has nothing more to bestow." Words, uttered in the fulness of
joy, were again heard amid the depths of sorrow.

Years have passed since this sad event happened. The shores of the
peaceful lake still smile in beauty. The vines are full of luscious
grapes. Steamboats, with waving flags, pass swiftly by.
Pleasure-boats, with their swelling sails, skim lightly over the
watery mirror, like white butterflies. The railway is opened beyond
Chillon, and goes far into the deep valley of the Rhone. At every
station strangers alight with red-bound guide-books in their hands, in
which they read of every place worth seeing. They visit Chillon, and
observe on the lake the little island with the three acacias, and then
read in their guide-book the story of the bridal pair who, in the year
1856, rowed over to it. They read that the two were missing till the
next morning, when some people on the shore heard the despairing cries
of the bride, and went to her assistance, and by her were told of
the bridegroom's fate.

But the guide-book does not speak of Babette's quiet life
afterwards with her father, not at the mill--strangers dwell there
now--but in a pretty house in a row near the station. On many an
evening she sits at her window, and looks out over the chestnut-trees
to the snow-capped mountains on which Rudy once roamed. She looks at
the Alpine glow in the evening sky, which is caused by the children
of the sun retiring to rest on the mountain-tops; and again they
breathe their song of the traveller whom the whirlwind could deprive
of his cloak but not of his life. There is a rosy tint on the mountain
snow, and there are rosy gleams in each heart in which dwells the
thought, "God permits nothing to happen, which is not the best for
us." But this is not often revealed to all, as it was revealed to
Babette in her wonderful dream.




THE JEWISH MAIDEN

In a charity school, among the children, sat a little Jewish girl.
She was a good, intelligent child, and very quick at her lessons;
but the Scripture-lesson class she was not allowed to join, for this
was a Christian school. During the hour of this lesson, the Jewish
girl was allowed to learn her geography, or to work her sum for the
next day; and when her geography lesson was perfect, the book remained
open before her, but she read not another word, for she sat silently
listening to the words of the Christian teacher. He soon became
aware that the little one was paying more attention to what he said
than most of the other children. "Read your book, Sarah," he said to
her gently.

But again and again he saw her dark, beaming eyes fixed upon
him; and once, when he asked her a question, she could answer him even
better than the other children. She had not only heard, but understood
his words, and pondered them in her heart. Her father, a poor but
honest man, had placed his daughter at the school on the conditions
that she should not be instructed in the Christian faith. But it might
have caused confusion, or raised discontent in the minds of the
other children if she had been sent out of the room, so she
remained; and now it was evident this could not go on. The teacher
went to her father, and advised him to remove his daughter from the
school, or to allow her to become a Christian. "I cannot any longer be
an idle spectator of those beaming eyes, which express such a deep and
earnest longing for the words of the gospel," said he.

Then the father burst into tears. "I know very little of the law
of my fathers," said he; "but Sarah's mother was firm in her belief as
a daughter of Israel, and I vowed to her on her deathbed that our
child should never be baptized. I must keep my vow: it is to me even
as a covenant with God Himself." And so the little Jewish girl left
the Christian school.

Years rolled by. In one of the smallest provincial towns, in a
humble household, lived a poor maiden of the Jewish faith, as a
servant. Her hair was black as ebony, her eye dark as night, yet
full of light and brilliancy so peculiar to the daughters of the east.
It was Sarah. The expression in the face of the grown-up maiden was
still the same as when, a child, she sat on the schoolroom form
listening with thoughtful eyes to the words of the Christian
teacher. Every Sunday there sounded forth from a church close by the
tones of an organ and the singing of the congregation. The Jewish girl
heard them in the house where, industrious and faithful in all things,
she performed her household duties. "Thou shalt keep the Sabbath
holy," said the voice of the law in her heart; but her Sabbath was a
working day among the Christians, which was a great trouble to her.
And then as the thought arose in her mind, "Does God reckon by days
and hours?" her conscience felt satisfied on this question, and she
found it a comfort to her, that on the Christian Sabbath she could
have an hour for her own prayers undisturbed. The music and singing of
the congregation sounded in her ears while at work in her kitchen,
till the place itself became sacred to her. Then she would read in the
Old Testament, that treasure and comfort to her people, and it was
indeed the only Scriptures she could read. Faithfully in her inmost
thoughts had she kept the words of her father to her teacher when
she left the school, and the vow he had made to her dying mother
that she should never receive Christian baptism. The New Testament
must remain to her a sealed book, and yet she knew a great deal of its
teaching, and the sound of the gospel truths still lingered among
the recollections of her childhood.

One evening she was sitting in a corner of the dining-room,
while her master read aloud. It was not the gospel he read, but an old
story-book; therefore she might stay and listen to him. The story
related that a Hungarian knight, who had been taken prisoner by a
Turkish pasha, was most cruelly treated by him. He caused him to be
yoked with his oxen to the plough, and driven with blows from the whip
till the blood flowed, and he almost sunk with exhaustion and pain.
The faithful wife of the knight at home gave up all her jewels,
mortgaged her castle and land, and his friends raised large sums to
make up the ransom demanded for his release, which was most enormously
high. It was collected at last, and the knight released from slavery
and misery. Sick and exhausted, he reached home.

Ere long came another summons to a struggle with the foes of
Christianity. The still living knight heard the sound; he could endure
no more, he had neither peace nor rest. He caused himself to be lifted
on his war-horse; the color came into his cheeks, and his strength
returned to him again as he went forth to battle and to victory. The
very same pasha who had yoked him to the plough, became his
prisoner, and was dragged to a dungeon in the castle. But an hour
had scarcely passed, when the knight stood before the captive pasha,
and inquired, "What do you suppose awaiteth thee?"

"I know," replied the pasha; "retribution."

"Yes, the retribution of a Christian," replied the knight. "The
teaching of Christ, the Teacher, commands us to forgive our enemies,
to love our neighbors; for God is love. Depart in peace: return to thy
home. I give thee back to thy loved ones. But in future be mild and
humane to all who are in trouble."

Then the prisoner burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh how could I
imagine such mercy and forgiveness! I expected pain and torment. It
seemed to me so sure that I took poison, which I secretly carried
about me; and in a few hours its effects will destroy me. I must
die! Nothing can save me! But before I die, explain to me the teaching
which is so full of love and mercy, so great and God-like. Oh, that
I may hear his teaching, and die a Christian!" And his prayer was
granted.

This was the legend which the master read out of the old
story-book. Every one in the house who was present listened, and
shared the pleasure; but Sarah, the Jewish girl, sitting so still in a
corner, felt her heart burn with excitement. Great tears came into her
shining dark eyes; and with the same gentle piety with which she had
once listened to the gospel while sitting on the form at school, she
felt its grandeur now, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then
the last words of her dying mother rose before her, "Let not my
child become a Christian;" and with them sounded in her heart the
words of the law, "Honor thy father and thy mother."

"I am not admitted among the Christians," she said; "they mock
me as a Jewish girl; the neighbors' boys did so last Sunday when I
stood looking in through the open church door at the candles burning
on the altar, and listening to the singing. Ever since I sat on the
school-bench I have felt the power of Christianity; a power which,
like a sunbeam, streams into my heart, however closely I may close
my eyes against it. But I will not grieve thee, my mother, in thy
grave. I will not be unfaithful to my father's vow. I will not read
the Bible of the Christian. I have the God of my fathers, and in Him I
will trust."

And again years passed by. Sarah's master died, and his widow
found herself in such reduced circumstances that she wished to dismiss
her servant maid; but Sarah refused to leave the house, and she became
a true support in time of trouble, and kept the household together
by working till late at night, with her busy hands, to earn their
daily bread. Not a relative came forward to assist them, and the widow
was confined to a sick bed for months and grew weaker from day to day.
Sarah worked hard, but contrived to spare time to amuse her and
watch by the sick bed. She was gentle and pious, an angel of
blessing in that house of poverty.

"My Bible lies on the table yonder," said the sick woman one day
to Sarah. "Read me something from it; the night appears so long, and
my spirit thirsts to hear the word of God."

And Sarah bowed her head. She took the book, and folded her hand
over the Bible of the Christians, and at last opened it, and read to
the sick woman. Tears stood in her eyes as she read, and they shone
with brightness, for in her heart it was light.

"Mother," she murmured, "thy child may not receive Christian
baptism, nor be admitted into the congregation of Christian people.
Thou hast so willed it, and I will respect thy command. We are
therefore still united here on earth; but in the next world there will
be a higher union, even with God Himself, who leads and guides His
people till death. He came down from heaven to earth to suffer for us,
that we should bring forth the fruits of repentance. I understand it
now. I know not how I learnt this truth, unless it is through the name
of Christ." Yet she trembled as she pronounced the holy name. She
struggled against these convictions of the truth of Christianity for
some days, till one evening while watching her mistress she was
suddenly taken very ill; her limbs tottered under her, and she sank
fainting by the bedside of the sick woman.

"Poor Sarah," said the neighbors; "she is overcome with hard
work and night watching." And then they carried her to the hospital
for the sick poor. There she died; and they bore her to her
resting-place in the earth, but not to the churchyard of the
Christians. There was no place for the Jewish girl; but they dug a
grave for her outside the wall. And God's sun, which shines upon the
graves of the churchyard of the Christians, also throws its beams on
the grave of the Jewish maiden beyond the wall. And when the psalms of
the Christians sound across the churchyard, their echo reaches her
lonely resting-place; and she who sleeps there will be counted
worthy at the resurrection, through the name of Christ the Lord, who
said to His disciples, "John baptized you with water, but I will
baptize you with the Holy Ghost."




THE JUMPER

The Flea, the Grasshopper, and the Skipjack once wanted to see
which of them could jump highest; and they invited the whole world,
and whoever else would come, to see the grand sight. And there the
three famous jumpers were met together in the room.

"Yes, I'll give my daughter to him who jumps highest," said the
King, "for it would be mean to let these people jump for nothing."

The Flea stepped out first. He had very pretty manners, and
bowed in all directions, for he had young ladies' blood in his
veins, and was accustomed to consort only with human beings; and
that was of great consequence.

Then came the Grasshopper: he was certainly much heavier, but he
had a good figure, and wore the green uniform that was born with
him. This person, moreover, maintained that he belonged to a very
old family in the land of Egypt, and that he was highly esteemed
there. He had just come from the field, he said, and had been put into
a card house three stories high, and all made of picture cards with
the figures turned inwards. There were doors and windows in the house,
cut in the body of the Queen of Hearts.

"I sing so," he said, "that sixteen native crickets who have
chirped from their youth up, and have never yet had a card house of
their own, would become thinner than they are with envy if they were
to hear me."

Both of them, the Flea and the Grasshopper, took care to
announce who they were, and that they considered themselves entitled
to marry a Princess.

The Skipjack said nothing, but it was said of him that he
thought all the more; and directly the Yard Dog had smelt at him he
was ready to assert that the Skipjack was of good family, and formed
from the breastbone of an undoubted goose. The old councillor, who had
received three medals for holding his tongue, declared that the
Skipjack possessed the gift of prophecy; one could tell by his bones
whether there would be a severe winter or a mild one; and that's
more than one can always tell from the breastbone of the man who
writes the almanac.

"I shall not say anything more," said the old King. "I only go
on quietly, and always think the best."

Now they were to take their jump. The Flea sprang so high that
no one could see him; and then they asserted that he had not jumped at
all. That was very mean. The Grasshopper only sprang half as high, but
he sprang straight into the King's face, and the King declared that
was horribly rude. The Skipjack stood a long time considering; at last
people thought that he could not jump at all.

"I only hope he's not become unwell," said the Yard Dog, and
then he smelt at him again.

"Tap!" he sprang with a little crooked jump just into the lap of
the Princess, who sat on a low golden stool.

Then the King said, "The highest leap was taken by him who
jumped up to my daughter; for therein lies the point; but it
requires head to achieve that, and the Skipjack has shown that he
has a head."

And so he had the Princess.

"I jumped highest, after all," said the Flea. "But it's all the
same. Let her have the goose-bone with its lump of wax and bit of
stick. I jumped to the highest; but in this world a body is required
if one wishes to be seen."

And the Flea went into foreign military service, where it is
said he was killed.

The Grasshopper seated himself out in the ditch, and thought and
considered how things happened in the world. And he too said, "Body is
required! body is required!" And then he sang his own melancholy song,
and from that we have gathered this story, which they say is not true,
though it's in print.




THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," replied the tree; "it will certainly last much longer,--infinitely
longer than I can even think of."

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

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

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

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

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

"Here we are, we are here," sounded in voice and song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE LAST PEARL

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

"Everything has been bestowed here," said the guardian angel.

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

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

"She will come, she will come some day unsought!"

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

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

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

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

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

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




LITTLE CLAUS AND BIG CLAUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, he is very much like a sexton."

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

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

"What does he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, for my horse's skin, I sold it yesterday."

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

"A bushel of money, for each," replied Great Claus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE LITTLE ELDER-TREE MOTHER

There was once a little boy who had caught cold; he had gone out
and got wet feet. Nobody had the least idea how it had happened; the
weather was quite dry. His mother undressed him, put him to bed, and
ordered the teapot to be brought in, that she might make him a good
cup of tea from the elder-tree blossoms, which is so warming. At the
same time, the kind-hearted old man who lived by himself in the
upper storey of the house came in; he led a lonely life, for he had no
wife and children; but he loved the children of others very much,
and he could tell so many fairy tales and stories, that it was a
pleasure to hear him.

"Now, drink your tea," said the mother; "perhaps you will hear a
story."

"Yes, if I only knew a fresh one," said the old man, and nodded
smilingly. "But how did the little fellow get his wet feet?" he then
asked.

"That," replied the mother, "nobody can understand."

"Will you tell me a story?" asked the boy.

"Yes, if you can tell me as nearly as possible how deep is the
gutter in the little street where you go to school."

"Just half as high as my top-boots," replied the boy; "but then
I must stand in the deepest holes."

"There, now we know where you got your wet feet," said the old
man. "I ought to tell you a story, but the worst of it is, I do not
know any more."

"You can make one up," said the little boy. "Mother says you can
tell a fairy tale about anything you look at or touch."

"That is all very well, but such tales or stories are worth
nothing! No, the right ones come by themselves and knock at my
forehead saying: 'Here I am.'"

"Will not one knock soon?" asked the boy; and the mother smiled
while she put elder-tree blossoms into the teapot and poured boiling
water over them. "Pray, tell me a story."

"Yes, if stories came by themselves; they are so proud, they
only come when they please.--But wait," he said suddenly, "there is
one. Look at the teapot; there is a story in it now."

And the little boy looked at the teapot; the lid rose up
gradually, the elder-tree blossoms sprang forth one by one, fresh
and white; long boughs came forth; even out of the spout they grew
up in all directions, and formed a bush--nay, a large elder tree,
which stretched its branches up to the bed and pushed the curtains
aside; and there were so many blossoms and such a sweet fragrance!
In the midst of the tree sat a kindly-looking old woman with a strange
dress; it was as green as the leaves, and trimmed with large white
blossoms, so that it was difficult to say whether it was real cloth,
or the leaves and blossoms of the elder-tree.

"What is this woman's name?" asked the little boy.

"Well, the Romans and Greeks used to call her a Dryad," said the
old man; "but we do not understand that. Out in the sailors' quarter
they give her a better name; there she is called elder-tree mother.
Now, you must attentively listen to her and look at the beautiful
elder-tree.

"Just such a large tree, covered with flowers, stands out there;
it grew in the corner of an humble little yard; under this tree sat
two old people one afternoon in the beautiful sunshine. He was an old,
old sailor, and she his old wife; they had already great-grandchildren,
and were soon to celebrate their golden wedding, but they could not
remember the date, and the elder-tree mother was sitting in the tree
and looked as pleased as this one here. 'I know very well when the
golden wedding is to take place,' she said; but they did not hear
it--they were talking of bygone days.

"'Well, do you remember?' said the old sailor, 'when we were quite
small and used to run about and play--it was in the very same yard
where we now are--we used to put little branches into the ground and
make a garden.'

"'Yes,' said the old woman, 'I remember it very well; we used to
water the branches, and one of them, an elder-tree branch, took
root, and grew and became the large tree under which we are now
sitting as old people.'

"'Certainly, you are right,' he said; 'and in yonder corner
stood a large water-tub; there I used to sail my boat, which I had cut
out myself--it sailed so well; but soon I had to sail somewhere else.'

"'But first we went to school to learn something,' she said,
'and then we were confirmed; we both wept on that day, but in the
afternoon we went out hand in hand, and ascended the high round
tower and looked out into the wide world right over Copenhagen and the
sea; then we walked to Fredericksburg, where the king and the queen
were sailing about in their magnificent boat on the canals.'

"'But soon I had to sail about somewhere else, and for many
years I was travelling about far away from home.'

"'And I often cried about you, for I was afraid lest you were
drowned and lying at the bottom of the sea. Many a time I got up in
the night and looked if the weathercock had turned; it turned often,
but you did not return. I remember one day distinctly: the rain was
pouring down in torrents; the dust-man had come to the house where I
was in service; I went down with the dust-bin and stood for a moment
in the doorway, and looked at the dreadful weather. Then the postman
gave me a letter; it was from you. Heavens! how that letter had
travelled about. I tore it open and read it; I cried and laughed at
the same time, and was so happy! Therein was written that you were
staying in the hot countries, where the coffee grows. These must be
marvellous countries. You said a great deal about them, and I read all
while the rain was pouring down and I was standing there with the
dust-bin. Then suddenly some one put his arm round my waist-'

"'Yes, and you gave him a hearty smack on the cheek,' said the old
man.

"'I did not know that it was you--you had come as quickly as
your letter; and you looked so handsome, and so you do still. You
had a large yellow silk handkerchief in your pocket and a shining
hat on. You looked so well, and the weather in the street was
horrible!'

"'Then we married,' he said. 'Do you remember how we got our first
boy, and then Mary, Niels, Peter, John, and Christian?'

"'Oh yes; and now they have all grown up, and have become useful
members of society, whom everybody cares for.'

"'And their children have had children again,' said the old
sailor. 'Yes, these are children's children, and they are strong and
healthy. If I am not mistaken, our wedding took place at this season
of the year.'

"'Yes, to-day is your golden wedding-day,' said the little
elder-tree mother, stretching her head down between the two old
people, who thought that she was their neighbour who was nodding to
them; they looked at each other and clasped hands. Soon afterwards the
children and grandchildren came, for they knew very well that it was
the golden wedding-day; they had already wished them joy and happiness
in the morning, but the old people had forgotten it, although they
remembered things so well that had passed many, many years ago. The
elder-tree smelt strongly, and the setting sun illuminated the faces
of the two old people, so that they looked quite rosy; the youngest of
the grandchildren danced round them, and cried merrily that there
would be a feast in the evening, for they were to have hot potatoes;
and the elder mother nodded in the tree and cried 'Hooray' with the
others."

"But that was no fairy tale," said the little boy who had listened
to it.

"You will presently understand it," said the old man who told
the story. "Let us ask little elder-tree mother about it."

"That was no fairy tale," said the little elder-tree mother;
"but now it comes! Real life furnishes us with subjects for the most
wonderful fairy tales; for otherwise my beautiful elder-bush could not
have grown forth out of the teapot."

And then she took the little boy out of bed and placed him on
her bosom; the elder branches, full of blossoms, closed over them;
it was as if they sat in a thick leafy bower which flew with them
through the air; it was beautiful beyond all description. The little
elder-tree mother had suddenly become a charming young girl, but her
dress was still of the same green material, covered with white
blossoms, as the elder-tree mother had worn; she had a real elder
blossom on her bosom, and a wreath of the same flowers was wound round
her curly golden hair; her eyes were so large and so blue that it
was wonderful to look at them. She and the boy kissed each other,
and then they were of the same age and felt the same joys. They walked
hand in hand out of the bower, and now stood at home in a beautiful
flower garden. Near the green lawn the father's walking-stick was tied
to a post. There was life in this stick for the little ones, for as
soon as they seated themselves upon it the polished knob turned into a
neighing horse's head, a long black mane was fluttering in the wind,
and four strong slender legs grew out. The animal was fiery and
spirited; they galloped round the lawn. "Hooray! now we shall ride far
away, many miles!" said the boy; "we shall ride to the nobleman's
estate where we were last year." And they rode round the lawn again,
and the little girl, who, as we know, was no other than the little
elder-tree mother, continually cried, "Now we are in the country! Do
you see the farmhouse there, with the large baking stove, which
projects like a gigantic egg out of the wall into the road? The
elder-tree spreads its branches over it, and the cock struts about and
scratches for the hens. Look how proud he is! Now we are near the
church; it stands on a high hill, under the spreading oak trees; one
of them is half dead! Now we are at the smithy, where the fire roars
and the half-naked men beat with their hammers so that the sparks
fly far and wide. Let's be off to the beautiful farm!" And they passed
by everything the little girl, who was sitting behind on the stick,
described, and the boy saw it, and yet they only went round the
lawn. Then they played in a side-walk, and marked out a little
garden on the ground; she took elder-blossoms out of her hair and
planted them, and they grew exactly like those the old people
planted when they were children, as we have heard before. They
walked about hand in hand, just as the old couple had done when they
were little, but they did not go to the round tower nor to the
Fredericksburg garden. No; the little girl seized the boy round the
waist, and then they flew far into the country. It was spring and it
became summer, it was autumn and it became winter, and thousands of
pictures reflected themselves in the boy's eyes and heart, and the
little girl always sang again, "You will never forget that!" And
during their whole flight the elder-tree smelt so sweetly; he
noticed the roses and the fresh beeches, but the elder-tree smelt much
stronger, for the flowers were fixed on the little girl's bosom,
against which the boy often rested his head during the flight.

"It is beautiful here in spring," said the little girl, and they
were again in the green beechwood, where the thyme breathed forth
sweet fragrance at their feet, and the pink anemones looked lovely
in the green moss. "Oh! that it were always spring in the fragrant
beechwood!"

"Here it is splendid in summer!" she said, and they passed by
old castles of the age of chivalry. The high walls and indented
battlements were reflected in the water of the ditches, on which swans
were swimming and peering into the old shady avenues. The corn waved
in the field like a yellow sea. Red and yellow flowers grew in the
ditches, wild hops and convolvuli in full bloom in the hedges. In
the evening the moon rose, large and round, and the hayricks in the
meadows smelt sweetly. "One can never forget it!"

"Here it is beautiful in autumn!" said the little girl, and the
atmosphere seemed twice as high and blue, while the wood shone with
crimson, green, and gold. The hounds were running off, flocks of
wild fowl flew screaming over the barrows, while the bramble bushes
twined round the old stones. The dark-blue sea was covered with
white-sailed ships, and in the barns sat old women, girls, and
children picking hops into a large tub; the young ones sang songs, and
the old people told fairy tales about goblins and sorcerers. It
could not be more pleasant anywhere.

"Here it's agreeable in winter!" said the little girl, and all the
trees were covered with hoar-frost, so that they looked like white
coral. The snow creaked under one's feet, as if one had new boots
on. One shooting star after another traversed the sky. In the room the
Christmas tree was lit, and there were song and merriment. In the
peasant's cottage the violin sounded, and games were played for
apple quarters; even the poorest child said, "It is beautiful in
winter!"

And indeed it was beautiful! And the little girl showed everything
to the boy, and the elder-tree continued to breathe forth sweet
perfume, while the red flag with the white cross was streaming in
the wind; it was the flag under which the old sailor had served. The
boy became a youth; he was to go out into the wide world, far away
to the countries where the coffee grows. But at parting the little
girl took an elder-blossom from her breast and gave it to him as a
keepsake. He placed it in his prayer-book, and when he opened it in
distant lands it was always at the place where the flower of
remembrance was lying; and the more he looked at it the fresher it
became, so that he could almost smell the fragrance of the woods at
home. He distinctly saw the little girl, with her bright blue eyes,
peeping out from behind the petals, and heard her whispering, "Here it
is beautiful in spring, in summer, in autumn, and in winter," and
hundreds of pictures passed through his mind.

Thus many years rolled by. He had now become an old man, and was
sitting, with his old wife, under an elder-tree in full bloom. They
held each other by the hand exactly as the great-grandfather and the
great-grandmother had done outside, and, like them, they talked
about bygone days and of their golden wedding. The little girl with
the blue eyes and elder-blossoms in her hair was sitting high up in
the tree, and nodded to them, saying, "To-day is the golden
wedding!" And then she took two flowers out of her wreath and kissed
them. They glittered at first like silver, then like gold, and when
she placed them on the heads of the old people each flower became a
golden crown. There they both sat like a king and queen under the
sweet-smelling tree, which looked exactly like an elder-tree, and he
told his wife the story of the elder-tree mother as it had been told
him when he was a little boy. They were both of opinion that the story
contained many points like their own, and these similarities they
liked best.

"Yes, so it is," said the little girl in the tree. "Some call me
Little Elder-tree Mother; others a Dryad; but my real name is
'Remembrance.' It is I who sit in the tree which grows and grows. I
can remember things and tell stories! But let's see if you have
still got your flower."

And the old man opened his prayer-book; the elder-blossom was
still in it, and as fresh as if it had only just been put in.
Remembrance nodded, and the two old people, with the golden crowns
on their heads, sat in the glowing evening sun. They closed their eyes
and--and--

Well, now the story is ended! The little boy in bed did not know
whether he had dreamt it or heard it told; the teapot stood on the
table, but no elder-tree was growing out of it, and the old man who
had told the story was on the point of leaving the room, and he did go
out.

"How beautiful it was!" said the little boy. "Mother, I have
been to warm countries!"

"I believe you," said the mother; "if one takes two cups of hot
elder-tea it is quite natural that one gets into warm countries!"
And she covered him up well, so that he might not take cold. "You have
slept soundly while I was arguing with the old man whether it was a
story or a fairy tale!"

"And what has become of the little elder-tree mother?" asked the
boy.

"She is in the teapot," said the mother; "and there she may
remain."




LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS

"My poor flowers are quite dead," said little Ida, "they were so
pretty yesterday evening, and now all the leaves are hanging down
quite withered. What do they do that for," she asked, of the student
who sat on the sofa; she liked him very much, he could tell the most
amusing stories, and cut out the prettiest pictures; hearts, and
ladies dancing, castles with doors that opened, as well as flowers; he
was a delightful student. "Why do the flowers look so faded to-day?"
she asked again, and pointed to her nosegay, which was quite withered.

"Don't you know what is the matter with them?" said the student.
"The flowers were at a ball last night, and therefore, it is no wonder
they hang their heads."

"But flowers cannot dance?" cried little Ida.

"Yes indeed, they can," replied the student. "When it grows
dark, and everybody is asleep, they jump about quite merrily. They
have a ball almost every night."

"Can children go to these balls?"

"Yes," said the student, "little daisies and lilies of the
valley."

"Where do the beautiful flowers dance?" asked little Ida.

"Have you not often seen the large castle outside the gates of the
town, where the king lives in summer, and where the beautiful garden
is full of flowers? And have you not fed the swans with bread when
they swam towards you? Well, the flowers have capital balls there,
believe me."

"I was in the garden out there yesterday with my mother," said
Ida, "but all the leaves were off the trees, and there was not a
single flower left. Where are they? I used to see so many in the
summer."

"They are in the castle," replied the student. "You must know that
as soon as the king and all the court are gone into the town, the
flowers run out of the garden into the castle, and you should see
how merry they are. The two most beautiful roses seat themselves on
the throne, and are called the king and queen, then all the red
cockscombs range themselves on each side, and bow, these are the
lords-in-waiting. After that the pretty flowers come in, and there
is a grand ball. The blue violets represent little naval cadets, and
dance with hyacinths and crocuses which they call young ladies. The
tulips and tiger-lilies are the old ladies who sit and watch the
dancing, so that everything may be conducted with order and
propriety."

"But," said little Ida, "is there no one there to hurt the flowers
for dancing in the king's castle?"

"No one knows anything about it," said the student. "The old
steward of the castle, who has to watch there at night, sometimes
comes in; but he carries a great bunch of keys, and as soon as the
flowers hear the keys rattle, they run and hide themselves behind
the long curtains, and stand quite still, just peeping their heads
out. Then the old steward says, 'I smell flowers here,' but he
cannot see them."

"Oh how capital," said little Ida, clapping her hands. "Should I
be able to see these flowers?"

"Yes," said the student, "mind you think of it the next time you
go out, no doubt you will see them, if you peep through the window.
I did so to-day, and I saw a long yellow lily lying stretched out on
the sofa. She was a court lady."

"Can the flowers from the Botanical Gardens go to these balls?"
asked Ida. "It is such a distance!"

"Oh yes," said the student, "whenever they like, for they can
fly. Have you not seen those beautiful red, white, and yellow
butterflies, that look like flowers? They were flowers once. They have
flown off their stalks into the air, and flap their leaves as if
they were little wings to make them fly. Then, if they behave well,
they obtain permission to fly about during the day, instead of being
obliged to sit still on their stems at home, and so in time their
leaves become real wings. It may be, however, that the flowers in
the Botanical Gardens have never been to the king's palace, and,
therefore, they know nothing of the merry doings at night, which
take place there. I will tell you what to do, and the botanical
professor, who lives close by here, will be so surprised. You know him
very well, do you not? Well, next time you go into his garden, you
must tell one of the flowers that there is going to be a grand ball at
the castle, then that flower will tell all the others, and they will
fly away to the castle as soon as possible. And when the professor
walks into his garden, there will not be a single flower left. How
he will wonder what has become of them!"

"But how can one flower tell another? Flowers cannot speak?"

"No, certainly not," replied the student; "but they can make
signs. Have you not often seen that when the wind blows they nod at
one another, and rustle all their green leaves?"

"Can the professor understand the signs?" asked Ida.

"Yes, to be sure he can. He went one morning into his garden,
and saw a stinging nettle making signs with its leaves to a
beautiful red carnation. It was saying, 'You are so pretty, I like you
very much.' But the professor did not approve of such nonsense, so
he clapped his hands on the nettle to stop it. Then the leaves,
which are its fingers, stung him so sharply that he has never ventured
to touch a nettle since."

"Oh how funny!" said Ida, and she laughed.

"How can anyone put such notions into a child's head?" said a
tiresome lawyer, who had come to pay a visit, and sat on the sofa.
He did not like the student, and would grumble when he saw him cutting
out droll or amusing pictures. Sometimes it would be a man hanging
on a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand as if he had been stealing
hearts. Sometimes it was an old witch riding through the air on a
broom and carrying her husband on her nose. But the lawyer did not
like such jokes, and he would say as he had just said, "How can anyone
put such nonsense into a child's head! what absurd fancies there are!"

But to little Ida, all these stories which the student told her
about the flowers, seemed very droll, and she thought over them a
great deal. The flowers did hang their heads, because they had been
dancing all night, and were very tired, and most likely they were ill.
Then she took them into the room where a number of toys lay on a
pretty little table, and the whole of the table drawer besides was
full of beautiful things. Her doll Sophy lay in the doll's bed asleep,
and little Ida said to her, "You must really get up Sophy, and be
content to lie in the drawer to-night; the poor flowers are ill, and
they must lie in your bed, then perhaps they will get well again."
So she took the doll out, who looked quite cross, and said not a
single word, for she was angry at being turned out of her bed. Ida
placed the flowers in the doll's bed, and drew the quilt over them.
Then she told them to lie quite still and be good, while she made some
tea for them, so that they might be quite well and able to get up
the next morning. And she drew the curtains close round the little
bed, so that the sun might not shine in their eyes. During the whole
evening she could not help thinking of what the student had told
her. And before she went to bed herself, she was obliged to peep
behind the curtains into the garden where all her mother's beautiful
flowers grew, hyacinths and tulips, and many others. Then she
whispered to them quite softly, "I know you are going to a ball
to-night." But the flowers appeared as if they did not understand, and
not a leaf moved; still Ida felt quite sure she knew all about it. She
lay awake a long time after she was in bed, thinking how pretty it
must be to see all the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's garden.
"I wonder if my flowers have really been there," she said to
herself, and then she fell asleep. In the night she awoke; she had
been dreaming of the flowers and of the student, as well as of the
tiresome lawyer who found fault with him. It was quite still in
Ida's bedroom; the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father and
mother were asleep. "I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy's
bed," she thought to herself; "how much I should like to know." She
raised herself a little, and glanced at the door of the room where all
her flowers and playthings lay; it was partly open, and as she
listened, it seemed as if some one in the room was playing the
piano, but softly and more prettily than she had ever before heard it.
"Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there," she thought, "oh
how much I should like to see them," but she did not dare move for
fear of disturbing her father and mother. "If they would only come
in here," she thought; but they did not come, and the music
continued to play so beautifully, and was so pretty, that she could
resist no longer. She crept out of her little bed, went softly to
the door and looked into the room. Oh what a splendid sight there
was to be sure! There was no night-lamp burning, but the room appeared
quite light, for the moon shone through the window upon the floor, and
made it almost like day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two
long rows down the room, not a single flower remained in the window,
and the flower-pots were all empty. The flowers were dancing
gracefully on the floor, making turns and holding each other by
their long green leaves as they swung round. At the piano sat a
large yellow lily which little Ida was sure she had seen in the
summer, for she remembered the student saying she was very much like
Miss Lina, one of Ida's friends. They all laughed at him then, but now
it seemed to little Ida as if the tall, yellow flower was really
like the young lady. She had just the same manners while playing,
bending her long yellow face from side to side, and nodding in time to
the beautiful music. Then she saw a large purple crocus jump into
the middle of the table where the playthings stood, go up to the
doll's bedstead and draw back the curtains; there lay the sick
flowers, but they got up directly, and nodded to the others as a
sign that they wished to dance with them. The old rough doll, with the
broken mouth, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers. They did not
look ill at all now, but jumped about and were very merry, yet none of
them noticed little Ida. Presently it seemed as if something fell from
the table. Ida looked that way, and saw a slight carnival rod
jumping down among the flowers as if it belonged to them; it was,
however, very smooth and neat, and a little wax doll with a broad
brimmed hat on her head, like the one worn by the lawyer, sat upon it.
The carnival rod hopped about among the flowers on its three red
stilted feet, and stamped quite loud when it danced the Mazurka; the
flowers could not perform this dance, they were too light to stamp
in that manner. All at once the wax doll which rode on the carnival
rod seemed to grow larger and taller, and it turned round and said
to the paper flowers, "How can you put such things in a child's
head? they are all foolish fancies;" and then the doll was exactly
like the lawyer with the broad brimmed hat, and looked as yellow and
as cross as he did; but the paper dolls struck him on his thin legs,
and he shrunk up again and became quite a little wax doll. This was
very amusing, and Ida could not help laughing. The carnival rod went
on dancing, and the lawyer was obliged to dance also. It was no use,
he might make himself great and tall, or remain a little wax doll with
a large black hat; still he must dance. Then at last the other flowers
interceded for him, especially those who had lain in the doll's bed,
and the carnival rod gave up his dancing. At the same moment a loud
knocking was heard in the drawer, where Ida's doll Sophy lay with many
other toys. Then the rough doll ran to the end of the table, laid
himself flat down upon it, and began to pull the drawer out a little
way.

Then Sophy raised himself, and looked round quite astonished,
"There must be a ball here to-night," said Sophy. "Why did not
somebody tell me?"

"Will you dance with me?" said the rough doll.

"You are the right sort to dance with, certainly," said she,
turning her back upon him.

Then she seated herself on the edge of the drawer, and thought
that perhaps one of the flowers would ask her to dance; but none of
them came. Then she coughed, "Hem, hem, a-hem;" but for all that not
one came. The shabby doll now danced quite alone, and not very
badly, after all. As none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophy, she
let herself down from the drawer to the floor, so as to make a very
great noise. All the flowers came round her directly, and asked if she
had hurt herself, especially those who had lain in her bed. But she
was not hurt at all, and Ida's flowers thanked her for the use of
the nice bed, and were very kind to her. They led her into the
middle of the room, where the moon shone, and danced with her, while
all the other flowers formed a circle round them. Then Sophy was
very happy, and said they might keep her bed; she did not mind lying
in the drawer at all. But the flowers thanked her very much, and
said,--

"We cannot live long. To-morrow morning we shall be quite dead;
and you must tell little Ida to bury us in the garden, near to the
grave of the canary; then, in the summer we shall wake up and be
more beautiful than ever."

"No, you must not die," said Sophy, as she kissed the flowers.

Then the door of the room opened, and a number of beautiful
flowers danced in. Ida could not imagine where they could come from,
unless they were the flowers from the king's garden. First came two
lovely roses, with little golden crowns on their heads; these were the
king and queen. Beautiful stocks and carnations followed, bowing to
every one present. They had also music with them. Large poppies and
peonies had pea-shells for instruments, and blew into them till they
were quite red in the face. The bunches of blue hyacinths and the
little white snowdrops jingled their bell-like flowers, as if they
were real bells. Then came many more flowers: blue violets, purple
heart's-ease, daisies, and lilies of the valley, and they all danced
together, and kissed each other. It was very beautiful to behold.

At last the flowers wished each other good-night. Then little
Ida crept back into her bed again, and dreamt of all she had seen.
When she arose the next morning, she went quickly to the little table,
to see if the flowers were still there. She drew aside the curtains of
the little bed. There they all lay, but quite faded; much more so than
the day before. Sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida had placed
her; but she looked very sleepy.

"Do you remember what the flowers told you to say to me?" said
little Ida. But Sophy looked quite stupid, and said not a single word.

"You are not kind at all," said Ida; "and yet they all danced with
you."

Then she took a little paper box, on which were painted
beautiful birds, and laid the dead flowers in it.

"This shall be your pretty coffin," she said; "and by and by, when
my cousins come to visit me, they shall help me to bury you out in the
garden; so that next summer you may grow up again more beautiful
than ever."

Her cousins were two good-tempered boys, whose names were James
and Adolphus. Their father had given them each a bow and arrow, and
they had brought them to show Ida. She told them about the poor
flowers which were dead; and as soon as they obtained permission, they
went with her to bury them. The two boys walked first, with their
crossbows on their shoulders, and little Ida followed, carrying the
pretty box containing the dead flowers. They dug a little grave in the
garden. Ida kissed her flowers and then laid them, with the box, in
the earth. James and Adolphus then fired their crossbows over the
grave, as they had neither guns nor cannons.




THE LITTLE MATCH-SELLER

It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the
old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness,
a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through
the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left
home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large,
indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little
creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two
carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the
slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran
away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had
children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little
naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old
apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her
hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had any
one given here even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept
along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The
snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her
shoulders, but she regarded them not.

Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory
smell of roast goose, for it was New-year's eve--yes, she remembered
that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond
the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn
her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and
she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take
home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her;
besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only
the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the
largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little
hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match
might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it
against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one
out-"scratch!" how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright
light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was
really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was
sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass
ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the
child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame
of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the
remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.

She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and
where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil,
and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy
white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a
steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what
was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and
waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to
the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing
but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.

She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting
under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully
decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at
the rich merchant's. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green
branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the
show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out
her hand towards them, and the match went out.

The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to
her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving
behind it a bright streak of fire. "Some one is dying," thought the
little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever
loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star
falls, a soul was going up to God.

She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round
her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining,
yet mild and loving in her appearance. "Grandmother," cried the little
one, "O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns
out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the
large, glorious Christmas-tree." And she made haste to light the whole
bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And
the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day,
and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She
took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in
brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold
nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.


In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale
cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been
frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-year's
sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the
stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of
which was burnt. "She tried to warm herself," said some. No one
imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she
had entered with her grandmother, on New-year's day.




THE LITTLE MERMAID

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But they hurt me so," said the little mermaid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It shall be," said the little mermaid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




LITTLE TINY OR THUMBELINA

There was once a woman who wished very much to have a little
child, but she could not obtain her wish. At last she went to a fairy,
and said, "I should so very much like to have a little child; can
you tell me where I can find one?"

"Oh, that can be easily managed," said the fairy. "Here is a
barleycorn of a different kind to those which grow in the farmer's
fields, and which the chickens eat; put it into a flower-pot, and
see what will happen."

"Thank you," said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelve
shillings, which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went home
and planted it, and immediately there grew up a large handsome flower,
something like a tulip in appearance, but with its leaves tightly
closed as if it were still a bud. "It is a beautiful flower," said the
woman, and she kissed the red and golden-colored leaves, and while she
did so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a real
tulip. Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a very
delicate and graceful little maiden. She was scarcely half as long
as a thumb, and they gave her the name of "Thumbelina," or Tiny,
because she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly polished, served
her for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet-leaves, with a
rose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during the
day she amused herself on a table, where the woman had placed a
plateful of water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with their
stems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, which
served Tiny for a boat. Here the little maiden sat and rowed herself
from side to side, with two oars made of white horse-hair. It really
was a very pretty sight. Tiny could, also, sing so softly and
sweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard.
One night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toad
crept through a broken pane of glass in the window, and leaped right
upon the table where Tiny lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt.

"What a pretty little wife this would make for my son," said the
toad, and she took up the walnut-shell in which little Tiny lay
asleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden.

In the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived the
toad, with her son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when he
saw the pretty little maiden in her elegant bed, he could only cry,
"Croak, croak, croak."

"Don't speak so loud, or she will wake," said the toad, "and
then she might run away, for she is as light as swan's down. We will
place her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream; it will
be like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then she
cannot escape; and, while she is away, we will make haste and
prepare the state-room under the marsh, in which you are to live
when you are married."

Far out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broad
green leaves, which seemed to float on the top of the water. The
largest of these leaves appeared farther off than the rest, and the
old toad swam out to it with the walnut-shell, in which little Tiny
lay still asleep. The tiny little creature woke very early in the
morning, and began to cry bitterly when she found where she was, for
she could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf,
and no way of reaching the land. Meanwhile the old toad was very
busy under the marsh, decking her room with rushes and wild yellow
flowers, to make it look pretty for her new daughter-in-law. Then
she swam out with her ugly son to the leaf on which she had placed
poor little Tiny. She wanted to fetch the pretty bed, that she might
put it in the bridal chamber to be ready for her. The old toad bowed
low to her in the water, and said, "Here is my son, he will be your
husband, and you will live happily in the marsh by the stream."

"Croak, croak, croak," was all her son could say for himself; so
the toad took up the elegant little bed, and swam away with it,
leaving Tiny all alone on the green leaf, where she sat and wept.
She could not bear to think of living with the old toad, and having
her ugly son for a husband. The little fishes, who swam about in the
water beneath, had seen the toad, and heard what she said, so they
lifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden. As
soon as they caught sight of her, they saw she was very pretty, and it
made them very sorry to think that she must go and live with the
ugly toads. "No, it must never be!" so they assembled together in
the water, round the green stalk which held the leaf on which the
little maiden stood, and gnawed it away at the root with their
teeth. Then the leaf floated down the stream, carrying Tiny far away
out of reach of land.

Tiny sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushes
saw her, and sang, "What a lovely little creature;" so the leaf swam
away with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands.
A graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her,
and at last alighted on the leaf. Tiny pleased him, and she was glad
of it, for now the toad could not possibly reach her, and the
country through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon
the water, till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdle
and tied one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of the
ribbon she fastened to the leaf, which now glided on much faster
than ever, taking little Tiny with it as she stood. Presently a
large cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught sight of her, he seized
her round her delicate waist with his claws, and flew with her into
a tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterfly
flew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away.

Oh, how frightened little Tiny felt when the cockchafer flew
with her to the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautiful
white butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he could
not free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did not
trouble himself at all about the matter. He seated himself by her side
on a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat,
and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like a
cockchafer. After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers,
and said, "She has only two legs! how ugly that looks." "She has no
feelers," said another. "Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is like
a human being."

"Oh! she is ugly," said all the lady cockchafers, although Tiny
was very pretty. Then the cockchafer who had run away with her,
believed all the others when they said she was ugly, and would have
nothing more to say to her, and told her she might go where she liked.
Then he flew down with her from the tree, and placed her on a daisy,
and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even the
cockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while she
was really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and as
tender and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf. During the whole
summer poor little Tiny lived quite alone in the wide forest. She wove
herself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf,
to protect herself from the rain. She sucked the honey from the
flowers for food, and drank the dew from their leaves every morning.
So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter,--the
long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly
were flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large
clover leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolled
together and shrivelled up, nothing remained but a yellow withered
stalk. She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and she
was herself so frail and delicate, that poor little Tiny was nearly
frozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes, as they
fell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for
we are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herself
up in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keep
her warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she had
been living lay a corn-field, but the corn had been cut a long time;
nothing remained but the bare dry stubble standing up out of the
frozen ground. It was to her like struggling through a large wood. Oh!
how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of a
field-mouse, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. There
dwelt the field-mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of
corn, a kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor little Tiny stood
before the door just like a little beggar-girl, and begged for a small
piece of barley-corn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for two
days.

"You poor little creature," said the field-mouse, who was really a
good old field-mouse, "come into my warm room and dine with me." She
was very pleased with Tiny, so she said, "You are quite welcome to
stay with me all the winter, if you like; but you must keep my rooms
clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear them
very much." And Tiny did all the field-mouse asked her, and found
herself very comfortable.

"We shall have a visitor soon," said the field-mouse one day;
"my neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I
am; he has large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If
you could only have him for a husband, you would be well provided
for indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him some of your
prettiest stories."

But Tiny did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, for
he was a mole. However, he came and paid his visit dressed in his
black velvet coat.

"He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times larger
than mine," said the field-mouse.

He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly
of the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them.
Tiny was obliged to sing to him, "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away
home," and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her
because she had such a sweet voice; but he said nothing yet, for he
was very cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a long
passage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of the
field-mouse to his own, and here she had permission to walk with
Tiny whenever she liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at the
sight of a dead bird which lay in the passage. It was a perfect
bird, with a beak and feathers, and could not have been dead long, and
was lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took a
piece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth, and it glittered like
fire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through the
long, dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the dead
bird, the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, the earth
gave way, so that there was a large hole, and the daylight shone
into the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, his
beautiful wings pulled close to his sides, his feet and his head drawn
up under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of the cold.
It made little Tiny very sad to see it, she did so love the little
birds; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her so
beautifully. But the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs, and
said, "He will sing no more now. How miserable it must be to be born a
little bird! I am thankful that none of my children will ever be
birds, for they can do nothing but cry, 'Tweet, tweet,' and always die
of hunger in the winter."

"Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!" exclaimed the
field-mouse, "What is the use of his twittering, for when winter comes
he must either starve or be frozen to death. Still birds are very high
bred."

Tiny said nothing; but when the two others had turned their
backs on the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the soft
feathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids.
"Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer,"
she said; "and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird."

The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone,
and then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny could
not sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet of
hay; then she carried it to the dead bird, and spread it over him;
with some down from the flowers which she had found in the
field-mouse's room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread some of
it on each side of the bird, so that he might lie warmly in the cold
earth. "Farewell, you pretty little bird," said she, "farewell;
thank you for your delightful singing during the summer, when all
the trees were green, and the warm sun shone upon us." Then she laid
her head on the bird's breast, but she was alarmed immediately, for it
seemed as if something inside the bird went "thump, thump." It was the
bird's heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, and
the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the swallows fly
away into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the cold
seizes it, it becomes frozen, and falls down as if dead; it remains
where it fell, and the cold snow covers it. Tiny trembled very much;
she was quite frightened, for the bird was large, a great deal
larger than herself,--she was only an inch high. But she took courage,
laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow, and then took a leaf
which she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it over the
head of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to see
him. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for a
moment to look at Tiny, who stood by holding a piece of decayed wood
in her hand, for she had no other lantern. "Thank you, pretty little
maiden," said the sick swallow; "I have been so nicely warmed, that
I shall soon regain my strength, and be able to fly about again in the
warm sunshine."

"Oh," said she, "it is cold out of doors now; it snows and
freezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you."

Then she brought the swallow some water in a flower-leaf, and
after he had drank, he told her that he had wounded one of his wings
in a thorn-bush, and could not fly as fast as the others, who were
soon far away on their journey to warm countries. Then at last he
had fallen to the earth, and could remember no more, nor how he came
to be where she had found him. The whole winter the swallow remained
underground, and Tiny nursed him with care and love. Neither the
mole nor the field-mouse knew anything about it, for they did not like
swallows. Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed the
earth. Then the swallow bade farewell to Tiny, and she opened the hole
in the ceiling which the mole had made. The sun shone in upon them
so beautifully, that the swallow asked her if she would go with him;
she could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with her
into the green woods. But Tiny knew it would make the field-mouse very
grieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, "No, I cannot."

"Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden," said
the swallow; and he flew out into the sunshine.

Tiny looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was
very fond of the poor swallow.

"Tweet, tweet," sang the bird, as he flew out into the green
woods, and Tiny felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into
the warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field over
the house of the field-mouse had grown up high into the air, and
formed a thick wood to Tiny, who was only an inch in height.

"You are going to be married, Tiny," said the field-mouse. "My
neighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like
you. Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be both
woollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the mole's
wife."

Tiny had to turn the spindle, and the field-mouse hired four
spiders, who were to weave day and night. Every evening the mole
visited her, and was continually speaking of the time when the
summer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day with Tiny;
but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth, and
made it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, the
wedding should take place. But Tiny was not at all pleased; for she
did not like the tiresome mole. Every morning when the sun rose, and
every evening when it went down, she would creep out at the door,
and as the wind blew aside the ears of corn, so that she could see the
blue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there,
and wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he never
returned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green
forest.

When autumn arrived, Tiny had her outfit quite ready; and the
field-mouse said to her, "In four weeks the wedding must take place."

Then Tiny wept, and said she would not marry the disagreeable
mole.

"Nonsense," replied the field-mouse. "Now don't be obstinate, or I
shall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome mole; the
queen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. His
kitchen and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankful
for such good fortune."

So the wedding-day was fixed, on which the mole was to fetch
Tiny away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again to
see the warm sun, because he did not like it. The poor child was
very unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun,
and as the field-mouse had given her permission to stand at the
door, she went to look at it once more.

"Farewell bright sun," she cried, stretching out her arm towards
it; and then she walked a short distance from the house; for the
corn had been cut, and only the dry stubble remained in the fields.
"Farewell, farewell," she repeated, twining her arm round a little red
flower that grew just by her side. "Greet the little swallow from
me, if you should see him again."

"Tweet, tweet," sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, and
there was the swallow himself flying close by. As soon as he spied
Tiny, he was delighted; and then she told him how unwilling she felt
to marry the ugly mole, and to live always beneath the earth, and
never to see the bright sun any more. And as she told him she wept.

"Cold winter is coming," said the swallow, "and I am going to
fly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my
back, and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away from
the ugly mole and his gloomy rooms,--far away, over the mountains,
into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly--than
here; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greater
beauty. Fly now with me, dear little Tiny; you saved my life when I
lay frozen in that dark passage."

"Yes, I will go with you," said Tiny; and she seated herself on
the bird's back, with her feet on his outstretched wings, and tied her
girdle to one of his strongest feathers.

Then the swallow rose in the air, and flew over forest and over
sea, high above the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Tiny
would have been frozen in the cold air, but she crept under the bird's
warm feathers, keeping her little head uncovered, so that she might
admire the beautiful lands over which they passed. At length they
reached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly, and the sky
seems so much higher above the earth. Here, on the hedges, and by
the wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons and
oranges hung from trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant with
myrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along the
country lanes, playing with large gay butterflies; and as the
swallow flew farther and farther, every place appeared still more
lovely.

At last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded by
trees of the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble,
built in the olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, and
at the top were many swallows' nests, and one of these was the home of
the swallow who carried Tiny.

"This is my house," said the swallow; "but it would not do for you
to live there--you would not be comfortable. You must choose for
yourself one of those lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it,
and then you shall have everything that you can wish to make you
happy."

"That will be delightful," she said, and clapped her little
hands for joy.

A large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, had
been broken into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the most
beautiful large white flowers; so the swallow flew down with Tiny, and
placed her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised she was to
see in the middle of the flower, a tiny little man, as white and
transparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had a gold crown
on his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was not much
larger than Tiny herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a tiny
man and a tiny woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king of
them all.

"Oh, how beautiful he is!" whispered Tiny to the swallow.

The little prince was at first quite frightened at the bird, who
was like a giant, compared to such a delicate little creature as
himself; but when he saw Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her the
prettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crown
from his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she
would be his wife, and queen over all the flowers.

This certainly was a very different sort of husband to the son
of a toad, or the mole, with my black velvet and fur; so she said,
"Yes," to the handsome prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out of
each came a little lady or a tiny lord, all so pretty it was quite a
pleasure to look at them. Each of them brought Tiny a present; but the
best gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which had belonged to a large
white fly and they fastened them to Tiny's shoulders, so that she
might fly from flower to flower. Then there was much rejoicing, and
the little swallow who sat above them, in his nest, was asked to
sing a wedding song, which he did as well as he could; but in his
heart he felt sad for he was very fond of Tiny, and would have liked
never to part from her again.

"You must not be called Tiny any more," said the spirit of the
flowers to her. "It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. We
will call you Maia."

"Farewell, farewell," said the swallow, with a heavy heart as he
left the warm countries to fly back into Denmark. There he had a
nest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairy
tales. The swallow sang, "Tweet, tweet," and from his song came the
whole story.




LITTLE TUK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD

There lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at
all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the
world. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most
beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its
apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near
the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and
window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the
halls. They were of every fragrance and color.

But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a
sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. "There is
still one thing that could save her," said one of the wisest among
them. "Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits
the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before
her eyes close, she will not die."

Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in
every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one
from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the
highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in
the world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that
title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide
to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and
condition.

"No one has yet named the flower," said the wise man. "No one
has pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is
not a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of
Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not
one of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of
Winkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies
for his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be
redder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the
magic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes
many an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a
lonely chamber."

"I know where it blooms," said a happy mother, who came with her
lovely child to the bedside of the queen. "I know where the
loveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of
my sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy;
when refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with
childlike affection."

"This is a lovely rose," said the wise man; "but there is one
still more lovely."

"Yes, one far more lovely," said one of the women. "I have seen
it, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white,
like the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the
queen. She had taken off her golden crown, and through the long,
dreary night, she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept over
it, kissed it, and prayed for it as only a mother can pray in that
hour of her anguish."

"Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief, but
it is not the one we seek."

"No; the loveliest rose in the world I saw at the Lord's table,"
said the good old bishop. "I saw it shine as if an angel's face had
appeared. A young maiden knelt at the altar, and renewed the vows made
at her baptism; and there were white roses and red roses on the
blushing cheeks of that young girl. She looked up to heaven with all
the purity and love of her young spirit, in all the expression of
the highest and purest love."

"May she be blessed!" said the wise man: "but no one has yet named
the loveliest rose in the world."

Then there came into the room a child--the queen's little son.
Tears stood in his eyes, and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a
great book and the binding was of velvet, with silver clasps.
"Mother," cried the little boy; "only hear what I have read." And
the child seated himself by the bedside, and read from the book of Him
who suffered death on the cross to save all men, even who are yet
unborn. He read, "Greater love hath no man than this," and as he
read a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes
became so enlightened and clear, that she saw from the leaves of the
book a lovely rose spring forth, a type of Him who shed His blood on
the cross.

"I see it," she said. "He who beholds this, the loveliest rose
on earth, shall never die."




THE MAIL-COACH PASSENGERS

It was bitterly cold, the sky glittered with stars, and not a
breeze stirred. "Bump"--an old pot was thrown at a neighbor's door;
and "bang, bang," went the guns; for they were greeting the New
Year. It was New Year's Eve, and the church clock was striking twelve.
"Tan-ta-ra-ra, tan-ta-ra-ra," sounded the horn, and the mail-coach
came lumbering up. The clumsy vehicle stopped at the gate of the town;
all the places had been taken, for there were twelve passengers in the
coach.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried the people in the town; for in every house
the New Year was being welcomed; and as the clock struck, they stood
up, the full glasses in their hands, to drink success to the new
comer. "A happy New Year," was the cry; "a pretty wife, plenty of
money, and no sorrow or care."

The wish passed round, and the glasses clashed together till
they rang again; while before the town-gate the mail coach stopped
with the twelve strange passengers. And who were these strangers? Each
of them had his passport and his luggage with him; they even brought
presents for me, and for you, and for all the people in the town. "Who
were they? what did they want? and what did they bring with them?"

"Good-morning," they cried to the sentry at the town-gate.

"Good-morning," replied the sentry; for the clock had struck
twelve. "Your name and profession?" asked the sentry of the one who
alighted first from the carriage.

"See for yourself in the passport," he replied. "I am myself;" and
a famous fellow he looked, arrayed in bear-skin and fur boots. "I am
the man on whom many persons fix their hopes. Come to me to-morrow,
and I'll give you a New Year's present. I throw shillings and pence
among the people; I give balls, no less than thirty-one; indeed,
that is the highest number I can spare for balls. My ships are often
frozen in, but in my offices it is warm and comfortable. My name is
JANUARY. I'm a merchant, and I generally bring my accounts with me."

Then the second alighted. He seemed a merry fellow. He was a
director of a theatre, a manager of masked balls, and a leader of
all the amusements we can imagine. His luggage consisted of a great
cask.

"We'll dance the bung out of the cask at carnival time," said
he; "I'll prepare a merry tune for you and for myself too.
Unfortunately I have not long to live--the shortest time, in fact,
of my whole family--only twenty-eight days. Sometimes they pop me in a
day extra; but I trouble myself very little about that. Hurrah!"

"You must not shout so," said the sentry.

"Certainly I may shout," retorted the man; "I'm Prince Carnival,
travelling under the name of FEBRUARY."

The third now got out. He looked a personification of fasting; but
he carried his nose very high, for he was related to the "forty
(k)nights," and was a weather prophet. But that is not a very
lucrative office, and therefore he praised fasting. In his button-hole
he carried a little bunch of violets, but they were very small.

"MARCH, March," the fourth called after him, slapping him on the
shoulder, "don't you smell something? Make haste into the guard
room; they're drinking punch there; that's your favorite drink. I
can smell it out here already. Forward, Master March." But it was
not true; the speaker only wanted to remind him of his name, and to
make an APRIL fool of him; for with that fun the fourth generally
began his career. He looked very jovial, did little work, and had
the more holidays. "If the world were only a little more settled,"
said he: "but sometimes I'm obliged to be in a good humor, and
sometimes a bad one, according to circumstances; now rain, now
sunshine. I'm kind of a house agent, also a manager of funerals. I can
laugh or cry, according to circumstances. I have my summer wardrobe in
this box here, but it would be very foolish to put it on now. Here I
am. On Sundays I go out walking in shoes and white silk stockings, and
a muff."

After him, a lady stepped out of the coach. She called herself
Miss MAY. She wore a summer dress and overshoes; her dress was a light
green, and she wore anemones in her hair. She was so scented with
wild-thyme, that it made the sentry sneeze.

"Your health, and God bless you," was her salutation to him.

How pretty she was! and such a singer! not a theatre singer, nor a
ballad singer; no, but a singer of the woods; for she wandered through
the gay green forest, and had a concert there for her own amusement.

"Now comes the young lady," said those in the carriage; and out
stepped a young dame, delicate, proud, and pretty. It was Mistress
JUNE, in whose service people become lazy and fond of sleeping for
hours. She gives a feast on the longest day of the year, that there
may be time for her guests to partake of the numerous dishes at her
table. Indeed, she keeps her own carriage; but still she travelled
by the mail, with the rest, because she wished to show that she was
not high-minded. But she was not without a protector; her younger
brother, JULY, was with her. He was a plump young fellow, clad in
summer garments and wearing a straw hat. He had but very little
luggage with him, because it was so cumbersome in the great heat; he
had, however, swimming-trousers with him, which are nothing to
carry. Then came the mother herself, in crinoline, Madame AUGUST, a
wholesale dealer in fruit, proprietress of a large number of fish
ponds and a land cultivator. She was fat and heated, yet she could use
her hands well, and would herself carry out beer to the laborers in
the field. "In the sweat of the face shalt thou eat bread," said
she; "it is written in the Bible." After work, came the recreations,
dancing and playing in the greenwood, and the "harvest homes." She was
a thorough housewife.

After her a man came out of the coach, who is a painter; he is the
great master of colors, and is named SEPTEMBER. The forest, on his
arrival, had to change its colors when he wished it; and how beautiful
are the colors he chooses! The woods glow with hues of red and gold
and brown. This great master painter could whistle like a blackbird.
He was quick in his work, and soon entwined the tendrils of the hop
plant around his beer jug. This was an ornament to the jug, and he has
a great love for ornament. There he stood with his color pot in his
hand, and that was the whole of his luggage. A land-owner followed,
who in the month for sowing seed attended to the ploughing and was
fond of field sports. Squire OCTOBER brought his dog and his gun
with him, and had nuts in his game bag. "Crack, crack." He had a great
deal of luggage, even an English plough. He spoke of farming, but what
he said could scarcely be heard for the coughing and gasping of his
neighbor. It was NOVEMBER, who coughed violently as he got out. He had
a cold, which caused him to use his pocket-handkerchief continually;
and yet he said he was obliged to accompany servant girls to their new
places, and initiate them into their winter service. He said he
thought his cold would never leave him when he went out woodcutting,
for he was a master sawyer, and had to supply wood to the whole
parish. He spent his evenings preparing wooden soles for skates, for
he knew, he said, that in a few weeks these shoes would be wanted
for the amusement of skating. At length the last passenger made her
appearance,--old Mother DECEMBER, with her fire-stool. The dame was
very old, but her eyes glistened like two stars. She carried on her
arm a flower-pot, in which a little fir-tree was growing. "This tree I
shall guard and cherish," she said, "that it may grow large by
Christmas Eve, and reach from the ground to the ceiling, to be covered
and adorned with flaming candles, golden apples, and little figures.
The fire-stool will be as warm as a stove, and I shall then bring a
story book out of my pocket, and read aloud till all the children in
the room are quite quiet. Then the little figures on the tree will
become lively, and the little waxen angel at the top spread out his
wings of gold-leaf, and fly down from his green perch. He will kiss
every one in the room, great and small; yes, even the poor children
who stand in the passage, or out in the street singing a carol about
the 'Star of Bethlehem.'"

"Well, now the coach may drive away," said the sentry; "we have
the whole twelve. Let the horses be put up."

"First, let all the twelve come to me," said the captain on
duty, "one after another. The passports I will keep here. Each of them
is available for one month; when that has passed, I shall write the
behavior of each on his passport. Mr. JANUARY, have the goodness to
come here." And Mr. January stepped forward.

When a year has passed, I think I shall be able to tell you what
the twelve passengers have brought to you, to me, and to all of us.
Now I do not know, and probably even they don't know themselves, for
we live in strange times.




THE MARSH KING'S DAUGHTER

The storks relate to their little ones a great many stories, and
they are all about moors and reed banks, and suited to their age and
capacity. The youngest of them are quite satisfied with "kribble,
krabble," or such nonsense, and think it very grand; but the elder
ones want something with a deeper meaning, or at least something about
their own family.

We are only acquainted with one of the two longest and oldest
stories which the storks relate--it is about Moses, who was exposed by
his mother on the banks of the Nile, and was found by the king's
daughter, who gave him a good education, and he afterwards became a
great man; but where he was buried is still unknown.

Every one knows this story, but not the second; very likely
because it is quite an inland story. It has been repeated from mouth
to mouth, from one stork-mamma to another, for thousands of years; and
each has told it better than the last; and now we mean to tell it
better than all.

The first stork pair who related it lived at the time it happened,
and had their summer residence on the rafters of the Viking's house,
which stood near the wild moorlands of Wendsyssell; that is, to
speak more correctly, the great moorheath, high up in the north of
Jutland, by the Skjagen peak. This wilderness is still an immense wild
heath of marshy ground, about which we can read in the "Official
Directory." It is said that in olden times the place was a lake, the
ground of which had heaved up from beneath, and now the moorland
extends for miles in every direction, and is surrounded by damp
meadows, trembling, undulating swamps, and marshy ground covered
with turf, on which grow bilberry bushes and stunted trees. Mists
are almost always hovering over this region, which, seventy years ago,
was overrun with wolves. It may well be called the Wild Moor; and
one can easily imagine, with such a wild expanse of marsh and lake,
how lonely and dreary it must have been a thousand years ago. Many
things may be noticed now that existed then. The reeds grow to the
same height, and bear the same kind of long, purple-brown leaves, with
their feathery tips. There still stands the birch, with its white bark
and its delicate, loosely hanging leaves; and with regard to the
living beings who frequented this spot, the fly still wears a gauzy
dress of the same cut, and the favorite colors of the stork are white,
with black and red for stockings. The people, certainly, in those
days, wore very different dresses to those they now wear, but if any
of them, be he huntsman or squire, master or servant, ventured on
the wavering, undulating, marshy ground of the moor, they met with the
same fate a thousand years ago as they would now. The wanderer sank,
and went down to the Marsh King, as he is named, who rules in the
great moorland empire beneath. They also called him "Gunkel King," but
we like the name of "Marsh King" better, and we will give him that
name as the storks do. Very little is known of the Marsh King's
rule, but that, perhaps, is a good thing.

In the neighborhood of the moorlands, and not far from the great
arm of the North Sea and the Cattegat which is called the
Lumfjorden, lay the castle of the Viking, with its water-tight stone
cellars, its tower, and its three projecting storeys. On the ridge
of the roof the stork had built his nest, and there the stork-mamma
sat on her eggs and felt sure her hatching would come to something.

One evening, stork-papa stayed out rather late, and when he came
home he seemed quite busy, bustling, and important. "I have
something very dreadful to tell you," said he to the stork-mamma.

"Keep it to yourself then," she replied. "Remember that I am
hatching eggs; it may agitate me, and will affect them."

"You must know it at once," said he. "The daughter of our host
in Egypt has arrived here. She has ventured to take this journey,
and now she is lost."

"She who sprung from the race of the fairies, is it?" cried the
mother stork. "Oh, tell me all about it; you know I cannot bear to
be kept waiting at a time when I am hatching eggs."

"Well, you see, mother," he replied, "she believed what the
doctors said, and what I have heard you state also, that the
moor-flowers which grow about here would heal her sick father; and she
has flown to the north in swan's plumage, in company with some other
swan-princesses, who come to these parts every year to renew their
youth. She came, and where is she now!"

"You enter into particulars too much," said the mamma stork,
"and the eggs may take cold; I cannot bear such suspense as this."

"Well," said he, "I have kept watch; and this evening I went among
the rushes where I thought the marshy ground would bear me, and
while I was there three swans came. Something in their manner of
flying seemed to say to me, 'Look carefully now; there is one not
all swan, only swan's feathers.' You know, mother, you have the same
intuitive feeling that I have; you know whether a thing is right or
not immediately."

"Yes, of course," said she; "but tell me about the princess; I
am tired of hearing about the swan's feathers."

"Well, you know that in the middle of the moor there is
something like a lake," said the stork-papa. "You can see the edge
of it if you raise yourself a little. Just there, by the reeds and the
green banks, lay the trunk of an elder-tree; upon this the three swans
stood flapping their wings, and looking about them; one of them
threw off her plumage, and I immediately recognized her as one of
the princesses of our home in Egypt. There she sat, without any
covering but her long, black hair. I heard her tell the two others
to take great care of the swan's plumage, while she dipped down into
the water to pluck the flowers which she fancied she saw there. The
others nodded, and picked up the feather dress, and took possession of
it. I wonder what will become of it? thought I, and she most likely
asked herself the same question. If so, she received an answer, a very
practical one; for the two swans rose up and flew away with her swan's
plumage. 'Dive down now!' they cried; 'thou shalt never more fly in
the swan's plumage, thou shalt never again see Egypt; here, on the
moor, thou wilt remain.' So saying, they tore the swan's plumage
into a thousand pieces, the feathers drifted about like a snow-shower,
and then the two deceitful princesses flew away."

"Why, that is terrible," said the stork-mamma; "I feel as if I
could hardly bear to hear any more, but you must tell me what happened
next."

"The princess wept and lamented aloud; her tears moistened the
elder stump, which was really not an elder stump but the Marsh King
himself, he who in marshy ground lives and rules. I saw myself how the
stump of the tree turned round, and was a tree no more, while long,
clammy branches like arms, were extended from it. Then the poor
child was terribly frightened, and started up to run away. She
hastened to cross the green, slimy ground; but it will not bear any
weight, much less hers. She quickly sank, and the elder stump dived
immediately after her; in fact, it was he who drew her down. Great
black bubbles rose up out of the moor-slime, and with these every
trace of the two vanished. And now the princess is buried in the
wild marsh, she will never now carry flowers to Egypt to cure her
father. It would have broken your heart, mother, had you seen it."

"You ought not to have told me," said she, "at such a time as
this; the eggs might suffer. But I think the princess will soon find
help; some one will rise up to help her. Ah! if it had been you or
I, or one of our people, it would have been all over with us."

"I mean to go every day," said he, "to see if anything comes to
pass;" and so he did.

A long time went by, but at last he saw a green stalk shooting
up out of the deep, marshy ground. As it reached the surface of the
marsh, a leaf spread out, and unfolded itself broader and broader, and
close to it came forth a bud.

One morning, when the stork-papa was flying over the stem, he
saw that the power of the sun's rays had caused the bud to open, and
in the cup of the flower lay a charming child--a little maiden,
looking as if she had just come out of a bath. The little one was so
like the Egyptian princess, that the stork, at the first moment,
thought it must be the princess herself, but after a little reflection
he decided that it was much more likely to be the daughter of the
princess and the Marsh King; and this explained also her being
placed in the cup of a water-lily. "But she cannot be left to lie
here," thought the stork, "and in my nest there are already so many.
But stay, I have thought of something: the wife of the Viking has no
children, and how often she has wished for a little one. People always
say the stork brings the little ones; I will do so in earnest this
time. I shall fly with the child to the Viking's wife; what
rejoicing there will be!"

And then the stork lifted the little girl out of the flower-cup,
flew to the castle, picked a hole with his beak in the bladder-covered
window, and laid the beautiful child in the bosom of the Viking's
wife. Then he flew back quickly to the stork-mamma and told her
what he had seen and done; and the little storks listened to it
all, for they were then quite old enough to do so. "So you see,"
he continued, "that the princess is not dead, for she must have sent
her little one up here; and now I have found a home for her."

"Ah, I said it would be so from the first," replied the
stork-mamma; "but now think a little of your own family. Our
travelling time draws near, and I sometimes feel a little irritation
already under the wings. The cuckoos and the nightingale are already
gone, and I heard the quails say they should go too as soon as the
wind was favorable. Our youngsters will go through all the
manoeuvres at the review very well, or I am much mistaken in them."

The Viking's wife was above measure delighted when she awoke the
next morning and found the beautiful little child lying in her
bosom. She kissed it and caressed it; but it cried terribly, and
struck out with its arms and legs, and did not seem to be pleased at
all. At last it cried itself to sleep; and as it lay there so still
and quiet, it was a most beautiful sight to see. The Viking's wife was
so delighted, that body and soul were full of joy. Her heart felt so
light within her, that it seemed as if her husband and his soldiers,
who were absent, must come home as suddenly and unexpectedly as the
little child had done. She and her whole household therefore busied
themselves in preparing everything for the reception of her lord.
The long, colored tapestry, on which she and her maidens had worked
pictures of their idols, Odin, Thor, and Friga, was hung up. The
slaves polished the old shields that served as ornaments; cushions
were placed on the seats, and dry wood laid on the fireplaces in the
centre of the hall, so that the flames might be fanned up at a
moment's notice. The Viking's wife herself assisted in the work, so
that at night she felt very tired, and quickly fell into a sound
sleep. When she awoke, just before morning, she was terribly alarmed
to find that the infant had vanished. She sprang from her couch,
lighted a pine-chip, and searched all round the room, when, at last,
in that part of the bed where her feet had been, lay, not the child,
but a great, ugly frog. She was quite disgusted at this sight, and
seized a heavy stick to kill the frog; but the creature looked at
her with such strange, mournful eyes, that she was unable to strike
the blow. Once more she searched round the room; then she started at
hearing the frog utter a low, painful croak. She sprang from the couch
and opened the window hastily; at the same moment the sun rose, and
threw its beams through the window, till it rested on the couch
where the great frog lay. Suddenly it appeared as if the frog's
broad mouth contracted, and became small and red. The limbs moved
and stretched out and extended themselves till they took a beautiful
shape; and behold there was the pretty child lying before her, and the
ugly frog was gone. "How is this?" she cried, "have I had a wicked
dream? Is it not my own lovely cherub that lies there." Then she
kissed it and fondled it; but the child struggled and fought, and
bit as if she had been a little wild cat.

The Viking did not return on that day, nor the next; he was,
however, on the way home; but the wind, so favorable to the storks,
was against him; for it blew towards the south. A wind in favor of one
is often against another.

After two or three days had passed, it became clear to the
Viking's wife how matters stood with the child; it was under the
influence of a powerful sorcerer. By day it was charming in appearance
as an angel of light, but with a temper wicked and wild; while at
night, in the form of an ugly frog, it was quiet and mournful, with
eyes full of sorrow. Here were two natures, changing inwardly and
outwardly with the absence and return of sunlight. And so it
happened that by day the child, with the actual form of its mother,
possessed the fierce disposition of its father; at night, on the
contrary, its outward appearance plainly showed its descent on the
father's side, while inwardly it had the heart and mind of its mother.
Who would be able to loosen this wicked charm which the sorcerer had
worked upon it? The wife of the Viking lived in constant pain and
sorrow about it. Her heart clung to the little creature, but she could
not explain to her husband the circumstances in which it was placed.
He was expected to return shortly; and were she to tell him, he
would very likely, as was the custom at that time, expose the poor
child in the public highway, and let any one take it away who would.
The good wife of the Viking could not let that happen, and she
therefore resolved that the Viking should never see the child
excepting by daylight.

One morning there sounded a rushing of storks' wings over the
roof. More than a hundred pair of storks had rested there during the
night, to recover themselves after their excursion; and now they
soared aloft, and prepared for the journey southward.

"All the husbands are here, and ready!" they cried; "wives and
children also!"

"How light we are!" screamed the young storks in chorus.
"Something pleasant seems creeping over us, even down to our toes,
as if we were full of live frogs. Ah, how delightful it is to travel
into foreign lands!"

"Hold yourselves properly in the line with us," cried papa and
mamma. "Do not use your beaks so much; it tries the lungs." And then
the storks flew away.

About the same time sounded the clang of the warriors' trumpets
across the heath. The Viking had landed with his men. They were
returning home, richly laden with spoil from the Gallic coast, where
the people, as did also the inhabitants of Britain, often cried in
alarm, "Deliver us from the wild northmen."

Life and noisy pleasure came with them into the castle of the
Viking on the moorland. A great cask of mead was drawn into the
hall, piles of wood blazed, cattle were slain and served up, that they
might feast in reality, The priest who offered the sacrifice sprinkled
the devoted parishioners with the warm blood; the fire crackled, and
the smoke rolled along beneath the roof; the soot fell upon them
from the beams; but they were used to all these things. Guests were
invited, and received handsome presents. All wrongs and unfaithfulness
were forgotten. They drank deeply, and threw in each other's faces the
bones that were left, which was looked upon as a sign of good
feeling amongst them. A bard, who was a kind of musician as well as
warrior, and who had been with the Viking in his expedition, and
knew what to sing about, gave them one of his best songs, in which
they heard all their warlike deeds praised, and every wonderful action
brought forward with honor. Every verse ended with this refrain,--

  "Gold and possessions will flee away,
  Friends and foes must die one day;
  Every man on earth must die,
  But a famous name will never die."

And with that they beat upon their shields, and hammered upon the
table with knives and bones, in a most outrageous manner.

The Viking's wife sat upon a raised cross seat in the open hall.
She wore a silk dress, golden bracelets, and large amber beads. She
was in costly attire, and the bard named her in his song, and spoke of
the rich treasure of gold which she had brought to her husband. Her
husband had already seen the wonderfully beautiful child in the
daytime, and was delighted with her beauty; even her wild ways pleased
him. He said the little maiden would grow up to be a heroine, with the
strong will and determination of a man. She would never wink her eyes,
even if, in joke, an expert hand should attempt to cut off her
eye-brows with a sharp sword.

The full cask of mead soon became empty, and a fresh one was
brought in; for these were people who liked plenty to eat and drink.
The old proverb, which every one knows, says that "the cattle know
when to leave their pasture, but a foolish man knows not the measure
of his own appetite." Yes, they all knew this; but men may know what
is right, and yet often do wrong. They also knew "that even the
welcome guest becomes wearisome when he sits too long in the house."
But there they remained; for pork and mead are good things. And so
at the Viking's house they stayed, and enjoyed themselves; and at
night the bondmen slept in the ashes, and dipped their fingers in
the fat, and licked them. Oh, it was a delightful time!

Once more in the same year the Viking went forth, though the
storms of autumn had already commenced to roar. He went with his
warriors to the coast of Britain; he said that it was but an excursion
of pleasure across the water, so his wife remained at home with the
little girl. After a while, it is quite certain the foster-mother
began to love the poor frog, with its gentle eyes and its deep
sighs, even better than the little beauty who bit and fought with
all around her.

The heavy, damp mists of autumn, which destroy the leaves of the
wood, had already fallen upon forest and heath. Feathers of plucked
birds, as they call the snow, flew about in thick showers, and
winter was coming. The sparrows took possession of the stork's nest,
and conversed about the absent owners in their own fashion; and
they, the stork pair and all their young ones, where were they staying
now? The storks might have been found in the land of Egypt, where
the sun's rays shone forth bright and warm, as it does here at
midsummer. Tamarinds and acacias were in full bloom all over the
country, the crescent of Mahomet glittered brightly from the cupolas
of the mosques, and on the slender pinnacles sat many of the storks,
resting after their long journey. Swarms of them took divided
possession of the nests--nests which lay close to each other between
the venerable columns, and crowded the arches of temples in
forgotten cities. The date and the palm lifted themselves as a
screen or as a sun-shade over them. The gray pyramids looked like
broken shadows in the clear air and the far-off desert, where the
ostrich wheels his rapid flight, and the lion, with his subtle eyes,
gazes at the marble sphinx which lies half buried in sand. The
waters of the Nile had retreated, and the whole bed of the river was
covered with frogs, which was a most acceptable prospect for the stork
families. The young storks thought their eyes deceived them,
everything around appeared so beautiful.

"It is always like this here, and this is how we live in our
warm country," said the stork-mamma; and the thought made the young
ones almost beside themselves with pleasure.

"Is there anything more to see?" they asked; "are we going farther
into the country?"

"There is nothing further for us to see," answered the
stork-mamma. "Beyond this delightful region there are immense forests,
where the branches of the trees entwine round each other, while
prickly, creeping plants cover the paths, and only an elephant could
force a passage for himself with his great feet. The snakes are too
large, and the lizards too lively for us to catch. Then there is the
desert; if you went there, your eyes would soon be full of sand with
the lightest breeze, and if it should blow great guns, you would
most likely find yourself in a sand-drift. Here is the best place
for you, where there are frogs and locusts; here I shall remain, and
so must you." And so they stayed.

The parents sat in the nest on the slender minaret, and rested,
yet still were busily employed in cleaning and smoothing their
feathers, and in sharpening their beaks against their red stockings;
then they would stretch out their necks, salute each other, and
gravely raise their heads with the high-polished forehead, and soft,
smooth feathers, while their brown eyes shone with intelligence. The
female young ones strutted about amid the moist rushes, glancing at
the other young storks and making acquaintances, and swallowing a frog
at every third step, or tossing a little snake about with their beaks,
in a way they considered very becoming, and besides it tasted very
good. The young male storks soon began to quarrel; they struck at each
other with their wings, and pecked with their beaks till the blood
came. And in this manner many of the young ladies and gentlemen were
betrothed to each other: it was, of course, what they wanted, and
indeed what they lived for. Then they returned to a nest, and there
the quarrelling began afresh; for in hot countries people are almost
all violent and passionate. But for all that it was pleasant,
especially for the old people, who watched them with great joy: all
that their young ones did suited them. Every day here there was
sunshine, plenty to eat, and nothing to think of but pleasure. But
in the rich castle of their Egyptian host, as they called him,
pleasure was not to be found. The rich and mighty lord of the castle
lay on his couch, in the midst of the great hall, with its many
colored walls looking like the centre of a great tulip; but he was
stiff and powerless in all his limbs, and lay stretched out like a
mummy. His family and servants stood round him; he was not dead,
although he could scarcely be said to live. The healing moor-flower
from the north, which was to have been found and brought to him by her
who loved him so well, had not arrived. His young and beautiful
daughter who, in swan's plumage, had flown over land and seas to the
distant north, had never returned. She is dead, so the two
swan-maidens had said when they came home; and they made up quite a
story about her, and this is what they told,--

"We three flew away together through the air," said they: "a
hunter caught sight of us, and shot at us with an arrow. The arrow
struck our young friend and sister, and slowly singing her farewell
song she sank down, a dying swan, into the forest lake. On the
shores of the lake, under a spreading birch-tree, we laid her in the
cold earth. We had our revenge; we bound fire under the wings of a
swallow, who had a nest on the thatched roof of the huntsman. The
house took fire, and burst into flames; the hunter was burnt with
the house, and the light was reflected over the sea as far as the
spreading birch, beneath which we laid her sleeping dust. She will
never return to the land of Egypt." And then they both wept. And
stork-papa, who heard the story, snapped with his beak so that it
might be heard a long way off.

"Deceit and lies!" cried he; "I should like to run my beak deep
into their chests."

"And perhaps break it off," said the mamma stork, "then what a
sight you would be. Think first of yourself, and then of your
family; all others are nothing to us."

"Yes, I know," said the stork-papa; "but to-morrow I can easily
place myself on the edge of the open cupola, when the learned and wise
men assemble to consult on the state of the sick man; perhaps they may
come a little nearer to the truth." And the learned and wise men
assembled together, and talked a great deal on every point; but the
stork could make no sense out of anything they said; neither were
there any good results from their consultations, either for the sick
man, or for his daughter in the marshy heath. When we listen to what
people say in this world, we shall hear a great deal; but it is an
advantage to know what has been said and done before, when we listen
to a conversation. The stork did, and we know at least as much as
he, the stork.

"Love is a life-giver. The highest love produces the highest life.
Only through love can the sick man be cured." This had been said by
many, and even the learned men acknowledged that it was a wise saying.

"What a beautiful thought!" exclaimed the papa stork immediately.

"I don't quite understand it," said the mamma stork, when her
husband repeated it; "however, it is not my fault, but the fault of
the thought; whatever it may be, I have something else to think of."

Now the learned men had spoken also of love between this one and
that one; of the difference of the love which we have for our
neighbor, to the love that exists between parents and children; of the
love of the plant for the light, and how the germ springs forth when
the sunbeam kisses the ground. All these things were so elaborately
and learnedly explained, that it was impossible for stork-papa to
follow it, much less to talk about it. His thoughts on the subject
quite weighed him down; he stood the whole of the following day on one
leg, with half-shut eyes, thinking deeply. So much learning was
quite a heavy weight for him to carry. One thing, however, the papa
stork could understand. Every one, high and low, had from their inmost
hearts expressed their opinion that it was a great misfortune for so
many thousands of people--the whole country indeed--to have this man
so sick, with no hopes of his recovery. And what joy and blessing it
would spread around if he could by any means be cured! But where
bloomed the flower that could bring him health? They had searched
for it everywhere; in learned writings, in the shining stars, in the
weather and wind. Inquiries had been made in every by-way that could
be thought of, until at last the wise and learned men has asserted, as
we have been already told, that "love, the life-giver, could alone
give new life to a father;" and in saying this, they had overdone
it, and said more than they understood themselves. They repeated it,
and wrote it down as a recipe, "Love is a life-giver." But how could
such a recipe be prepared--that was a difficulty they could not
overcome. At last it was decided that help could only come from the
princess herself, whose whole soul was wrapped up in her father,
especially as a plan had been adopted by her to enable her to obtain a
remedy.

More than a year had passed since the princess had set out at
night, when the light of the young moon was soon lost beneath the
horizon. She had gone to the marble sphinx in the desert, shaking
the sand from her sandals, and then passed through the long passage,
which leads to the centre of one of the great pyramids, where the
mighty kings of antiquity, surrounded with pomp and splendor, lie
veiled in the form of mummies. She had been told by the wise men, that
if she laid her head on the breast of one of them, from the head she
would learn where to find life and recovery for her father. She had
performed all this, and in a dream had learnt that she must bring home
to her father the lotus flower, which grows in the deep sea, near
the moors and heath in the Danish land. The very place and situation
had been pointed out to her, and she was told that the flower would
restore her father to health and strength. And, therefore, she had
gone forth from the land of Egypt, flying over to the open marsh and
the wild moor in the plumage of a swan.

The papa and mamma storks knew all this, and we also know it
now. We know, too, that the Marsh King has drawn her down to
himself, and that to the loved ones at home she is forever dead. One
of the wisest of them said, as the stork-mamma also said, "That in
some way she would, after all, manage to succeed;" and so at last they
comforted themselves with this hope, and would wait patiently; in
fact, they could do nothing better.

"I should like to get away the swan's feathers from those two
treacherous princesses," said the papa stork; "then, at least, they
would not be able to fly over again to the wild moor, and do more
wickedness. I can hide the two suits of feathers over yonder, till
we find some use for them."

"But where will you put them?" asked the mamma stork.

"In our nest on the moor. I and the young ones will carry them
by turns during our flight across; and as we return, should they prove
too heavy for us, we shall be sure to find plenty of places on the way
in which we can conceal them till our next journey. Certainly one suit
of swan's feathers would be enough for the princess, but two are
always better. In those northern countries no one can have too many
travelling wrappers."

"No one will thank you for it," said stork-mamma; "but you are
master; and, excepting at breeding time, I have nothing to say."

In the Viking's castle on the wild moor, to which the storks
directed their flight in the following spring, the little maiden still
remained. They had named her Helga, which was rather too soft a name
for a child with a temper like hers, although her form was still
beautiful. Every month this temper showed itself in sharper
outlines; and in the course of years, while the storks still made
the same journeys in autumn to the hill, and in spring to the moors,
the child grew to be almost a woman, and before any one seemed aware
of it, she was a wonderfully beautiful maiden of sixteen. The casket
was splendid, but the contents were worthless. She was, indeed, wild
and savage even in those hard, uncultivated times. It was a pleasure
to her to splash about with her white hands in the warm blood of the
horse which had been slain for sacrifice. In one of her wild moods she
bit off the head of the black cock, which the priest was about to slay
for the sacrifice. To her foster-father she said one day, "If thine
enemy were to pull down thine house about thy ears, and thou shouldest
be sleeping in unconscious security, I would not wake thee; even if
I had the power I would never do it, for my ears still tingle with the
blow that thou gavest me years ago. I have never forgotten it." But
the Viking treated her words as a joke; he was, like every one else,
bewitched with her beauty, and knew nothing of the change in the
form and temper of Helga at night. Without a saddle, she would sit
on a horse as if she were a part of it, while it rushed along at
full speed; nor would she spring from its back, even when it
quarrelled with other horses and bit them. She would often leap from
the high shore into the sea with all her clothes on, and swim to
meet the Viking, when his boat was steering home towards the shore.
She once cut off a long lock of her beautiful hair, and twisted it
into a string for her bow. "If a thing is to be done well," said
she, "I must do it myself."

The Viking's wife was, for the time in which she lived, a woman of
strong character and will; but, compared to her daughter, she was a
gentle, timid woman, and she knew that a wicked sorcerer had the
terrible child in his power. It was sometimes as if Helga acted from
sheer wickedness; for often when her mother stood on the threshold
of the door, or stepped into the yard, she would seat herself on the
brink of the well, wave her arms and legs in the air, and suddenly
fall right in. Here she was able, from her frog nature, to dip and
dive about in the water of the deep well, until at last she would
climb forth like a cat, and come back into the hall dripping with
water, so that the green leaves that were strewed on the floor were
whirled round, and carried away by the streams that flowed from her.

But there was one time of the day which placed a check upon Helga.
It was the evening twilight; when this hour arrived she became quiet
and thoughtful, and allowed herself to be advised and led; then also a
secret feeling seemed to draw her towards her mother. And as usual,
when the sun set, and the transformation took place, both in body
and mind, inwards and outwards, she would remain quiet and mournful,
with her form shrunk together in the shape of a frog. Her body was
much larger than those animals ever are, and on this account it was
much more hideous in appearance; for she looked like a wretched dwarf,
with a frog's head, and webbed fingers. Her eyes had a most piteous
expression; she was without a voice, excepting a hollow, croaking
sound, like the smothered sobs of a dreaming child.

Then the Viking's wife took her on her lap, and forgot the ugly
form, as she looked into the mournful eyes, and often said, "I could
wish that thou wouldst always remain my dumb frog child, for thou
art too terrible when thou art clothed in a form of beauty." And the
Viking woman wrote Runic characters against sorcery and spells of
sickness, and threw them over the wretched child; but they did no
good.

"One can scarcely believe that she was ever small enough to lie in
the cup of the water-lily," said the papa stork; "and now she is grown
up, and the image of her Egyptian mother, especially about the eyes.
Ah, we shall never see her again; perhaps she has not discovered how
to help herself, as you and the wise men said she would. Year after
year have I flown across and across the moor, but there was no sign of
her being still alive. Yes, and I may as well tell you that you that
each year, when I arrived a few days before you to repair the nest,
and put everything in its place, I have spent a whole night flying
here and there over the marshy lake, as if I had been an owl or a bat,
but all to no purpose. The two suit of swan's plumage, which I and the
young ones dragged over here from the land of the Nile, are of no use;
trouble enough it was to us to bring them here in three journeys,
and now they are lying at the bottom of the nest; and if a fire should
happen to break out, and the wooden house be burnt down, they would be
destroyed."

"And our good nest would be destroyed, too," said the mamma stork;
"but you think less of that than of your plumage stuff and your
moor-princess. Go and stay with her in the marsh if you like. You
are a bad father to your own children, as I have told you already,
when I hatched my first brood. I only hope neither we nor our children
may have an arrow sent through our wings, owing to that wild girl.
Helga does not know in the least what she is about. We have lived in
this house longer than she has, she should think of that, and we
have never forgotten our duty. We have paid every year our toll of a
feather, an egg, and a young one, as it is only right we should do.
You don't suppose I can wander about the court-yard, or go
everywhere as I used to do in old times. I can do it in Egypt, where I
can be a companion of the people, without forgetting myself. But
here I cannot go and peep into the pots and kettles as I do there. No,
I can only sit up here and feel angry with that girl, the little
wretch; and I am angry with you, too; you should have left her lying
in the water lily, then no one would have known anything about her."

"You are far better than your conversation," said the papa
stork; "I know you better than you know yourself." And with that he
gave a hop, and flapped his wings twice, proudly; then he stretched
his neck and flew, or rather soared away, without moving his outspread
wings. He went on for some distance, and then he gave a great flap
with his wings and flew on his course at a rapid rate, his head and
neck bending proudly before him, while the sun's rays fell on his
glossy plumage.

"He is the handsomest of them all," said the mamma stork, as she
watched him; "but I won't tell him so."

Early in the autumn, the Viking again returned home laden with
spoil, and bringing prisoners with him. Among them was a young
Christian priest, one of those who contemned the gods of the north.
Often lately there had been, both in hall and chamber, a talk of the
new faith which was spreading far and wide in the south, and which,
through the means of the holy Ansgarius, had already reached as far as
Hedeby on the Schlei. Even Helga had heard of this belief in the
teachings of One who was named Christ, and who for the love of
mankind, and for their redemption, had given up His life. But to her
all this had, as it were, gone in one ear and out the other. It seemed
that she only understood the meaning of the word "love," when in the
form of a miserable frog she crouched together in the corner of the
sleeping chamber; but the Viking's wife had listened to the
wonderful story, and had felt herself strangely moved by it.

On their return, after this voyage, the men spoke of the beautiful
temples built of polished stone, which had been raised for the
public worship of this holy love. Some vessels, curiously formed of
massive gold, had been brought home among the booty. There was a
peculiar fragrance about them all, for they were incense vessels,
which had been swung before the altars in the temples by the Christian
priests. In the deep stony cellars of the castle, the young
Christian priest was immured, and his hands and feet tied together
with strips of bark. The Viking's wife considered him as beautiful
as Baldur, and his distress raised her pity; but Helga said he ought
to have ropes fastened to his heels, and be tied to the tails of
wild animals.

"I would let the dogs loose after him" she said; "over the moor
and across the heath. Hurrah! that would be a spectacle for the
gods, and better still to follow in its course."

But the Viking would not allow him to die such a death as that,
especially as he was the disowned and despiser of the high gods. In
a few days, he had decided to have him offered as a sacrifice on the
blood-stone in the grove. For the first time, a man was to be
sacrificed here. Helga begged to be allowed to sprinkle the
assembled people with the blood of the priest. She sharpened her
glittering knife; and when one of the great, savage dogs, who were
running about the Viking's castle in great numbers, sprang towards
her, she thrust the knife into his side, merely, as she said, to prove
its sharpness.

The Viking's wife looked at the wild, badly disposed girl, with
great sorrow; and when night came on, and her daughter's beautiful
form and disposition were changed, she spoke in eloquent words to
Helga of the sorrow and deep grief that was in her heart. The ugly
frog, in its monstrous shape, stood before her, and raised its brown
mournful eyes to her face, listening to her words, and seeming to
understand them with the intelligence of a human being.

"Never once to my lord and husband has a word passed my lips of
what I have to suffer through you; my heart is full of grief about
you," said the Viking's wife. "The love of a mother is greater and
more powerful than I ever imagined. But love never entered thy
heart; it is cold and clammy, like the plants on the moor."

Then the miserable form trembled; it was as if these words had
touched an invisible bond between body and soul, for great tears stood
in the eyes.

"A bitter time will come for thee at last," continued the Viking's
wife; "and it will be terrible for me too. It had been better for thee
if thou hadst been left on the high-road, with the cold night wind
to lull thee to sleep." And the Viking's wife shed bitter tears, and
went away in anger and sorrow, passing under the partition of furs,
which hung loose over the beam and divided the hall.

The shrivelled frog still sat in the corner alone. Deep silence
reigned around. At intervals, a half-stifled sigh was heard from its
inmost soul; it was the soul of Helga. It seemed in pain, as if a
new life were arising in her heart. Then she took a step forward and
listened; then stepped again forward, and seized with her clumsy hands
the heavy bar which was laid across the door. Gently, and with much
trouble, she pushed back the bar, as silently lifted the latch, and
then took up the glimmering lamp which stood in the ante-chamber of
the hall. It seemed as if a stronger will than her own gave her
strength. She removed the iron bolt from the closed cellar-door, and
slipped in to the prisoner. He was slumbering. She touched him with
her cold, moist hand, and as he awoke and caught sight of the
hideous form, he shuddered as if he beheld a wicked apparition. She
drew her knife, cut through the bonds which confined his hands and
feet, and beckoned to him to follow her. He uttered some holy names
and made the sign of the cross, while the form remained motionless
by his side.

"Who art thou?" he asked, "whose outward appearance is that of
an animal, while thou willingly performest acts of mercy?"

The frog-figure beckoned to him to follow her, and led him through
a long gallery concealed by hanging drapery to the stables, and then
pointed to a horse. He mounted upon it, and she sprang up also
before him, and held tightly by the animal's mane. The prisoner
understood her, and they rode on at a rapid trot, by a road which he
would never have found by himself, across the open heath. He forgot
her ugly form, and only thought how the mercy and loving-kindness of
the Almighty was acting through this hideous apparition. As he offered
pious prayers and sang holy songs of praise, she trembled. Was it
the effect of prayer and praise that caused this? or, was she
shuddering in the cold morning air at the thought of approaching
twilight? What were her feelings? She raised herself up, and wanted to
stop the horse and spring off, but the Christian priest held her
back with all his might, and then sang a pious song, as if this
could loosen the wicked charm that had changed her into the
semblance of a frog.

And the horse galloped on more wildly than before. The sky painted
itself red, the first sunbeam pierced through the clouds, and in the
clear flood of sunlight the frog became changed. It was Helga again,
young and beautiful, but with a wicked demoniac spirit. He held now
a beautiful young woman in his arms, and he was horrified at the
sight. He stopped the horse, and sprang from its back. He imagined
that some new sorcery was at work. But Helga also leaped from the
horse and stood on the ground. The child's short garment reached
only to her knee. She snatched the sharp knife from her girdle, and
rushed like lightning at the astonished priest. "Let me get at
thee!" she cried; "let me get at thee, that I may plunge this knife
into thy body. Thou art pale as ashes, thou beardless slave." She
pressed in upon him. They struggled with each other in heavy combat,
but it was as if an invisible power had been given to the Christian in
the struggle. He held her fast, and the old oak under which they stood
seemed to help him, for the loosened roots on the ground became
entangled in the maiden's feet, and held them fast. Close by rose a
bubbling spring, and he sprinkled Helga's face and neck with the
water, commanded the unclean spirit to come forth, and pronounced upon
her a Christian blessing. But the water of faith has no power unless
the well-spring of faith flows within. And yet even here its power was
shown; something more than the mere strength of a man opposed
itself, through his means, against the evil which struggled within
her. His holy action seemed to overpower her. She dropped her arms,
glanced at him with pale cheeks and looks of amazement. He appeared to
her a mighty magician skilled in secret arts; his language was the
darkest magic to her, and the movements of his hands in the air were
as the secret signs of a magician's wand. She would not have blinked
had he waved over her head a sharp knife or a glittering axe; but
she shrunk from him as he signed her with the sign of the cross on her
forehead and breast, and sat before him like a tame bird, with her
head bowed down. Then he spoke to her, in gentle words, of the deed of
love she had performed for him during the night, when she had come
to him in the form of an ugly frog, to loosen his bonds, and to lead
him forth to life and light; and he told her that she was bound in
closer fetters than he had been, and that she could recover also
life and light by his means. He would take her to Hedeby to St.
Ansgarius, and there, in that Christian town, the spell of the
sorcerer would be removed. But he would not let her sit before him
on the horse, though of her own free will she wished to do so. "Thou
must sit behind me, not before me," said he. "Thy magic beauty has a
magic power which comes from an evil origin, and I fear it; still I am
sure to overcome through my faith in Christ." Then he knelt down,
and prayed with pious fervor. It was as if the quiet woodland were a
holy church consecrated by his worship. The birds sang as if they were
also of this new congregation; and the fragrance of the wild flowers
was as the ambrosial perfume of incense; while, above all, sounded the
words of Scripture, "A light to them that sit in darkness and in the
shadow of death, to guide their feet into the way of peace." And he
spoke these words with the deep longing of his whole nature.

Meanwhile, the horse that had carried them in wild career stood
quietly by, plucking at the tall bramble-bushes, till the ripe young
berries fell down upon Helga's hands, as if inviting her to eat.
Patiently she allowed herself to be lifted on the horse, and sat there
like a somnambulist--as one who walked in his sleep. The Christian
bound two branches together with bark, in the form of a cross, and
held it on high as they rode through the forest. The way gradually
grew thicker of brushwood, as they rode along, till at last it
became a trackless wilderness. Bushes of the wild sloe here and
there blocked up the path, so that they had to ride over them. The
bubbling spring formed not a stream, but a marsh, round which also
they were obliged to guide the horse; still there were strength and
refreshment in the cool forest breeze, and no trifling power in the
gentle words spoken in faith and Christian love by the young priest,
whose inmost heart yearned to lead this poor lost one into the way
of light and life. It is said that rain-drops can make a hollow in the
hardest stone, and the waves of the sea can smooth and round the rough
edges of the rocks; so did the dew of mercy fall upon Helga, softening
what was hard, and smoothing what was rough in her character. These
effects did not yet appear; she was not herself aware of them; neither
does the seed in the lap of earth know, when the refreshing dew and
the warm sunbeams fall upon it, that it contains within itself power
by which it will flourish and bloom. The song of the mother sinks into
the heart of the child, and the little one prattles the words after
her, without understanding their meaning; but after a time the
thoughts expand, and what has been heard in childhood seems to the
mind clear and bright. So now the "Word," which is all-powerful to
create, was working in the heart of Helga.

They rode forth from the thick forest, crossed the heath, and
again entered a pathless wood. Here, towards evening, they met with
robbers.

"Where hast thou stolen that beauteous maiden?" cried the robbers,
seizing the horse by the bridle, and dragging the two riders from
its back.

The priest had nothing to defend himself with, but the knife he
had taken from Helga, and with this he struck out right and left.
One of the robbers raised his axe against him; but the young priest
sprang on one side, and avoided the blow, which fell with great
force on the horse's neck, so that the blood gushed forth, and the
animal sunk to the ground. Then Helga seemed suddenly to awake from
her long, deep reverie; she threw herself hastily upon the dying
animal. The priest placed himself before her, to defend and shelter
her; but one of the robbers swung his iron axe against the Christian's
head with such force that it was dashed to pieces, the blood and
brains were scattered about, and he fell dead upon the ground. Then
the robbers seized beautiful Helga by her white arms and slender
waist; but at that moment the sun went down, and as its last ray
disappeared, she was changed into the form of a frog. A greenish white
mouth spread half over her face; her arms became thin and slimy; while
broad hands, with webbed fingers, spread themselves out like fans.
Then the robbers, in terror, let her go, and she stood among them, a
hideous monster; and as is the nature of frogs to do, she hopped up as
high as her own size, and disappeared in the thicket. Then the robbers
knew that this must be the work of an evil spirit or some secret
sorcery, and, in a terrible fright, they ran hastily from the spot.

The full moon had already risen, and was shining in all her
radiant splendor over the earth, when from the thicket, in the form of
a frog, crept poor Helga. She stood still by the corpse of the
Christian priest, and the carcase of the dead horse. She looked at
them with eyes that seemed to weep, and from the frog's head came
forth a croaking sound, as when a child bursts into tears. She threw
herself first upon one, and then upon the other; brought water in
her hand, which, from being webbed, was large and hollow, and poured
it over them; but they were dead, and dead they would remain. She
understood that at last. Soon wild animals would come and tear their
dead bodies; but no, that must not happen. Then she dug up the
earth, as deep as she was able, that she might prepare a grave for
them. She had nothing but a branch of a tree and her two hands,
between the fingers of which the webbed skin stretched, and they
were torn by the work, while the blood ran down her hands. She saw
at last that her work would be useless, more than she could
accomplish; so she fetched more water, and washed the face of the
dead, and then covered it with fresh green leaves; she also brought
large boughs and spread over him, and scattered dried leaves between
the branches. Then she brought the heaviest stones that she could
carry, and laid them over the dead body, filling up the crevices
with moss, till she thought she had fenced in his resting-place
strongly enough. The difficult task had employed her the whole
night; and as the sun broke forth, there stood the beautiful Helga
in all her loveliness, with her bleeding hands, and, for the first
time, with tears on her maiden cheeks. It was, in this transformation,
as if two natures were striving together within her; her whole frame
trembled, and she looked around her as if she had just awoke from a
painful dream. She leaned for support against the trunk of a slender
tree, and at last climbed to the topmost branches, like a cat, and
seated herself firmly upon them. She remained there the whole day,
sitting alone, like a frightened squirrel, in the silent solitude of
the wood, where the rest and stillness is as the calm of death.

Butterflies fluttered around her, and close by were several
ant-hills, each with its hundreds of busy little creatures moving
quickly to and fro. In the air, danced myriads of gnats, swarm upon
swarm, troops of buzzing flies, ladybirds, dragon-flies with golden
wings, and other little winged creatures. The worm crawled forth
from the moist ground, and the moles crept out; but, excepting
these, all around had the stillness of death: but when people say
this, they do not quite understand themselves what they mean. None
noticed Helga but a flock of magpies, which flew chattering round
the top of the tree on which she sat. These birds hopped close to
her on the branches with bold curiosity. A glance from her eyes was
a signal to frighten them away, and they were not clever enough to
find out who she was; indeed she hardly knew herself.

When the sun was near setting, and the evening's twilight about to
commence, the approaching transformation aroused her to fresh
exertion. She let herself down gently from the tree, and, as the
last sunbeam vanished, she stood again in the wrinkled form of a frog,
with the torn, webbed skin on her hands, but her eyes now gleamed with
more radiant beauty than they had ever possessed in her most beautiful
form of loveliness; they were now pure, mild maidenly eyes that
shone forth in the face of a frog. They showed the existence of deep
feeling and a human heart, and the beauteous eyes overflowed with
tears, weeping precious drops that lightened the heart.

On the raised mound which she had made as a grave for the dead
priest, she found the cross made of the branches of a tree, the last
work of him who now lay dead and cold beneath it. A sudden thought
came to Helga, and she lifted up the cross and planted it upon the
grave, between the stones that covered him and the dead horse. The sad
recollection brought the tears to her eyes, and in this gentle
spirit she traced the same sign in the sand round the grave; and as
she formed, with both her hands, the sign of the cross, the web skin
fell from them like a torn glove. She washed her hands in the water of
the spring, and gazed with astonishment at their delicate whiteness.
Again she made the holy sign in the air, between herself and the
dead man; her lips trembled, her tongue moved, and the name which
she in her ride through the forest had so often heard spoken, rose
to her lips, and she uttered the words, "Jesus Christ." Then the
frog skin fell from her; she was once more a lovely maiden. Her head
bent wearily, her tired limbs required rest, and then she slept.

Her sleep, however, was short. Towards midnight, she awoke; before
her stood the dead horse, prancing and full of life, which shone forth
from his eyes and from his wounded neck. Close by his side appeared
the murdered Christian priest, more beautiful than Baldur, as the
Viking's wife had said; but now he came as if in a flame of fire. Such
gravity, such stern justice, such a piercing glance shone from his
large, gentle eyes, that it seemed to penetrate into every corner of
her heart. Beautiful Helga trembled at the look, and her memory
returned with a power as if it had been the day of judgment. Every
good deed that had been done for her, every loving word that had
been said, were vividly before her mind. She understood now that
love had kept her here during the day of her trial; while the creature
formed of dust and clay, soul and spirit, had wrestled and struggled
with evil. She acknowledged that she had only followed the impulses of
an evil disposition, that she had done nothing to cure herself;
everything had been given her, and all had happened as it were by
the ordination of Providence. She bowed herself humbly, confessed
her great imperfections in the sight of Him who can read every fault
of the heart, and then the priest spoke. "Daughter of the moorland,
thou hast come from the swamp and the marshy earth, but from this thou
shalt arise. The sunlight shining into thy inmost soul proves the
origin from which thou hast really sprung, and has restored the body
to its natural form. I am come to thee from the land of the dead,
and thou also must pass through the valley to reach the holy mountains
where mercy and perfection dwell. I cannot lead thee to Hedeby that
thou mayst receive Christian baptism, for first thou must remove the
thick veil with which the waters of the moorland are shrouded, and
bring forth from its depths the living author of thy being and thy
life. Till this is done, thou canst not receive consecration."

Then he lifted her on the horse and gave her a golden censer,
similar to those she had already seen at the Viking's house. A sweet
perfume arose from it, while the open wound in the forehead of the
slain priest, shone with the rays of a diamond. He took the cross from
the grave, and held it aloft, and now they rode through the air over
the rustling trees, over the hills where warriors lay buried each by
his dead war-horse; and the brazen monumental figures rose up and
galloped forth, and stationed themselves on the summits of the
hills. The golden crescent on their foreheads, fastened with golden
knots, glittered in the moonlight, and their mantles floated in the
wind. The dragon, that guards buried treasure, lifted his head and
gazed after them. The goblins and the satyrs peeped out from beneath
the hills, and flitted to and fro in the fields, waving blue, red, and
green torches, like the glowing sparks in burning paper. Over woodland
and heath, flood and fen, they flew on, till they reached the wild
moor, over which they hovered in broad circles. The Christian priest
held the cross aloft, and it glittered like gold, while from his
lips sounded pious prayers. Beautiful Helga's voice joined with his in
the hymns he sung, as a child joins in her mother's song. She swung
the censer, and a wonderful fragrance of incense arose from it; so
powerful, that the reeds and rushes of the moor burst forth into
blossom. Each germ came forth from the deep ground: all that had
life raised itself. Blooming water-lilies spread themselves forth like
a carpet of wrought flowers, and upon them lay a slumbering woman,
young and beautiful. Helga fancied that it was her own image she saw
reflected in the still water. But it was her mother she beheld, the
wife of the Marsh King, the princess from the land of the Nile.

The dead Christian priest desired that the sleeping woman should
be lifted on the horse, but the horse sank beneath the load, as if
he had been a funeral pall fluttering in the wind. But the sign of the
cross made the airy phantom strong, and then the three rode away
from the marsh to firm ground.

At the same moment the cock crew in the Viking's castle, and the
dream figures dissolved and floated away in the air, but mother and
daughter stood opposite to each other.

"Am I looking at my own image in the deep water?" said the mother.

"Is it myself that I see represented on a white shield?" cried the
daughter.

Then they came nearer to each other in a fond embrace. The
mother's heart beat quickly, and she understood the quickened
pulses. "My child!" she exclaimed, "the flower of my heart--my lotus
flower of the deep water!" and she embraced her child again and
wept, and the tears were as a baptism of new life and love for
Helga. "In swan's plumage I came here," said the mother, "and here I
threw off my feather dress. Then I sank down through the wavering
ground, deep into the marsh beneath, which closed like a wall around
me; I found myself after a while in fresher water; still a power
drew me down deeper and deeper. I felt the weight of sleep upon my
eyelids. Then I slept, and dreams hovered round me. It seemed to me as
if I were again in the pyramids of Egypt, and yet the waving elder
trunk that had frightened me on the moor stood ever before me. I
observed the clefts and wrinkles in the stem; they shone forth in
strange colors, and took the form of hieroglyphics. It was the mummy
case on which I gazed. At last it burst, and forth stepped the
thousand years' old king, the mummy form, black as pitch, black as the
shining wood-snail, or the slimy mud of the swamp. Whether it was
really the mummy or the Marsh King I know not. He seized me in his
arms, and I felt as if I must die. When I recovered myself, I found in
my bosom a little bird, flapping its wings, twittering and fluttering.
The bird flew away from my bosom, upwards towards the dark, heavy
canopy above me, but a long, green band kept it fastened to me. I
heard and understood the tenor of its longings. Freedom! sunlight!
to my father! Then I thought of my father, and the sunny land of my
birth, my life, and my love. Then I loosened the band, and let the
bird fly away to its home--to a father. Since that hour I have
ceased to dream; my sleep has been long and heavy, till in this very
hour, harmony and fragrance awoke me, and set me free."

The green band which fastened the wings of the bird to the
mother's heart, where did it flutter now? whither had it been
wafted? The stork only had seen it. The band was the green stalk,
the cup of the flower the cradle in which lay the child, that now in
blooming beauty had been folded to the mother's heart.

And while the two were resting in each other's arms, the old stork
flew round and round them in narrowing circles, till at length he flew
away swiftly to his nest, and fetched away the two suits of swan's
feathers, which he had preserved there for many years. Then he
returned to the mother and daughter, and threw the swan's plumage over
them; the feathers immediately closed around them, and they rose up
from the earth in the form of two white swans.

"And now we can converse with pleasure," said the stork-papa;
"we can understand one another, although the beaks of birds are so
different in shape. It is very fortunate that you came to-night.
To-morrow we should have been gone. The mother, myself and the
little ones, we're about to fly to the south. Look at me now: I am
an old friend from the Nile, and a mother's heart contains more than
her beak. She always said that the princess would know how to help
herself. I and the young ones carried the swan's feathers over here,
and I am glad of it now, and how lucky it is that I am here still.
When the day dawns we shall start with a great company of other
storks. We'll fly first, and you can follow in our track, so that
you cannot miss your way. I and the young ones will have an eye upon
you."

"And the lotus-flower which I was to take with me," said the
Egyptian princess, "is flying here by my side, clothed in swan's
feathers. The flower of my heart will travel with me; and so the
riddle is solved. Now for home! now for home!"

But Helga said she could not leave the Danish land without once
more seeing her foster-mother, the loving wife of the Viking. Each
pleasing recollection, each kind word, every tear from the heart which
her foster-mother had wept for her, rose in her mind, and at that
moment she felt as if she loved this mother the best.

"Yes, we must go to the Viking's castle," said the stork;
"mother and the young ones are waiting for me there. How they will
open their eyes and flap their wings! My wife, you see, does not say
much; she is short and abrupt in her manner; but she means well, for
all that. I will flap my wings at once, that they may hear us coming."
Then stork-papa flapped his wings in first-rate style, and he and
the swans flew away to the Viking's castle.

In the castle, every one was in a deep sleep. It had been late
in the evening before the Viking's wife retired to rest. She was
anxious about Helga, who, three days before, had vanished with the
Christian priest. Helga must have helped him in his flight, for it was
her horse that was missed from the stable; but by what power had all
this been accomplished? The Viking's wife thought of it with wonder,
thought on the miracles which they said could be performed by those
who believed in the Christian faith, and followed its teachings. These
passing thoughts formed themselves into a vivid dream, and it seemed
to her that she was still lying awake on her couch, while without
darkness reigned. A storm arose; she heard the lake dashing and
rolling from east and west, like the waves of the North Sea or the
Cattegat. The monstrous snake which, it is said, surrounds the earth
in the depths of the ocean, was trembling in spasmodic convulsions.
The night of the fall of the gods was come, "Ragnorock," as the
heathens call the judgment-day, when everything shall pass away,
even the high gods themselves. The war trumpet sounded; riding upon
the rainbow, came the gods, clad in steel, to fight their last
battle on the last battle-field. Before them flew the winged vampires,
and the dead warriors closed up the train. The whole firmament was
ablaze with the northern lights, and yet the darkness triumphed. It
was a terrible hour. And, close to the terrified woman, Helga seemed
to be seated on the floor, in the hideous form of a frog, yet
trembling, and clinging to her foster-mother, who took her on her lap,
and lovingly caressed her, hideous and frog-like as she was. The air
was filled with the clashing of arms and the hissing of arrows, as
if a storm of hail was descending upon the earth. It seemed to her the
hour when earth and sky would burst asunder, and all things be
swallowed up in Saturn's fiery lake; but she knew that a new heaven
and a new earth would arise, and that corn-fields would wave where now
the lake rolled over desolate sands, and the ineffable God reign. Then
she saw rising from the region of the dead, Baldur the gentle, the
loving, and as the Viking's wife gazed upon him, she recognized his
countenance. It was the captive Christian priest. "White Christian!"
she exclaimed aloud, and with the words, she pressed a kiss on the
forehead of the hideous frog-child. Then the frog-skin fell off, and
Helga stood before her in all her beauty, more lovely and
gentle-looking, and with eyes beaming with love. She kissed the
hands of her foster-mother, blessed her for all her fostering love and
care during the days of her trial and misery, for the thoughts she had
suggested and awoke in her heart, and for naming the Name which she
now repeated. Then beautiful Helga rose as a mighty swan, and spread
her wings with the rushing sound of troops of birds of passage
flying through the air.

Then the Viking's wife awoke, but she still heard the rushing
sound without. She knew it was the time for the storks to depart,
and that it must be their wings which she heard. She felt she should
like to see them once more, and bid them farewell. She rose from her
couch, stepped out on the threshold, and beheld, on the ridge of the
roof, a party of storks ranged side by side. Troops of the birds
were flying in circles over the castle and the highest trees; but just
before her, as she stood on the threshold and close to the well
where Helga had so often sat and alarmed her with her wildness, now
stood two swans, gazing at her with intelligent eyes. Then she
remembered her dream, which still appeared to her as a reality. She
thought of Helga in the form of a swan. She thought of a Christian
priest, and suddenly a wonderful joy arose in her heart. The swans
flapped their wings and arched their necks as if to offer her a
greeting, and the Viking's wife spread out her arms towards them, as
if she accepted it, and smiled through her tears. She was roused
from deep thought by a rustling of wings and snapping of beaks; all
the storks arose, and started on their journey towards the south.

"We will not wait for the swans," said the mamma stork; "if they
want to go with us, let them come now; we can't sit here till the
plovers start. It is a fine thing after all to travel in families, not
like the finches and the partridges. There the male and the female
birds fly in separate flocks, which, to speak candidly, I consider
very unbecoming."

"What are those swans flapping their wings for?"

"Well, every one flies in his own fashion," said the papa stork.
"The swans fly in an oblique line; the cranes, in the form of a
triangle; and the plovers, in a curved line like a snake."

"Don't talk about snakes while we are flying up here," said
stork-mamma. "It puts ideas into the children's heads that can not
be realized."

"Are those the high mountains I have heard spoken of?" asked
Helga, in the swan's plumage.

"They are storm-clouds driving along beneath us," replied her
mother.

"What are yonder white clouds that rise so high?" again inquired
Helga.

"Those are mountains covered with perpetual snows, that you see
yonder," said her mother. And then they flew across the Alps towards
the blue Mediterranean.

"Africa's land! Egyptia's strand!" sang the daughter of the
Nile, in her swan's plumage, as from the upper air she caught sight of
her native land, a narrow, golden, wavy strip on the shores of the
Nile; the other birds espied it also and hastened their flight.

"I can smell the Nile mud and the wet frogs," said the
stork-mamma, "and I begin to feel quite hungry. Yes, now you shall
taste something nice, and you will see the marabout bird, and the
ibis, and the crane. They all belong to our family, but they are not
nearly so handsome as we are. They give themselves great airs,
especially the ibis. The Egyptians have spoilt him. They make a
mummy of him, and stuff him with spices. I would rather be stuffed
with live frogs, and so would you, and so you shall. Better have
something in your inside while you are alive, than to be made a parade
of after you are dead. That is my opinion, and I am always right."

"The storks are come," was said in the great house on the banks of
the Nile, where the lord lay in the hall on his downy cushions,
covered with a leopard skin, scarcely alive, yet not dead, waiting and
hoping for the lotus-flower from the deep moorland in the far north.
Relatives and servants were standing by his couch, when the two
beautiful swans who had come with the storks flew into the hall.
They threw off their soft white plumage, and two lovely female forms
approached the pale, sick old man, and threw back their long hair, and
when Helga bent over her grandfather, redness came back to his cheeks,
his eyes brightened, and life returned to his benumbed limbs. The
old man rose up with health and energy renewed; daughter and
grandchild welcomed him as joyfully as if with a morning greeting
after a long and troubled dream.

Joy reigned through the whole house, as well as in the stork's
nest; although there the chief cause was really the good food,
especially the quantities of frogs, which seemed to spring out of
the ground in swarms.

Then the learned men hastened to note down, in flying
characters, the story of the two princesses, and spoke of the
arrival of the health-giving flower as a mighty event, which had
been a blessing to the house and the land. Meanwhile, the stork-papa
told the story to his family in his own way; but not till they had
eaten and were satisfied; otherwise they would have had something else
to do than to listen to stories.

"Well," said the stork-mamma, when she had heard it, "you will
be made something of at last; I suppose they can do nothing less."

"What could I be made?" said stork-papa; "what have I done?--just
nothing."

"You have done more than all the rest," she replied. "But for
you and the youngsters the two young princesses would never have
seen Egypt again, and the recovery of the old man would not have
been effected. You will become something. They must certainly give you
a doctor's hood, and our young ones will inherit it, and their
children after them, and so on. You already look like an Egyptian
doctor, at least in my eyes."

"I cannot quite remember the words I heard when I listened on
the roof," said stork-papa, while relating the story to his family;
"all I know is, that what the wise men said was so complicated and
so learned, that they received not only rank, but presents; even the
head cook at the great house was honored with a mark of distinction,
most likely for the soup."

"And what did you receive?" said the stork-mamma. "They
certainly ought not to forget the most important person in the affair,
as you really are. The learned men have done nothing at all but use
their tongues. Surely they will not overlook you."

Late in the night, while the gentle sleep of peace rested on the
now happy house, there was still one watcher. It was not stork-papa,
who, although he stood on guard on one leg, could sleep soundly. Helga
alone was awake. She leaned over the balcony, gazing at the
sparkling stars that shone clearer and brighter in the pure air than
they had done in the north, and yet they were the same stars. She
thought of the Viking's wife in the wild moorland, of the gentle
eyes of her foster-mother, and of the tears she had shed over the poor
frog-child that now lived in splendor and starry beauty by the
waters of the Nile, with air balmy and sweet as spring. She thought of
the love that dwelt in the breast of the heathen woman, love that
had been shown to a wretched creature, hateful as a human being, and
hideous when in the form of an animal. She looked at the glittering
stars, and thought of the radiance that had shone forth on the
forehead of the dead man, as she had fled with him over the woodland
and moor. Tones were awakened in her memory; words which she had heard
him speak as they rode onward, when she was carried, wondering and
trembling, through the air; words from the great Fountain of love, the
highest love that embraces all the human race. What had not been won
and achieved by this love?

Day and night beautiful Helga was absorbed in the contemplation of
the great amount of her happiness, and lost herself in the
contemplation, like a child who turns hurriedly from the giver to
examine the beautiful gifts. She was over-powered with her good
fortune, which seemed always increasing, and therefore what might it
become in the future? Had she not been brought by a wonderful
miracle to all this joy and happiness? And in these thoughts she
indulged, until at last she thought no more of the Giver. It was the
over-abundance of youthful spirits unfolding its wings for a daring
flight. Her eyes sparkled with energy, when suddenly arose a loud
noise in the court below, and the daring thought vanished. She
looked down, and saw two large ostriches running round quickly in
narrow circles; she had never seen these creatures before,--great,
coarse, clumsy-looking birds with curious wings that looked as if they
had been clipped, and the birds themselves had the appearance of
having been roughly used. She inquired about them, and for the first
time heard the legend which the Egyptians relate respecting the
ostrich.

Once, say they, the ostriches were a beautiful and glorious race
of birds, with large, strong wings. One evening the other large
birds of the forest said to the ostrich, "Brother, shall we fly to the
river to-morrow morning to drink, God willing?" and the ostrich
answered, "I will."

With the break of day, therefore, they commenced their flight;
first rising high in the air, towards the sun, which is the eye of
God; still higher and higher the ostrich flew, far above the other
birds, proudly approaching the light, trusting in its own strength,
and thinking not of the Giver, or saying, "if God will." When suddenly
the avenging angel drew back the veil from the flaming ocean of
sunlight, and in a moment the wings of the proud bird were scorched
and shrivelled, and they sunk miserably to the earth. Since that
time the ostrich and his race have never been able to rise in the air;
they can only fly terror-stricken along the ground, or run round and
round in narrow circles. It is a warning to mankind, that in all our
thoughts and schemes, and in every action we undertake, we should say,
"if God will."

Then Helga bowed her head thoughtfully and seriously, and looked
at the circling ostrich, as with timid fear and simple pleasure it
glanced at its own great shadow on the sunlit walls. And the story
of the ostrich sunk deeply into the heart and mind of Helga: a life of
happiness, both in the present and in the future, seemed secure for
her, and what was yet to come might be the best of all, God willing.

Early in the spring, when the storks were again about to journey
northward, beautiful Helga took off her golden bracelets, scratched
her name on them, and beckoned to the stork-father. He came to her,
and she placed the golden circlet round his neck, and begged him to
deliver it safely to the Viking's wife, so that she might know that
her foster-daughter still lived, was happy, and had not forgotten her.

"It is rather heavy to carry," thought stork-papa, when he had
it on his neck; "but gold and honor are not to be flung into the
street. The stork brings good fortune--they'll be obliged to
acknowledge that at last."

"You lay gold, and I lay eggs," said stork-mamma; "with you it
is only once in a way, I lay eggs every year But no one appreciates
what we do; I call it very mortifying."

"But then we have a consciousness of our own worth, mother,"
replied stork-papa.

"What good will that do you?" retorted stork-mamma; "it will
neither bring you a fair wind, nor a good meal."

"The little nightingale, who is singing yonder in the tamarind
grove, will soon be going north, too." Helga said she had often
heard her singing on the wild moor, so she determined to send a
message by her. While flying in the swan's plumage she had learnt
the bird language; she had often conversed with the stork and the
swallow, and she knew that the nightingale would understand. So she
begged the nightingale to fly to the beechwood, on the peninsula of
Jutland, where a mound of stone and twigs had been raised to form
the grave, and she begged the nightingale to persuade all the other
little birds to build their nests round the place, so that evermore
should resound over that grave music and song. And the nightingale
flew away, and time flew away also.

In the autumn, an eagle, standing upon a pyramid, saw a stately
train of richly laden camels, and men attired in armor on foaming
Arabian steeds, whose glossy skins shone like silver, their nostrils
were pink, and their thick, flowing manes hung almost to their slender
legs. A royal prince of Arabia, handsome as a prince should be, and
accompanied by distinguished guests, was on his way to the stately
house, on the roof of which the storks' empty nests might be seen.
They were away now in the far north, but expected to return very soon.
And, indeed, they returned on a day that was rich in joy and gladness.

A marriage was being celebrated, in which the beautiful Helga,
glittering in silk and jewels, was the bride, and the bridegroom the
young Arab prince. Bride and bridegroom sat at the upper end of the
table, between the bride's mother and grandfather. But her gaze was
not on the bridegroom, with his manly, sunburnt face, round which
curled a black beard, and whose dark fiery eyes were fixed upon her;
but away from him, at a twinkling star, that shone down upon her
from the sky. Then was heard the sound of rushing wings beating the
air. The storks were coming home; and the old stork pair, although
tired with the journey and requiring rest, did not fail to fly down at
once to the balustrades of the verandah, for they knew already what
feast was being celebrated. They had heard of it on the borders of the
land, and also that Helga had caused their figures to be represented
on the walls, for they belonged to her history.

"I call that very sensible and pretty," said stork-papa.

"Yes, but it is very little," said mamma stork; "they could not
possibly have done less."

But, when Helga saw them, she rose and went out into the
verandah to stroke the backs of the storks. The old stork pair bowed
their heads, and curved their necks, and even the youngest among the
young ones felt honored by this reception.

Helga continued to gaze upon the glittering star, which seemed
to glow brighter and purer in its light; then between herself and
the star floated a form, purer than the air, and visible through it.
It floated quite near to her, and she saw that it was the dead
Christian priest, who also was coming to her wedding feast--coming
from the heavenly kingdom.

"The glory and brightness, yonder, outshines all that is known
on earth," said he.

Then Helga the fair prayed more gently, and more earnestly, than
she had ever prayed in her life before, that she might be permitted to
gaze, if only for a single moment, at the glory and brightness of
the heavenly kingdom. Then she felt herself lifted up, as it were,
above the earth, through a sea of sound and thought; not only around
her, but within her, was there light and song, such as words cannot
express.

"Now we must return;" he said; "you will be missed."

"Only one more look," she begged; "but one short moment more."

"We must return to earth; the guests will have all departed.
Only one more look!--the last!"

Then Helga stood again in the verandah. But the marriage lamps
in the festive hall had been all extinguished, and the torches outside
had vanished. The storks were gone; not a guest could be seen; no
bridegroom--all in those few short moments seemed to have died. Then a
great dread fell upon her. She stepped from the verandah through the
empty hall into the next chamber, where slept strange warriors. She
opened a side door, which once led into her own apartment, but now, as
she passed through, she found herself suddenly in a garden which she
had never before seen here, the sky blushed red, it was the dawn of
morning. Three minutes only in heaven, and a whole night on earth
had passed away! Then she saw the storks, and called to them in
their own language.

Then stork-papa turned his head towards here, listened to her
words, and drew near. "You speak our language," said he, "what do
you wish? Why do you appear,--you--a strange woman?"

"It is I--it is Helga! Dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we
were speaking together yonder in the verandah."

"That is a mistake," said the stork, "you must have dreamed all
this."

"No, no," she exclaimed. Then she reminded him of the Viking's
castle, of the great lake, and of the journey across the ocean.

Then stork-papa winked his eyes, and said, "Why that's an old
story which happened in the time of my grandfather. There certainly
was a princess of that kind here in Egypt once, who came from the
Danish land, but she vanished on the evening of her wedding day,
many hundred years ago, and never came back. You may read about it
yourself yonder, on a monument in the garden. There you will find
swans and storks sculptured, and on the top is a figure of the
princess Helga, in marble."

And so it was; Helga understood it all now, and sank on her knees.
The sun burst forth in all its glory, and, as in olden times, the form
of the frog vanished in his beams, and the beautiful form stood
forth in all its loveliness; so now, bathed in light, rose a beautiful
form, purer, clearer than air--a ray of brightness--from the Source of
light Himself. The body crumbled into dust, and a faded lotus-flower
lay on the spot on which Helga had stood.

"Now that is a new ending to the story," said stork-papa; "I
really never expected it would end in this way, but it seems a very
good ending."

"And what will the young ones say to it, I wonder?" said
stork-mamma.

"Ah, that is a very important question," replied the stork.




THE METAL PIG

In the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca,
runs a little street called Porta Rosa. In this street, just in
front of the market-place where vegetables are sold, stands a pig,
made of brass and curiously formed. The bright color has been
changed by age to dark green; but clear, fresh water pours from the
snout, which shines as if it had been polished, and so indeed it
has, for hundreds of poor people and children seize it in their
hands as they place their mouths close to the mouth of the animal,
to drink. It is quite a picture to see a half-naked boy clasping the
well-formed creature by the head, as he presses his rosy lips
against its jaws. Every one who visits Florence can very quickly
find the place; he has only to ask the first beggar he meets for the
Metal Pig, and he will be told where it is.

It was late on a winter evening; the mountains were covered with
snow, but the moon shone brightly, and moonlight in Italy is like a
dull winter's day in the north; indeed it is better, for clear air
seems to raise us above the earth, while in the north a cold, gray,
leaden sky appears to press us down to earth, even as the cold damp
earth shall one day press on us in the grave. In the garden of the
grand duke's palace, under the roof of one of the wings, where a
thousand roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been sitting
the whole day long; a boy, who might serve as a type of Italy,
lovely and smiling, and yet still suffering. He was hungry and
thirsty, yet no one gave him anything; and when it became dark, and
they were about to close the gardens, the porter turned him out. He
stood a long time musing on the bridge which crosses the Arno, and
looking at the glittering stars, reflected in the water which flowed
between him and the elegant marble bridge Della Trinita. He then
walked away towards the Metal Pig, half knelt down, clasped it with
his arms, and then put his mouth to the shining snout and drank deep
draughts of the fresh water. Close by, lay a few salad-leaves and
two chestnuts, which were to serve for his supper. No one was in the
street but himself; it belonged only to him, so he boldly seated
himself on the pig's back, leaned forward so that his curly head could
rest on the head of the animal, and, before he was aware, he fell
asleep.

It was midnight. The Metal Pig raised himself gently, and the
boy heard him say quite distinctly, "Hold tight, little boy, for I
am going to run;" and away he started for a most wonderful ride.
First, they arrived at the Piazza del Granduca, and the metal horse
which bears the duke's statue, neighed aloud. The painted
coats-of-arms on the old council-house shone like transparent
pictures, and Michael Angelo's David tossed his sling; it was as if
everything had life. The metallic groups of figures, among which
were Perseus and the Rape of the Sabines, looked like living
persons, and cries of terror sounded from them all across the noble
square. By the Palazzo degli Uffizi, in the arcade, where the nobility
assemble for the carnival, the Metal Pig stopped. "Hold fast," said
the animal; "hold fast, for I am going up stairs."

The little boy said not a word; he was half pleased and half
afraid. They entered a long gallery, where the boy had been before.
The walls were resplendent with paintings; here stood statues and
busts, all in a clear light as if it were day. But the grandest
appeared when the door of a side room opened; the little boy could
remember what beautiful things he had seen there, but to-night
everything shone in its brightest colors. Here stood the figure of a
beautiful woman, as beautifully sculptured as possible by one of the
great masters. Her graceful limbs appeared to move; dolphins sprang at
her feet, and immortality shone from her eyes. The world called her
the Venus de' Medici. By her side were statues, in which the spirit of
life breathed in stone; figures of men, one of whom whetted his sword,
and was named the Grinder; wrestling gladiators formed another
group, the sword had been sharpened for them, and they strove for
the goddess of beauty. The boy was dazzled by so much glitter; for the
walls were gleaming with bright colors, all appeared living reality.

As they passed from hall to hall, beauty everywhere showed itself;
and as the Metal Pig went step by step from one picture to the
other, the little boy could see it all plainly. One glory eclipsed
another; yet there was one picture that fixed itself on the little
boy's memory, more especially because of the happy children it
represented, for these the little boy had seen in daylight. Many
pass this picture by with indifference, and yet it contains a treasure
of poetic feeling; it represents Christ descending into Hades. They
are not the lost whom the spectator sees, but the heathen of olden
times. The Florentine, Angiolo Bronzino, painted this picture; most
beautiful is the expression on the face of the two children, who
appear to have full confidence that they shall reach heaven at last.
They are embracing each other, and one little one stretches out his
hand towards another who stands below him, and points to himself, as
if he were saying, "I am going to heaven." The older people stand as
if uncertain, yet hopeful, and they bow in humble adoration to the
Lord Jesus. On this picture the boy's eyes rested longer than on any
other: the Metal Pig stood still before it. A low sigh was heard.
Did it come from the picture or from the animal? The boy raised his
hands towards the smiling children, and then the Pig ran off with
him through the open vestibule.

"Thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal," said the little boy,
caressing the Metal Pig as it ran down the steps.

"Thanks to yourself also," replied the Metal Pig; "I have helped
you and you have helped me, for it is only when I have an innocent
child on my back that I receive the power to run. Yes; as you see, I
can even venture under the rays of the lamp, in front of the picture
of the Madonna, but I may not enter the church; still from without,
and while you are upon my back, I may look in through the open door.
Do not get down yet, for if you do, then I shall be lifeless, as you
have seen me in the Porta Rosa."

"I will stay with you, my dear creature," said the little boy.
So then they went on at a rapid pace through the streets of
Florence, till they came to the square before the church of Santa
Croce. The folding-doors flew open, and light streamed from the
altar through the church into the deserted square. A wonderful blaze
of light streamed from one of the monuments in the left-side aisle,
and a thousand moving stars seemed to form a glory round it; even
the coat-of-arms on the tomb-stone shone, and a red ladder on a blue
field gleamed like fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument
is unadorned, but the red ladder is an emblem of art, signifying
that the way to glory leads up a shining ladder, on which the prophets
of mind rise to heaven, like Elias of old. In the right aisle of the
church every statue on the richly carved sarcophagi seemed endowed
with life. Here stood Michael Angelo; there Dante, with the laurel
wreath round his brow; Alfieri and Machiavelli; for here side by
side rest the great men--the pride of Italy. The church itself is very
beautiful, even more beautiful than the marble cathedral at
Florence, though not so large. It seemed as if the carved vestments
stirred, and as if the marble figures they covered raised their
heads higher, to gaze upon the brightly colored glowing altar where
the white-robed boys swung the golden censers, amid music and song,
while the strong fragrance of incense filled the church, and
streamed forth into the square. The boy stretched forth his hands
towards the light, and at the same moment the Metal Pig started
again so rapidly that he was obliged to cling tightly to him. The wind
whistled in his ears, he heard the church door creak on its hinges
as it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses--then
a cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.

It was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the
Porta Rosa, and the boy found he had slipped nearly off its back. Fear
and trembling came upon him as he thought of his mother; she had
sent him out the day before to get some money, he had not done so, and
now he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he clasped the neck of his
metal horse, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell to it. Then he
wandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there was
scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door
stood ajar; he passed through, and climbed up a brick staircase,
with dirty walls and a rope for a balustrade, till he came to an
open gallery hung with rags. From here a flight of steps led down to a
court, where from a well water was drawn up by iron rollers to the
different stories of the house, and where the water-buckets hung
side by side. Sometimes the roller and the bucket danced in the air,
splashing the water all over the court. Another broken-down
staircase led from the gallery, and two Russian sailors running down
it almost upset the poor boy. They were coming from their nightly
carousal. A woman not very young, with an unpleasant face and a
quantity of black hair, followed them. "What have you brought home?"
she asked, when she saw the boy.

"Don't be angry," he pleaded; "I received nothing, I have
nothing at all;" and he seized his mother's dress and would have
kissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need not describe
it, but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles,
made for holding fire, which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she
took in her lap, warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her
elbow.

"Certainly you must have some money," she said. The boy began to
cry, and then she struck him with her foot till he cried out louder.

"Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;" and she
swung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand, while the boy
crouched to the earth and screamed.

Then a neighbor came in, and she had also a marito under her
arm. "Felicita," she said, "what are you doing to the child?"

"The child is mine," she answered; "I can murder him if I like,
and you too, Giannina." And then she swung about the fire-pot. The
other woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed
together so violently that they were dashed to pieces, and fire and
ashes flew about the room. The boy rushed out at the sight, sped
across the courtyard, and fled from the house. The poor child ran till
he was quite out of breath; at last he stopped at the church, the
doors of which were opened to him the night before, and went in.
Here everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first tomb
on his right, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his
heart would break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no
one noticed the boy, excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and
looked at him for a moment, and then went away like the rest. Hunger
and thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill.
At last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments, and went
to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve;
he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.

"Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?" were
some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers,
the old man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street.
They entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A
little white poodle, so closely shaven that his pink skin could
plainly be seen, frisked about the room, and gambolled upon the boy.

"Innocent souls are soon intimate," said the woman, as she
caressed both the boy and the dog. These good people gave the child
food and drink, and said he should stay with them all night, and
that the next day the old man, who was called Giuseppe, would go and
speak to his mother. A little homely bed was prepared for him, but
to him who had so often slept on the hard stones it was a royal couch,
and he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures and of the
Metal Pig. Giuseppe went out the next morning, and the poor child
was not glad to see him go, for he knew that the old man was gone to
his mother, and that, perhaps, he would have to go back. He wept at
the thought, and then he played with the little, lively dog, and
kissed it, while the old woman looked kindly at him to encourage
him. And what news did Giuseppe bring back? At first the boy could not
hear, for he talked a great deal to his wife, and she nodded and
stroked the boy's cheek.

Then she said, "He is a good lad, he shall stay with us, he may
become a clever glovemaker, like you. Look what delicate fingers he
has got; Madonna intended him for a glovemaker." So the boy stayed
with them, and the woman herself taught him to sew; and he ate well,
and slept well, and became very merry. But at last he began to tease
Bellissima, as the little dog was called. This made the woman angry,
and she scolded him and threatened him, which made him very unhappy,
and he went and sat in his own room full of sad thoughts. This chamber
looked upon the street, in which hung skins to dry, and there were
thick iron bars across his window. That night he lay awake, thinking
of the Metal Pig; indeed, it was always in his thoughts. Suddenly he
fancied he heard feet outside going pit-a-pat. He sprung out of bed
and went to the window. Could it be the Metal Pig? But there was
nothing to be seen; whatever he had heard had passed already. Next
morning, their neighbor, the artist, passed by, carrying a paint-box
and a large roll of canvas.

"Help the gentleman to carry his box of colors," said the woman to
the boy; and he obeyed instantly, took the box, and followed the
painter. They walked on till they reached the picture gallery, and
mounted the same staircase up which he had ridden that night on the
Metal Pig. He remembered all the statues and pictures, the beautiful
marble Venus, and again he looked at the Madonna with the Saviour
and St. John. They stopped before the picture by Bronzino, in which
Christ is represented as standing in the lower world, with the
children smiling before Him, in the sweet expectation of entering
heaven; and the poor boy smiled, too, for here was his heaven.

"You may go home now," said the painter, while the boy stood
watching him, till he had set up his easel.

"May I see you paint?" asked the boy; "may I see you put the
picture on this white canvas?"

"I am not going to paint yet," replied the artist; then he brought
out a piece of chalk. His hand moved quickly, and his eye measured the
great picture; and though nothing appeared but a faint line, the
figure of the Saviour was as clearly visible as in the colored
picture.

"Why don't you go?" said the painter. Then the boy wandered home
silently, and seated himself on the table, and learned to sew
gloves. But all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery; and
so he pricked his fingers and was awkward. But he did not tease
Bellissima. When evening came, and the house door stood open, he
slipped out. It was a bright, beautiful, starlight evening, but rather
cold. Away he went through the already-deserted streets, and soon came
to the Metal Pig; he stooped down and kissed its shining nose, and
then seated himself on its back.

"You happy creature," he said; "how I have longed for you! we must
take a ride to-night."

But the Metal Pig lay motionless, while the fresh stream gushed
forth from its mouth. The little boy still sat astride on its back,
when he felt something pulling at his clothes. He looked down, and
there was Bellissima, little smooth-shaven Bellissima, barking as if
she would have said, "Here I am too; why are you sitting there?"

A fiery dragon could not have frightened the little boy so much as
did the little dog in this place. "Bellissima in the street, and not
dressed!" as the old lady called it; "what would be the end of this?"

The dog never went out in winter, unless she was attired in a
little lambskin coat which had been made for her; it was fastened
round the little dog's neck and body with red ribbons, and was
decorated with rosettes and little bells. The dog looked almost like a
little kid when she was allowed to go out in winter, and trot after
her mistress. And now here she was in the cold, and not dressed. Oh,
how would it end? All his fancies were quickly put to flight; yet he
kissed the Metal Pig once more, and then took Bellissima in his
arms. The poor little thing trembled so with cold, that the boy ran
homeward as fast as he could.

"What are you running away with there?" asked two of the police
whom he met, and at whom the dog barked. "Where have you stolen that
pretty dog?" they asked; and they took it away from him.

"Oh, I have not stolen it; do give it to me back again," cried the
boy, despairingly.

"If you have not stolen it, you may say at home that they can send
to the watch-house for the dog." Then they told him where the
watch-house was, and went away with Bellissima.

Here was a dreadful trouble. The boy did not know whether he had
better jump into the Arno, or go home and confess everything. They
would certainly kill him, he thought.

"Well, I would gladly be killed," he reasoned; "for then I shall
die, and go to heaven:" and so he went home, almost hoping for death.

The door was locked, and he could not reach the knocker. No one
was in the street; so he took up a stone, and with it made a
tremendous noise at the door.

"Who is there?" asked somebody from within.

"It is I," said he. "Bellissima is gone. Open the door, and then
kill me."

Then indeed there was a great panic. Madame was so very fond of
Bellissima. She immediately looked at the wall where the dog's dress
usually hung; and there was the little lambskin.

"Bellissima in the watch-house!" she cried. "You bad boy! how
did you entice her out? Poor little delicate thing, with those rough
policemen! and she'll be frozen with cold."

Giuseppe went off at once, while his wife lamented, and the boy
wept. Several of the neighbors came in, and amongst them the
painter. He took the boy between his knees, and questioned him; and,
in broken sentences, he soon heard the whole story, and also about the
Metal Pig, and the wonderful ride to the picture-gallery, which was
certainly rather incomprehensible. The painter, however, consoled
the little fellow, and tried to soften the lady's anger; but she would
not be pacified till her husband returned with Bellissima, who had
been with the police. Then there was great rejoicing, and the
painter caressed the boy, and gave him a number of pictures. Oh,
what beautiful pictures these were!--figures with funny heads; and,
above all, the Metal Pig was there too. Oh, nothing could be more
delightful. By means of a few strokes, it was made to appear on the
paper; and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched in.
Oh, if he could only draw and paint! He who could do this could
conjure all the world before him. The first leisure moment during
the next day, the boy got a pencil, and on the back of one of the
other drawings he attempted to copy the drawing of the Metal Pig,
and he succeeded. Certainly it was rather crooked, rather up and down,
one leg thick, and another thin; still it was like the copy, and he
was overjoyed at what he had done. The pencil would not go quite as it
ought,--he had found that out; but the next day he tried again. A
second pig was drawn by the side of the first, and this looked a
hundred times better; and the third attempt was so good, that
everybody might know what it was meant to represent.

And now the glovemaking went on but slowly. The orders given by
the shops in the town were not finished quickly; for the Metal Pig had
taught the boy that all objects may be drawn upon paper; and
Florence is a picture-book in itself for any one who chooses to turn
over its pages. On the Piazza dell Trinita stands a slender pillar,
and upon it is the goddess of Justice, blindfolded, with her scales in
her hand. She was soon represented on paper, and it was the
glovemaker's boy who placed her there. His collection of pictures
increased; but as yet they were only copies of lifeless objects,
when one day Bellissima came gambolling before him: "Stand still,"
cried he, "and I will draw you beautifully, to put amongst my
collection."

But Bellissima would not stand still, so she must be bound fast in
one position. He tied her head and tail; but she barked and jumped,
and so pulled and tightened the string, that she was nearly strangled;
and just then her mistress walked in.

"You wicked boy! the poor little creature!" was all she could
utter.

She pushed the boy from her, thrust him away with her foot, called
him a most ungrateful, good-for-nothing, wicked boy, and forbade him
to enter the house again. Then she wept, and kissed her little
half-strangled Bellissima. At this moment the painter entered the
room.

      *      *      *      *      *

In the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts at
Florence. Two pictures, placed side by side, attracted a large
number of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little
boy sitting at a table, drawing; before him was a little white poodle,
curiously shaven; but as the animal would not stand still, it had been
fastened with a string to its head and tail, to keep it in one
position. The truthfulness and life in this picture interested every
one. The painter was said to be a young Florentine, who had been found
in the streets, when a child, by an old glovemaker, who had brought
him up. The boy had taught himself to draw: it was also said that a
young artist, now famous, had discovered talent in the child just as
he was about to be sent away for having tied up madame's favorite
little dog, and using it as a model. The glovemaker's boy had also
become a great painter, as the picture proved; but the larger
picture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent. It
represented a handsome boy, clothed in rags, lying asleep, and leaning
against the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa. All the
spectators knew the spot well. The child's arms were round the neck of
the Pig, and he was in a deep sleep. The lamp before the picture of
the Madonna threw a strong, effective light on the pale, delicate face
of the child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame
surrounded it, and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been
hung; but a black band, twined unseen among the green leaves, and a
streamer of crape, hung down from it; for within the last few days the
young artist had--died.




THE MONEY-BOX

In a nursery where a number of toys lay scattered about, a
money-box stood on the top of a very high wardrobe. It was made of
clay in the shape of a pig, and had been bought of the potter. In
the back of the pig was a slit, and this slit had been enlarged with a
knife, so that dollars, or crown pieces, might slip through; and,
indeed there were two in the box, besides a number of pence. The
money-pig was stuffed so full that it could no longer rattle, which is
the highest state of perfection to which a money-pig can attain. There
he stood upon the cupboard, high and lofty, looking down upon
everything else in the room. He knew very well that he had enough
inside him to buy up all the other toys, and this gave him a very good
opinion of his own value. The rest thought of this fact also, although
they did not express it, for there were so many other things to talk
about. A large doll, still handsome, though rather old, for her neck
had been mended, lay inside one of the drawers which was partly
open. She called out to the others, "Let us have a game at being men
and women, that is something worth playing at."

Upon this there was a great uproar; even the engravings, which
hung in frames on the wall, turned round in their excitement, and
showed that they had a wrong side to them, although they had not the
least intention to expose themselves in this way, or to object to
the game. It was late at night, but as the moon shone through the
windows, they had light at a cheap rate. And as the game was now to
begin, all were invited to take part in it, even the children's wagon,
which certainly belonged to the coarser playthings. "Each has its
own value," said the wagon; "we cannot all be noblemen; there must
be some to do the work."

The money-pig was the only one who received a written
invitation. He stood so high that they were afraid he would not accept
a verbal message. But in his reply, he said, if he had to take a part,
he must enjoy the sport from his own home; they were to arrange for
him to do so; and so they did. The little toy theatre was therefore
put up in such a way that the money-pig could look directly into it.
Some wanted to begin with a comedy, and afterwards to have a tea party
and a discussion for mental improvement, but they commenced with the
latter first. The rocking-horse spoke of training and races; the wagon
of railways and steam power, for these subjects belonged to each of
their professions, and it was right they should talk of them. The
clock talked politics--"tick, tick;" he professed to know what was the
time of day, but there was a whisper that he did not go correctly. The
bamboo cane stood by, looking stiff and proud: he was vain of his
brass ferrule and silver top, and on the sofa lay two worked cushions,
pretty but stupid. When the play at the little theatre began, the rest
sat and looked on; they were requested to applaud and stamp, or crack,
when they felt gratified with what they saw. But the riding-whip
said he never cracked for old people, only for the young who were
not yet married. "I crack for everybody," said the cracker.

"Yes, and a fine noise you make," thought the audience, as the
play went on.

It was not worth much, but it was very well played, and all the
characters turned their painted sides to the audience, for they were
made only to be seen on one side. The acting was wonderful,
excepting that sometimes they came out beyond the lamps, because the
wires were a little too long. The doll, whose neck had been darned,
was so excited that the place in her neck burst, and the money-pig
declared he must do something for one of the players, as they had
all pleased him so much. So he made up his mind to remember one of
them in his will, as the one to be buried with him in the family
vault, whenever that event should happen. They all enjoyed the
comedy so much, that they gave up all thoughts of the tea party, and
only carried out their idea of intellectual amusement, which they
called playing at men and women; and there was nothing wrong about it,
for it was only play. All the while, each one thought most of himself,
or of what the money-pig could be thinking. His thoughts were on, as
he supposed, a very distant time--of making his will, and of his
burial, and of when it might all come to pass. Certainly sooner than
he expected--for all at once down he came from the top of the press,
fell on the ground, and was broken to pieces. Then the pennies
hopped and danced about in the most amusing manner. The little ones
twirled round like tops, and the large ones rolled away as far as they
could, especially the one great silver crown piece who had often to go
out into the world, and now he had his wish as well as all the rest of
the money. The pieces of the money-pig were thrown into the
dust-bin, and the next day there stood a new money-pig on the
cupboard, but it had not a farthing in its inside yet, and
therefore, like the old one, it could not rattle. This was the
beginning with him, and we will make it the end of our story.




WHAT THE MOON SAW

INTRODUCTION

It is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most deeply,
my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot rightly
describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising within me;
and yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that, and all my
friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but
I do not want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an
extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few
days I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary
enough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I
had here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I
had not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.

So one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and
presently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart
leaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last--a round,
friendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.
In, fact, it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite
unchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he
used to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on
the moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far
into my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every
evening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few
moments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can
only stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he
tells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous
night, or on that same evening. "Just paint the scenes I describe to
you"--this is what he said to me--"and you will have a very pretty
picture-book." I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I
could make up a new "Thousand and One Nights," in my own way, out of
these pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The
pictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but
follow in their proper order, just as they were described to me.
Some great gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make
something more of them if he likes; what I have given here are only
hasty sketches, hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own
thoughts, interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every
evening--a cloud sometimes hid his face from me.


FIRST EVENING

"Last night"--I am quoting the Moon's own words--"last night I was
gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in
the waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the
thick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like
the tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid,
light as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision,
and yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this
daughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought
that had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her
sandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that
had come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a
startled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I
could see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them
for a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream,
and set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame
flickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp
burned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind
their long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest
intensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as
she could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if
the lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned
bravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the
grass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not--she thought only of
Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he
lives!' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he
lives!"


SECOND EVENING

"Yesterday," said the Moon to me, "I looked down upon a small
courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a
clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was
running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,
and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father
came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the
matter.

"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into
the same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little
girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the
bolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They
cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran
about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite
plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was
angry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out
and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly
by the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of
large tears. 'What are you about here?' he asked. She wept and said,
'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her
yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.'

"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed
her on the mouth and eyes."


THIRD EVENING

"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow
that my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the
house, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made
of--in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that
woman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in
the country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were
faded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches
grew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few
roses still in bloom--not so fair as the queen of flowers generally
appears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's
little daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on
her stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll
with the battered pasteboard cheeks.

"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a
splendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I
rejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah,
nobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my
rose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage.
There are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last
act of one.

"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was
sick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the
thin coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up!' said
he; 'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself,
give me money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick--get up!'
She answered, 'Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest.' But
he forced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of
roses in her hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with
a candle burning beside her, and went away.

"I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands
in her lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a
crash, so that a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she
never moved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about
her face; and I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat
the dead woman, preaching a sermon against sin--my poor faded rose out
of the parsonage garden!"


FOURTH EVENING

"This evening I saw a German play acted," said the Moon. "It was
in a little town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is
to say, the stable had been left standing, and had been turned into
private boxes, and all the timber work had been covered with
coloured paper. A little iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and
that it might be made to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in
great theatres, when the ting-ting of the prompter's bell is heard,
a great inverted tub has been placed just above it.

"'Ting-ting!' and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at
least half a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign
that the play was going to begin. A young nobleman and his lady, who
happened to be passing through the little town, were present at the
performance, and consequently the house was crowded. But under the
chandelier was a vacant space like a little crater: not a single
soul sat there, for the tallow was dropping, drip, drip! I saw
everything, for it was so warm in there that every loophole had been
opened. The male and female servants stood outside, peeping through
the chinks, although a real policeman was inside, threatening them
with a stick. Close by the orchestra could be seen the noble young
couple in two old arm-chairs, which were usually occupied by his
worship the mayor and his lady; but these latter were to-day obliged
to content themselves with wooden forms, just as if they had been
ordinary citizens; and the lady observed quietly to herself, 'One
sees, now, that there is rank above rank;' and this incident gave an
air of extra festivity to the whole proceedings. The chandelier gave
little leaps, the crowd got their knuckles rapped, and I, the Moon,
was present at the performance from beginning to end."


FIFTH EVENING

"Yesterday," began the Moon, "I looked down upon the turmoil of
Paris. My eye penetrated into an apartment of the Louvre. An old
grandmother, poorly clad--she belonged to the working class--was
following one of the under-servants into the great empty
throne-room, for this was the apartment she wanted to see--that she
was resolved to see; it had cost her many a little sacrifice, and many
a coaxing word, to penetrate thus far. She folded her thin hands,
and looked round with an air of reverence, as if she had been in a
church.

"'Here it was!' she said, 'here!' and she approached the throne,
from which hung the rich velvet fringed with gold lace. 'There,' she
exclaimed, 'there!' and she knelt and kissed the purple carpet. I
think she was actually weeping.

"'But it was not this very velvet!' observed the footman, and a
smile played about his mouth. 'True, but it was this very place,'
replied the woman, 'and it must have looked just like this. 'It looked
so, and yet it did not,' observed the man: 'the windows were beaten
in, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood upon
the floor.' 'But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon the
throne of France. Died!' mournfully repeated the old woman. I do not
think another word was spoken, and they soon quitted the hall. The
evening twilight faded and my light shone doubly vivid upon the rich
velvet that covered the throne of France.

"Now who do you think this poor woman was? Listen, I will tell you
a story.

"It happened, in the Revolution of July, on the evening of the
most brilliantly victorious day, when every house was a fortress,
every window a breastwork. The people stormed the Tuileries. Even
women and children were to be found among the combatants. They
penetrated into the apartments and halls of the palace. A poor
half-grown boy in a ragged blouse fought among the older insurgents.
Mortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This
happened in the throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the
throne of France, wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his
blood streamed forth upon the imperial purple. There was a picture!
The splendid hall, the fighting groups! A torn flag upon the ground,
the tricolor was waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay
the poor lad with the pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned
towards the sky, his limbs writhing in the death agony, his breast
bare, and his poor tattered clothing half hidden by the rich velvet
embroidered with silver lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had
been spoken: 'He will die on the throne of France!' The mother's heart
dreamt of a second Napoleon.

"My beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles on his grave,
and this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while
in a dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw--the
poor boy on the throne of France."


SIXTH EVENING

"I've been in Upsala," said the Moon: "I looked down upon the
great plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I
mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the
fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long
shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the
scanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut. There is no
monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name
carved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so
visitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth
peers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a
network over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts
till the fresh turf grows!

"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with
the broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not
to betray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet
sparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled,
for I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of
Eleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know
where the Rose of Beauty blooms!"

Thus spake the Moon, and a cloud came between us. May no cloud
separate the poet from the rose!


SEVENTH EVENING

"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and
beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales
visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing
sea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage
after another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye
loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the
sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true
poetry in nature.

"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell
you what I heard there last evening and during the night.

"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by. 'Those are
glorious trees!' said the first. 'Certainly; there are ten loads of
firewood in each,' observed the other: 'it will be a hard winter,
and last year we got fourteen dollars a load'--and they were gone.
'The road here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past.
'That's the fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour;
'there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the
sea'--and they were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All
the passengers were asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew
his horn, but he only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well
here. I wonder if those in there like it?'--and the stage coach
vanished. Then two young fellows came gallopping up on horseback.
There's youth and spirit in the blood here! thought I; and, indeed,
they looked with a smile at the moss-grown hill and thick forest. 'I
should not dislike a walk here with the miller's Christine,' said
one--and they flew past.

"The flowers scented the air; every breath of air was hushed; it
seemed as if the sea were a part of the sky that stretched above the
deep valley. A carriage rolled by. Six people were sitting in it. Four
of them were asleep; the fifth was thinking of his new summer coat,
which would suit him admirably; the sixth turned to the coachman and
asked him if there were anything remarkable connected with yonder heap
of stones. 'No,' replied the coachman, 'it's only a heap of stones;
but the trees are remarkable.' 'How so?' 'Why I'll tell you how they
are very remarkable. You see, in winter, when the snow lies very deep,
and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is to be seen, those
trees serve me for a landmark. I steer by them, so as not to drive
into the sea; and you see that is why the trees are remarkable.'

"Now came a painter. He spoke not a word, but his eyes sparkled.
He began to whistle. At this the nightingales sang louder than ever.
'Hold your tongues!' he cried testily; and he made accurate notes of
all the colours and transitions--blue, and lilac, and dark brown.
'That will make a beautiful picture,' he said. He took it in just as a
mirror takes in a view; and as he worked he whistled a march of
Rossini. And last of all came a poor girl. She laid aside the burden
she carried, and sat down to rest upon the Hun's Grave. Her pale
handsome face was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest. Her
eyes brightened, she gazed earnestly at the sea and the sky, her hands
were folded, and I think she prayed, 'Our Father.' She herself could
not understand the feeling that swept through her, but I know that
this minute, and the beautiful natural scene, will live within her
memory for years, far more vividly and more truly than the painter
could portray it with his colours on paper. My rays followed her
till the morning dawn kissed her brow."


EIGHTH EVENING

Heavy clouds obscured the sky, and the Moon did not make his
appearance at all. I stood in my little room, more lonely than ever,
and looked up at the sky where he ought to have shown himself. My
thoughts flew far away, up to my great friend, who every evening
told me such pretty tales, and showed me pictures. Yes, he has had
an experience indeed. He glided over the waters of the Deluge, and
smiled on Noah's ark just as he lately glanced down upon me, and
brought comfort and promise of a new world that was to spring forth
from the old. When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of
Babylon, he glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the
silent harps. When Romeo climbed the balcony, and the promise of
true love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven, the round Moon
hung, half hidden among the dark cypresses, in the lucid air. He saw
the captive giant at St. Helena, looking from the lonely rock across
the wide ocean, while great thoughts swept through his soul. Ah!
what tales the Moon can tell. Human life is like a story to him.
To-night I shall not see thee again, old friend. Tonight I can draw no
picture of the memories of thy visit. And, as I looked dreamily
towards the clouds, the sky became bright. There was a glancing light,
and a beam from the Moon fell upon me. It vanished again, and dark
clouds flew past: but still it was a greeting, a friendly good-night
offered to me by the Moon.


NINTH EVENING

The air was clear again. Several evenings had passed, and the Moon
was in the first quarter. Again he gave me an outline for a sketch.
Listen to what he told me.

"I have followed the polar bird and the swimming whale to the
eastern coast of Greenland. Gaunt ice-covered rocks and dark clouds
hung over a valley, where dwarf willows and barberry bushes stood
clothed in green. The blooming lychnis exhaled sweet odours. My
light was faint, my face pale as the water lily that, torn from its
stem, has been drifting for weeks with the tide. The crown-shaped
Northern Light burned fiercely in the sky. Its ring was broad, and
from its circumference the rays shot like whirling shafts of fire
across the whole sky, flashing in changing radiance from green to red.
The inhabitants of that icy region were assembling for dance and
festivity; but, accustomed to this glorious spectacle, they scarcely
deigned to glance at it. 'Let us leave the soul of the dead to their
ball-play with the heads of the walruses,' they thought in their
superstition, and they turned their whole attention to the song and
dance. In the midst of the circle, and divested of his furry cloak,
stood a Greenlander, with a small pipe, and he played and sang a
song about catching the seal, and the chorus around chimed in with,
'Eia, Eia, Ah.' And in their white furs they danced about in the
circle, till you might fancy it was a polar bear's ball.

"And now a Court of Judgment was opened. Those Greenlanders who
had quarrelled stepped forward, and the offended person chanted
forth the faults of his adversary in an extempore song, turning them
sharply into ridicule, to the sound of the pipe and the measure of the
dance. The defendant replied with satire as keen, while the audience
laughed, and gave their verdict. The rocks heaved, the glaciers
melted, and great masses of ice and snow came crashing down, shivering
to fragments as they fall; it was a glorious Greenland summer night. A
hundred paces away, under the open tent of hides, lay a sick man. Life
still flowed through his warm blood, but still he was to die--he
himself felt it, and all who stood round him knew it also; therefore
his wife was already sewing round him the shroud of furs, that she
might not afterwards be obliged to touch the dead body. And she asked,
'Wilt thou be buried on the rock, in the firm snow? I will deck the
spot with thy kayak, and thy arrows, and the angekokk shall dance over
it. Or wouldst thou rather be buried in the sea?' 'In the sea,' he
whispered, and nodded with a mournful smile. 'Yes, it is a pleasant
summer tent, the sea,' observed the wife. 'Thousands of seals sport
there, the walrus shall lie at thy feet, and the hunt will be safe and
merry!' And the yelling children tore the outspread hide from the
window-hole, that the dead man might be carried to the ocean, the
billowy ocean, that had given him food in life, and that now, in
death, was to afford him a place of rest. For his monument, he had the
floating, ever-changing icebergs, whereon the seal sleeps, while the
storm bird flies round their gleaming summits!"


TENTH EVENING

"I knew an old maid," said the Moon. "Every winter she wore a
wrapper of yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the
only fashion she followed. In summer she always wore the same straw
hat, and I verily believe the very same gray-blue dress.

"She never went out, except across the street to an old female
friend; and in later years she did not even take this walk, for the
old friend was dead. In her solitude my old maid was always busy at
the window, which was adorned in summer with pretty flowers, and in
winter with cress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her
no more at the window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had
not yet seen her begin the 'long journey,' of which she often spoke
with her friend. 'Yes, yes,' she was in the habit of saying, when I
come to die I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole
life long. Our family vault is six miles from here. I shall be carried
there, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives.' Last
night a van stopped at the house. A coffin was carried out, and then I
knew that she was dead. They placed straw round the coffin, and the
van drove away. There slept the quiet old lady, who had not gone out
of her house once for the last year. The van rolled out through the
town-gate as briskly as if it were going for a pleasant excursion.
On the high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked
nervously round every now and then--I fancy he half expected to see
her sitting on the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he
was startled, he foolishly lashed his horses, while he held the
reins so tightly that the poor beasts were in a foam: they were
young and fiery. A hare jumped across the road and startled them,
and they fairly ran away. The old sober maiden, who had for years
and years moved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now,
in death, rattled over stock and stone on the public highway. The
coffin in its covering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left
on the high-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in
wild career. The lark rose up carolling from the field, twittering her
morning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking
with her beak at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up.
The lark rose up again, singing gaily, and I withdrew behind the red
morning clouds."


ELEVENTH EVENING

"I will give you a picture of Pompeii," said the Moon. "I was in
the suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair
monuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths,
their temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of
Lais. Now, the stillness of death reigned around. German
mercenaries, in the Neapolitan service, kept guard, played cards,
and diced; and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came
into the town, accompanied by a sentry. They wanted to see the city
that had risen from the grave illumined by my beams; and I showed them
the wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs; I showed
them the names on the doors, and the signs that hung there yet: they
saw in the little courtyard the basins of the fountains, ornamented
with shells; but no jet of water gushed upwards, no songs sounded
forth from the richly-painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept
the door.

"It was the City of the Dead; only Vesuvius thundered forth his
everlasting hymn, each separate verse of which is called by men an
eruption. We went to the temple of Venus, built of snow-white
marble, with its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the
weeping willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The air was
transparent and blue, and black Vesuvius formed the background, with
fire ever shooting forth from it, like the stem of the pine tree.
Above it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night, like
the crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination. Among the
company was a lady singer, a real and great singer. I have witnessed
the homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe. When they
came to the tragic theatre, they all sat down on the amphitheatre
steps, and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,
as it had been many centuries ago. The stage still stood unchanged,
with its walled side-scenes, and the two arches in the background,
through which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited
in the old times--a scene painted by nature herself, namely, the
mountains between Sorento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the
ancient stage, and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me
of a wild Arab horse, that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils
and flying mane--her song was so light and yet so firm. Anon I thought
of the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, so deep was
the expression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years
ago, the sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre. 'Happy,
gifted creature!' all the hearers exclaimed. Five minutes more, and
the stage was empty, the company had vanished, and not a sound more
was heard--all were gone. But the ruins stood unchanged, as they
will stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know
of the momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress;
when all will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be
but a dream of the past."


TWELFTH EVENING

"I looked through the windows of an editor's house," said the
Moon. "It was somewhere in Germany. I saw handsome furniture, many
books, and a chaos of newspapers. Several young men were present:
the editor himself stood at his desk, and two little books, both by
young authors, were to be noticed. 'This one has been sent to me,'
said he. 'I have not read it yet; what think you of the contents?'
'Oh,' said the person addressed--he was a poet himself--'it is good
enough; a little broad, certainly; but, you see, the author is still
young. The verses might be better, to be sure; the thoughts are sound,
though there is certainly a good deal of common-place among them.
But what will you have? You can't be always getting something new.
That he'll turn out anything great I don't believe, but you may safely
praise him. He is well read, a remarkable Oriental scholar, and has
a good judgment. It was he who wrote that nice review of my
'Reflections on Domestic Life.' We must be lenient towards the young
man."

"'But he is a complete hack!' objected another of the gentlemen.
'Nothing worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not go
beyond this.'

"'Poor fellow,' observed a third, 'and his aunt is so happy
about him. It was she, Mr. Editor, who got together so many
subscribers for your last translation.'

"'Ah, the good woman! Well, I have noticed the book briefly.
Undoubted talent--a welcome offering--a flower in the garden of
poetry--prettily brought out--and so on. But this other book--I
suppose the author expects me to purchase it? I hear it is praised. He
has genius, certainly: don't you think so?'

"'Yes, all the world declares as much,' replied the poet, 'but
it has turned out rather wildly. The punctuation of the book, in
particular, is very eccentric.'

"'It will be good for him if we pull him to pieces, and anger
him a little, otherwise he will get too good an opinion of himself.'

"'But that would be unfair,' objected the fourth. 'Let us not carp
at little faults, but rejoice over the real and abundant good that
we find here: he surpasses all the rest.'

"'Not so. If he is a true genius, he can bear the sharp voice of
censure. There are people enough to praise him. Don't let us quite
turn his head.'

"'Decided talent,' wrote the editor, 'with the usual carelessness.
that he can write incorrect verses may be seen in page 25, where there
are two false quantities. We recommend him to study the ancients,
etc.'

"I went away," continued the Moon, "and looked through the windows
in the aunt's house. There sat the be-praised poet, the tame one;
all the guests paid homage to him, and he was happy.

"I sought the other poet out, the wild one; him also I found in
a great assembly at his patron's, where the tame poet's book was being
discussed.

"'I shall read yours also,' said Maecenas; 'but to speak honestly--you
know I never hide my opinion from you--I don't expect much from
it, for you are much too wild, too fantastic. But it must be allowed
that, as a man, you are highly respectable.'

"A young girl sat in a corner; and she read in a book these words:

  "'In the dust lies genius and glory,
    But ev'ry-day talent will pay.
  It's only the old, old story,
    But the piece is repeated each day.'"


THIRTEENTH EVENING

The Moon said, "Beside the woodland path there are two small
farm-houses. The doors are low, and some of the windows are placed
quite high, and others close to the ground; and whitethorn and
barberry bushes grow around them. The roof of each house is
overgrown with moss and with yellow flowers and houseleek. Cabbage and
potatoes are the only plants cultivated in the gardens, but out of the
hedge there grows a willow tree, and under this willow tree sat a
little girl, and she sat with her eyes fixed upon the old oak tree
between the two huts.

"It was an old withered stem. It had been sawn off at the top, and
a stork had built his nest upon it; and he stood in this nest clapping
with his beak. A little boy came and stood by the girl's side: they
were brother and sister.

"'What are you looking at?' he asked.

"'I'm watching the stork,' she replied: 'our neighbors told me
that he would bring us a little brother or sister to-day; let us watch
to see it come!'

"'The stork brings no such things,' the boy declared, 'you may
be sure of that. Our neighbor told me the same thing, but she
laughed when she said it, and so I asked her if she could say 'On my
honor,' and she could not; and I know by that the story about the
storks is not true, and that they only tell it to us children for
fun.'

 "'But where do babies come from, then?' asked the girl.

"'Why, an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak, but no
man can see him; and that's why we never know when he brings them.'

"At that moment there was a rustling in the branches of the willow
tree, and the children folded their hands and looked at one another:
it was certainly the angel coming with the baby. They took each
other's hand, and at that moment the door of one of the houses opened,
and the neighbour appeared.

"'Come in, you two,' she said. 'See what the stork has brought. It
is a little brother.'

"And the children nodded gravely at one another, for they had felt
quite sure already that the baby was come."


FOURTEENTH EVENING

"I was gliding over the Luneburg Heath," the Moon said. "A
lonely hut stood by the wayside, a few scanty bushes grew near it, and
a nightingale who had lost his way sang sweetly. He died in the
coldness of the night: it was his farewell song that I heard.

"The morning dawn came glimmering red. I saw a caravan of emigrant
peasant families who were bound to Hamburgh, there to take ship for
America, where fancied prosperity would bloom for them. The mothers
carried their little children at their backs, the elder ones
tottered by their sides, and a poor starved horse tugged at a cart
that bore their scanty effects. The cold wind whistled, and
therefore the little girl nestled closer to the mother, who, looking
up at my decreasing disc, thought of the bitter want at home, and
spoke of the heavy taxes they had not been able to raise. The whole
caravan thought of the same thing; therefore, the rising dawn seemed
to them a message from the sun, of fortune that was to gleam
brightly upon them. They heard the dying nightingale sing; it was no
false prophet, but a harbinger of fortune. The wind whistled,
therefore they did not understand that the nightingale sung, 'Fare
away over the sea! Thou hast paid the long passage with all that was
thine, and poor and helpless shalt thou enter Canaan. Thou must sell
thyself, thy wife, and thy children. But your griefs shall not last
long. Behind the broad fragrant leaves lurks the goddess of Death, and
her welcome kiss shall breathe fever into thy blood. Fare away, fare
away, over the heaving billows.' And the caravan listened well pleased
to the song of the nightingale, which seemed to promise good
fortune. Day broke through the light clouds; country people went
across the heath to church; the black-gowned women with their white
head-dresses looked like ghosts that had stepped forth from the church
pictures. All around lay a wide dead plain, covered with faded brown
heath, and black charred spaces between the white sand hills. The
women carried hymn books, and walked into the church. Oh, pray, pray
for those who are wandering to find graves beyond the foaming
billows."


FIFTEENTH EVENING

"I know a Pulcinella," the Moon told me. "The public applaud
vociferously directly they see him. Every one of his movements is
comic, and is sure to throw the house into convulsions of laughter;
and yet there is no art in it all--it is complete nature. When he
was yet a little boy, playing about with other boys, he was already
Punch. Nature had intended him for it, and had provided him with a
hump on his back, and another on his breast; but his inward man, his
mind, on the contrary, was richly furnished. No one could surpass
him in depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect. The theatre
was his ideal world. If he had possessed a slender well-shaped figure,
he might have been the first tragedian on any stage; the heroic, the
great, filled his soul; and yet he had to become a Pulcinella. His
very sorrow and melancholy did but increase the comic dryness of his
sharply-cut features, and increased the laughter of the audience,
who showered plaudits on their favourite. The lovely Columbine was
indeed kind and cordial to him; but she preferred to marry the
Harlequin. It would have been too ridiculous if beauty and ugliness
had in reality paired together.

"When Pulcinella was in very bad spirits, she was the only one who
could force a hearty burst of laughter, or even a smile from him:
first she would be melancholy with him, then quieter, and at last
quite cheerful and happy. 'I know very well what is the matter with
you,' she said; 'yes, you're in love!' And he could not help laughing.
'I and Love," he cried, "that would have an absurd look. How the
public would shout!' 'Certainly, you are in love,' she continued;
and added with a comic pathos, 'and I am the person you are in love
with.' You see, such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the
question--and, indeed, Pulcinella burst out laughing, and gave a
leap into the air, and his melancholy was forgotten.

"And yet she had only spoken the truth. He did love her, love
her adoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her
wedding he was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness
of night he wept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they
would have applauded rapturously.

"And a few days ago, Columbine died. On the day of the funeral,
Harlequin was not required to show himself on the boards, for he was a
disconsolate widower. The director had to give a very merry piece,
that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine
and the agile Harlequin. Therefore Pulcinella had to be more
boisterous and extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered,
with despair in his heart; and the audience yelled, and shouted
'bravo, bravissimo!' Pulcinella was actually called before the
curtain. He was pronounced inimitable.

"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town,
quite alone, to the deserted churchyard. The wreath of flowers on
Columbine's grave was already faded, and he sat down there. It was a
study for a painter. As he sat with his chin on his hands, his eyes
turned up towards me, he looked like a grotesque monument--a Punch
on a grave--peculiar and whimsical! If the people could have seen
their favourite, they would have cried as usual, 'Bravo, Pulcinella;
bravo, bravissimo!'"


SIXTEENTH EVENING

Hear what the Moon told me. "I have seen the cadet who had just
been made an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time; I
have seen the young bride in her wedding dress, and the princess
girl-wife happy in her gorgeous robes; but never have I seen a
felicity equal to that of a little girl of four years old, whom I
watched this evening. She had received a new blue dress, and a new
pink hat, the splendid attire had just been put on, and all were
calling for a candle, for my rays, shining in through the windows of
the room, were not bright enough for the occasion, and further
illumination was required. There stood the little maid, stiff and
upright as a doll, her arms stretched painfully straight out away from
the dress, and her fingers apart; and oh, what happiness beamed from
her eyes, and from her whole countenance! 'To-morrow you shall go
out in your new clothes,' said her mother; and the little one looked
up at her hat, and down at her frock, and smiled brightly. 'Mother,'
she cried, 'what will the little dogs think, when they see me in these
splendid new things?'"


SEVENTEENTH EVENING

"I have spoken to you of Pompeii," said the Moon; "that corpse
of a city, exposed in the view of living towns: I know another sight
still more strange, and this is not the corpse, but the spectre of a
city. Whenever the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they
seem to me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the
spouting water may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her
fame! On the surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and that is
her widow's veil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and
his city are his mausoleum! Dost thou know this city? She has never
heard the rolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her
streets, through which the fish swim, while the black gondola glides
spectrally over the green water. I will show you the place," continued
the Moon, "the largest square in it, and you will fancy yourself
transported into the city of a fairy tale. The grass grows rank
among the broad flagstones, and in the morning twilight thousands of
tame pigeons flutter around the solitary lofty tower. On three sides
you find yourself surrounded by cloistered walks. In these the
silent Turk sits smoking his long pipe, the handsome Greek leans
against the pillar and gazes at the upraised trophies and lofty masts,
memorials of power that is gone. The flags hang down like mourning
scarves. A girl rests there: she has put down her heavy pails filled
with water, the yoke with which she has carried them rests on one of
her shoulders, and she leans against the mast of victory. That is
not a fairy palace you see before you yonder, but a church: the gilded
domes and shining orbs flash back my beams; the glorious bronze horses
up yonder have made journeys, like the bronze horse in the fairy tale:
they have come hither, and gone hence, and have returned again. Do you
notice the variegated splendour of the walls and windows? It looks
as if Genius had followed the caprices of a child, in the adornment of
these singular temples. Do you see the winged lion on the pillar?
The gold glitters still, but his wings are tied--the lion is dead, for
the king of the sea is dead; the great halls stand desolate, and where
gorgeous paintings hung of yore, the naked wall now peers through. The
lazzarone sleeps under the arcade, whose pavement in old times was
to be trodden only by the feet of high nobility. From the deep
wells, and perhaps from the prisons by the Bridge of Sighs, rise the
accents of woe, as at the time when the tambourine was heard in the
gay gondolas, and the golden ring was cast from the Bucentaur to
Adria, the queen of the seas. Adria! shroud thyself in mists; let
the veil of thy widowhood shroud thy form, and clothe in the weeds
of woe the mausoleum of thy bridegroom--the marble, spectral Venice."


EIGHTEENTH EVENING

"I looked down upon a great theatre," said the Moon. "The house
was crowded, for a new actor was to make his first appearance that
night. My rays glided over a little window in the wall, and I saw a
painted face with the forehead pressed against the panes. It was the
hero of the evening. The knighly beard curled crisply about the
chin; but there were tears in the man's eyes, for he had been hissed
off, and indeed with reason. The poor Incapable! But Incapables cannot
be admitted into the empire of Art. He had deep feeling, and loved his
art enthusiastically, but the art loved not him. The prompter's bell
sounded; 'the hero enters with a determined air,' so ran the stage
direction in his part, and he had to appear before an audience who
turned him into ridicule. When the piece was over, I saw a form
wrapped in a mantle, creeping down the steps: it was the vanquished
knight of the evening. The scene-shifters whispered to one another,
and I followed the poor fellow home to his room. To hang one's self is
to die a mean death, and poison is not always at hand, I know; but
he thought of both. I saw how he looked at his pale face in the glass,
with eyes half closed, to see if he should look well as a corpse. A
man may be very unhappy, and yet exceedingly affected. He thought of
death, of suicide; I believe he pitied himself, for he wept
bitterly, and when a man has had his cry out he doesn't kill himself.

"Since that time a year had rolled by. Again a play was to be
acted, but in a little theatre, and by a poor strolling company. Again
I saw the well-remembered face, with the painted cheeks and the
crisp beard. He looked up at me and smiled; and yet he had been hissed
off only a minute before--hissed off from a wretched theatre, by a
miserable audience. And tonight a shabby hearse rolled out of the
town-gate. It was a suicide--our painted, despised hero. The driver of
the hearse was the only person present, for no one followed except
my beams. In a corner of the churchyard the corpse of the suicide
was shovelled into the earth, and nettles will soon be growing
rankly over his grave, and the sexton will throw thorns and weeds from
the other graves upon it."


NINETEENTH EVENING

"I come from Rome," said the Moon. "In the midst of the city, upon
one of the seven hills, lie the ruins of the imperial palace. The wild
fig tree grows in the clefts of the wall, and covers the nakedness
thereof with its broad grey-green leaves; trampling among heaps of
rubbish, the ass treads upon green laurels, and rejoices over the rank
thistles. From this spot, whence the eagles of Rome once flew
abroad, whence they 'came, saw, and conquered,' our door leads into
a little mean house, built of clay between two pillars; the wild
vine hangs like a mourning garland over the crooked window. An old
woman and her little granddaughter live there: they rule now in the
palace of the Caesars, and show to strangers the remains of its past
glories. Of the splendid throne-hall only a naked wall yet stands, and
a black cypress throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne
once stood. The dust lies several feet deep on the broken pavement;
and the little maiden, now the daughter of the imperial palace,
often sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring. The keyhole
of the door close by she calls her turret window; through this she can
see half Rome, as far as the mighty cupola of St. Peter's.

"On this evening, as usual, stillness reigned around; and in the
full beam of my light came the little granddaughter. On her head she
carried an earthen pitcher of antique shape filled with water. Her
feet were bare, her short frock and her white sleeves were torn. I
kissed her pretty round shoulders, her dark eyes, and black shining
hair. She mounted the stairs; they were steep, having been made up
of rough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar.
The coloured lizards slipped away, startled, from before her feet, but
she was not frightened at them. Already she lifted her hand to pull
the door-bell--a hare's foot fastened to a string formed the
bell-handle of the imperial palace. She paused for a moment--of what
might she be thinking? Perhaps of the beautiful Christ-child,
dressed in gold and silver, which was down below in the chapel,
where the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright, and where her
little friends sung the hymns in which she also could join? I know
not. Presently she moved again--she stumbled: the earthen vessel
fell from her head, and broke on the marble steps. She burst into
tears. The beautiful daughter of the imperial palace wept over the
worthless broken pitcher; with her bare feet she stood there
weeping; and dared not pull the string, the bell-rope of the
imperial palace!"


TWENTIETH EVENING

It was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone. Now he
stood once more, round and bright, above the clouds, moving slowly
onward. Hear what the Moon told me.

"From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan. On the margin of
the sandy desert, in a salt plain, that shone like a frozen lake,
and was only covered in spots with light drifting sand, a halt was
made. The eldest of the company--the water gourd hung at his girdle,
and on his head was a little bag of unleavened bread--drew a square in
the sand with his staff, and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran,
and then the whole caravan passed over the consecrated spot. A young
merchant, a child of the East, as I could tell by his eye and his
figure, rode pensively forward on his white snorting steed. Was he
thinking, perchance, of his fair young wife? It was only two days
ago that the camel, adorned with furs and with costly shawls, had
carried her, the beauteous bride, round the walls of the city, while
drums and cymbals had sounded, the women sang, and festive shots, of
which the bridegroom fired the greatest number, resounded round the
camel; and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.

"For many nights I followed the train. I saw them rest by the
wellside among the stunted palms; they thrust the knife into the
breast of the camel that had fallen, and roasted its flesh by the
fire. My beams cooled the glowing sands, and showed them the black
rocks, dead islands in the immense ocean of sand. No hostile tribes
met them in their pathless route, no storms arose, no columns of
sand whirled destruction over the journeying caravan. At home the
beautiful wife prayed for her husband and her father. 'Are they dead?'
she asked of my golden crescent; 'Are they dead?' she cried to my full
disc. Now the desert lies behind them. This evening they sit beneath
the lofty palm trees, where the crane flutters round them with its
long wings, and the pelican watches them from the branches of the
mimosa. The luxuriant herbage is trampled down, crushed by the feet of
elephants. A troop of negroes are returning from a market in the
interior of the land: the women, with copper buttons in their black
hair, and decked out in clothes dyed with indigo, drive the
heavily-laden oxen, on whose backs slumber the naked black children. A
negro leads a young lion which he has brought, by a string. They
approach the caravan; the young merchant sits pensive and
motionless, thinking of his beautiful wife, dreaming, in the land of
the blacks, of his white lily beyond the desert. He raises his head,
and--" But at this moment a cloud passed before the Moon, and then
another. I heard nothing more from him this evening.


TWENTY-FIRST EVENING

"I saw a little girl weeping," said the Moon; "she was weeping
over the depravity of the world. She had received a most beautiful
doll as a present. Oh, that was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate!
She did not seem created for the sorrows of this world. But the
brothers of the little girl, those great naughty boys, had set the
doll high up in the branches of a tree and had run away.

"The little girl could not reach up to the doll, and could not
help her down, and that is why she was crying. The doll must certainly
have been crying too, for she stretched out her arms among the green
branches, and looked quite mournful. Yes, these are the troubles of
life of which the little girl had often heard tell. Alas, poor doll!
it began to grow dark already; and suppose night were to come on
completely! Was she to be left sitting on the bough all night long?
No, the little maid could not make up her mind to that. 'I'll stay
with you,' she said, although she felt anything but happy in her mind.
She could almost fancy she distinctly saw little gnomes, with their
high-crowned hats, sitting in the bushes; and further back in the long
walk, tall spectres appeared to be dancing. They came nearer and
nearer, and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the
doll sat; they laughed scornfully, and pointed at her with their
fingers. Oh, how frightened the little maid was! 'But if one has not
done anything wrong,' she thought, 'nothing evil can harm one. I
wonder if I have done anything wrong?' And she considered. 'Oh, yes! I
laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg; she limped along
so funnily, I could not help laughing; but it's a sin to laugh at
animals.' And she looked up at the doll. 'Did you laugh at the duck
too?' she asked; and it seemed as if the doll shook her head."


TWENTY-SECOND EVENING

"I looked down upon Tyrol," said the Moon, "and my beams caused
the dark pines to throw long shadows upon the rocks. I looked at the
pictures of St. Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus that are painted
there upon the walls of the houses, colossal figures reaching from the
ground to the roof. St. Florian was represented pouring water on the
burning house, and the Lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the
wayside. To the present generation these are old pictures, but I saw
when they were put up, and marked how one followed the other. On the
brow of the mountain yonder is perched, like a swallow's nest, a
lonely convent of nuns. Two of the sisters stood up in the tower
tolling the bell; they were both young, and therefore their glances
flew over the mountain out into the world. A travelling coach passed
by below, the postillion wound his horn, and the poor nuns looked
after the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance, and a tear
gleamed in the eyes of the younger one. And the horn sounded faint and
more faintly, and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes."


TWENTY-THIRD EVENING

Hear what the Moon told me. "Some years ago, here in Copenhagen, I
looked through the window of a mean little room. The father and mother
slept, but the little son was not asleep. I saw the flowered cotton
curtains of the bed move, and the child peep forth. At first I thought
he was looking at the great clock, which was gaily painted in red
and green. At the top sat a cuckoo, below hung the heavy leaden
weights, and the pendulum with the polished disc of metal went to
and fro, and said 'tick, tick.' But no, he was not looking at the
clock, but at his mother's spinning wheel, that stood just
underneath it. That was the boy's favourite piece of furniture, but he
dared not touch it, for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the
knuckles. For hours together, when his mother was spinning, he would
sit quietly by her side, watching the murmuring spindle and the
revolving wheel, and as he sat he thought of many things. Oh, if he
might only turn the wheel himself! Father and mother were asleep; he
looked at them, and looked at the spinning wheel, and presently a
little naked foot peered out of the bed, and then a second foot, and
then two little white legs. There he stood. He looked round once more,
to see if father and mother were still asleep--yes, they slept; and
now he crept softly, softly, in his short little nightgown, to the
spinning wheel, and began to spin. The thread flew from the wheel, and
the wheel whirled faster and faster. I kissed his fair hair and his
blue eyes, it was such a pretty picture.

"At that moment the mother awoke. The curtain shook, she looked
forth, and fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little
spectre. 'In Heaven's name!' she cried, and aroused her husband in a
frightened way. He opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and
looked at the brisk little lad. 'Why, that is Bertel,' said he. And my
eye quitted the poor room, for I have so much to see. At the same
moment I looked at the halls of the Vatican, where the marble gods are
enthroned. I shone upon the group of the Laocoon; the stone seemed
to sigh. I pressed a silent kiss on the lips of the Muses, and they
seemed to stir and move. But my rays lingered longest about the Nile
group with the colossal god. Leaning against the Sphinx, he lies there
thoughtful and meditative, as if he were thinking on the rolling
centuries; and little love-gods sport with him and with the
crocodiles. In the horn of plenty sat with folded arms a little tiny
love-god, contemplating the great solemn river-god, a true picture
of the boy at the spinning wheel--the features were exactly the
same. Charming and life-like stood the little marble form, and yet the
wheel of the year has turned more than a thousand times since the time
when it sprang forth from the stone. Just as often as the boy in the
little room turned the spinning wheel had the great wheel murmured,
before the age could again call forth marble gods equal to those he
afterwards formed.

"Years have passed since all this happened," the Moon went on to
say. "Yesterday I looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of Denmark.
Glorious woods are there, and high trees, an old knightly castle
with red walls, swans floating in the ponds, and in the background
appears, among orchards, a little town with a church. Many boats,
the crews all furnished with torches, glided over the silent
expanse--but these fires had not been kindled for catching fish, for
everything had a festive look. Music sounded, a song was sung, and
in one of the boats the man stood erect to whom homage was paid by the
rest, a tall sturdy man, wrapped in a cloak. He had blue eyes and long
white hair. I knew him, and thought of the Vatican, and of the group
of the Nile, and the old marble gods. I thought of the simple little
room where little Bertel sat in his night-shirt by the spinning wheel.
The wheel of time has turned, and new gods have come forth from the
stone. From the boats there arose a shout: 'Hurrah, hurrah for
Bertel Thorwaldsen!'"


TWENTY-FOURTH EVENING

"I will now give you a picture from Frankfort," said the Moon.
"I especially noticed one building there. It was not the house in
which Goethe was born, nor the old Council House, through whose grated
windows peered the horns of the oxen that were roasted and given to
the people when the emperors were crowned. No, it was a private house,
plain in appearance, and painted green. It stood near the old Jews'
Street. It was Rothschild's house.

"I looked through the open door. The staircase was brilliantly
lighted: servants carrying wax candles in massive silver
candlesticks stood there, and bowed low before an old woman, who was
being brought downstairs in a litter. The proprietor of the house
stood bare-headed, and respectfully imprinted a kiss on the hand of
the old woman. She was his mother. She nodded in a friendly manner
to him and to the servants, and they carried her into the dark
narrow street, into a little house, that was her dwelling. Here her
children had been born, from hence the fortune of the family had
arisen. If she deserted the despised street and the little house,
fortune would also desert her children. That was her firm belief."

The Moon told me no more; his visit this evening was far too
short. But I thought of the old woman in the narrow despised street.
It would have cost her but a word, and a brilliant house would have
arisen for her on the banks of the Thames--a word, and a villa would
have been prepared in the Bay of Naples.

"If I deserted the lowly house, where the fortunes of my sons
first began to bloom, fortune would desert them!" It was a
superstition, but a superstition of such a class, that he who knows
the story and has seen this picture, need have only two words placed
under the picture to make him understand it; and these two words
are: "A mother."


TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING

"It was yesterday, in the morning twilight"--these are the words
the Moon told me--"in the great city no chimney was yet smoking--and
it was just at the chimneys that I was looking. Suddenly a little head
emerged from one of them, and then half a body, the arms resting on
the rim of the chimney-pot. 'Ya-hip! ya-hip!' cried a voice. It was
the little chimney-sweeper, who had for the first time in his life
crept through a chimney, and stuck out his head at the top. 'Ya-hip!
ya-hip' Yes, certainly that was a very different thing to creeping
about in the dark narrow chimneys! the air blew so fresh, and he could
look over the whole city towards the green wood. The sun was just
rising. It shone round and great, just in his face, that beamed with
triumph, though it was very prettily blacked with soot.

"'The whole town can see me now,' he exclaimed, 'and the moon
can see me now, and the sun too. Ya-hip! ya-hip!' And he flourished
his broom in triumph."


TWENTY-SIXTH EVENING

"Last night I looked down upon a town in China," said the Moon.
"My beams irradiated the naked walls that form the streets there.
Now and then, certainly, a door is seen; but it is locked, for what
does the Chinaman care about the outer world? Close wooden shutters
covered the windows behind the walls of the houses; but through the
windows of the temple a faint light glimmered. I looked in, and saw
the quaint decorations within. From the floor to the ceiling
pictures are painted, in the most glaring colours, and richly
gilt--pictures representing the deeds of the gods here on earth. In
each niche statues are placed, but they are almost entirely hidden by the
coloured drapery and the banners that hang down. Before each idol (and
they are all made of tin) stood a little altar of holy water, with
flowers and burning wax lights on it. Above all the rest stood Fo, the
chief deity, clad in a garment of yellow silk, for yellow is here
the sacred colour. At the foot of the altar sat a living being, a
young priest. He appeared to be praying, but in the midst of his
prayer he seemed to fall into deep thought, and this must have been
wrong, for his cheeks glowed and he held down his head. Poor
Soui-Hong! Was he, perhaps, dreaming of working in the little flower
garden behind the high street wall? And did that occupation seem
more agreeable to him than watching the wax lights in the temple? Or
did he wish to sit at the rich feast, wiping his mouth with silver
paper between each course? Or was his sin so great that, if he dared
utter it, the Celestial Empire would punish it with death? Had his
thoughts ventured to fly with the ships of the barbarians, to their
homes in far distant England? No, his thoughts did not fly so far, and
yet they were sinful, sinful as thoughts born of young hearts,
sinful here in the temple, in the presence of Fo and the other holy
gods.

"I know whither his thoughts had strayed. At the farther end of
the city, on the flat roof paved with porcelain, on which stood the
handsome vases covered with painted flowers, sat the beauteous Pu,
of the little roguish eyes, of the full lips, and of the tiny feet.
The tight shoe pained her, but her heart pained her still more. She
lifted her graceful round arm, and her satin dress rustled. Before her
stood a glass bowl containing four gold-fish. She stirred the bowl
carefully with a slender lacquered stick, very slowly, for she, too,
was lost in thought. Was she thinking, perchance, how the fishes
were richly clothed in gold, how they lived calmly and peacefully in
their crystal world, how they were regularly fed, and yet how much
happier they might be if they were free? Yes, that she could well
understand, the beautiful Pu. Her thoughts wandered away from her
home, wandered to the temple, but not for the sake of holy things.
Poor Pu! Poor Soui-hong!

"Their earthly thoughts met, but my cold beam lay between the two,
like the sword of the cherub."


TWENTY-SEVENTH EVENING

"The air was calm," said the Moon; "the water was transparent as
the purest ether through which I was gliding, and deep below the
surface I could see the strange plants that stretched up their long
arms towards me like the gigantic trees of the forest. The fishes swam
to and fro above their tops. High in the air a flight of wild swans
were winging their way, one of which sank lower and lower, with
wearied pinions, his eyes following the airy caravan, that melted
farther and farther into the distance. With outspread wings he sank
slowly, as a soap bubble sinks in the still air, till he touched the
water. At length his head lay back between his wings, and silently
he lay there, like a white lotus flower upon the quiet lake. And a
gentle wind arose, and crisped the quiet surface, which gleamed like
the clouds that poured along in great broad waves; and the swan raised
his head, and the glowing water splashed like blue fire over his
breast and back. The morning dawn illuminated the red clouds, the swan
rose strengthened, and flew towards the rising sun, towards the bluish
coast whither the caravan had gone; but he flew alone, with a
longing in his breast. Lonely he flew over the blue swelling billows."


TWENTY-EIGHTH EVENING

"I will give you another picture of Sweden," said the Moon. "Among
dark pine woods, near the melancholy banks of the Stoxen, lies the old
convent church of Wreta. My rays glided through the grating into the
roomy vaults, where kings sleep tranquilly in great stone coffins.
On the wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem of
earthly grandeur, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted
and gilt, and is hung on a wooden peg driven into the wall. The
worms have gnawed the gilded wood, the spider has spun her web from
the crown down to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail and
transient as the grief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can
remember them quite plainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips,
that so strongly and plainly expressed joy or grief. When the
steamboat winds along like a magic snail over the lakes, a stranger
often comes to the church, and visits the burial vault; he asks the
names of the kings, and they have a dead and forgotten sound. He
glances with a smile at the worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be
a pious, thoughtful man, something of melancholy mingles with the
smile. Slumber on, ye dead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at
night sends down his rays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs
the crown of pine wood."


TWENTY-NINTH EVENING

"Close by the high-road," said the Moon, "is an inn, and
opposite to it is a great waggon-shed, whose straw roof was just being
re-thatched. I looked down between the bare rafters and through the
open loft into the comfortless space below. The turkey-cock slept on
the beam, and the saddle rested in the empty crib. In the middle of
the shed stood a travelling carriage; the proprietor was inside,
fast asleep, while the horses were being watered. The coachman
stretched himself, though I am very sure that he had been most
comfortably asleep half the last stage. The door of the servants' room
stood open, and the bed looked as if it had been turned over and over;
the candle stood on the floor, and had burnt deep down into the
socket. The wind blew cold through the shed: it was nearer to the dawn
than to midnight. In the wooden frame on the ground slept a wandering
family of musicians. The father and mother seemed to be dreaming of
the burning liquor that remained in the bottle. The little pale
daughter was dreaming too, for her eyes were wet with tears. The harp
stood at their heads, and the dog lay stretched at their feet."


THIRTIETH EVENING

"It was in a little provincial town," the Moon said; "it certainly
happened last year, but that has nothing to do with the matter. I
saw it quite plainly. To-day I read about it in the papers, but
there it was not half so clearly expressed. In the taproom of the
little inn sat the bear leader, eating his supper; the bear was tied
up outside, behind the wood pile--poor Bruin, who did nobody any harm,
though he looked grim enough. Up in the garret three little children
were playing by the light of my beams; the eldest was perhaps six
years old, the youngest certainly not more than two. 'Tramp,
tramp'--somebody was coming upstairs: who might it be? The door was
thrust open--it was Bruin, the great, shaggy Bruin! He had got tired of
waiting down in the courtyard, and had found his way to the stairs.
I saw it all," said the Moon. "The children were very much
frightened at first at the great shaggy animal; each of them crept
into a corner, but he found them all out, and smelt at them, but did
them no harm. 'This must be a great dog,' they said, and began to
stroke him. He lay down upon the ground, the youngest boy clambered on
his back, and bending down a little head of golden curls, played at
hiding in the beast's shaggy skin. Presently the eldest boy took his
drum, and beat upon it till it rattled again; the bear rose upon his
hind legs, and began to dance. It was a charming sight to behold. Each
boy now took his gun, and the bear was obliged to have one too, and he
held it up quite properly. Here was a capital playmate they had found;
and they began marching--one, two; one, two.

"Suddenly some one came to the door, which opened, and the
mother of the children appeared. You should have seen her in her
dumb terror, with her face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and
her eyes fixed in a horrified stare. But the youngest boy nodded to
her in great glee, and called out in his infantile prattle, 'We're
playing at soldiers.' And then the bear leader came running up."


THIRTY-FIRST EVENING

The wind blew stormy and cold, the clouds flew hurriedly past;
only for a moment now and then did the Moon become visible. He said,
"I looked down from the silent sky upon the driving clouds, and saw
the great shadows chasing each other across the earth. I looked upon a
prison. A closed carriage stood before it; a prisoner was to be
carried away. My rays pierced through the grated window towards the
wall; the prisoner was scratching a few lines upon it, as a parting
token; but he did not write words, but a melody, the outpouring of his
heart. The door was opened, and he was led forth, and fixed his eyes
upon my round disc. Clouds passed between us, as if he were not to see
his face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was
closed, the whip cracked, and the horses gallopped off into the
thick forest, whither my rays were not able to follow him; but as I
glanced through the grated window, my rays glided over the notes,
his last farewell engraved on the prison wall--where words fail,
sounds can often speak. My rays could only light up isolated notes, so
the greater part of what was written there will ever remain dark to
me. Was it the death-hymn he wrote there? Were these the glad notes of
joy? Did he drive away to meet death, or hasten to the embraces of his
beloved? The rays of the Moon do not read all that is written by
mortals."


THIRTY-SECOND EVENING

"I love the children," said the Moon, "especially the quite little
ones--they are so droll. Sometimes I peep into the room, between the
curtain and the window frame, when they are not thinking of me. It
gives me pleasure to see them dressing and undressing. First, the
little round naked shoulder comes creeping out of the frock, then
the arm; or I see how the stocking is drawn off, and a plump little
white leg makes its appearance, and a white little foot that is fit to
be kissed, and I kiss it too.

"But about what I was going to tell you. This evening I looked
through a window, before which no curtain was drawn, for nobody
lives opposite. I saw a whole troop of little ones, all of one family,
and among them was a little sister. She is only four years old, but
can say her prayers as well as any of the rest. The mother sits by her
bed every evening, and hears her say her prayers; and then she has a
kiss, and the mother sits by the bed till the little one has gone to
sleep, which generally happens as soon as ever she can close her eyes.

"This evening the two elder children were a little boisterous. One
of them hopped about on one leg in his long white nightgown, and the
other stood on a chair surrounded by the clothes of all the
children, and declared he was acting Grecian statues. The third and
fourth laid the clean linen carefully in the box, for that is a
thing that has to be done; and the mother sat by the bed of the
youngest, and announced to all the rest that they were to be quiet,
for little sister was going to say her prayers.

"I looked in, over the lamp, into the little maiden's bed, where
she lay under the neat white coverlet, her hands folded demurely and
her little face quite grave and serious. She was praying the Lord's
prayer aloud. But her mother interrupted her in the middle of her
prayer. 'How is it,' she asked, 'that when you have prayed for daily
bread, you always add something I cannot understand? You must tell
me what that is.' The little one lay silent, and looked at her
mother in embarrassment. 'What is it you say after our daily bread?'
'Dear mother, don't be angry: I only said, and plenty of butter on
it.'"




THE NEIGHBOURING FAMILIES

One would have thought that something important was going on in
the duck-pond, but it was nothing after all. All the ducks lying
quietly on the water or standing on their heads in it--for they
could do that--at once swarm to the sides; the traces of their feet
were seen in the wet earth, and their cackling was heard far and wide.
The water, which a few moments before had been as clear and smooth
as a mirror, became very troubled. Before, every tree, every
neighbouring bush, the old farmhouse with the holes in the roof and
the swallows' nest, and especially the great rose-bush full of
flowers, had been reflected in it. The rose-bush covered the wall
and hung out over the water, in which everything was seen as if in a
picture, except that it all stood on its head; but when the water
was troubled everything got mixed up, and the picture was gone. Two
feathers which the fluttering ducks had lost floated up and down;
suddenly they took a rush as if the wind were coming, but as it did
not come they had to lie still, and the water once more became quiet
and smooth. The roses were again reflected; they were very
beautiful, but they did not know it, for no one had told them. The sun
shone among the delicate leaves; everything breathed forth the
loveliest fragrance, and all felt as we do when we are filled with joy
at the thought of our happiness.

"How beautiful existence is!" said each rose. "The only thing that
I wish for is to be able to kiss the sun, because it is so warm and
bright. I should also like to kiss those roses down in the water,
which are so much like us, and the pretty little birds down in the
nest. There are some up above too; they put out their heads and pipe
softly; they have no feathers like their father and mother. We have
good neighbours, both below and above. How beautiful existence is!"

The young ones above and below--those below were really only
shadows in the water--were sparrows; their parents were sparrows
too, and had taken possession of the empty swallows' nest of last
year, and now lived in it as if it were their own property.

"Are those the duck's children swimming here?" asked the young
sparrows when they saw the feathers on the water.

"If you must ask questions, ask sensible ones," said their mother.
"Don't you see that they are feathers, such as I wear and you will
wear too? But ours are finer. Still, I should like to have them up
in the nest, for they keep one warm. I am very curious to know what
the ducks were so startled about; not about us, certainly, although
I did say 'peep' to you pretty loudly. The thick-headed roses ought to
know why, but they know nothing at all; they only look at themselves
and smell. I am heartily tired of such neighbours."

"Listen to the dear little birds up there," said the roses;
"they begin to want to sing too, but are not able to manage it yet.
But it will soon come. What a pleasure that must be! It is fine to
have such cheerful neighbours."

Suddenly two horses came galloping up to be watered. A peasant boy
rode on one, and he had taken off all his clothes except his large
broad black hat. The boy whistled like a bird, and rode into the
pond where it was deepest, and as he passed the rose-bush he plucked a
rose and stuck it in his hat. Now he looked dressed, and rode on.
The other roses looked after their sister, and asked each other,
"Where can she be going to?" But none of them knew.

"I should like to go out into the world for once," said one;
"but here at home among our green leaves it is beautiful too. The
whole day long the sun shines bright and warm, and in the night the
sky shines more beautifully still; we can see that through all the
little holes in it."

They meant the stars, but they knew no better.

"We make it lively about the house," said the sparrow-mother; "and
people say that a swallows' nest brings luck; so they are glad of
us. But such neighbours as ours! A rose-bush on the wall like that
causes damp. I daresay it will be taken away; then we shall,
perhaps, have some corn growing here. The roses are good for nothing
but to be looked at and to be smelt, or at most to be stuck in a
hat. Every year, as I have been told by my mother, they fall off.
The farmer's wife preserves them and strews salt among them; then they
get a French name which I neither can pronounce nor care to, and are
put into the fire to make a nice smell. You see, that's their life;
they exist only for the eye and the nose. Now you know."

In the evening, when the gnats were playing about in the warm
air and in the red clouds, the nightingale came and sang to the
roses that the beautiful was like sunshine to the world, and that
the beautiful lived for ever. The roses thought that the nightingale
was singing about itself, and that one might easily have believed;
they had no idea that the song was about them. But they were very
pleased with it, and wondered whether all the little sparrows could
become nightingales.

"I understand the song of that bird very well," said the young
sparrows. "There was only one word that was not clear to me. What does
'the beautiful' mean?"

"Nothing at all," answered their mother; "that's only something
external. Up at the Hall, where the pigeons have their own house,
and corn and peas are strewn before them every day--I have dined
with them myself, and that you shall do in time, too; for tell me what
company you keep and I'll tell you who you are--up at the Hall they
have two birds with green necks and a crest upon their heads; they can
spread out their tails like a great wheel, and these are so bright
with various colours that it makes one's eyes ache. These birds are
called peacocks, and that is 'the beautiful.' If they were only
plucked a little they would look no better than the rest of us. I
would have plucked them already if they had not been so big."

"I'll pluck them," piped the young sparrow, who had no feathers
yet.

In the farmhouse lived a young married couple; they loved each
other dearly, were industrious and active, and everything in their
home looked very nice. On Sundays the young wife came down early,
plucked a handful of the most beautiful roses, and put them into a
glass of water, which she placed upon the cupboard.

"Now I see that it is Sunday," said the husband, kissing his
little wife. They sat down, read their hymn-book, and held each
other by the hand, while the sun shone down upon the fresh roses and
upon them.

"This sight is really too tedious," said the sparrow-mother, who
could see into the room from her nest; and she flew away.

The same thing happened on the following Sunday, for every
Sunday fresh roses were put into the glass; but the rose-bush
bloomed as beautifully as ever. The young sparrows now had feathers,
and wanted very much to fly with their mother; but she would not allow
it, and so they had to stay at home. In one of her flights, however it
may have happened, she was caught, before she was aware of it, in a
horse-hair net which some boys had attached to a tree. The
horse-hair was drawn tightly round her leg--as tightly as if the
latter were to be cut off; she was in great pain and terror. The
boys came running up and seized her, and in no gentle way either.

"It's only a sparrow," they said; they did not, however, let her
go, but took her home with them, and every time she cried they hit her
on the beak.

In the farmhouse was an old man who understood making soap into
cakes and balls, both for shaving and washing. He was a merry old man,
always wandering about. On seeing the sparrow which the boys had
brought, and which they said they did not want, he asked, "Shall we
make it look very pretty?"

At these words an icy shudder ran through the sparrow-mother.

Out of his box, in which were the most beautiful colours, the
old man took a quantity of shining leaf-gold, while the boys had to go
and fetch some white of egg, with which the sparrow was to be
smeared all over; the gold was stuck on to this, and the
sparrow-mother was now gilded all over. But she, trembling in every
limb, did not think of the adornment. Then the soap-man tore off a
small piece from the red lining of his old jacket, and cutting it so
as to make it look like a cock's comb, he stuck it to the bird's head.

"Now you will see the gold-jacket fly," said the old man,
letting the sparrow go, which flew away in deadly fear, with the sun
shining upon her. How she glittered! All the sparrows, and even a
crow--and an old boy he was too--were startled at the sight; but still
they flew after her to learn what kind of strange bird she was.

Driven by fear and horror, she flew homeward; she was almost
sinking fainting to the earth, while the flock of pursuing birds
increased, some even attempting to peck at her.

"Look at her! Look at her!" they all cried.

"Look at her! Look at her" cried her little ones, as she
approached the nest. "That is certainly a young peacock, for it
glitters in all colours; it makes one's eyes ache, as mother told
us. Peep! that's 'the beautiful'." And then they pecked at the bird
with their little beaks so that it was impossible for her to get
into the nest; she was so exhausted that she couldn't even say "Peep!"
much less "I am your own mother!" The other birds, too, now fell
upon the sparrow and plucked off feather after feather until she
fell bleeding into the rose-bush.

"Poor creature!" said all the roses; "only be still, and we will
hide you. Lean your little head against us."

The sparrow spread out her wings once more, then drew them closely
to her, and lay dead near the neighbouring family, the beautiful fresh
roses.

"Peep!" sounded from the nest. "Where can mother be so long?
It's more than I can understand. It cannot be a trick of hers, and
mean that we are now to take care of ourselves. She has left us the
house as an inheritance; but to which of us is it to belong when we
have families of our own?"

"Yes, it won't do for you to stay with me when I increase my
household with a wife and children,"' said the smallest.

"I daresay I shall have more wives and children than you," said
the second.

"But I am the eldest!" exclaimed the third. Then they all got
excited; they hit out with their wings, pecked with their beaks, and
flop! one after another was thrown out of the nest. There they lay
with their anger, holding their heads on one side and blinking the eye
that was turned upwards. That was their way of looking foolish.

They could fly a little; by practice they learned to improve,
and at last they agreed upon a sign by which to recognise each other
if they should meet in the world later on. It was to be one "Peep!"
and three scratches on the ground with the left foot.

The young one who had remained behind in the nest made himself
as broad as he could, for he was the proprietor. But this greatness
did not last long. In the night the red flames burst through the
window and seized the roof, the dry straw blazed up high, and the
whole house, together with the young sparrow, was burned. The two
others, who wanted to marry, thus saved their lives by a stroke of
luck.

When the sun rose again and everything looked as refreshed as if
it had had a quiet sleep, there only remained of the farmhouse a few
black charred beams leaning against the chimney, which was now its own
master. Thick smoke still rose from the ruins, but the rose-bush stood
yonder, fresh, blooming, and untouched, every flower and every twig
being reflected in the clear water.

"How beautifully the roses bloom before the ruined house,"
exclaimed a passer-by. "A pleasanter picture cannot be imagined. I
must have that." And the man took out of his portfolio a little book
with white leaves: he was a painter, and with his pencil he drew the
smoking house, the charred beams and the overhanging chimney, which
bent more and more; in the foreground he put the large, blooming
rose-bush, which presented a charming view. For its sake alone the
whole picture had been drawn.

Later in the day the two sparrows who had been born there came by.
"Where is the house?" they asked. "Where is the nest? Peep! All is
burned and our strong brother too. That's what he has now for
keeping the nest. The roses got off very well; there they still
stand with their red cheeks. They certainly do not mourn at their
neighbours' misfortunes. I don't want to talk to them, and it looks
miserable here--that's my opinion." And away they went.

On a beautiful sunny autumn day--one could almost have believed it
was still the middle of summer--there hopped about in the dry
clean-swept courtyard before the principal entrance of the Hall a
number of black, white, and gaily-coloured pigeons, all shining in the
sunlight. The pigeon-mothers said to their young ones: "Stand in
groups, stand in groups! for that looks much better."

"What kind of creatures are those little grey ones that run
about behind us?" asked an old pigeon, with red and green in her eyes.
"Little grey ones! Little grey ones!" she cried.

"They are sparrows, and good creatures. We have always had the
reputation of being pious, so we will allow them to pick up the corn
with us; they don't interrupt our talk, and they scrape so prettily
when they bow."

Indeed they were continually making three foot-scrapings with
the left foot and also said "Peep!" By this means they recognised each
other, for they were the sparrows from the nest on the burned house.

"Here is excellent fare!" said the sparrow. The pigeons strutted
round one another, puffed out their chests mightily, and had their own
private views and opinions.

"Do you see that pouter pigeon?" said one to the other. "Do you
see how she swallows the peas? She eats too many, and the best ones
too. Curoo! Curoo! How she lifts her crest, the ugly, spiteful
creature! Curoo! Curoo!" And the eyes of all sparkled with malice.
"Stand in groups! Stand in groups! Little grey ones, little grey ones!
Curoo, curoo, curoo!"

So their chatter ran on, and so it will run on for thousands of
years. The sparrows ate lustily; they listened attentively, and even
stood in the ranks with the others, but it did not suit them at all.
They were full, and so they left the pigeons, exchanging opinions
about them, slipped in under the garden palings, and when they found
the door leading into the house open, one of them, who was more than
full, and therefore felt brave, hopped on to the threshold. "Peep!"
said he; "I may venture that."

"Peep!" said the other; "so may I, and something more too!" and he
hopped into the room. No one was there; the third sparrow, seeing
this, flew still farther into the room, exclaiming, "All or nothing!
It is a curious man's nest all the same; and what have they put up
here? What is it?"

Close to the sparrows the roses were blooming; they were reflected
in the water, and the charred beams leaned against the overhanging
chimney. "Do tell me what this is. How comes this in a room at the
Hall?" And all three sparrows wanted to fly over the roses and the
chimney, but flew against a flat wall. It was all a picture, a great
splendid picture, which the artist had painted from a sketch.

"Peep!" said the sparrows, "it's nothing. It only looks like
something. Peep! that is 'the beautiful.' Do you understand it? I
don't."

And they flew away, for some people came into the room.

Days and years went by. The pigeons had often cooed, not to say
growled--the spiteful creatures; the sparrows had been frozen in
winter and had lived merrily in summer: they were all betrothed, or
married, or whatever you like to call it. They had little ones, and of
course each one thought his own the handsomest and cleverest; one flew
this way, another that, and when they met they recognised each other
by their "Peep!" and the three scrapes with the left foot. The
eldest had remained an old maid and had no nest nor young ones. It was
her pet idea to see a great city, so she flew to Copenhagen.

There was a large house painted in many gay colours standing close
to the castle and the canal, upon which latter were to be seen many
ships laden with apples and pottery. The windows of the house were
broader at the bottom than at the top, and when the sparrows looked
through them, every room appeared to them like a tulip with the
brightest colours and shades. But in the middle of the tulip stood
white men, made of marble; a few were of plaster; still, looked at
with sparrows' eyes, that comes to the same thing. Up on the roof
stood a metal chariot drawn by metal horses, and the goddess of
Victory, also of metal, was driving. It was Thorwaldsen's Museum.

"How it shines! how it shines!" said the maiden sparrow. "I
suppose that is 'the beautiful.' Peep! But here it is larger than a
peacock." She still remembered what in her childhood's days her mother
had looked upon as the greatest among the beautiful. She flew down
into the courtyard: there everything was extremely fine. Palms and
branches were painted on the walls, and in the middle of the court
stood a great blooming rose-tree spreading out its fresh boughs,
covered with roses, over a grave. Thither flew the maiden sparrow, for
she saw several of her own kind there. A "peep" and three
foot-scrapings--in this way she had often greeted throughout the year,
and no one here had responded, for those who are once parted do not
meet every day; and so this greeting had become a habit with her.
But to-day two old sparrows and a young one answered with a "peep" and
the thrice-repeated scrape with the left foot.

"Ah! Good-day! good-day!" They were two old ones from the nest and
a little one of the family. "Do we meet here? It's a grand place,
but there's not much to eat. This is 'the beautiful.' Peep!"

Many people came out of the side rooms where the beautiful
marble statues stood and approached the grave where lay the great
master who had created these works of art. All stood with enraptured
faces round Thorwaldsen's grave, and a few picked up the fallen
rose-leaves and preserved them. They had come from afar: one from
mighty England, others from Germany and France. The fairest of the
ladies plucked one of the roses and hid it in her bosom. Then the
sparrows thought that the roses reigned here, and that the house had
been built for their sake. That appeared to them to be really too
much, but since all the people showed their love for the roses, they
did not wish to be behindhand. "Peep!" they said sweeping the ground
with their tails, and blinking with one eye at the roses, they had not
looked at them long before they were convinced that they were their
old neighbours. And so they really were. The painter who had drawn the
rose-bush near the ruined house, had afterwards obtained permission to
dig it up, and had given it to the architect, for finer roses had
never been seen. The architect had planted it upon Thorwaldsen's
grave, where it bloomed as an emblem of 'the beautiful' and yielded
fragrant red rose-leaves to be carried as mementoes to distant lands.

"Have you obtained an appointment here in the city?" asked the
sparrows. The roses nodded; they recognized their grey neighbours
and were pleased to see them again. "How glorious it is to live and to
bloom, to see old friends again, and happy faces every day. It is as
if every day were a festival." "Peep!" said the sparrows. "Yes, they
are really our old neighbours; we remember their origin near the pond.
Peep! how they have got on. Yes, some succeed while they are asleep.
Ah! there's a faded leaf; I can see that quite plainly." And they
pecked at it till it fell off. But the tree stood there fresher and
greener than ever; the roses bloomed in the sunshine on
Thorwaldsen's grave and became associated with his immortal name.




THE NIGHTINGALE

In China, you know, the emperor is a Chinese, and all those
about him are Chinamen also. The story I am going to tell you happened
a great many years ago, so it is well to hear it now before it is
forgotten. The emperor's palace was the most beautiful in the world.
It was built entirely of porcelain, and very costly, but so delicate
and brittle that whoever touched it was obliged to be careful. In
the garden could be seen the most singular flowers, with pretty silver
bells tied to them, which tinkled so that every one who passed could
not help noticing the flowers. Indeed, everything in the emperor's
garden was remarkable, and it extended so far that the gardener
himself did not know where it ended. Those who travelled beyond its
limits knew that there was a noble forest, with lofty trees, sloping
down to the deep blue sea, and the great ships sailed under the shadow
of its branches. In one of these trees lived a nightingale, who sang
so beautifully that even the poor fishermen, who had so many other
things to do, would stop and listen. Sometimes, when they went at
night to spread their nets, they would hear her sing, and say, "Oh, is
not that beautiful?" But when they returned to their fishing, they
forgot the bird until the next night. Then they would hear it again,
and exclaim "Oh, how beautiful is the nightingale's song!"

Travellers from every country in the world came to the city of the
emperor, which they admired very much, as well as the palace and
gardens; but when they heard the nightingale, they all declared it
to be the best of all. And the travellers, on their return home,
related what they had seen; and learned men wrote books, containing
descriptions of the town, the palace, and the gardens; but they did
not forget the nightingale, which was really the greatest wonder.
And those who could write poetry composed beautiful verses about the
nightingale, who lived in a forest near the deep sea. The books
travelled all over the world, and some of them came into the hands
of the emperor; and he sat in his golden chair, and, as he read, he
nodded his approval every moment, for it pleased him to find such a
beautiful description of his city, his palace, and his gardens. But
when he came to the words, "the nightingale is the most beautiful of
all," he exclaimed, "What is this? I know nothing of any
nightingale. Is there such a bird in my empire? and even in my garden?
I have never heard of it. Something, it appears, may be learnt from
books."

Then he called one of his lords-in-waiting, who was so
high-bred, that when any in an inferior rank to himself spoke to
him, or asked him a question, he would answer, "Pooh," which means
nothing.

"There is a very wonderful bird mentioned here, called a
nightingale," said the emperor; "they say it is the best thing in my
large kingdom. Why have I not been told of it?"

"I have never heard the name," replied the cavalier; "she has
not been presented at court."

"It is my pleasure that she shall appear this evening." said the
emperor; "the whole world knows what I possess better than I do
myself."

"I have never heard of her," said the cavalier; "yet I will
endeavor to find her."

But where was the nightingale to be found? The nobleman went up
stairs and down, through halls and passages; yet none of those whom he
met had heard of the bird. So he returned to the emperor, and said
that it must be a fable, invented by those who had written the book.
"Your imperial majesty," said he, "cannot believe everything contained
in books; sometimes they are only fiction, or what is called the black
art."

"But the book in which I have read this account," said the
emperor, "was sent to me by the great and mighty emperor of Japan, and
therefore it cannot contain a falsehood. I will hear the
nightingale, she must be here this evening; she has my highest
favor; and if she does not come, the whole court shall be trampled
upon after supper is ended."

"Tsing-pe!" cried the lord-in-waiting, and again he ran up and
down stairs, through all the halls and corridors; and half the court
ran with him, for they did not like the idea of being trampled upon.
There was a great inquiry about this wonderful nightingale, whom all
the world knew, but who was unknown to the court.

At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said,
"Oh, yes, I know the nightingale quite well; indeed, she can sing.
Every evening I have permission to take home to my poor sick mother
the scraps from the table; she lives down by the sea-shore, and as I
come back I feel tired, and I sit down in the wood to rest, and listen
to the nightingale's song. Then the tears come into my eyes, and it is
just as if my mother kissed me."

"Little maiden," said the lord-in-waiting, "I will obtain for
you constant employment in the kitchen, and you shall have
permission to see the emperor dine, if you will lead us to the
nightingale; for she is invited for this evening to the palace." So
she went into the wood where the nightingale sang, and half the
court followed her. As they went along, a cow began lowing.

"Oh," said a young courtier, "now we have found her; what
wonderful power for such a small creature; I have certainly heard it
before."

"No, that is only a cow lowing," said the little girl; "we are a
long way from the place yet."

Then some frogs began to croak in the marsh.

"Beautiful," said the young courtier again. "Now I hear it,
tinkling like little church bells."

"No, those are frogs," said the little maiden; "but I think we
shall soon hear her now:" and presently the nightingale began to sing.

"Hark, hark! there she is," said the girl, "and there she sits,"
she added, pointing to a little gray bird who was perched on a bough.

"Is it possible?" said the lord-in-waiting, "I never imagined it
would be a little, plain, simple thing like that. She has certainly
changed color at seeing so many grand people around her."

"Little nightingale," cried the girl, raising her voice, "our most
gracious emperor wishes you to sing before him."

"With the greatest pleasure," said the nightingale, and began to
sing most delightfully.

"It sounds like tiny glass bells," said the lord-in-waiting,
"and see how her little throat works. It is surprising that we have
never heard this before; she will be a great success at court."

"Shall I sing once more before the emperor?" asked the
nightingale, who thought he was present.

"My excellent little nightingale," said the courtier, "I have
the great pleasure of inviting you to a court festival this evening,
where you will gain imperial favor by your charming song."

"My song sounds best in the green wood," said the bird; but
still she came willingly when she heard the emperor's wish.

The palace was elegantly decorated for the occasion. The walls and
floors of porcelain glittered in the light of a thousand lamps.
Beautiful flowers, round which little bells were tied, stood in the
corridors: what with the running to and fro and the draught, these
bells tinkled so loudly that no one could speak to be heard. In the
centre of the great hall, a golden perch had been fixed for the
nightingale to sit on. The whole court was present, and the little
kitchen-maid had received permission to stand by the door. She was not
installed as a real court cook. All were in full dress, and every
eye was turned to the little gray bird when the emperor nodded to
her to begin. The nightingale sang so sweetly that the tears came into
the emperor's eyes, and then rolled down his cheeks, as her song
became still more touching and went to every one's heart. The
emperor was so delighted that he declared the nightingale should
have his gold slipper to wear round her neck, but she declined the
honor with thanks: she had been sufficiently rewarded already. "I have
seen tears in an emperor's eyes," she said, "that is my richest
reward. An emperor's tears have wonderful power, and are quite
sufficient honor for me;" and then she sang again more enchantingly
than ever.

"That singing is a lovely gift;" said the ladies of the court to
each other; and then they took water in their mouths to make them
utter the gurgling sounds of the nightingale when they spoke to any
one, so that they might fancy themselves nightingales. And the footmen
and chambermaids also expressed their satisfaction, which is saying
a great deal, for they are very difficult to please. In fact the
nightingale's visit was most successful. She was now to remain at
court, to have her own cage, with liberty to go out twice a day, and
once during the night. Twelve servants were appointed to attend her on
these occasions, who each held her by a silken string fastened to
her leg. There was certainly not much pleasure in this kind of flying.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people
met, one said "nightin," and the other said "gale," and they
understood what was meant, for nothing else was talked of. Eleven
peddlers' children were named after her, but not of them could sing
a note.

One day the emperor received a large packet on which was written
"The Nightingale." "Here is no doubt a new book about our celebrated
bird," said the emperor. But instead of a book, it was a work of art
contained in a casket, an artificial nightingale made to look like a
living one, and covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.
As soon as the artificial bird was wound up, it could sing like the
real one, and could move its tail up and down, which sparkled with
silver and gold. Round its neck hung a piece of ribbon, on which was
written "The Emperor of China's nightingale is poor compared with that
of the Emperor of Japan's."

"This is very beautiful," exclaimed all who saw it, and he who had
brought the artificial bird received the title of "Imperial
nightingale-bringer-in-chief."

"Now they must sing together," said the court, "and what a duet it
will be." But they did not get on well, for the real nightingale
sang in its own natural way, but the artificial bird sang only
waltzes.

"That is not a fault," said the music-master, "it is quite perfect
to my taste," so then it had to sing alone, and was as successful as
the real bird; besides, it was so much prettier to look at, for it
sparkled like bracelets and breast-pins. Three and thirty times did it
sing the same tunes without being tired; the people would gladly
have heard it again, but the emperor said the living nightingale ought
to sing something. But where was she? No one had noticed her when
she flew out at the open window, back to her own green woods.

"What strange conduct," said the emperor, when her flight had been
discovered; and all the courtiers blamed her, and said she was a
very ungrateful creature.

"But we have the best bird after all," said one, and then they
would have the bird sing again, although it was the thirty-fourth time
they had listened to the same piece, and even then they had not learnt
it, for it was rather difficult. But the music-master praised the bird
in the highest degree, and even asserted that it was better than a
real nightingale, not only in its dress and the beautiful diamonds,
but also in its musical power. "For you must perceive, my chief lord
and emperor, that with a real nightingale we can never tell what is
going to be sung, but with this bird everything is settled. It can
be opened and explained, so that people may understand how the waltzes
are formed, and why one note follows upon another."

"This is exactly what we think," they all replied, and then the
music-master received permission to exhibit the bird to the people
on the following Sunday, and the emperor commanded that they should be
present to hear it sing. When they heard it they were like people
intoxicated; however it must have been with drinking tea, which is
quite a Chinese custom. They all said "Oh!" and held up their
forefingers and nodded, but a poor fisherman, who had heard the real
nightingale, said, "it sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are
all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell
what."

And after this the real nightingale was banished from the
empire, and the artificial bird placed on a silk cushion close to
the emperor's bed. The presents of gold and precious stones which
had been received with it were round the bird, and it was now advanced
to the title of "Little Imperial Toilet Singer," and to the rank of
No. 1 on the left hand; for the emperor considered the left side, on
which the heart lies, as the most noble, and the heart of an emperor
is in the same place as that of other people.

The music-master wrote a work, in twenty-five volumes, about the
artificial bird, which was very learned and very long, and full of the
most difficult Chinese words; yet all the people said they had read
it, and understood it, for fear of being thought stupid and having
their bodies trampled upon.

So a year passed, and the emperor, the court, and all the other
Chinese knew every little turn in the artificial bird's song; and
for that same reason it pleased them better. They could sing with
the bird, which they often did. The street-boys sang, "Zi-zi-zi,
cluck, cluck, cluck," and the emperor himself could sing it also. It
was really most amusing.

One evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and
the emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird
sounded "whizz." Then a spring cracked. "Whir-r-r-r" went all the
wheels, running round, and then the music stopped. The emperor
immediately sprang out of bed, and called for his physician; but
what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker; and, after a
great deal of talking and examination, the bird was put into something
like order; but he said that it must be used very carefully, as the
barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put in new ones
without injuring the music. Now there was great sorrow, as the bird
could only be allowed to play once a year; and even that was dangerous
for the works inside it. Then the music-master made a little speech,
full of hard words, and declared that the bird was as good as ever;
and, of course no one contradicted him.

Five years passed, and then a real grief came upon the land. The
Chinese really were fond of their emperor, and he now lay so ill
that he was not expected to live. Already a new emperor had been
chosen and the people who stood in the street asked the
lord-in-waiting how the old emperor was; but he only said, "Pooh!" and
shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the emperor in his royal bed; the whole court
thought he was dead, and every one ran away to pay homage to his
successor. The chamberlains went out to have a talk on the matter, and
the ladies'-maids invited company to take coffee. Cloth had been
laid down on the halls and passages, so that not a footstep should
be heard, and all was silent and still. But the emperor was not yet
dead, although he lay white and stiff on his gorgeous bed, with the
long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open,
and the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird. The
poor emperor, finding he could scarcely breathe with a strange
weight on his chest, opened his eyes, and saw Death sitting there.
He had put on the emperor's golden crown, and held in one hand his
sword of state, and in the other his beautiful banner. All around
the bed and peeping through the long velvet curtains, were a number of
strange heads, some very ugly, and others lovely and gentle-looking.
These were the emperor's good and bad deeds, which stared him in the
face now Death sat at his heart.

"Do you remember this?" "Do you recollect that?" they asked one
after another, thus bringing to his remembrance circumstances that
made the perspiration stand on his brow.

"I know nothing about it," said the emperor. "Music! music!" he
cried; "the large Chinese drum! that I may not hear what they say."
But they still went on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they
said. "Music! music!" shouted the emperor. "You little precious golden
bird, sing, pray sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I
have even hung my golden slipper round your neck. Sing! sing!" But the
bird remained silent. There was no one to wind it up, and therefore it
could not sing a note.

Death continued to stare at the emperor with his cold, hollow
eyes, and the room was fearfully still. Suddenly there came through
the open window the sound of sweet music. Outside, on the bough of a
tree, sat the living nightingale. She had heard of the emperor's
illness, and was therefore come to sing to him of hope and trust.
And as she sung, the shadows grew paler and paler; the blood in the
emperor's veins flowed more rapidly, and gave life to his weak
limbs; and even Death himself listened, and said, "Go on, little
nightingale, go on."

"Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich
banner? and will you give me the emperor's crown?" said the bird.

So Death gave up each of these treasures for a song; and the
nightingale continued her singing. She sung of the quiet churchyard,
where the white roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume
on the breeze, and the fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the
mourners' tears. Then Death longed to go and see his garden, and
floated out through the window in the form of a cold, white mist.

"Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I
banished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the
evil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your
sweet song. How can I reward you?"

"You have already rewarded me," said the nightingale. "I shall
never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to
you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now
sleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you again."

And as she sung, the emperor fell into a sweet sleep; and how mild
and refreshing that slumber was! When he awoke, strengthened and
restored, the sun shone brightly through the window; but not one of
his servants had returned--they all believed he was dead; only the
nightingale still sat beside him, and sang.

"You must always remain with me," said the emperor. "You shall
sing only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird
into a thousand pieces."

"No; do not do that," replied the nightingale; "the bird did
very well as long as it could. Keep it here still. I cannot live in
the palace, and build my nest; but let me come when I like. I will sit
on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you, so
that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to
you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and
the evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far
from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant's
cot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something
holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you; but you
must promise me one thing."

"Everything," said the emperor, who, having dressed himself in his
imperial robes, stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword
pressed to his heart.

"I only ask one thing," she replied; "let no one know that you
have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be best to
conceal it." So saying, the nightingale flew away.

The servants now came in to look after the dead emperor; when, lo!
there he stood, and, to their astonishment, said, "Good morning."




THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT

"That was a terrible affair!" said a hen, and in a quarter of the
town, too, where it had not taken place. "That was a terrible affair
in a hen-roost. I cannot sleep alone to-night. It is a good thing that
many of us sit on the roost together." And then she told a story
that made the feathers on the other hens bristle up, and the cock's
comb fall. There was no doubt about it.

But we will begin at the beginning, and that is to be found in a
hen-roost in another part of the town. The sun was setting, and the
fowls were flying on to their roost; one hen, with white feathers
and short legs, used to lay her eggs according to the regulations, and
was, as a hen, respectable in every way. As she was flying upon the
roost, she plucked herself with her beak, and a little feather came
out.

"There it goes," she said; "the more I pluck, the more beautiful
do I get." She said this merrily, for she was the best of the hens,
and, moreover, as had been said, very respectable. With that she
went to sleep.

It was dark all around, and hen sat close to hen, but the one
who sat nearest to her merry neighbour did not sleep. She had heard
and yet not heard, as we are often obliged to do in this world, in
order to live at peace; but she could not keep it from her neighbour
on the other side any longer. "Did you hear what was said? I mention
no names, but there is a hen here who intends to pluck herself in
order to look well. If I were a cock, I should despise her."

Just over the fowls sat the owl, with father owl and the little
owls. The family has sharp ears, and they all heard every word that
their neighbour had said. They rolled their eyes, and mother owl,
beating her wings, said: "Don't listen to her! But I suppose you heard
what was said? I heard it with my own ears, and one has to hear a
great deal before they fall off. There is one among the fowls who
has so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen that she plucks out all
her feathers and lets the cock see it."

"Prenez garde aux enfants!" said father owl; "children should
not hear such things."

"But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an
estimable owl to talk to." And with that she flew away.

"Too-whoo! Too-whoo!" they both hooted into the neighbour's
dove-cot to the doves inside. "Have you heard? Have you heard?
Too-whoo! There is a hen who has plucked out all her feathers for
the sake of the cock; she will freeze to death, if she is not frozen
already. Too-whoo!"

"Where? where?" cooed the doves.

"In the neighbour's yard. I have as good as seen it myself. It
is almost unbecoming to tell the story, but there is no doubt about
it."

"Believe every word of what we tell you," said the doves, and
cooed down into their poultry-yard. "There is a hen--nay, some say
that there are two--who have plucked out all their feathers, in
order not to look like the others, and to attract the attention of the
cock. It is a dangerous game, for one can easily catch cold and die
from fever, and both of these are dead already."

"Wake up! wake up!" crowed the cock, and flew upon his board.
Sleep was still in his eyes, but yet he crowed out: "Three hens have
died of their unfortunate love for a cock. They had plucked out all
their feathers. It is a horrible story: I will not keep it to
myself, but let it go farther."

"Let it go farther," shrieked the bats, and the hens clucked and
the cocks crowed, "Let it go farther! Let it go farther!" In this
way the story travelled from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last
came back to the place from which it had really started.

"Five hens," it now ran, "have plucked out all their feathers to
show which of them had grown leanest for love of the cock, and then
they all pecked at each other till the blood ran down and they fell
down dead, to the derision and shame of their family, and to the great
loss of their owner."

The hen who had lost the loose little feather naturally did not
recognise her own story, and being a respectable hen, said: "I despise
those fowls; but there are more of that kind. Such things ought not to
be concealed, and I will do my best to get the story into the
papers, so that it becomes known throughout the land; the hens have
richly deserved it, and their family too."

It got into the papers, it was printed; and there is no doubt
about it, one little feather may easily grow into five hens.




IN THE NURSERY

Father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters, were gone to the
play; only little Anna and her grandpapa were left at home.

"We'll have a play too," he said, "and it may begin immediately."

"But we have no theatre," cried little Anna, "and we have no one
to act for us; my old doll cannot, for she is a fright, and my new one
cannot, for she must not rumple her new clothes."

"One can always get actors if one makes use of what one has,"
observed grandpapa.

"Now we'll go into the theatre. Here we will put up a book,
there another, and there a third, in a sloping row. Now three on the
other side; so, now we have the side scenes. The old box that lies
yonder may be the back stairs; and we'll lay the flooring on top of
it. The stage represents a room, as every one may see. Now we want the
actors. Let us see what we can find in the plaything-box. First the
personages, and then we will get the play ready. One after the
other; that will be capital! Here's a pipe-head, and yonder an odd
glove; they will do very well for father and daughter."

"But those are only two characters," said little Anna. "Here's
my brother's old waistcoat--could not that play in our piece, too?"

"It's big enough, certainly," replied grandpapa. "It shall be
the lover. There's nothing in the pockets, and that's very
interesting, for that's half of an unfortunate attachment. And here we
have the nut-cracker's boots, with spurs to them. Row, dow, dow! how
they can stamp and strut! They shall represent the unwelcome wooer,
whom the lady does not like. What kind of a play will you have now?
Shall it be a tragedy, or a domestic drama?"

"A domestic drama, please," said little Anna, "for the others
are so fond of that. Do you know one?"

"I know a hundred," said grandpapa. "Those that are most in
favor are from the French, but they are not good for little girls.
In the meantime, we may take one of the prettiest, for inside
they're all very much alike. Now I shake the pen! Cock-a-lorum! So
now, here's the play, brin-bran-span new! Now listen to the
play-bill."

And grandpapa took a newspaper, and read as if he were reading
from it:

                 THE PIPE-HEAD AND THE GOOD HEAD
                    A Family Drama in One Act
                            CHARACTERS

      MR. PIPE-HEAD, a father.           MR. WAISTCOAT, a lover.
      MISS GLOVE, a daughter.            MR. DE BOOTS, a suitor.


"And now we're going to begin. The curtain rises. We have no
curtain, so it has risen already. All the characters are there, and so
we have them at hand. Now I speak as Papa Pipe-head! He's angry
to-day. One can see that he's a colored meerschaum.

"'Snik, snak, snurre, bassellurre! I'm master of this house! I'm
the father of my daughter! Will you hear what I have to say? Mr. de
Boots is a person in whom one may see one's face; his upper part is of
morocco, and he has spurs into the bargain. Snikke, snakke, snak! He
shall have my daughter!"

"Now listen to what the Waistcoat says, little Anna," said
grandpapa. "Now the Waistcoat's speaking. The Waistcoat has a
laydown collar, and is very modest; but he knows his own value, and
has quite a right to say what he says:

"'I haven't a spot on me! Goodness of material ought to be
appreciated. I am of real silk, and have strings to me.'

"'--On the wedding day, but no longer; you don't keep your color
in the wash.' This is Mr. Pipe-head who is speaking. 'Mr. de Boots
is water-tight, of strong leather, and yet very delicate; he can
creak, and clank with his spurs, and has an Italian physiognomy-'"

"But they ought to speak in verses," said Anna, "for I've heard
that's the most charming way of all."

"They can do that too," replied grandpapa; "and if the public
demands it, they will talk in that way. Just look at little Miss
Glove, how she's pointing her fingers!

  "'Could I but have my love,
    Who then so happy as Glove!
             Ah!
    If I from him must part,
    I'm sure 'twill break my heart!'
             'Bah!'

The last word was spoken by Mr. Pipe-head; and now it's Mr.
Waistcoat's turn:

  "'O Glove, my own dear,
    Though it cost thee a tear,
               Thou must be mine,
    For Holger Danske has sworn it!'


"Mr. de Boots, hearing this, kicks up, jingles his spurs, and
knocks down three of the side-scenes."

"That's exceedingly charming!" cried little Anna.

"Silence! silence!" said grandpapa. "Silent approbation will
show that you are the educated public in the stalls. Now Miss Glove
sings her great song with startling effects:

  "'I can't see, heigho!
    And therefore I'll crow!
  Kikkeriki, in the lofty hall!'


"Now comes the exciting part, little Anna. This is the most
important in all the play. Mr. Waistcoat undoes himself, and addresses
his speech to you, that you may applaud; but leave it alone,--that's
considered more genteel.

"'I am driven to extremities! Take care of yourself! Now comes the
plot! You are the Pipe-head, and I am the good head--snap! there you
go!"

"Do you notice this, little Anna?" asked grandpapa. "That's a most
charming comedy. Mr. Waistcoat seized the old Pipe-head and put him in
his pocket; there he lies, and the Waistcoat says:

"'You are in my pocket; you can't come out till you promise to
unite me to your daughter Glove on the left. I hold out my right
hand.'"

"That's awfully pretty," said little Anna.

"And now the old Pipe-head replies:

  "'Though I'm all ear,
    Very stupid I appear:
  Where's my humor? Gone, I fear,
  And I feel my hollow stick's not here,
    Ah! never, my dear,
    Did I feel so queer.
    Oh! pray let me out,
  And like a lamb led to slaughter
    I'll betroth you, no doubt,
         To my daughter.'"


"Is the play over already?" asked little Anna.

"By no means," replied grandpapa. "It's only all over with Mr.
de Boots. Now the lovers kneel down, and one of them sings:

  "'Father!'

and the other,

  'Come, do as you ought to do,--
  Bless your son and daughter.'

And they receive his blessing, and celebrate their wedding, and all
the pieces of furniture sing in chorus,

  "'Klink! clanks!
    A thousand thanks;
  And now the play is over!'


"And now we'll applaud," said grandpapa. "We'll call them all out,
and the pieces of furniture too, for they are of mahogany."

"And is not our play just as good as those which the others have
in the real theatre?"

"Our play is much better," said grandpapa. "It is shorter, the
performers are natural, and it has passed away the interval before
tea-time."




THE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP

There is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is
called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is
very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the
Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," not "Hysken."
"Hauschen," means a little house; and for many years it consisted only
of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden
booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a
little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or
bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in
every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our
grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days
as "olden times;" indeed, many centuries have passed since then.

The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in
Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their
clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and
sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were
many sorts--from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick--and quantities of all
sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper;
indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it
happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their
nickname of "pepper gentry." It had been made a condition with these
clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old
had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and
even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of
them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and
eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a
certain age, are called, in Denmark, "pepper gentry;" and this must be
remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These
"pepper gentlemen," or, as they are called in England, "old
bachelors," are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on
their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The
boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:--

  "Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
    Such a nightcap was never seen;
    Who would think it was ever clean?
  Go to sleep, it will do you good."


So they sing about the "pepper gentleman;" so do they make sport
of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really
know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or
laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.

In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers
would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in
unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths
leaning against each other were so close together, that in the
summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth
to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron,
and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a
rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys;
but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men
represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat
and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of
our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the "pepper gentlemen"
had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of
them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken
as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or
on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed
hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his.
The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close
jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over
it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the
clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon
in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to
themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.

After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and
festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a
kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to
which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two,
nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the
clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a
lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers,
bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair,
which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very
remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly
his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from
Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg.
Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the
more.

The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each
one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the
evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only
a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the
little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally
on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be
moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in
many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a
stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you
unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night
outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted
and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very
small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of
the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the
water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be
heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find
something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things
to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to
be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and
patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,--his nightcap,
which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had
only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon,
however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was
properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at
last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other
side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether
every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop
below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to
something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed,
creep down the ladder--for it could scarcely be called a flight of
stairs--and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so
he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half
way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not
properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And
when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth
chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him,
pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from
trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was
scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories
raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart
with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking
eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like
pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the
floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken.
Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life
which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his
nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the
source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The
pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances
they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would
come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they
had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.

The beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be
very beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony
were the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and
venerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial castle,
where the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the rocks;
sweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in all the
land of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a
glittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play--a
boy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear,
blue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was himself.
The little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was clever and
courageous; she was the mayor's daughter, Molly. The children were
playing with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard the pips
rattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them took half.
They also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the little
girl proposed should be placed in the ground.

"You will see what will come out," she said; "something you
don't expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly."
Then they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both
very busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with
his finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then
they both covered it over with earth.

"Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken
root," said Molly; "no one ever should do that. I did so with my
flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I
didn't know any better then, and the flowers all died."

Little Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the
whole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but
black earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm
again, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the pot.

"They are Molly and me," said the boy. "How wonderful they are,
and so beautiful!"

Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.

"Who does that stand for?" thought he, and then came another and
another. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became
quite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to
old Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and
disappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the
old man.

In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony
mountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself
above the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits.
It is called the "Venus Mountain," and the story goes that the "Lady
Venus," one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also
called "Lady Halle," as every child round Eisenach well knows. She
it was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from
the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.

Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day
Molly said, "Do you dare to knock and say, 'Lady Halle, Lady Halle,
open the door: Tannhauser is here!'" But Anthony did not dare.
Molly, however, did, though she only said the words, "Lady Halle, Lady
Halle," loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her
breath that Anthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and
yet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did sometimes when
she was in the garden with a number of other little girls; they
would all stand round him together, and want to kiss him, because he
did not like to be kissed, and pushed them away. Then Molly was the
only one who dared to resist him. "I may kiss him," she would say
proudly, as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain of her
power over Anthony, for he would submit quietly and think nothing of
it. Molly was very charming, but rather bold; and how she did tease!

They said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a
tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the
pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized
in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty
and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by
silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.

The apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year
after year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted
into the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And
there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand
the cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it
seemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the
cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for
Molly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after
this grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh
as an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for
long. All things change; Molly's father left his old home, and Molly
went with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a
few hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so
far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the
borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears
all flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy.
Molly had told him that she loved him--loved him more than all the
splendors of Weimar.

One, two, three years went by, and during the whole time he
received only two letters. One came by the carrier, and the other a
traveller brought. The way was very long and difficult, with many
turnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had
Anthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda, and Anthony
had thought the story applied to him, although Tristan means born in
sorrow, which Anthony certainly was not; nor was it likely he would
ever say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda, "She has forgotten me."
But in truth, Isolda had not forgotten him, her faithful friend; and
when both were laid in their graves, one, on each side of the
church, the linden-trees that grew by each grave spread over the roof,
and, bending towards each other, mingled their blossoms together.
Anthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never
feared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly, as he passed the
spot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter,
called the "Willow bird," beginning--

  "Under the linden-trees,
    Out on the heath."


One stanza pleased him exceedingly--

  "Through the forest, and in the vale,
  Sweetly warbles the nightingale.


This song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on
a moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow
way, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive
unexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty
welcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where
overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed
were provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had
expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own
feelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a
person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one
of them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse
with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know
nothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one
another, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something
of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.

"I am a straightforward girl," she said, "and I will tell you
myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children
together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We
cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force
of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you
when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes
in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for
another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to
this. Farewell, Anthony."

Anthony also said, "Farewell." Not a tear came into his eye; he
felt he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike
take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss
either; and Anthony's kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had
once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was
back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely
ruined.

"What matters it?" said he; "I am ruined also. I will destroy
everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus,
the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by
the roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit."

The apple-tree was not broken down; for Anthony himself was struck
with a fever, which caused him to break down, and confined him to
his bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it?
A medicine was offered to him, which he was obliged to take: a
bitter remedy, at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike
shuddered. Anthony's father lost all his property, and, from being
known as one of the richest merchants, he became very poor. Dark days,
heavy trials, with poverty at the door, came rolling into the house
upon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived
Anthony's father of his strength, so that he had something else to
think of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly.
He had to take his father's place, to give orders, to act with energy,
to help, and, at last, to go out into the world and earn his bread.
Anthony went to Bremen, and there he learnt what poverty and hard
living really were. These things often harden the character, but
sometimes soften the heart, even too much.

How different the world, and the people in it, appeared to Anthony
now, to what he had thought in his childhood! What to him were the
minstrel's songs? An echo of the past, sounds long vanished. At
times he would think in this way; yet again and again the songs
would sound in his soul, and his heart become gentle and pious.

"God's will is the best," he would then say. "It was well that I
was not allowed to keep my power over Molly's heart, and that she
did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune
has deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my
circumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a
merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could
not help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against
her."

Years passed by: Anthony's father died, and strangers lived in the
old house. He had seen it once again since then. His rich master
sent him journeys on business, and on one occasion his way led him
to his native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg castle stood
unchanged on the rock where the monk and the nun were hewn out of
the stone. The great oaks formed an outline to the scene which he so
well remembered in his childhood. The Venus mountain stood out gray
and bare, overshadowing the valley beneath. He would have been glad to
call out "Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain
remain here always in my native soil." That was a sinful thought,
and he offered a prayer to drive it away. Then a little bird in the
thicket sang out clearly, and old Anthony thought of the minstrel's
song. How much came back to his remembrance as he looked through the
tears once more on his native town! The old house was still standing
as in olden times, but the garden had been greatly altered; a
pathway led through a portion of the ground, and outside the garden,
and beyond the path, stood the old apple-tree, which he had not broken
down, although he talked of doing so in his trouble. The sun still
threw its rays upon the tree, and the refreshing dew fell upon it as
of old; and it was so overloaded with fruit that the branches bent
towards the earth with the weight. "That flourishes still," said he,
as he gazed. One of the branches of the tree had, however, been
broken: mischievous hands must have done this in passing, for the tree
now stood in a public thoroughfare. "The blossoms are often
plucked," said Anthony; "the fruit is stolen and the branches broken
without a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might
be said of a tree, as it has been said of some men--it was not
predicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly
began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and
forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public
road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It
certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the
number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it
was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be
over."

Such were Anthony's thoughts as he stood under the tree, and
during many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden
house in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the
rich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition
that he should never marry. "Marry! ha, ha!" and he laughed bitterly
to himself at the thought.

Winter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a
snowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it
happened that Anthony's neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did
not notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that
he had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in
such weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy
days, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark
nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not
left his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had
for some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken
by all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the
water jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone.
It was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In
the little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it
were by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not
see, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there
should be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his
eyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears
to shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his
mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were
lying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt
slight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one
tended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from
starvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who once wandered on the earth, the
saint of his home and his childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia,
that highly esteemed lady who visited the poorest villages, bringing
hope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection of her pious
deeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as
she went about speaking words of comfort, binding up the wounds of the
afflicted and feeding the hungry, although often blamed for it by
her stern husband. He remembered a story told of her, that on one
occasion, when she was carrying a basket full of wine and
provisions, her husband, who had watched her footsteps, stepped
forward and asked her angrily what she carried in her basket,
whereupon, with fear and trembling, she answered, "Roses, which I have
plucked from the garden." Then he tore away the cloth which covered
the basket, and what could equal the surprise of the pious woman, to
find that by a miracle, everything in her basket--the wine, the
bread--had all been changed into roses.

In this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind
of Anthony. She was as a living reality in his little dwelling in
the Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might look into her
gentle eyes, while everything around him changed from its look of
poverty and want, to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread
through the room, mingled with the sweet smell of apples. He saw the
branches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It was the tree which
he and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree
fell upon him and cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips
they seemed like refreshing bread and wine; and as they rested on
his breast, a peaceful calm stole over him, and he felt inclined to
sleep. "I shall sleep now," he whispered to himself. "Sleep will do me
good. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well.
Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears
before me in heavenly beauty." And he slept.

The following day, the third day during which his house had been
closed, the snow-storm ceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over
to the house in which old Anthony lived, for he had not yet showed
himself. There he lay stretched on his bed, dead, with his old
nightcap tightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap, however,
was not placed on his head in his coffin; he had a clean white one
on then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What had become of
those wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as
these cannot be washed out, even when the nightcap is forgotten. The
old thoughts and dreams of a bachelor's nightcap still remain. Never
wish for such a nightcap. It would make your forehead hot, cause
your pulse to beat with agitation, and conjure up dreams which would
appear realities.

The first who wore old Anthony's cap felt the truth of this,
though it was half a century afterwards. That man was the mayor
himself, who had already made a comfortable home for his wife and
eleven children, by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he
dreamed of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and of dark days.
"Hallo! how the nightcap burns!" he exclaimed, as he tore it from
his bead. Then a pearl rolled out, and then another, and another,
and they glittered and sounded as they fell. "What can this be? Is
it paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes?" They were the tears
which old Anthony had shed half a century before.

To every one who afterwards put this cap on his head, came visions
and dreams which agitated him not a little. His own history was
changed into that of Anthony till it became quite a story, and many
stories might be made by others, so we will leave them to relate their
own. We have told the first; and our last word is, don't wish for a
"bachelor's nightcap."




THE OLD CHURCH BELL

(WRITTEN FOR THE SCHILLER ALBUM)

In the country of Wurtemburg, in Germany, where the acacias grow
by the public road, where the apple-trees and the pear-trees in autumn
bend to the earth with the weight of the precious fruit, lies the
little town of Marbach. As is often the case with many of these towns,
it is charmingly situated on the banks of the river Neckar, which
rushes rapidly by, passing villages, old knights' castles, and green
vineyards, till its waters mingle with those of the stately Rhine.
It was late in the autumn; the vine-leaves still hung upon the
branches of the vines, but they were already tinted with red and gold;
heavy showers fell on the surrounding country, and the cold autumn
wind blew sharp and strong. It was not at all pleasant weather for the
poor. The days grew shorter and more gloomy, and, dark as it was out
of doors in the open air, it was still darker within the small,
old-fashioned houses of the village. The gable end of one of these
houses faced the street, and with its small, narrow windows, presented
a very mean appearance. The family who dwelt in it were also very poor
and humble, but they treasured the fear of God in their innermost
hearts. And now He was about to send them a child. It was the hour
of the mother's sorrow, when there pealed forth from the church
tower the sound of festive bells. In that solemn hour the sweet and
joyous chiming filled the hearts of those in the humble dwelling
with thankfulness and trust; and when, amidst these joyous sounds, a
little son was born to them, the words of prayer and praise arose from
their overflowing hearts, and their happiness seemed to ring out
over town and country in the liquid tones of the church bells'
chime. The little one, with its bright eyes and golden hair, had
been welcomed joyously on that dark November day. Its parents kissed
it lovingly, and the father wrote these words in the Bible, "On the
tenth of November, 1759, God sent us a son." And a short time after,
when the child had been baptized, the names he had received were
added, "John Christopher Frederick."

And what became of the little lad?--the poor boy of the humble
town of Marbach? Ah, indeed, there was no one who thought or supposed,
not even the old church bell which had been the first to sound and
chime for him, that he would be the first to sing the beautiful song
of "The Bell." The boy grew apace, and the world advanced with him.

While he was yet a child, his parents removed from Marbach, and
went to reside in another town; but their dearest friends remained
behind at Marbach, and therefore sometimes the mother and her son
would start on a fine day to pay a visit to the little town. The boy
was at this time about six years old, and already knew a great many
stories out of the Bible, and several religious psalms. While seated
in the evening on his little cane-chair, he had often heard his father
read from Gellert's fables, and sometimes from Klopstock's grand poem,
"The Messiah." He and his sister, two years older than himself, had
often wept scalding tears over the story of Him who suffered death
on the cross for us all.

On his first visit to Marbach, the town appeared to have changed
but very little, and it was not far enough away to be forgotten. The
house, with its pointed gable, narrow windows, overhanging walls and
stories, projecting one beyond another, looked just the same as in
former times. But in the churchyard there were several new graves; and
there also, in the grass, close by the wall, stood the old church
bell! It had been taken down from its high position, in consequence of
a crack in the metal which prevented it from ever chiming again, and a
new bell now occupied its place. The mother and son were walking in
the churchyard when they discovered the old bell, and they stood still
to look at it. Then the mother reminded her little boy of what a
useful bell this had been for many hundred years. It had chimed for
weddings and for christenings; it had tolled for funerals, and to give
the alarm in case of fire. With every event in the life of man the
bell had made its voice heard. His mother also told him how the
chiming of that old bell had once filled her heart with joy and
confidence, and that in the midst of the sweet tones her child had
been given to her. And the boy gazed on the large, old bell with the
deepest interest. He bowed his head over it and kissed it, old, thrown
away, and cracked as it was, and standing there amidst the grass and
nettles. The boy never forgot what his mother told him, and the
tones of the old bell reverberated in his heart till he reached
manhood. In such sweet remembrance was the old bell cherished by the
boy, who grew up in poverty to be tall and slender, with a freckled
complexion and hair almost red; but his eyes were clear and blue as
the deep sea, and what was his career to be? His career was to be
good, and his future life enviable. We find him taking high honors
at the military school in the division commanded by the member of a
family high in position, and this was an honor, that is to say, good
luck. He wore gaiters, stiff collars, and powdered hair, and by this
he was recognized; and, indeed, he might be known by the word of
command--"March! halt! front!"

The old church bell had long been quite forgotten, and no one
imagined it would ever again be sent to the melting furnace to make it
as it was before. No one could possibly have foretold this. Equally
impossible would it have been to believe that the tones of the old
bell still echoed in the heart of the boy from Marbach; or that one
day they would ring out loud enough and strong enough to be heard
all over the world. They had already been heard in the narrow space
behind the school-wall, even above the deafening sounds of "March!
halt! front!" They had chimed so loudly in the heart of the youngster,
that he had sung them to his companions, and their tones resounded
to the very borders of the country. He was not a free scholar in the
military school, neither was he provided with clothes or food. But
he had his number, and his own peg; for everything here was ordered
like clockwork, which we all know is of the greatest utility--people
get on so much better together when their position and duties are
understood. It is by pressure that a jewel is stamped. The pressure of
regularity and discipline here stamped the jewel, which in the
future the world so well knew.

In the chief town of the province a great festival was being
celebrated. The light streamed forth from thousands of lamps, and
the rockets shot upwards towards the sky, filling the air with showers
of colored fiery sparks. A record of this bright display will live
in the memory of man, for through it the pupil in the military
school was in tears and sorrow. He had dared to attempt to reach
foreign territories unnoticed, and must therefore give up
fatherland, mother, his dearest friends, all, or sink down into the
stream of common life. The old church bell had still some comfort;
it stood in the shelter of the church wall in Marbach, once so
elevated, now quite forgotten. The wind roared around it, and could
have readily related the story of its origin and of its sweet
chimes, and the wind could also tell of him to whom he had brought
fresh air when, in the woods of a neighboring country, he had sunk
down exhausted with fatigue, with no other worldly possessions than
hope for the future, and a written leaf from "Fiesco." The wind
could have told that his only protector was an artist, who, by reading
each leaf to him, made it plain; and that they amused themselves by
playing at nine-pins together. The wind could also describe the pale
fugitive, who, for weeks and months, lay in a wretched little
road-side inn, where the landlord got drunk and raved, and where the
merry-makers had it all their own way. And he, the pale fugitive, sang
of the ideal.

For many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer to
enable it to endure trial and temptation; yet, amidst it all, would
the minstrel sing. Dark days and cold nights also passed over the
old bell, and it noticed them not; but the bell in the man's heart
felt it to be a gloomy time. What would become of this young man,
and what would become of the old bell?

The old bell was, after a time, carried away to a greater distance
than any one, even the warder in the bell tower, ever imagined; and
the bell in the breast of the young man was heard in countries where
his feet had never wandered. The tones went forth over the wide
ocean to every part of the round world.

We will now follow the career of the old bell. It was, as we
have said, carried far away from Marbach and sold as old copper;
then sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace. And then what
happened?

In the royal city of Bavaria, many years after the bell had been
removed from the tower and melted down, some metal was required for
a monument in honor of one of the most celebrated characters which a
German people or a German land could produce. And now we see how
wonderfully things are ordered. Strange things sometimes happen in
this world.

In Denmark, in one of those green islands where the foliage of the
beech-woods rustles in the wind, and where many Huns' graves may be
seen, was another poor boy born. He wore wooden shoes, and when his
father worked in a ship-yard, the boy, wrapped up in an old worn-out
shawl, carried his dinner to him every day. This poor child was now
the pride of his country; for the sculptured marble, the work of his
hands, had astonished the world.[1] To him was offered the honor of
forming from the clay, a model of the figure of him whose name,
"John Christopher Frederick," had been written by his father in the
Bible. The bust was cast in bronze, and part of the metal used for
this purpose was the old church bell, whose tones had died away from
the memory of those at home and elsewhere. The metal, glowing with
heat, flowed into the mould, and formed the head and bust of the
statue which was unveiled in the square in front of the old castle.
The statue represented in living, breathing reality, the form of him
who was born in poverty, the boy from Marbach, the pupil of the
military school, the fugitive who struggled against poverty and
oppression, from the outer world; Germany's great and immortal poet,
who sung of Switzerland's deliverer, William Tell, and of the
heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.

It was a beautiful sunny day; flags were waving from tower and
roof in royal Stuttgart, and the church bells were ringing a joyous
peal. One bell was silent; but it was illuminated by the bright
sunshine which streamed from the head and bust of the renowned figure,
of which it formed a part. On this day, just one hundred years had
passed since the day on which the chiming of the old church bell at
Marbach had filled the mother's heart with trust and joy--the day on
which her child was born in poverty, and in a humble home; the same
who, in after-years, became rich, became the noble woman-hearted poet,
a blessing to the world--the glorious, the sublime, the immortal bard,
John Christoper Frederick Schiller!


[1] The Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen.




THE OLD GRAVE-STONE

In a house, with a large courtyard, in a provincial town, at
that time of the year in which people say the evenings are growing
longer, a family circle were gathered together at their old home. A
lamp burned on the table, although the weather was mild and warm,
and the long curtains hung down before the open windows, and without
the moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.

But they were not talking of the moon, but of a large, old stone
that lay below in the courtyard not very far from the kitchen door.
The maids often laid the clean copper saucepans and kitchen vessels on
this stone, that they might dry in the sun, and the children were fond
of playing on it. It was, in fact, an old grave-stone.

"Yes," said the master of the house, "I believe the stone came
from the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled
down, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold. My
father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used for
paving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and laid in the
courtyard."

"Any one can see that it is a grave-stone," said the eldest of the
children; "the representation of an hour-glass and part of the
figure of an angel can still be traced, but the inscription beneath is
quite worn out, excepting the name 'Preben,' and a large 'S' close
by it, and a little farther down the name of 'Martha' can be easily
read. But nothing more, and even that cannot be seen unless it has
been raining, or when we have washed the stone."

"Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben
Schwane and his wife."

The old man who said this looked old enough to be the
grandfather of all present in the room.

"Yes," he continued, "these people were among the last who were
buried in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy
old couple, I can remember them well in the days of my boyhood.
Every one knew them, and they were esteemed by all. They were the
oldest residents in the town, and people said they possessed a ton
of gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed, in the coarsest
stuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben and Martha
were a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the bench, at the
top of the steep stone steps, in front of their house, with the
branches of the linden-tree waving above them, and nodded in a gentle,
friendly way to passers by, it really made one feel quite happy.
They were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them, and
in their benevolence there was judgment as well as true
Christianity. The old woman died first; that day is still quite
vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my
father to the old man's house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of
death just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a bedroom, near to
the one in which we sat, and the old man was in great distress and
weeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and to a few neighbors
who were there, of how lonely he should feel now she was gone, and how
good and true she, his dead wife, had been during the number of
years that they had passed through life together, and how they had
become acquainted, and learnt to love each other. I was, as I have
said, a boy, and only stood by and listened to what the others said;
but it filled me with a strange emotion to listen to the old man,
and to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spoke of the
days of their courtship, of how beautiful she was, and how many little
tricks he had been guilty of, that he might meet her. And then he
talked of his wedding-day; and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to
be carried back, by his words, to that joyful time. And yet there
she was, lying in the next room, dead--an old woman, and he was an old
man, speaking of the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it
is; then I was but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane
then was. Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember
quite well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben
walked close behind the coffin.

"A few years before this time the old couple had had their
grave-stone prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the
date. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and laid
on the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben might be
laid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth,
they left behind them far less than people had believed they
possessed; what there was went to families distantly related to
them, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old house, with
its balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of the high steps,
under the lime-tree, was considered, by the road-inspectors, too old
and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate
befell the convent church, and the graveyard was destroyed, the
grave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything else, was sold to
whoever would buy it. And so it happened that this stone was not cut
in two as many others had been, but now lies in the courtyard below, a
scouring block for the maids, and a playground for the children. The
paved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his
wife; no one thinks of them any more now."

And the old man who had spoken of all this shook his head
mournfully, and said, "Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be
forgotten!" And then the conversation turned on other matters.

But the youngest child in the room, a boy, with large, earnest
eyes, mounted upon a chair behind the window curtains, and looked
out into the yard, where the moon was pouring a flood of light on
the old gravestone,--the stone that had always appeared to him so dull
and flat, but which lay there now like a great leaf out of a book of
history. All that the boy had heard of Old Preben and his wife
seemed clearly defined on the stone, and as he gazed on it, and
glanced at the clear, bright moon shining in the pure air, it was as
if the light of God's countenance beamed over His beautiful world.

"Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!" still echoed through
the room, and in the same moment an invisible spirit whispered to
the heart of the boy, "Preserve carefully the seed that has been
entrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Through
thee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old,
weather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear,
golden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the streets
arm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the bench under
the lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this
hour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful poem. The
beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in
story or in song."




THE OLD HOUSE

A very old house stood once in a street with several that were
quite new and clean. The date of its erection had been carved on one
of the beams, and surrounded by scrolls formed of tulips and
hop-tendrils; by this date it could be seen that the old house was
nearly three hundred years old. Verses too were written over the
windows in old-fashioned letters, and grotesque faces, curiously
carved, grinned at you from under the cornices. One story projected
a long way over the other, and under the roof ran a leaden gutter,
with a dragon's head at the end. The rain was intended to pour out
at the dragon's mouth, but it ran out of his body instead, for there
was a hole in the gutter. The other houses in the street were new
and well built, with large window panes and smooth walls. Any one
could see they had nothing to do with the old house. Perhaps they
thought, "How long will that heap of rubbish remain here to be a
disgrace to the whole street. The parapet projects so far forward that
no one can see out of our windows what is going on in that
direction. The stairs are as broad as the staircase of a castle, and
as steep as if they led to a church-tower. The iron railing looks like
the gate of a cemetery, and there are brass knobs upon it. It is
really too ridiculous."

Opposite to the old house were more nice new houses, which had
just the same opinion as their neighbors.

At the window of one of them sat a little boy with fresh rosy
cheeks, and clear sparkling eyes, who was very fond of the old
house, in sunshine or in moonlight. He would sit and look at the
wall from which the plaster had in some places fallen off, and fancy
all sorts of scenes which had been in former times. How the street
must have looked when the houses had all gable roofs, open staircases,
and gutters with dragons at the spout. He could even see soldiers
walking about with halberds. Certainly it was a very good house to
look at for amusement.

An old man lived in it, who wore knee-breeches, a coat with
large brass buttons, and a wig, which any one could see was a real
wig. Every morning an old man came to clean the rooms, and to wait
upon him, otherwise the old man in the knee-breeches would have been
quite alone in the house. Sometimes he came to one of the windows
and looked out; then the little boy nodded to him, and the old man
nodded back again, till they became acquainted, and were friends,
although they had never spoken to each other; but that was of no
consequence.

The little boy one day heard his parents say, "The old man
opposite is very well off, but is terribly lonely." The next Sunday
morning the little boy wrapped something in a piece of paper and
took it to the door of the old house, and said to the attendant who
waited upon the old man, "Will you please give this from me to the
gentleman who lives here; I have two tin soldiers, and this is one
of them, and he shall have it, because I know he is terribly lonely."

And the old attendant nodded and looked very pleased, and then
he carried the tin soldier into the house.

Afterwards he was sent over to ask the little boy if he would
not like to pay a visit himself. His parents gave him permission,
and so it was that he gained admission to the old house.

The brassy knobs on the railings shone more brightly than ever, as
if they had been polished on account of his visit; and on the door
were carved trumpeters standing in tulips, and it seemed as if they
were blowing with all their might, their cheeks were so puffed out.
"Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is
coming."

Then the door opened. All round the hall hung old portraits of
knights in armor, and ladies in silk gowns; and the armor rattled, and
the silk dresses rustled. Then came a staircase which went up a long
way, and then came down a little way and led to a balcony, which was
in a very ruinous state. There were large holes and long cracks, out
of which grew grass and leaves, indeed the whole balcony, the
courtyard, and the walls were so overgrown with green that they looked
like a garden. In the balcony stood flower-pots, on which were heads
having asses' ears, but the flowers in them grew just as they pleased.
In one pot pinks were growing all over the sides, at least the green
leaves were shooting forth stalk and stem, and saying as plainly as
they could speak, "The air has fanned me, the sun has kissed me, and I
am promised a little flower for next Sunday--really for next Sunday."

Then they entered a room in which the walls were covered with
leather, and the leather had golden flowers stamped upon it.

  "Gilding will fade in damp weather,
  To endure, there is nothing like leather,"

said the walls. Chairs handsomely carved, with elbows on each side,
and with very high backs, stood in the room, and as they creaked
they seemed to say, "Sit down. Oh dear, how I am creaking. I shall
certainly have the gout like the old cupboard. Gout in my back, ugh."

And then the little boy entered the room where the old man sat.

"Thank you for the tin soldier my little friend," said the old
man, "and thank you also for coming to see me."

"Thanks, thanks," or "Creak, creak," said all the furniture.

There was so much that the pieces of furniture stood in each
other's way to get a sight of the little boy.

On the wall near the centre of the room hung the picture of a
beautiful lady, young and gay, dressed in the fashion of the olden
times, with powdered hair, and a full, stiff skirt. She said neither
"thanks" nor "creak," but she looked down upon the little boy with her
mild eyes; and then he said to the old man,

"Where did you get that picture?"

"From the shop opposite," he replied. "Many portraits hang there
that none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent
have been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many
years ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century."

Under a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered
flowers, which were no doubt half a century old too, at least they
appeared so.

And the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands
turned round; and as time passed on, everything in the room grew
older, but no one seemed to notice it.

"They say at home," said the little boy, "that you are very
lonely."

"Oh," replied the old man, "I have pleasant thoughts of all that
has passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me,
and that is very pleasant."

Then he took from the book-case, a book full of pictures
representing long processions of wonderful coaches, such as are
never seen at the present time. Soldiers like the knave of clubs,
and citizens with waving banners. The tailors had a flag with a pair
of scissors supported by two lions, and on the shoemakers' flag
there were not boots, but an eagle with two heads, for the
shoemakers must have everything arranged so that they can say, "This
is a pair." What a picture-book it was; and then the old man went into
another room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very pleasant,
certainly, to be in that old house.

"I cannot endure it," said the tin soldier, who stood on a
shelf, "it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to
live in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear
it. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not
here like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother
talked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children
made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's
house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has
friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but
the grave. Oh, I cannot bear it."

"You must not look only on the sorrowful side," said the little
boy; "I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old
pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits."

"Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them," said the tin
soldier, "and I cannot bear it."

"You must bear it," said the little boy. Then the old man came
back with a pleasant face; and brought with him beautiful preserved
fruits, as well as apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more
of the tin soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was; and
after he returned home, and while days and weeks passed, a great
deal of nodding took place from one house to the other, and then the
little boy went to pay another visit. The carved trumpeters blew
"Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra." The swords and
armor on the old knight's pictures rattled. The silk dresses
rustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and the old chairs had the
gout in their backs, and cried, "Creak;" it was all exactly like the
first time; for in that house, one day and one hour were just like
another. "I cannot bear it any longer," said the tin soldier; "I
have wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the
wars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot
bear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old
recollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from
mine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very
nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite,
as if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children
stood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning.
You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and
mother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your
father and mother were looking just as serious, when the door
opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was
brought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music
and singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although
she ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right
time because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and
then on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit
the music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very
difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from
the table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not
right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen,
keeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that
bring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on
Sundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old
comrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I
cannot endure this life."

"You are given away," said the little boy; "you must stay. Don't
you see that?" Then the old man came in, with a box containing many
curious things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards, so
large and so richly gilded, that none are ever seen like them in these
days. And there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was
opened, and inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old
man played, the piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the
picture he had bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled
brightly as he nodded at it, and said, "Ah, she could sing that tune."

"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" cried the tin
soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor.
Where could he have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy
searched, but he was gone, and could not be found. "I shall find him
again," said the old man, but he did not find him. The boards of the
floor were open and full of holes. The tin soldier had fallen
through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open
grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week
passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite
frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub
a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all
the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with
snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the
old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and
the old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to
the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him
away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the
little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with
it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the
pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long
ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,
some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture
dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no
one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;
they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete
rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls
were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the
balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away
altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very
shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had
lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the
old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines
grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were
large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.
People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows
assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as
loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could
remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the
little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents
were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his
young wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,
and now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower
that she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her
little hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. "Oh
dear, what was that?" she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out
of the soft earth something was sticking up. It was--only think!--it
was really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in
the old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for
a long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been
for many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt
of such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was
recovering from a fainting fit. "Let me see him," said the young
man, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, "It can scarcely
be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my
tin soldiers when I was a little boy." And then he told his wife about
the old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had
sent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related
the story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife
for the old house and the old man. "It is very likely that this is
really the same soldier," said she, "and I will take care of him, and
always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me
the old man's grave."

"I don't know where it is," he replied; "no one knows. All his
friends are dead; no one took care of him, and I was only a little
boy."

"Oh, how dreadfully lonely he must have been," said she.

"Yes, terribly lonely," cried the tin soldier; "still it is
delightful not to be forgotten."

"Delightful indeed," cried a voice quite near to them; no one
but the tin soldier saw that it came from a rag of the leather which
hung in tatters; it had lost all its gilding, and looked like wet
earth, but it had an opinion, and it spoke it thus:--

  "Gilding will fade in damp weather,
  To endure, there is nothing like leather."


But the tin soldier did not believe any such thing.




WHAT THE OLD MAN DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT

I will tell you a story that was told me when I was a little
boy. Every time I thought of this story, it seemed to me more and more
charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people--they
become better as they grow older.

I have no doubt that you have been in the country, and seen a very
old farmhouse, with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants
growing wild upon it. There is a stork's nest on the ridge of the
gable, for we cannot do without the stork. The walls of the house
are sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is
made to open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like a great
knob. An elder-tree hangs over the palings; and beneath its
branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water, in which a
few ducks are disporting themselves. There is a yard-dog too, who
barks at all corners. Just such a farmhouse as this stood in a country
lane; and in it dwelt an old couple, a peasant and his wife. Small
as their possessions were, they had one article they could not do
without, and that was a horse, which contrived to live upon the
grass which it found by the side of the high road. The old peasant
rode into the town upon this horse, and his neighbors often borrowed
it of him, and paid for the loan of it by rendering some service to
the old couple. After a time they thought it would be as well to
sell the horse, or exchange it for something which might be more
useful to them. But what might this something be?

"You'll know best, old man," said the wife. "It is fair-day
to-day; so ride into town, and get rid of the horse for money, or make
a good exchange; whichever you do will be right to me, so ride to the
fair."

And she fastened his neckerchief for him; for she could do that
better than he could, and she could also tie it very prettily in a
double bow. She also smoothed his hat round and round with the palm of
her hand, and gave him a kiss. Then he rode away upon the horse that
was to be sold or bartered for something else. Yes, the old man knew
what he was about. The sun shone with great heat, and not a cloud
was to be seen in the sky. The road was very dusty; for a number of
people, all going to the fair, were driving, riding, or walking upon
it. There was no shelter anywhere from the hot sunshine. Among the
rest a man came trudging along, and driving a cow to the fair. The cow
was as beautiful a creature as any cow could be.

"She gives good milk, I am certain," said the peasant to
himself. "That would be a very good exchange: the cow for the horse.
Hallo there! you with the cow," he said. "I tell you what; I dare
say a horse is of more value than a cow; but I don't care for that,--a
cow will be more useful to me; so, if you like, we'll exchange."

"To be sure I will," said the man.

Accordingly the exchange was made; and as the matter was
settled, the peasant might have turned back; for he had done the
business he came to do. But, having made up his mind to go to the
fair, he determined to do so, if only to have a look at it; so on he
went to the town with his cow. Leading the animal, he strode on
sturdily, and, after a short time, overtook a man who was driving a
sheep. It was a good fat sheep, with a fine fleece on its back.

"I should like to have that fellow," said the peasant to
himself. "There is plenty of grass for him by our palings, and in
the winter we could keep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would
be more profitable to have a sheep than a cow. Shall I exchange?"
The man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was
quickly made. And then our peasant continued his way on the
high-road with his sheep. Soon after this, he overtook another man,
who had come into the road from a field, and was carrying a large
goose under his arm.

"What a heavy creature you have there!" said the peasant; "it
has plenty of feathers and plenty of fat, and would look well tied
to a string, or paddling in the water at our place. That would be very
useful to my old woman; she could make all sorts of profits out of it.
How often she has said, 'If now we only had a goose!' Now here is an
opportunity, and, if possible, I will get it for her. Shall we
exchange? I will give you my sheep for your goose, and thanks into the
bargain."

The other had not the least objection, and accordingly the
exchange was made, and our peasant became possessor of the goose. By
this time he had arrived very near the town. The crowd on the high
road had been gradually increasing, and there was quite a rush of
men and cattle. The cattle walked on the path and by the palings,
and at the turnpike-gate they even walked into the toll-keeper's
potato-field, where one fowl was strutting about with a string tied to
its leg, for fear it should take fright at the crowd, and run away and
get lost. The tail-feathers of the fowl were very short, and it winked
with both its eyes, and looked very cunning, as it said "Cluck,
cluck." What were the thoughts of the fowl as it said this I cannot
tell you; but directly our good man saw it, he thought, "Why that's
the finest fowl I ever saw in my life; it's finer than our parson's
brood hen, upon my word. I should like to have that fowl. Fowls can
always pick up a few grains that lie about, and almost keep
themselves. I think it would be a good exchange if I could get it
for my goose. Shall we exchange?" he asked the toll-keeper.

"Exchange," repeated the man; "well, it would not be a bad thing."

And so they made an exchange,--the toll-keeper at the
turnpike-gate kept the goose, and the peasant carried off the fowl.
Now he had really done a great deal of business on his way to the
fair, and he was hot and tired. He wanted something to eat, and a
glass of ale to refresh himself; so he turned his steps to an inn.
He was just about to enter when the ostler came out, and they met at
the door. The ostler was carrying a sack. "What have you in that
sack?" asked the peasant.

"Rotten apples," answered the ostler; "a whole sackful of them.
They will do to feed the pigs with."

"Why that will be terrible waste," he replied; "I should like to
take them home to my old woman. Last year the old apple-tree by the
grass-plot only bore one apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it
was quite withered and rotten. It was always property, my old woman
said; and here she would see a great deal of property--a whole
sackful; I should like to show them to her."

"What will you give me for the sackful?" asked the ostler.

"What will I give? Well, I will give you my fowl in exchange."

So he gave up the fowl, and received the apples, which he
carried into the inn parlor. He leaned the sack carefully against
the stove, and then went to the table. But the stove was hot, and he
had not thought of that. Many guests were present--horse dealers,
cattle drovers, and two Englishmen. The Englishmen were so rich that
their pockets quite bulged out and seemed ready to burst; and they
could bet too, as you shall hear. "Hiss-s-s, hiss-s-s." What could
that be by the stove? The apples were beginning to roast. "What is
that?" asked one.

"Why, do you know"--said our peasant. And then he told them the
whole story of the horse, which he had exchanged for a cow, and all
the rest of it, down to the apples.

"Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home,"
said one of the Englishmen. "Won't there be a noise?"

"What! Give me what?" said the peasant. "Why, she will kiss me,
and say, 'what the old man does is always right.'"

"Let us lay a wager on it," said the Englishmen. "We'll wager
you a ton of coined gold, a hundred pounds to the hundred-weight."

"No; a bushel will be enough," replied the peasant. "I can only
set a bushel of apples against it, and I'll throw myself and my old
woman into the bargain; that will pile up the measure, I fancy."

"Done! taken!" and so the bet was made.

Then the landlord's coach came to the door, and the two Englishmen
and the peasant got in, and away they drove, and soon arrived and
stopped at the peasant's hut. "Good evening, old woman." "Good
evening, old man." "I've made the exchange."

"Ah, well, you understand what you're about," said the woman. Then
she embraced him, and paid no attention to the strangers, nor did
she notice the sack.

"I got a cow in exchange for the horse."

"Thank Heaven," said she. "Now we shall have plenty of milk, and
butter, and cheese on the table. That was a capital exchange."

"Yes, but I changed the cow for a sheep."

"Ah, better still!" cried the wife. "You always think of
everything; we have just enough pasture for a sheep. Ewe's milk and
cheese, woollen jackets and stockings! The cow could not give all
these, and her hair only falls off. How you think of everything!"

"But I changed away the sheep for a goose."

"Then we shall have roast goose to eat this year. You dear old
man, you are always thinking of something to please me. This is
delightful. We can let the goose walk about with a string tied to
her leg, so she will be fatter still before we roast her."

"But I gave away the goose for a fowl."

"A fowl! Well, that was a good exchange," replied the woman.
"The fowl will lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens; we
shall soon have a poultry-yard. Oh, this is just what I was wishing
for."

"Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shrivelled apples."

"What! I really must give you a kiss for that!" exclaimed the
wife. "My dear, good husband, now I'll tell you something. Do you
know, almost as soon as you left me this morning, I began to think
of what I could give you nice for supper this evening, and then I
thought of fried eggs and bacon, with sweet herbs; I had eggs and
bacon, but I wanted the herbs; so I went over to the schoolmaster's: I
knew they had plenty of herbs, but the schoolmistress is very mean,
although she can smile so sweetly. I begged her to lend me a handful
of herbs. 'Lend!' she exclaimed, 'I have nothing to lend; nothing at
all grows in our garden, not even a shrivelled apple; I could not even
lend you a shrivelled apple, my dear woman. But now I can lend her
ten, or a whole sackful, which I'm very glad of; it makes me laugh
to think about it;" and then she gave him a hearty kiss.

"Well, I like all this," said both the Englishmen; "always going
down the hill, and yet always merry; it's worth the money to see
it." So they paid a hundred-weight of gold to the peasant, who,
whatever he did, was not scolded but kissed.

Yes, it always pays best when the wife sees and maintains that her
husband knows best, and whatever he does is right.

That is a story which I heard when I was a child; and now you have
heard it too, and know that "What the old man does is always right."




THE OLD STREET LAMP

Did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not
remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen
to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many
years of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this
evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street. His
feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theatre,
who is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the morrow she
will be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had very great
anxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to appear for
the first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the mayor and
the council, who were to decide if he were fit for further service
or not;--whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light the
inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory;
and if not, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to be
melted down. In this latter case it might be turned into anything, and
he wondered very much whether he would then be able to remember that
he had once been a street lamp, and it troubled him exceedingly.
Whatever might happen, one thing seemed certain, that he would be
separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family he looked
upon as his own. The lamp had first been hung up on that very
evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon
the duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long time since
one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a little
pride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the lamp,
excepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the daytime. But
in later years, when all these,--the watchman, the wife, and the
lamp--had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and supplied it
with oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they had never
cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.

This was the lamp's last night in the street, and to-morrow he
must go to the town-hall,--two very dark things to think of. No wonder
he did not burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through
his mind. How many persons he had lighted on their way, and how much
he had seen; as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation
themselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for he
was a good, honorable old lamp, who would not willingly do harm to any
one, especially to those in authority. As many things were recalled to
his mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness; he had,
at such moments, a conviction that he would be remembered. "There
was a handsome young man once," thought he; "it is certainly a long
while ago, but I remember he had a little note, written on pink
paper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant, evidently a lady's
hand: twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at
me, with eyes that said quite plainly, 'I am the happiest of men!'
Only he and I know what was written on this his first letter from
his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I
remember,--it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing
to another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and beautiful
woman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and attended
by torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the street
stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the
procession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I
could look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my
post, and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked
up at me." These and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp,
on this the last time that his light would shine. The sentry, when
he is relieved from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and
may whisper a few words to him, but the lamp did not know his
successor, or he could have given him a few hints respecting rain,
or mist, and could have informed him how far the moon's rays would
rest on the pavement, and from which side the wind generally blew, and
so on.

On the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to
recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the
office to whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring's head, which
could emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great
saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two was a
piece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark. He considered
himself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the forest.
The third was a glow-worm, and how he found his way there the lamp
could not imagine, yet there he was, and could really give light as
well as the others. But the rotten wood and the herring's head
declared most solemnly, by all they held sacred, that the glow-worm
only gave light at certain times, and must not be allowed to compete
with themselves. The old lamp assured them that not one of them
could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street lamp; but
they would believe nothing he said. And when they discovered that he
had not the power of naming his successor, they said they were very
glad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and worn-out to make a
proper choice.

At this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the
street, and through the air-holes of the old lamp. "What is this I
hear?" said he; "that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening
the last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell
gift. I will blow into your brain, so that in future you shall not
only be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the
past, but your light within shall be so bright, that you shall be able
to understand all that is said or done in your presence."

"Oh, that is really a very, very great gift," said the old lamp;
"I thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down."

"That is not likely to happen yet," said the wind; "and I will
also blow a memory into you, so that should you receive other
similar presents your old age will pass very pleasantly."

"That is if I am not melted down," said the lamp. "But should I in
that case still retain my memory?"

"Do be reasonable, old lamp," said the wind, puffing away.

At this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds. "What will
you give the old lamp?" asked the wind.

"I can give nothing," she replied; "I am on the wane, and no lamps
have ever given me light while I have frequently shone upon them." And
with these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds, that
she might be saved from further importunities. Just then a drop fell
upon the lamp, from the roof of the house, but the drop explained that
he was a gift from those gray clouds, and perhaps the best of all
gifts. "I shall penetrate you so thoroughly," he said, "that you
will have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, to crumble
into dust in one night."

But this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind
thought so too. "Does no one give any more? Will no one give any
more?" shouted the breath of the wind, as loud as it could. Then a
bright falling star came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak behind
it.

"What was that?" cried the herring's head. "Did not a star fall? I
really believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born
personages try for the office, we may as well say 'Good-night,' and go
home."

And so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully
strong light all around him.

"This is a glorious gift," said he; "the bright stars have
always been a joy to me, and have always shone more brilliantly than I
ever could shine, though I have tried with my whole might; and now
they have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that
will enable me to see clearly everything that I remember, as if it
still stood before me, and to be seen by all those who love me. And
herein lies the truest pleasure, for joy which we cannot share with
others is only half enjoyed."

"That sentiment does you honor," said the wind; "but for this
purpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you,
your particular faculties will not benefit others in the least. The
stars have not thought of this; they suppose that you and every
other light must be a wax taper: but I must go down now." So he laid
himself to rest.

"Wax tapers, indeed!" said the lamp, "I have never yet had
these, nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not
being melted down!"

The next day. Well, perhaps we had better pass over the next
day. The evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather's
chair, and guess where! Why, at the old watchman's house. He had
begged, as a favor, that the mayor and corporation would allow him
to keep the street lamp, in consideration of his long and faithful
service, as he had himself hung it up and lit it on the day he first
commenced his duties, four-and-twenty years ago. He looked upon it
almost as his own child; he had no children, so the lamp was given
to him. There it lay in the great arm-chair near to the warm stove. It
seemed almost as if it had grown larger, for it appeared quite to fill
the chair. The old people sat at their supper, casting friendly
glances at the old lamp, whom they would willingly have admitted to
a place at the table. It is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar,
two yards deep in the earth, and they had to cross a stone passage
to get to their room, but within it was warm and comfortable and
strips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed and the
little window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat. On
the window seat stood two curious flower-pots which a sailor, named
Christian, had brought over from the East or West Indies. They were of
clay, and in the form of two elephants, with open backs; they were
hollow and filled with earth, and through the open space flowers
bloomed. In one grew some very fine chives or leeks; this was the
kitchen garden. The other elephant, which contained a beautiful
geranium, they called their flower garden. On the wall hung a large
colored print, representing the congress of Vienna, and all the
kings and emperors at once. A clock, with heavy weights, hung on the
wall and went "tick, tick," steadily enough; yet it was always
rather too fast, which, however, the old people said was better than
being too slow. They were now eating their supper, while the old
street lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather's arm-chair near
the stove. It seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned
round; but after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp, and
spoke of what they had both gone through together,--in rain and in
fog; during the short bright nights of summer, or in the long winter
nights, through the drifting snow-storms, when he longed to be at home
in the cellar. Then the lamp felt it was all right again. He saw
everything that had happened quite clearly, as if it were passing
before him. Surely the wind had given him an excellent gift. The old
people were very active and industrious, they were never idle for even
a single hour. On Sunday afternoons they would bring out some books,
generally a book of travels which they were very fond of. The old
man would read aloud about Africa, with its great forests and the wild
elephants, while his wife would listen attentively, stealing a
glance now and then at the clay elephants, which served as
flower-pots.

"I can almost imagine I am seeing it all," she said; and then
how the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in him, for then the
old woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as he did
himself. The lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, the
naked negroes on horseback, and whole herds of elephants treading down
bamboo thickets with their broad, heavy feet.

"What is the use of all my capabilities," sighed the old lamp,
"when I cannot obtain any wax lights; they have only oil and tallow
here, and these will not do." One day a great heap of wax-candle
ends found their way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burnt,
and the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So
there were now candles enough, but it never occurred to any one to put
a little piece in the lamp.

"Here I am now with my rare powers," thought the lamp, "I have
faculties within me, but I cannot share them; they do not know that
I could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change
them into noble forests, or, indeed, to anything else they might
wish for." The lamp, however, was always kept clean and shining in a
corner where it attracted all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as
lumber, but the old people did not care for that; they loved the lamp.
One day--it was the watchman's birthday--the old woman approached
the lamp, smiling to herself, and said, "I will have an illumination
to-day in honor of my old man." And the lamp rattled in his metal
frame, for he thought, "Now at last I shall have a light within me,"
but after all no wax light was placed in the lamp, but oil as usual.
The lamp burned through the whole evening, and began to perceive too
clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden treasure
all his life. Then he had a dream; for, to one with his faculties,
dreaming was no difficulty. It appeared to him that the old people
were dead, and that he had been taken to the iron foundry to be melted
down. It caused him quite as much anxiety as on the day when he had
been called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the
town-hall. But though he had been endowed with the power of falling
into decay from rust when he pleased, he did not make use of it. He
was therefore put into the melting-furnace and changed into as elegant
an iron candlestick as you could wish to see, one intended to hold a
wax taper. The candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a
nosegay, in the centre of which the wax taper was to be placed. It was
to stand on a green writing table, in a very pleasant room; many books
were scattered about, and splendid paintings hung on the walls. The
owner of the room was a poet, and a man of intellect; everything he
thought or wrote was pictured around him. Nature showed herself to him
sometimes in the dark forests, at others in cheerful meadows where the
storks were strutting about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across
the foaming sea with the clear, blue sky above, or at night the
glittering stars. "What powers I possess!" said the lamp, awaking from
his dream; "I could almost wish to be melted down; but no, that must
not be while the old people live. They love me for myself alone,
they keep me bright, and supply me with oil. I am as well off as the
picture of the congress, in which they take so much pleasure." And
from that time he felt at rest in himself, and not more so than such
an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.




OLE-LUK-OIE, THE DREAM-GOD

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

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


MONDAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, we are very willing to do so, but we cannot," said
Hjalmar's letters; "we are so wretchedly made."

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

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

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


TUESDAY

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

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

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

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

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


WEDNESDAY

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

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

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

"Just look at that fellow," said the chickens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


THURSDAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


FRIDAY

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But it is so cold here, and freezes sometimes."

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

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

And so they settled it.


SATURDAY

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

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

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

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

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


SUNDAY

"Good evening," said Ole-Luk-Oie.

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

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

"Good," they all answered.

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

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

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

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

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




OLE THE TOWER-KEEPER

"In the world it's always going up and down; and now I can't go up
any higher!" So said Ole the tower-keeper. "Most people have to try
both the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get to
be watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height."

Such was the speech of Ole, my friend, the old tower-keeper, a
strange, talkative old fellow, who seemed to speak out everything that
came into his head, and who for all that had many a serious thought
deep in his heart. Yes, he was the child of respectable people, and
there were even some who said that he was the son of a privy
councillor, or that he might have been. He had studied, too, and had
been assistant teacher and deputy clerk; but of what service was all
that to him? In those days he lived in the clerk's house, and was to
have everything in the house--to be at free quarters, as the saying
is; but he was still, so to speak, a fine young gentleman. He wanted
to have his boots cleaned with patent blacking, and the clerk could
only afford ordinary grease; and upon that point they split. One spoke
of stinginess, the other of vanity, and the blacking became the
black cause of enmity between them, and at last they parted.

This is what he demanded of the world in general, namely, patent
blacking, and he got nothing but grease. Accordingly, he at last
drew back from all men, and became a hermit; but the church tower is
the only place in a great city where hermitage, office and bread can
be found together. So he betook himself up thither, and smoked his
pipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward,
and had his own thoughts, and told in his own way of what he read in
books and in himself. I often lent him books--good books; and you
may know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the English
governess novels nor the French ones, which he called a mixture of
empty wind and raisin-stalks: he wanted biographies, and
descriptions of the wonders of, the world. I visited him at least once
a year, generally directly after New Year's day, and then he always
spoke of this and that which the change of the year had put into his
head.

I will tell the story of three of these visits, and will reproduce
his own words whenever I can remember them.


FIRST VISIT

Among the books which I had lately lent Ole, was one which had
greatly rejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book,
containing an account of the boulders.

"Yes, they're rare old fellows, those boulders!" he said; "and
to think that we should pass them without noticing them! And over
the street pavement, the paving stones, those fragments of the
oldest remains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking about
them. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfully
at every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me with
thought, and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance
of the earth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It's a
pity one can't read the first volume of it, because it is written in a
language that we don't understand. One must read in the different
strata, in the pebble-stones, for each separate period. Yes, it is a
romance, a very wonderful romance, and we all have our place in it. We
grope and ferret about, and yet remain where we are; but the ball
keeps turning, without emptying the ocean over us; the clod on which
we move about, holds, and does not let us through. And then it's a
story that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years and
is still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders.
Those are fellows indeed! They could tell us something worth
hearing, if they only knew how to talk. It's really a pleasure now and
then to become a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highly
placed as I am. And then to think that we all, even with patent
lacquer, are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hill
the earth, though we may be insects with stars and garters, places and
offices! One feels quite a novice beside these venerable
million-year-old boulders. On last New Year's eve I was reading the
book, and had lost myself in it so completely, that I forgot my
usual New Year's diversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amack. Ah, you
don't know what that is!

"The journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known--that
journey is taken on St. John's eve, to the Brocken; but we have a
wild journey, also which is national and modern, and that is the
journey to Amack on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poets
and poetesses, musicians, newspaper writers, and artistic
notabilities,--I mean those who are no good,--ride in the New Year's
night through the air to Amack. They sit backwards on their painting
brushes or quill pens, for steel pens won't bear them--they're too
stiff. As I told you, I see that every New Year's night, and could
mention the majority of the riders by name, but I should not like to
draw their enmity upon myself, for they don't like people to talk
about their ride to Amack on quill pens. I've a kind of niece, who
is a fishwife, and who, as she tells me, supplies three respectable
newspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use, and
she has herself been at Amack as an invited guest; but she was carried
out thither, for she does not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. She
has told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true, but the
other half gives us information enough. When she was out there, the
festivities began with a song; each of the guests had written his
own song, and each one sang his own song, for he thought that the
best, and it was all one, all the same melody. Then those came
marching up, in little bands, who are only busy with their mouths.
There were ringing bells that rang alternately; and then came the
little drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle; and
acquaintance was made with those who write without putting their
names, which here means as much as using grease instead of patent
blacking; and then there was the beadle with his boy, and the boy
was worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then,
too, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns over
the dust-bin, and calls it 'good, very good, remarkably good.' And
in the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meeting
of these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amack a
stem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof,
which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in it
hung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Out
of the tree poured sparks like flames of fire; these were the ideas
and thoughts, borrowed from others, which they had used, and which now
got free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at 'the
stick burns,' and the young poets played at 'heart-burns,' and the
witlings played off their jests, and the jests rolled away with a
thundering sound, as if empty pots were being shattered against doors.
'It was very amusing!' my niece said; in fact, she said many things
that were very malicious but very amusing, but I won't mention them,
for a man must be good-natured, and not a carping critic. But you will
easily perceive that when a man once knows the rights of the journey
to Amack, as I know them, it's quite natural that on the New Year's
night one should look out to see the wild chase go by. If in the New
Year I miss certain persons who used to be there, I am sure to
notice others who are new arrivals; but this year I omitted taking
my look at the guests, I bowled away on the boulders, rolled back
through millions of years, and saw the stones break loose high up in
the north, saw them drifting about on icebergs, long before Noah's ark
was constructed, saw them sink down to the bottom of the sea, and
re-appear with a sand-bank, with that one that peered forth from the
flood and said, 'This shall be Zealand!' I saw them become the
dwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us, and then become the
seat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing, until with their axes
they cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones, which then came
into the calendar of time. But as for me, I had gone quite beyond
all lapse of time, and had become a cipher and a nothing. Then three
or four beautiful falling stars came down, which cleared the air,
and gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a falling star
is, do you not? The learned men are not at all clear about it. I
have my own ideas about shooting stars, as the common people in many
parts call them, and my idea is this: How often are silent
thanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble action!
The thanks are often speechless, but they are not lost for all that. I
think these thanks are caught up, and the sunbeams bring the silent,
hidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor; and if it be a
whole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a long
lapse of time, the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers, and
at length falls in the form of a shooting star over the good man's
grave. I am always very much pleased when I see a shooting star,
especially in the New Year's night, and then find out for whom the
gift of gratitude was intended. Lately a gleaming star fell in the
southwest, as a tribute of thanksgiving to many--many! 'For whom was
that star intended?' thought I. It fell, no doubt, on the hill by
the Bay of Plensberg, where the Danebrog waves over the graves of
Schleppegrell, Lasloes, and their comrades. One star also fell in
the midst of the land, fell upon Soro, a flower on the grave of
Holberg, the thanks of the year from a great many--thanks for his
charming plays!

"It is a great and pleasant thought to know that a shooting star
falls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall--no sunbeam
brings thanks to me, for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. I
shall not get the patent lacquer," said Ole, "for my fate on earth
is only grease, after all."


SECOND VISIT

It was New Year's day, and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke of
the toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year into
the New--from one grave into the other, as he said. And he told me a
story about the glasses, and this story had a very deep meaning. It
was this:

"When on the New Year's night the clock strikes twelve, the people
at the table rise up with full glasses in their hands, and drain these
glasses, and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year with
the glass in their hands; that is a good beginning for drunkards. They
begin the New Year by going to bed, and that's a good beginning for
drones. Sleep is sure to play a great part in the New Year, and the
glass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass?" asked Ole. "I
will tell you. There dwell in the glass, first, health, and then
pleasure, then the most complete sensual delight; and misfortune and
the bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now, suppose we count the
glasses--of course I count the different degrees in the glasses for
different people.

"You see, the first glass, that's the glass of health, and in that
the herb of health is found growing. Put it up on the beam in the
ceiling, and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbor of
health.

"If you take the second glass--from this a little bird soars
upward, twittering in guileless cheerfulness, so that a man may listen
to his song, and perhaps join in 'Fair is life! no downcast looks!
Take courage, and march onward!'

"Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin, who cannot
certainly be called an angel child, for there is goblin blood in his
veins, and he has the spirit of a goblin--not wishing to hurt or
harm you, indeed, but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'll
sit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you; he'll creep into
your heart and warm you, so that you grow very merry, and become a
wit, so far as the wits of the others can judge.

"In the fourth glass is neither herb, bird, nor urchin. In that
glass is the pause drawn by reason, and one may never go beyond that
sign.

"Take the fifth glass, and you will weep at yourself, you will
feel such a deep emotion; or it will affect you in a different way.
Out of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival, nine
times and extravagantly merry. He'll draw you away with him; you'll
forget your dignity, if you have any, and you'll forget more than
you should or ought to forget. All is dance, song and sound: the masks
will carry you away with them, and the daughters of vanity, clad in
silk and satin, will come with loose hair and alluring charms; but
tear yourself away if you can!

"The sixth glass! Yes, in that glass sits a demon, in the form
of a little, well dressed, attractive and very fascinating man, who
thoroughly understands you, agrees with you in everything, and becomes
quite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him, to give you
light as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint
who was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins, and who
accordingly chose drunkenness, which appeared to him the least, but
which led him to commit all the other six. The man's blood is
mingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass, and with that
the germ of all evil shoots up within us; and each one grows up with a
strength like that of the grains of mustard-seed, and shoots up into a
tree, and spreads over the whole world: and most people have no choice
but to go into the oven, to be re-cast in a new form.

"That's the history of the glasses," said the tower-keeper Ole,
"and it can be told with lacquer or only with grease; but I give it
you with both!"


THIRD VISIT

On this occasion I chose the general "moving-day" for my visit
to Ole, for on that day it is anything but agreeable down in the
streets in the town; for they are full of sweepings, shreds, and
remnants of all sorts, to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in which
one has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two children
playing in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at "going
to bed," for the occasion seemed especially favorable for this
sport. They crept under the straw, and drew an old bit of ragged
curtain over themselves by way of coverlet. "It was splendid!" they
said; but it was a little too strong for me, and besides, I was
obliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.

"It's moving-day to day," he said; "streets and houses are like
a dust-bin--a large dust-bin; but I'm content with a cartload. I may
get something good out of that, and I really did get something good
out of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street;
it was rough weather, wet and dirty--the right kind of weather to
catch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart, which was full,
and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of
the cart stood a fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on its
twigs; it had been used on Christmas eve, and now it was thrown out
into the street, and the dustman had stood it up at the back of his
cart. It was droll to look at, or you may say it was mournful--all
depends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought about
it, and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart: or
I might have done so, and that comes to the same thing. There was an
old lady's glove, too: I wonder what that was thinking of? Shall I
tell you? The glove was lying there, pointing with its little finger
at the tree. 'I'm sorry for the tree,' it thought; 'and I was also
at the feast, where the chandeliers glittered. My life was, so to
speak, a ball night--a pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memory
keeps dwelling upon that, and I have really nothing else to live for!'
This is what the glove thought, or what it might have thought. 'That's
a stupid affair with yonder fir tree,' said the potsherds. You see,
potsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in the
dust-cart,' they said, 'one ought not to give one's self airs and wear
tinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world--far more useful
than such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken, and I
don't think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that, the fir tree
looked very well: it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap; and
truly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way is
difficult and troublesome then, and I feel obliged to run away out
of the confusion; or, if I am on the tower, I stay there and look
down, and it is amusing enough.

"There are the good people below, playing at 'changing houses.'
They toil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and the
household goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All the
little griefs of the lodging and the family, and the real cares and
sorrows, move with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and what
gain is there for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there was
written long ago the good old maxim: 'Think on the great moving-day of
death!' That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable to
you that I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certain
messenger, after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes,
Death is the omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, and
he countersigns our service-book, and he is director of the savings
bank of life. Do you understand me? All the deeds of our life, the
great and the little alike, we put into this savings bank; and when
Death calls with his omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive with
him into the land of eternity, then on the frontier he gives us our
service-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey, he takes
this or that good deed we have done, and lets it accompany us; and
this may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escaped
the omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was not
allowed to go--they call him the Wandering Jew: he has to ride
behind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in, he would have
escaped the clutches of the poets.

"Just cast your mind's eye into that great omnibus. The society is
mixed, for king and beggar, genius and idiot, sit side by side. They
must go without their property and money; they have only the
service-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But which
of our deeds is selected and given to us? Perhaps quite a little
one, one that we have forgotten, but which has been recorded--small as
a pea, but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin who
sat on a low stool in the corner, and was jeered at and flouted,
will perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision; and the
stool may become a litter in the land of eternity, and rise up then as
a throne, gleaming like gold and blooming as an arbor. He who always
lounged about, and drank the spiced draught of pleasure, that he might
forget the wild things he had done here, will have his barrel given to
him on the journey, and will have to drink from it as they go on;
and the drink is bright and clear, so that the thoughts remain pure,
and all good and noble feelings are awakened, and he sees and feels
what in life he could not or would not see; and then he has within him
the punishment, the gnawing worm, which will not die through time
incalculable. If on the glasses there stood written 'oblivion,' on the
barrel 'remembrance' is inscribed.

"When I read a good book, an historical work, I always think at
last of the poetry of what I am reading, and of the omnibus of
death, and wonder, which of the hero's deeds Death took out of the
savings bank for him, and what provisions he got on the journey into
eternity. There was once a French king--I have forgotten his name, for
the names of good people are sometimes forgotten, even by me, but it
will come back some day;--there was a king who, during a famine,
became the benefactor of his people; and the people raised up to his
memory a monument of snow, with the inscription, 'Quicker than this
melts didst thou bring help!' I fancy that Death, looking back upon
the monument, gave him a single snow-flake as provision, a
snow-flake that never melts, and this flake floated over his royal
head, like a white butterfly, into the land of eternity. Thus, too,
there was Louis XI. I have remembered his name, for one remembers what
is bad--a trait of him often comes into my thoughts, and I wish one
could say the story is not true. He had his lord high constable
executed, and he could execute him, right or wrong; but he had the
innocent children of the constable, one seven and the other eight
years old, placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of their
father spurted over them, and then he had them sent to the Bastille,
and shut up in iron cages, where not even a coverlet was given them to
protect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner to
them every week, and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each,
that they might not be too comfortable; and the elder of the boys
said, 'My mother would die of grief if she knew that my younger
brother had to suffer so cruelly; therefore pull out two of my
teeth, and spare him.' The tears came into the hangman's eyes, but the
king's will was stronger than the tears; and every week two little
teeth were brought to him on a silver plate; he had demanded them, and
he had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of the
savings bank of life, and gave them to Louis XI, to carry with him
on the great journey into the land of immortality; they fly before him
like two flames of fire; they shine and burn, and they bite him, the
innocent children's teeth.

"Yes, that's a serious journey, the omnibus ride on the great
moving-day! And when is it to be undertaken? That's just the serious
part of it. Any day, any hour, any minute, the omnibus may draw up.
Which of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank, and give
to us as provision? Let us think of the moving-day that is not
marked in the calendar."




OUR AUNT

You ought to have known our aunt; she was charming! That is to
say, she was not charming at all as the word is usually understood;
but she was good and kind, amusing in her way, and was just as any one
ought to be whom people are to talk about and to laugh at. She might
have been put into a play, and wholly and solely on account of the
fact that she only lived for the theatre and for what was done
there. She was an honorable matron; but Agent Fabs, whom she used to
call "Flabs," declared that our aunt was stage-struck.

"The theatre is my school," said she, "the source of my knowledge.
From thence I have resuscitated Biblical history. Now, 'Moses' and
'Joseph in Egypt'--there are operas for you! I get my universal
history from the theatre, my geography, and my knowledge of men. Out
of the French pieces I get to know life in Paris--slippery, but
exceedingly interesting. How I have cried over 'La Famille
Roquebourg'--that the man must drink himself to death, so that she may
marry the young fellow! Yes, how many tears I have wept in the fifty
years I have subscribed to the theatre!"

Our aunt knew every acting play, every bit of scenery, every
character, every one who appeared or had appeared. She seemed really
only to live during the nine months the theatre was open. Summertime
without a summer theatre seemed to be only a time that made her old;
while, on the other hand, a theatrical evening that lasted till
midnight was a lengthening of her life. She did not say, as other
people do, "Now we shall have spring, the stork is here," or, "They've
advertised the first strawberries in the papers." She, on the
contrary, used to announce the coming of autumn, with "Have you
heard they're selling boxes for the theatre? now the performances will
begin."

She used to value a lodging entirely according to its proximity to
the theatre. It was a real sorrow to her when she had to leave the
little lane behind the playhouse, and move into the great street
that lay a little farther off, and live there in a house where she had
no opposite neighbors.

"At home," said she, "my windows must be my opera-box. One
cannot sit and look into one's self till one's tired; one must see
people. But now I live just as if I'd go into the country. If I want
to see human beings, I must go into my kitchen, and sit down on the
sink, for there only I have opposite neighbors. No; when I lived in my
dear little lane, I could look straight down into the ironmonger's
shop, and had only three hundred paces to the theatre; and now I've
three thousand paces to go, military measurement."

Our aunt was sometimes ill, but however unwell she might feel, she
never missed the play. The doctor prescribed one day that she should
put her feet in a bran bath, and she followed his advice; but she
drove to the theatre all the same, and sat with her feet in bran
there. If she had died there, she would have been very glad.
Thorwaldsen died in the theatre, and she called that a happy death.

She could not imagine but that in heaven there must be a theatre
too. It had not, indeed, been promised us, but we might very well
imagine it. The many distinguished actors and actresses who had passed
away must surely have a field for their talent.

Our aunt had an electric wire from the theatre to her room. A
telegram used to be dispatched to her at coffee-time, and it used to
consist of the words, "Herr Sivertsen is at the machinery;" for it was
he who gave the signal for drawing the curtain up and down and for
changing the scenes.

From him she used to receive a short and concise description of
every piece. His opinion of Shakspeare's "Tempest," was, "Mad
nonsense! There's so much to put up, and the first scene begins with
'Water to the front of the wings.'" That is to say, the water had to
come forward so far. But when, on the other hand, the same interior
scene remained through five acts, he used to pronounce it a
sensible, well-written play, a resting play, which performed itself,
without putting up scenes.

In earlier times, by which name our aunt used to designate
thirty years ago, she and the before-mentioned Herr Sivertsen had been
younger. At that time he had already been connected with the
machinery, and was, as she said, her benefactor. It used to be the
custom in those days that in the evening performances in the only
theatre the town possessed, spectators were admitted to the part
called the "flies," over the stage, and every machinist had one or two
places to give away. Often the flies were quite full of good
company; it was said that generals' wives and privy councillors' wives
had been up there. It was quite interesting to look down behind the
scenes, and to see how the people walked to and fro on the stage
when the curtain was down.

Our aunt had been there several times, as well when there was a
tragedy as when there was a ballet; for the pieces in which there were
the greatest number of characters on the stage were the most
interesting to see from the flies. One sat pretty much in the dark
up there, and most people took their supper up with them. Once three
apples and a great piece of bread and butter and sausage fell down
right into the dungeon of Ugolino, where that unhappy man was to be
starved to death; and there was great laughter among the audience. The
sausage was one of the weightiest reasons why the worthy management
refused in future to have any spectators up in the flies.

"But I was there seven-and-thirty times," said our aunt, "and I
shall always remember Mr. Sivertsen for that."

On the very last evening when the flies were still open to the
public, the "Judgment of Solomon" was performed, as our aunt
remembered very well. She had, through the influence of her
benefactor, Herr Sivertsen, procured a free admission for the Agent
Fabs, although he did not deserve it in the least, for he was always
cutting his jokes about the theatre and teasing our aunt; but she
had procured him a free admission to the flies, for all that. He
wanted to look at this player-stuff from the other side.

"Those were his own words, and they were just like him," said
our aunt.

He looked down from above on the 'Judgment of Solomon,' and fell
asleep over it. One would have thought that he had come from a
dinner where many toasts had been given. He went to sleep, and was
locked in. And there he sat through the dark night in the flies, and
when he woke, he told a story, but our aunt would not believe it.

"The 'Judgment of Solomon' was over," he said, "and all the people
had gone away, up stairs and down stairs; but now the real play began,
the after-piece, which was the best of all," said the agent. "Then
life came into the affair. It was not the 'Judgment of Solomon' that
was performed; no, a real court of judgment was held upon the
stage." And Agent Fabs had the impudence to try and make our aunt
believe all this. That was the thanks she got for having got him a
place in the flies.

What did the agent say? Why, it was curious enough to hear, but
there was malice and satire in it.

"It looked dark enough up there," said the agent; "but then the
magic business began--a great performance, 'The Judgment in the
Theatre.' The box-keepers were at their posts, and every spectator had
to show his ghostly pass-book, that it might be decided if he was to
be admitted with hands loose or bound, and with or without a muzzle.
Grand people who came too late, when the performance had begun, and
young people, who could not always watch the time, were tied up
outside, and had list slippers put on their feet, with which they were
allowed to go in before the beginning of the next act, and they had
muzzles too. And then the 'Judgment on the Stage' began."

"All malice, and not a bit of truth in it," said our aunt.

The painter, who wanted to get to Paradise, had to go up a
staircase which he had himself painted, but which no man could
mount. That was to expiate his sins against perspective. All the
plants and buildings, which the property-man had placed, with infinite
pains, in countries to which they did not belong, the poor fellow
was obliged to put in their right places before cockcrow, if he wanted
to get into Paradise. Let Herr Fabs see how he would get in himself;
but what he said of the performers, tragedians and comedians,
singers and dancers, that was the most rascally of all. Mr. Fabs,
indeed!--Flabs! He did not deserve to be admitted at all, and our aunt
would not soil her lips with what he said. And he said, did Flabs,
that the whole was written down, and it should be printed when he
was dead and buried, but not before, for he would not risk having
his arms and legs broken.

Once our aunt had been in fear and trembling in her temple of
happiness, the theatre. It was on a winter day, one of those days in
which one has a couple of hours of daylight, with a gray sky. It was
terribly cold and snowy, but aunt must go to the theatre. A little
opera and a great ballet were performed, and a prologue and an
epilogue into the bargain; and that would last till late at night. Our
aunt must needs go; so she borrowed a pair of fur boots of her
lodger--boots with fur inside and out, and which reached far up
her legs.

She got to the theatre, and to her box; the boots were warm, and
she kept them on. Suddenly there was a cry of "Fire!" Smoke was coming
from one of the side scenes, and streamed down from the flies, and
there was a terrible panic. The people came rushing out, and our
aunt was the last in the box, "on the second tier, left-hand side, for
from there the scenery looks best," she used to say. "The scenes are
always arranged that they look best from the King's side." Aunt wanted
to come out, but the people before her, in their fright and
heedlessness, slammed the door of the box; and there sat our aunt, and
couldn't get out, and couldn't get in; that is to say, she couldn't
get into the next box, for the partition was too high for her. She
called out, and no one heard her; she looked down into the tier of
boxes below her, and it was empty, and low, and looked quite near, and
aunt in her terror felt quite young and light. She thought of
jumping down, and had got one leg over the partition, the other
resting on the bench. There she sat astride, as if on horseback,
well wrapped up in her flowered cloak with one leg hanging out--a
leg in a tremendous fur boot. That was a sight to behold; and when
it was beheld, our aunt was heard too, and was saved from burning, for
the theatre was not burned down.

That was the most memorable evening of her life, and she was
glad that she could not see herself, for she would have died with
confusion.

Her benefactor in the machinery department, Herr Sivertsen,
visited her every Sunday, but it was a long time from Sunday to
Sunday. In the latter time, therefore, she used to have in a little
child "for the scraps;" that is to say, to eat up the remains of the
dinner. It was a child employed in the ballet, one that certainly
wanted feeding. The little one used to appear, sometimes as an elf,
sometimes as a page; the most difficult part she had to play was the
lion's hind leg in the "Magic Flute;" but as she grew larger she could
represent the fore-feet of the lion. She certainly only got half a
guilder for that, whereas the hind legs were paid for with a whole
guilder; but then she had to walk bent, and to do without fresh air.
"That was all very interesting to hear," said our aunt.

She deserved to live as long as the theatre stood, but she could
not last so long; and she did not die in the theatre, but
respectably in her bed. Her last words were, moreover, not without
meaning. She asked,

"What will the play be to-morrow?"

At her death she left about five hundred dollars. We presume
this from the interest, which came to twenty dollars. This our aunt
had destined as a legacy for a worthy old spinster who had no friends;
it was to be devoted to a yearly subscription for a place in the
second tier, on the left side, for the Saturday evening, "for on
that evening two pieces were always given," it said in the will; and
the only condition laid upon the person who enjoyed the legacy was,
that she should think, every Saturday evening, of our aunt, who was
lying in her grave.

This was our aunt's religion.




THE GARDEN OF PARADISE

There was once a king's son who had a larger and more beautiful
collection of books than any one else in the world, and full of
splendid copper-plate engravings. He could read and obtain information
respecting every people of every land; but not a word could he find to
explain the situation of the garden of paradise, and this was just
what he most wished to know. His grandmother had told him when he
was quite a little boy, just old enough to go to school, that each
flower in the garden of paradise was a sweet cake, that the pistils
were full of rich wine, that on one flower history was written, on
another geography or tables; so those who wished to learn their
lessons had only to eat some of the cakes, and the more they ate,
the more history, geography, or tables they knew. He believed it all
then; but as he grew older, and learnt more and more, he became wise
enough to understand that the splendor of the garden of paradise
must be very different to all this. "Oh, why did Eve pluck the fruit
from the tree of knowledge? why did Adam eat the forbidden fruit?"
thought the king's son: "if I had been there it would never have
happened, and there would have been no sin in the world." The garden
of paradise occupied all his thoughts till he reached his
seventeenth year.

One day he was walking alone in the wood, which was his greatest
pleasure, when evening came on. The clouds gathered, and the rain
poured down as if the sky had been a waterspout; and it was as dark as
the bottom of a well at midnight; sometimes he slipped over the smooth
grass, or fell over stones that projected out of the rocky ground.
Every thing was dripping with moisture, and the poor prince had not
a dry thread about him. He was obliged at last to climb over great
blocks of stone, with water spurting from the thick moss. He began
to feel quite faint, when he heard a most singular rushing noise,
and saw before him a large cave, from which came a blaze of light.
In the middle of the cave an immense fire was burning, and a noble
stag, with its branching horns, was placed on a spit between the
trunks of two pine-trees. It was turning slowly before the fire, and
an elderly woman, as large and strong as if she had been a man in
disguise, sat by, throwing one piece of wood after another into the
flames.

"Come in," she said to the prince; "sit down by the fire and dry
yourself."

"There is a great draught here," said the prince, as he seated
himself on the ground.

"It will be worse when my sons come home," replied the woman; "you
are now in the cavern of the Winds, and my sons are the four Winds
of heaven: can you understand that?"

"Where are your sons?" asked the prince.

"It is difficult to answer stupid questions," said the woman.
"My sons have plenty of business on hand; they are playing at
shuttlecock with the clouds up yonder in the king's hall," and she
pointed upwards.

"Oh, indeed," said the prince; "but you speak more roughly and
harshly and are not so gentle as the women I am used to."

"Yes, that is because they have nothing else to do; but I am
obliged to be harsh, to keep my boys in order, and I can do it,
although they are so head-strong. Do you see those four sacks
hanging on the wall? Well, they are just as much afraid of those
sacks, as you used to be of the rat behind the looking-glass. I can
bend the boys together, and put them in the sacks without any
resistance on their parts, I can tell you. There they stay, and dare
not attempt to come out until I allow them to do so. And here comes
one of them."

It was the North Wind who came in, bringing with him a cold,
piercing blast; large hailstones rattled on the floor, and
snowflakes were scattered around in all directions. He wore a bearskin
dress and cloak. His sealskin cap was drawn over his ears, long
icicles hung from his beard, and one hailstone after another rolled
from the collar of his jacket.

"Don't go too near the fire," said the prince, "or your hands
and face will be frost-bitten."

"Frost-bitten!" said the North Wind, with a loud laugh; "why frost
is my greatest delight. What sort of a little snip are you, and how
did you find your way to the cavern of the Winds?"

"He is my guest," said the old woman, "and if you are not
satisfied with that explanation you can go into the sack. Do you
understand me?"

That settled the matter. So the North Wind began to relate his
adventures, whence he came, and where he had been for a whole month.
"I come from the polar seas," he said; "I have been on the Bear's
Island with the Russian walrus-hunters. I sat and slept at the helm of
their ship, as they sailed away from North Cape. Sometimes when I
woke, the storm-birds would fly about my legs. They are curious birds;
they give one flap with their wings, and then on their outstretched
pinions soar far away.

"Don't make such a long story of it," said the mother of the
winds; "what sort of a place is Bear's Island?"

"A very beautiful place, with a floor for dancing as smooth and
flat as a plate. Half-melted snow, partly covered with moss, sharp
stones, and skeletons of walruses and polar-bears, lie all about,
their gigantic limbs in a state of green decay. It would seem as if
the sun never shone there. I blew gently, to clear away the mist,
and then I saw a little hut, which had been built from the wood of a
wreck, and was covered with the skins of the walrus, the fleshy side
outwards; it looked green and red, and on the roof sat a growling
bear. Then I went to the sea shore, to look after birds' nests, and
saw the unfledged nestlings opening their mouths and screaming for
food. I blew into the thousand little throats, and quickly stopped
their screaming. Farther on were the walruses with pig's heads, and
teeth a yard long, rolling about like great worms.

"You relate your adventures very well, my son," said the mother,
"it makes my mouth water to hear you.

"After that," continued the North Wind, "the hunting commenced.
The harpoon was flung into the breast of the walrus, so that a smoking
stream of blood spurted forth like a fountain, and besprinkled the
ice. Then I thought of my own game; I began to blow, and set my own
ships, the great icebergs sailing, so that they might crush the boats.
Oh, how the sailors howled and cried out! but I howled louder than
they. They were obliged to unload their cargo, and throw their
chests and the dead walruses on the ice. Then I sprinkled snow over
them, and left them in their crushed boats to drift southward, and
to taste salt water. They will never return to Bear's Island."

"So you have done mischief," said the mother of the Winds.

"I shall leave others to tell the good I have done," he replied.
"But here comes my brother from the West; I like him best of all,
for he has the smell of the sea about him, and brings in a cold, fresh
air as he enters."

"Is that the little Zephyr?" asked the prince.

"Yes, it is the little Zephyr," said the old woman; "but he is not
little now. In years gone by he was a beautiful boy; now that is all
past."

He came in, looking like a wild man, and he wore a slouched hat to
protect his head from injury. In his hand he carried a club, cut
from a mahogany tree in the American forests, not a trifle to carry.

"Whence do you come?" asked the mother.

"I come from the wilds of the forests, where the thorny brambles
form thick hedges between the trees; where the water-snake lies in the
wet grass, and mankind seem to be unknown."

"What were you doing there?"

"I looked into the deep river, and saw it rushing down from the
rocks. The water drops mounted to the clouds and glittered in the
rainbow. I saw the wild buffalo swimming in the river, but the
strong tide carried him away amidst a flock of wild ducks, which
flew into the air as the waters dashed onwards, leaving the buffalo to
be hurled over the waterfall. This pleased me; so I raised a storm,
which rooted up old trees, and sent them floating down the river."

"And what else have you done?" asked the old woman.

"I have rushed wildly across the savannahs; I have stroked the
wild horses, and shaken the cocoa-nuts from the trees. Yes, I have
many stories to relate; but I need not tell everything I know. You
know it all very well, don't you, old lady?" And he kissed his
mother so roughly, that she nearly fell backwards. Oh, he was, indeed,
a wild fellow.

Now in came the South Wind, with a turban and a flowing Bedouin
cloak.

"How cold it is here!" said he, throwing more wood on the fire.
"It is easy to feel that the North Wind has arrived here before me."

"Why it is hot enough here to roast a bear," said the North Wind.

"You are a bear yourself," said the other.

"Do you want to be put in the sack, both of you?" said the old
woman. "Sit down, now, on that stone, yonder, and tell me where you
have been."

"In Africa, mother. I went out with the Hottentots, who were
lion-hunting in the Kaffir land, where the plains are covered with
grass the color of a green olive; and here I ran races with the
ostrich, but I soon outstripped him in swiftness. At last I came to
the desert, in which lie the golden sands, looking like the bottom
of the sea. Here I met a caravan, and the travellers had just killed
their last camel, to obtain water; there was very little for them, and
they continued their painful journey beneath the burning sun, and over
the hot sands, which stretched before them a vast, boundless desert.
Then I rolled myself in the loose sand, and whirled it in burning
columns over their heads. The dromedarys stood still in terror,
while the merchants drew their caftans over their heads, and threw
themselves on the ground before me, as they do before Allah, their
god. Then I buried them beneath a pyramid of sand, which covers them
all. When I blow that away on my next visit, the sun will bleach their
bones, and travellers will see that others have been there before
them; otherwise, in such a wild desert, they might not believe it
possible."

"So you have done nothing but evil," said the mother. "Into the
sack with you;" and, before he was aware, she had seized the South
Wind round the body, and popped him into the bag. He rolled about on
the floor, till she sat herself upon him to keep him still.

"These boys of yours are very lively," said the prince.

"Yes," she replied, "but I know how to correct them, when
necessary; and here comes the fourth." In came the East Wind,
dressed like a Chinese.

"Oh, you come from that quarter, do you?" said she; "I thought you
had been to the garden of paradise."

"I am going there to-morrow," he replied; "I have not been there
for a hundred years. I have just come from China, where I danced round
the porcelain tower till all the bells jingled again. In the streets
an official flogging was taking place, and bamboo canes were being
broken on the shoulders of men of every high position, from the
first to the ninth grade. They cried, 'Many thanks, my fatherly
benefactor;' but I am sure the words did not come from their hearts,
so I rang the bells till they sounded, 'ding, ding-dong.'"

"You are a wild boy," said the old woman; "it is well for you that
you are going to-morrow to the garden of paradise; you always get
improved in your education there. Drink deeply from the fountain of
wisdom while you are there, and bring home a bottleful for me."

"That I will," said the East Wind; "but why have you put my
brother South in a bag? Let him out; for I want him to tell me about
the phoenix-bird. The princess always wants to hear of this bird
when I pay her my visit every hundred years. If you will open the
sack, sweetest mother, I will give you two pocketfuls of tea, green
and fresh as when I gathered it from the spot where it grew."

"Well, for the sake of the tea, and because you are my own boy,
I will open the bag."

She did so, and the South Wind crept out, looking quite cast down,
because the prince had seen his disgrace.

"There is a palm-leaf for the princess," he said. "The old
phoenix, the only one in the world, gave it to me himself. He has
scratched on it with his beak the whole of his history during the
hundred years he has lived. She can there read how the old phoenix set
fire to his own nest, and sat upon it while it was burning, like a
Hindoo widow. The dry twigs around the nest crackled and smoked till
the flames burst forth and consumed the phoenix to ashes. Amidst the
fire lay an egg, red hot, which presently burst with a loud report,
and out flew a young bird. He is the only phoenix in the world, and
the king over all the other birds. He has bitten a hole in the leaf
which I give you, and that is his greeting to the princess."

"Now let us have something to eat," said the mother of the
Winds. So they all sat down to feast on the roasted stag; and as the
prince sat by the side of the East Wind, they soon became good
friends.

"Pray tell me," said the prince, "who is that princess of whom you
have been talking! and where lies the garden of paradise?"

"Ho! ho!" said the East Wind, "would you like to go there? Well,
you can fly off with me to-morrow; but I must tell you one thing--no
human being has been there since the time of Adam and Eve. I suppose
you have read of them in your Bible."

"Of course I have," said the prince.

"Well," continued the East Wind, "when they were driven out of the
garden of paradise, it sunk into the earth; but it retained its warm
sunshine, its balmy air, and all its splendor. The fairy queen lives
there, in the island of happiness, where death never comes, and all is
beautiful. I can manage to take you there to-morrow, if you will sit
on my back. But now don't talk any more, for I want to go to sleep;"
and then they all slept.

When the prince awoke in the early morning, he was not a little
surprised at finding himself high up above the clouds. He was seated
on the back of the East Wind, who held him faithfully; and they were
so high in the air that woods and fields, rivers and lakes, as they
lay beneath them, looked like a painted map.

"Good morning," said the East Wind. "You might have slept on a
while; for there is very little to see in the flat country over
which we are passing unless you like to count the churches; they
look like spots of chalk on a green board." The green board was the
name he gave to the green fields and meadows.

"It was very rude of me not to say good-bye to your mother and
your brothers," said the prince.

"They will excuse you, as you were asleep," said the East Wind;
and then they flew on faster than ever.

The leaves and branches of the trees rustled as they passed.
When they flew over seas and lakes, the waves rose higher, and the
large ships dipped into the water like diving swans. As darkness
came on, towards evening, the great towns looked charming; lights were
sparkling, now seen now hidden, just as the sparks go out one after
another on a piece of burnt paper. The prince clapped his hands with
pleasure; but the East Wind advised him not to express his
admiration in that manner, or he might fall down, and find himself
hanging on a church steeple. The eagle in the dark forests flies
swiftly; but faster than he flew the East Wind. The Cossack, on his
small horse, rides lightly o'er the plains; but lighter still passed
the prince on the winds of the wind.

"There are the Himalayas, the highest mountains in Asia," said the
East Wind. "We shall soon reach the garden of paradise now."

Then, they turned southward, and the air became fragrant with
the perfume of spices and flowers. Here figs and pomegranates grew
wild, and the vines were covered with clusters of blue and purple
grapes. Here they both descended to the earth, and stretched
themselves on the soft grass, while the flowers bowed to the breath of
the wind as if to welcome it. "Are we now in the garden of
paradise?" asked the prince.

"No, indeed," replied the East Wind; "but we shall be there very
soon. Do you see that wall of rocks, and the cavern beneath it, over
which the grape vines hang like a green curtain? Through that cavern
we must pass. Wrap your cloak round you; for while the sun scorches
you here, a few steps farther it will be icy cold. The bird flying
past the entrance to the cavern feels as if one wing were in the
region of summer, and the other in the depths of winter."

"So this then is the way to the garden of paradise?" asked the
prince, as they entered the cavern. It was indeed cold; but the cold
soon passed, for the East Wind spread his wings, and they gleamed like
the brightest fire. As they passed on through this wonderful cave, the
prince could see great blocks of stone, from which water trickled,
hanging over their heads in fantastic shapes. Sometimes it was so
narrow that they had to creep on their hands and knees, while at other
times it was lofty and wide, like the free air. It had the
appearance of a chapel for the dead, with petrified organs and
silent pipes. "We seem to be passing through the valley of death to
the garden of paradise," said the prince.

But the East Wind answered not a word, only pointed forwards to
a lovely blue light which gleamed in the distance. The blocks of stone
assumed a misty appearance, till at last they looked like white clouds
in moonlight. The air was fresh and balmy, like a breeze from the
mountains perfumed with flowers from a valley of roses. A river, clear
as the air itself, sparkled at their feet, while in its clear depths
could be seen gold and silver fish sporting in the bright water, and
purple eels emitting sparks of fire at every moment, while the broad
leaves of the water-lilies, that floated on its surface, flickered
with all the colors of the rainbow. The flower in its color of flame
seemed to receive its nourishment from the water, as a lamp is
sustained by oil. A marble bridge, of such exquisite workmanship
that it appeared as if formed of lace and pearls, led to the island of
happiness, in which bloomed the garden of paradise. The East Wind took
the prince in his arms, and carried him over, while the flowers and
the leaves sang the sweet songs of his childhood in tones so full
and soft that no human voice could venture to imitate. Within the
garden grew large trees, full of sap; but whether they were palm-trees
or gigantic water-plants, the prince knew not. The climbing plants
hung in garlands of green and gold, like the illuminations on the
margins of old missals or twined among the initial letters. Birds,
flowers, and festoons appeared intermingled in seeming confusion.
Close by, on the grass, stood a group of peacocks, with radiant
tails outspread to the sun. The prince touched them, and found, to his
surprise, that they were not really birds, but the leaves of the
burdock tree, which shone with the colors of a peacock's tail. The
lion and the tiger, gentle and tame, were springing about like playful
cats among the green bushes, whose perfume was like the fragrant
blossom of the olive. The plumage of the wood-pigeon glistened like
pearls as it struck the lion's mane with its wings; while the
antelope, usually so shy, stood near, nodding its head as if it wished
to join in the frolic. The fairy of paradise next made her appearance.
Her raiment shone like the sun, and her serene countenance beamed with
happiness like that of a mother rejoicing over her child. She was
young and beautiful, and a train of lovely maidens followed her,
each wearing a bright star in her hair. The East Wind gave her the
palm-leaf, on which was written the history of the phoenix; and her
eyes sparkled with joy. She then took the prince by the hand, and
led him into her palace, the walls of which were richly colored,
like a tulip-leaf when it is turned to the sun. The roof had the
appearance of an inverted flower, and the colors grew deeper and
brighter to the gazer. The prince walked to a window, and saw what
appeared to be the tree of knowledge of good and evil, with Adam and
Eve standing by, and the serpent near them. "I thought they were
banished from paradise," he said.

The princess smiled, and told him that time had engraved each
event on a window-pane in the form of a picture; but, unlike other
pictures, all that it represented lived and moved,--the leaves
rustled, and the persons went and came, as in a looking-glass. He
looked through another pane, and saw the ladder in Jacob's dream, on
which the angels were ascending and descending with outspread wings.
All that had ever happened in the world here lived and moved on the
panes of glass, in pictures such as time alone could produce. The
fairy now led the prince into a large, lofty room with transparent
walls, through which the light shone. Here were portraits, each one
appearing more beautiful than the other--millions of happy beings,
whose laughter and song mingled in one sweet melody: some of these
were in such an elevated position that they appeared smaller than
the smallest rosebud, or like pencil dots on paper. In the centre of
the hall stood a tree, with drooping branches, from which hung
golden apples, both great and small, looking like oranges amid the
green leaves. It was the tree of knowledge of good and evil, from
which Adam and Eve had plucked and eaten the forbidden fruit, and from
each leaf trickled a bright red dewdrop, as if the tree were weeping
tears of blood for their sin. "Let us now take the boat," said the
fairy: "a sail on the cool waters will refresh us. But we shall not
move from the spot, although the boat may rock on the swelling
water; the countries of the world will glide before us, but we shall
remain still."

It was indeed wonderful to behold. First came the lofty Alps,
snow-clad, and covered with clouds and dark pines. The horn resounded,
and the shepherds sang merrily in the valleys. The banana-trees bent
their drooping branches over the boat, black swans floated on the
water, and singular animals and flowers appeared on the distant shore.
New Holland, the fifth division of the world, now glided by, with
mountains in the background, looking blue in the distance. They
heard the song of the priests, and saw the wild dance of the savage to
the sound of the drums and trumpets of bone; the pyramids of Egypt
rising to the clouds; columns and sphinxes, overthrown and buried in
the sand, followed in their turn; while the northern lights flashed
out over the extinguished volcanoes of the north, in fireworks none
could imitate.

The prince was delighted, and yet he saw hundreds of other
wonderful things more than can be described. "Can I stay here
forever?" asked he.

"That depends upon yourself," replied the fairy. "If you do not,
like Adam, long for what is forbidden, you can remain here always."

"I should not touch the fruit on the tree of knowledge," said
the prince; "there is abundance of fruit equally beautiful."

"Examine your own heart," said the princess, "and if you do not
feel sure of its strength, return with the East Wind who brought
you. He is about to fly back, and will not return here for a hundred
years. The time will not seem to you more than a hundred hours, yet
even that is a long time for temptation and resistance. Every evening,
when I leave you, I shall be obliged to say, 'Come with me,' and to
beckon to you with my hand. But you must not listen, nor move from
your place to follow me; for with every step you will find your
power to resist weaker. If once you attempted to follow me, you
would soon find yourself in the hall, where grows the tree of
knowledge, for I sleep beneath its perfumed branches. If you stooped
over me, I should be forced to smile. If you then kissed my lips,
the garden of paradise would sink into the earth, and to you it
would be lost. A keen wind from the desert would howl around you; cold
rain fall on your head, and sorrow and woe be your future lot."

"I will remain," said the prince.

So the East Wind kissed him on the forehead, and said, "Be firm;
then shall we meet again when a hundred years have passed. Farewell,
farewell." Then the East Wind spread his broad pinions, which shone
like the lightning in harvest, or as the northern lights in a cold
winter.

"Farewell, farewell," echoed the trees and the flowers.

Storks and pelicans flew after him in feathery bands, to accompany
him to the boundaries of the garden.

"Now we will commence dancing," said the fairy; "and when it is
nearly over at sunset, while I am dancing with you, I shall make a
sign, and ask you to follow me: but do not obey. I shall be obliged to
repeat the same thing for a hundred years; and each time, when the
trial is past, if you resist, you will gain strength, till
resistance becomes easy, and at last the temptation will be quite
overcome. This evening, as it will be the first time, I have warned
you."

After this the fairy led him into a large hall, filled with
transparent lilies. The yellow stamina of each flower formed a tiny
golden harp, from which came forth strains of music like the mingled
tones of flute and lyre. Beautiful maidens, slender and graceful in
form, and robed in transparent gauze, floated through the dance, and
sang of the happy life in the garden of paradise, where death never
entered, and where all would bloom forever in immortal youth. As the
sun went down, the whole heavens became crimson and gold, and tinted
the lilies with the hue of roses. Then the beautiful maidens offered
to the prince sparkling wine; and when he had drank, he felt happiness
greater than he had ever known before. Presently the background of the
hall opened and the tree of knowledge appeared, surrounded by a halo
of glory that almost blinded him. Voices, soft and lovely as his
mother's sounded in his ears, as if she were singing to him, "My
child, my beloved child." Then the fairy beckoned to him, and said
in sweet accents, "Come with me, come with me." Forgetting his
promise, forgetting it even on the very first evening, he rushed
towards her, while she continued to beckon to him and to smile. The
fragrance around him overpowered his senses, the music from the
harps sounded more entrancing, while around the tree appeared millions
of smiling faces, nodding and singing. "Man should know everything;
man is the lord of the earth." The tree of knowledge no longer wept
tears of blood, for the dewdrops shone like glittering stars.

"Come, come," continued that thrilling voice, and the prince
followed the call. At every step his cheeks glowed, and the blood
rushed wildly through his veins. "I must follow," he cried; "it is not
a sin, it cannot be, to follow beauty and joy. I only want to see
her sleep, and nothing will happen unless I kiss her, and that I
will not do, for I have strength to resist, and a determined will."

The fairy threw off her dazzling attire, bent back the boughs, and
in another moment was hidden among them.

"I have not sinned yet," said the prince, "and I will not;" and
then he pushed aside the boughs to follow the princess. She was
lying already asleep, beautiful as only a fairy in the garden of
paradise could be. She smiled as he bent over her, and he saw tears
trembling out of her beautiful eyelashes. "Do you weep for me?" he
whispered. "Oh weep not, thou loveliest of women. Now do I begin to
understand the happiness of paradise; I feel it to my inmost soul,
in every thought. A new life is born within me. One moment of such
happiness is worth an eternity of darkness and woe." He stooped and
kissed the tears from her eyes, and touched her lips with his.

A clap of thunder, loud and awful, resounded through the trembling
air. All around him fell into ruin. The lovely fairy, the beautiful
garden, sunk deeper and deeper. The prince saw it sinking down in
the dark night till it shone only like a star in the distance
beneath him. Then he felt a coldness, like death, creeping over him;
his eyes closed, and he became insensible.

When he recovered, a chilling rain was beating upon him, and a
sharp wind blew on his head. "Alas! what have I done?" he sighed; "I
have sinned like Adam, and the garden of paradise has sunk into the
earth." He opened his eyes, and saw the star in the distance, but it
was the morning star in heaven which glittered in the darkness.

Presently he stood up and found himself in the depths of the
forest, close to the cavern of the Winds, and the mother of the
Winds sat by his side. She looked angry, and raised her arm in the air
as she spoke. "The very first evening!" she said. "Well, I expected
it! If you were my son, you should go into the sack."

"And there he will have to go at last," said a strong old man,
with large black wings, and a scythe in his hand, whose name was
Death. "He shall be laid in his coffin, but not yet. I will allow
him to wander about the world for a while, to atone for his sin, and
to give him time to become better. But I shall return when he least
expects me. I shall lay him in a black coffin, place it on my head,
and fly away with it beyond the stars. There also blooms a garden of
paradise, and if he is good and pious he will be admitted; but if
his thoughts are bad, and his heart is full of sin, he will sink
with his coffin deeper than the garden of paradise has sunk. Once in
every thousand years I shall go and fetch him, when he will either
be condemned to sink still deeper, or be raised to a happier life in
the world beyond the stars."




THE PEA BLOSSOM

There were once five peas in one shell, they were green, the shell
was green, and so they believed that the whole world must be green
also, which was a very natural conclusion. The shell grew, and the
peas grew, they accommodated themselves to their position, and sat all
in a row. The sun shone without and warmed the shell, and the rain
made it clear and transparent; it was mild and agreeable in broad
daylight, and dark at night, as it generally is; and the peas as
they sat there grew bigger and bigger, and more thoughtful as they
mused, for they felt there must be something else for them to do.

"Are we to sit here forever?" asked one; "shall we not become hard
by sitting so long? It seems to me there must be something outside,
and I feel sure of it."

And as weeks passed by, the peas became yellow, and the shell
became yellow.

"All the world is turning yellow, I suppose," said they,--and
perhaps they were right.

Suddenly they felt a pull at the shell; it was torn off, and
held in human hands, then slipped into the pocket of a jacket in
company with other full pods.

"Now we shall soon be opened," said one,--just what they all
wanted.

"I should like to know which of us will travel furthest," said the
smallest of the five; "we shall soon see now."

"What is to happen will happen," said the largest pea.

"Crack" went the shell as it burst, and the five peas rolled out
into the bright sunshine. There they lay in a child's hand. A little
boy was holding them tightly, and said they were fine peas for his
pea-shooter. And immediately he put one in and shot it out.

"Now I am flying out into the wide world," said he; "catch me if
you can;" and he was gone in a moment.

"I," said the second, "intend to fly straight to the sun, that
is a shell that lets itself be seen, and it will suit me exactly;" and
away he went.

"We will go to sleep wherever we find ourselves," said the two
next, "we shall still be rolling onwards;" and they did certainly fall
on the floor, and roll about before they got into the pea-shooter; but
they were put in for all that. "We shall go farther than the
others," said they.

"What is to happen will happen," exclaimed the last, as he was
shot out of the pea-shooter; and as he spoke he flew up against an old
board under a garret-window, and fell into a little crevice, which was
almost filled up with moss and soft earth. The moss closed itself
round him, and there he lay, a captive indeed, but not unnoticed by
God.

"What is to happen will happen," said he to himself.

Within the little garret lived a poor woman, who went out to clean
stoves, chop wood into small pieces and perform such-like hard work,
for she was strong and industrious. Yet she remained always poor,
and at home in the garret lay her only daughter, not quite grown up,
and very delicate and weak. For a whole year she had kept her bed, and
it seemed as if she could neither live nor die.

"She is going to her little sister," said the woman; "I had but
the two children, and it was not an easy thing to support both of
them; but the good God helped me in my work, and took one of them to
Himself and provided for her. Now I would gladly keep the other that
was left to me, but I suppose they are not to be separated, and my
sick girl will very soon go to her sister above." But the sick girl
still remained where she was, quietly and patiently she lay all the
day long, while her mother was away from home at her work.

Spring came, and one morning early the sun shone brightly
through the little window, and threw its rays over the floor of the
room. Just as the mother was going to her work, the sick girl fixed
her gaze on the lowest pane of the window--"Mother," she exclaimed,
"what can that little green thing be that peeps in at the window? It
is moving in the wind."

The mother stepped to the window and half opened it. "Oh!" she
said, "there is actually a little pea which has taken root and is
putting out its green leaves. How could it have got into this crack?
Well now, here is a little garden for you to amuse yourself with."
So the bed of the sick girl was drawn nearer to the window, that she
might see the budding plant; and the mother went out to her work.

"Mother, I believe I shall get well," said the sick child in the
evening, "the sun has shone in here so brightly and warmly to-day, and
the little pea is thriving so well: I shall get on better, too, and go
out into the warm sunshine again."

"God grant it!" said the mother, but she did not believe it
would be so. But she propped up with the little stick the green
plant which had given her child such pleasant hopes of life, so that
it might not be broken by the winds; she tied the piece of string to
the window-sill and to the upper part of the frame, so that the
pea-tendrils might twine round it when it shot up. And it did shoot
up, indeed it might almost be seen to grow from day to day.

"Now really here is a flower coming," said the old woman one
morning, and now at last she began to encourage the hope that her sick
daughter might really recover. She remembered that for some time the
child had spoken more cheerfully, and during the last few days had
raised herself in bed in the morning to look with sparkling eyes at
her little garden which contained only a single pea-plant. A week
after, the invalid sat up for the first time a whole hour, feeling
quite happy by the open window in the warm sunshine, while outside
grew the little plant, and on it a pink pea-blossom in full bloom. The
little maiden bent down and gently kissed the delicate leaves. This
day was to her like a festival.

"Our heavenly Father Himself has planted that pea, and made it
grow and flourish, to bring joy to you and hope to me, my blessed
child," said the happy mother, and she smiled at the flower, as if
it had been an angel from God.

But what became of the other peas? Why the one who flew out into
the wide world, and said, "Catch me if you can," fell into a gutter
on the roof of a house, and ended his travels in the crop of a
pigeon. The two lazy ones were carried quite as far, for they also
were eaten by pigeons, so they were at least of some use; but the
fourth, who wanted to reach the sun, fell into a sink and lay there
in the dirty water for days and weeks, till he had swelled to a great
size.

"I am getting beautifully fat," said the pea, "I expect I shall
burst at last; no pea could do more that that, I think; I am the
most remarkable of all the five which were in the shell." And the sink
confirmed the opinion.

But the young maiden stood at the open garret window, with
sparkling eyes and the rosy hue of health on her cheeks, she folded
her thin hands over the pea-blossom, and thanked God for what He had
done.

"I," said the sink, "shall stand up for my pea."




THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND

In a poet's room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the
remark was once made, "It is wonderful what can be brought out of an
inkstand. What will come next? It is indeed wonderful."

"Yes, certainly," said the inkstand to the pen, and to the other
articles that stood on the table; "that's what I always say. It is
wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me.
It's quite incredible, and I really don't know what is coming next
when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for
half a page of paper, and what cannot half a page contain? From me,
all the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginary characters
whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling, the
humor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how
it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me.
From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of
troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds;
of the halt and the blind, and I know not what more, for I assure
you I never think of these things."

"There you are right," said the pen, "for you don't think at
all; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means.
You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in
me, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes: no
man doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as much about
poetry as an old inkstand."

"You have had very little experience," replied the inkstand.
"You have hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn
out. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and before
you came I had many like you, some of the goose family, and others
of English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel
one. I have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more
when he comes--the man who performs the mechanical part--and writes
down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the
next thing he gets out of me."

"Inkpot!" exclaimed the pen contemptuously.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a
concert, and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance
of a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer had
produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded
like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birds
twittering in chorus, and then rising and swelling in sound like the
wind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart were
weeping, but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice.
It seemed not only the strings, but every part of the instrument
from which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderful
performance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to glide
across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who
tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently
of their master who guided them; it was as if soul and spirit had been
breathed into the instrument, so the audience forgot the performer
in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he remembered
him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. "How
foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their
performance, and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet, the
artist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general,--we all
do it; and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; to
Him alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we
should be proud." Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it
in the form of a parable, and called it "The Master and the
Instruments."

"That is what you have got, madam," said the pen to the
inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you hear him read
aloud what I had written down?"

"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the inkstand. "That
was a cut at you because of your conceit. To think that you could
not understand that you were being quizzed. I gave you a cut from
within me. Surely I must know my own satire."

"Ink-pitcher!" cried the pen.

"Writing-stick!" retorted the inkstand. And each of them felt
satisfied that he had given a good answer. It is pleasing to be
convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is
something to make you sleep well, and they both slept well upon it.
But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the
tones of the violin, falling like pearls, or rushing like the strong
wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these
thoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all
minds.

"To Him be all the honor."




THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE

Far away towards the east, in India, which seemed in those days
the world's end, stood the Tree of the Sun; a noble tree, such as we
have never seen, and perhaps never may see.

The summit of this tree spread itself for miles like an entire
forest, each of its smaller branches forming a complete tree. Palms,
beech-trees, pines, plane-trees, and various other kinds, which are
found in all parts of the world, were here like small branches,
shooting forth from the great tree; while the larger boughs, with
their knots and curves, formed valleys and hills, clothed with velvety
green and covered with flowers. Everywhere it was like a blooming
meadow or a lovely garden. Here were birds from all quarters of the
world assembled together; birds from the primeval forests of
America, from the rose gardens of Damascus, and from the deserts of
Africa, in which the elephant and the lion may boast of being the only
rulers. Birds from the Polar regions came flying here, and of course
the stork and the swallow were not absent. But the birds were not
the only living creatures. There were stags, squirrels, antelopes, and
hundreds of other beautiful and light-footed animals here found a
home.

The summit of the tree was a wide-spreading garden, and in the
midst of it, where the green boughs formed a kind of hill, stood a
castle of crystal, with a view from it towards every quarter of
heaven. Each tower was erected in the form of a lily, and within the
stern was a winding staircase, through which one could ascend to the
top and step out upon the leaves as upon balconies. The calyx of the
flower itself formed a most beautiful, glittering, circular hall,
above which no other roof arose than the blue firmament and the sun
and stars.

Just as much splendor, but of another kind, appeared below, in the
wide halls of the castle. Here, on the walls, were reflected
pictures of the world, which represented numerous and varied scenes of
everything that took place daily, so that it was useless to read the
newspapers, and indeed there were none to be obtained in this spot.
All was to be seen in living pictures by those who wished it, but
all would have been too much for even the wisest man, and this man
dwelt here. His name is very difficult; you would not be able to
pronounce it, so it may be omitted. He knew everything that a man on
earth can know or imagine. Every invention already in existence or yet
to be, was known to him, and much more; still everything on earth
has a limit. The wise king Solomon was not half so wise as this man.
He could govern the powers of nature and held sway over potent
spirits; even Death itself was obliged to give him every morning a
list of those who were to die during the day. And King Solomon himself
had to die at last, and this fact it was which so often occupied the
thoughts of this great man in the castle on the Tree of the Sun. He
knew that he also, however high he might tower above other men in
wisdom, must one day die. He knew that his children would fade away
like the leaves of the forest and become dust. He saw the human race
wither and fall like leaves from the tree; he saw new men come to fill
their places, but the leaves that fell off never sprouted forth again;
they crumbled to dust or were absorbed into other plants.

"What happens to man," asked the wise man of himself, "when
touched by the angel of death? What can death be? The body decays, and
the soul. Yes; what is the soul, and whither does it go?"

"To eternal life," says the comforting voice of religion.

"But what is this change? Where and how shall we exist?"

"Above; in heaven," answers the pious man; "it is there we hope to
go."

"Above!" repeated the wise man, fixing his eyes upon the moon
and stars above him. He saw that to this earthly sphere above and
below were constantly changing places, and that the position varied
according to the spot on which a man found himself. He knew, also,
that even if he ascended to the top of the highest mountain which
rears its lofty summit on this earth, the air, which to us seems clear
and transparent, would there be dark and cloudy; the sun would have
a coppery glow and send forth no rays, and our earth would lie beneath
him wrapped in an orange-colored mist. How narrow are the limits which
confine the bodily sight, and how little can be seen by the eye of the
soul. How little do the wisest among us know of that which is so
important to us all.

In the most secret chamber of the castle lay the greatest treasure
on earth--the Book of Truth. The wise man had read it through page
after page. Every man may read in this book, but only in fragments. To
many eyes the characters seem so mixed in confusion that the words
cannot be distinguished. On certain pages the writing often appears so
pale or so blurred that the page becomes a blank. The wiser a man
becomes, the more he will read, and those who are wisest read most.

The wise man knew how to unite the sunlight and the moonlight with
the light of reason and the hidden powers of nature; and through
this stronger light, many things in the pages were made clear to
him. But in the portion of the book entitled "Life after Death" not
a single point could he see distinctly. This pained him. Should he
never be able here on earth to obtain a light by which everything
written in the Book of Truth should become clear to him? Like the wise
King Solomon, he understood the language of animals, and could
interpret their talk into song; but that made him none the wiser. He
found out the nature of plants and metals, and their power in curing
diseases and arresting death, but none to destroy death itself. In all
created things within his reach he sought the light that should
shine upon the certainty of an eternal life, but he found it not.
The Book of Truth lay open before him, but, its pages were to him as
blank paper. Christianity placed before him in the Bible a promise
of eternal life, but he wanted to read it in his book, in which
nothing on the subject appeared to be written.

He had five children; four sons, educated as the children of
such a wise father should be, and a daughter, fair, gentle, and
intelligent, but she was blind; yet this deprivation appeared as
nothing to her; her father and brothers were outward eyes to her,
and a vivid imagination made everything clear to her mental sight. The
sons had never gone farther from the castle than the branches of the
trees extended, and the sister had scarcely ever left home. They
were happy children in that home of their childhood, the beautiful and
fragrant Tree of the Sun. Like all children, they loved to hear
stories related to them, and their father told them many things
which other children would not have understood; but these were as
clever as most grownup people are among us. He explained to them
what they saw in the pictures of life on the castle walls--the
doings of man, and the progress of events in all the lands of the
earth; and the sons often expressed a wish that they could be present,
and take a part in these great deeds. Then their father told them that
in the world there was nothing but toil and difficulty: that it was
not quite what it appeared to them, as they looked upon it in their
beautiful home. He spoke to them of the true, the beautiful, and the
good, and told them that these three held together in the world, and
by that union they became crystallized into a precious jewel,
clearer than a diamond of the first water--a jewel, whose splendor had
a value even in the sight of God, in whose brightness all things are
dim. This jewel was called the philosopher's stone. He told them that,
by searching, man could attain to a knowledge of the existence of God,
and that it was in the power of every man to discover the certainty
that such a jewel as the philosopher's stone really existed. This
information would have been beyond the perception of other children;
but these children understood, and others will learn to comprehend its
meaning after a time. They questioned their father about the true, the
beautiful, and the good, and he explained it to them in many ways.
He told them that God, when He made man out of the dust of the
earth, touched His work five times, leaving five intense feelings,
which we call the five senses. Through these, the true, the beautiful,
and the good are seen, understood, and perceived, and through these
they are valued, protected, and encouraged. Five senses have been
given mentally and corporeally, inwardly and outwardly, to body and
soul.

The children thought deeply on all these things, and meditated
upon them day and night. Then the eldest of the brothers dreamt a
splendid dream. Strange to say, not only the second brother but also
the third and fourth brothers all dreamt exactly the same thing;
namely, that each went out into the world to find the philosopher's
stone. Each dreamt that he found it, and that, as he rode back on
his swift horse, in the morning dawn, over the velvety green
meadows, to his home in the castle of his father, that the stone
gleamed from his forehead like a beaming light; and threw such a
bright radiance upon the pages of the Book of Truth that every word
was illuminated which spoke of the life beyond the grave. But the
sister had no dream of going out into the wide world; it never entered
her mind. Her world was her father's house.

"I shall ride forth into the wide world," said the eldest brother.
"I must try what life is like there, as I mix with men. I will
practise only the good and true; with these I will protect the
beautiful. Much shall be changed for the better while I am there."

Now these thoughts were great and daring, as our thoughts
generally are at home, before we have gone out into the world, and
encountered its storms and tempests, its thorns and its thistles. In
him, and in all his brothers, the five senses were highly
cultivated, inwardly and outwardly; but each of them had one sense
which in keenness and development surpassed the other four. In the
case of the eldest, this pre-eminent sense was sight, which he hoped
would be of special service. He had eyes for all times and all people;
eyes that could discover in the depths of the earth hidden
treasures, and look into the hearts of men, as through a pane of
glass; he could read more than is often seen on the cheek that blushes
or grows pale, in the eye that droops or smiles. Stags and antelopes
accompanied him to the western boundary of his home, and there he
found the wild swans. These he followed, and found himself far away in
the north, far from the land of his father, which extended eastward to
the ends of the earth. How he opened his eyes with astonishment! How
many things were to be seen here! and so different to the mere
representation of pictures such as those in his father's house. At
first he nearly lost his eyes in astonishment at the rubbish and
mockery brought forward to represent the beautiful; but he kept his
eyes, and soon found full employment for them. He wished to go
thoroughly and honestly to work in his endeavor to understand the
true, the beautiful, and the good. But how were they represented in
the world? He observed that the wreath which rightly belonged to the
beautiful was often given the hideous; that the good was often
passed by unnoticed, while mediocrity was applauded, when it should
have been hissed. People look at the dress, not at the wearer; thought
more of a name than of doing their duty; and trusted more to
reputation than to real service. It was everywhere the same.

"I see I must make a regular attack on these things," said he; and
he accordingly did not spare them. But while looking for the truth,
came the evil one, the father of lies, to intercept him. Gladly
would the fiend have plucked out the eyes of this Seer, but that would
have been a too straightforward path for him; he works more cunningly.
He allowed the young man to seek for, and discover, the beautiful
and the good; but while he was contemplating them, the evil spirit
blew one mote after another into each of his eyes; and such a
proceeding would injure the strongest sight. Then he blew upon the
motes, and they became beams, so that the clearness of his sight was
gone, and the Seer was like a blind man in the world, and had no
longer any faith in it. He had lost his good opinion of the world,
as well as of himself; and when a man gives up the world, and
himself too, it is all over with him.

"All over," said the wild swan, who flew across the sea to the
east.

"All over," twittered the swallows, who were also flying
eastward towards the Tree of the Sun. It was no good news which they
carried home.

"I think the Seer has been badly served," said the second brother,
"but the Hearer may be more successful."

This one possessed the sense of hearing to a very high degree:
so acute was this sense, that it was said he could hear the grass
grow. He took a fond leave of all at home, and rode away, provided
with good abilities and good intentions. The swallows escorted him,
and he followed the swans till he found himself out in the world,
and far away from home. But he soon discovered that one may have too
much of a good thing. His hearing was too fine. He not only heard
the grass grow, but could hear every man's heart beat, whether in
sorrow or in joy. The whole world was to him like a clockmaker's great
workshop, in which all the clocks were going "tick, tick," and all the
turret clocks striking "ding, dong." It was unbearable. For a long
time his ears endured it, but at last all the noise and tumult
became too much for one man to bear.

There were rascally boys of sixty years old--for years do not
alone make a man--who raised a tumult, which might have made the
Hearer laugh, but for the applause which followed, echoing through
every street and house, and was even heard in country roads. Falsehood
thrust itself forward and played the hypocrite; the bells on the
fool's cap jingled, and declared they were church-bells, and the noise
became so bad for the Hearer that he thrust his fingers into his ears.
Still, he could hear false notes and bad singing, gossip and idle
words, scandal and slander, groaning and moaning, without and
within. "Heaven help us!" He thrust his fingers farther and farther
into his ears, till at last the drums burst. And now he could hear
nothing more of the true, the beautiful, and the good; for his hearing
was to have been the means by which he hoped to acquire his knowledge.
He became silent and suspicious, and at last trusted no one, not
even himself, and no longer hoping to find and bring home the costly
jewel, he gave it up, and gave himself up too, which was worse than
all.

The birds in their flight towards the east, carried the tidings,
and the news reached the castle in the Tree of the Sun.

"I will try now," said the third brother; "I have a keen nose."
Now that was not a very elegant expression, but it was his way, and we
must take him as he was. He had a cheerful temper, and was, besides, a
real poet; he could make many things appear poetical, by the way in
which he spoke of them, and ideas struck him long before they occurred
to the minds of others. "I can smell," he would say; and he attributed
to the sense of smelling, which he possessed in a high degree, a great
power in the region of the beautiful. "I can smell," he would say,
"and many places are fragrant or beautiful according to the taste of
the frequenters. One man feels at home in the atmosphere of the
tavern, among the flaring tallow candles, and when the smell of
spirits mingles with the fumes of bad tobacco. Another prefers sitting
amidst the overpowering scent of jasmine, or perfuming himself with
scented olive oil. This man seeks the fresh sea breeze, while that one
climbs the lofty mountain-top, to look down upon the busy life in
miniature beneath him."

As he spoke in this way, it seemed as if he had already been out
in the world, as if he had already known and associated with man.
But this experience was intuitive--it was the poetry within him, a
gift from Heaven bestowed on him in his cradle. He bade farewell to
his parental roof in the Tree of the Sun, and departed on foot, from
the pleasant scenes that surrounded his home. Arrived at its confines,
he mounted on the back of an ostrich, which runs faster than a
horse, and afterwards, when he fell in with the wild swans, he swung
himself on the strongest of them, for he loved change, and away he
flew over the sea to distant lands, where there were great forests,
deep lakes, lofty mountains, and proud cities. Wherever he came it
seemed as if sunshine travelled with him across the fields, for
every flower, every bush, exhaled a renewed fragrance, as if conscious
that a friend and protector was near; one who understood them, and
knew their value. The stunted rose-bush shot forth twigs, unfolded its
leaves, and bore the most beautiful roses; every one could see it, and
even the black, slimy wood-snail noticed its beauty. "I will give my
seal to the flower," said the snail, "I have trailed my slime upon it,
I can do no more.

"Thus it always fares with the beautiful in this world," said
the poet. And he made a song upon it, and sung it after his own
fashion, but nobody listened. Then he gave a drummer twopence and a
peacock's feather, and composed a song for the drum, and the drummer
beat it through the streets of the town, and when the people heard
it they said, "That is a capital tune." The poet wrote many songs
about the true, the beautiful, and the good. His songs were listened
to in the tavern, where the tallow candles flared, in the fresh clover
field, in the forest, and on the high-seas; and it appeared as if this
brother was to be more fortunate than the other two.

But the evil spirit was angry at this, so he set to work with soot
and incense, which he can mix so artfully as to confuse an angel,
and how much more easily a poor poet. The evil one knew how to
manage such people. He so completely surrounded the poet with
incense that the man lost his head, forgot his mission and his home,
and at last lost himself and vanished in smoke.

But when the little birds heard of it, they mourned, and for three
days they sang not one song. The black wood-snail became blacker
still; not for grief, but for envy. "They should have offered me
incense," he said, "for it was I who gave him the idea of the most
famous of his songs--the drum song of 'The Way of the World;' and it
was I who spat at the rose; I can bring a witness to that fact."

But no tidings of all this reached the poet's home in India. The
birds had all been silent for three days, and when the time of
mourning was over, so deep had been their grief, that they had
forgotten for whom they wept. Such is the way of the world.

"Now I must go out into the world, and disappear like the rest,"
said the fourth brother. He was as good-tempered as the third, but
no poet, though he could be witty.

The two eldest had filled the castle with joyfulness, and now
the last brightness was going away. Sight and hearing have always been
considered two of the chief senses among men, and those which they
wish to keep bright; the other senses are looked upon as of less
importance.

But the younger son had a different opinion; he had cultivated his
taste in every way, and taste is very powerful. It rules over what
goes into the mouth, as well as over all which is presented to the
mind; and, consequently, this brother took upon himself to taste
everything stored up in bottles or jars; this he called the rough part
of his work. Every man's mind was to him as a vessel in which
something was concocting; every land a kind of mental kitchen.
"There are no delicacies here," he said; so he wished to go out into
the world to find something delicate to suit his taste. "Perhaps
fortune may be more favorable to me than it was to my brothers. I
shall start on my travels, but what conveyance shall I choose? Are air
balloons invented yet?" he asked of his father, who knew of all
inventions that had been made, or would be made.

Air balloons had not then been invented, nor steam-ships, nor
railways.

"Good," said he; "then I shall choose an air balloon; my father
knows how they are to be made and guided. Nobody has invented one yet,
and the people will believe that it is an aerial phantom. When I
have done with the balloon I shall burn it, and for this purpose,
you must give me a few pieces of another invention, which will come
next; I mean a few chemical matches."

He obtained what he wanted, and flew away. The birds accompanied
him farther than they had the other brothers. They were curious to
know how this flight would end. Many more of them came swooping
down; they thought it must be some new bird, and he soon had a
goodly company of followers. They came in clouds till the air became
darkened with birds as it was with the cloud of locusts over the
land of Egypt.

And now he was out in the wide world. The balloon descended over
one of the greatest cities, and the aeronaut took up his station at
the highest point, on the church steeple. The balloon rose again
into the air, which it ought not to have done; what became of it is
not known, neither is it of any consequence, for balloons had not then
been invented.

There he sat on the church steeple. The birds no longer hovered
over him; they had got tired of him, and he was tired of them. All the
chimneys in the town were smoking.

"There are altars erected to my honor," said the wind, who
wished to say something agreeable to him as he sat there boldly
looking down upon the people in the street. There was one stepping
along, proud of his purse; another, of the key he carried behind
him, though he had nothing to lock up; another took a pride in his
moth-eaten coat; and another, in his mortified body. "Vanity, all
vanity!" he exclaimed. "I must go down there by-and-by, and touch
and taste; but I shall sit here a little while longer, for the wind
blows pleasantly at my back. I shall remain here as long as the wind
blows, and enjoy a little rest. It is comfortable to sleep late in the
morning when one had a great deal to do," said the sluggard; "so I
shall stop here as long as the wind blows, for it pleases me."

And there he stayed. But as he was sitting on the weather-cock
of the steeple, which kept turning round and round with him, he was
under the false impression that the same wind still blew, and that
he could stay where he was without expense.

But in India, in the castle on the Tree of the Sun, all was
solitary and still, since the brothers had gone away one after the
other.

"Nothing goes well with them," said the father; "they will never
bring the glittering jewel home, it is not made for me; they are all
dead and gone." Then he bent down over the Book of Truth, and gazed on
the page on which he should have read of the life after death, but for
him there was nothing to be read or learned upon it.

His blind daughter was his consolation and joy; she clung to him
with sincere affection, and for the sake of his happiness and peace
she wished the costly jewel could be found and brought home.

With longing tenderness she thought of her brothers. Where were
they? Where did they live? How she wished she might dream of them; but
it was strange that not even in dreams could she be brought near to
them. But at last one night she dreamt that she heard the voices of
her brothers calling to her from the distant world, and she could
not refrain herself, but went out to them, and yet it seemed in her
dream that she still remained in her father's house. She did not see
her brothers, but she felt as it were a fire burning in her hand,
which, however, did not hurt her, for it was the jewel she was
bringing to her father. When she awoke she thought for a moment that
she still held the stone, but she only grasped the knob of her
distaff.

During the long evenings she had spun constantly, and round the
distaff were woven threads finer than the web of a spider; human
eyes could never have distinguished these threads when separated
from each other. But she had wetted them with her tears, and the twist
was as strong as a cable. She rose with the impression that her
dream must be a reality, and her resolution was taken.

It was still night, and her father slept; she pressed a kiss
upon his hand, and then took her distaff and fastened the end of the
thread to her father's house. But for this, blind as she was, she
would never have found her way home again; to this thread she must
hold fast, and trust not to others or even to herself. From the Tree
of the Sun she broke four leaves; which she gave up to the wind and
the weather, that they might be carried to her brothers as letters and
a greeting, in case she did not meet them in the wide world. Poor
blind child, what would become of her in those distant regions? But
she had the invisible thread, to which she could hold fast; and she
possessed a gift which all the others lacked. This was a determination
to throw herself entirely into whatever she undertook, and it made her
feel as if she had eyes even at the tips of her fingers, and could
hear down into her very heart. Quietly she went forth into the
noisy, bustling, wonderful world, and wherever she went the skies grew
bright, and she felt the warm sunbeam, and a rainbow above in the blue
heavens seemed to span the dark world. She heard the song of the
birds, and smelt the scent of the orange groves and apple orchards
so strongly that she seemed to taste it. Soft tones and charming songs
reached her ear, as well as harsh sounds and rough words--thoughts and
opinions in strange contradiction to each other. Into the deepest
recesses of her heart penetrated the echoes of human thoughts and
feelings. Now she heard the following words sadly sung,--

  "Life is a shadow that flits away
  In a night of darkness and woe."

But then would follow brighter thoughts:

  "Life has the rose's sweet perfume
  With sunshine, light, and joy."

And if one stanza sounded painfully--

  "Each mortal thinks of himself alone,
  Is a truth, alas, too clearly known;"

Then, on the other hand, came the answer--

  "Love, like a mighty flowing stream,
  Fills every heart with its radiant gleam."

She heard, indeed, such words as these--

  "In the pretty turmoil here below,
  All is a vain and paltry show.

Then came also words of comfort--

  "Great and good are the actions done
  By many whose worth is never known."

And if sometimes the mocking strain reached her--

  "Why not join in the jesting cry
  That contemns all gifts from the throne on high?"

In the blind girl's heart a stronger voice repeated--

  "To trust in thyself and God is best,
  In His holy will forever to rest."


But the evil spirit could not see this and remain contented. He
has more cleverness than ten thousand men, and he found means to
compass his end. He betook himself to the marsh, and collected a few
little bubbles of stagnant water. Then he uttered over them the echoes
of lying words that they might become strong. He mixed up together
songs of praise with lying epitaphs, as many as he could find,
boiled them in tears shed by envy; put upon them rouge, which he had
scraped from faded cheeks, and from these he produced a maiden, in
form and appearance like the blind girl, the angel of completeness, as
men called her. The evil one's plot was successful. The world knew not
which was the true, and indeed how should the world know?

  "To trust in thyself and God is best,
  In his Holy will forever to rest."

So sung the blind girl in full faith. She had entrusted the four green
leaves from the Tree of the Sun to the winds, as letters of greeting
to her brothers, and she had full confidence that the leaves would
reach them. She fully believed that the jewel which outshines all
the glories of the world would yet be found, and that upon the
forehead of humanity it would glitter even in the castle of her
father. "Even in my father's house," she repeated. "Yes, the place
in which this jewel is to be found is earth, and I shall bring more
than the promise of it with me. I feel it glow and swell more and more
in my closed hand. Every grain of truth which the keen wind carried up
and whirled towards me I caught and treasured. I allowed it to be
penetrated with the fragrance of the beautiful, of which there is so
much in the world, even for the blind. I took the beatings of a
heart engaged in a good action, and added them to my treasure. All
that I can bring is but dust; still, it is a part of the jewel we
seek, and there is plenty, my hand is quite full of it."

She soon found herself again at home; carried thither in a
flight of thought, never having loosened her hold of the invisible
thread fastened to her father's house. As she stretched out her hand
to her father, the powers of evil dashed with the fury of a
hurricane over the Tree of the Sun; a blast of wind rushed through the
open doors, and into the sanctuary, where lay the Book of Truth.

"It will be blown to dust by the wind," said the father, as he
seized the open hand she held towards him.

"No," she replied, with quiet confidence, "it is indestructible. I
feel its beam warming my very soul."

Then her father observed that a dazzling flame gleamed from the
white page on which the shining dust had passed from her hand. It
was there to prove the certainty of eternal life, and on the book
glowed one shining word, and only one, the word BELIEVE. And soon
the four brothers were again with the father and daughter. When the
green leaf from home fell on the bosom of each, a longing had seized
them to return. They had arrived, accompanied by the birds of passage,
the stag, the antelope, and all the creatures of the forest who wished
to take part in their joy.

We have often seen, when a sunbeam burst through a crack in the
door into a dusty room, how a whirling column of dust seems to
circle round. But this was not poor, insignificant, common dust, which
the blind girl had brought; even the rainbow's colors are dim when
compared with the beauty which shone from the page on which it had
fallen. The beaming word BELIEVE, from every grain of truth, had the
brightness of the beautiful and the good, more bright than the
mighty pillar of flame that led Moses and the children of Israel to
the land of Canaan, and from the word BELIEVE arose the bridge of
hope, reaching even to the unmeasurable Love in the realms of the
infinite.




THE PHOENIX BIRD

In the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge,
bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His
flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous,
and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree
of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from
Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into
the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished
in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered
aloft a new one--the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that
he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to
death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the
world, rises up from the red egg.

The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color,
charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant's cradle, he stands
on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the
infant's head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings
sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly
sweet.

But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his
way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of
Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland
summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal
mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook
that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he
floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo
maid gleams bright when she beholds him.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise,
the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of
a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees
of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan's red
beak; on Shakspeare's shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin's raven,
and whispered in the poet's ear "Immortality!" and at the minstrels'
feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the
Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he
came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away
from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.

The Bird of Paradise--renewed each century--born in flame,
ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of
the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and
disregarded, a myth--"The Phoenix of Arabia."

In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the
Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was
given thee--thy name, Poetry.




THE PORTUGUESE DUCK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't be angry," said the little bird; "the 'tweet' slipped out
of my beak unawares."

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

  "Chirp and twitter,
    The dew-drops glitter,
  In the hours of sunny spring,
    I'll sing my best,
    Till I go to rest,
  With my head behind my wing."


"Now I want rest after my dinner," said the Portuguese; "you
must conform to the rules of the house while you are here. I want to
sleep now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There's not much of him lying there," observed the cock.

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

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

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

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




THE PORTER'S SON

The General lived in the grand first floor, and the porter lived
in the cellar. There was a great distance between the two families--the
whole of the ground floor, and the difference in rank; but they
lived in the same house, and both had a view of the street, and of the
courtyard. In the courtyard was a grass-plot, on which grew a blooming
acacia tree (when it was in bloom), and under this tree sat
occasionally the finely-dressed nurse, with the still more
finely-dressed child of the General--little Emily. Before them
danced about barefoot the little son of the porter, with his great
brown eyes and dark hair; and the little girl smiled at him, and
stretched out her hands towards him; and when the General saw that
from the window, he would nod his head and cry, "Charming!" The
General's lady (who was so young that she might very well have been
her husband's daughter from an early marriage) never came to the
window that looked upon the courtyard. She had given orders, though,
that the boy might play his antics to amuse her child, but must
never touch it. The nurse punctually obeyed the gracious lady's
orders.

The sun shone in upon the people in the grand first floor, and
upon the people in the cellar; the acacia tree was covered with
blossoms, and they fell off, and next year new ones came. The tree
bloomed, and the porter's little son bloomed too, and looked like a
fresh tulip.

The General's little daughter became delicate and pale, like the
leaf of the acacia blossom. She seldom came down to the tree now,
for she took the air in a carriage. She drove out with her mamma,
and then she would always nod at the porter's George; yes, she used
even to kiss her hand to him, till her mamma said she was too old to
do that now.

One morning George was sent up to carry the General the letters
and newspapers that had been delivered at the porter's room in the
morning. As he was running up stairs, just as he passed the door of
the sand-box, he heard a faint piping. He thought it was some young
chicken that had strayed there, and was raising cries of distress; but
it was the General's little daughter, decked out in lace and finery.

"Don't tell papa and mamma," she whimpered; "they would be angry."

"What's the matter, little missie?" asked George.

"It's all on fire!" she answered. "It's burning with a bright
flame!" George hurried up stairs to the General's apartments; he
opened the door of the nursery. The window curtain was almost entirely
burnt, and the wooden curtain-pole was one mass of flame. George
sprang upon a chair he brought in haste, and pulled down the burning
articles; he then alarmed the people. But for him, the house would
have been burned down.

The General and his lady cross-questioned little Emily.

"I only took just one lucifer-match," she said, "and it was
burning directly, and the curtain was burning too. I spat at it, to
put it out; I spat at it as much as ever I could, but I could not
put it out; so I ran away and hid myself, for papa and mamma would
be angry."

"I spat!" cried the General's lady; "what an expression! Did you
ever hear your papa and mamma talk about spitting? You must have got
that from down stairs!"

And George had a penny given him. But this penny did not go to the
baker's shop, but into the savings-box; and soon there were so many
pennies in the savings-box that he could buy a paint-box and color the
drawings he made, and he had a great number of drawings. They seemed
to shoot out of his pencil and out of his fingers' ends. His first
colored pictures he presented to Emily.

"Charming!" said the General, and even the General's lady
acknowledged that it was easy to see what the boy had meant to draw.
"He has genius." Those were the words that were carried down into
the cellar.

The General and his gracious lady were grand people. They had
two coats of arms on their carriage, a coat of arms for each of
them, and the gracious lady had had this coat of arms embroidered on
both sides of every bit of linen she had, and even on her nightcap and
her dressing-bag. One of the coats of arms, the one that belonged to
her, was a very dear one; it had been bought for hard cash by her
father, for he had not been born with it, nor had she; she had come
into the world too early, seven years before the coat of arms, and
most people remembered this circumstance, but the family did not
remember it. A man might well have a bee in his bonnet, when he had
such a coat of arms to carry as that, let alone having to carry two;
and the General's wife had a bee in hers when she drove to the court
ball, as stiff and as proud as you please.

The General was old and gray, but he had a good seat on horseback,
and he knew it, and he rode out every day, with a groom behind him
at a proper distance. When he came to a party, he looked somehow as if
he were riding into the room upon his high horse; and he had orders,
too, such a number that no one would have believed it; but that was
not his fault. As a young man he had taken part in the great autumn
reviews which were held in those days. He had an anecdote that he told
about those days, the only one he knew. A subaltern under his orders
had cut off one of the princes, and taken him prisoner, and the Prince
had been obliged to ride through the town with a little band of
captured soldiers, himself a prisoner behind the General. This was
an ever-memorable event, and was always told over and over again every
year by the General, who, moreover, always repeated the remarkable
words he had used when he returned his sword to the Prince; those
words were, "Only my subaltern could have taken your Highness
prisoner; I could never have done it!" And the Prince had replied,
"You are incomparable." In a real war the General had never taken
part. When war came into the country, he had gone on a diplomatic
career to foreign courts. He spoke the French language so fluently
that he had almost forgotten his own; he could dance well, he could
ride well, and orders grew on his coat in an astounding way. The
sentries presented arms to him, one of the most beautiful girls
presented arms to him, and became the General's lady, and in time they
had a pretty, charming child, that seemed as if it had dropped from
heaven, it was so pretty; and the porter's son danced before it in the
courtyard, as soon as it could understand it, and gave her all his
colored pictures, and little Emily looked at them, and was pleased,
and tore them to pieces. She was pretty and delicate indeed.

"My little Roseleaf!" cried the General's lady, "thou art born
to wed a prince."

The prince was already at the door, but they knew nothing of it;
people don't see far beyond the threshold.

"The day before yesterday our boy divided his bread and butter
with her!" said the porter's wife. There was neither cheese nor
meat upon it, but she liked it as well as if it had been roast beef.
There would have been a fine noise if the General and his wife had
seen the feast, but they did not see it.

George had divided his bread and butter with little Emily, and
he would have divided his heart with her, if it would have pleased
her. He was a good boy, brisk and clever, and he went to the night
school in the Academy now, to learn to draw properly. Little Emily was
getting on with her education too, for she spoke French with her
"bonne," and had a dancing master.


"George will be confirmed at Easter," said the porter's wife;
for George had got so far as this.

"It would be the best thing, now, to make an apprentice of him,"
said his father. "It must be to some good calling--and then he would
be out of the house."

"He would have to sleep out of the house," said George's mother.
"It is not easy to find a master who has room for him at night, and we
shall have to provide him with clothes too. The little bit of eating
that he wants can be managed for him, for he's quite happy with a
few boiled potatoes; and he gets taught for nothing. Let the boy go
his own way. You will say that he will be our joy some day, and the
Professor says so too."

The confirmation suit was ready. The mother had worked it herself;
but the tailor who did repairs had cut them out, and a capital
cutter-out he was.

"If he had had a better position, and been able to keep a workshop
and journeymen," the porter's wife said, "he might have been a court
tailor."

The clothes were ready, and the candidate for confirmation was
ready. On his confirmation day, George received a great pinchbeck
watch from his godfather, the old iron monger's shopman, the richest
of his godfathers. The watch was an old and tried servant. It always
went too fast, but that is better than to be lagging behind. That
was a costly present. And from the General's apartment there arrived a
hymn-book bound in morocco, sent by the little lady to whom George had
given pictures. At the beginning of the book his name was written, and
her name, as "his gracious patroness." These words had been written at
the dictation of the General's lady, and the General had read the
inscription, and pronounced it "Charming!"

"That is really a great attention from a family of such position,"
said the porter's wife; and George was sent up stairs to show
himself in his confirmation clothes, with the hymn-book in his hand.

The General's lady was sitting very much wrapped up, and had the
bad headache she always had when time hung heavy upon her hands. She
looked at George very pleasantly, and wished him all prosperity, and
that he might never have her headache. The General was walking about
in his dressing-gown. He had a cap with a long tassel on his head, and
Russian boots with red tops on his feet. He walked three times up
and down the room, absorbed in his own thoughts and recollections, and
then stopped and said:

"So little George is a confirmed Christian now. Be a good man, and
honor those in authority over you. Some day, when you are an old
man, you can say that the General gave you this precept."

That was a longer speech than the General was accustomed to
make, and then he went back to his ruminations, and looked very
aristocratic. But of all that George heard and saw up there, little
Miss Emily remained most clear in his thoughts. How graceful she
was, how gentle, and fluttering, and pretty she looked. If she were to
be drawn, it ought to be on a soap-bubble. About her dress, about
her yellow curled hair, there was a fragrance as of a fresh-blown
rose; and to think that he had once divided his bread and butter
with her, and that she had eaten it with enormous appetite, and nodded
to him at every second mouthful! Did she remember anything about it?
Yes, certainly, for she had given him the beautiful hymn-book in
remembrance of this; and when the first new moon in the first new year
after this event came round, he took a piece of bread, a penny, and
his hymn-book, and went out into the open air, and opened the book
to see what psalm he should turn up. It was a psalm of praise and
thanksgiving. Then he opened the book again to see what would turn
up for little Emily. He took great pains not to open the book in the
place where the funeral hymns were, and yet he got one that referred
to the grave and death. But then he thought this was not a thing in
which one must believe; for all that he was startled when soon
afterwards the pretty little girl had to lie in bed, and the
doctor's carriage stopped at the gate every day.

"They will not keep her with them," said the porter's wife. "The
good God knows whom He will summon to Himself."

But they kept her after all; and George drew pictures and sent
them to her. He drew the Czar's palace; the old Kremlin at Moscow,
just as it stood, with towers and cupolas; and these cupolas looked
like gigantic green and gold cucumbers, at least in George's
drawing. Little Emily was highly pleased, and consequently, when a
week had elapsed, George sent her a few more pictures, all with
buildings in them; for, you see, she could imagine all sorts of things
inside the windows and doors.

He drew a Chinese house, with bells hanging from every one of
sixteen stories. He drew two Grecian temples with slender marble
pillars, and with steps all round them. He drew a Norwegian church. It
was easy to see that this church had been built entirely of wood, hewn
out and wonderfully put together; every story looked as if it had
rockers, like a cradle. But the most beautiful of all was the
castle, drawn on one of the leaves, and which he called "Emily's
Castle." This was the kind of place in which she must live. That is
what George had thought, and consequently he had put into this
building whatever he thought most beautiful in all the others. It
had carved wood-work, like the Norwegian church; marble pillars,
like the Grecian temple; bells in every story; and was crowned with
cupolas, green and gilded, like those of the Kremlin of the Czar. It
was a real child's castle, and under every window was written what the
hall or the room inside was intended to be; for instance: "Here
Emily sleeps;" "Here Emily dances;" "Here Emily plays at receiving
visitors." It was a real pleasure to look at the castle, and right
well was the castle looked at accordingly.

"Charming!" said the General.

But the old Count--for there was an old Count there, who was still
grander than the General, and had a castle of his own--said nothing at
all; he heard that it had been designed and drawn by the porter's
little son. Not that he was so very little, either, for he had already
been confirmed. The old Count looked at the pictures, and had his
own thoughts as he did so.

One day, when it was very gloomy, gray, wet weather, the brightest
of days dawned for George; for the Professor at the Academy called him
into his room.

"Listen to me, my friend," said the Professor; "I want to speak to
you. The Lord has been good to you in giving you abilities, and He has
also been good in placing you among kind people. The old Count at
the corner yonder has been speaking to me about you. I have also
seen your sketches; but we will not say any more about those, for
there is a good deal to correct in them. But from this time forward
you may come twice a-week to my drawing-class, and then you will
soon learn how to do them better. I think there's more of the
architect than of the painter in you. You will have time to think that
over; but go across to the old Count this very day, and thank God
for having sent you such a friend."

It was a great house--the house of the old Count at the corner.
Round the windows elephants and dromedaries were carved, all from
the old times; but the old Count loved the new time best, and what
it brought, whether it came from the first floor, or from the
cellar, or from the attic.

"I think," said, the porter's wife, "the grander people are, the
fewer airs do they give themselves. How kind and straightforward the
old count is! and he talks exactly like you and me. Now, the General
and his lady can't do that. And George was fairly wild with delight
yesterday at the good reception he met with at the Count's, and so
am I to-day, after speaking to the great man. Wasn't it a good thing
that we didn't bind George apprentice to a handicraftsman? for he
has abilities of his own."

"But they must be helped on by others," said the father.

"That help he has got now," rejoined the mother; "for the Count
spoke out quite clearly and distinctly."

"But I fancy it began with the General," said the father, "and
we must thank them too."

"Let us do so with all my heart," cried the mother, "though I
fancy we have not much to thank them for. I will thank the good God;
and I will thank Him, too, for letting little Emily get well."

Emily was getting on bravely, and George got on bravely too. In
the course of the year he won the little silver prize medal of the
Academy, and afterwards he gained the great one too.


"It would have been better, after all, if he had been
apprenticed to a handicraftsman," said the porter's wife, weeping;
"for then we could have kept him with us. What is he to do in Rome?
I shall never get a sight of him again, not even if he comes back; but
that he won't do, the dear boy."

"It is fortune and fame for him," said the father.

"Yes, thank you, my friend," said the mother; "you are saying what
you do not mean. You are just as sorrowful as I am."

And it was all true about the sorrow and the journey. But
everybody said it was a great piece of good fortune for the young
fellow. And he had to take leave, and of the General too. The
General's lady did not show herself, for she had her bad headache.
On this occasion the General told his only anecdote, about what he had
said to the Prince, and how the Prince had said to him, "You are
incomparable." And he held out a languid hand to George.

Emily gave George her hand too, and looked almost sorry; and
George was the most sorry of all.


Time goes by when one has something to do; and it goes by, too,
when one has nothing to do. The time is equally long, but not
equally useful. It was useful to George, and did not seem long at all,
except when he happened to be thinking of his home. How might the good
folks be getting on, up stairs and down stairs? Yes, there was writing
about that, and many things can be put into a letter--bright
sunshine and dark, heavy days. Both of these were in the letter
which brought the news that his father was dead, and that his mother
was alone now. She wrote that Emily had come down to see her, and
had been to her like an angel of comfort; and concerning herself,
she added that she had been allowed to keep her situation as
porteress.

The General's lady kept a diary, and in this diary was recorded
every ball she attended and every visit she received. The diary was
illustrated by the insertion of the visiting cards of the diplomatic
circle and of the most noble families; and the General's lady was
proud of it. The diary kept growing through a long time, and amid many
severe headaches, and through a long course of half-nights, that is to
say, of court balls. Emily had now been to a court ball for the
first time. Her mother had worn a bright red dress, with black lace,
in the Spanish style; the daughter had been attired in white, fair and
delicate; green silk ribbons fluttered like flag-leaves among her
yellow locks, and on her head she wore a wreath of water-lillies.
Her eyes were so blue and clear, her mouth was so delicate and red,
she looked like a little water spirit, as beautiful as such a spirit
can be imagined. The Princes danced with her, one after another of
course; and the General's lady had not a headache for a week
afterwards.

But the first ball was not the last, and Emily could not stand it;
it was a good thing, therefore, that summer brought with it rest,
and exercise in the open air. The family had been invited by the old
Count to visit him at him castle. That was a castle with a garden
which was worth seeing. Part of this garden was laid out quite in
the style of the old days, with stiff green hedges; you walked as if
between green walls with peep-holes in them. Box trees and yew trees
stood there trimmed into the form of stars and pyramids, and water
sprang from fountains in large grottoes lined with shells. All
around stood figures of the most beautiful stone--that could be seen
in their clothes as well as in their faces; every flower-bed had a
different shape, and represented a fish, or a coat of arms, or a
monogram. That was the French part of the garden; and from this part
the visitor came into what appeared like the green, fresh forest,
where the trees might grow as they chose, and accordingly they were
great and glorious. The grass was green, and beautiful to walk on, and
it was regularly cut, and rolled, and swept, and tended. That was
the English part of the garden.

"Old time and new time," said the Count, "here they run well
into one another. In two years the building itself will put on a
proper appearance, there will be a complete metamorphosis in beauty
and improvement. I shall show you the drawings, and I shall show you
the architect, for he is to dine here to-day."

"Charming!" said the General.

"'Tis like Paradise here," said the General's lady, "and yonder
you have a knight's castle!"

"That's my poultry-house," observed the Count. "The pigeons live
in the tower, the turkeys in the first floor, but old Elsie rules in
the ground floor. She has apartments on all sides of her. The
sitting hens have their own room, and the hens with chickens have
theirs; and the ducks have their own particular door leading to the
water."

"Charming!" repeated the General.

And all sailed forth to see these wonderful things. Old Elsie
stood in the room on the ground floor, and by her side stood Architect
George. He and Emily now met for the first time after several years,
and they met in the poultry-house.

Yes, there he stood, and was handsome enough to be looked at.
His face was frank and energetic; he had black shining hair, and a
smile about his mouth, which said, "I have a brownie that sits in my
ear, and knows every one of you, inside and out." Old Elsie had pulled
off her wooden shoes, and stood there in her stockings, to do honor to
the noble guests. The hens clucked, and the cocks crowed, and the
ducks waddled to and fro, and said, "Quack, quack!" But the fair, pale
girl, the friend of his childhood, the daughter of the General,
stood there with a rosy blush on her usually pale cheeks, and her eyes
opened wide, and her mouth seemed to speak without uttering a word,
and the greeting he received from her was the most beautiful
greeting a young man can desire from a young lady, if they are not
related, or have not danced many times together, and she and the
architect had never danced together.

The Count shook hands with him, and introduced him.

"He is not altogether a stranger, our young friend George."

The General's lady bowed to him, and the General's daughter was
very nearly giving him her hand; but she did not give it to him.

"Our little Master George!" said the General. "Old friends!
Charming!"

"You have become quite an Italian," said the General's lady,
"and I presume you speak the language like a native?"

"My wife sings the language, but she does not speak it,"
observed the General.

At dinner, George sat at the right hand of Emily, whom the General
had taken down, while the Count led in the General's lady.

Mr. George talked and told of his travels; and he could talk well,
and was the life and soul of the table, though the old Count could
have been it too. Emily sat silent, but she listened, and her eyes
gleamed, but she said nothing.

In the verandah, among the flowers, she and George stood together;
the rose-bushes concealed them. And George was speaking again, for
he took the lead now.

"Many thanks for the kind consideration you showed my old mother,"
he said. "I know that you went down to her on the night when my father
died, and you stayed with her till his eyes were closed. My
heartiest thanks!"

He took Emily's hand and kissed it--he might do so on such an
occasion. She blushed deeply, but pressed his hand, and looked at
him with her dear blue eyes.

"Your mother was a dear soul!" she said. "How fond she was of
her son! And she let me read all your letters, so that I almost
believe I know you. How kind you were to me when I was little girl!
You used to give me pictures."

"Which you tore in two," said George.

"No, I have still your drawing of the castle."

"I must build the castle in reality now," said George; and he
became quite warm at his own words.

The General and the General's lady talked to each other in their
room about the porter's son--how he knew how to behave, and to express
himself with the greatest propriety.

"He might be a tutor," said the General.

"Intellect!" said the General's lady; but she did not say anything
more.

During the beautiful summer-time Mr. George several times
visited the Count at his castle; and he was missed when he did not
come.

"How much the good God has given you that he has not given to us
poor mortals," said Emily to him. "Are you sure you are very
grateful for it?"

It flattered George that the lovely young girl should look up to
him, and he thought then that Emily had unusually good abilities.
And the General felt more and more convinced that George was no
cellar-child.

"His mother was a very good woman," he observed. "It is only right
I should do her that justice now she is in her grave."


The summer passed away, and the winter came; again there was
talk about Mr. George. He was highly respected, and was received in
the first circles. The General had met him at a court ball.

And now there was a ball to be given in the General's house for
Emily, and could Mr. George be invited to it?

"He whom the King invites can be invited by the General also,"
said the General, and drew himself up till he stood quite an inch
higher than before.

Mr. George was invited, and he came; princes and counts came,
and they danced, one better than the other. But Emily could only dance
one dance--the first; for she made a false step--nothing of
consequence; but her foot hurt her, so that she had to be careful, and
leave off dancing, and look at the others. So she sat and looked on,
and the architect stood by her side.

"I suppose you are giving her the whole history of St. Peter's,"
said the General, as he passed by; and smiled, like the
personification of patronage.

With the same patronizing smile he received Mr. George a few
days afterwards. The young man came, no doubt, to return thanks for
the invitation to the ball. What else could it be? But indeed there
was something else, something very astonishing and startling. He spoke
words of sheer lunacy, so that the General could hardly believe his
own ears. It was "the height of rhodomontade," an offer, quite an
inconceivable offer--Mr. George came to ask the hand of Emily in
marriage!

"Man!" cried the General, and his brain seemed to be boiling. "I
don't understand you at all. What is it you say? What is it you
want? I don't know you. Sir! Man! What possesses you to break into
my house? And am I to stand here and listen to you?" He stepped
backwards into his bed-room, locked the door behind him, and left
Mr. George standing alone. George stood still for a few minutes, and
then turned round and left the room. Emily was standing in the
corridor.

"My father has answered?" she said, and her voice trembled.

George pressed her hand.

"He has escaped me," he replied; "but a better time will come."

There were tears in Emily's eyes, but in the young man's eyes
shone courage and confidence; and the sun shone through the window,
and cast his beams on the pair, and gave them his blessing.

The General sat in his room, bursting hot. Yes, he was still
boiling, until he boiled over in the exclamation, "Lunacy! porter!
madness!"

Not an hour was over before the General's lady knew it out of
the General's own mouth. She called Emily, and remained alone with
her.

"You poor child," she said; "to insult you so! to insult us so!
There are tears in your eyes, too, but they become you well. You
look beautiful in tears. You look as I looked on my wedding-day.
Weep on, my sweet Emily."

"Yes, that I must," said Emily, "if you and my father do not say
'yes.'"

"Child!" screamed the General's lady; "you are ill! You are
talking wildly, and I shall have a most terrible headache! Oh, what
a misfortune is coming upon our house! Don't make your mother die,
Emily, or you will have no mother."

And the eyes of the General's lady were wet, for she could not
bear to think of her own death.


In the newspapers there was an announcement. "Mr. George has
been elected Professor of the Fifth Class, number Eight."

"It's a pity that his parents are dead and cannot read it," said
the new porter people, who now lived in the cellar under the General's
apartments. They knew that the Professor had been born and grown up
within their four walls.

"Now he'll get a salary," said the man.

"Yes, that's not much for a poor child," said the woman.

"Eighteen dollars a year," said the man. "Why, it's a good deal of
money."

"No, I mean the honor of it," replied the wife. "Do you think he
cares for the money? Those few dollars he can earn a hundred times
over, and most likely he'll get a rich wife into the bargain. If we
had children of our own, husband, our child should be an architect and
a professor too."

George was spoken well of in the cellar, and he was spoken well of
in the first floor. The old Count took upon himself to do that.

The pictures he had drawn in his childhood gave occasion for it.
But how did the conversation come to turn on these pictures? Why, they
had been talking of Russia and of Moscow, and thus mention was made of
the Kremlin, which little George had once drawn for Miss Emily. He had
drawn many pictures, but the Count especially remembered one, "Emily's
Castle," where she was to sleep, and to dance, and to play at
receiving guests.

"The Professor was a true man," said the Count, "and would be a
privy councillor before he died, it was not at all unlikely; and he
might build a real castle for the young lady before that time came:
why not?"

"That was a strange jest," remarked the General's lady, when the
Count had gone away. The General shook his head thoughtfully, and went
out for a ride, with his groom behind him at a proper distance, and he
sat more stiffly than ever on his high horse.

It was Emily's birthday. Flowers, books, letters, and visiting
cards came pouring in. The General's lady kissed her on the mouth, and
the General kissed her on the forehead; they were affectionate
parents, and they and Emily had to receive grand visitors, two of
the Princes. They talked of balls and theatres, of diplomatic
missions, of the government of empires and nations; and then they
spoke of talent, native talent; and so the discourse turned upon the
young architect.

"He is building up an immortality for himself," said one, "and
he will certainly build his way into one of our first families."

"One of our first families!" repeated the General and afterwards
the General's lady; "what is meant by one of our first families?"

"I know for whom it was intended," said the General's lady, "but I
shall not say it. I don't think it. Heaven disposes, but I shall be
astonished."

"I am astonished also!" said the General. "I haven't an idea in my
head!" And he fell into a reverie, waiting for ideas.

There is a power, a nameless power, in the possession of favor
from above, the favor of Providence, and this favor little George had.
But we are forgetting the birthday.

Emily's room was fragrant with flowers, sent by male and female
friends; on the table lay beautiful presents for greeting and
remembrance, but none could come from George--none could come from
him; but it was not necessary, for the whole house was full of
remembrances of him. Even out of the ash-bin the blossom of memory
peeped forth, for Emily had sat whimpering there on the day when the
window-curtain caught fire, and George arrived in the character of
fire engine. A glance out of the window, and the acacia tree
reminded of the days of childhood. Flowers and leaves had fallen,
but there stood the tree covered with hoar frost, looking like a
single huge branch of coral, and the moon shone clear and large
among the twigs, unchanged in its changings, as it was when George
divided his bread and butter with little Emily.

Out of a box the girl took the drawings of the Czar's palace and
of her own castle--remembrances of George. The drawings were looked
at, and many thoughts came. She remembered the day when, unobserved by
her father and mother, she had gone down to the porter's wife who
lay dying. Once again she seemed to sit beside her, holding the
dying woman's hand in hers, hearing the dying woman's last words:
"Blessing George!" The mother was thinking of her son, and now Emily
gave her own interpretation to those words. Yes, George was
certainly with her on her birthday.

It happened that the next day was another birthday in that
house, the General's birthday. He had been born the day after his
daughter, but before her of course--many years before her. Many
presents arrived, and among them came a saddle of exquisite
workmanship, a comfortable and costly saddle--one of the Princes had
just such another. Now, from whom might this saddle come? The
General was delighted. There was a little note with the saddle. Now if
the words on the note had been "many thanks for yesterday's
reception," we might easily have guessed from whom it came. But the
words were "From somebody whom the General does not know."

"Whom in the world do I not know?" exclaimed the General. "I
know everybody;" and his thoughts wandered all through society, for he
knew everybody there. "That saddle comes from my wife!" he said at
last. "She is teasing me--charming!"

But she was not teasing him; those times were past.


Again there was a feast, but it was not in the General's house, it
was a fancy ball at the Prince's, and masks were allowed too.

The General went as Rubens, in a Spanish costume, with a little
ruff round his neck, a sword by his side, and a stately manner. The
General's lady was Madame Rubens, in black velvet made high round
the neck, exceedingly warm, and with a mill-stone round her neck in
the shape of a great ruff--accurately dressed after a Dutch picture in
the possession of the General, in which the hands were especially
admired. They were just like the hands of the General's lady.

Emily was Psyche. In white crape and lace she was like a
floating swan. She did not want wings at all. She only wore them as
emblematic of Psyche.

Brightness, splendor, light and flowers, wealth and taste appeared
at the ball; there was so much to see, that the beautiful hands of
Madame Rubens made no sensation at all.

A black domino, with an acacia blossom in his cap, danced with
Psyche.

"Who is that?" asked the General's lady.

"His Royal Highness," replied the General. "I am quite sure of it.
I knew him directly by the pressure of his hand."

The General's lady doubted it.

General Rubens had no doubts about it. He went up to the black
domino and wrote the royal letters in the mask's hand. These were
denied, but the mask gave him a hint.

The words that came with the saddle: "One whom you do not know,
General."

"But I do know you," said the General. "It was you who sent me the
saddle."

The domino raised his hand, and disappeared among the other
guests.

"Who is that black domino with whom you were dancing, Emily?"
asked the General's lady.

"I did not ask his name," she replied, "because you knew it. It is
the Professor. Your protege is here, Count!" she continued, turning to
that nobleman, who stood close by. "A black domino with acacia
blossoms in his cap."

"Very likely, my dear lady," replied the Count. "But one of the
Princes wears just the same costume."

"I knew the pressure of the hand," said the General. "The saddle
came from the Prince. I am so certain of it that I could invite that
domino to dinner."

"Do so. If it be the Prince he will certainly come," replied the
Count.

"And if it is the other he will not come," said the General, and
approached the black domino, who was just speaking with the King.
The General gave a very respectful invitation "that they might make
each other's acquaintance," and he smiled in his certainty
concerning the person he was inviting. He spoke loud and distinctly.

The domino raised his mask, and it was George. "Do you repeat your
invitation, General?" he asked.

The General certainly seemed to grow an inch taller, assumed a
more stately demeanor, and took two steps backward and one step
forward, as if he were dancing a minuet, and then came as much gravity
and expression into the face of the General as the General could
contrive to infuse into it; but he replied,

"I never retract my words! You are invited, Professor!" and he
bowed with a glance at the King, who must have heard the whole
dialogue.


Now, there was a company to dinner at the General's, but only
the old Count and his protege were invited.

"I have my foot under his table," thought George. "That's laying
the foundation stone."

And the foundation stone was really laid, with great ceremony,
at the house of the General and of the General's lady.

The man had come, and had spoken quite like a person in good
society, and had made himself very agreeable, so that the General
had often to repeat his "Charming!" The General talked of this dinner,
talked of it even to a court lady; and this lady, one of the most
intellectual persons about the court, asked to be invited to meet
the Professor the next time he should come. So he had to be invited
again; and he was invited, and came, and was charming again; he
could even play chess.

"He's not out of the cellar," said the General; "he's quite a
distinguished person. There are many distinguished persons of that
kind, and it's no fault of his."

The Professor, who was received in the King's palace, might very
well be received by the General; but that he could ever belong to
the house was out of the question, only the whole town was talking
of it.


He grew and grew. The dew of favor fell from above, so no one
was surprised after all that he should become a Privy Councillor,
and Emily a Privy Councillor's lady.

"Life is either a tragedy or a comedy," said the General. "In
tragedies they die, in comedies they marry one another."

In this case they married. And they had three clever boys--but not
all at once.

The sweet children rode on their hobby-horses through all the
rooms when they came to see the grandparents. And the General also
rode on his stick; he rode behind them in the character of groom to
the little Privy Councillors.

And the General's lady sat on her sofa and smiled at them, even
when she had her severest headache.


So far did George get, and much further; else it had not been
worth while to tell the story of THE PORTER'S SON.




POULTRY MEG'S FAMILY

Poultry Meg was the only person who lived in the new stately
dwelling that had been built for the fowls and ducks belonging to
the manor house. It stood there where once the old knightly building
had stood with its tower, its pointed gables, its moat, and its
drawbridge. Close by it was a wilderness of trees and thicket; here
the garden had been, and had stretched out to a great lake, which
was now moorland. Crows and choughs flew screaming over the old trees,
and there were crowds of birds; they did not seem to get fewer when
any one shot among them, but seemed rather to increase. One heard
the screaming into the poultry-house, where Poultry Meg sat with the
ducklings running to and fro over her wooden shoes. She knew every
fowl and every duck from the moment it crept out of the shell; and she
was fond of her fowls and her ducks, and proud of the stately house
that had been built for them. Her own little room in the house was
clean and neat, for that was the wish of the gracious lady to whom the
house belonged. She often came in the company of grand noble guests,
to whom she showed "the hens' and ducks' barracks," as she called
the little house.

Here were a clothes cupboard, and an arm-chair, and even a
chest of drawers; and on these drawers a polished metal plate had been
placed, whereon was engraved the word "Grubbe," and this was the
name of the noble family that had lived in the house of old. The brass
plate had been found when they were digging the foundation; and the
clerk has said it had no value except in being an old relic. The clerk
knew all about the place, and about the old times, for he had his
knowledge from books, and many a memorandum had been written and put
in his table-drawer. But the oldest of the crows perhaps knew more
than he, and screamed it out in her own language; but that was the
crow's language, and the clerk did not understand that, clever as he
was.

After the hot summer days the mist sometimes hung over the
moorland as if a whole lake were behind the old trees, among which the
crows and the daws were fluttering; and thus it had looked when the
good Knight Grubbe had lived here--when the old manor house stood with
its thick red walls. The dog-chain used to reach in those days quite
over the gateway; through the tower one went into a paved passage
which led to the rooms; the windows were narrow, and the panes were
small, even in the great hall where the dancing used to be; but in the
time of the last Grubbe, there had been no dancing in the hall
within the memory of man, although an old drum still lay there that
had served as part of the music. Here stood a quaintly carved
cupboard, in which rare flower-roots were kept, for my Lady Grubbe was
fond of plants and cultivated trees and shrubs. Her husband
preferred riding out to shoot wolves and boars; and his little
daughter Marie always went with him part of the way. When she was only
five years old, she would sit proudly on her horse, and look saucily
round with her great black eyes. It was a great amusement to her to
hit out among the hunting-dogs with her whip; but her father would
rather have seen her hit among the peasant boys, who came running up
to stare at their lord.

The peasant in the clay hut close by the knightly house had a
son named Soren, of the same age as the gracious little lady. The
boy could climb well, and had always to bring her down the bird's
nests. The birds screamed as loud as they could, and one of the
greatest of them hacked him with its beak over the eye so that the
blood ran down, and it was at first thought the eye had been
destroyed; but it had not been injured after all. Marie Grubbe used to
call him her Soren, and that was a great favor, and was an advantage
to Soren's father--poor Jon, who had one day committed a fault, and
was to be punished by riding on the wooden horse. This same horse
stood in the courtyard, and had four poles for legs, and a single
narrow plant for a back; on this Jon had to ride astride, and some
heavy bricks were fastened to his feet into the bargain, that he might
not sit too comfortably. He made horrible grimaces, and Soren wept and
implored little Marie to interfere. She immediately ordered that
Soren's father should be taken down, and when they did not obey her,
she stamped on the floor, and pulled at her father's sleeve till it
was torn to pieces. She would have her way, and she got her way, and
Soren's father was taken down.

Lady Grubbe, who now came up, parted her little daughter's hair
from the child's brow, and looked at her affectionately; but Marie did
not understand why.

She wanted to go to the hounds, and not to her mother, who went
down into the garden, to the lake where the water-lily bloomed, and
the heads of bulrushes nodded amid the reeds; and she looked at all
this beauty and freshness. "How pleasant!" she said. In the garden
stood at that time a rare tree, which she herself had planted. It
was called the blood-beech--a kind of negro growing among the other
trees, so dark brown were the leaves. This tree required much
sunshine, for in continual shade it would become bright green like the
other trees, and thus lose its distinctive character. In the lofty
chestnut trees were many birds' nests, and also in the thickets and in
the grassy meadows. It seemed as though the birds knew that they
were protected here, and that no one must fire a gun at them.

Little Marie came here with Soren. He knew how to climb, as we
have already said, and eggs and fluffy-feathered young birds were
brought down. The birds, great and small, flew about in terror and
tribulation; the peewit from the fields, and the crows and daws from
the high trees, screamed and screamed; it was just such din as the
family will raise to the present day.

"What are you doing, you children?" cried the gentle lady; "that
is sinful!"

Soren stood abashed, and even the little gracious lady looked down
a little; but then he said, quite short and pretty,

"My father lets me do it!"

"Craw-craw! away-away from here!" cried the great black birds, and
they flew away; but on the following day they came back, for they were
at home here.

The quiet gentle lady did not remain long at home here on earth,
for the good God called her away; and, indeed, her home was rather
with Him than in the knightly house; and the church bells tolled
solemnly when her corpse was carried to the church, and the eyes of
the poor people were wet with tears, for she had been good to them.

When she was gone, no one attended to her plantations, and the
garden ran to waste. Grubbe the knight was a hard man, they said;
but his daughter, young as she was, knew how to manage him. He used to
laugh and let her have her way. She was now twelve years old, and
strongly built. She looked the people through and through with her
black eyes, rode her horse as bravely as a man, and could fire off her
gun like a practiced hunter.

One day there were great visitors in the neighborhood, the
grandest visitors who could come. The young King, and his half-brother
and comrade, the Lord Ulric Frederick Gyldenlowe. They wanted to
hunt the wild boar, and to pass a few days at the castle of Grubbe.

Gyldenlowe sat at table next to Marie Grubbe, and he took her by
the hand and gave her a kiss, as if she had been a relation; but she
gave him a box on the ear, and told him she could not bear him, at
which there was great laughter, as if that had been a very amusing
thing.

And perhaps it was very amusing, for, five years afterwards,
when Marie had fulfilled her seventeenth year, a messenger arrived
with a letter, in which Lord Gyldenlowe proposed for the hand of the
noble young lady. There was a thing for you!

"He is the grandest and most gallant gentleman in the whole
country," said Grubbe the knight; "that is not a thing to despise."

"I don't care so very much about him," said Marie Grubbe; but
she did not despise the grandest man of all the country, who sat by
the king's side.

Silver plate, and fine linen and woollen, went off to Copenhagen
in a ship, while the bride made the journey by land in ten days. But
the outfit met with contrary winds, or with no winds at all, for
four months passed before it arrived; and when it came, my Lady
Gyldenlowe was gone.

"I'd rather lie on coarse sacking than lie in his silken beds,"
she declared. "I'd rather walk barefoot than drive with him in a
coach!"

Late one evening in November two women came riding into the town
of Aarhuus. They were the gracious Lady Gyldenlowe (Marie Grubbe)
and her maid. They came from the town of Weile, whither they had
come in a ship from Copenhagen. They stopped at Lord Grubbe's stone
mansion in Aarhuus. Grubbe was not well pleased with this visit. Marie
was accosted in hard words; but she had a bedroom given her, and got
her beer soup of a morning; but the evil part of her father's nature
was aroused against her, and she was not used to that. She was not
of a gentle temper, and we often answer as we are addressed. She
answered openly, and spoke with bitterness and hatred of her
husband, with whom she declared she would not live; she was too
honorable for that.

A year went by, but it did not go by pleasantly. There were evil
words between the father and the daughter, and that ought never to be.
Bad words bear bad fruit. What could be the end of such a state of
things?

"We two cannot live under the same roof," said the father one day.
"Go away from here to our old manor house; but you had better bite
your tongue off than spread any lies among the people."

And so the two parted. She went with her maid to the old castle
where she had been born, and near which the gentle, pious lady, her
mother, was lying in the church vault. An old cowherd lived in the
courtyard, and was the only other inhabitant of the place. In the
rooms heavy black cobwebs hung down, covered with dust; in the
garden everything grew just as it would; hops and climbing plants
ran like a net between the trees and bushes, and the hemlock and
nettle grew larger and stronger. The blood-beech had been outgrown
by other trees, and now stood in the shade; and its leaves were
green like those of the common trees, and its glory had departed.
Crows and choughs, in great close masses, flew past over the tall
chestnut trees, and chattered and screamed as if they had something
very important to tell one another--as if they were saying, "Now she's
come back again, the little girl who had their eggs and their young
ones stolen from them; and as for the thief who had got them down,
he had to climb up a leafless tree, for he sat on a tall ship's
mast, and was beaten with a rope's end if he did not behave himself."

The clerk told all this in our own times; he had collected it
and looked it up in books and memoranda. It was to be found, with many
other writings, locked up in his table-drawer.

"Upward and downward is the course of the world," said he. "It
is strange to hear."

And we will hear how it went with Marie Grubbe. We need not for
that forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting in her capital hen-house, in
our own time. Marie Grubbe sat down in her times, but not with the
same spirit that old Poultry Meg showed.

The winter passed away, and the spring and the summer passed away,
and the autumn came again, with the damp, cold sea-fog. It was a
lonely, desolate life in the old manor house. Marie Grubbe took her
gun in her hand and went out to the heath, and shot hares and foxes,
and whatever birds she could hit. More than once she met the noble Sir
Palle Dyre, of Norrebak, who was also wandering about with his gun and
his dogs. He was tall and strong, and boasted of this when they talked
together. He could have measured himself against the deceased Mr.
Brockenhuus, of Egeskov, of whom the people still talked. Palle Dyre
had, after the example of Brockenhuus, caused an iron chain with a
hunting-horn to be hung in his gateway; and when he came riding
home, he used to seize the chain, and lift himself and his horse
from the ground, and blow the horn.

"Come yourself, and see me do that, Dame Marie," he said. 'One can
breathe fresh and free at Norrebak.

When she went to his castle is not known, but on the altar
candlestick in the church of Norrebak it was inscribed that they
were the gift of Palle Dyre and Marie Grubbe, of Norrebak Castle.

A great stout man was Palle Dyre. He drank like a sponge. He was
like a tub that could never get full; he snored like a whole sty of
pigs, and he looked red and bloated.

"He is treacherous and malicious," said Dame Pally Dyre,
Grubbe's daughter. Soon she was weary of her life with him, but that
did not make it better.

One day the table was spread, and the dishes grew cold. Palle Dyre
was out hunting foxes, and the gracious lady was nowhere to be
found. Towards midnight Palle Dyre came home, but Dame Dyre came
neither at midnight, nor next morning. She had turned her back upon
Norrebak, and had ridden away without saying good-bye.

It was gray, wet weather; the wind grew cold, and a flight of
black screaming birds flew over her head. They were not so homeless as
she.

First she journeyed southward, quite down into the German land.
A couple of golden rings with costly stones were turned into money;
and then she turned to the east, and then she turned again and went
towards the west. She had no food before her eyes, and murmured
against everything, even against the good God himself, so wretched was
her soul. Soon her body became wretched too, and she was scarcely able
to move a foot. The peewit flew up as she stumbled over the mound of
earth where it had built its nest. The bird cried, as it always cried,
"You thief! you thief!" She had never stolen her neighbor's goods; but
as a little girl she had caused eggs and young birds to be taken
from the trees, and she thought of that now.

From where she lay she could see the sand-dunes. By the seashore
lived fishermen; but she could not get so far, she was so ill. The
great white sea-mews flew over her head, and screamed as the crows and
daws screamed at home in the garden of the manor house. The birds flew
quite close to her, and at last it seemed to her as if they became
black as crows, and then all was night before her eyes.

When she opened her eyes again, she was being lifted and
carried. A great strong man had taken her up in his arms, and she
was looking straight into his bearded face. He had a scar over one
eye, which seemed to divide the eyebrow into two parts. Weak as she
was, he carried her to the ship, where he got a rating for it from the
captain.

The next day the ship sailed away. Madame Grubbe had not been
put ashore, so she sailed away with it. But she will return, will
she not? Yes, but where, and when?

The clerk could tell about this too, and it was not a story
which he patched together himself. He had the whole strange history
out of an old authentic book, which we ourselves can take out and
read. The Danish historian, Ludwig Holberg, who has written so many
useful books and merry comedies, from which we can get such a good
idea of his times and their people, tells in his letters of Marie
Grubbe, where and how he met her. It is well worth hearing; but for
all that, we don't at all forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting
cheerful and comfortable in the charming fowl-house.

The ship sailed away with Marie Grubbe. That's where we left off.

Long years went by.

The plague was raging at Copenhagen; it was in the year 1711.
The Queen of Denmark went away to her German home, the King quitted
the capital, and everybody who could do so hurried away. The students,
even those who had board and lodging gratis, left the city. One of
these students, the last who had remained in the free college, at last
went away too. It was two o'clock in the morning. He was carrying
his knapsack, which was better stacked with books and writings than
with clothes. A damp mist hung over the town; not a person was to be
seen in the streets; the street-doors around were marked with crosses,
as a sign that the plague was within, or that all the inmates were
dead. A great wagon rattled past him; the coachman brandished his
whip, and the horses flew by at a gallop. The wagon was filled with
corpses. The young student kept his hand before his face, and smelt at
some strong spirits that he had with him on a sponge in a little brass
scent-case. Out of a small tavern in one of the streets there were
sounds of singing and of unhallowed laughter, from people who drank
the night through to forget that the plague was at their doors, and
that they might be put into the wagon as the others had been. The
student turned his steps towards the canal at the castle bridge, where
a couple of small ships were lying; one of these was weighing
anchor, to get away from the plague-stricken city.

"If God spares our lives and grants us a fair wind, we are going
to Gronmud, near Falster," said the captain; and he asked the name
of the student who wished to go with him.

"Ludwig Holberg," answered the student; and the name sounded
like any other. But now there sounds in it one of the proudest names
of Denmark; then it was the name of a young, unknown student.

The ship glided past the castle. It was not yet bright day when it
was in the open sea. A light wind filled the sails, and the young
student sat down with his face turned towards the fresh wind, and went
to sleep, which was not exactly the most prudent thing he could have
done.

Already on the third day the ship lay by the island of Falster.

"Do you know any one here with whom I could lodge cheaply?"
Holberg asked the captain.

"I should think you would do well to go to the ferry-woman in
Borrehaus," answered the captain. "If you want to be very civil to
her, her name is Mother Soren Sorensen Muller. But it may happen
that she may fly into a fury if you are too polite to her. The man
is in custody for a crime, and that's why she manages the ferry-boat
herself--she has fists of her own."

The student took his knapsack and betook himself to the
ferry-house. The house door was not locked--it opened, and he went
into a room with a brick floor, where a bench, with a great coverlet
of leather, formed the chief article of furniture. A white hen, who
had a brood of chickens, was fastened to the bench, and had overturned
the pipkin of water, so that the wet ran across the floor. There
were no people either here or in the adjoining room; only a cradle
stood there, in which was a child. The ferry-boat came back with
only one person in it. Whether that person was a man or a woman was
not an easy matter to determine. The person in question was wrapped in
a great cloak, and wore a kind of hood. Presently the boat lay to.

It was a woman who got out of it and came into the room. She
looked very stately when she straightened her back; two proud eyes
looked forth from beneath her black eyebrows. It was Mother Soren, the
ferry-wife. The crows and daws might have called out another name
for her, which we know better.

She looked morose, and did not seem to care to talk; but this much
was settled, that the student should board in her house for an
indefinite time, while things looked so bad in Copenhagen.

This or that honest citizen would often come to the ferry-house
from the neighboring little town. There came Frank the cutler, and
Sivert the exciseman. They drank a mug of beer in the ferry-house, and
used to converse with the student, for he was a clever young man,
who knew his "Practica," as they called it; he could read Greek and
Latin, and was well up in learned subjects.

"The less one knows, the less it presses upon one," said Mother
Soren.

"You have to work hard," said Holberg one day, when she was
dipping clothes in the strong soapy water, and was obliged herself
to split the logs for the fire.

"That's my affair," she replied.

"Have you been obliged to toil in this way from your childhood?"

"You can read that from my hands," she replied, and held out her
hands, that were small indeed, but hard and strong, with bitten nails.
"You are learned, and can read."

At Christmas-time it began to snow heavily. The cold came on,
the wind blue sharp, as if there were vitriol in it to wash the
people's faces. Mother Soren did not let that disturb her; she threw
her cloak around her, and drew her hood over her head. Early in the
afternoon--it was already dark in the house--she laid wood and turf on
the hearth, and then she sat down to darn her stockings, for there was
no one to do it for her. Towards evening she spoke more words to the
student than it was customary with her to use; she spoke of her
husband.

"He killed a sailor of Dragor by mischance, and for that he has to
work for three years in irons. He's only a common sailor, and
therefore the law must take its course."

"The law is there for people of high rank, too," said Holberg.

"Do you think so?" said Mother Soren; then she looked into the
fire for a while; but after a time she began to speak again. "Have you
heard of Kai Lykke, who caused a church to be pulled down, and when
the clergyman, Master Martin, thundered from the pulpit about it, he
had him put in irons, and sat in judgment upon him, and condemned
him to death? Yes, and the clergyman was obliged to bow his head to
the stroke. And yet Kai Lykke went scot-free."

"He had a right to do as he did in those times," said Holberg;
"but now we have left those times behind us."

"You may get a fool to believe that," cried Mother Soren; and
she got up and went into the room where the child lay. She lifted up
the child, and laid it down more comfortably. Then she arranged the
bed-place of the student. He had the green coverlet, for he felt the
cold more than she, though he was born in Norway.

On New Year's morning it was a bright sunshiny day. The frost
had been so strong, and was still so strong, that the fallen snow
had become a hard mass, and one could walk upon it. The bells of the
little town were tolling for church. Student Holberg wrapped himself
up in his woollen cloak, and wanted to go to the town.

Over the ferry-house the crows and daws were flying with loud
cries; one could hardly hear the church bells for their screaming.
Mother Soren stood in front of the house, filling a brass pot with
snow, which she was going to put on the fire to get drinking water.
She looked up to the crowd of birds, and thought her own thoughts.

Student Holberg went to church. On his way there and on his return
he passed by the house of tax-collector Sivert, by the town-gate. Here
he was invited to take a mug of brown beer with treacle and sugar. The
discourse fell upon Mother Soren, but the tax collector did not know
much about her, and, indeed, few knew much about her. She did not
belong to the island of Falster, he said; she had a little property of
her own at one time. Her husband was a common sailor, a fellow of a
very hot temper, and had killed a sailor of Dragor; and he beat his
wife, and yet she defended him.

"I should not endure such treatment," said the tax-collector's
wife. "I am come of more respectable people. My father was
stocking-weaver to the Court."

"And consequently you have married a governmental official,"
said Holberg, and made a bow to her and to the collector.

It was on Twelfth Night, the evening of the festival of the
Three Kings, Mother Soren lit up for Holberg a three-king candle, that
is, a tallow candle with three wicks, which she had herself prepared.

"A light for each man," said Holberg.

"For each man?" repeated the woman, looking sharply at him.

"For each of the wise men from the East," said Holberg.

"You mean it that way," said she, and then she was silent for a
long time. But on this evening he learned more about her than he had
yet known.

"You speak very affectionately of your husband," observed Holberg,
"and yet the people say that he ill-uses you every day."

"That's no one's business but mine," she replied. "The blows might
have done me good when I was a child; now, I suppose, I get them for
my sins. But I know what good he has done me," and she rose up.
"When I lay sick upon the desolate heath, and no one would have pity
on me, and no one would have anything to do with me, except the
crows and daws, which came to peck me to bits, he carried me in his
arms, and had to bear hard words because of the burden he brought on
board ship. It's not in my nature to be sick, and so I got well. Every
man has his own way, and Soren has his; but the horse must not be
judged by the halter. Taking one thing with another, I have lived more
agreeably with him than with the man whom they called the most noble
and gallant of the King's subjects. I have had the Stadtholder
Gyldenlowe, the King's half-brother, for my husband; and afterwards
I took Palle Dyre. One is as good as another, each in his own way, and
I in mine. That was a long gossip, but now you know all about me."

And with those words she left the room.


It was Marie Grubbe! so strangely had fate played with her. She
did not live to see many anniversaries of the festival of the Three
Kings; Holberg has recorded that she died in June, 1716; but he has
not written down, for he did not know, that a number of great black
birds circled over the ferry-house, when Mother Soren, as she was
called, was lying there a corpse. They did not scream, as if they knew
that at a burial silence should be observed. So soon as she lay in the
earth, the birds disappeared; but on the same evening in Jutland, at
the old manor house, an enormous number of crows and choughs were
seen; they all cried as loud as they could, as if they had some
announcement to make. Perhaps they talked of him who, as a little boy,
had taken away their eggs and their young; of the peasant's son, who
had to wear an iron garter, and of the noble young lady, who ended
by being a ferryman's wife.

"Brave! brave!" they cried.

And the whole family cried, "Brave! brave!" when the old house was
pulled down.

"They are still crying, and yet there's nothing to cry about,"
said the clerk, when he told the story. "The family is extinct, the
house has been pulled down, and where it stood is now the stately
poultry-house, with gilded weathercocks, and the old Poultry Meg.
She rejoices greatly in her beautiful dwelling. If she had not come
here," the old clerk added, "she would have had to go into the
work-house."

The pigeons cooed over her, the turkey-cocks gobbled, and the
ducks quacked.

"Nobody knew her," they said; "she belongs to no family. It's pure
charity that she is here at all. She has neither a drake father nor
a hen mother, and has no descendants."

She came of a great family, for all that; but she did not know it,
and the old clerk did not know it, though he had so much written down;
but one of the old crows knew about it, and told about it. She had
heard from her own mother and grandmother about Poultry Meg's mother
and grandmother. And we know the grandmother too. We saw her ride,
as child, over the bridge, looking proudly around her, as if the whole
world belonged to her, and all the birds' nests in it; and we saw
her on the heath, by the sand-dunes; and, last of all, in the
ferry-house. The granddaughter, the last of her race, had come back to
the old home, where the old castle had stood, where the black wild
birds were screaming; but she sat among the tame birds, and these knew
her and were fond of her. Poultry Meg had nothing left to wish for;
she looked forward with pleasure to her death, and she was old
enough to die.

"Grave, grave!" cried the crows.

And Poultry Meg has a good grave, which nobody knew except the old
crow, if the old crow is not dead already.

And now we know the story of the old manor house, of its old
proprietors, and of all Poultry Meg's family.




THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a
princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all
over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted.
There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether
they were real ones. There was always something about them that was
not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would
have liked very much to have a real princess.

One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and
lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking
was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.

It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But,
good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look.
The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the
toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that
she was a real princess.

"Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old queen. But she
said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the
bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty
mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds
on top of the mattresses.

On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she
was asked how she had slept.

"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all
night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on
something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's
horrible!"

Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt
the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty
eider-down beds.

Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.

So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a
real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still
be seen, if no one has stolen it.

There, that is a true story.




THE PSYCHE

In the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,
the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,
as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen
there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.
Let us hear one of his stories.

"A short time ago"--the Star's "short time ago" is called among
men "centuries ago"--"my rays followed a young artist. It was in the
city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed
there in the course of time, but the changes have not come so
quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace
of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew
among the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,
where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a
gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its
fragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art
was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest
painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of
sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and
honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was
rewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was
not seen and known.

"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a
young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He
certainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,
young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,
and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his
own power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,
and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to
be seen and to bring money.

"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's your
misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,
you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great
wholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must
mingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Look
at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world
admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'

"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.

"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their
age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with
them into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be
called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had
warm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry
chat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's
merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;
and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the
masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast
swelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,
something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could
produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a
picture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart
to the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the
next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.

"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome
has many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and
beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed
with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green
juicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear
water was splashing; and a form glided past, the daughter of the
princely house, graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a
form of female loveliness he had never before beheld--yet stay: he had
seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of the
Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it passed by
him in living reality.

"The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He went home
to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich
young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for the first time he looked
at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him, for it was
she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they
declared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power,
of which they had long been aware, and that now the world should be
made aware of it too.

"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had not the
whiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the
Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly
block of that stone. It had been lying for years, the property of
his parents, in the courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and
remains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity;
but under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow; and
from this block the Psyche was to arise."

Now, it happened one morning--the bright Star tells nothing
about this, but we know it occurred--that a noble Roman company came
into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane, and
the company proceeded on foot towards the house, to inspect the
young sculptor's work, for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And
who were these distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate
young man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room
and smiled radiantly when her father said to her, "It is your living
image." That smile could not be copied, any more than the look could
be reproduced, the wonderful look which she cast upon the young
artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed at once to elevate and to
crush him.

"The Psyche must be executed in marble," said the wealthy
patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the
heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved
artist. "When the work is finished I will purchase it," continued
the rich noble.

A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and
cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its work. The
beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed. The clay itself
seemed inspired since she had been there, and moulded itself, in
heightened beauty, to a likeness of the well-known features.

"Now I know what life is," cried the artist rejoicingly; "it is
Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the
beautiful in the soul! What my friends call life and enjoyment is a
passing shadow; it is like bubbles among seething dregs, not the
pure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life."

The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck
great fragments from it; the measurements were taken, points and lines
were made, the mechanical part was executed, till gradually the
stone assumed a human female form, a shape of beauty, and became
converted into the Psyche, fair and glorious--a divine being in
human shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy
Psyche, with the heavenly innocent smile--the smile that had
mirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.

The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was
stirring within the young man, and could read the meaning of the
changing color of his cheek, of the light that flashed from his eye,
as he stood busily working, reproducing what had been put into his
soul from above.

"Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient Greeks,"
exclaimed his delighted friends; "soon shall the whole world admire
thy Psyche."

"My Psyche!" he repeated. "Yes, mine. She must be mine. I, too, am
an artist, like those great men who are gone. Providence has granted
me the boon, and has made me the equal of that lady of noble birth."

And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss to
Heaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake--for the sake of her
picture in stone--for her Psyche which stood there as if formed of
snow, blushing in the morning dawn.

He was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche, whose
words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry the news into
the rich palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He betook himself
thither, strode through the open courtyard where the waters ran
splashing from the dolphin's jaws into the marble basins, where the
snowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into
the great lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding
and bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men,
adorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro, and some
reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as if they were
the masters of the house. He told them what had brought him to the
palace, and was conducted up the shining marble staircase, covered
with soft carpets and adorned with many a statue. Then he went on
through richly-furnished chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous
pictures. All this pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he
felt relieved, for the princely old master of the house received him
most graciously, almost heartily; and when he took his leave he was
requested to step into the Signora's apartment, for she, too, wished
to see him. The servants led him through more luxurious halls and
chambers into her room, where she appeared the chief and leading
ornament.

She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant, could
melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her hand and lifted
it to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire thrilled through him
from this rose--a feeling of power came upon him, and words poured
from his tongue--he knew not what he said. Does the crater of the
volcano know that the glowing lava is pouring from it? He confessed
what he felt for her. She stood before him astonished, offended,
proud, with contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if
she had suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks
reddened, her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though
they were dark as the blackness of night.

"Madman!" she cried, "away! begone!"

And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore an
expression like that of the stony countenance with the snaky locks.

Like a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the staircase
and out into the street. Like a man walking in his sleep, he found his
way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up to madness and agony, and
seized his hammer, swung it high in the air, and rushed forward to
shatter the beautiful marble image. But, in his pain, he had not
noticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held
back his arm with a strong grasp, crying,

"Are you mad? What are you about?"

They struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and, with a deep
sigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself into a chair.

"What has happened?" asked Angelo. "Command yourself. Speak!"

But what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo could
make no sense of his friend's incoherent words, he forbore to question
him further, and merely said,

"Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a man, as
all others are, and don't go on living in ideals, for that is what
drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you sleep quietly and
happily. Believe me, the time will come when you will be old, and your
sinews will shrink, and then, on some fine sunshiny day, when
everything is laughing and rejoicing, you will lie there a faded
plant, that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams, but in
reality. Come with me. Be a man!"

And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he was able
to do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor; a
change had taken place in his soul; he felt a longing to tear from the
old, the accustomed--to forget, if possible, his own individuality;
and therefore it was that he followed Angelo.

In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by
artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths. The great
yellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves, and covered
a part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a
vaulted chamber, almost like a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned
there before the picture of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the
hearth, and roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under
the citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.

The two artists were received by their friends with shouts of
welcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the spirits of
the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were played on the
guitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and the merry dance began.
Two young Roman girls, who sat as models to the artists, took part
in the dance and in the festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were
they; certainly not Psyches--not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh,
hearty, glowing carnations.

How hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot. There
was fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire everywhere. The
air gleamed with gold and roses, and life seemed like gold and roses.

"At last you have joined us, for once," said his friends. "Now let
yourself be carried by the waves within and around you."

"Never yet have I felt so well, so merry!" cried the young artist.
"You are right--you are all of you right. I was a fool--a dreamer. Man
belongs to reality, and not to fancy."

With songs and with sounding guitars the young people returned
that evening from the tavern, through the narrow streets; the two
glowing carnations, daughters of the Campagna, went with them.

In Angelo's room, among a litter of colored sketches (studies) and
glowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower, but not less merrily.
On the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the
Campagna, in their fresh, hearty comeliness, but the two originals
were far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the
six-armed lamp flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within,
and appeared in the glare as if it were divine.

"Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven--to your
glory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding itself in my
veins at this moment!"

Yes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell, and
an evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading astray the
fancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it became dark.

He was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed and
collected his thoughts.

"Fie on thee!" these were the words that sounded out of his
mouth from the depths of his heart. "Wretched man, go, begone!" And
a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.

"Away! begone!" These, her words, the words of the living
Psyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He buried his
head in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused, and he fell asleep.

In the morning dawn he started up, and collected his thoughts
anew. What had happened? Had all the past been a dream? The visit to
her, the feast at the tavern, the evening with the purple carnations
of the Campagna? No, it was all real--a reality he had never before
experienced.

In the purple air gleamed the bright Star, and its beams fell upon
him and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that
picture of immortality, and his glance seemed impure to him. He
threw the cloth over the statue, and then touched it once more to
unveil the form--but he was not able to look again at his own work.

Gloomy, quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, he sat there
through the long day; he heard nothing of what was going on around
him, and no man guessed what was passing in this human soul.

And days and weeks went by, but the nights passed more slowly than
the days. The flashing Star beheld him one morning as he rose, pale
and trembling with fever, from his sad couch; then he stepped
towards the statue, threw back the covering, took one long,
sorrowful gaze at his work, and then, almost sinking beneath the
burden, he dragged the statue out into the garden. In that place was
an old dry well, now nothing but a hole. Into this he cast the Psyche,
threw earth in above her, and covered up the spot with twigs and
nettles.

"Away! begone!" Such was the short epitaph he spoke.

The Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky, and its beam
trembled upon two great tears upon the pale feverish cheeks of the
young man; and soon it was said that he was sick unto death, and he
lay stretched upon a bed of pain.

The convent Brother Ignatius visited him as a physician and a
friend, and brought him words of comfort, of religion, and spoke to
him of the peace and happiness of the church, of the sinfulness of
man, of rest and mercy to be found in heaven.

And the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil. The
soil smoked and sent up clouds of mist, fantastic pictures, pictures
in which there was reality; and from these floating islands he
looked across at human life. He found it vanity and delusion--and
vanity and delusion it had been to him. They told him that art was a
sorcerer, betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are
false to ourselves, unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards
Heaven; and that the serpent was always repeating within us, "Eat, and
thou shalt become as God."

And it appeared to him as if now, for the first time, he knew
himself, and had found the way that leads to truth and to peace. In
the church was the light and the brightness of God--in the monk's cell
he should find the rest through which the tree of human life might
grow on into eternity.

Brother Ignatius strengthened his longings, and the
determination became firm within him. A child of the world became a
servant of the church--the young artist renounced the world, and
retired into the cloister.

The brothers came forward affectionately to welcome him, and his
inauguration was as a Sunday feast. Heaven seemed to him to dwell in
the sunshine of the church, and to beam upon him from the holy
pictures and from the cross. And when, in the evening, at the sunset
hour, he stood in his little cell, and, opening the window, looked out
upon old Rome, upon the desolated temples, and the great dead
Coliseum--when he saw all this in its spring garb, when the acacias
bloomed, and the ivy was fresh, and roses burst forth everywhere,
and the citron and orange were in the height of their beauty, and
the palm trees waved their branches--then he felt a deeper emotion
than had ever yet thrilled through him. The quiet open Campagna spread
itself forth towards the blue snow-covered mountains, which seemed
to be painted in the air; all the outlines melting into each other,
breathing peace and beauty, floating, dreaming--and all appearing like
a dream!

Yes, this world was a dream, and the dream lasts for hours, and
may return for hours; but convent life is a life of years--long years,
and many years.

From within comes much that renders men sinful and impure. He
fully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in him at
times! What a source of evil, of that which we would not, welled up
continually! He mortified his body, but the evil came from within.


One day, after the lapse of many years, he met Angelo, who
recognized him.

"Man!" exclaimed Angelo. "Yes, it is thou! Art thou happy now?
Thou hast sinned against God, and cast away His boon from thee--hast
neglected thy mission in this world! Read the parable of the intrusted
talent! The MASTER, who spoke that parable, spoke the truth! What hast
thou gained? What hast thou found? Dost thou not fashion for thyself a
religion and a dreamy life after thine own idea, as almost all do?
Suppose all this is a dream, a fair delusion!"

"Get thee away from me, Satan!" said the monk; and he quitted
Angelo.

"There is a devil, a personal devil! This day I have seen him!"
said the monk to himself. "Once I extended a finger to him, and he
took my whole hand. But now," he sighed, "the evil is within me, and
it is in yonder man; but it does not bow him down; he goes abroad with
head erect, and enjoys his comfort; and I grasped at comfort in the
consolations of religion. If it were nothing but a consolation?
Supposing everything here were, like the world I have quitted, only
a beautiful fancy, a delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds,
like the misty blue of the distant hills!--when you approach them,
they are very different! O eternity! Thou actest like the great calm
ocean, that beckons us, and fills us with expectation--and when we
embark upon thee, we sink, disappear, and cease to be. Delusion!
away with it! begone!"

And tearless, but sunk in bitter reflection, he sat upon his
hard couch, and then knelt down--before whom? Before the stone cross
fastened to the wall? No, it was only habit that made him take this
position.

The more deeply he looked into his own heart, the blacker did
the darkness seem. "Nothing within, nothing without--this life
squandered and cast away!" And this thought rolled and grew like a
snowball, until it seemed to crush him.

"I can confide my griefs to none. I may speak to none of the
gnawing worm within. My secret is my prisoner; if I let the captive
escape, I shall be his!"

And the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and strove.

"O Lord, my Lord!" he cried, in his despair, "be merciful and
grant me faith. I threw away the gift thou hadst vouchsafed to me, I
left my mission unfulfilled. I lacked strength, and strength thou
didst not give me. Immortality--the Psyche in my breast--away with
it!--it shall be buried like that Psyche, the best gleam of my life;
never will it arise out of its grave!"

The Star glowed in the roseate air, the Star that shall surely
be extinguished and pass away while the soul still lives on; its
trembling beam fell upon the white wall, but it wrote nothing there
upon being made perfect in God, nothing of the hope of mercy, of the
reliance on the divine love that thrills through the heart of the
believer.

"The Psyche within can never die. Shall it live in
consciousness? Can the incomprehensible happen? Yes, yes. My being
is incomprehensible. Thou art unfathomable, O Lord. Thy whole world is
incomprehensible--a wonder-work of power, of glory and of love."

His eyes gleamed, and then closed in death. The tolling of the
church bell was the last sound that echoed above him, above the dead
man; and they buried him, covering him with earth that had been
brought from Jerusalem, and in which was mingled the dust of many of
the pious dead.

When years had gone by his skeleton was dug up, as the skeletons
of the monks who had died before him had been; it was clad in a
brown frock, a rosary was put into the bony hand, and the form was
placed among the ranks of other skeletons in the cloisters of the
convent. And the sun shone without, while within the censers were
waved and the Mass was celebrated.


And years rolled by.

The bones fell asunder and became mingled with others. Skulls were
piled up till they formed an outer wall around the church; and there
lay also his head in the burning sun, for many dead were there, and no
one knew their names, and his name was forgotten also. And see,
something was moving in the sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes!
What might that be? A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull,
gliding in and out through the sightless holes. The lizard now
represented all the life left in that head, in which once great
thoughts, bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had
arisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and immortality
had had their being. The lizard sprang away and disappeared, and the
skull itself crumbled to pieces and became dust among dust.

Centuries passed away. The bright Star gleamed unaltered,
radiant and large, as it had gleamed for thousands of years, and the
air glowed red with tints fresh as roses, crimson like blood.

There, where once had stood the narrow lane containing the ruins
of the temple, a nunnery was now built. A grave was being dug in the
convent garden for a young nun who had died, and was to be laid in the
earth this morning. The spade struck against a hard substance; it
was a stone, that shone dazzling white. A block of marble soon
appeared, a rounded shoulder was laid bare; and now the spade was
plied with a more careful hand, and presently a female head was
seen, and butterflies' wings. Out of the grave in which the young
nun was to be laid they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful
statue of a Psyche carved in white marble.

"How beautiful, how perfect it is!" cried the spectators. "A relic
of the best period of art."

And who could the sculptor have been? No one knew; no one
remembered him, except the bright star that had gleamed for
thousands of years. The star had seen the course of that life on
earth, and knew of the man's trials, of his weakness--in fact, that he
had been but human. The man's life had passed away, his dust had
been scattered abroad as dust is destined to be; but the result of his
noblest striving, the glorious work that gave token of the divine
element within him--the Psyche that never dies, that lives beyond
posterity--the brightness even of this earthly Psyche remained here
after him, and was seen and acknowledged and appreciated.

The bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw its glancing
ray downward upon the Psyche, and upon the radiant countenances of the
admiring spectators, who here beheld the image of the soul portrayed
in marble.

What is earthly will pass away and be forgotten, and the Star in
the vast firmament knows it. What is heavenly will shine brightly
through posterity; and when the ages of posterity are past, the
Psyche--the soul--will still live on!




THE PUPPET-SHOW MAN

On board a steamer I once met an elderly man, with such a merry
face that, if it was really an index of his mind, he must have been
the happiest fellow in creation; and indeed he considered himself
so, for I heard it from his own mouth. He was a Dane, the owner of a
travelling theatre. He had all his company with him in a large box,
for he was the proprietor of a puppet-show. His inborn cheerfulness,
he said, had been tested by a member of the Polytechnic Institution,
and the experiment had made him completely happy. I did not at first
understand all this, but afterwards he explained the whole story to
me; and here it is:--

"I was giving a representation," he said, "in the hall of the
posting-house in the little town of Slagelse; there was a splendid
audience, entirely juvenile excepting two respectable matrons. All
at once, a person in black, of student-like appearance, entered the
room, and sat down; he laughed aloud at the telling points, and
applauded quite at the proper time. This was a very unusual
spectator for me, and I felt anxious to know who he was. I heard
that he was a member of the Polytechnic Institution in Copenhagen, who
had been sent out to lecture to the people in the provinces.
Punctually at eight o'clock my performance closed, for children must
go early to bed, and a manager must also consult the convenience of
the public.

"At nine o'clock the lecturer commenced his lecture and his
experiments, and then I formed a part of his audience. It was
wonderful both to hear and to see. The greater part of it was beyond
my comprehension, but it led me to think that if we men can acquire so
much, we must surely be intended to last longer than the little span
which extends only to the time when we are hidden away under the
earth. His experiments were quite miracles on a small scale, and yet
the explanations flowed as naturally as water from his lips. At the
time of Moses and the prophets, such a man would have been placed
among the sages of the land; in the middle ages they would have
burnt him at the stake.

"All night long I could not sleep; and the next evening when I
gave another performance and the lecturer was present, I was in one of
my best moods.

"I once heard of an actor, who, when he had to act the part of a
lover, always thought of one particular lady in the audience; he
only played for her, and forgot all the rest of the house, and now the
Polytechnic lecturer was my she, my only auditor, for whom alone I
played.

"When the performance was over, and the puppets removed behind the
curtain, the Polytechnic lecturer invited me into his room to take a
glass of wine. He talked of my comedies, and I of his science, and I
believe we were both equally pleased. But I had the best of it, for
there was much in what he did that he could not always explain to
me. For instance, why a piece of iron which is rubbed on a cylinder,
should become magnetic. How does this happen? The magnetic sparks come
to it,--but how? It is the same with people in the world; they are
rubbed about on this spherical globe till the electric spark comes
upon them, and then we have a Napoleon, or a Luther, or some one of
the kind.

"'The whole world is but a series of miracles,' said the lecturer,
'but we are so accustomed to them that we call them everyday matters.'
And he went on explaining things to me till my skull seemed lifted
from my brain, and I declared that were I not such an old fellow, I
would at once become a member of the Polytechnic Institution, that I
might learn to look at the bright side of everything, although I was
one of the happiest of men.

"'One of the happiest!' said the lecturer, as if the idea
pleased him; 'are you really happy?'

"'Yes,' I replied; 'for I am welcomed in every town, when I arrive
with my company; but I certainly have one wish which sometimes
weighs upon my cheerful temper like a mountain of lead. I should
like to become the manager of a real theatre, and the director of a
real troupe of men and women.'

"'I understand,' he said; 'you would like to have life breathed
into your puppets, so that they might be living actors, and you
their director. And would you then be quite happy?'

"I said I believed so. But he did not; and we talked it over in
all manner of ways, yet could not agree on the subject. However, the
wine was excellent, and we clanked our glasses together as we drank.
There must have been magic in it, or I should most certainly become
tipsy; but that did not happen, for my mind seemed quite clear; and,
indeed, a kind of sunshine filled the room, and beamed from the eyes
of the Polytechnic lecturer. It made me think of the old stories
when the gods, in their immortal youth, wandered upon this earth,
and paid visits to mankind. I said so to him, and he smiled; and I
could have sworn that he was one of these ancient deities in disguise,
or, at all events, that he belonged to the race of the gods. The
result seemed to prove I was right in my suspicions; for it was
arranged that my highest wish should be granted, that my puppets
were to be gifted with life, and that I was to be the manager of a
real company. We drank to my success, and clanked our glasses. Then he
packed all my dolls into the box, and fastened it on my back, and I
felt as if I were spinning round in a circle, and presently found
myself lying on the floor. I remember that quite well. And then the
whole company sprang from the box. The spirit had come upon us all;
the puppets had become distinguished actors--at least, so they said
themselves--and I was their director.

"When all was ready for the first representation, the whole
company requested permission to speak to me before appearing in
public. The dancing lady said the house could not be supported
unless she stood on one leg; for she was a great genius, and begged to
be treated as such. The lady who acted the part of the queen
expected to be treated as a queen off the stage, as well as on it,
or else she said she should get out of practice. The man whose duty it
was to deliver a letter gave himself as many airs as he who took the
part of first lover in the piece; he declared that the inferior
parts were as important as the great ones, and deserving equal
consideration, as parts of an artistic whole. The hero of the piece
would only play in a part containing points likely to bring down the
applause of the house. The 'prima donna' would only act when the
lights were red, for she declared that a blue light did not suit her
complexion. It was like a company of flies in a bottle, and I was in
the bottle with them; for I was their director. My breath was taken
away, my head whirled, and I was as miserable as a man could be. It
was quite a novel, strange set of beings among whom I now found
myself. I only wished I had them all in my box again, and that I had
never been their director. So I told them roundly that, after all,
they were nothing but puppets; and then they killed me. After a
while I found myself lying on my bed in my room; but how I got
there, or how I got away at all from the Polytechnic professor, he may
perhaps know, I don't. The moon shone upon the floor, the box lay
open, and the dolls were all scattered about in great confusion; but I
was not idle. I jumped off the bed, and into the box they all had to
go, some on their heads, some on their feet. Then I shut down the lid,
and seated myself upon the box. 'Now you'll have to stay,' said I,
'and I shall be cautious how I wish you flesh and blood again.'

"I felt quite light, my cheerfulness had returned, and I was the
happiest of mortals. The Polytechnic professor had fully cured me. I
was as happy as a king, and went to sleep on the box. Next
morning--correctly speaking, it was noon, for I slept remarkably late
that day--I found myself still sitting there, in happy consciousness that
my former wish had been a foolish one. I inquired for the Polytechnic
professor; but he had disappeared like the Greek and Roman gods;
from that time I have been the happiest man in the world. I am a happy
director; for none of my company ever grumble, nor the public
either, for I always make them merry. I can arrange my pieces just
as I please. I choose out of every comedy what I like best, and no one
is offended. Plays that are neglected now-a-days by the great public
were ran after thirty years ago, and listened to till the tears ran
down the cheeks of the audience. These are the pieces I bring forward.
I place them before the little ones, who cry over them as papa and
mamma used to cry thirty years ago. But I make them shorter, for the
youngsters don't like long speeches; and if they have anything
mournful, they like it to be over quickly."




THE RACES

A prize, or rather two prizes, a great one and a small one, had
been awarded for the greatest swiftness in running,--not in a single
race, but for the whole year.

"I obtained the first prize," said the hare. "Justice must still
be carried out, even when one has relations and good friends among the
prize committee; but that the snail should have received the second
prize, I consider almost an insult to myself."

"No," said the fence-rail, who had been a witness at the
distribution of prizes; "there should be some consideration for
industry and perseverance. I have heard many respectable people say
so, and I can quite understand it. The snail certainly took half a
year to get over the threshold of the door; but he injured himself,
and broke his collar-bone by the haste he made. He gave himself up
entirely to the race, and ran with his house on his back, which was
all, of course, very praiseworthy; and therefore he obtained the
second prize."

"I think I ought to have had some consideration too," said the
swallow. "I should imagine no one can be swifter in soaring and flight
than I am; and how far I have been! far, far away."

"Yes, that is your misfortune," said the fence-rail; "you are so
fickle, so unsettled; you must always be travelling about into foreign
lands when the cold commences here. You have no love of fatherland
in you. There can be no consideration for you."

"But now, if I have been lying the whole winter in the moor," said
the swallow, "and suppose I slept the whole time, would that be
taken into account?"

"Bring a certificate from the old moor-hen," said he, "that you
have slept away half your time in fatherland; then you will be treated
with some consideration."

"I deserved the first prize, and not the second," said the
snail. "I know so much, at least, that the hare only ran from
cowardice, and because he thought there was danger in delay. I, on the
other hand, made running the business of my life, and have become a
cripple in the service. If any one had a first prize, it ought to have
been myself. But I do not understand chattering and boasting; on the
contrary, I despise it." And the snail spat at them with contempt.

"I am able to affirm with word of oath, that each prize--at least,
those for which I voted--was given with just and proper
consideration," said the old boundary post in the wood, who was a
member of the committee of judges. "I always act with due order,
consideration, and calculation. Seven times have I already had the
honor to be present at the distribution of the prizes, and to vote;
but to-day is the first time I have been able to carry out my will.
I always reckon the first prize by going through the alphabet from the
beginning, and the second by going through from the end. Be so kind as
to give me your attention, and I will explain to you how I reckon from
the beginning. The eighth letter from A is H, and there we have H
for hare; therefore I awarded to the hare the first prize. The
eighth letter from the end of the alphabet is S, and therefore the
snail received the second prize. Next year, the letter I will have its
turn for the first prize, and the letter R for the second."

"I should really have voted for myself," said the mule, "if I
had not been one of the judges on the committee. Not only the rapidity
with which advance is made, but every other quality should have due
consideration; as, for instance, how much weight a candidate is able
to draw; but I have not brought this quality forward now, nor the
sagacity of the hare in his flight, nor the cunning with which he
suddenly springs aside and doubles, to lead people on a false track,
thinking he has concealed himself. No; there is something else on
which more stress should be laid, and which ought not be left
unnoticed. I mean that which mankind call the beautiful. It is on
the beautiful that I particularly fix my eyes. I observed the
well-grown ears of the hare; it is a pleasure to me to observe how
long they are. It seemed as if I saw myself again in the days of my
childhood; and so I voted for the hare."

"Buz," said the fly; "there, I'm not going to make a long
speech; but I wish to say something about hares. I have really
overtaken more than one hare, when I have been seated on the engine in
front of a railway train. I often do so. One can then so easily
judge of one's own swiftness. Not long ago, I crushed the hind legs of
a young hare. He had been running a long time before the engine; he
had no idea that I was travelling there. At last he had to stop in his
career, and the engine ran over his hind legs, and crushed them; for I
set upon it. I left him lying there, and rode on farther. I call
that conquering him; but I do not want the prize."

"It really seems to me," thought the wild rose, though she did not
express her opinion aloud--it is not in her nature to do so,--though
it would have been quite as well if she had; "it certainly seems to me
that the sunbeam ought to have had the honor of receiving the first
prize. The sunbeam flies in a few minutes along the immeasurable
path from the sun to us. It arrives in such strength, that all
nature awakes to loveliness and beauty; we roses blush and exhale
fragrance in its presence. Our worshipful judges don't appear to
have noticed this at all. Were I the sunbeam, I would give each one of
them a sun stroke; but that would only make them mad, and they are mad
enough already. I only hope," continued the rose, "that peace may
reign in the wood. It is glorious to bloom, to be fragrant, and to
live; to live in story and in song. The sunbeam will outlive us all."

"What is the first prize?" asked the earthworm, who had
overslept the time, and only now came up.

"It contains a free admission to a cabbage-garden," replied the
mule. "I proposed that as one of the prizes. The hare most decidedly
must have it; and I, as an active and thoughtful member of the
committee, took especial care that the prize should be one of
advantage to him; so now he is provided for. The snail can now sit
on the fence, and lick up moss and sunshine. He has also been
appointed one of the first judges of swiftness in racing. It is
worth much to know that one of the numbers is a man of talent in the
thing men call a 'committee.' I must say I expect much in the
future; we have already made such a good beginning."




THE RED SHOES

Once upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But
in summer time she was obliged to go barefooted because she was
poor, and in winter she had to wear large wooden shoes, so that her
little instep grew quite red.

In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker's wife; she
sat down and made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of
some old pieces of red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well,
for they were intended for the little girl, whose name was Karen.

Karen received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the
day of her mother's funeral. They were certainly not suitable for
mourning; but she had no others, and so she put her bare feet into
them and walked behind the humble coffin.

Just then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady;
she looked at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the
clergyman, "Look here, if you will give me the little girl, I will
take care of her."

Karen believed that this was all on account of the red shoes,
but the old lady thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen
herself was dressed very neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read
and to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told
her, "You are more than pretty--you are beautiful."

One day the Queen was travelling through that part of the country,
and had her little daughter, who was a princess, with her. All the
people, amongst them Karen too, streamed towards the castle, where the
little princess, in fine white clothes, stood before the window and
allowed herself to be stared at. She wore neither a train nor a golden
crown, but beautiful red morocco shoes; they were indeed much finer
than those which the shoemaker's wife had sewn for little Karen. There
is really nothing in the world that can be compared to red shoes!

Karen was now old enough to be confirmed; she received some new
clothes, and she was also to have some new shoes. The rich shoemaker
in the town took the measure of her little foot in his own room, in
which there stood great glass cases full of pretty shoes and white
slippers. It all looked very lovely, but the old lady could not see
very well, and therefore did not get much pleasure out of it.
Amongst the shoes stood a pair of red ones, like those which the
princess had worn. How beautiful they were! and the shoemaker said
that they had been made for a count's daughter, but that they had
not fitted her.

"I suppose they are of shiny leather?" asked the old lady. "They
shine so."

"Yes, they do shine," said Karen. They fitted her, and were
bought. But the old lady knew nothing of their being red, for she
would never have allowed Karen to be confirmed in red shoes, as she
was now to be.

Everybody looked at her feet, and the whole of the way from the
church door to the choir it seemed to her as if even the ancient
figures on the monuments, in their stiff collars and long black robes,
had their eyes fixed on her red shoes. It was only of these that she
thought when the clergyman laid his hand upon her head and spoke of
the holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and told her that she
was now to be a grown-up Christian. The organ pealed forth solemnly,
and the sweet children's voices mingled with that of their old leader;
but Karen thought only of her red shoes. In the afternoon the old lady
heard from everybody that Karen had worn red shoes. She said that it
was a shocking thing to do, that it was very improper, and that
Karen was always to go to church in future in black shoes, even if
they were old.

On the following Sunday there was Communion. Karen looked first at
the black shoes, then at the red ones--looked at the red ones again,
and put them on.

The sun was shining gloriously, so Karen and the old lady went
along the footpath through the corn, where it was rather dusty.

At the church door stood an old crippled soldier leaning on a
crutch; he had a wonderfully long beard, more red than white, and he
bowed down to the ground and asked the old lady whether he might
wipe her shoes. Then Karen put out her little foot too. "Dear me, what
pretty dancing-shoes!" said the soldier. "Sit fast, when you dance,"
said he, addressing the shoes, and slapping the soles with his hand.

The old lady gave the soldier some money and then went with
Karen into the church.

And all the people inside looked at Karen's red shoes, and all the
figures gazed at them; when Karen knelt before the altar and put the
golden goblet to her mouth, she thought only of the red shoes. It
seemed to her as though they were swimming about in the goblet, and
she forgot to sing the psalm, forgot to say the "Lord's Prayer."

Now every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into
her carriage. But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too,
the old soldier said: "Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!" and
Karen could not help it, she was obliged to dance a few steps; and
when she had once begun, her legs continued to dance. It seemed as
if the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church
corner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her
and seize her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued
to dance, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they
took off her shoes, and her legs were at rest.

At home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could
not help looking at them.

Now the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise
from her bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was
no one's duty more than Karen's. But there was a grand ball in the
town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, saying to
herself that there was no sin in doing that; she put the red shoes on,
thinking there was no harm in that either; and then she went to the
ball; and commenced to dance.

But when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced to the
left, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced
down the room, down the stairs through the street, and out through the
gates of the town. She danced, and was obliged to dance, far out
into the dark wood. Suddenly something shone up among the trees, and
she believed it was the moon, for it was a face. But it was the old
soldier with the red beard; he sat there nodding his head and said:
"Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!"

She was frightened, and wanted to throw the red shoes away; but
they stuck fast. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown
fast to her feet. She danced and was obliged to go on dancing over
field and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by day--but by
night it was most horrible.

She danced out into the open churchyard; but the dead there did
not dance. They had something better to do than that. She wanted to
sit down on the pauper's grave where the bitter fern grows; but for
her there was neither peace nor rest. And as she danced past the
open church door she saw an angel there in long white robes, with
wings reaching from his shoulders down to the earth; his face was
stern and grave, and in his hand he held a broad shining sword.

"Dance you shall," said he, "dance in your red shoes till you
are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a
skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and
wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and
fear you! Dance you shall, dance--!"

"Mercy!" cried Karen. But she did not hear what the angel
answered, for the shoes carried her through the gate into the
fields, along highways and byways, and unceasingly she had to dance.

One morning she danced past a door that she knew well; they were
singing a psalm inside, and a coffin was being carried out covered
with flowers. Then she knew that she was forsaken by every one and
damned by the angel of God.

She danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark
night. The shoes bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all
torn and bleeding; she danced away over the heath to a lonely little
house. Here, she knew, lived the executioner; and she tapped with
her finger at the window and said:

"Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance."

And the executioner said: "I don't suppose you know who I am. I
strike off the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is
tingling to do so."

"Don't cut off my head!" said Karen, "for then I could not
repent of my sin. But cut off my feet with the red shoes."

And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off
her feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little
feet across the field into the deep forest.

And he carved her a pair of wooden feet and some crutches, and
taught her a psalm which is always sung by sinners; she kissed the
hand that guided the axe, and went away over the heath.

"Now, I have suffered enough for the red shoes," she said; "I will
go to church, so that people can see me." And she went quickly up to
the church-door; but when she came there, the red shoes were dancing
before her, and she was frightened, and turned back.

During the whole week she was sad and wept many bitter tears,
but when Sunday came again she said: "Now I have suffered and
striven enough. I believe I am quite as good as many of those who
sit in church and give themselves airs." And so she went boldly on;
but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate when she saw
the red shoes dancing along before her. Then she became terrified, and
turned back and repented right heartily of her sin.

She went to the parsonage, and begged that she might be taken into
service there. She would be industrious, she said, and do everything
that she could; she did not mind about the wages as long as she had
a roof over her, and was with good people. The pastor's wife had
pity on her, and took her into service. And she was industrious and
thoughtful. She sat quiet and listened when the pastor read aloud from
the Bible in the evening. All the children liked her very much, but
when they spoke about dress and grandeur and beauty she would shake
her head.

On the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked
whether she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she
looked sadly at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God's
Word, but she went alone into her little room; this was only large
enough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down with her
hymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind
carried the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in
tears she lifted up her face and said: "O God! help me!"

Then the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an
angel of God in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen
that night at the church-door. He no longer carried the sharp sword,
but a beautiful green branch, full of roses; with this he touched
the ceiling, which rose up very high, and where he had touched it
there shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened wide
apart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the
pictures of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation
sitting in the polished chairs and singing from their hymn-books.
The church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or the
room had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the
pastor's household, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up,
they nodded and said, "It was right of you to come, Karen."

"It was mercy," said she.

The organ played and the children's voices in the choir sounded
soft and lovely. The bright warm sunshine streamed through the
window into the pew where Karen sat, and her heart became so filled
with it, so filled with peace and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew on
the sunbeams to Heaven, and no one was there who asked after the Red
Shoes.




EVERYTHING IN THE RIGHT PLACE

It is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood,
near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded it
on every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by the
drawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bent
over the reeds.

From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling of
horses' feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geese
hastened to drive them away from the bridge, before the whole
hunting party came galloping up; they came, however, so quickly,
that the girl, in order to avoid being run over, placed herself on one
of the high corner-stones of the bridge. She was still half a child
and very delicately built; she had bright blue eyes, and a gentle,
sweet expression. But such things the baron did not notice; while he
was riding past the little goose-girl, he reversed his hunting crop,
and in rough play gave her such a push with it that she fell
backward into the ditch.

"Everything in the right place!" he cried. "Into the ditch with
you."

Then he burst out laughing, for that he called fun; the others
joined in--the whole party shouted and cried, while the hounds barked.

While the poor girl was falling she happily caught one of the
branches of the willow tree, by the help of which she held herself
over the water, and as soon as the baron with his company and the dogs
had disappeared through the gate, the girl endeavoured to scramble up,
but the branch broke off, and she would have fallen backward among the
rushes, had not a strong hand from above seized her at this moment. It
was the hand of a pedlar; he had witnessed what had happened from a
short distance, and now hastened to assist her.

"Everything in the right place," he said, imitating the noble
baron, and pulling the little maid up to the dry ground. He wished
to put the branch back in the place it had been broken off, but it
is not possible to put everything in the right place; therefore he
stuck the branch into the soft ground.

"Grow and thrive if you can, and produce a good flute for them
yonder at the mansion," he said; it would have given him great
pleasure to see the noble baron and his companions well thrashed. Then
he entered the castle--but not the banqueting hall; he was too
humble for that. No; he went to the servants' hall. The men-servants
and maids looked over his stock of articles and bargained with him;
loud crying and screaming were heard from the master's table above:
they called it singing--indeed, they did their best. Laughter and
the howls of dogs were heard through the open windows: there they were
feasting and revelling; wine and strong old ale were foaming in the
glasses and jugs; the favourite dogs ate with their masters; now and
then the squires kissed one of these animals, after having wiped its
mouth first with the tablecloth. They ordered the pedlar to come up,
but only to make fun of him. The wine had got into their heads, and
reason had left them. They poured beer into a stocking that he could
drink with them, but quick. That's what they called fun, and it made
them laugh. Then meadows, peasants, and farmyards were staked on one
card and lost.

"Everything in the right place!" the pedlar said when he had at
last safely got out of Sodom and Gomorrah, as he called it. "The
open high road is my right place; up there I did not feel at ease."

The little maid, who was still watching the geese, nodded kindly
to him as he passed through the gate.

Days and weeks passed, and it was seen that the broken
willow-branch which the peddlar had stuck into the ground near the
ditch remained fresh and green--nay, it even put forth fresh twigs;
the little goose-girl saw that the branch had taken root, and was very
pleased; the tree, so she said, was now her tree. While the tree was
advancing, everything else at the castle was going backward, through
feasting and gambling, for these are two rollers upon which nobody
stands safely. Less than six years afterwards the baron passed out
of his castle-gate a poor beggar, while the baronial seat had been
bought by a rich tradesman. He was the very pedlar they had made fun
of and poured beer into a stocking for him to drink; but honesty and
industry bring one forward, and now the pedlar was the possessor of
the baronial estate. From that time forward no card-playing was
permitted there.

"That's a bad pastime," he said; "when the devil saw the Bible for
the first time he wanted to produce a caricature in opposition to
it, and invented card-playing."

The new proprietor of the estate took a wife, and whom did he
take?--The little goose-girl, who had always remained good and kind,
and who looked as beautiful in her new clothes as if she had been a
lady of high birth. And how did all this come about? That would be too
long a tale to tell in our busy time, but it really happened, and
the most important events have yet to be told.

It was pleasant and cheerful to live in the old place now: the
mother superintended the household, and the father looked after things
out-of-doors, and they were indeed very prosperous.

Where honesty leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow. The old
mansion was repaired and painted, the ditches were cleaned and
fruit-trees planted; all was homely and pleasant, and the floors
were as white and shining as a pasteboard. In the long winter evenings
the mistress and her maids sat at the spinning-wheel in the large
hall; every Sunday the counsellor--this title the pedlar had obtained,
although only in his old days--read aloud a portion from the Bible.
The children (for they had children) all received the best
education, but they were not all equally clever, as is the case in all
families.

In the meantime the willow tree near the drawbridge had grown up
into a splendid tree, and stood there, free, and was never clipped.
"It is our genealogical tree," said the old people to their
children, "and therefore it must be honoured."

A hundred years had elapsed. It was in our own days; the lake
had been transformed into marsh land; the whole baronial seat had,
as it were, disappeared. A pool of water near some ruined walls was
the only remainder of the deep ditches; and here stood a magnificent
old tree with overhanging branches--that was the genealogical tree.
Here it stood, and showed how beautiful a willow can look if one
does not interfere with it. The trunk, it is true, was cleft in the
middle from the root to the crown; the storms had bent it a little,
but it still stood there, and out of every crevice and cleft, in which
wind and weather had carried mould, blades of grass and flowers sprang
forth. Especially above, where the large boughs parted, there was
quite a hanging garden, in which wild raspberries and hart's-tongue
ferns throve, and even a little mistletoe had taken root, and grew
gracefully in the old willow branches, which were reflected in the
dark water beneath when the wind blew the chickweed into the corner of
the pool. A footpath which led across the fields passed close by the
old tree. High up, on the woody hillside, stood the new mansion. It
had a splendid view, and was large and magnificent; its window panes
were so clear that one might have thought there were none there at
all. The large flight of steps which led to the entrance looked like a
bower covered with roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn was as
green as if each blade of grass was cleaned separately morning and
evening. Inside, in the hall, valuable oil paintings were hanging on
the walls. Here stood chairs and sofas covered with silk and velvet,
which could be easily rolled about on castors; there were tables
with polished marble tops, and books bound in morocco with gilt edges.
Indeed, well-to-do and distinguished people lived here; it was the
dwelling of the baron and his family. Each article was in keeping with
its surroundings. "Everything in the right place" was the motto
according to which they also acted here, and therefore all the
paintings which had once been the honour and glory of the old
mansion were now hung up in the passage which led to the servants'
rooms. It was all old lumber, especially two portraits--one
representing a man in a scarlet coat with a wig, and the other a
lady with powdered and curled hair holding a rose in her hand, each of
them being surrounded by a large wreath of willow branches. Both
portraits had many holes in them, because the baron's sons used the
two old people as targets for their crossbows. They represented the
counsellor and his wife, from whom the whole family descended. "But
they did not properly belong to our family," said one of the boys; "he
was a pedlar and she kept the geese. They were not like papa and
mamma." The portraits were old lumber, and "everything in its right
place." That was why the great-grandparents had been hung up in the
passage leading to the servants' rooms.

The son of the village pastor was tutor at the mansion. One day he
went for a walk across the fields with his young pupils and their
elder sister, who had lately been confirmed. They walked along the
road which passed by the old willow tree, and while they were on the
road she picked a bunch of field-flowers. "Everything in the right
place," and indeed the bunch looked very beautiful. At the same time
she listened to all that was said, and she very much liked to hear the
pastor's son speak about the elements and of the great men and women
in history. She had a healthy mind, noble in thought and deed, and
with a heart full of love for everything that God had created. They
stopped at the old willow tree, as the youngest of the baron's sons
wished very much to have a flute from it, such as had been cut for him
from other willow trees; the pastor's son broke a branch off. "Oh,
pray do not do it!" said the young lady; but it was already done.
"That is our famous old tree. I love it very much. They often laugh at
me at home about it, but that does not matter. There is a story
attached to this tree." And now she told him all that we already
know about the tree--the old mansion, the pedlar and the goose-girl
who had met there for the first time, and had become the ancestors
of the noble family to which the young lady belonged.

"They did not like to be knighted, the good old people," she said;
"their motto was 'everything in the right place,' and it would not
be right, they thought, to purchase a title for money. My grandfather,
the first baron, was their son. They say he was a very learned man,
a great favourite with the princes and princesses, and was invited
to all court festivities. The others at home love him best; but, I
do not know why, there seemed to me to be something about the old
couple that attracts my heart! How homely, how patriarchal, it must
have been in the old mansion, where the mistress sat at the
spinning-wheel with her maids, while her husband read aloud out of the
Bible!"

"They must have been excellent, sensible people," said the
pastor's son. And with this the conversation turned naturally to
noblemen and commoners; from the manner in which the tutor spoke about
the significance of being noble, it seemed almost as if he did not
belong to a commoner's family.

"It is good fortune to be of a family who have distinguished
themselves, and to possess as it were a spur in oneself to advance
to all that is good. It is a splendid thing to belong to a noble
family, whose name serves as a card of admission to the highest
circles. Nobility is a distinction; it is a gold coin that bears the
stamp of its own value. It is the fallacy of the time, and many
poets express it, to say that all that is noble is bad and stupid, and
that, on the contrary, the lower one goes among the poor, the more
brilliant virtues one finds. I do not share this opinion, for it is
wrong. In the upper classes one sees many touchingly beautiful traits;
my own mother has told me of such, and I could mention several. One
day she was visiting a nobleman's house in town; my grandmother, I
believe, had been the lady's nurse when she was a child. My mother and
the nobleman were alone in the room, when he suddenly noticed an old
woman on crutches come limping into the courtyard; she came every
Sunday to carry a gift away with her.

"'There is the poor old woman,' said the nobleman; 'it is so
difficult for her to walk.'

"My mother had hardly understood what he said before he
disappeared from the room, and went downstairs, in order to save her
the troublesome walk for the gift she came to fetch. Of course this is
only a little incident, but it has its good sound like the poor
widow's two mites in the Bible, the sound which echoes in the depth of
every human heart; and this is what the poet ought to show and point
out--more especially in our own time he ought to sing of this; it does
good, it mitigates and reconciles! But when a man, simply because he
is of noble birth and possesses a genealogy, stands on his hind legs
and neighs in the street like an Arabian horse, and says when a
commoner has been in a room: 'Some people from the street have been
here,' there nobility is decaying; it has become a mask of the kind
that Thespis created, and it is amusing when such a person is
exposed in satire."

Such was the tutor's speech; it was a little long, but while he
delivered it he had finished cutting the flute.

There was a large party at the mansion; many guests from the
neighbourhood and from the capital had arrived. There were ladies with
tasteful and with tasteless dresses; the big hall was quite crowded
with people. The clergymen stood humbly together in a corner, and
looked as if they were preparing for a funeral, but it was a
festival--only the amusement had not yet begun. A great concert was to
take place, and that is why the baron's young son had brought his willow
flute with him; but he could not make it sound, nor could his
father, and therefore the flute was good for nothing.

There was music and songs of the kind which delight most those
that perform them; otherwise quite charming!

"Are you an artist?" said a cavalier, the son of his father;
"you play on the flute, you have made it yourself; it is genius that
rules--the place of honour is due to you."

"Certainly not! I only advance with the time, and that of course
one can't help."

"I hope you will delight us all with the little instrument--will
you not?" Thus saying he handed to the tutor the flute which had
been cut from the willow tree by the pool; and then announced in a
loud voice that the tutor wished to perform a solo on the flute.
They wished to tease him--that was evident, and therefore the tutor
declined to play, although he could do so very well. They urged and
requested him, however, so long, that at last he took up the flute and
placed it to his lips.

That was a marvellous flute! Its sound was as thrilling as the
whistle of a steam engine; in fact it was much stronger, for it
sounded and was heard in the yard, in the garden, in the wood, and
many miles round in the country; at the same time a storm rose and
roared; "Everything in the right place." And with this the baron, as
if carried by the wind, flew out of the hall straight into the
shepherd's cottage, and the shepherd flew--not into the hall,
thither he could not come--but into the servants' hall, among the
smart footmen who were striding about in silk stockings; these haughty
menials looked horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at
table with them. But in the hall the baron's daughter flew to the
place of honour at the end of the table--she was worthy to sit
there; the pastor's son had the seat next to her; the two sat there as
if they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging to one of the
oldest families of the country, remained untouched in his place of
honour; the flute was just, and it is one's duty to be so. The
sharp-tongued cavalier who had caused the flute to be played, and
who was the child of his parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house,
but not he alone.

The flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strange
events took place. A rich banker's family, who were driving in a coach
and four, were blown out of it, and could not even find room behind it
with their footmen. Two rich farmers who had in our days shot up
higher than their own corn-fields, were flung into the ditch; it was a
dangerous flute. Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was
a good thing, for then it was put back into its owner's pocket--"its
right place."

The next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken place; thus
originated the phrase, "to pocket the flute." Everything was again
in its usual order, except that the two old pictures of the peddlar
and the goose-girl were hanging in the banqueting-hall. There they
were on the wall as if blown up there; and as a real expert said
that they were painted by a master's hand, they remained there and
were restored. "Everything in the right place," and to this it will
come. Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.




A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

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

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

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

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

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




THE SNAIL AND THE ROSE-TREE

Round about the garden ran a hedge of hazel-bushes; beyond the
hedge were fields and meadows with cows and sheep; but in the middle
of the garden stood a Rose-tree in bloom, under which sat a Snail,
whose shell contained a great deal--that is, himself.

"Only wait till my time comes," he said; "I shall do more than
grow roses, bear nuts, or give milk, like the hazel-bush, the cows and
the sheep."

"I expect a great deal from you," said the rose-tree. "May I ask
when it will appear?"

"I take my time," said the snail. "You're always in such a
hurry. That does not excite expectation."

The following year the snail lay in almost the same spot, in the
sunshine under the rose-tree, which was again budding and bearing
roses as fresh and beautiful as ever. The snail crept half out of
his shell, stretched out his horns, and drew them in again.

"Everything is just as it was last year! No progress at all; the
rose-tree sticks to its roses and gets no farther."

The summer and the autumn passed; the rose-tree bore roses and
buds till the snow fell and the weather became raw and wet; then it
bent down its head, and the snail crept into the ground.

A new year began; the roses made their appearance, and the snail
made his too.

"You are an old rose-tree now," said the snail. "You must make
haste and die. You have given the world all that you had in you;
whether it was of much importance is a question that I have not had
time to think about. But this much is clear and plain, that you have
not done the least for your inner development, or you would have
produced something else. Have you anything to say in defence? You will
now soon be nothing but a stick. Do you understand what I say?"

"You frighten me," said the rose--tree. "I have never thought of
that."

"No, you have never taken the trouble to think at all. Have you
ever given yourself an account why you bloomed, and how your
blooming comes about--why just in that way and in no other?"

"No," said the rose-tree. "I bloom in gladness, because I cannot
do otherwise. The sun shone and warmed me, and the air refreshed me; I
drank the clear dew and the invigorating rain. I breathed and I lived!
Out of the earth there arose a power within me, whilst from above I
also received strength; I felt an ever-renewed and ever-increasing
happiness, and therefore I was obliged to go on blooming. That was
my life; I could not do otherwise."

"You have led a very easy life," remarked the snail.

"Certainly. Everything was given me," said the rose-tree. "But
still more was given to you. Yours is one of those deep-thinking
natures, one of those highly gifted minds that astonishes the world."

"I have not the slightest intention of doing so," said the
snail. "The world is nothing to me. What have I to do with the
world? I have enough to do with myself, and enough in myself."

"But must we not all here on earth give up our best parts to
others, and offer as much as lies in our power? It is true, I have
only given roses. But you--you who are so richly endowed--what have
you given to the world? What will you give it?"

"What have I given? What am I going to give? I spit at it; it's
good for nothing, and does not concern me. For my part, you may go
on bearing roses; you cannot do anything else. Let the hazel bush bear
nuts, and the cows and sheep give milk; they have each their public. I
have mine in myself. I retire within myself and there I stop. The
world is nothing to me."

With this the snail withdrew into his house and blocked up the
entrance.

"That's very sad," said the rose tree. "I cannot creep into
myself, however much I might wish to do so; I have to go on bearing
roses. Then they drop their leaves, which are blown away by the
wind. But I once saw how a rose was laid in the mistress's
hymn-book, and how one of my roses found a place in the bosom of a
young beautiful girl, and how another was kissed by the lips of a
child in the glad joy of life. That did me good; it was a real
blessing. Those are my recollections, my life."

And the rose tree went on blooming in innocence, while the snail
lay idling in his house--the world was nothing to him.

Years passed by.

The snail had turned to earth in the earth, and the rose tree too.
Even the souvenir rose in the hymn-book was faded, but in the garden
there were other rose trees and other snails. The latter crept into
their houses and spat at the world, for it did not concern them.

Shall we read the story all over again? It will be just the same.




A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS

This story is from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of Jutland, but it
does not begin there in the North, but far away in the South, in
Spain. The wide sea is the highroad from nation to nation; journey
in thought; then, to sunny Spain. It is warm and beautiful there;
the fiery pomegranate flowers peep from among dark laurels; a cool
refreshing breeze from the mountains blows over the orange gardens,
over the Moorish halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls.
Children go through the streets in procession with candles and
waving banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glittering
stars, rises above them. Sounds of singing and castanets can be heard,
and youths and maidens dance upon the flowering acacia trees, while
even the beggar sits upon a block of marble, refreshing himself with a
juicy melon, and dreamily enjoying life. It all seems like a beautiful
dream.

Here dwelt a newly married couple who completely gave themselves
up to the charm of life; indeed they possessed every good thing they
could desire--health and happiness, riches and honour.

"We are as happy as human beings can be," said the young couple
from the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only one step
higher to mount on the ladder of happiness--they hoped that God
would give them a child, a son like them in form and spirit. The happy
little one was to be welcomed with rejoicing, to be cared for with
love and tenderness, and enjoy every advantage of wealth and luxury
that a rich and influential family can give. So the days went by
like a joyous festival.

"Life is a gracious gift from God, almost too great a gift for
us to appreciate!" said the young wife. "Yet they say that fulness
of joy for ever and ever can only be found in the future life. I
cannot realise it!"

"The thought arises, perhaps, from the arrogance of men," said the
husband. "It seems a great pride to believe that we shall live for
ever, that we shall be as gods! Were not these the words of the
serpent, the father of lies?"

"Surely you do not doubt the existence of a future life?"
exclaimed the young wife. It seemed as if one of the first shadows
passed over her sunny thoughts.

"Faith realises it, and the priests tell us so," replied her
husband; "but amid all my happiness I feel that it is arrogant to
demand a continuation of it--another life after this. Has not so
much been given us in this world that we ought to be, we must be,
contented with it?"

"Yes, it has been given to us," said the young wife, "but this
life is nothing more than one long scene of trial and hardship to many
thousands. How many have been cast into this world only to endure
poverty, shame, illness, and misfortune? If there were no future life,
everything here would be too unequally divided, and God would not be
the personification of justice."

"The beggar there," said her husband, "has joys of his own which
seem to him great, and cause him as much pleasure as a king would find
in the magnificence of his palace. And then do you not think that
the beast of burden, which suffers blows and hunger, and works
itself to death, suffers just as much from its miserable fate? The
dumb creature might demand a future life also, and declare the law
unjust that excludes it from the advantages of the higher creation."

"Christ said: 'In my father's house are many mansions,'" she
answered. "Heaven is as boundless as the love of our Creator; the dumb
animal is also His creature, and I firmly believe that no life will be
lost, but each will receive as much happiness as he can enjoy, which
will be sufficient for him."

"This world is sufficient for me," said the husband, throwing
his arm round his beautiful, sweet-tempered wife. He sat by her side
on the open balcony, smoking a cigarette in the cool air, which was
loaded with the sweet scent of carnations and orange blossoms.
Sounds of music and the clatter of castanets came from the road
beneath, the stars shone above then, and two eyes full of
affection--those of his wife--looked upon him with the expression of
undying love. "Such a moment," he said, "makes it worth while to be
born, to die, and to be annihilated!" He smiled--the young wife raised
her hand in gentle reproof, and the shadow passed away from her mind,
and they were happy--quite happy.

Everything seemed to work together for their good. They advanced
in honour, in prosperity, and in happiness. A change came certainly,
but it was only a change of place and not of circumstances.

The young man was sent by his Sovereign as ambassador to the
Russian Court. This was an office of high dignity, but his birth and
his acquirements entitled him to the honour. He possessed a large
fortune, and his wife had brought him wealth equal to his own, for she
was the daughter of a rich and respected merchant. One of this
merchant's largest and finest ships was to be sent that year to
Stockholm, and it was arranged that the dear young couple, the
daughter and the son-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg.
All the arrangements on board were princely and silk and luxury on
every side.

In an old war song, called "The King of England's Son," it says:

  "Farewell, he said, and sailed away.
   And many recollect that day.
   The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,
   And everywhere riches and wealth untold."


These words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain, for here
was the same luxury, and the same parting thought naturally arose:

  "God grant that we once more may meet
   In sweet unclouded peace and joy."


There was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanish
coast, and it would be but a short journey, for they hoped to reach
their destination in a few weeks; but when they came out upon the wide
ocean the wind dropped, the sea became smooth and shining, and the
stars shone brightly. Many festive evenings were spent on board. At
last the travellers began to wish for wind, for a favourable breeze;
but their wish was useless--not a breath of air stirred, or if it
did arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two whole
months, and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The
ship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland; then the
wind increased, just as it did in the old song of "The King of
England's Son."

  "'Mid storm and wind, and pelting hail,
  Their efforts were of no avail.
  The golden anchor forth they threw;
  Towards Denmark the west wind blew."


This all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII, who sat
on the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has happened since
then, much has altered or been changed. Sea and moorland have been
turned into green meadows, stretches of heather have become arable
land, and in the shelter of the peasant's cottages, apple-trees and
rose-bushes grow, though they certainly require much care, as the
sharp west wind blows upon them. In West Jutland one may go back in
thought to old times, farther back than the days when Christian VII
ruled. The purple heather still extends for miles, with its barrows
and aerial spectacles, intersected with sandy uneven roads, just as it
did then; towards the west, where broad streams run into the bays, are
marshes and meadows encircled by lofty, sandy hills, which, like a
chain of Alps, raise their pointed summits near the sea; they are only
broken by high ridges of clay, from which the sea, year by year, bites
out great mouthfuls, so that the overhanging banks fall down as if
by the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is there today and thus it
was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.

It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was
shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum
was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches
there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a
piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not
be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells
are hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the
congregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or
bush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not
placed a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same
now. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank
grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard;
here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed
wood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from
the forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and
the inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the
waves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by
loving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had come out
of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on
the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her
husband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and
they walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow
towards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.

"It was a good sermon to-day," the man said at last. "If we had
not God to trust in, we should have nothing."

"Yes," replied the woman, "He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a
right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five
years old if we had been permitted to keep him."

"It is no use fretting, wife," said the man. "The boy is well
provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to."

They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses among
the sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where the
sea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, what
seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushed
between the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air;
another gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and
beat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything was
quiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.

The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken
off their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the dunes
which stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested in
their course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish
stalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also
came out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on the
beach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when
they went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones
blew into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white foam,
and the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam far and wide.

Evening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a wailing or
moaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded above
the thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little cottage was on the
very margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; every
now and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation.
It was dark, but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on the
air became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with
undiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in
such weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there
was a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice said:

"There's a large ship stranded on the farthest reef."

In a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and hastily
dressed themselves. The moon had risen, and it was light enough to
make the surrounding objects visible to those who could open their
eyes in the blinding clouds of sand; the violence of the wind was
terrible, and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if one
crept forward between the gusts; the salt spray flew up from the sea
like down, and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the
beach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in the
offing; she was a fine brig, and the waves now lifted her over the
reef, three or four cables' length out of the usual channel. She drove
towards the shore, struck on the second reef, and remained fixed.

It was impossible to render assistance; the sea rushed in upon the
vessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought they
heard cries for help from those on board, and could plainly
distinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors.
Now a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on the
bowsprit, tearing it from the vessel, and the stern was lifted high
above the water. Two people were seen to embrace and plunge together
into the sea, and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled
towards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a woman;
the sailors said that she was quite dead, but the women thought they
saw signs of life in her, so the stranger was carried across the
sand-hills to the fisherman's cottage. How beautiful and fair she was!
She must be a great lady, they said.

They laid her upon the humble bed; there was not a yard of linen
on it, only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.

Life returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew nothing of
what had happened or where she was; and it was better so, for
everything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The same
thing happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about
"The King of England's Son."

  "Alas! how terrible to see
  The gallant bark sink rapidly."


Fragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed ashore; they
were all that remained of the vessel. The wind still blew violently on
the coast.

For a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest; but she awoke
in pain, and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened her
wonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few words, but nobody
understood her.--And lo! as a reward for the sorrow and suffering
she had undergone, she held in her arms a new-born babe. The child
that was to have rested upon a magnificent couch, draped with silken
curtains, in a luxurious home; it was to have been welcomed with joy
to a life rich in all the good things of this world; and now Heaven
had ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat, that it
should not even receive a kiss from its mother, for when the
fisherman's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom, it rested
on a heart that beat no more--she was dead.

The child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxury
was cast into the world, washed by the sea among the sand-hills to
share the fate and hardships of the poor.

Here we are reminded again of the song about "The King of
England's Son," for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent at
the time, when knights and squires plundered those who had been
saved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south of
Nissum Bay, and the cruel, inhuman days, when, as we have just said,
the inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudely
were past, long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for
the unfortunate existed then, just as it does in our own time in
many a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child
would have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by
the winds, but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the
cottage of the poor fisherman's wife, who had stood, only the day
before, beside her child's grave, who would have been five years old
that day if God had spared it to her.

No one knew who the dead stranger was, they could not even form
a conjecture; the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.

No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and
son-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination, and violent
storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given:
"Foundered at sea--all lost." But in the fisherman's cottage among the
sand-hills near Hunsby, there lived a little scion of the rich Spanish
family.

Where Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to find a
meal, and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for the
hungry.

They called the boy Jurgen.

"It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so dark," the
people said.

"It might be an Italian or a Spaniard," remarked the clergyman.

But to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the same, and
she consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a
Christian.

The boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and he
became strong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the humble cottage,
and the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language.
The pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of
West Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man's life!
To this home he clung with deep-rooted affection; he was to experience
cold and hunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the
poor; but he also tasted of their joys.

Childhood has bright days for every one, and the memory of them
shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of
pleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and miles was full of
playthings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles, some red as coral or
yellow as amber, and others again white and rounded like birds' eggs
and smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes'
skeletons, the water plants dried by the wind, and seaweed, white
and shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones--all these
seemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts,
and he had an intelligent mind; many great talents lay dormant in him.
How readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard, and how
dexterous he was with his fingers! With stones and mussel-shells he
could put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate
the room; and he could make wonderful things from a stick, his
foster-mother said, although he was still so young and little. He
had a sweet voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally from
his lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might have
sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else
than in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.

One day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among other
things a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore.
Some were put into saucepans and cooked, for they were thought to be
fit to eat, and others lay and shrivelled in the sand--they did not
accomplish their purpose, or unfold their magnificent colours. Would
Jurgen fare better? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but
he had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his
friends noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followed
another, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself
was a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm
or storm--the crested wave or the smooth surface.

The visits to the church were festive occasions, but among the
fisherman's house one was especially looked forward to; this was, in
fact, the visit of the brother of Jurgen's foster-mother, the
eel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a
cart, painted red with blue and white tulips upon it, and full of
eels; it was covered and locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it,
and Jurgen was allowed to guide them.

The eel-breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and brought a
measure of brandy with him. They all received a small glassful or a
cupful if there were not enough glasses; even Jurgen had about a
thimbleful, that he might digest the fat eel, as the eel-breeder said;
he always told one story over and over again, and if his hearers
laughed he would immediately repeat it to them. Jurgen while still a
boy, and also when he was older, used phrases from the eel-breeder's
story on various occasions, so it will be as well for us to listen
to it. It runs thus:

"The eels went into the bay, and the young ones begged leave to go
a little farther out. 'Don't go too far,' said their mother; 'the ugly
eel-spearer might come and snap you all up.' But they went too far,
and of eight daughters only three came back to the mother, and these
wept and said, 'We only went a little way out, and the ugly
eel-spearer came immediately and stabbed five of our sisters to
death.' 'They'll come back again,' said the mother eel. 'Oh, no,'
exclaimed the daughters, 'for he skinned them, cut them in two, and
fried them.' 'Oh, they'll come back again,' the mother eel
persisted. 'No,' replied the daughters, 'for he ate them up.' 'They'll
come back again,' repeated the mother eel. 'But he drank brandy
after them,' said the daughters. 'Ah, then they'll never come back,'
said the mother, and she burst out crying, 'it's the brandy that
buries the eels.'"

"And therefore," said the eel-breeder in conclusion, "it is always
the proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels."

This story was the tinsel thread, the most humorous recollection
of Jurgen's life. He also wanted to go a little way farther out and up
the bay--that is to say, out into the world in a ship--but his
mother said, like the eel-breeder, "There are so many bad people--eel
spearers!" He wished to go a little way past the sand-hills, out
into the dunes, and at last he did: four happy days, the brightest
of his childhood, fell to his lot, and the whole beauty and
splendour of Jutland, all the happiness and sunshine of his home, were
concentrated in these. He went to a festival, but it was a burial
feast.

A rich relation of the fisherman's family had died; the farm was
situated far eastward in the country and a little towards the north.
Jurgen's foster parents went there, and he also went with them from
the dunes, over heath and moor, where the Skjaerumaa takes its
course through green meadows and contains many eels; mother eels
live there with their daughters, who are caught and eaten up by wicked
people. But do not men sometimes act quite as cruelly towards their
own fellow-men? Was not the knight Sir Bugge murdered by wicked
people? And though he was well spoken of, did he not also wish to kill
the architect who built the castle for him, with its thick walls and
tower, at the point where the Skjaerumaa falls into the bay? Jurgen
and his parents now stood there; the wall and the ramparts still
remained, and red crumbling fragments lay scattered around. Here it
was that Sir Bugge, after the architect had left him, said to one of
his men, "Go after him and say, 'Master, the tower shakes.' If he
turns round, kill him and take away the money I paid him, but if he
does not turn round let him go in peace." The man did as he was
told; the architect did not turn round, but called back "The tower
does not shake in the least, but one day a man will come from the west
in a blue cloak--he will cause it to shake!" And so indeed it happened
a hundred years later, for the North Sea broke in and cast down the
tower; but Predbjorn Gyldenstjerne, the man who then possessed the
castle, built a new castle higher up at the end of the meadow, and
that one is standing to this day, and is called Norre-Vosborg.

Jurgen and his foster parents went past this castle. They had told
him its story during the long winter evenings, and now he saw the
stately edifice, with its double moat, and trees and bushes; the wall,
covered with ferns, rose within the moat, but the lofty lime-trees
were the most beautiful of all; they grew up to the highest windows,
and the air was full of their sweet fragrance. In a north-west
corner of the garden stood a great bush full of blossom, like winter
snow amid the summer's green; it was a juniper bush, the first that
Jurgen had ever seen in bloom. He never forgot it, nor the lime-trees;
the child's soul treasured up these memories of beauty and fragrance
to gladden the old man.

From Norre-Vosborg, where the juniper blossomed, the journey
became more pleasant, for they met some other people who were also
going to the funeral and were riding in waggons. Our travellers had to
sit all together on a little box at the back of the waggon, but even
this, they thought, was better than walking. So they continued their
journey across the rugged heath. The oxen which drew the waggon
stopped every now and then, where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid
the heather. The sun shone with considerable heat, and it was
wonderful to behold how in the far distance something like smoke
seemed to be rising; yet this smoke was clearer than the air; it was
transparent, and looked like rays of light rolling and dancing afar
over the heath.

"That is Lokeman driving his sheep," said some one.

And this was enough to excite Jurgen's imagination. He felt as
if they were now about to enter fairyland, though everything was still
real. How quiet it was! The heath stretched far and wide around them
like a beautiful carpet. The heather was in blossom, and the
juniper-bushes and fresh oak saplings rose like bouquets from the
earth. An inviting place for a frolic, if it had not been for the
number of poisonous adders of which the travellers spoke; they also
mentioned that the place had formerly been infested with wolves, and
that the district was still called Wolfsborg for this reason. The
old man who was driving the oxen told them that in the lifetime of his
father the horses had many a hard battle with the wild beasts that
were now exterminated. One morning, when he himself had gone out to
bring in the horses, he found one of them standing with its forefeet
on a wolf it had killed, but the savage animal had torn and
lacerated the brave horse's legs.

The journey over the heath and the deep sand was only too
quickly at an end. They stopped before the house of mourning, where
they found plenty of guests within and without. Waggon after waggon
stood side by side, while the horses and oxen had been turned out to
graze on the scanty pasture. Great sand-hills like those at home by
the North Sea rose behind the house and extended far and wide. How had
they come here, so many miles inland? They were as large and high as
those on the coast, and the wind had carried them there; there was
also a legend attached to them.

Psalms were sung, and a few of the old people shed tears; with
this exception, the guests were cheerful enough, it seemed to
Jurgen, and there was plenty to eat and drink. There were eels of
the fattest, requiring brandy to bury them, as the eel-breeder said;
and certainly they did not forget to carry out his maxim here.

Jurgen went in and out the house; and on the third day he felt
as much at home as he did in the fisherman's cottage among the
sand-hills, where he had passed his early days. Here on the heath were
riches unknown to him until now; for flowers, blackberries, and
bilberries were to be found in profusion, so large and sweet that when
they were crushed beneath the tread of passers-by the heather was
stained with their red juice. Here was a barrow and yonder another.
Then columns of smoke rose into the still air; it was a heath fire,
they told him--how brightly it blazed in the dark evening!

The fourth day came, and the funeral festivities were at an end;
they were to go back from the land-dunes to the sand-dunes.

"Ours are better," said the old fisherman, Jurgen's foster-father;
"these have no strength."

And they spoke of the way in which the sand-dunes had come inland,
and it seemed very easy to understand. This is how they explained it:

A dead body had been found on the coast, and the peasants buried
it in the churchyard. From that time the sand began to fly about and
the sea broke in with violence. A wise man in the district advised
them to open the grave and see if the buried man was not lying sucking
his thumb, for if so he must be a sailor, and the sea would not rest
until it had got him back. The grave was opened, and he really was
found with his thumb in his mouth. So they laid him upon a cart, and
harnessed two oxen to it; and the oxen ran off with the sailor over
heath and moor to the ocean, as if they had been stung by an adder.
Then the sand ceased to fly inland, but the hills that had been
piled up still remained.

All this Jurgen listened to and treasured up in his memory of
the happiest days of his childhood--the days of the burial feast.

How delightful it was to see fresh places and to mix with
strangers! And he was to go still farther, for he was not yet fourteen
years old when he went out in a ship to see the world. He
encountered bad weather, heavy seas, unkindness, and hard men--such
were his experiences, for he became ship-boy. Cold nights, bad living,
and blows had to be endured; then he felt his noble Spanish blood boil
within him, and bitter, angry, words rose to his lips, but he gulped
them down; it was better, although he felt as the eel must feel when
it is skinned, cut up, and put into the frying-pan.

"I shall get over it," said a voice within him.

He saw the Spanish coast, the native land of his parents. He
even saw the town where they had lived in joy and prosperity, but he
knew nothing of his home or his relations, and his relations knew just
as little about him.

The poor ship boy was not permitted to land, but on the last day
of their stay he managed to get ashore. There were several purchases
to be made, and he was sent to carry them on board.

Jurgen stood there in his shabby clothes which looked as if they
had been washed in the ditch and dried in the chimney; he, who had
always dwelt among the sand-hills, now saw a great city for the
first time. How lofty the houses seemed, and what a number of people
there were in the streets! some pushing this way, some that--a perfect
maelstrom of citizens and peasants, monks and soldiers--the jingling
of bells on the trappings of asses and mules, the chiming of church
bells, calling, shouting, hammering and knocking--all going on at
once. Every trade was located in the basement of the houses or in
the side thoroughfares; and the sun shone with such heat, and the
air was so close, that one seemed to be in an oven full of beetles,
cockchafers, bees and flies, all humming and buzzing together.
Jurgen scarcely knew where he was or which way he went. Then he saw
just in front of him the great doorway of a cathedral; the lights were
gleaming in the dark aisles, and the fragrance of incense was wafted
towards him. Even the poorest beggar ventured up the steps into the
sanctuary. Jurgen followed the sailor he was with into the church, and
stood in the sacred edifice. Coloured pictures gleamed from their
golden background, and on the altar stood the figure of the Virgin
with the child Jesus, surrounded by lights and flowers; priests in
festive robes were chanting, and choir boys in dazzling attire swung
silver censers. What splendour and magnificence he saw there! It
streamed in upon his soul and overpowered him: the church and the
faith of his parents surrounded him, and touched a chord in his
heart that caused his eyes to overflow with tears.

They went from the church to the market-place. Here a quantity
of provisions were given him to carry. The way to the harbour was
long; and weary and overcome with various emotions, he rested for a
few moments before a splendid house, with marble pillars, statues, and
broad steps. Here he rested his burden against the wall. Then a porter
in livery came out, lifted up a silver-headed cane, and drove him
away--him, the grandson of that house. But no one knew that, and he
just as little as any one. Then he went on board again, and once
more encountered rough words and blows, much work and little
sleep--such was his experience of life. They say it is good to suffer
in one's young days, if age brings something to make up for it.

His period of service on board the ship came to an end, and the
vessel lay once more at Ringkjobing in Jutland. He came ashore, and
went home to the sand-dunes near Hunsby; but his foster-mother had
died during his absence.

A hard winter followed this summer. Snow-storms swept over land
and sea, and there was difficulty in getting from one place to
another. How unequally things are distributed in this world! Here
there was bitter cold and snow-storms, while in Spain there was
burning sunshine and oppressive heat. Yet, when a clear frosty day
came, and Jurgen saw the swans flying in numbers from the sea
towards the land, across to Norre-Vosborg, it seemed to him that
people could breathe more freely here; the summer also in this part of
the world was splendid. In imagination he saw the heath blossom and
become purple with rich juicy berries, and the elder-bushes and
lime-trees at Norre Vosborg in flower. He made up his mind to go there
again.

Spring came, and the fishing began. Jurgen was now an active
helper in this, for he had grown during the last year, and was quick
at work. He was full of life, and knew how to swim, to tread water,
and to turn over and tumble in the strong tide. They often warned
him to beware of the sharks, which seize the best swimmer, draw him
down, and devour him; but such was not to be Jurgen's fate.

At a neighbour's house in the dunes there was a boy named
Martin, with whom Jurgen was on very friendly terms, and they both
took service in the same ship to Norway, and also went together to
Holland. They never had a quarrel, but a person can be easily
excited to quarrel when he is naturally hot tempered, for he often
shows it in many ways; and this is just what Jurgen did one day when
they fell out about the merest trifle. They were sitting behind the
cabin door, eating from a delft plate, which they had placed between
them. Jurgen held his pocket-knife in his hand and raised it towards
Martin, and at the same time became ashy pale, and his eyes had an
ugly look. Martin only said, "Ah! ah! you are one of that sort, are
you? Fond of using the knife!"

The words were scarcely spoken, when Jurgen's hand sank down. He
did not answer a syllable, but went on eating, and afterwards returned
to his work. When they were resting again he walked up to Martin and
said:

"Hit me in the face! I deserve it. But sometimes I feel as if I
had a pot in me that boils over."

"There, let the thing rest," replied Martin.

And after that they were almost better friends than ever; when
afterwards they returned to the dunes and began telling their
adventures, this was told among the rest. Martin said that Jurgen
was certainly passionate, but a good fellow after all.

They were both young and healthy, well-grown and strong; but
Jurgen was the cleverer of the two.

In Norway the peasants go into the mountains and take the cattle
there to find pasture. On the west coast of Jutland huts have been
erected among the sand-hills; they are built of pieces of wreck, and
thatched with turf and heather; there are sleeping places round the
walls, and here the fishermen live and sleep during the early
spring. Every fisherman has a female helper, or manager as she is
called, who baits his hooks, prepares warm beer for him when he
comes ashore, and gets the dinner cooked and ready for him by the time
he comes back to the hut tired and hungry. Besides this the managers
bring up the fish from the boats, cut them open, prepare them, and
have generally a great deal to do.

Jurgen, his father, and several other fishermen and their managers
inhabited the same hut; Martin lived in the next one.

One of the girls, whose name was Else, had known Jurgen from
childhood; they were glad to see each other, and were of the same
opinion on many points, but in appearance they were entirely opposite;
for he was dark, and she was pale, and fair, and had flaxen hair,
and eyes as blue as the sea in sunshine.

As they were walking together one day, Jurgen held her hand very
firmly in his, and she said to him:

"Jurgen, I have something I want to say to you; let me be your
manager, for you are like a brother to me; but Martin, whose
housekeeper I am--he is my lover--but you need not tell this to the
others."

It seemed to Jurgen as if the loose sand was giving way under
his feet. He did not speak a word, but nodded his head, and that meant
"yes." It was all that was necessary; but he suddenly felt in his
heart that he hated Martin, and the more he thought the more he felt
convinced that Martin had stolen away from him the only being he
ever loved, and that this was Else: he had never thought of Else in
this way before, but now it all became plain to him.

When the sea is rather rough, and the fishermen are coming home in
their great boats, it is wonderful to see how they cross the reefs.
One of them stands upright in the bow of the boat, and the others
watch him sitting with the oars in their hands. Outside the reef it
looks as if the boat was not approaching land but going back to sea;
then the man who is standing up gives them the signal that the great
wave is coming which is to float them across the reef. The boat is
lifted high into the air, so that the keel is seen from the shore; the
next moment nothing can be seen, mast, keel, and people are all
hidden--it seems as though the sea had devoured them; but in a few
moments they emerge like a great sea animal climbing up the waves, and
the oars move as if the creature had legs. The second and third reef
are passed in the same manner; then the fishermen jump into the
water and push the boat towards the shore--every wave helps them--and
at length they have it drawn up, beyond the reach of the breakers.

A wrong order given in front of the reef--the slightest
hesitation--and the boat would be lost.

"Then it would be all over with me and Martin too!"

This thought passed through Jurgen's mind one day while they
were out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken suddenly
ill. The fever had seized him. They were only a few oars' strokes from
the reef, and Jurgen sprang from his seat and stood up in the bow.

"Father-let me come!" he said, and he glanced at Martin and across
the waves; every oar bent with the exertions of the rowers as the
great wave came towards them, and he saw his father's pale face, and
dared not obey the evil impulse that had shot through his brain. The
boat came safely across the reef to land; but the evil thought
remained in his heart, and roused up every little fibre of
bitterness which he remembered between himself and Martin since they
had known each other. But he could not weave the fibres together,
nor did he endeavour to do so. He felt that Martin had robbed him, and
this was enough to make him hate his former friend. Several of the
fishermen saw this, but Martin did not--he remained as obliging and
talkative as ever, in fact he talked rather too much.

Jurgen's foster-father took to his bed, and it became his
death-bed, for he died a week afterwards; and now Jurgen was heir to
the little house behind the sand-hills. It was small, certainly, but
still it was something, and Martin had nothing of the kind.

"You will not go to sea again, Jurgen, I suppose," observed one of
the old fishermen. "You will always stay with us now."

But this was not Jurgen's intention; he wanted to see something of
the world. The eel-breeder of Fjaltring had an uncle at Old Skjagen,
who was a fisherman, but also a prosperous merchant with ships upon
the sea; he was said to be a good old man, and it would not be a bad
thing to enter his service. Old Skjagen lies in the extreme north of
Jutland, as far away from the Hunsby dunes as one can travel in that
country; and this is just what pleased Jurgen, for he did not want
to remain till the wedding of Martin and Else, which would take
place in a week or two.

The old fisherman said it was foolish to go away, for now that
Jurgen had a home Else would very likely be inclined to take him
instead of Martin.

Jurgen gave such a vague answer that it was not easy to make out
what he meant--the old man brought Else to him, and she said:

"You have a home now; you ought to think of that."

And Jurgen thought of many things.

The sea has heavy waves, but there are heavier waves in the
human heart. Many thoughts, strong and weak, rushed through Jurgen's
brain, and he said to Else:

"If Martin had a house like mine, which of us would you rather
have?"

"But Martin has no house and cannot get one."

"Suppose he had one?"

"Well, then I would certainly take Martin, for that is what my
heart tells me; but one cannot live upon love."

Jurgen turned these things over in his mind all night. Something
was working within him, he hardly knew what it was, but it was even
stronger than his love for Else; and so he went to Martin's, and
what he said and did there was well considered. He let the house to
Martin on most liberal terms, saying that he wished to go to sea
again, because he loved it. And Else kissed him when she heard of
it, for she loved Martin best.

Jurgen proposed to start early in the morning, and on the
evening before his departure, when it was already getting rather late,
he felt a wish to visit Martin once more. He started, and among the
dunes met the old fisherman, who was angry at his leaving the place.
The old man made jokes about Martin, and declared there must be some
magic about that fellow, of whom the girls were so fond.

Jurgen did not pay any attention to his remarks, but said good-bye
to the old man and went on towards the house where Martin dwelt. He
heard loud talking inside; Martin was not alone, and this made
Jurgen waver in his determination, for he did not wish to see Else
again. On second thoughts, he decided that it was better not to hear
any more thanks from Martin, and so he turned back.

On the following morning, before the sun rose, he fastened his
knapsack on his back, took his wooden provision box in his hand, and
went away among the sand-hills towards the coast path. This way was
more pleasant than the heavy sand road, and besides it was shorter;
and he intended to go first to Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg, where the
eel-breeder lived, to whom he had promised a visit.

The sea lay before him, clear and blue, and the mussel shells
and pebbles, the playthings of his childhood, crunched over his
feet. While he thus walked on his nose suddenly began to bleed; it was
a trifling occurrence, but trifles sometimes are of great
importance. A few large drops of blood fell upon one of his sleeves.
He wiped them off and stopped the bleeding, and it seemed to him as if
this had cleared and lightened his brain. The sea-cale bloomed here
and there in the sand as he passed. He broke off a spray and stuck
it in his hat; he determined to be merry and light-hearted, for he was
going out into the wide world--"a little way out, beyond the bay,"
as the young eels had said. "Beware of bad people who will catch
you, and skin you, and put you in the frying-pan!" he repeated in
his mind, and smiled, for he thought he should find his way through
the world--good courage is a strong weapon!

The sun was high in the heavens when he approached the narrow
entrance to Nissum Bay. He looked back and saw a couple of horsemen
galloping a long distance behind him, and there were other people with
them. But this did not concern him.

The ferry-boat was on the opposite side of the bay. Jurgen
called to the ferry-man, and the latter came over with his boat.
Jurgen stepped in; but before he had got half-way across, the men whom
he had seen riding so hastily, came up, hailed the ferry-man, and
commanded him to return in the name of the law. Jurgen did not
understand the reason of this, but he thought it would be best to turn
back, and therefore he himself took an oar and returned. As soon as
the boat touched the shore, the men sprang on board, and before he was
aware of it, they had bound his hands with a rope.

"This wicked deed will cost you your life," they said. "It is a
good thing we have caught you."

He was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had been
found dead, with his throat cut. One of the fishermen, late on the
previous evening, had met Jurgen going towards Martin's house; this
was not the first time Jurgen had raised his knife against Martin,
so they felt sure that he was the murderer. The prison was in a town
at a great distance, and the wind was contrary for going there by sea;
but it would not take half an hour to get across the bay, and
another quarter of an hour would bring them to Norre-Vosborg, the
great castle with ramparts and moat. One of Jurgen's captors was a
fisherman, a brother of the keeper of the castle, and he said it might
be managed that Jurgen should be placed for the present in the dungeon
at Vosborg, where Long Martha the gipsy had been shut up till her
execution. They paid no attention to Jurgen's defence; the few drops
of blood on his shirt-sleeve bore heavy witness against him. But he
was conscious of his innocence, and as there was no chance of clearing
himself at present he submitted to his fate.

The party landed just at the place where Sir Bugge's castle had
stood, and where Jurgen had walked with his foster-parents after the
burial feast, during the four happiest days of his childhood. He
was led by the well-known path, over the meadow to Vosborg; once
more the elders were in bloom and the lofty lime-trees gave forth
sweet fragrance, and it seemed as if it were but yesterday that he had
last seen the spot. In each of the two wings of the castle there was a
staircase which led to a place below the entrance, from whence there
is access to a low, vaulted cellar. In this dungeon Long Martha had
been imprisoned, and from here she was led away to the scaffold. She
had eaten the hearts of five children, and had imagined that if she
could obtain two more she would be able to fly and make herself
invisible. In the middle of the roof of the cellar there was a
little narrow air-hole, but no window. The flowering lime trees
could not breathe refreshing fragrance into that abode, where
everything was dark and mouldy. There was only a rough bench in the
cell; but a good conscience is a soft pillow, and therefore Jurgen
could sleep well.

The thick oaken door was locked, and secured on the outside by
an iron bar; but the goblin of superstition can creep through a
keyhole into a baron's castle just as easily as it can into a
fisherman's cottage, and why should he not creep in here, where Jurgen
sat thinking of Long Martha and her wicked deeds? Her last thoughts on
the night before her execution had filled this place, and the magic
that tradition asserted to have been practised here, in Sir
Svanwedel's time, came into Jurgen's mind, and made him shudder; but a
sunbeam, a refreshing thought from without, penetrated his heart
even here--it was the remembrance of the flowering elder and the sweet
smelling lime-trees.

He was not left there long. They took him away to the town of
Ringkjobing, where he was imprisoned with equal severity.

Those times were not like ours. The common people were treated
harshly; and it was just after the days when farms were converted into
knights' estates, when coachmen and servants were often made
magistrates, and had power to sentence a poor man, for a small
offence, to lose his property and to corporeal punishment. Judges of
this kind were still to be found; and in Jutland, so far from the
capital, and from the enlightened, well-meaning, head of the
Government, the law was still very loosely administered sometimes--the
smallest grievance Jurgen could expect was that his case should be
delayed.

His dwelling was cold and comfortless; and how long would he be
obliged to bear all this? It seemed his fate to suffer misfortune
and sorrow innocently. He now had plenty of time to reflect on the
difference of fortune on earth, and to wonder why this fate had been
allotted to him; yet he felt sure that all would be made clear in
the next life, the existence that awaits us when this life is over.
His faith had grown strong in the poor fisherman's cottage; the
light which had never shone into his father's mind, in all the
richness and sunshine of Spain, was sent to him to be his comfort in
poverty and distress, a sign of that mercy of God which never fails.

The spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of the
North Sea could be heard for miles inland when the wind was blowing,
and then it sounded like the rushing of a thousand waggons over a hard
road with a mine underneath. Jurgen heard these sounds in his
prison, and it was a relief to him. No music could have touched his
heart as did these sounds of the sea--the rolling sea, the boundless
sea, on which a man can be borne across the world before the wind,
carrying his own house with him wherever he goes, just as the snail
carries its home even into a strange country.

He listened eagerly to its deep murmur and then the thought
arose--"Free! free! How happy to be free, even barefooted and in ragged
clothes!" Sometimes, when such thoughts crossed his mind, the fiery
nature rose within him, and he beat the wall with his clenched fists.

Weeks, months, a whole year had gone by, when Niels the thief,
called also a horse-dealer, was arrested; and now better times came,
and it was seen that Jurgen had been wrongly accused.

On the afternoon before Jurgen's departure from home, and before
the murder, Niels the thief, had met Martin at a beer-house in the
neighbourhood of Ringkjobing. A few glasses were drank, not enough
to cloud the brain, but enough to loosen Martin's tongue. He began
to boast and to say that he had obtained a house and intended to
marry, and when Niels asked him where he was going to get the money,
he slapped his pocket proudly and said:

"The money is here, where it ought to be."

This boast cost him his life; for when he went home Niels followed
him, and cut his throat, intending to rob the murdered man of the
gold, which did not exist.

All this was circumstantially explained; but it is enough for us
to know that Jurgen was set free. But what compensation did he get for
having been imprisoned a whole year, and shut out from all
communication with his fellow creatures? They told him he was
fortunate in being proved innocent, and that he might go. The
burgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling expenses, and many
citizens offered him provisions and beer--there were still good
people; they were not all hard and pitiless. But the best thing of all
was that the merchant Bronne, of Skjagen, into whose service Jurgen
had proposed entering the year before, was just at that time on
business in the town of Ringkjobing. Bronne heard the whole story;
he was kind-hearted, and understood what Jurgen must have felt and
suffered. Therefore he made up his mind to make it up to the poor lad,
and convince him that there were still kind folks in the world.

So Jurgen went forth from prison as if to paradise, to find
freedom, affection, and trust. He was to travel this path now, for
no goblet of life is all bitterness; no good man would pour out such a
draught for his fellow-man, and how should He do it, Who is love
personified?

"Let everything be buried and forgotten," said Bronne, the
merchant. "Let us draw a thick line through last year: we will even
burn the almanack. In two days we will start for dear, friendly,
peaceful Skjagen. People call it an out-of-the-way corner; but it is a
good warm chimney-corner, and its windows open toward every part of
the world."

What a journey that was: It was like taking fresh breath out of
the cold dungeon air into the warm sunshine. The heather bloomed in
pride and beauty, and the shepherd-boy sat on a barrow and blew his
pipe, which he had carved for himself out of a sheep bone. Fata
Morgana, the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the wilderness, appeared
with hanging gardens and waving forests, and the wonderful cloud
called "Lokeman driving his sheep" also was seen.

Up towards Skjagen they went, through the land of the Wendels,
whence the men with long beards (the Longobardi or Lombards) had
emigrated in the reign of King Snio, when all the children and old
people were to have been killed, till the noble Dame Gambaruk proposed
that the young people should emigrate. Jurgen knew all this, he had
some little knowledge; and although he did not know the land of the
Lombards beyond the lofty Alps, he had an idea that it must be
there, for in his boyhood he had been in the south, in Spain. He
thought of the plenteousness of the southern fruit, of the red
pomegranate flowers, of the humming, buzzing, and toiling in the great
beehive of a city he had seen; but home is the best place after all,
and Jurgen's home was Denmark.

At last they arrived at "Vendilskaga," as Skjagen is called in old
Norwegian and Icelandic writings. At that time Old Skjagen, with the
eastern and western town, extended for miles, with sand hills and
arable land as far as the lighthouse near "Grenen." Then, as now,
the houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills--a
wilderness in which the wind sports with the sand, and where the voice
of the sea-gull and wild swan strikes harshly on the ear.

In the south-west, a mile from "Grenen," lies Old Skjagen;
merchant Bronne dwelt here, and this was also to be Jurgen's home
for the future. The dwelling-house was tarred, and all the small
out-buildings had been put together from pieces of wreck. There was no
fence, for indeed there was nothing to fence in except the long rows
of fishes which were hung upon lines, one above the other, to dry in
the wind. The entire coast was strewn with spoiled herrings, for there
were so many of these fish that a net was scarcely thrown into the sea
before it was filled. They were caught by carloads, and many of them
were either thrown back into the sea or left to lie on the beach.

The old man's wife and daughter and his servants also came to meet
him with great rejoicing. There was a great squeezing of hands, and
talking and questioning. And the daughter, what a sweet face and
bright eyes she had!

The inside of the house was comfortable and roomy. Fritters,
that a king would have looked upon as a dainty dish, were placed on
the table, and there was wine from the Skjagen vineyard--that is,
the sea; for there the grapes come ashore ready pressed and prepared
in barrels and in bottles.

When the mother and daughter heard who Jurgen was, and how
innocently he had suffered, they looked at him in a still more
friendly way; and pretty Clara's eyes had a look of especial
interest as she listened to his story. Jurgen found a happy home in
Old Skjagen. It did his heart good, for it had been sorely tried. He
had drunk the bitter goblet of love which softens or hardens the
heart, according to circumstances. Jurgen's heart was still soft--it
was young, and therefore it was a good thing that Miss Clara was going
in three weeks' time to Christiansand in Norway, in her father's ship,
to visit an aunt and to stay there the whole winter.

On the Sunday before she went away they all went to church, to the
Holy Communion. The church was large and handsome, and had been
built centuries before by Scotchmen and Dutchmen; it stood some little
way out of the town. It was rather ruinous certainly, and the road
to it was heavy, through deep sand, but the people gladly surmounted
these difficulties to get to the house of God, to sing psalms and to
hear the sermon. The sand had heaped itself up round the walls of
the church, but the graves were kept free from it.

It was the largest church north of the Limfjorden. The Virgin
Mary, with a golden crown on her head and the child Jesus in her arms,
stood lifelike on the altar; the holy Apostles had been carved in
the choir, and on the walls there were portraits of the old
burgomasters and councillors of Skjagen; the pulpit was of carved
work. The sun shone brightly into the church, and its radiance fell on
the polished brass chandelier and on the little ship that hung from
the vaulted roof.

Jurgen felt overcome by a holy, childlike feeling, like that which
possessed him, when, as a boy, he stood in the splendid Spanish
cathedral. But here the feeling was different, for he felt conscious
of being one of the congregation.

After the sermon followed Holy Communion. He partook of the
bread and wine, and it so happened that he knelt by the side of Miss
Clara; but his thoughts were so fixed upon heaven and the Holy
Sacrament that he did not notice his neighbour until he rose from
his knees, and then he saw tears rolling down her cheeks.

She left Skjagen and went to Norway two days later. He remained
behind, and made himself useful on the farm and at the fishery. He
went out fishing, and in those days fish were more plentiful and
larger than they are now. The shoals of the mackerel glittered in
the dark nights, and indicated where they were swimming; the
gurnards snarled, and the crabs gave forth pitiful yells when they
were chased, for fish are not so mute as people say.

Every Sunday Jurgen went to church; and when his eyes rested on
the picture of the Virgin Mary over the altar as he sat there, they
often glided away to the spot where they had knelt side by side.

Autumn came, and brought rain and snow with it; the water rose
up right into the town of Skjagen, the sand could not suck it all
in, one had to wade through it or go by boat. The storms threw
vessel after vessel on the fatal reefs; there were snow-storm and
sand-storms; the sand flew up to the houses, blocking the entrances,
so that people had to creep up through the chimneys; that was
nothing at all remarkable here. It was pleasant and cheerful
indoors, where peat fuel and fragments of wood from the wrecks
blazed and crackled upon the hearth. Merchant Bronne read aloud,
from an old chronicle, about Prince Hamlet of Denmark, who had come
over from England, landed near Bovbjerg, and fought a battle; close by
Ramme was his grave, only a few miles from the place where the
eel-breeder lived; hundreds of barrow rose there from the heath,
forming as it were an enormous churchyard. Merchant Bronne had
himself been at Hamlet's grave; they spoke about old times, and about
their neighbours, the English and the Scotch, and Jurgen sang the air
of "The King of England's Son," and of his splendid ship and its
outfit.

  "In the hour of peril when most men fear,
  He clasped the bride that he held so dear,
  And proved himself the son of a King;
  Of his courage and valour let us sing."


This verse Jurgen sang with so much feeling that his eyes
beamed, and they were black and sparkling since his infancy.

There was wealth, comfort, and happiness even among the domestic
animals, for they were all well cared for, and well kept. The
kitchen looked bright with its copper and tin utensils, and white
plates, and from the rafters hung hams, beef, and winter stores in
plenty. This can still be seen in many rich farms on the west coast of
Jutland: plenty to eat and drink, clean, prettily decorated rooms,
active minds, cheerful tempers, and hospitality can be found there, as
in an Arab's tent.

Jurgen had never spent such a happy time since the famous burial
feast, and yet Miss Clara was absent, except in the thoughts and
memory of all.

In April a ship was to start for Norway, and Jurgen was to sail in
it. He was full of life and spirits, and looked so sturdy and well
that Dame Bronne said it did her good to see him.

"And it does one good to look at you also, old wife," said the
merchant. "Jurgen has brought fresh life into our winter evenings, and
into you too, mother. You look younger than ever this year, and seem
well and cheerful. But then you were once the prettiest girl in
Viborg, and that is saying a great deal, for I have always found the
Viborg girls the prettiest of any."

Jurgen said nothing, but he thought of a certain maiden of
Skjagen, whom he was soon to visit. The ship set sail for
Christiansand in Norway, and as the wind was favourable it soon
arrived there.

One morning merchant Bronne went out to the lighthouse, which
stands a little way out of Old Skjagen, not far from "Grenen." The
light was out, and the sun was already high in the heavens, when he
mounted the tower. The sand-banks extend a whole mile from the
shore, beneath the water, outside these banks; many ships could be
seen that day, and with the aid of his telescope the old man thought
he descried his own ship, the Karen Bronne. Yes! certainly, there
she was, sailing homewards with Clara and Jurgen on board.

Clara sat on deck, and saw the sand-hills gradually appearing in
the distance; the church and lighthouse looked like a heron and a swan
rising from the blue waters. If the wind held good they might reach
home in about an hour. So near they were to home and all its joys--so
near to death and all its terrors! A plank in the ship gave way,
and the water rushed in; the crew flew to the pumps, and did their
best to stop the leak. A signal of distress was hoisted, but they were
still fully a mile from the shore. Some fishing boats were in sight,
but they were too far off to be of any use. The wind blew towards
the land, the tide was in their favour, but it was all useless; the
ship could not be saved.

Jurgen threw his right arm round Clara, and pressed her to him.
With what a look she gazed up into his face, as with a prayer to God
for help he breasted the waves, which rushed over the sinking ship!
She uttered a cry, but she felt safe and certain that he would not
leave her to sink. And in this hour of terror and danger Jurgen felt
as the king's son did, as told in the old song:

  "In the hour of peril when most men fear,
  He clasped the bride that he held so dear."


How glad he felt that he was a good swimmer! He worked his way
onward with his feet and one arm, while he held the young girl up
firmly with the other. He rested on the waves, he trod the water--in
fact, did everything he could think of, in order not to fatigue
himself, and to reserve strength enough to reach land. He heard
Clara sigh, and felt her shudder convulsively, and he pressed her more
closely to him. Now and then a wave rolled over them, the current
lifted them; the water, although deep, was so clear that for a
moment he imagined he saw the shoals of mackerel glittering, or
Leviathan himself ready to swallow them. Now the clouds cast a
shadow over the water, then again came the playing sunbeams; flocks of
loudly screaming birds passed over him, and the plump and lazy wild
ducks which allow themselves to be drifted by the waves rose up
terrified at the sight of the swimmer. He began to feel his strength
decreasing, but he was only a few cable lengths' distance from the
shore, and help was coming, for a boat was approaching him. At this
moment he distinctly saw a white staring figure under the water--a
wave lifted him up, and he came nearer to the figure--he felt a
violent shock, and everything became dark around him.

On the sand reef lay the wreck of a ship, which was covered with
water at high tide; the white figure head rested against the anchor,
the sharp iron edge of which rose just above the surface. Jurgen had
come in contact with this; the tide had driven him against it with
great force. He sank down stunned with the blow, but the next wave
lifted him and the young girl up again. Some fishermen, coming with
a boat, seized them and dragged them into it. The blood streamed
down over Jurgen's face; he seemed dead, but still held the young girl
so tightly that they were obliged to take her from him by force. She
was pale and lifeless; they laid her in the boat, and rowed as quickly
as possible to the shore. They tried every means to restore Clara to
life, but it was all of no avail. Jurgen had been swimming for some
distance with a corpse in his arms, and had exhausted his strength for
one who was dead.

Jurgen still breathed, so the fishermen carried him to the nearest
house upon the sand-hills, where a smith and general dealer lived
who knew something of surgery, and bound up Jurgen's wounds in a
temporary way until a surgeon could be obtained from the nearest
town the next day. The injured man's brain was affected, and in his
delirium he uttered wild cries; but on the third day he lay quiet
and weak upon his bed; his life seemed to hang by a thread, and the
physician said it would be better for him if this thread broke. "Let
us pray that God may take him," he said, "for he will never be the
same man again."

But life did not depart from him--the thread would not break,
but the thread of memory was severed; the thread of his mind had
been cut through, and what was still more grievous, a body remained--a
living healthy body that wandered about like a troubled spirit.

Jurgen remained in merchant Bronne's house. "He was hurt while
endeavouring to save our child," said the old man, "and now he is
our son." People called Jurgen insane, but that was not exactly the
correct term. He was like an instrument in which the strings are loose
and will give no sound; only occasionally they regained their power
for a few minutes, and then they sounded as they used to do. He
would sing snatches of songs or old melodies, pictures of the past
would rise before him, and then disappear in the mist, as it were, but
as a general rule he sat staring into vacancy, without a thought. We
may conjecture that he did not suffer, but his dark eyes lost their
brightness, and looked like clouded glass.

"Poor mad Jurgen," said the people. And this was the end of a life
whose infancy was to have been surrounded with wealth and splendour
had his parents lived! All his great mental abilities had been lost,
nothing but hardship, sorrow, and disappointment had been his fate. He
was like a rare plant, torn from its native soil, and tossed upon
the beach to wither there. And was this one of God's creatures,
fashioned in His own likeness, to have no better fate? Was he to be
only the plaything of fortune? No! the all-loving Creator would
certainly repay him in the life to come for what he had suffered and
lost here. "The Lord is good to all; and His mercy is over all His
works." The pious old wife of the merchant repeated these words from
the Psalms of David in patience and hope, and the prayer of her
heart was that Jurgen might soon be called away to enter into
eternal life.

In the churchyard where the walls were surrounded with sand
Clara lay buried. Jurgen did not seem to know this; it did not enter
his mind, which could only retain fragments of the past. Every
Sunday he went to church with the old people, and sat there
silently, staring vacantly before him. One day, when the Psalms were
being sung, he sighed deeply, and his eyes became bright; they were
fixed upon a place near the altar where he had knelt with his friend
who was dead. He murmured her name, and became deadly pale, and
tears rolled down his cheeks. They led him out of church; he told
those standing round him that he was well, and had never been ill; he,
who had been so grievously afflicted, the outcast, thrown upon the
world, could not remember his sufferings. The Lord our Creator is wise
and full of loving kindness--who can doubt it?

In Spain, where balmy breezes blow over the Moorish cupolas and
gently stir the orange and myrtle groves, where singing and the
sound of the castanets are always heard, the richest merchant in the
place, a childless old man, sat in a luxurious house, while children
marched in procession through the streets with waving flags and
lighted tapers. If he had been able to press his children to his
heart, his daughter, or her child, that had, perhaps never seen the
light of day, far less the kingdom of heaven, how much of his wealth
would he not have given! "Poor child!" Yes, poor child--a child still,
yet more than thirty years old, for Jurgen had arrived at this age
in Old Skjagen.

The shifting sands had covered the graves in the courtyard,
quite up to the church walls, but still, the dead must be buried among
their relatives and the dear ones who had gone before them. Merchant
Bronne and his wife now rested with their children under the white
sand.

It was in the spring--the season of storms. The sand from the
dunes was whirled up in clouds; the sea was rough, and flocks of birds
flew like clouds in the storm, screaming across the sand-hills.
Shipwreck followed upon shipwreck on the reefs between Old Skagen
and the Hunsby dunes.

One evening Jurgen sat in his room alone: all at once his mind
seemed to become clearer, and a restless feeling came over him, such
as had often, in his younger days, driven him out to wander over the
sand-hills or on the heath. "Home, home!" he cried. No one heard
him. He went out and walked towards the dunes. Sand and stones blew
into his face, and whirled round him; he went in the direction of
the church. The sand was banked up the walls, half covering the
windows, but it had been cleared away in front of the door, and the
entrance was free and easy to open, so Jurgen went into the church.

The storm raged over the town of Skjagen; there had not been
such a terrible tempest within the memory of the inhabitants, nor such
a rough sea. But Jurgen was in the temple of God, and while the
darkness of night reigned outside, a light arose in his soul that
was never to depart from it; the heavy weight that pressed on his
brain burst asunder. He fancied he heard the organ, but it was only
the storm and the moaning of the sea. He sat down on one of the seats,
and lo! the candies were lighted one by one, and there was
brightness and grandeur such as he had only seen in the Spanish
cathedral. The portraits of the old citizens became alive, stepped
down from the walls against which they had hung for centuries, and
took seats near the church door. The gates flew open, and all the dead
people from the churchyard came in, and filled the church, while
beautiful music sounded. Then the melody of the psalm burst forth,
like the sound of the waters, and Jurgen saw that his foster parents
from the Hunsby dunes were there, also old merchant Bronne with his
wife and their daughter Clara, who gave him her hand. They both went
up to the altar where they had knelt before, and the priest joined
their hands and united them for life. Then music was heard again; it
was wonderfully sweet, like a child's voice, full of joy and
expectation, swelling to the powerful tones of a full organ, sometimes
soft and sweet, then like the sounds of a tempest, delightful and
elevating to hear, yet strong enough to burst the stone tombs of the
dead. Then the little ship that hung from the roof of the choir was
let down and looked wonderfully large and beautiful with its silken
sails and rigging:

  "The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,
  And everywhere riches and pomp untold,"

as the old song says.

The young couple went on board, accompanied by the whole
congregation, for there was room and enjoyment for them all. Then
the walls and arches of the church were covered with flowering
junipers and lime trees breathing forth fragrance; the branches waved,
creating a pleasant coolness; they bent and parted, and the ship
sailed between them through the air and over the sea. Every candle
in the church became a star, and the wind sang a hymn in which they
all joined. "Through love to glory, no life is lost, the future is
full of blessings and happiness. Hallelujah!" These were the last
words Jurgen uttered in this world, for the thread that bound his
immortal soul was severed, and nothing but the dead body lay in the
dark church, while the storm raged outside, covering it with loose
sand.

The next day was Sunday, and the congregation and their pastor
went to the church. The road had always been heavy, but now it was
almost unfit for use, and when they at last arrived at the church, a
great heap of sand lay piled up in front of them. The whole church was
completely buried in sand. The clergyman offered a short prayer, and
said that God had closed the door of His house here, and that the
congregation must go and build a new one for Him somewhere else. So
they sung a hymn in the open air, and went home again.

Jurgen could not be found anywhere in the town of Skjagen, nor
on the dunes, though they searched for him everywhere. They came to
the conclusion that one of the great waves, which had rolled far up
on the beach, had carried him away; but his body lay buried in a
great sepulchre--the church itself. The Lord had thrown down a
covering for his grave during the storm, and the heavy mound of sand
lies upon it to this day. The drifting sand had covered the vaulted
roof of the church, the arched cloisters, and the stone aisles. The
white thorn and the dog rose now blossom above the place where the
church lies buried, but the spire, like an enormous monument over a
grave, can be seen for miles round. No king has a more splendid
memorial. Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the dead. I was the
first to hear this story, for the storm sung it to me among the
sand-hills.




THE SAUCY BOY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But your bow is spoilt," said the old poet.

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

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

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

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




THE SHADOW

In very hot climates, where the heat of the sun has great power,
people are usually as brown as mahogany; and in the hottest
countries they are negroes, with black skins. A learned man once
travelled into one of these warm climates, from the cold regions of
the north, and thought he would roam about as he did at home; but he
soon had to change his opinion. He found that, like all sensible
people, he must remain in the house during the whole day, with every
window and door closed, so that it looked as if all in the house
were asleep or absent. The houses of the narrow street in which he
lived were so lofty that the sun shone upon them from morning till
evening, and it became quite unbearable. This learned man from the
cold regions was young as well as clever; but it seemed to him as if
he were sitting in an oven, and he became quite exhausted and weak,
and grew so thin that his shadow shrivelled up, and became much
smaller than it had been at home. The sun took away even what was left
of it, and he saw nothing of it till the evening, after sunset. It was
really a pleasure, as soon as the lights were brought into the room,
to see the shadow stretch itself against the wall, even to the
ceiling, so tall was it; and it really wanted a good stretch to
recover its strength. The learned man would sometimes go out into
the balcony to stretch himself also; and as soon as the stars came
forth in the clear, beautiful sky, he felt revived. People at this
hour began to make their appearance in all the balconies in the
street; for in warm climates every window has a balcony, in which they
can breathe the fresh evening air, which is very necessary, even to
those who are used to a heat that makes them as brown as mahogany;
so that the street presented a very lively appearance. Here were
shoemakers, and tailors, and all sorts of people sitting. In the
street beneath, they brought out tables and chairs, lighted candles by
hundreds, talked and sang, and were very merry. There were people
walking, carriages driving, and mules trotting along, with their bells
on the harness, "tingle, tingle," as they went. Then the dead were
carried to the grave with the sound of solemn music, and the tolling
of the church bells. It was indeed a scene of varied life in the
street. One house only, which was just opposite to the one in which
the foreign learned man lived, formed a contrast to all this, for it
was quite still; and yet somebody dwelt there, for flowers stood in
the balcony, blooming beautifully in the hot sun; and this could not
have been unless they had been watered carefully. Therefore some one
must be in the house to do this. The doors leading to the balcony were
half opened in the evening; and although in the front room all was
dark, music could be heard from the interior of the house. The foreign
learned man considered this music very delightful; but perhaps he
fancied it; for everything in these warm countries pleased him,
excepting the heat of the sun. The foreign landlord said he did not
know who had taken the opposite house--nobody was to be seen there;
and as to the music, he thought it seemed very tedious, to him most
uncommonly so.

"It is just as if some one was practising a piece that he could
not manage; it is always the same piece. He thinks, I suppose, that he
will be able to manage it at last; but I do not think so, however long
he may play it."

Once the foreigner woke in the night. He slept with the door
open which led to the balcony; the wind had raised the curtain
before it, and there appeared a wonderful brightness over all in the
balcony of the opposite house. The flowers seemed like flames of the
most gorgeous colors, and among the flowers stood a beautiful
slender maiden. It was to him as if light streamed from her, and
dazzled his eyes; but then he had only just opened them, as he awoke
from his sleep. With one spring he was out of bed, and crept softly
behind the curtain. But she was gone--the brightness had
disappeared; the flowers no longer appeared like flames, although
still as beautiful as ever. The door stood ajar, and from an inner
room sounded music so sweet and so lovely, that it produced the most
enchanting thoughts, and acted on the senses with magic power. Who
could live there? Where was the real entrance? for, both in the street
and in the lane at the side, the whole ground floor was a continuation
of shops; and people could not always be passing through them.

One evening the foreigner sat in the balcony. A light was
burning in his own room, just behind him. It was quite natural,
therefore, that his shadow should fall on the wall of the opposite
house; so that, as he sat amongst the flowers on his balcony, when
he moved, his shadow moved also.

"I think my shadow is the only living thing to be seen
opposite," said the learned man; "see how pleasantly it sits among the
flowers. The door is only ajar; the shadow ought to be clever enough
to step in and look about him, and then to come back and tell me
what he has seen. You could make yourself useful in this way," said
he, jokingly; "be so good as to step in now, will you?" and then he
nodded to the shadow, and the shadow nodded in return. "Now go, but
don't stay away altogether."

Then the foreigner stood up, and the shadow on the opposite
balcony stood up also; the foreigner turned round, the shadow
turned; and if any one had observed, they might have seen it go
straight into the half-opened door of the opposite balcony, as the
learned man re-entered his own room, and let the curtain fall. The
next morning he went out to take his coffee and read the newspapers.

"How is this?" he exclaimed, as he stood in the sunshine. "I
have lost my shadow. So it really did go away yesterday evening, and
it has not returned. This is very annoying."

And it certainly did vex him, not so much because the shadow was
gone, but because he knew there was a story of a man without a shadow.
All the people at home, in his country, knew this story; and when he
returned, and related his own adventures, they would say it was only
an imitation; and he had no desire for such things to be said of
him. So he decided not to speak of it at all, which was a very
sensible determination.

In the evening he went out again on his balcony, taking care to
place the light behind him; for he knew that a shadow always wants his
master for a screen; but he could not entice him out. He made
himself little, and he made himself tall; but there was no shadow, and
no shadow came. He said, "Hem, a-hem;" but it was all useless. That
was very vexatious; but in warm countries everything grows very
quickly; and, after a week had passed, he saw, to his great joy,
that a new shadow was growing from his feet, when he walked in the
sunshine; so that the root must have remained. After three weeks, he
had quite a respectable shadow, which, during his return journey to
northern lands, continued to grow, and became at last so large that he
might very well have spared half of it. When this learned man
arrived at home, he wrote books about the true, the good, and the
beautiful, which are to be found in this world; and so days and
years passed--many, many years.

One evening, as he sat in his study, a very gentle tap was heard
at the door. "Come in," said he; but no one came. He opened the
door, and there stood before him a man so remarkably thin that he felt
seriously troubled at his appearance. He was, however, very well
dressed, and looked like a gentleman. "To whom have I the honor of
speaking?" said he.

"Ah, I hoped you would recognize me," said the elegant stranger;
"I have gained so much that I have a body of flesh, and clothes to
wear. You never expected to see me in such a condition. Do you not
recognize your old shadow? Ah, you never expected that I should return
to you again. All has been prosperous with me since I was with you
last; I have become rich in every way, and, were I inclined to
purchase my freedom from service, I could easily do so." And as he
spoke he rattled between his fingers a number of costly trinkets which
hung to a thick gold watch-chain he wore round his neck. Diamond rings
sparkled on his fingers, and it was all real.

"I cannot recover from my astonishment," said the learned man.
"What does all this mean?"

"Something rather unusual," said the shadow; "but you are yourself
an uncommon man, and you know very well that I have followed in your
footsteps ever since your childhood. As soon as you found that I
have travelled enough to be trusted alone, I went my own way, and I am
now in the most brilliant circumstances. But I felt a kind of
longing to see you once more before you die, and I wanted to see
this place again, for there is always a clinging to the land of
one's birth. I know that you have now another shadow; do I owe you
anything? If so, have the goodness to say what it is."

"No! Is it really you?" said the learned man. "Well, this is
most remarkable; I never supposed it possible that a man's old
shadow could become a human being."

"Just tell me what I owe you," said the shadow, "for I do not like
to be in debt to any man."

"How can you talk in that manner?" said the learned man. "What
question of debt can there be between us? You are as free as any
one. I rejoice exceedingly to hear of your good fortune. Sit down, old
friend, and tell me a little of how it happened, and what you saw in
the house opposite to me while we were in those hot climates."

"Yes, I will tell you all about it," said the shadow, sitting
down; "but then you must promise me never to tell in this city,
wherever you may meet me, that I have been your shadow. I am
thinking of being married, for I have more than sufficient to
support a family."

"Make yourself quite easy," said the learned man; "I will tell
no one who you really are. Here is my hand,--I promise, and a word
is sufficient between man and man."

"Between man and a shadow," said the shadow; for he could not help
saying so.

It was really most remarkable how very much he had become a man in
appearance. He was dressed in a suit of the very finest black cloth,
polished boots, and an opera crush hat, which could be folded together
so that nothing could be seen but the crown and the rim, besides the
trinkets, the gold chain, and the diamond rings already spoken of. The
shadow was, in fact, very well dressed, and this made a man of him.
"Now I will relate to you what you wish to know," said the shadow,
placing his foot with the polished leather boot as firmly as
possible on the arm of the new shadow of the learned man, which lay at
his feet like a poodle dog. This was done, it might be from pride,
or perhaps that the new shadow might cling to him, but the prostrate
shadow remained quite quiet and at rest, in order that it might
listen, for it wanted to know how a shadow could be sent away by its
master, and become a man itself. "Do you know," said the shadow, "that
in the house opposite to you lived the most glorious creature in the
world? It was poetry. I remained there three weeks, and it was more
like three thousand years, for I read all that has ever been written
in poetry or prose; and I may say, in truth, that I saw and learnt
everything."

"Poetry!" exclaimed the learned man. "Yes, she lives as a hermit
in great cities. Poetry! Well, I saw her once for a very short moment,
while sleep weighed down my eyelids. She flashed upon me from the
balcony like the radiant aurora borealis, surrounded with flowers like
flames of fire. Tell me, you were on the balcony that evening; you
went through the door, and what did you see?"

"I found myself in an ante-room," said the shadow. "You still
sat opposite to me, looking into the room. There was no light, or at
least it seemed in partial darkness, for the door of a whole suite
of rooms stood open, and they were brilliantly lighted. The blaze of
light would have killed me, had I approached too near the maiden
myself, but I was cautious, and took time, which is what every one
ought to do."

"And what didst thou see?" asked the learned man.

"I saw everything, as you shall hear. But--it really is not
pride on my part, as a free man and possessing the knowledge that I
do, besides my position, not to speak of my wealth--I wish you would
say you to me instead of thou."

"I beg your pardon," said the learned man; "it is an old habit,
which it is difficult to break. You are quite right; I will try to
think of it. But now tell me everything that you saw."

"Everything," said the shadow; "for I saw and know everything."

"What was the appearance of the inner rooms?" asked the scholar.
"Was it there like a cool grove, or like a holy temple? Were the
chambers like a starry sky seen from the top of a high mountain?"

"It was all that you describe," said the shadow; "but I did not go
quite in--I remained in the twilight of the ante-room--but I was in
a very good position,--I could see and hear all that was going on in
the court of poetry."

"But what did you see? Did the gods of ancient times pass
through the rooms? Did old heroes fight their battles over again? Were
there lovely children at play, who related their dreams?"

"I tell you I have been there, and therefore you may be sure
that I saw everything that was to be seen. If you had gone there,
you would not have remained a human being, whereas I became one; and
at the same moment I became aware of my inner being, my inborn
affinity to the nature of poetry. It is true I did not think much
about it while I was with you, but you will remember that I was always
much larger at sunrise and sunset, and in the moonlight even more
visible than yourself, but I did not then understand my inner
existence. In the ante-room it was revealed to me. I became a man; I
came out in full maturity. But you had left the warm countries. As a
man, I felt ashamed to go about without boots or clothes, and that
exterior finish by which man is known. So I went my own way; I can
tell you, for you will not put it in a book. I hid myself under the
cloak of a cake woman, but she little thought who she concealed. It
was not till evening that I ventured out. I ran about the streets in
the moonlight. I drew myself up to my full height upon the walls,
which tickled my back very pleasantly. I ran here and there, looked
through the highest windows into the rooms, and over the roofs. I
looked in, and saw what nobody else could see, or indeed ought to see;
in fact, it is a bad world, and I would not care to be a man, but that
men are of some importance. I saw the most miserable things going on
between husbands and wives, parents and children,--sweet, incomparable
children. I have seen what no human being has the power of knowing,
although they would all be very glad to know--the evil conduct of
their neighbors. Had I written a newspaper, how eagerly it would
have been read! Instead of which, I wrote directly to the persons
themselves, and great alarm arose in all the town I visited. They
had so much fear of me, and yet how dearly they loved me. The
professor made me a professor. The tailor gave me new clothes; I am
well provided for in that way. The overseer of the mint struck coins
for me. The women declared that I was handsome, and so I became the
man you now see me. And now I must say adieu. Here is my card. I
live on the sunny side of the street, and always stay at home in rainy
weather." And the shadow departed.

"This is all very remarkable," said the learned man.

Years passed, days and years went by, and the shadow came again.
"How are you going on now?" he asked.

"Ah!" said the learned man; "I am writing about the true, the
beautiful, and the good; but no one cares to hear anything about it. I
am quite in despair, for I take it to heart very much."

"That is what I never do," said the shadow; "I am growing quite
fat and stout, which every one ought to be. You do not understand
the world; you will make yourself ill about it; you ought to travel; I
am going on a journey in the summer, will you go with me? I should
like a travelling companion; will you travel with me as my shadow?
It would give me great pleasure, and I will pay all expenses."

"Are you going to travel far?" asked the learned man.

"That is a matter of opinion," replied the shadow. "At all events,
a journey will do you good, and if you will be my shadow, then all
your journey shall be paid."

"It appears to me very absurd," said the learned man.

"But it is the way of the world," replied the shadow, "and
always will be." Then he went away.

Everything went wrong with the learned man. Sorrow and trouble
pursued him, and what he said about the good, the beautiful, and the
true, was of as much value to most people as a nutmeg would be to a
cow. At length he fell ill. "You really look like a shadow," people
said to him, and then a cold shudder would pass over him, for he had
his own thoughts on the subject.

"You really ought to go to some watering-place," said the shadow
on his next visit. "There is no other chance for you. I will take
you with me, for the sake of old acquaintance. I will pay the expenses
of your journey, and you shall write a description of it to amuse us
by the way. I should like to go to a watering-place; my beard does not
grow as it ought, which is from weakness, and I must have a beard. Now
do be sensible and accept my proposal; we shall travel as intimate
friends."

And at last they started together. The shadow was master now,
and the master became the shadow. They drove together, and rode and
walked in company with each other, side by side, or one in front and
the other behind, according to the position of the sun. The shadow
always knew when to take the place of honor, but the learned man
took no notice of it, for he had a good heart, and was exceedingly
mild and friendly.

One day the master said to the shadow, "We have grown up
together from our childhood, and now that we have become travelling
companions, shall we not drink to our good fellowship, and say thee
and thou to each other?"

"What you say is very straightforward and kindly meant," said
the shadow, who was now really master. "I will be equally kind and
straightforward. You are a learned man, and know how wonderful human
nature is. There are some men who cannot endure the smell of brown
paper; it makes them ill. Others will feel a shuddering sensation to
their very marrow, if a nail is scratched on a pane of glass. I myself
have a similar kind of feeling when I hear any one say thou to me. I
feel crushed by it, as I used to feel in my former position with
you. You will perceive that this is a matter of feeling, not pride.
I cannot allow you to say thou to me; I will gladly say it to you, and
therefore your wish will be half fulfilled." Then the shadow addressed
his former master as thou.

"It is going rather too far," said the latter, "that I am to say
you when I speak to him, and he is to say thou to me." However, he was
obliged to submit.

They arrived at length at the baths, where there were many
strangers, and among them a beautiful princess, whose real disease
consisted in being too sharp-sighted, which made every one very
uneasy. She saw at once that the new comer was very different to every
one else. "They say he is here to make his beard grow," she thought;
"but I know the real cause, he is unable to cast a shadow." Then she
became very curious on the matter, and one day, while on the
promenade, she entered into conversation with the strange gentleman.
Being a princess, she was not obliged to stand upon much ceremony,
so she said to him without hesitation, "Your illness consists in not
being able to cast a shadow."

"Your royal highness must be on the high road to recovery from
your illness," said he. "I know your complaint arose from being too
sharp-sighted, and in this case it has entirely failed. I happen to
have a most unusual shadow. Have you not seen a person who is always
at my side? Persons often give their servants finer cloth for their
liveries than for their own clothes, and so I have dressed out my
shadow like a man; nay, you may observe that I have even given him a
shadow of his own; it is rather expensive, but I like to have things
about me that are peculiar."

"How is this?" thought the princess; "am I really cured? This must
be the best watering-place in existence. Water in our times has
certainly wonderful power. But I will not leave this place yet, just
as it begins to be amusing. This foreign prince--for he must be a
prince--pleases me above all things. I only hope his beard won't grow,
or he will leave at once."

In the evening, the princess and the shadow danced together in the
large assembly rooms. She was light, but he was lighter still; she had
never seen such a dancer before. She told him from what country she
had come, and found he knew it and had been there, but not while she
was at home. He had looked into the windows of her father's palace,
both the upper and the lower windows; he had seen many things, and
could therefore answer the princess, and make allusions which quite
astonished her. She thought he must be the cleverest man in all the
world, and felt the greatest respect for his knowledge. When she
danced with him again she fell in love with him, which the shadow
quickly discovered, for she had with her eyes looked him through and
through. They danced once more, and she was nearly telling him, but
she had some discretion; she thought of her country, her kingdom,
and the number of people over whom she would one day have to rule. "He
is a clever man," she thought to herself, "which is a good thing,
and he dances admirably, which is also good. But has he
well-grounded knowledge? that is an important question, and I must try
him." Then she asked him a most difficult question, she herself
could not have answered it, and the shadow made a most unaccountable
grimace.

"You cannot answer that," said the princess.

"I learnt something about it in my childhood," he replied; "and
believe that even my very shadow, standing over there by the door,
could answer it."

"Your shadow," said the princess; "indeed that would be very
remarkable."

"I do not say so positively," observed the shadow; "but I am
inclined to believe that he can do so. He has followed me for so
many years, and has heard so much from me, that I think it is very
likely. But your royal highness must allow me to observe, that he is
very proud of being considered a man, and to put him in a good
humor, so that he may answer correctly, he must be treated as a man."

"I shall be very pleased to do so," said the princess. So she
walked up to the learned man, who stood in the doorway, and spoke to
him of the sun, and the moon, of the green forests, and of people near
home and far off; and the learned man conversed with her pleasantly
and sensibly.

"What a wonderful man he must be, to have such a clever shadow!"
thought she. "If I were to choose him it would be a real blessing to
my country and my subjects, and I will do it." So the princess and the
shadow were soon engaged to each other, but no one was to be told a
word about it, till she returned to her kingdom.

"No one shall know," said the shadow; "not even my own shadow;"
and he had very particular reasons for saying so.

After a time, the princess returned to the land over which she
reigned, and the shadow accompanied her.

"Listen my friend," said the shadow to the learned man; "now
that I am as fortunate and as powerful as any man can be, I will do
something unusually good for you. You shall live in my palace, drive
with me in the royal carriage, and have a hundred thousand dollars a
year; but you must allow every one to call you a shadow, and never
venture to say that you have been a man. And once a year, when I sit
in my balcony in the sunshine, you must lie at my feet as becomes a
shadow to do; for I must tell you I am going to marry the princess,
and our wedding will take place this evening."

"Now, really, this is too ridiculous," said the learned man. "I
cannot, and will not, submit to such folly. It would be cheating the
whole country, and the princess also. I will disclose everything,
and say that I am the man, and that you are only a shadow dressed up
in men's clothes."

"No one would believe you," said the shadow; "be reasonable,
now, or I will call the guards."

"I will go straight to the princess," said the learned man.

"But I shall be there first," replied the shadow, "and you will be
sent to prison." And so it turned out, for the guards readily obeyed
him, as they knew he was going to marry the king's daughter.

"You tremble," said the princess, when the shadow appeared
before her. "Has anything happened? You must not be ill to-day, for
this evening our wedding will take place."

"I have gone through the most terrible affair that could
possibly happen," said the shadow; "only imagine, my shadow has gone
mad; I suppose such a poor, shallow brain, could not bear much; he
fancies that he has become a real man, and that I am his shadow."

"How very terrible," cried the princess; "is he locked up?"

"Oh yes, certainly; for I fear he will never recover."

"Poor shadow!" said the princess; "it is very unfortunate for him;
it would really be a good deed to free him from his frail existence;
and, indeed, when I think how often people take the part of the
lower class against the higher, in these days, it would be policy to
put him out of the way quietly."

"It is certainly rather hard upon him, for he was a faithful
servant," said the shadow; and he pretended to sigh.

"Yours is a noble character," said the princess, and bowed herself
before him.

In the evening the whole town was illuminated, and cannons fired
"boom," and the soldiers presented arms. It was indeed a grand
wedding. The princess and the shadow stepped out on the balcony to
show themselves, and to receive one cheer more. But the learned man
heard nothing of all these festivities, for he had already been
executed.




THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE SHEEP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I have," she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE SILVER SHILLING

There was once a shilling, which came forth from the mint
springing and shouting, "Hurrah! now I am going out into the wide
world." And truly it did go out into the wide world. The children held
it with warm hands, the miser with a cold and convulsive grasp, and
the old people turned it about, goodness knows how many times, while
the young people soon allowed it to roll away from them. The
shilling was made of silver, it contained very little copper, and
considered itself quite out in the world when it had been circulated
for a year in the country in which it had been coined. One day, it
really did go out into the world, for it belonged to a gentleman who
was about to travel in foreign lands. This gentleman was not aware
that the shilling lay at the bottom of his purse when he started, till
he one day found it between his fingers. "Why," cried he, "here is a
shilling from home; well, it must go on its travels with me now!"
and the shilling jumped and rattled for joy, when it was put back
again into the purse.

Here it lay among a number of foreign companions, who were
always coming and going, one taking the place of another, but the
shilling from home was always put back, and had to remain in the
purse, which was certainly a mark of distinction. Many weeks passed,
during which the shilling had travelled a long distance in the
purse, without in the least knowing where he was. He had found out
that the other coins were French and Italian; and one coin said they
were in this town, and another said they were in that, but the
shilling was unable to make out or imagine what they meant. A man
certainly cannot see much of the world if he is tied up in a bag,
and this was really the shilling's fate. But one day, as he was
lying in the purse, he noticed that it was not quite closed, and so he
slipped near to the opening to have a little peep into society. He
certainly had not the least idea of what would follow, but he was
curious, and curiosity often brings its own punishment. In his
eagerness, he came so near the edge of the purse that he slipped out
into the pocket of the trousers; and when, in the evening, the purse
was taken out, the shilling was left behind in the corner to which
it had fallen. As the clothes were being carried into the hall, the
shilling fell out on the floor, unheard and unnoticed by any one.
The next morning the clothes were taken back to the room, the
gentleman put them on, and started on his journey again; but the
shilling remained behind on the floor. After a time it was found,
and being considered a good coin, was placed with three other coins.
"Ah," thought the shilling, "this is pleasant; I shall now see the
world, become acquainted with other people, and learn other customs."

"Do you call that a shilling?" said some one the next moment.
"That is not a genuine coin of the country,--it is false; it is good
for nothing."

Now begins the story as it was afterwards related by the
shilling himself.

"'False! good for nothing!' said he. That remark went through
and through me like a dagger. I knew that I had a true ring, and
that mine was a genuine stamp. These people must at all events be
wrong, or they could not mean me. But yes, I was the one they called
'false, and good for nothing.'

"'Then I must pay it away in the dark,' said the man who had
received me. So I was to be got rid of in the darkness, and be again
insulted in broad daylight.

"'False! good for nothing!' Oh, I must contrive to get lost,
thought I. And I trembled between the fingers of the people every time
they tried to pass me off slyly as a coin of the country. Ah!
unhappy shilling that I was! Of what use were my silver, my stamp, and
my real value here, where all these qualities were worthless. In the
eyes of the world, a man is valued just according to the opinion
formed of him. It must be a shocking thing to have a guilty
conscience, and to be sneaking about on account of wicked deeds. As
for me, innocent as I was, I could not help shuddering before their
eyes whenever they brought me out, for I knew I should be thrown
back again up the table as a false pretender. At length I was paid
away to a poor old woman, who received me as wages for a hard day's
work. But she could not again get rid of me; no one would take me. I
was to the woman a most unlucky shilling. 'I am positively obliged
to pass this shilling to somebody,' said she; 'I cannot, with the best
intentions, lay by a bad shilling. The rich baker shall have it,--he
can bear the loss better than I can. But, after all, it is not a right
thing to do.'

"'Ah!' sighed I to myself, 'am I also to be a burden on the
conscience of this poor woman? Am I then in my old days so
completely changed?' The woman offered me to the rich baker, but he
knew the current money too well, and as soon as he received me he
threw me almost in the woman's face. She could get no bread for me,
and I felt quite grieved to the heart that I should be cause of so
much trouble to another, and be treated as a cast-off coin. I who,
in my young days, felt so joyful in the certainty of my own value, and
knew so well that I bore a genuine stamp. I was as sorrowful now as
a poor shilling can be when nobody will have him. The woman took me
home again with her, and looking at me very earnestly, she said,
'No, I will not try to deceive any one with thee again. I will bore
a hole through thee, that everyone may know that thou art a false
and worthless thing; and yet, why should I do that? Very likely thou
art a lucky shilling. A thought has just struck me that it is so,
and I believe it. Yes, I will make a hole in the shilling,' said
she, 'and run a string through it, and then give it to my neighbor's
little one to hang round her neck, as a lucky shilling.' So she
drilled a hole through me.

"It is really not at all pleasant to have a hole bored through
one, but we can submit to a great deal when it is done with a good
intention. A string was drawn through the hole, and I became a kind of
medal. They hung me round the neck of a little child, and the child
laughed at me and kissed me, and I rested for one whole night on the
warm, innocent breast of a child.

"In the morning the child's mother took me between her fingers,
and had certain thoughts about me, which I very soon found out. First,
she looked for a pair of scissors, and cut the string.

"'Lucky shilling!' said she, 'certainly this is what I mean to
try.' Then she laid me in vinegar till I became quite green, and after
that she filled up the hole with cement, rubbed me a little to
brighten me up, and went out in the twilight hour to the lottery
collector, to buy herself a ticket, with a shilling that should
bring luck. How everything seemed to cause me trouble. The lottery
collector pressed me so hard that I thought I should crack. I had been
called false, I had been thrown away,--that I knew; and there were
many shillings and coins with inscriptions and stamps of all kinds
lying about. I well knew how proud they were, so I avoided them from
very shame. With the collector were several men who seemed to have a
great deal to do, so I fell unnoticed into a chest, among several
other coins.

"Whether the lottery ticket gained a prize, I know not; but this I
know, that in a very few days after, I was recognized as a bad
shilling, and laid aside. Everything that happened seemed always to
add to my sorrow. Even if a man has a good character, it is of no
use for him to deny what is said of him, for he is not considered an
impartial judge of himself.

"A year passed, and in this way I had been changed from hand to
hand; always abused, always looked at with displeasure, and trusted by
no one; but I trusted in myself, and had no confidence in the world.
Yes, that was a very dark time.

"At length one day I was passed to a traveller, a foreigner, the
very same who had brought me away from home; and he was simple and
true-hearted enough to take me for current coin. But would he also
attempt to pass me? and should I again hear the outcry, 'False!
good-for-nothing!' The traveller examined me attentively, 'I took thee
for good coin,' said he; then suddenly a smile spread all over his
face. I have never seen such a smile on any other face as on his. 'Now
this is singular,' said he, 'it is a coin from my own country; a good,
true, shilling from home. Some one has bored a hole through it, and
people have no doubt called it false. How curious that it should
come into my hands. I will take it home with me to my own house.'

"Joy thrilled through me when I heard this. I had been once more
called a good, honest shilling, and I was to go back to my own home,
where each and all would recognize me, and know that I was made of
good silver, and bore a true, genuine stamp. I should have been glad
in my joy to throw out sparks of fire, but it has never at any time
been my nature to sparkle. Steel can do so, but not silver. I was
wrapped up in fine, white paper, that I might not mix with the other
coins and be lost; and on special occasions, when people from my own
country happened to be present, I was brought forward and spoken of
very kindly. They said I was very interesting, and it was really quite
worth while to notice that those who are interesting have often not
a single word to say for themselves.

"At length I reached home. All my cares were at an end. Joy
again overwhelmed me; for was I not good silver, and had I not a
genuine stamp? I had no more insults or disappointments to endure;
although, indeed, there was a hole through me, as if I were false; but
suspicions are nothing when a man is really true, and every one should
persevere in acting honestly, for an will be made right in time.
That is my firm belief," said the shilling.




THE SHIRT-COLLAR

There was once a fine gentleman who possessed among other things a
boot-jack and a hair-brush; but he had also the finest shirt-collar in
the world, and of this collar we are about to hear a story. The collar
had become so old that he began to think about getting married; and
one day he happened to find himself in the same washing-tub as a
garter. "Upon my word," said the shirt-collar, "I have never seen
anything so slim and delicate, so neat and soft before. May I
venture to ask your name?"

"I shall not tell you," replied the garter.

"Where do you reside when you are at home?" asked the
shirt-collar. But the garter was naturally shy, and did not know how
to answer such a question.

"I presume you are a girdle," said the shirt-collar, "a sort of
under girdle. I see that you are useful, as well as ornamental, my
little lady."

"You must not speak to me," said the garter; "I do not think I
have given you any encouragement to do so."

"Oh, when any one is as beautiful as you are," said the
shirt-collar, "is not that encouragement enough?"

"Get away; don't come so near me," said the garter, "you appear to
me quite like a man."

"I am a fine gentleman certainly," said the shirt-collar, "I
possess a boot-jack and a hair-brush." This was not true, for these
things belonged to his master; but he was a boaster.

"Don't come so near me," said the garter; "I am not accustomed
to it."

"Affectation!" said the shirt-collar.

Then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and hung
over a chair in the sunshine, and then laid on the ironing-board.
And now came the glowing iron. "Mistress widow," said the
shirt-collar, "little mistress widow, I feel quite warm. I am
changing, I am losing all my creases. You are burning a hole in me.
Ugh! I propose to you."

"You old rag," said the flat-iron, driving proudly over the
collar, for she fancied herself a steam-engine, which rolls over the
railway and draws carriages. "You old rag!" said she.

The edges of the shirt-collar were a little frayed, so the
scissors were brought to cut them smooth. "Oh!" exclaimed the
shirt-collar, "what a first-rate dancer you would make; you can
stretch out your leg so well. I never saw anything so charming; I am
sure no human being could do the same."

"I should think not," replied the scissors.

"You ought to be a countess," said the shirt collar; "but all I
possess consists of a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a comb. I
wish I had an estate for your sake."

"What! is he going to propose to me?" said the scissors, and she
became so angry that she cut too sharply into the shirt collar, and it
was obliged to be thrown by as useless.

"I shall be obliged to propose to the hair-brush," thought the
shirt collar; so he remarked one day, "It is wonderful what
beautiful hair you have, my little lady. Have you never thought of
being engaged?"

"You might know I should think of it," answered the hair brush; "I
am engaged to the boot-jack."

"Engaged!" cried the shirt collar, "now there is no one left to
propose to;" and then he pretended to despise all love-making.

A long time passed, and the shirt collar was taken in a bag to the
paper-mill. Here was a large company of rags, the fine ones lying by
themselves, separated from the coarser, as it ought to be. They had
all many things to relate, especially the shirt collar, who was a
terrible boaster. "I have had an immense number of love affairs," said
the shirt collar, "no one left me any peace. It is true I was a very
fine gentleman; quite stuck up. I had a boot-jack and a brush that I
never used. You should have seen me then, when I was turned down. I
shall never forget my first love; she was a girdle, so charming, and
fine, and soft, and she threw herself into a washing tub for my
sake. There was a widow too, who was warmly in love with me, but I
left her alone, and she became quite black. The next was a
first-rate dancer; she gave me the wound from which I still suffer,
she was so passionate. Even my own hair-brush was in love with me, and
lost all her hair through neglected love. Yes, I have had great
experience of this kind, but my greatest grief was for the garter--the
girdle I meant to say--that jumped into the wash-tub. I have a great
deal on my conscience, and it is really time I should be turned into
white paper."

And the shirt collar came to this at last. All the rags were
made into white paper, and the shirt collar became the very
identical piece of paper which we now see, and on which this story
is printed. It happened as a punishment to him, for having boasted
so shockingly of things which were not true. And this is a warning
to us, to be careful how we act, for we may some day find ourselves in
the rag-bag, to be turned into white paper, on which our whole history
may be written, even its most secret actions. And it would not be
pleasant to have to run about the world in the form of a piece of
paper, telling everything we have done, like the boasting shirt
collar.




THE SNOW MAN

"It is so delightfully cold," said the Snow Man, "that it makes my
whole body crackle. This is just the kind of wind to blow life into
one. How that great red thing up there is staring at me!" He meant the
sun, who was just setting. "It shall not make me wink. I shall
manage to keep the pieces."

He had two triangular pieces of tile in his head, instead of eyes;
his mouth was made of an old broken rake, and was, of course,
furnished with teeth. He had been brought into existence amidst the
joyous shouts of boys, the jingling of sleigh-bells, and the
slashing of whips. The sun went down, and the full moon rose, large,
round, and clear, shining in the deep blue.

"There it comes again, from the other side," said the Snow Man,
who supposed the sun was showing himself once more. "Ah, I have
cured him of staring, though; now he may hang up there, and shine,
that I may see myself. If I only knew how to manage to move away
from this place,--I should so like to move. If I could, I would
slide along yonder on the ice, as I have seen the boys do; but I don't
understand how; I don't even know how to run."

"Away, away," barked the old yard-dog. He was quite hoarse, and
could not pronounce "Bow wow" properly. He had once been an indoor
dog, and lay by the fire, and he had been hoarse ever since. "The
sun will make you run some day. I saw him, last winter, make your
predecessor run, and his predecessor before him. Away, away, they
all have to go."

"I don't understand you, comrade," said the Snow Man. "Is that
thing up yonder to teach me to run? I saw it running itself a little
while ago, and now it has come creeping up from the other side.

"You know nothing at all," replied the yard-dog; "but then, you've
only lately been patched up. What you see yonder is the moon, and
the one before it was the sun. It will come again to-morrow, and
most likely teach you to run down into the ditch by the well; for I
think the weather is going to change. I can feel such pricks and stabs
in my left leg; I am sure there is going to be a change."

"I don't understand him," said the Snow Man to himself; "but I
have a feeling that he is talking of something very disagreeable.
The one who stared so just now, and whom he calls the sun, is not my
friend; I can feel that too."

"Away, away," barked the yard-dog, and then he turned round
three times, and crept into his kennel to sleep.

There was really a change in the weather. Towards morning, a thick
fog covered the whole country round, and a keen wind arose, so that
the cold seemed to freeze one's bones; but when the sun rose, the
sight was splendid. Trees and bushes were covered with hoar frost, and
looked like a forest of white coral; while on every twig glittered
frozen dew-drops. The many delicate forms concealed in summer by
luxuriant foliage, were now clearly defined, and looked like
glittering lace-work. From every twig glistened a white radiance.
The birch, waving in the wind, looked full of life, like trees in
summer; and its appearance was wondrously beautiful. And where the sun
shone, how everything glittered and sparkled, as if diamond dust had
been strewn about; while the snowy carpet of the earth appeared as
if covered with diamonds, from which countless lights gleamed,
whiter than even the snow itself.

"This is really beautiful," said a young girl, who had come into
the garden with a young man; and they both stood still near the Snow
Man, and contemplated the glittering scene. "Summer cannot show a more
beautiful sight," she exclaimed, while her eyes sparkled.

"And we can't have such a fellow as this in the summer time,"
replied the young man, pointing to the Snow Man; "he is capital."

The girl laughed, and nodded at the Snow Man, and then tripped
away over the snow with her friend. The snow creaked and crackled
beneath her feet, as if she had been treading on starch.

"Who are these two?" asked the Snow Man of the yard-dog. "You have
been here longer than I have; do you know them?"

"Of course I know them," replied the yard-dog; "she has stroked my
back many times, and he has given me a bone of meat. I never bite
those two."

"But what are they?" asked the Snow Man.

"They are lovers," he replied; "they will go and live in the
same kennel by-and-by, and gnaw at the same bone. Away, away!"

"Are they the same kind of beings as you and I?" asked the Snow
Man.

"Well, they belong to the same master," retorted the yard-dog.
"Certainly people who were only born yesterday know very little. I can
see that in you. I have age and experience. I know every one here in
the house, and I know there was once a time when I did not lie out
here in the cold, fastened to a chain. Away, away!"

"The cold is delightful," said the Snow Man; "but do tell me
tell me; only you must not clank your chain so; for it jars all
through me when you do that."

"Away, away!" barked the yard-dog; "I'll tell you; they said I was
a pretty little fellow once; then I used to lie in a velvet-covered
chair, up at the master's house, and sit in the mistress's lap. They
used to kiss my nose, and wipe my paws with an embroidered
handkerchief, and I was called 'Ami, dear Ami, sweet Ami.' But after a
while I grew too big for them, and they sent me away to the
housekeeper's room; so I came to live on the lower story. You can look
into the room from where you stand, and see where I was master once;
for I was indeed master to the housekeeper. It was certainly a smaller
room than those up stairs; but I was more comfortable; for I was not
being continually taken hold of and pulled about by the children as
I had been. I received quite as good food, or even better. I had my
own cushion, and there was a stove--it is the finest thing in the
world at this season of the year. I used to go under the stove, and
lie down quite beneath it. Ah, I still dream of that stove. Away,
away!"

"Does a stove look beautiful?" asked the Snow Man, "is it at all
like me?"

"It is just the reverse of you," said the dog; "it's as black as a
crow, and has a long neck and a brass knob; it eats firewood, so
that fire spurts out of its mouth. We should keep on one side, or
under it, to be comfortable. You can see it through the window, from
where you stand."

Then the Snow Man looked, and saw a bright polished thing with a
brazen knob, and fire gleaming from the lower part of it. The Snow Man
felt quite a strange sensation come over him; it was very odd, he knew
not what it meant, and he could not account for it. But there are
people who are not men of snow, who understand what it is. "'And why
did you leave her?" asked the Snow Man, for it seemed to him that
the stove must be of the female sex. "How could you give up such a
comfortable place?"

"I was obliged," replied the yard-dog. "They turned me out of
doors, and chained me up here. I had bitten the youngest of my
master's sons in the leg, because he kicked away the bone I was
gnawing. 'Bone for bone,' I thought; but they were so angry, and
from that time I have been fastened with a chain, and lost my bone.
Don't you hear how hoarse I am. Away, away! I can't talk any more like
other dogs. Away, away, that is the end of it all."

But the Snow Man was no longer listening. He was looking into
the housekeeper's room on the lower storey; where the stove stood on
its four iron legs, looking about the same size as the Snow Man
himself. "What a strange crackling I feel within me," he said.
"Shall I ever get in there? It is an innocent wish, and innocent
wishes are sure to be fulfilled. I must go in there and lean against
her, even if I have to break the window."

"You must never go in there," said the yard-dog, "for if you
approach the stove, you'll melt away, away."

"I might as well go," said the Snow Man, "for I think I am
breaking up as it is."

During the whole day the Snow Man stood looking in through the
window, and in the twilight hour the room became still more
inviting, for from the stove came a gentle glow, not like the sun or
the moon; no, only the bright light which gleams from a stove when
it has been well fed. When the door of the stove was opened, the
flames darted out of its mouth; this is customary with all stoves. The
light of the flames fell directly on the face and breast of the Snow
Man with a ruddy gleam. "I can endure it no longer," said he; "how
beautiful it looks when it stretches out its tongue?"

The night was long, but did not appear so to the Snow Man, who
stood there enjoying his own reflections, and crackling with the cold.
In the morning, the window-panes of the housekeeper's room were
covered with ice. They were the most beautiful ice-flowers any Snow
Man could desire, but they concealed the stove. These window-panes
would not thaw, and he could see nothing of the stove, which he
pictured to himself, as if it had been a lovely human being. The
snow crackled and the wind whistled around him; it was just the kind
of frosty weather a Snow Man might thoroughly enjoy. But he did not
enjoy it; how, indeed, could he enjoy anything when he was "stove
sick?"

"That is terrible disease for a Snow Man," said the yard-dog; "I
have suffered from it myself, but I got over it. Away, away," he
barked and then he added, "the weather is going to change." And the
weather did change; it began to thaw. As the warmth increased, the
Snow Man decreased. He said nothing and made no complaint, which is
a sure sign. One morning he broke, and sunk down altogether; and,
behold, where he had stood, something like a broomstick remained
sticking up in the ground. It was the pole round which the boys had
built him up. "Ah, now I understand why he had such a great longing
for the stove," said the yard-dog. "Why, there's the shovel that is
used for cleaning out the stove, fastened to the pole." The Snow Man
had a stove scraper in his body; that was what moved him so. "But it's
all over now. Away, away." And soon the winter passed. "Away, away,"
barked the hoarse yard-dog. But the girls in the house sang,

  "Come from your fragrant home, green thyme;
    Stretch your soft branches, willow-tree;
  The months are bringing the sweet spring-time,
    When the lark in the sky sings joyfully.
  Come gentle sun, while the cuckoo sings,
  And I'll mock his note in my wanderings."


And nobody thought any more of the Snow Man.




THE SNOW QUEEN

IN SEVEN STORIES


STORY THE FIRST

Which describes a looking-glass and the broken fragments.

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


SECOND STORY

A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only let her come," said the boy, "I'll set her on the stove
and then she'll melt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


THIRD STORY

THE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN WHO COULD CONJURE


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

"I don't believe it," said the sunshine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand that at all," said little Gerda.

"That is my story," said the tiger-lily.

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

"Is it Kay you mean?" asked Gerda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


FOURTH STORY

THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS


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

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

The crow nodded his head very gravely, and said, "Perhaps I
have--it may be."

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

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

"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda.

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

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

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

  'Why should I not be married?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


FIFTH STORY

LITTLE ROBBER-GIRL


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

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

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

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

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

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

"They shall not kill you as long as you don't make us vexed with
you. I suppose you are a princess."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, Kay, little Kay!" sighed Gerda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Gerda wept for joy.

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


SIXTH STORY

THE LAPLAND WOMAN AND THE FINLAND WOMAN


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


SEVENTH STORY

OF THE PALACE OF THE SNOW QUEEN AND WHAT HAPPENED THERE AT LAST


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

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

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

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

But he sat quite still, stiff and cold.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"And the crow?" asked Gerda.

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

Then Gerda and Kay told her all about it.

"Snip, snap, snare! it's all right at last," said the robber-girl.

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

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

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




THE SNOWDROP

It was winter-time; the air was cold, the wind was sharp, but
within the closed doors it was warm and comfortable, and within the
closed door lay the flower; it lay in the bulb under the
snow-covered earth.

One day rain fell. The drops penetrated through the snowy covering
down into the earth, and touched the flower-bulb, and talked of the
bright world above. Soon the Sunbeam pierced its way through the
snow to the root, and within the root there was a stirring.

"Come in," said the flower.

"I cannot," said the Sunbeam. "I am not strong enough to unlock
the door! When the summer comes I shall be strong!"

"When will it be summer?" asked the Flower, and she repeated
this question each time a new sunbeam made its way down to her. But
the summer was yet far distant. The snow still lay upon the ground,
and there was a coat of ice on the water every night.

"What a long time it takes! what a long time it takes!" said the
Flower. "I feel a stirring and striving within me; I must stretch
myself, I must unlock the door, I must get out, and must nod a good
morning to the summer, and what a happy time that will be!"

And the Flower stirred and stretched itself within the thin rind
which the water had softened from without, and the snow and the
earth had warmed, and the Sunbeam had knocked at; and it shot forth
under the snow with a greenish-white blossom on a green stalk, with
narrow thick leaves, which seemed to want to protect it. The snow
was cold, but was pierced by the Sunbeam, therefore it was easy to get
through it, and now the Sunbeam came with greater strength than
before.

"Welcome, welcome!" sang and sounded every ray, and the Flower
lifted itself up over the snow into the brighter world. The Sunbeams
caressed and kissed it, so that it opened altogether, white as snow,
and ornamented with green stripes. It bent its head in joy and
humility.

"Beautiful Flower!" said the Sunbeams, "how graceful and
delicate you are! You are the first, you are the only one! You are our
love! You are the bell that rings out for summer, beautiful summer,
over country and town. All the snow will melt; the cold winds will
be driven away; we shall rule; all will become green, and then you
will have companions, syringas, laburnums, and roses; but you are
the first, so graceful, so delicate!"

That was a great pleasure. It seemed as if the air were singing
and sounding, as if rays of light were piercing through the leaves and
the stalks of the Flower. There it stood, so delicate and so easily
broken, and yet so strong in its young beauty; it stood there in its
white dress with the green stripes, and made a summer. But there was a
long time yet to the summer-time. Clouds hid the sun, and bleak
winds were blowing.

"You have come too early," said Wind and Weather. "We have still
the power, and you shall feel it, and give it up to us. You should
have stayed quietly at home and not have run out to make a display
of yourself. Your time is not come yet!"

It was a cutting cold! The days which now come brought not a
single sunbeam. It was weather that might break such a little Flower
in two with cold. But the Flower had more strength than she herself
knew of. She was strong in joy and in faith in the summer, which would
be sure to come, which had been announced by her deep longing and
confirmed by the warm sunlight; and so she remained standing in
confidence in the snow in her white garment, bending her head even
while the snow-flakes fell thick and heavy, and the icy winds swept
over her.

"You'll break!" they said, "and fade, and fade! What did you
want out here? Why did you let yourself be tempted? The Sunbeam only
made game of you. Now you have what you deserve, you summer gauk."

"Summer gauk!" she repeated in the cold morning hour.

"O summer gauk!" cried some children rejoicingly; "yonder stands
one--how beautiful, how beautiful! The first one, the only one!"

These words did the Flower so much good, they seemed to her like
warm sunbeams. In her joy the Flower did not even feel when it was
broken off. It lay in a child's hand, and was kissed by a child's
mouth, and carried into a warm room, and looked on by gentle eyes, and
put into water. How strengthening, how invigorating! The Flower
thought she had suddenly come upon the summer.

The daughter of the house, a beautiful little girl, was confirmed,
and she had a friend who was confirmed, too. He was studying for an
examination for an appointment. "He shall be my summer gauk," she
said; and she took the delicate Flower and laid it in a piece of
scented paper, on which verses were written, beginning with summer
gauk and ending with summer gauk. "My friend, be a winter gauk." She
had twitted him with the summer. Yes, all this was in the verses,
and the paper was folded up like a letter, and the Flower was folded
in the letter, too. It was dark around her, dark as in those days when
she lay hidden in the bulb. The Flower went forth on her journey,
and lay in the post-bag, and was pressed and crushed, which was not at
all pleasant; but that soon came to an end.

The journey was over; the letter was opened, and read by the
dear friend. How pleased he was! He kissed the letter, and it was
laid, with its enclosure of verses, in a box, in which there were many
beautiful verses, but all of them without flowers; she was the
first, the only one, as the Sunbeams had called her; and it was a
pleasant thing to think of that.

She had time enough, moreover, to think about it; she thought of
it while the summer passed away, and the long winter went by, and
the summer came again, before she appeared once more. But now the
young man was not pleased at all. He took hold of the letter very
roughly, and threw the verses away, so that the Flower fell on the
ground. Flat and faded she certainly was, but why should she be thrown
on the ground? Still, it was better to be here than in the fire, where
the verses and the paper were being burnt to ashes. What had happened?
What happens so often:--the Flower had made a gauk of him, that was
a jest; the girl had made a fool of him, that was no jest, she had,
during the summer, chosen another friend.

Next morning the sun shone in upon the little flattened
Snowdrop, that looked as if it had been painted upon the floor. The
servant girl, who was sweeping out the room, picked it up, and laid it
in one of the books which were upon the table, in the belief that it
must have fallen out while the room was being arranged. Again the
flower lay among verses--printed verses--and they are better than
written ones--at least, more money has been spent upon them.

And after this years went by. The book stood upon the
book-shelf, and then it was taken up and somebody read out of it. It
was a good book; verses and songs by the old Danish poet, Ambrosius
Stub, which are well worth reading. The man who was now reading the
book turned over a page.

"Why, there's a flower!" he said; "a snowdrop, a summer gauk, a
poet gauk! That flower must have been put in there with a meaning!
Poor Ambrosius Stub! he was a summer fool too, a poet fool; he came
too early, before his time, and therefore he had to taste the sharp
winds, and wander about as a guest from one noble landed proprietor to
another, like a flower in a glass of water, a flower in rhymed verses!
Summer fool, winter fool, fun and folly--but the first, the only,
the fresh young Danish poet of those days. Yes, thou shalt remain as a
token in the book, thou little snowdrop: thou hast been put there with
a meaning."

And so the Snowdrop was put back into the book, and felt equally
honored and pleased to know that it was a token in the glorious book
of songs, and that he who was the first to sing and to write had
been also a snowdrop, had been a summer gauk, and had been looked upon
in the winter-time as a fool. The Flower understood this, in her
way, as we interpret everything in our way.

That is the story of the Snowdrop.




SOMETHING

"I mean to be somebody, and do something useful in the world,"
said the eldest of five brothers. "I don't care how humble my position
is, so that I can only do some good, which will be something. I intend
to be a brickmaker; bricks are always wanted, and I shall be really
doing something."

"Your 'something' is not enough for me," said the second
brother; "what you talk of doing is nothing at all, it is journeyman's
work, or might even be done by a machine. No! I should prefer to be
a builder at once, there is something real in that. A man gains a
position, he becomes a citizen, has his own sign, his own house of
call for his workmen: so I shall be a builder. If all goes well, in
time I shall become a master, and have my own journeymen, and my
wife will be treated as a master's wife. This is what I call
something."

"I call it all nothing," said the third; "not in reality any
position. There are many in a town far above a master builder in
position. You may be an upright man, but even as a master you will
only be ranked among common men. I know better what to do than that. I
will be an architect, which will place me among those who possess
riches and intellect, and who speculate in art. I shall certainly have
to rise by my own endeavors from a bricklayer's laborer, or as a
carpenter's apprentice--a lad wearing a paper cap, although I now wear
a silk hat. I shall have to fetch beer and spirits for the journeymen,
and they will call me 'thou,' which will be an insult. I shall
endure it, however, for I shall look upon it all as a mere
representation, a masquerade, a mummery, which to-morrow, that is,
when I myself as a journeyman, shall have served my time, will vanish,
and I shall go my way, and all that has passed will be nothing to
me. Then I shall enter the academy, and get instructed in drawing, and
be called an architect. I may even attain to rank, and have
something placed before or after my name, and I shall build as
others have done before me. By this there will be always 'something'
to make me remembered, and is not that worth living for?"

"Not in my opinion," said the fourth; "I will never follow the
lead of others, and only imitate what they have done. I will be a
genius, and become greater than all of you together. I will create a
new style of building, and introduce a plan for erecting houses
suitable to the climate, with material easily obtained in the country,
and thus suit national feeling and the developments of the age,
besides building a storey for my own genius."

"But supposing the climate and the material are not good for
much," said the fifth brother, "that would be very unfortunate for
you, and have an influence over your experiments. Nationality may
assert itself until it becomes affectation, and the developments of
a century may run wild, as youth often does. I see clearly that none
of you will ever really be anything worth notice, however you may
now fancy it. But do as you like, I shall not imitate you. I mean to
keep clear of all these things, and criticize what you do. In every
action something imperfect may be discovered, something not right,
which I shall make it my business to find out and expose; that will be
something, I fancy." And he kept his word, and became a critic.

People said of this fifth brother, "There is something very
precise about him; he has a good head-piece, but he does nothing." And
on that very account they thought he must be something.

Now, you see, this is a little history which will never end; as
long as the world exists, there will always be men like these five
brothers. And what became of them? Were they each nothing or
something? You shall hear; it is quite a history.

The eldest brother, he who fabricated bricks, soon discovered that
each brick, when finished, brought him in a small coin, if only a
copper one; and many copper pieces, if placed one upon another, can be
changed into a shining shilling; and at whatever door a person knocks,
who has a number of these in his hands, whether it be the baker's, the
butcher's, or the tailor's, the door flies open, and he can get all he
wants. So you see the value of bricks. Some of the bricks, however,
crumbled to pieces, or were broken, but the elder brother found a
use for even these.

On the high bank of earth, which formed a dyke on the sea-coast, a
poor woman named Margaret wished to build herself a house, so all
the imperfect bricks were given to her, and a few whole ones with
them; for the eldest brother was a kind-hearted man, although he never
achieved anything higher than making bricks. The poor woman built
herself a little house--it was small and narrow, and the window was
quite crooked, the door too low, and the straw roof might have been
better thatched. But still it was a shelter, and from within you could
look far over the sea, which dashed wildly against the sea-wall on
which the little house was built. The salt waves sprinkled their white
foam over it, but it stood firm, and remained long after he who had
given the bricks to build it was dead and buried.

The second brother of course knew better how to build than poor
Margaret, for he served an apprenticeship to learn it. When his time
was up, he packed up his knapsack, and went on his travels, singing
the journeyman's song,--

  "While young, I can wander without a care,
  And build new houses everywhere;
  Fair and bright are my dreams of home,
  Always thought of wherever I roam.

  Hurrah for a workman's life of glee!
  There's a loved one at home who thinks of me;
  Home and friends I can ne'er forget,
  And I mean to be a master yet."

And that is what he did. On his return home, he became a master
builder,--built one house after another in the town, till they
formed quite a street, which, when finished, became really an ornament
to the town. These houses built a house for him in return, which was
to be his own. But how can houses build a house? If the houses were
asked, they could not answer; but the people would understand, and
say, "Certainly the street built his house for him." It was not very
large, and the floor was of lime; but when he danced with his bride on
the lime-covered floor, it was to him white and shining, and from
every stone in the wall flowers seemed to spring forth and decorate
the room as with the richest tapestry. It was really a pretty house,
and in it were a happy pair. The flag of the corporation fluttered
before it, and the journeymen and apprentices shouted "Hurrah." He had
gained his position, he had made himself something, and at last he
died, which was "something" too.

Now we come to the architect, the third brother, who had been
first a carpenter's apprentice, had worn a cap, and served as an
errand boy, but afterwards went to the academy, and risen to be an
architect, a high and noble gentleman. Ah yes, the houses of the new
street, which the brother who was a master builder erected, may have
built his house for him, but the street received its name from the
architect, and the handsomest house in the street became his property.
That was something, and he was "something," for he had a list of
titles before and after his name. His children were called "wellborn,"
and when he died, his widow was treated as a lady of position, and
that was "something." His name remained always written at the corner
of the street, and lived in every one's mouth as its name. Yes, this
also was "something."

And what about the genius of the family--the fourth brother--who
wanted to invent something new and original? He tried to build a lofty
storey himself, but it fell to pieces, and he fell with it and broke
his neck. However, he had a splendid funeral, with the city flags
and music in the procession; flowers were strewn on the pavement,
and three orations were spoken over his grave, each one longer than
the other. He would have liked this very much during his life, as well
as the poems about him in the papers, for he liked nothing so well
as to be talked of. A monument was also erected over his grave. It was
only another storey over him, but that was "something," Now he was
dead, like the three other brothers.

The youngest--the critic--outlived them all, which was quite right
for him. It gave him the opportunity of having the last word, which to
him was of great importance. People always said he had a good
head-piece. At last his hour came, and he died, and arrived at the
gates of heaven. Souls always enter these gates in pairs; so he
found himself standing and waiting for admission with another; and who
should it be but old dame Margaret, from the house on the dyke! "It is
evidently for the sake of contrast that I and this wretched soul
should arrive here exactly at the same time," said the critic. "Pray
who are you, my good woman?" said he; "do you want to get in here
too?"

And the old woman curtsied as well as she could; she thought it
must be St. Peter himself who spoke to her. "I am a poor old woman,"
she said, "without my family. I am old Margaret, that lived in the
house on the dyke."

"Well, and what have you done--what great deed have you
performed down below?"

"I have done nothing at all in the world that could give me a
claim to have these doors open for me," she said. "It would be only
through mercy that I can be allowed to slip in through the gate."

"In what manner did you leave the world?" he asked, just for the
sake of saying something; for it made him feel very weary to stand
there and wait.

"How I left the world?" she replied; "why, I can scarcely tell
you. During the last years of my life I was sick and miserable, and
I was unable to bear creeping out of bed suddenly into the frost and
cold. Last winter was a hard winter, but I have got over it all now.
There were a few mild days, as your honor, no doubt, knows. The ice
lay thickly on the lake, as far one could see. The people came from
the town, and walked upon it, and they say there were dancing and
skating upon it, I believe, and a great feasting. The sound of
beautiful music came into my poor little room where I lay. Towards
evening, when the moon rose beautifully, though not yet in her full
splendor, I glanced from my bed over the wide sea; and there, just
where the sea and sky met, rose a curious white cloud. I lay looking
at the cloud till I observed a little black spot in the middle of
it, which gradually grew larger and larger, and then I knew what it
meant--I am old and experienced; and although this token is not
often seen, I knew it, and a shuddering seized me. Twice in my life
had I seen this same thing, and I knew that there would be an awful
storm, with a spring tide, which would overwhelm the poor people who
were now out on the ice, drinking, dancing, and making merry. Young
and old, the whole city, were there; who was to warn them, if no one
noticed the sign, or knew what it meant as I did? I was so alarmed,
that I felt more strength and life than I had done for some time. I
got out of bed, and reached the window; I could not crawl any
farther from weakness and exhaustion; but I managed to open the
window. I saw the people outside running and jumping about on the ice;
I saw the beautiful flags waving in the wind; I heard the boys
shouting, 'Hurrah!' and the lads and lasses singing, and everything
full of merriment and joy. But there was the white cloud with the
black spot hanging over them. I cried out as loudly as I could, but no
one heard me; I was too far off from the people. Soon would the
storm burst, the ice break, and all who were on it be irretrievably
lost. They could not hear me, and to go to them was quite out of my
power. Oh, if I could only get them safe on land! Then came the
thought, as if from heaven, that I would rather set fire to my bed,
and let the house be burnt down, than that so many people should
perish miserably. I got a light, and in a few moments the red flames
leaped up as a beacon to them. I escaped fortunately as far as the
threshold of the door; but there I fell down and remained: I could
go no farther. The flames rushed out towards me, flickered on the
window, and rose high above the roof. The people on the ice became
aware of the fire, and ran as fast as possible to help a poor sick
woman, who, as they thought, was being burnt to death. There was not
one who did not run. I heard them coming, and I also at the same
time was conscious of a rush of air and a sound like the roar of heavy
artillery. The spring flood was lifting the ice covering, which
brake into a thousand pieces. But the people had reached the sea-wall,
where the sparks were flying round. I had saved them all; but I
suppose I could not survive the cold and fright; so I came up here
to the gates of paradise. I am told they are open to poor creatures
such as I am, and I have now no house left on earth; but I do not
think that will give me a claim to be admitted here."

Then the gates were opened, and an angel led the old woman in. She
had dropped one little straw out of her straw bed, when she set it
on fire to save the lives of so many. It had been changed into the
purest gold--into gold that constantly grew and expanded into
flowers and fruit of immortal beauty.

"See," said the angel, pointing to the wonderful straw, "this is
what the poor woman has brought. What dost thou bring? I know thou
hast accomplished nothing, not even made a single brick. Even if
thou couldst return, and at least produce so much, very likely, when
made, the brick would be useless, unless done with a good will,
which is always something. But thou canst not return to earth, and I
can do nothing for thee."

Then the poor soul, the old mother who had lived in the house on
the dyke, pleaded for him. She said, "His brother made all the stone
and bricks, and sent them to me to build my poor little dwelling,
which was a great deal to do for a poor woman like me. Could not all
these bricks and pieces be as a wall of stone to prevail for him? It
is an act of mercy; he is wanting it now; and here is the very
fountain of mercy."

"Then," said the angel, "thy brother, he who has been looked
upon as the meanest of you all, he whose honest deeds to thee appeared
so humble,--it is he who has sent you this heavenly gift. Thou shalt
not be turned away. Thou shalt have permission to stand without the
gate and reflect, and repent of thy life on earth; but thou shalt
not be admitted here until thou hast performed one good deed of
repentance, which will indeed for thee be something."

"I could have expressed that better," thought the critic; but he
did not say it aloud, which for him was SOMETHING, after all.




SOUP FROM A SAUSAGE SKEWER

"We had such an excellent dinner yesterday," said an old mouse
of the female sex to another who had not been present at the feast. "I
sat number twenty-one below the mouse-king, which was not a bad place.
Shall I tell you what we had? Everything was first rate. Mouldy bread,
tallow candle, and sausage. And then, when we had finished that
course, the same came on all over again; it was as good as two feasts.
We were very sociable, and there was as much joking and fun as if we
had been all of one family circle. Nothing was left but the sausage
skewers, and this formed a subject of conversation, till at last it
turned to the proverb, 'Soup from sausage skins;' or, as the people in
the neighboring country call it, 'Soup from a sausage skewer.' Every
one had heard the proverb, but no one had ever tasted the soup, much
less prepared it. A capital toast was drunk to the inventor of the
soup, and some one said he ought to be made a relieving officer to the
poor. Was not that witty? Then the old mouse-king rose and promised
that the young lady-mouse who should learn how best to prepare this
much-admired and savory soup should be his queen, and a year and a day
should be allowed for the purpose."

"That was not at all a bad proposal," said the other mouse; "but
how is the soup made?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell you. All the young lady mice
were asking the same question. They wished very much to be queen,
but they did not want to take the trouble of going out into the
world to learn how to make soup, which was absolutely necessary to
be done first. But it is not every one who would care to leave her
family, or her happy corner by the fire-side at home, even to be
made queen. It is not always easy to find bacon and cheese-rind in
foreign lands every day, and it is not pleasant to have to endure
hunger, and be perhaps, after all, eaten up alive by the cat."

Most probably some such thoughts as these discouraged the
majority from going out into the world to collect the required
information. Only four mice gave notice that they were ready to set
out on the journey. They were young and lively, but poor. Each of them
wished to visit one of the four divisions of the world, so that it
might be seen which was the most favored by fortune. Every one took
a sausage skewer as a traveller's staff, and to remind them of the
object of their journey. They left home early in May, and none of them
returned till the first of May in the following year, and then only
three of them. Nothing was seen or heard of the fourth, although the
day of decision was close at hand. "Ah, yes, there is always some
trouble mixed up with the greatest pleasure," said the mouse-king; but
he gave orders that all the mice within a circle of many miles
should be invited at once. They were to assemble in the kitchen, and
the three travelled mice were to stand in a row before them, while a
sausage skewer, covered with crape, was to be stuck up instead of
the missing mouse. No one dared to express an opinion until the king
spoke, and desired one of them to go on with her story. And now we
shall hear what she said.


WHAT THE FIRST LITTLE MOUSE SAW AND HEARD ON HER TRAVELS

"When I first went out into the world," said the little mouse,
"I fancied, as so many of my age do, that I already knew everything,
but it was not so. It takes years to acquire great knowledge. I went
at once to sea in a ship bound for the north. I had been told that the
ship's cook must know how to prepare every dish at sea, and it is easy
enough to do that with plenty of sides of bacon, and large tubs of
salt meat and mouldy flour. There I found plenty of delicate food, but
no opportunity for learning how to make soup from a sausage skewer. We
sailed on for many days and nights; the ship rocked fearfully, and
we did not escape without a wetting. As soon as we arrived at the port
to which the ship was bound, I left it, and went on shore at a place
far towards the north. It is a wonderful thing to leave your own
little corner at home, to hide yourself in a ship where there are sure
to be some nice snug corners for shelter, then suddenly to find
yourself thousands of miles away in a foreign land. I saw large
pathless forests of pine and birch trees, which smelt so strong that I
sneezed and thought of sausage. There were great lakes also which
looked as black as ink at a distance, but were quite clear when I came
close to them. Large swans were floating upon them, and I thought at
first they were only foam, they lay so still; but when I saw them walk
and fly, I knew what they were directly. They belong to the goose
species, one can see that by their walk. No one can attempt to
disguise family descent. I kept with my own kind, and associated
with the forest and field mice, who, however, knew very little,
especially about what I wanted to know, and which had actually made me
travel abroad. The idea that soup could be made from a sausage
skewer was to them such an out-of-the-way, unlikely thought, that it
was repeated from one to another through the whole forest. They
declared that the problem would never be solved, that the thing was an
impossibility. How little I thought that in this place, on the very
first night, I should be initiated into the manner of its preparation.

"It was the height of summer, which the mice told me was the
reason that the forest smelt so strong, and that the herbs were so
fragrant, and the lakes with the white swimming swans so dark, and yet
so clear. On the margin of the wood, near to three or four houses, a
pole, as large as the mainmast of a ship, had been erected, and from
the summit hung wreaths of flowers and fluttering ribbons; it was
the Maypole. Lads and lasses danced round the pole, and tried to outdo
the violins of the musicians with their singing. They were as merry as
ever at sunset and in the moonlight, but I took no part in the
merry-making. What has a little mouse to do with a Maypole dance? I
sat in the soft moss, and held my sausage skewer tight. The moon threw
its beams particularly on one spot where stood a tree covered with
exceedingly fine moss. I may almost venture to say that it was as fine
and soft as the fur of the mouse-king, but it was green, which is a
color very agreeable to the eye. All at once I saw the most charming
little people marching towards me. They did not reach higher than my
knee; they looked like human beings, but were better proportioned, and
they called themselves elves. Their clothes were very delicate and
fine, for they were made of the leaves of flowers, trimmed with the
wings of flies and gnats, which had not a bad effect. By their manner,
it appeared as if they were seeking for something. I knew not what,
till at last one of them espied me and came towards me, and the
foremost pointed to my sausage skewer, and said, 'There, that is
just what we want; see, it is pointed at the top; is it not
capital?' and the longer he looked at my pilgrim's staff, the more
delighted he became. 'I will lend it to you,' said I, 'but not to
keep.'

"'Oh no, we won't keep it!' they all cried; and then they seized
the skewer, which I gave up to them, and danced with it to the spot
where the delicate moss grew, and set it up in the middle of the
green. They wanted a maypole, and the one they now had seemed cut
out on purpose for them. Then they decorated it so beautifully that it
was quite dazzling to look at. Little spiders spun golden threads
around it, and then it was hung with fluttering veils and flags so
delicately white that they glittered like snow in the moonshine. After
that they took colors from the butterfly's wing, and sprinkled them
over the white drapery which gleamed as if covered with flowers and
diamonds, so that I could not recognize my sausage skewer at all. Such
a maypole had never been seen in all the world as this. Then came a
great company of real elves. Nothing could be finer than their
clothes, and they invited me to be present at the feast; but I was
to keep at a certain distance, because I was too large for them.
Then commenced such music that it sounded like a thousand glass bells,
and was so full and strong that I thought it must be the song of the
swans. I fancied also that I heard the voices of the cuckoo and the
black-bird, and it seemed at last as if the whole forest sent forth
glorious melodies--the voices of children, the tinkling of bells,
and the songs of the birds; and all this wonderful melody came from
the elfin maypole. My sausage peg was a complete peal of bells. I
could scarcely believe that so much could have been produced from
it, till I remembered into what hands it had fallen. I was so much
affected that I wept tears such as a little mouse can weep, but they
were tears of joy. The night was far too short for me; there are no
long nights there in summer, as we often have in this part of the
world. When the morning dawned, and the gentle breeze rippled the
glassy mirror of the forest lake, all the delicate veils and flags
fluttered away into thin air; the waving garlands of the spider's web,
the hanging bridges and galleries, or whatever else they may be
called, vanished away as if they had never been. Six elves brought
me back my sausage skewer, and at the same time asked me to make any
request, which they would grant if in their power; so I begged them,
if they could, to tell me how to make soup from a sausage skewer.

"'How do we make it?' said the chief of the elves with a smile.
'Why you have just seen it; you scarcely knew your sausage skewer
again, I am sure.'

"They think themselves very wise, thought I to myself. Then I told
them all about it, and why I had travelled so far, and also what
promise had been made at home to the one who should discover the
method of preparing this soup. 'What use will it be,' I asked, 'to the
mouse-king or to our whole mighty kingdom that I have seen all these
beautiful things? I cannot shake the sausage peg and say, Look, here
is the skewer, and now the soup will come. That would only produce a
dish to be served when people were keeping a fast.'

"Then the elf dipped his finger into the cup of a violet, and said
to me, 'Look here, I will anoint your pilgrim's staff, so that when
you return to your own home and enter the king's castle, you have only
to touch the king with your staff, and violets will spring forth and
cover the whole of it, even in the coldest winter time; so I think I
have given you really something to carry home, and a little more
than something.'"

But before the little mouse explained what this something more
was, she stretched her staff out to the king, and as it touched him
the most beautiful bunch of violets sprang forth and filled the
place with perfume. The smell was so powerful that the mouse-king
ordered the mice who stood nearest the chimney to thrust their tails
into the fire, that there might be a smell of burning, for the perfume
of the violets was overpowering, and not the sort of scent that
every one liked.

"But what was the something more of which you spoke just now?"
asked the mouse-king.

"Why," answered the little mouse, "I think it is what they call
'effect;'" and thereupon she turned the staff round, and behold not
a single flower was to be seen upon it! She now only held the naked
skewer, and lifted it up as a conductor lifts his baton at a
concert. "Violets, the elf told me," continued the mouse, "are for the
sight, the smell, and the touch; so we have only now to produce the
effect of hearing and tasting;" and then, as the little mouse beat
time with her staff, there came sounds of music, not such music as was
heard in the forest, at the elfin feast, but such as is often heard in
the kitchen--the sounds of boiling and roasting. It came quite
suddenly, like wind rushing through the chimneys, and seemed as if
every pot and kettle were boiling over. The fire-shovel clattered down
on the brass fender; and then, quite as suddenly, all was still,--nothing
could be heard but the light, vapory song of the tea-kettle,
which was quite wonderful to hear, for no one could rightly
distinguish whether the kettle was just beginning to boil or going
to stop. And the little pot steamed, and the great pot simmered, but
without any regard for each; indeed there seemed no sense in the
pots at all. And as the little mouse waved her baton still more
wildly, the pots foamed and threw up bubbles, and boiled over; while
again the wind roared and whistled through the chimney, and at last
there was such a terrible hubbub, that the little mouse let her
stick fall.

"That is a strange sort of soup," said the mouse-king; "shall we
not now hear about the preparation?"

"That is all," answered the little mouse, with a bow.

"That all!" said the mouse-king; "then we shall be glad to hear
what information the next may have to give us."


WHAT THE SECOND MOUSE HAD TO TELL

"I was born in the library, at a castle," said the second mouse.
"Very few members of our family ever had the good fortune to get
into the dining-room, much less the store-room. On my journey, and
here to-day, are the only times I have ever seen a kitchen. We were
often obliged to suffer hunger in the library, but then we gained a
great deal of knowledge. The rumor reached us of the royal prize
offered to those who should be able to make soup from a sausage
skewer. Then my old grandmother sought out a manuscript which,
however, she could not read, but had heard it read, and in it was
written, 'Those who are poets can make soup of sausage skewers.' She
then asked me if I was a poet. I felt myself quite innocent of any
such pretensions. Then she said I must go out and make myself a
poet. I asked again what I should be required to do, for it seemed
to me quite as difficult as to find out how to make soup of a
sausage skewer. My grandmother had heard a great deal of reading in
her day, and she told me three principal qualifications were
necessary--understanding, imagination, and feeling. 'If you can manage
to acquire these three, you will be a poet, and the sausage-skewer
soup will be quite easy to you.'

"So I went forth into the world, and turned my steps towards the
west, that I might become a poet. Understanding is the most
important matter in everything. I knew that, for the two other
qualifications are not thought much of; so I went first to seek for
understanding. Where was I to find it? 'Go to the ant and learn
wisdom,' said the great Jewish king. I knew that from living in a
library. So I went straight on till I came to the first great
ant-hill, and then I set myself to watch, that I might become wise.
The ants are a very respectable people, they are wisdom itself. All
they do is like the working of a sum in arithmetic, which comes right.
'To work and to lay eggs,' say they, and to provide for posterity,
is to live out your time properly;' and that they truly do. They are
divided into the clean and the dirty ants, their rank is pointed out
by a number, and the ant-queen is number ONE; and her opinion is the
only correct one on everything; she seems to have the whole wisdom
of the world in her, which was just the important matter I wished to
acquire. She said a great deal which was no doubt very clever; yet
to me it sounded like nonsense. She said the ant-hill was the loftiest
thing in the world, and yet close to the mound stood a tall tree,
which no one could deny was loftier, much loftier, but no mention
was made of the tree. One evening an ant lost herself on this tree;
she had crept up the stem, not nearly to the top, but higher than
any ant had ever ventured; and when at last she returned home she said
that she had found something in her travels much higher than the
ant-hill. The rest of the ants considered this an insult to the
whole community; so she was condemned to wear a muzzle and to live
in perpetual solitude. A short time afterwards another ant got on
the tree, and made the same journey and the same discovery, but she
spoke of it cautiously and indefinitely, and as she was one of the
superior ants and very much respected, they believed her, and when she
died they erected an eggshell as a monument to her memory, for they
cultivated a great respect for science. I saw," said the little mouse,
"that the ants were always running to and fro with her burdens on
their backs. Once I saw one of them drop her load; she gave herself
a great deal of trouble in trying to raise it again, but she could not
succeed. Then two others came up and tried with all their strength
to help her, till they nearly dropped their own burdens in doing so;
then they were obliged to stop for a moment in their help, for every
one must think of himself first. And the ant-queen remarked that their
conduct that day showed that they possessed kind hearts and good
understanding. 'These two qualities,' she continued, 'place us ants in
the highest degree above all other reasonable beings. Understanding
must therefore be seen among us in the most prominent manner, and my
wisdom is greater than all.' And so saying she raised herself on her
two hind legs, that no one else might be mistaken for her. I could not
therefore make an error, so I ate her up. We are to go to the ants
to learn wisdom, and I had got the queen.

"I now turned and went nearer to the lofty tree already mentioned,
which was an oak. It had a tall trunk with a wide-spreading top, and
was very old. I knew that a living being dwelt here, a dryad as she is
called, who is born with the tree and dies with it. I had heard this
in the library, and here was just such a tree, and in it an
oak-maiden. She uttered a terrible scream when she caught sight of
me so near to her; like many women, she was very much afraid of
mice. And she had more real cause for fear than they have, for I might
have gnawed through the tree on which her life depended. I spoke to
her in a kind and friendly manner, and begged her to take courage.
At last she took me up in her delicate hand, and then I told her
what had brought me out into the world, and she promised me that
perhaps on that very evening she should be able to obtain for me one
of the two treasures for which I was seeking. She told me that
Phantaesus was her very dear friend, that he was as beautiful as the
god of love, that he remained often for many hours with her under
the leafy boughs of the tree which then rustled and waved more than
ever over them both. He called her his dryad, she said, and the tree
his tree; for the grand old oak, with its gnarled trunk, was just to
his taste. The root, spreading deep into the earth, the top rising
high in the fresh air, knew the value of the drifted snow, the keen
wind, and the warm sunshine, as it ought to be known. 'Yes,' continued
the dryad, 'the birds sing up above in the branches, and talk to
each other about the beautiful fields they have visited in foreign
lands; and on one of the withered boughs a stork has built his
nest,--it is beautifully arranged, and besides it is pleasant to
hear a little about the land of the pyramids. All this pleases
Phantaesus, but it is not enough for him; I am obliged to relate to
him of my life in the woods; and to go back to my childhood, when I
was little, and the tree so small and delicate that a stinging-nettle
could overshadow it, and I have to tell everything that has happened
since then till now that the tree is so large and strong. Sit you
down now under the green bindwood and pay attention, when Phantaesus
comes I will find an opportunity to lay hold of his wing and to pull
out one of the little feathers. That feather you shall have; a
better was never given to any poet, it will be quite enough for you.'

"And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked, and," said
the little mouse, "I seized and put it in water, and kept it there
till it was quite soft. It was very heavy and indigestible, but I
managed to nibble it up at last. It is not so easy to nibble one's
self into a poet, there are so many things to get through. Now,
however, I had two of them, understanding and imagination; and through
these I knew that the third was to be found in the library. A great
man has said and written that there are novels whose sole and only use
appeared to be that they might relieve mankind of overflowing tears--a
kind of sponge, in fact, for sucking up feelings and emotions. I
remembered a few of these books, they had always appeared tempting
to the appetite; they had been much read, and were so greasy, that
they must have absorbed no end of emotions in themselves. I retraced
my steps to the library, and literally devoured a whole novel, that
is, properly speaking, the interior or soft part of it; the crust,
or binding, I left. When I had digested not only this, but a second, I
felt a stirring within me; then I ate a small piece of a third
romance, and felt myself a poet. I said it to myself, and told
others the same. I had head-ache and back-ache, and I cannot tell what
aches besides. I thought over all the stories that may be said to be
connected with sausage pegs, and all that has ever been written
about skewers, and sticks, and staves, and splinters came to my
thoughts; the ant-queen must have had a wonderfully clear
understanding. I remembered the man who placed a white stick in his
mouth by which he could make himself and the stick invisible. I
thought of sticks as hobby-horses, staves of music or rhyme, of
breaking a stick over a man's back, and heaven knows how many more
phrases of the same sort relating to sticks, staves, and skewers.
All my thoughts rein on skewers, sticks of wood, and staves; and as
I am, at last, a poet, and I have worked terribly hard to make
myself one, I can of course make poetry on anything. I shall therefore
be able to wait upon you every day in the week with a poetical history
of a skewer. And that is my soup."

"In that case," said the mouse-king, "we will hear what the
third mouse has to say."

"Squeak, squeak," cried a little mouse at the kitchen door; it was
the fourth, and not the third, of the four who were contending for the
prize, one whom the rest supposed to be dead. She shot in like an
arrow, and overturned the sausage peg that had been covered with
crape. She had been running day and night. She had watched an
opportunity to get into a goods train, and had travelled by the
railway; and yet she had arrived almost too late. She pressed forward,
looking very much ruffled. She had lost her sausage skewer, but not
her voice; for she began to speak at once as if they only waited for
her, and would hear her only, and as if nothing else in the world
was of the least consequence. She spoke out so clearly and plainly,
and she had come in so suddenly, that no one had time to stop her or
to say a word while she was speaking. And now let us hear what she
said.


WHAT THE FOURTH MOUSE, WHO SPOKE BEFORE THE THIRD, HAD TO TELL

"I started off at once to the largest town," said she, "but the
name of it has escaped me. I have a very bad memory for names. I was
carried from the railway, with some forfeited goods, to the jail,
and on arriving I made my escape, and ran into the house of the
turnkey. The turnkey was speaking of his prisoners, especially of
one who had uttered thoughtless words. These words had given rise to
other words, and at length they were written down and registered: 'The
whole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers,' said he, 'but
the soup may cost him his neck.'

"Now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner," continued
the little mouse, "and I watched my opportunity, and slipped into
his apartment, for there is a mouse-hole to be found behind every
closed door. The prisoner looked pale; he had a great beard and large,
sparkling eyes. There was a lamp burning, but the walls were so
black that they only looked the blacker for it. The prisoner scratched
pictures and verses with white chalk on the black walls, but I did not
read the verses. I think he found his confinement wearisome, so that I
was a welcome guest. He enticed me with bread-crumbs, with
whistling, and with gentle words, and seemed so friendly towards me,
that by degrees I gained confidence in him, and we became friends;
he divided his bread and water with me, gave me cheese and sausage,
and I really began to love him. Altogether, I must own that it was a
very pleasant intimacy. He let me run about on his hand, and on his
arm, and into his sleeve; and I even crept into his beard, and he
called me his little friend. I forgot what I had come out into the
world for; forgot my sausage skewer which I had laid in a crack in the
floor--it is lying there still. I wished to stay with him always where
I was, for I knew that if I went away the poor prisoner would have
no one to be his friend, which is a sad thing. I stayed, but he did
not. He spoke to me so mournfully for the last time, gave me double as
much bread and cheese as usual, and kissed his hand to me. Then he
went away, and never came back. I know nothing more of his history.

"The jailer took possession of me now. He said something about
soup from a sausage skewer, but I could not trust him. He took me in
his hand certainly, but it was to place me in a cage like a
tread-mill. Oh how dreadful it was! I had to run round and round
without getting any farther in advance, and only to make everybody
laugh. The jailer's grand-daughter was a charming little thing. She
had curly hair like the brightest gold, merry eyes, and such a smiling
mouth.

"'You poor little mouse,' said she, one day as she peeped into
my cage, 'I will set you free.' She then drew forth the iron
fastening, and I sprang out on the window-sill, and from thence to the
roof. Free! free! that was all I could think of; not of the object
of my journey. It grew dark, and as night was coming on I found a
lodging in an old tower, where dwelt a watchman and an owl. I had no
confidence in either of them, least of all in the owl, which is like a
cat, and has a great failing, for she eats mice. One may however be
mistaken sometimes; and so was I, for this was a respectable and
well-educated old owl, who knew more than the watchman, and even as
much as I did myself. The young owls made a great fuss about
everything, but the only rough words she would say to them were,
'You had better go and make some soup from sausage skewers.' She was
very indulgent and loving to her children. Her conduct gave me such
confidence in her, that from the crack where I sat I called out
'squeak.' This confidence of mine pleased her so much that she assured
me she would take me under her own protection, and that not a creature
should do me harm. The fact was, she wickedly meant to keep me in
reserve for her own eating in winter, when food would be scarce. Yet
she was a very clever lady-owl; she explained to me that the
watchman could only hoot with the horn that hung loose at his side;
and then she said he is so terribly proud of it, that he imagines
himself an owl in the tower;--wants to do great things, but only
succeeds in small; all soup on a sausage skewer. Then I begged the owl
to give me the recipe for this soup. 'Soup from a sausage skewer,'
said she, 'is only a proverb amongst mankind, and may be understood in
many ways. Each believes his own way the best, and after all, the
proverb signifies nothing.' 'Nothing!' I exclaimed. I was quite
struck. Truth is not always agreeable, but truth is above everything
else, as the old owl said. I thought over all this, and saw quite
plainly that if truth was really so far above everything else, it must
be much more valuable than soup from a sausage skewer. So I hastened
to get away, that I might be home in time, and bring what was
highest and best, and above everything--namely, the truth. The mice
are an enlightened people, and the mouse-king is above them all. He is
therefore capable of making me queen for the sake of truth."

"Your truth is a falsehood," said the mouse who had not yet
spoken; "I can prepare the soup, and I mean to do so."


HOW IT WAS PREPARED

"I did not travel," said the third mouse; "I stayed in this country:
that was the right way. One gains nothing by travelling--everything
can be acquired here quite as easily; so I stayed at home. I
have not obtained what I know from supernatural beings. I have
neither swallowed it, nor learnt it from conversing with owls. I
have got it all from my reflections and thoughts. Will you now set the
kettle on the fire--so? Now pour the water in--quite full--up to the
brim; place it on the fire; make up a good blaze; keep it burning,
that the water may boil; it must boil over and over. There, now I
throw in the skewer. Will the mouse-king be pleased now to dip his
tail into the boiling water, and stir it round with the tail. The
longer the king stirs it, the stronger the soup will become. Nothing
more is necessary, only to stir it."

"Can no one else do this?" asked the king.

"No," said the mouse; "only in the tail of the mouse-king is
this power contained."

And the water boiled and bubbled, as the mouse-king stood close
beside the kettle. It seemed rather a dangerous performance; but he
turned round, and put out his tail, as mice do in a dairy, when they
wish to skim the cream from a pan of milk with their tails and
afterwards lick it off. But the mouse-king's tail had only just
touched the hot steam, when he sprang away from the chimney in a great
hurry, exclaiming, "Oh, certainly, by all means, you must be my queen;
and we will let the soup question rest till our golden wedding,
fifty years hence; so that the poor in my kingdom, who are then to
have plenty of food, will have something to look forward to for a long
time, with great joy."

And very soon the wedding took place. But many of the mice, as
they were returning home, said that the soup could not be properly
called "soup from a sausage skewer," but "soup from a mouse's tail."
They acknowledged also that some of the stories were very well told;
but that the whole could have been managed differently. "I should have
told it so--and so--and so." These were the critics who are always
so clever afterwards.

When this story was circulated all over the world, the opinions
upon it were divided; but the story remained the same. And, after all,
the best way in everything you undertake, great as well as small, is
to expect no thanks for anything you may do, even when it refers to
"soup from a sausage skewer."




THE STORKS

On the last house in a little village the storks had built a nest,
and the mother stork sat in it with her four young ones, who stretched
out their necks and pointed their black beaks, which had not yet
turned red like those of the parent birds. A little way off, on the
edge of the roof, stood the father stork, quite upright and stiff; not
liking to be quite idle, he drew up one leg, and stood on the other,
so still that it seemed almost as if he were carved in wood. "It
must look very grand," thought he, "for my wife to have a sentry
guarding her nest. They do not know that I am her husband; they will
think I have been commanded to stand here, which is quite
aristocratic;" and so he continued standing on one leg.

In the street below were a number of children at play, and when
they caught sight of the storks, one of the boldest amongst the boys
began to sing a song about them, and very soon he was joined by the
rest. These are the words of the song, but each only sang what he
could remember of them in his own way.

  "Stork, stork, fly away,
  Stand not on one leg, I pray,
  See your wife is in her nest,
  With her little ones at rest.
  They will hang one,
  And fry another;
  They will shoot a third,
  And roast his brother."


"Just hear what those boys are singing," said the young storks;
"they say we shall be hanged and roasted."

"Never mind what they say; you need not listen," said the
mother. "They can do no harm."

But the boys went on singing and pointing at the storks, and
mocking at them, excepting one of the boys whose name was Peter; he
said it was a shame to make fun of animals, and would not join with
them at all. The mother stork comforted her young ones, and told
them not to mind. "See," she said, "How quiet your father stands,
although he is only on one leg."

"But we are very much frightened," said the young storks, and they
drew back their heads into the nests.

The next day when the children were playing together, and saw
the storks, they sang the song again--

  "They will hang one,
  And roast another."


"Shall we be hanged and roasted?" asked the young storks.

"No, certainly not," said the mother. "I will teach you to fly,
and when you have learnt, we will fly into the meadows, and pay a
visit to the frogs, who will bow themselves to us in the water, and
cry 'Croak, croak,' and then we shall eat them up; that will be fun."

"And what next?" asked the young storks.

"Then," replied the mother, "all the storks in the country will
assemble together, and go through their autumn manoeuvres, so that
it is very important for every one to know how to fly properly. If
they do not, the general will thrust them through with his beak, and
kill them. Therefore you must take pains and learn, so as to be
ready when the drilling begins."

"Then we may be killed after all, as the boys say; and hark!
they are singing again."

"Listen to me, and not to them," said the mother stork. "After the
great review is over, we shall fly away to warm countries far from
hence, where there are mountains and forests. To Egypt, where we shall
see three-cornered houses built of stone, with pointed tops that reach
nearly to the clouds. They are called Pyramids, and are older than a
stork could imagine; and in that country, there is a river that
overflows its banks, and then goes back, leaving nothing but mire;
there we can walk about, and eat frogs in abundance."

"Oh, o--h!" cried the young storks.

"Yes, it is a delightful place; there is nothing to do all day
long but eat, and while we are so well off out there, in this
country there will not be a single green leaf on the trees, and the
weather will be so cold that the clouds will freeze, and fall on the
earth in little white rags." The stork meant snow, but she could not
explain it in any other way.

"Will the naughty boys freeze and fall in pieces?" asked the young
storks.

"No, they will not freeze and fall into pieces," said the
mother, "but they will be very cold, and be obliged to sit all day
in a dark, gloomy room, while we shall be flying about in foreign
lands, where there are blooming flowers and warm sunshine."

Time passed on, and the young storks grew so large that they could
stand upright in the nest and look about them. The father brought
them, every day, beautiful frogs, little snakes, and all kinds of
stork-dainties that he could find. And then, how funny it was to see
the tricks he would perform to amuse them. He would lay his head quite
round over his tail, and clatter with his beak, as if it had been a
rattle; and then he would tell them stories all about the marshes
and fens.

"Come," said the mother one day, "Now you must learn to fly."
And all the four young ones were obliged to come out on the top of the
roof. Oh, how they tottered at first, and were obliged to balance
themselves with their wings, or they would have fallen to the ground
below.

"Look at me," said the mother, "you must hold your heads in this
way, and place your feet so. Once, twice, once, twice--that is it. Now
you will be able to take care of yourselves in the world."

Then she flew a little distance from them, and the young ones made
a spring to follow her; but down they fell plump, for their bodies
were still too heavy.

"I don't want to fly," said one of the young storks, creeping back
into the nest. "I don't care about going to warm countries."

"Would you like to stay here and freeze when the winter comes?"
said the mother, "or till the boys comes to hang you, or to roast
you?--Well then, I'll call them."

"Oh no, no," said the young stork, jumping out on the roof with
the others; and now they were all attentive, and by the third day
could fly a little. Then they began to fancy they could soar, so
they tried to do so, resting on their wings, but they soon found
themselves falling, and had to flap their wings as quickly as
possible. The boys came again in the street singing their song:--

  "Stork, stork, fly away."


"Shall we fly down, and pick their eyes out?" asked the young
storks.

"No; leave them alone," said the mother. "Listen to me; that is
much more important. Now then. One-two-three. Now to the right.
One-two-three. Now to the left, round the chimney. There now, that was
very good. That last flap of the wings was so easy and graceful,
that I shall give you permission to fly with me to-morrow to the
marshes. There will be a number of very superior storks there with
their families, and I expect you to show them that my children are the
best brought up of any who may be present. You must strut about
proudly--it will look well and make you respected."

"But may we not punish those naughty boys?" asked the young
storks.

"No; let them scream away as much as they like. You can fly from
them now up high amid the clouds, and will be in the land of the
pyramids when they are freezing, and have not a green leaf on the
trees or an apple to eat."

"We will revenge ourselves," whispered the young storks to each
other, as they again joined the exercising.

Of all the boys in the street who sang the mocking song about
the storks, not one was so determined to go on with it as he who first
began it. Yet he was a little fellow not more than six years old. To
the young storks he appeared at least a hundred, for he was so much
bigger than their father and mother. To be sure, storks cannot be
expected to know how old children and grown-up people are. So they
determined to have their revenge on this boy, because he began the
song first and would keep on with it. The young storks were very
angry, and grew worse as they grew older; so at last their mother
was obliged to promise that they should be revenged, but not until the
day of their departure.

"We must see first, how you acquit yourselves at the grand
review," said she. "If you get on badly there, the general will thrust
his beak through you, and you will be killed, as the boys said, though
not exactly in the same manner. So we must wait and see."

"You shall see," said the young birds, and then they took such
pains and practised so well every day, that at last it was quite a
pleasure to see them fly so lightly and prettily. As soon as the
autumn arrived, all the storks began to assemble together before
taking their departure for warm countries during the winter. Then
the review commenced. They flew over forests and villages to show what
they could do, for they had a long journey before them. The young
storks performed their part so well that they received a mark of
honor, with frogs and snakes as a present. These presents were the
best part of the affair, for they could eat the frogs and snakes,
which they very quickly did.

"Now let us have our revenge," they cried.

"Yes, certainly," cried the mother stork. "I have thought upon the
best way to be revenged. I know the pond in which all the little
children lie, waiting till the storks come to take them to their
parents. The prettiest little babies lie there dreaming more sweetly
than they will ever dream in the time to come. All parents are glad to
have a little child, and children are so pleased with a little brother
or sister. Now we will fly to the pond and fetch a little baby for
each of the children who did not sing that naughty song to make game
of the storks."

"But the naughty boy, who began the song first, what shall we do
to him?" cried the young storks.

"There lies in the pond a little dead baby who has dreamed
itself to death," said the mother. "We will take it to the naughty
boy, and he will cry because we have brought him a little dead
brother. But you have not forgotten the good boy who said it was a
shame to laugh at animals: we will take him a little brother and
sister too, because he was good. He is called Peter, and you shall all
be called Peter in future."

So they all did what their mother had arranged, and from that day,
even till now, all the storks have been called Peter.




THE STORM SHAKES THE SHIELD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cooper's tub stuck itself up under the head of "ladies'
costumes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE STORY OF A MOTHER

A mother sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared
it would die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed,
and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and
then the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little
creature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked
in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great
horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was
cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and
the wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face. The little child
had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the
old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on
the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle;
and the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her
sick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little
hand.

"You think I shall keep him, do you not?" she said. "Our all-merciful
God will surely not take him away from me."

The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a
peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the
mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks.
Then her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for
three days and nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering
with cold, she started up and looked round the room. The old man was
gone, and her child--it was gone too!--the old man had taken it with
him. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike;
"whirr" went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and
the clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house calling
for her child. Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and
she said to the mother, "Death has been with you in your room. I saw
him hastening away with your little child; he strides faster than
the wind, and never brings back what he has taken away."

"Only tell me which way he has gone," said the mother; "tell me the
way, I will find him."

"I know the way," said the woman in the black garments; "but
before I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have
sung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard them before. I am
Night, and I saw your tears flow as you sang."

"I will sing them all to you," said the mother; "but do not detain
me now. I must overtake him, and find my child."

But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and
wrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears;
till at length Night said, "Go to the right, into the dark forest of
fir-trees; for I saw Death take that road with your little child."

Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not
which to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor
flower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the
branches. "Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?" she
asked.

"Yes," replied the thorn-bush; "but I will not tell you which
way he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing
to death here, and turning to ice."

Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that
it might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great
drops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh green
leaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter's night, so warm is
the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush told her the
path she must take. She came at length to a great lake, on which there
was neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen
sufficiently for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough
for her to wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to
find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of
the lake, which was of course impossible for any human being to do;
but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might take
place to help her. "You will never succeed in this," said the lake;
"let us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to
collect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If
you will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, then I will
take you to the large hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers
and trees, every one of which is a human life."

"Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!" said the weeping
mother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the
depths of the lake, and became two costly pearls.

Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite
shore as if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many
miles in length. No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered
with forests and full of caves, or whether it had been built. But
the poor mother could not see, for she had wept her eyes into the
lake. "Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little
child?" she asked.

"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired woman,
who was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse. "How have you
found your way here? and who helped you?"

"God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful; will you not be
merciful too? Where shall I find my little child?"

"I did not know the child," said the old woman; "and you are
blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon
come to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a
life-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look
like other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children's hearts
also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your
child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will
have to do?

"I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother; "but I
would go to the ends of the earth for you."

"I can give you nothing to do for me there," said the old woman;
"but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it
is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in
exchange, which will be something in return."

"Do you ask nothing more than that?" said she. "I will give it
to you with pleasure."

And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the
white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's vast
hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful
profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like
strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others
looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black
crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and
plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and
flower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to
men still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts
of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so
that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot
to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil,
with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The
sorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human
heart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child's
heart among millions of others.

"That is it," she cried, stretching out her hand towards a
little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.

"Do not touch the flower," exclaimed the old woman; "but place
yourself here; and when Death comes--I expect him every minute--do not
let him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you
will serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him
afraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be
uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so."

There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the
blind mother felt that Death had arrived.

"How did you find your way hither?" asked he; "how could you
come here faster than I have?"

"I am a mother," she answered.

And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little
flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at
same time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of
the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his
breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.

"You cannot prevail against me," said Death.

"But a God of mercy can," said she.

"I only do His will," replied Death. "I am his gardener. I take
all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of
Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that
garden resembles, I may not tell you."

"Give me back my child," said the mother, weeping and imploring;
and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death,
"I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair."

"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and
would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?"

"Another mother!" cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free
from her hands.

"There are your eyes," said Death. "I fished them up out of the
lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were
yours. Take them back--they are clearer now than before--and then look
into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names
of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the
whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were
about to frustrate and destroy."

Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to
behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much
happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the
other was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.

"Both are the will of God," said Death.

"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?" she
said.

"That I may not tell you," said Death; "but thus far you may
learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was
the fate of your child that you saw,--the future of your own child."

Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, "Which of them belongs
to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it
from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of
God. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or
done."

"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child
back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know?"

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed
to God, "Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will,
which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;" and her
head sank on her bosom.

Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.




THE SUNBEAM AND THE CAPTIVE

It is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea.
We look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on the
opposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waters
which mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood is
sharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leaves
flutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, stands
a gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between
is dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron
gratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows,
for in these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined.
A ray of the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the
captives, for God's sun shines upon the evil and the good. The
hardened criminal casts an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a
little bird flies towards the grating, for birds twitter to the just
as well as to the unjust. He only cries, "Tweet, tweet," and then
perches himself near the grating, flutters his wings, pecks a
feather from one of them, puffs himself out, and sets his feathers
on end round his breast and throat. The bad, chained man looks at him,
and a more gentle expression comes into his hard face. In his breast
there rises a thought which he himself cannot rightly analyze, but the
thought has some connection with the sunbeam, with the bird, and
with the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in spring at the
foot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the hunter's horn,
merry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away, the sunbeam
gradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room and in the
heart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that heart, and
the twittering of the bird has touched it.

Sound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter's horn; continue
your stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the
sea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror.




THE SWAN'S NEST

Between the Baltic and the North Sea there lies an old swan's
nest, wherein swans are born and have been born that shall never die.

In olden times a flock of swans flew over the Alps to the green
plains around Milan, where it was delightful to dwell. This flight
of swans men called the Lombards.

Another flock, with shining plumage and honest eyes, soared
southward to Byzantium; the swans established themselves there close
by the Emperor's throne, and spread their wings over him as shields to
protect him. They received the name of Varangians.

On the coast of France there sounded a cry of fear, for the
blood-stained swans that came from the North with fire under their
wings; and the people prayed, "Heaven deliver us from the wild
Northmen."

On the fresh sward of England stood the Danish swan by the open
seashore, with the crown of three kingdoms on his head; and he
stretched out his golden sceptre over the land. The heathens on the
Pomerian coast bent the knee, and the Danish swans came with the
banner of the Cross and with the drawn sword.

"That was in the very old times," you say.

In later days two mighty swans have been seen to fly from the
nest. A light shone far through the air, far over the lands of the
earth; the swan, with the strong beating of his wings, scattered the
twilight mists, and the starry sky was seen, and it was as if it
came nearer to the earth. That was the swan Tycho Brahe.

"Yes, then," you say; "but in our own days?"

We have seen swan after swan soar by in glorious flight. One let
his pinions glide over the strings of the golden harp, and it
resounded through the North. Norway's mountains seemed to rise
higher in the sunlight of former days; there was a rustling among
the pine trees and the birches; the gods of the North, the heroes, and
the noble women, showed themselves in the dark forest depths.

We have seen a swan beat with his wings upon the marble crag, so
that it burst, and the forms of beauty imprisoned in the stone stepped
out to the sunny day, and men in the lands round about lifted up their
heads to behold these mighty forms.

We have seen a third swan spinning the thread of thought that is
fastened from country to country round the world, so that the word may
fly with lightning speed from land to land.

And our Lord loves the old swan's nest between the Baltic and
the North Sea. And when the mighty birds come soaring through the
air to destroy it, even the callow young stand round in a circle on
the margin of the nest, and though their breasts may be struck so that
their blood flows, they bear it, and strike with their wings and their
claws.

Centuries will pass by, swans will fly forth from the nest, men
will see them and hear them in the world, before it shall be said in
spirit and in truth, "This is the last swan--the last song from the
swan's nest."




THE SWINEHERD

Once upon a time lived a poor prince; his kingdom was very
small, but it was large enough to enable him to marry, and marry he
would. It was rather bold of him that he went and asked the
emperor's daughter: "Will you marry me?" but he ventured to do so, for
his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses
who would have gladly accepted him, but would she do so? Now we
shall see.

On the grave of the prince's father grew a rose-tree, the most
beautiful of its kind. It bloomed only once in five years, and then it
had only one single rose upon it, but what a rose! It had such a sweet
scent that one instantly forgot all sorrow and grief when one smelt
it. He had also a nightingale, which could sing as if every sweet
melody was in its throat. This rose and the nightingale he wished to
give to the princess; and therefore both were put into big silver
cases and sent to her.

The emperor ordered them to be carried into the great hall where
the princess was just playing "Visitors are coming" with her
ladies-in-waiting; when she saw the large cases with the presents
therein, she clapped her hands for joy.

"I wish it were a little pussy cat," she said. But then the
rose-tree with the beautiful rose was unpacked.

"Oh, how nicely it is made," exclaimed the ladies.

"It is more than nice," said the emperor, "it is charming."

The princess touched it and nearly began to cry.

"For shame, pa," she said, "it is not artificial, it is natural!"

"For shame, it is natural," repeated all her ladies.

"Let us first see what the other case contains before we are
angry," said the emperor; then the nightingale was taken out, and it
sang so beautifully that no one could possibly say anything unkind
about it.

"Superbe, charmant," said the ladies of the court, for they all
prattled French, one worse than the other.

"How much the bird reminds me of the musical box of the late
lamented empress," said an old courtier, "it has exactly the same
tone, the same execution."

"You are right," said the emperor, and began to cry like a
little child.

"I hope it is not natural," said the princess.

"Yes, certainly it is natural," replied those who had brought
the presents.

"Then let it fly," said the princess, and refused to see the
prince.

But the prince was not discouraged. He painted his face, put on
common clothes, pulled his cap over his forehead, and came back.

"Good day, emperor," he said, "could you not give me some
employment at the court?"

"There are so many," replied the emperor, "who apply for places,
that for the present I have no vacancy, but I will remember you. But
wait a moment; it just comes into my mind, I require somebody to
look after my pigs, for I have a great many."

Thus the prince was appointed imperial swineherd, and as such he
lived in a wretchedly small room near the pigsty; there he worked
all day long, and when it was night he had made a pretty little pot.
There were little bells round the rim, and when the water began to
boil in it, the bells began to play the old tune:

  "A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
  Three little piggies had she," &c.

But what was more wonderful was that, when one put a finger into the
steam rising from the pot, one could at once smell what meals they
were preparing on every fire in the whole town. That was indeed much
more remarkable than the rose. When the princess with her ladies
passed by and heard the tune, she stopped and looked quite pleased,
for she also could play it--in fact, it was the only tune she could
play, and she played it with one finger.

"That is the tune I know," she exclaimed. "He must be a
well-educated swineherd. Go and ask him how much the instrument is."

One of the ladies had to go and ask; but she put on pattens.

"What will you take for your pot?" asked the lady.

"I will have ten kisses from the princess," said the swineherd.

"God forbid," said the lady.

"Well, I cannot sell it for less," replied the swineherd.

"What did he say?" said the princess.

"I really cannot tell you," replied the lady.

"You can whisper it into my ear."

"It is very naughty," said the princess, and walked off.

But when she had gone a little distance, the bells rang again so
sweetly:

  "A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
  Three little piggies had she," &c.


"Ask him," said the princess, "if he will be satisfied with ten
kisses from one of my ladies."

"No, thank you," said the swineherd: "ten kisses from the
princess, or I keep my pot."

"That is tiresome," said the princess. "But you must stand
before me, so that nobody can see it."

The ladies placed themselves in front of her and spread out
their dresses, and she gave the swineherd ten kisses and received
the pot.

That was a pleasure! Day and night the water in the pot was
boiling; there was not a single fire in the whole town of which they
did not know what was preparing on it, the chamberlain's as well as
the shoemaker's. The ladies danced and clapped their hands for joy.

"We know who will eat soup and pancakes; we know who will eat
porridge and cutlets; oh, how interesting!"

"Very interesting, indeed," said the mistress of the household.
"But you must not betray me, for I am the emperor's daughter."

"Of course not," they all said.

The swineherd--that is to say, the prince--but they did not know
otherwise than that he was a real swineherd--did not waste a single
day without doing something; he made a rattle, which, when turned
quickly round, played all the waltzes, galops, and polkas known
since the creation of the world.

"But that is superbe," said the princess passing by. "I have never
heard a more beautiful composition. Go down and ask him what the
instrument costs; but I shall not kiss him again."

"He will have a hundred kisses from the princess," said the
lady, who had gone down to ask him.

"I believe he is mad," said the princess, and walked off, but soon
she stopped. "One must encourage art," she said. "I am the emperor's
daughter! Tell him I will give him ten kisses, as I did the other day;
the remainder one of my ladies can give him.

"But we do not like to kiss him," said the ladies.

"That is nonsense," said the princess; "if I can kiss him, you can
also do it. Remember that I give you food and employment." And the
lady had to go down once more.

"A hundred kisses from the princess," said the swineherd, "or
everybody keeps his own."

"Place yourselves before me," said the princess then. They did
as they were bidden, and the princess kissed him.

"I wonder what that crowd near the pigsty means!" said the
emperor, who had just come out on his balcony. He rubbed his eyes
and put his spectacles on.

"The ladies of the court are up to some mischief, I think. I shall
have to go down and see." He pulled up his shoes, for they were down
at the heels, and he was very quick about it. When he had come down
into the courtyard he walked quite softly, and the ladies were so
busily engaged in counting the kisses, that all should be fair, that
they did not notice the emperor. He raised himself on tiptoe.

"What does this mean?" he said, when he saw that his daughter
was kissing the swineherd, and then hit their heads with his shoe just
as the swineherd received the sixty-eighth kiss.

"Go out of my sight," said the emperor, for he was very angry; and
both the princess and the swineherd were banished from the empire.
There she stood and cried, the swineherd scolded her, and the rain
came down in torrents.

"Alas, unfortunate creature that I am!" said the princess, "I wish
I had accepted the prince. Oh, how wretched I am!"

The swineherd went behind a tree, wiped his face, threw off his
poor attire and stepped forth in his princely garments; he looked so
beautiful that the princess could not help bowing to him.

"I have now learnt to despise you," he said. "You refused an
honest prince; you did not appreciate the rose and the nightingale;
but you did not mind kissing a swineherd for his toys; you have no one
but yourself to blame!"

And then he returned into his kingdom and left her behind. She
could now sing at her leisure:

  "A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
  Three little piggies has she," &c.




THE THISTLE'S EXPERIENCES

Belonging to the lordly manor-house was beautiful, well-kept
garden, with rare trees and flowers; the guests of the proprietor
declared their admiration of it; the people of the neighborhood,
from town and country, came on Sundays and holidays, and asked
permission to see the garden; indeed, whole schools used to pay visits
to it.

Outside the garden, by the palings at the road-side, stood a great
mighty Thistle, which spread out in many directions from the root,
so that it might have been called a thistle bush. Nobody looked at it,
except the old Ass which drew the milk-maid's cart. This Ass used to
stretch out his neck towards the Thistle, and say, "You are beautiful;
I should like to eat you!" But his halter was not long enough to let
him reach it and eat it.

There was great company at the manor-house--some very noble people
from the capital; young pretty girls, and among them a young lady
who came from a long distance. She had come from Scotland, and was
of high birth, and was rich in land and in gold--a bride worth
winning, said more than one of the young gentlemen; and their lady
mothers said the same thing.

The young people amused themselves on the lawn, and played at
ball; they wandered among the flowers, and each of the young girls
broke off a flower, and fastened it in a young gentleman's buttonhole.
But the young Scotch lady looked round, for a long time, in an
undecided way. None of the flowers seemed to suit her taste. Then
her eye glanced across the paling--outside stood the great thistle
bush, with the reddish-blue, sturdy flowers; she saw them, she smiled,
and asked the son of the house to pluck one for her.

"It is the flower of Scotland," she said. "It blooms in the
scutcheon of my country. Give me yonder flower."

And he brought the fairest blossom, and pricked his fingers as
completely as if it had grown on the sharpest rose bush.

She placed the thistle-flower in the buttonhole of the young
man, and he felt himself highly honored. Each of the other young
gentlemen would willingly have given his own beautiful flower to
have worn this one, presented by the fair hand of the Scottish maiden.
And if the son of the house felt himself honored, what were the
feelings of the Thistle bush? It seemed to him as if dew and
sunshine were streaming through him.

"I am something more than I knew of," said the Thistle to
itself. "I suppose my right place is really inside the palings, and
not outside. One is often strangely placed in this world; but now I
have at least managed to get one of my people within the pale, and
indeed into a buttonhole!"

The Thistle told this event to every blossom that unfolded itself,
and not many days had gone by before the Thistle heard, not from
men, not from the twittering of the birds, but from the air itself,
which stores up the sounds, and carries them far around--out of the
most retired walks of the garden, and out of the rooms of the house,
in which doors and windows stood open, that the young gentleman who
had received the thistle-flower from the hand of the fair Scottish
maiden had also now received the heart and hand of the lady in
question. They were a handsome pair--it was a good match.

"That match I made up!" said the Thistle; and he thought of the
flower he had given for the buttonhole. Every flower that opened heard
of this occurrence.

"I shall certainly be transplanted into the garden," thought the
Thistle, "and perhaps put into a pot, which crowds one in. That is said
to be the greatest of all honors."

And the Thistle pictured this to himself in such a lively
manner, that at last he said, with full conviction, "I am to be
transplanted into a pot."

Then he promised every little thistle flower which unfolded itself
that it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a
buttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of
them was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in
the sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew
by night; bloomed--were visited by bees and hornets, who looked
after the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and
left the flower where it was.

"The thievish rabble!" said the Thistle. "If I could only stab
every one of them! But I cannot."

The flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new
ones came.

"You come in good time," said the Thistle. "I am expecting every
moment to get across the fence."

A few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and
listened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.

The old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the
field-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his
halter was too short, and he could not reach it.

And the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to
whose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he
had come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the
national escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great
thistle has a right to a great thought.

"One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,"
said the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he
might be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.

And the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell
from the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less
scent. The gardener's boy sang in the garden, across the palings:

  "Up the hill, down the dale we wend,
  That is life, from beginning to end."


The young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but
it was a long time to Christmas yet.

"Here I am standing yet!" said the Thistle. "It is as if nobody
thought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and
they have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won't take a
single step-because I can't."

A few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last
single flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the
roots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the
flower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.

One day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden.
They went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.

"There's the great thistle still growing," she said. "It has no
flowers now."

"Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still," said he.
And he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like
a flower themselves.

"It is pretty, certainly," she said. "Such an one must be carved
on the frame of our picture."

And the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to
break off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then
he had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden,
and into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a
picture--"Young Couple." A thistle-flower was painted in the
buttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about
the thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming
like silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.

And the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.

"What one can experience!" said the Thistle Bush. "My first born
was put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame.
Where shall I go?"

And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the
Thistle.

"Come to me, my nibble darling!" said he. "I can't get across to
you."

But the Thistle did not answer. He became more and more
thoughtful--kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and
then a flower of thought came forth.

"If the children are only good, the parents do not mind standing
outside the garden pale."

"That's an honorable thought," said the Sunbeam. "You shall also
have a good place."

"In a pot or in a frame?" asked the Thistle.

"In a story," replied the Sunbeam.




THE THORNY ROAD OF HONOR

An old story yet lives of the "Thorny Road of Honor," of a
marksman, who indeed attained to rank and office, but only after a
lifelong and weary strife against difficulties. Who has not, in
reading this story, thought of his own strife, and of his own numerous
"difficulties?" The story is very closely akin to reality; but still
it has its harmonious explanation here on earth, while reality often
points beyond the confines of life to the regions of eternity. The
history of the world is like a magic lantern that displays to us, in
light pictures upon the dark ground of the present, how the
benefactors of mankind, the martyrs of genius, wandered along the
thorny road of honor.

From all periods, and from every country, these shining pictures
display themselves to us. Each only appears for a few moments, but
each represents a whole life, sometimes a whole age, with its
conflicts and victories. Let us contemplate here and there one of
the company of martyrs--the company which will receive new members
until the world itself shall pass away.

We look down upon a crowded amphitheatre. Out of the "Clouds" of
Aristophanes, satire and humor are pouring down in streams upon the
audience; on the stage Socrates, the most remarkable man in Athens, he
who had been the shield and defence of the people against the thirty
tyrants, is held up mentally and bodily to ridicule--Socrates, who
saved Alcibiades and Xenophon in the turmoil of battle, and whose
genius soared far above the gods of the ancients. He himself is
present; he has risen from the spectator's bench, and has stepped
forward, that the laughing Athenians may well appreciate the
likeness between himself and the caricature on the stage. There he
stands before them, towering high above them all.

Thou juicy, green, poisonous hemlock, throw thy shadow over
Athens--not thou, olive tree of fame!

Seven cities contended for the honor of giving birth to Homer--that
is to say, they contended after his death! Let us look at him
as he was in his lifetime. He wanders on foot through the cities,
and recites his verses for a livelihood; the thought for the morrow
turns his hair gray! He, the great seer, is blind, and painfully
pursues his way--the sharp thorn tears the mantle of the king of
poets. His song yet lives, and through that alone live all the
heroes and gods of antiquity.

One picture after another springs up from the east, from the west,
far removed from each other in time and place, and yet each one
forming a portion of the thorny road of honor, on which the thistle
indeed displays a flower, but only to adorn the grave.

The camels pass along under the palm trees; they are richly
laden with indigo and other treasures of value, sent by the ruler of
the land to him whose songs are the delight of the people, the fame of
the country. He whom envy and falsehood have driven into exile has
been found, and the caravan approaches the little town in which he has
taken refuge. A poor corpse is carried out of the town gate, and the
funeral procession causes the caravan to halt. The dead man is he whom
they have been sent to seek--Firdusi--who has wandered the Thorny road
of honor even to the end.

The African, with blunt features, thick lips, and woolly hair,
sits on the marble steps of the palace in the capital of Portugal, and
begs. He is the submissive slave of Camoens, and but for him, and
for the copper coins thrown to him by the passers-by, his master,
the poet of the "Lusiad," would die of hunger. Now, a costly
monument marks the grave of Camoens.

There is a new picture.

Behind the iron grating a man appears, pale as death, with long
unkempt beard.

"I have made a discovery," he says, "the greatest that has been
made for centuries; and they have kept me locked up here for more than
twenty years!"

Who is the man?

"A madman," replies the keeper of the madhouse. "What whimsical
ideas these lunatics have! He imagines that one can propel things by
means of steam."

It is Solomon de Cares, the discoverer of the power of steam,
whose theory, expressed in dark words, is not understood by Richelieu;
and he dies in the madhouse.

Here stands Columbus, whom the street boys used once to follow and
jeer, because he wanted to discover a new world; and he has discovered
it. Shouts of joy greet him from the breasts of all, and the clash
of bells sounds to celebrate his triumphant return; but the clash of
the bells of envy soon drowns the others. The discoverer of a world--he
who lifted the American gold land from the sea, and gave it to
his king--he is rewarded with iron chains. He wishes that these chains
may be placed in his coffin, for they witness to the world of the
way in which a man's contemporaries reward good service.

One picture after another comes crowding on; the thorny path of
honor and of fame is over-filled.

Here in dark night sits the man who measured the mountains in
the moon; he who forced his way out into the endless space, among
stars and planets; he, the mighty man who understood the spirit of
nature, and felt the earth moving beneath his feet--Galileo. Blind and
deaf he sits--an old man thrust through with the spear of suffering,
and amid the torments of neglect, scarcely able to lift his foot--that
foot with which, in the anguish of his soul, when men denied the
truth, he stamped upon the ground, with the exclamation, "Yet it
moves!"

Here stands a woman of childlike mind, yet full of faith and
inspiration. She carries the banner in front of the combating army,
and brings victory and salvation to her fatherland. The sound of
shouting arises, and the pile flames up. They are burning the witch,
Joan of Arc. Yes, and a future century jeers at the White Lily.
Voltaire, the satyr of human intellect, writes "La Pucelle."

At the Thing or Assembly at Viborg, the Danish nobles burn the
laws of the king. They flame up high, illuminating the period and
the lawgiver, and throw a glory into the dark prison tower, where an
old man is growing gray and bent. With his finger he marks out a
groove in the stone table. It is the popular king who sits there, once
the ruler of three kingdoms, the friend of the citizen and the
peasant. It is Christian the Second. Enemies wrote his history. Let us
remember his improvements of seven and twenty years, if we cannot
forget his crime.

A ship sails away, quitting the Danish shores. A man leans against
the mast, casting a last glance towards the Island Hueen. It is
Tycho Brahe. He raised the name of Denmark to the stars, and was
rewarded with injury, loss and sorrow. He is going to a strange
country.

"The vault of heaven is above me everywhere," he says, "and what
do I want more?"

And away sails the famous Dane, the astronomer, to live honored
and free in a strange land.

"Ay, free, if only from the unbearable sufferings of the body!"
comes in a sigh through time, and strikes upon our ear. What a
picture! Griffenfeldt, a Danish Prometheus, bound to the rocky
island of Munkholm.

We are in America, on the margin of one of the largest rivers;
an innumerable crowd has gathered, for it is said that a ship is to
sail against the wind and weather, bidding defiance to the elements.
The man who thinks he can solve the problem is named Robert Fulton.
The ship begins its passage, but suddenly it stops. The crowd begins
to laugh and whistle and hiss--the very father of the man whistles
with the rest.

"Conceit! Foolery!" is the cry. "It has happened just as he
deserved. Put the crack-brain under lock and key!"

Then suddenly a little nail breaks, which had stopped the
machine for a few moments; and now the wheels turn again, the floats
break the force of the waters, and the ship continues its course;
and the beam of the steam engine shortens the distance between far
lands from hours into minutes.

O human race, canst thou grasp the happiness of such a minute of
consciousness, this penetration of the soul by its mission, the moment
in which all dejection, and every wound--even those caused by one's
own fault--is changed into health and strength and clearness--when
discord is converted to harmony--the minute in which men seem to
recognize the manifestation of the heavenly grace in one man, and feel
how this one imparts it to all?

Thus the thorny path of honor shows itself as a glory, surrounding
the earth with its beams. Thrice happy he who is chosen to be a
wanderer there, and, without merit of his own, to be placed between
the builder of the bridge and the earth--between Providence and the
human race.

On mighty wings the spirit of history floats through the ages, and
shows--giving courage and comfort, and awakening gentle thoughts--on
the dark nightly background, but in gleaming pictures, the thorny path
of honor, which does not, like a fairy tale, end in brilliancy and joy
here on earth, but stretches out beyond all time, even into eternity!




IN A THOUSAND YEARS

Yes, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam
through the air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America will
become visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the
monuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as
we in our time make pilgrimages to the tottering splendors of Southern
Asia. In a thousand years they will come!

The Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course,
Mont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the Northern
Lights gleam over the land of the North; but generation after
generation has become dust, whole rows of the mighty of the moment are
forgotten, like those who already slumber under the hill on which
the rich trader, whose ground it is, has built a bench, on which he
can sit and look out across his waving corn fields.

"To Europe!" cry the young sons of America; "to the land of our
ancestors, the glorious land of monuments and fancy--to Europe!"

The ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers, for
the transit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire under
the ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan.
Europe is in sight. It is the coast of Ireland that they see, but
the passengers are still asleep; they will not be called till they are
exactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, in
the land of Shakespeare, as the educated call it; in the land of
politics, the land of machines, as it is called by others.

Here they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race can
devote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journey is
continued through the tunnel under the English Channel, to France, the
land of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Moliere is named, the learned men
talk of the classic school of remote antiquity. There is rejoicing and
shouting for the names of heroes, poets, and men of science, whom
our time does not know, but who will be born after our time in
Paris, the centre of Europe, and elsewhere.

The air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went
forth, where Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang dramas in
sounding verse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in the
blooming valleys, and the oldest songs speak of the Cid and the
Alhambra.

Then through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once lay
old, everlasting Rome. It has vanished! The Campagna lies desert. A
single ruined wall is shown as the remains of St. Peter's, but there
is a doubt if this ruin be genuine.

Next to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top
of Mount Olympus, to say that they have been there; and the journey is
continued to the Bosphorus, to rest there a few hours, and see the
place where Byzantium lay; and where the legend tells that the harem
stood in the time of the Turks, poor fishermen are now spreading their
nets.

Over the remains of mighty cities on the broad Danube, cities
which we in our time know not, the travellers pass; but here and
there, on the rich sites of those that time shall bring forth, the
caravan sometimes descends, and departs thence again.

Down below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of
railway and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe
sang, and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony. Great names shine
there, in science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day
devoted to seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of
Oersted and Linnaeus, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and
the young Normans. Iceland is visited on the journey home. The geysers
burn no more, Hecla is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is
still fixed in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of
legend and poetry.

"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe," says the
young American, "and we have seen it in a week, according to the
directions of the great traveller" (and here he mentions the name of
one of his contemporaries) "in his celebrated work, 'How to See All
Europe in a Week.'"




THE BRAVE TIN SOLDIER

There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were all
brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon. They
shouldered arms and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid
uniform, red and blue. The first thing in the world they ever heard
were the words, "Tin soldiers!" uttered by a little boy, who clapped
his hands with delight when the lid of the box, in which they lay, was
taken off. They were given him for a birthday present, and he stood at
the table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly alike,
excepting one, who had only one leg; he had been left to the last, and
then there was not enough of the melted tin to finish him, so they
made him to stand firmly on one leg, and this caused him to be very
remarkable.

The table on which the tin soldiers stood, was covered with
other playthings, but the most attractive to the eye was a pretty
little paper castle. Through the small windows the rooms could be
seen. In front of the castle a number of little trees surrounded a
piece of looking-glass, which was intended to represent a
transparent lake. Swans, made of wax, swam on the lake, and were
reflected in it. All this was very pretty, but the prettiest of all
was a tiny little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she,
also, was made of paper, and she wore a dress of clear muslin, with
a narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders just like a scarf. In front of
these was fixed a glittering tinsel rose, as large as her whole
face. The little lady was a dancer, and she stretched out both her
arms, and raised one of her legs so high, that the tin soldier could
not see it at all, and he thought that she, like himself, had only one
leg. "That is the wife for me," he thought; "but she is too grand, and
lives in a castle, while I have only a box to live in, five-and-twenty
of us altogether, that is no place for her. Still I must try and
make her acquaintance." Then he laid himself at full length on the
table behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could peep
at the little delicate lady, who continued to stand on one leg without
losing her balance. When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all
placed in the box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the
playthings began to have their own games together, to pay visits, to
have sham fights, and to give balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their
box; they wanted to get out and join the amusements, but they could
not open the lid. The nut-crackers played at leap-frog, and the pencil
jumped about the table. There was such a noise that the canary woke up
and began to talk, and in poetry too. Only the tin soldier and the
dancer remained in their places. She stood on tiptoe, with her legs
stretched out, as firmly as he did on his one leg. He never took his
eyes from her for even a moment. The clock struck twelve, and, with
a bounce, up sprang the lid of the snuff-box; but, instead of snuff,
there jumped up a little black goblin; for the snuff-box was a toy
puzzle.

"Tin soldier," said the goblin, "don't wish for what does not
belong to you."

But the tin soldier pretended not to hear.

"Very well; wait till to-morrow, then," said the goblin.

When the children came in the next morning, they placed the tin
soldier in the window. Now, whether it was the goblin who did it, or
the draught, is not known, but the window flew open, and out fell
the tin soldier, heels over head, from the third story, into the
street beneath. It was a terrible fall; for he came head downwards,
his helmet and his bayonet stuck in between the flagstones, and his
one leg up in the air. The servant maid and the little boy went down
stairs directly to look for him; but he was nowhere to be seen,
although once they nearly trod upon him. If he had called out, "Here I
am," it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out for
help while he wore a uniform.

Presently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and
faster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two boys
happened to pass by, and one of them said, "Look, there is a tin
soldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in."

So they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin soldier
in it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while the two boys ran by
the side of it, and clapped their hands. Good gracious, what large
waves arose in that gutter! and how fast the stream rolled on! for the
rain had been very heavy. The paper boat rocked up and down, and
turned itself round sometimes so quickly that the tin soldier
trembled; yet he remained firm; his countenance did not change; he
looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket. Suddenly the
boat shot under a bridge which formed a part of a drain, and then it
was as dark as the tin soldier's box.

"Where am I going now?" thought he. "This is the black goblin's
fault, I am sure. Ah, well, if the little lady were only here with
me in the boat, I should not care for any darkness."

Suddenly there appeared a great water-rat, who lived in the drain.

"Have you a passport?" asked the rat, "give it to me at once." But
the tin soldier remained silent and held his musket tighter than ever.
The boat sailed on and the rat followed it. How he did gnash his teeth
and cry out to the bits of wood and straw, "Stop him, stop him; he has
not paid toll, and has not shown his pass." But the stream rushed on
stronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already see daylight
shining where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound quite
terrible enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the
tunnel the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place, which
made it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to us. He was too
close to it to stop, so the boat rushed on, and the poor tin soldier
could only hold himself as stiffly as possible, without moving an
eyelid, to show that he was not afraid. The boat whirled round three
or four times, and then filled with water to the very edge; nothing
could save it from sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water,
while deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and
loose with the wet, till at last the water closed over the soldier's
head. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should never see
again, and the words of the song sounded in his ears--

  "Farewell, warrior! ever brave,
  Drifting onward to thy grave."


Then the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank into
the water and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by a great fish.
Oh how dark it was inside the fish! A great deal darker than in the
tunnel, and narrower too, but the tin soldier continued firm, and
lay at full length shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro,
making the most wonderful movements, but at last he became quite
still. After a while, a flash of lightning seemed to pass through him,
and then the daylight approached, and a voice cried out, "I declare
here is the tin soldier." The fish had been caught, taken to the
market and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen and cut him
open with a large knife. She picked up the soldier and held him by the
waist between her finger and thumb, and carried him into the room.
They were all anxious to see this wonderful soldier who had
travelled about inside a fish; but he was not at all proud. They
placed him on the table, and--how many curious things do happen in the
world!--there he was in the very same room from the window of which he
had fallen, there were the same children, the same playthings,
standing on the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little
dancer at the door; she still balanced herself on one leg, and held up
the other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched the tin soldier
so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them
back. He only looked at her and they both remained silent. Presently
one of the little boys took up the tin soldier, and threw him into the
stove. He had no reason for doing so, therefore it must have been
the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box. The flames
lighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very terrible,
but whether it proceeded from the real fire or from the fire of love
he could not tell. Then he could see that the bright colors were faded
from his uniform, but whether they had been washed off during his
journey or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say. He looked
at the little lady, and she looked at him. He felt himself melting
away, but he still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder.
Suddenly the door of the room flew open and the draught of air
caught up the little dancer, she fluttered like a sylph right into the
stove by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in flames
and was gone. The tin soldier melted down into a lump, and the next
morning, when the maid servant took the ashes out of the stove, she
found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer
nothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a
cinder.




THE TINDER-BOX

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

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

"Thank you, old witch," said the soldier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you got the tinder-box?" asked the witch.

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

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

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

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

"No," said the witch.

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

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

"Where can I see her?" asked the soldier.

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

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

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

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

"Bring me some money," said he to the dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE TOAD

The well was deep, and therefore the rope had to be a long one; it
was heavy work turning the handle when any one had to raise a
bucketful of water over the edge of the well. Though the water was
clear, the sun never looked down far enough into the well to mirror
itself in the waters; but as far as its beams could reach, green
things grew forth between the stones in the sides of the well.

Down below dwelt a family of the Toad race. They had, in fact,
come head-over-heels down the well, in the person of the old
Mother-Toad, who was still alive. The green Frogs, who had been
established there a long time, and swam about in the water, called
them "well-guests." But the new-comers seemed determined to stay where
they were, for they found it very agreeable living "in a dry place,"
as they called the wet stones.

The Mother-Frog had once been a traveller. She happened to be in
the water-bucket when it was drawn up, but the light became too strong
for her, and she got a pain in her eyes. Fortunately she scrambled out
of the bucket; but she fell into the water with a terrible flop, and
had to lie sick for three days with pains in her back. She certainly
had not much to tell of the things up above, but she knew this, and
all the Frogs knew it, that the well was not all the world. The
Mother-Toad might have told this and that, if she had chosen, but
she never answered when they asked her anything, and so they left
off asking.

"She's thick, and fat and ugly," said the young green Frogs;
"and her children will be just as ugly as she is."

"That may be," retorted the mother-Toad, "but one of them has a
jewel in his head, or else I have the jewel."

The young frogs listened and stared; and as these words did not
please them, they made grimaces and dived down under the water. But
the little Toads kicked up their hind legs from mere pride, for each
of them thought that he must have the jewel; and then they sat and
held their heads quite still. But at length they asked what it was
that made them so proud, and what kind of a thing a jewel might be.

"Oh, it is such a splendid and precious thing, that I cannot
describe it," said the Mother-Toad. "It's something which one
carries about for one's own pleasure, and that makes other people
angry. But don't ask me any questions, for I shan't answer you."

"Well, I haven't got the jewel," said the smallest of the Toads;
she was as ugly as a toad can be. "Why should I have such a precious
thing? And if it makes others angry, it can't give me any pleasure.
No, I only wish I could get to the edge of the well, and look out;
it must be beautiful up there."

"You'd better stay where you are," said the old Mother-Toad,
"for you know everything here, and you can tell what you have. Take
care of the bucket, for it will crush you to death; and even if you
get into it safely, you may fall out. And it's not every one who falls
so cleverly as I did, and gets away with whole legs and whole bones.

"Quack!" said the little Toad; and that's just as if one of us
were to say, "Aha!"

She had an immense desire to get to the edge of the well, and to
look over; she felt such a longing for the green, up there; and the
next morning, when it chanced that the bucket was being drawn up,
filled with water, and stopped for a moment just in front of the stone
on which the Toad sat, the little creature's heart moved within it,
and our Toad jumped into the filled bucket, which presently was
drawn to the top, and emptied out.

"Ugh, you beast!" said the farm laborer who emptied the bucket,
when he saw the toad. "You're the ugliest thing I've seen for one
while." And he made a kick with his wooden shoe at the toad, which
just escaped being crushed by managing to scramble into the nettles
which grew high by the well's brink. Here she saw stem by stem, but
she looked up also; the sun shone through the leaves, which were quite
transparent; and she felt as a person would feel who steps suddenly
into a great forest, where the sun looks in between the branches and
leaves.

"It's much nicer here than down in the well! I should like to stay
here my whole life long!" said the little Toad. So she lay there for
an hour, yes, for two hours. "I wonder what is to be found up here? As
I have come so far, I must try to go still farther." And so she
crawled on as fast as she could crawl, and got out upon the highway,
where the sun shone upon her, and the dust powdered her all over as
she marched across the way.

"I've got to a dry place now, and no mistake," said the Toad.
"It's almost too much of a good thing here; it tickles one so."

She came to the ditch; and forget-me-nots were growing there,
and meadow-sweet; and a very little way off was a hedge of whitethorn,
and elder bushes grew there, too, and bindweed with white flowers. Gay
colors were to be seen here, and a butterfly, too, was flitting by.
The Toad thought it was a flower which had broken loose that it
might look about better in the world, which was quite a natural
thing to do.

"If one could only make such a journey as that!" said the Toad.
"Croak! how capital that would be."

Eight days and eight nights she stayed by the well, and
experienced no want of provisions. On the ninth day she thought,
"Forward! onward!" But what could she find more charming and
beautiful? Perhaps a little toad or a few green frogs. During the last
night there had been a sound borne on the breeze, as if there were
cousins in the neighborhood.

"It's a glorious thing to live! glorious to get out of the well,
and to lie among the stinging-nettles, and to crawl along the dusty
road. But onward, onward! that we may find frogs or a little toad.
We can't do without that; nature alone is not enough for one." And
so she went forward on her journey.

She came out into the open field, to a great pond, round about
which grew reeds; and she walked into it.

"It will be too damp for you here," said the Frogs; "but you are
very welcome! Are you a he or a she? But it doesn't matter; you are
equally welcome."

And she was invited to the concert in the evening--the family
concert; great enthusiasm and thin voices; we know the sort of
thing. No refreshments were given, only there was plenty to drink, for
the whole pond was free.

"Now I shall resume my journey," said the little Toad; for she
always felt a longing for something better.

She saw the stars shining, so large and so bright, and she saw the
moon gleaming; and then she saw the sun rise, and mount higher and
higher.

"Perhaps after all, I am still in a well, only in a larger well. I
must get higher yet; I feel a great restlessness and longing." And
when the moon became round and full, the poor creature thought, "I
wonder if that is the bucket which will be let down, and into which
I must step to get higher up? Or is the sun the great bucket? How
great it is! how bright it is! It can take up all. I must look out,
that I may not miss the opportunity. Oh, how it seems to shine in my
head! I don't think the jewel can shine brighter. But I haven't the
jewel; not that I cry about that--no, I must go higher up, into
splendor and joy! I feel so confident, and yet I am afraid. It's a
difficult step to take, and yet it must be taken. Onward, therefore,
straight onward!"

She took a few steps, such as a crawling animal may take, and soon
found herself on a road beside which people dwelt; but there were
flower gardens as well as kitchen gardens. And she sat down to rest by
a kitchen garden.

"What a number of different creatures there are that I never knew!
and how beautiful and great the world is! But one must look round in
it, and not stay in one spot." And then she hopped into the kitchen
garden. "How green it is here! how beautiful it is here!"

"I know that," said the Caterpillar, on the leaf, "my leaf is
the largest here. It hides half the world from me, but I don't care
for the world."

"Cluck, cluck!" And some fowls came. They tripped about in the
cabbage garden. The Fowl who marched at the head of them had a long
sight, and she spied the Caterpillar on the green leaf, and pecked
at it, so that the Caterpillar fell on the ground, where it twisted
and writhed.

The Fowl looked at it first with one eye and then with the
other, for she did not know what the end of this writhing would be.

"It doesn't do that with a good will," thought the Fowl, and
lifted up her head to peck at the Caterpillar.

The Toad was so horrified at this, that she came crawling straight
up towards the Fowl.

"Aha, it has allies," quoth the Fowl. "Just look at the crawling
thing!" And then the Fowl turned away. "I don't care for the little
green morsel; it would only tickle my throat." The other fowls took
the same view of it, and they all turned away together.

"I writhed myself free," said the Caterpillar. "What a good
thing it is when one has presence of mind! But the hardest thing
remains to be done, and that is to get on my leaf again. Where is it?"

And the little Toad came up and expressed her sympathy. She was
glad that in her ugliness she had frightened the fowls.

"What do you mean by that?" cried the Caterpillar. "I wriggled
myself free from the Fowl. You are very disagreeable to look at.
Cannot I be left in peace on my own property? Now I smell cabbage; now
I am near my leaf. Nothing is so beautiful as property. But I must
go higher up."

"Yes, higher up," said the little Toad; "higher-up! She feels just
as I do; but she's not in a good humor to-day. That's because of the
fright. We all want to go higher up." And she looked up as high as
ever she could.

The stork sat in his nest on the roof of the farm-house. He
clapped with his beak, and the Mother-stork clapped with hers.

"How high up they live!" thought the Toad. "If one could only
get as high as that!"

In the farm-house lived two young students; the one was a poet and
the other a scientific searcher into the secrets of nature. The one
sang and wrote joyously of everything that God had created, and how it
was mirrored in his heart. He sang it out clearly, sweetly, richly, in
well-sounding verses; while the other investigated created matter
itself, and even cut it open where need was. He looked upon God's
creation as a great sum in arithmetic--subtracted, multiplied, and
tried to know it within and without, and to talk with understanding
concerning it; and that was a very sensible thing; and he spoke
joyously and cleverly of it. They were good, joyful men, those two.

"There sits a good specimen of a toad," said the naturalist. "I
must have that fellow in a bottle of spirits."

"You have two of them already," replied the poet. "Let the thing
sit there and enjoy its life."

"But it's so wonderfully ugly," persisted the first.

"Yes, if we could find the jewel in its head," said the poet, "I
too should be for cutting it open.'

"A jewel!" cried the naturalist. "You seem to know a great deal
about natural history."

"But is there not something beautiful in the popular belief that
just as the toad is the ugliest of animals, it should often carry
the most precious jewel in its head? Is it not just the same thing
with men? What a jewel that was that Aesop had, and still more,
Socrates!"

The Toad did not hear any more, nor did she understand half of
what she had heard. The two friends walked on, and thus she escaped
the fate of being bottled up in spirits.

"Those two also were speaking of the jewel," said the Toad to
herself. "What a good thing that I have not got it! I might have
been in a very disagreeable position."

Now there was a clapping on the roof of the farm-house.
Father-Stork was making a speech to his family, and his family was
glancing down at the two young men in the kitchen garden.

"Man is the most conceited creature!" said the Stork. "Listen
how their jaws are wagging; and for all that they can't clap properly.
They boast of their gifts of eloquence and their language! Yes, a fine
language truly! Why, it changes in every day's journey we make. One of
them doesn't understand another. Now, we can speak our language over
the whole earth--up in the North and in Egypt. And then men are not
able to fly, moreover. They rush along by means of an invention they
call 'railway;' but they often break their necks over it. It makes
my beak turn cold when I think of it. The world could get on without
men. We could do without them very well, so long as we only keep frogs
and earth-worms."

"That was a powerful speech," thought the little Toad. "What a
great man that is yonder! and how high he sits! Higher than ever I saw
any one sit yet; and how he can swim!" she cried, as the Stork
soared away through the air with outspread pinions.

And the Mother-Stork began talking in the nest, and told about
Egypt and the waters of the Nile, and the incomparable mud that was to
be found in that strange land; and all this sounded new and very
charming to the little Toad.

"I must go to Egypt!" said she. "If the Stork or one of his
young ones would only take me! I would oblige him in return. Yes, I
shall get to Egypt, for I feel so happy! All the longing and all the
pleasure that I feel is much better than having a jewel in one's
head."

And it was just she who had the jewel. That jewel was the
continual striving and desire to go upward--ever upward. It gleamed in
her head, gleamed in joy, beamed brightly in her longing.

Then, suddenly, up came the Stork. He had seen the Toad in the
grass, and stooped down and seized the little creature anything but
gently. The Stork's beak pinched her, and the wind whistled; it was
not exactly agreeable, but she was going upward--upward towards
Egypt--and she knew it; and that was why her eyes gleamed, and a spark
seemed to fly out of them.

"Quunk!--ah!"

The body was dead--the Toad was killed! But the spark that had
shot forth from her eyes; what became of that?

The sunbeam took it up; the sunbeam carried the jewel from the
head of the toad. Whither?

Ask not the naturalist; rather ask the poet. He will tell it
thee under the guise of a fairy tale; and the Caterpillar on the
cabbage, and the Stork family belong to the story. Think! the
Caterpillar is changed, and turns into a beautiful butterfly; the
Stork family flies over mountains and seas, to the distant Africa, and
yet finds the shortest way home to the same country--to the same roof.
Nay, that is almost too improbable; and yet it is true. You may ask
the naturalist, he will confess it is so; and you know it yourself,
for you have seen it.

But the jewel in the head of the toad?

Seek it in the sun; see it there if you can.

The brightness is too dazzling there. We have not yet such eyes as
can see into the glories which God has created, but we shall receive
them by-and-by; and that will be the most beautiful story of all,
and we shall all have our share in it.




THE TOP AND BALL

A whipping top and a little ball lay together in a box, among
other toys, and the top said to the ball, "Shall we be married, as
we live in the same box?"

But the ball, which wore a dress of morocco leather, and thought
as much of herself as any other young lady, would not even
condescend to reply.

The next day came the little boy to whom the playthings
belonged, and he painted the top red and yellow, and drove a
brass-headed nail into the middle, so that while the top was
spinning round it looked splendid.

"Look at me," said the top to the ball. "What do you say now?
Shall we be engaged to each other? We should suit so well; you spring,
and I dance. No one could be happier than we should be."

"Indeed! do you think so? Perhaps you do not know that my father
and mother were morocco slippers, and that I have a Spanish cork in my
body."

"Yes; but I am made of mahogany," said the top. "The major himself
turned me. He has a turning lathe of his own, and it is a great
amusement to him."

"Can I believe it?" asked the ball.

"May I never be whipped again," said the top, "if I am not telling
you the truth."

"You certainly know how to speak for yourself very well," said the
ball; "but I cannot accept your proposal. I am almost engaged to a
swallow. Every time I fly up in the air, he puts his head out of the
nest, and says, 'Will you?' and I have said, 'Yes,' to myself
silently, and that is as good as being half engaged; but I will
promise never to forget you."

"Much good that will be to me," said the top; and they spoke to
each other no more.

Next day the ball was taken out by the boy. The top saw it
flying high in the air, like a bird, till it would go quite out of
sight. Each time it came back, as it touched the earth, it gave a
higher leap than before, either because it longed to fly upwards, or
from having a Spanish cork in its body. But the ninth time it rose
in the air, it remained away, and did not return. The boy searched
everywhere for it, but he searched in vain, for it could not be found;
it was gone.

"I know very well where she is," sighed the top; "she is in the
swallow's nest, and has married the swallow."

The more the top thought of this, the more he longed for the ball.
His love increased the more, just because he could not get her; and
that she should have been won by another, was the worst of all. The
top still twirled about and hummed, but he continued to think of the
ball; and the more he thought of her, the more beautiful she seemed to
his fancy.

Thus several years passed by, and his love became quite old. The
top, also, was no longer young; but there came a day when he looked
handsomer than ever; for he was gilded all over. He was now a golden
top, and whirled and danced about till he hummed quite loud, and was
something worth looking at; but one day he leaped too high, and then
he, also, was gone. They searched everywhere, even in the cellar,
but he was nowhere to be found. Where could he be? He had jumped
into the dust-bin, where all sorts of rubbish were lying:
cabbage-stalks, dust, and rain-droppings that had fallen down from the
gutter under the roof.

"Now I am in a nice place," said he; "my gilding will soon be
washed off here. Oh dear, what a set of rabble I have got amongst!"
And then he glanced at a curious round thing like an old apple,
which lay near a long, leafless cabbage-stalk. It was, however, not an
apple, but an old ball, which had lain for years in the gutter, and
was soaked through with water.

"Thank goodness, here comes one of my own class, with whom I can
talk," said the ball, examining the gilded top. "I am made of
morocco," she said. "I was sewn together by a young lady, and I have a
Spanish cork in my body; but no one would think it, to look at me now.
I was once engaged to a swallow; but I fell in here from the gutter
under the roof, and I have lain here more than five years, and have
been thoroughly drenched. Believe me, it is a long time for a young
maiden."

The top said nothing, but he thought of his old love; and the more
she said, the more clear it became to him that this was the same ball.

The servant then came to clean out the dust-bin.

"Ah," she exclaimed, "here is a gilt top." So the top was
brought again to notice and honor, but nothing more was heard of the
little ball. He spoke not a word about his old love; for that soon
died away. When the beloved object has lain for five years in a
gutter, and has been drenched through, no one cares to know her
again on meeting her in a dust-bin.




THE TRAVELLING COMPANION

Poor John was very sad; for his father was so ill, he had no
hope of his recovery. John sat alone with the sick man in the little
room, and the lamp had nearly burnt out; for it was late in the night.

"You have been a good son, John," said the sick father, "and God
will help you on in the world." He looked at him, as he spoke, with
mild, earnest eyes, drew a deep sigh, and died; yet it appeared as
if he still slept.

John wept bitterly. He had no one in the wide world now; neither
father, mother, brother, nor sister. Poor John! he knelt down by the
bed, kissed his dead father's hand, and wept many, many bitter
tears. But at last his eyes closed, and he fell asleep with his head
resting against the hard bedpost. Then he dreamed a strange dream;
he thought he saw the sun shining upon him, and his father alive and
well, and even heard him laughing as he used to do when he was very
happy. A beautiful girl, with a golden crown on her head, and long,
shining hair, gave him her hand; and his father said, "See what a
bride you have won. She is the loveliest maiden on the whole earth."
Then he awoke, and all the beautiful things vanished before his
eyes, his father lay dead on the bed, and he was all alone. Poor John!

During the following week the dead man was buried. The son
walked behind the coffin which contained his father, whom he so dearly
loved, and would never again behold. He heard the earth fall on the
coffin-lid, and watched it till only a corner remained in sight, and
at last that also disappeared. He felt as if his heart would break
with its weight of sorrow, till those who stood round the grave sang a
psalm, and the sweet, holy tones brought tears into his eyes, which
relieved him. The sun shone brightly down on the green trees, as if it
would say, "You must not be so sorrowful, John. Do you see the
beautiful blue sky above you? Your father is up there, and he prays to
the loving Father of all, that you may do well in the future."

"I will always be good," said John, "and then I shall go to be
with my father in heaven. What joy it will be when we see each other
again! How much I shall have to relate to him, and how many things
he will be able to explain to me of the delights of heaven, and
teach me as he once did on earth. Oh, what joy it will be!"

He pictured it all so plainly to himself, that he smiled even
while the tears ran down his cheeks.

The little birds in the chestnut-trees twittered, "Tweet,
tweet;" they were so happy, although they had seen the funeral; but
they seemed as if they knew that the dead man was now in heaven, and
that he had wings much larger and more beautiful than their own; and
he was happy now, because he had been good here on earth, and they
were glad of it. John saw them fly away out of the green trees into
the wide world, and he longed to fly with them; but first he cut out a
large wooden cross, to place on his father's grave; and when he
brought it there in the evening, he found the grave decked out with
gravel and flowers. Strangers had done this; they who had known the
good old father who was now dead, and who had loved him very much.

Early the next morning, John packed up his little bundle of
clothes, and placed all his money, which consisted of fifty dollars
and a few shillings, in his girdle; with this he determined to try his
fortune in the world. But first he went into the churchyard; and, by
his father's grave, he offered up a prayer, and said, "Farewell."

As he passed through the fields, all the flowers looked fresh
and beautiful in the warm sunshine, and nodded in the wind, as if they
wished to say, "Welcome to the green wood, where all is fresh and
bright."

Then John turned to have one more look at the old church, in which
he had been christened in his infancy, and where his father had
taken him every Sunday to hear the service and join in singing the
psalms. As he looked at the old tower, he espied the ringer standing
at one of the narrow openings, with his little pointed red cap on
his head, and shading his eyes from the sun with his bent arm. John
nodded farewell to him, and the little ringer waved his red cap,
laid his hand on his heart, and kissed his hand to him a great many
times, to show that he felt kindly towards him, and wished him a
prosperous journey.

John continued his journey, and thought of all the wonderful
things he should see in the large, beautiful world, till he found
himself farther away from home than ever he had been before. He did
not even know the names of the places he passed through, and could
scarcely understand the language of the people he met, for he was
far away, in a strange land. The first night he slept on a haystack,
out in the fields, for there was no other bed for him; but it seemed
to him so nice and comfortable that even a king need not wish for a
better. The field, the brook, the haystack, with the blue sky above,
formed a beautiful sleeping-room. The green grass, with the little red
and white flowers, was the carpet; the elder-bushes and the hedges
of wild roses looked like garlands on the walls; and for a bath he
could have the clear, fresh water of the brook; while the rushes bowed
their heads to him, to wish him good morning and good evening. The
moon, like a large lamp, hung high up in the blue ceiling, and he
had no fear of its setting fire to his curtains. John slept here quite
safely all night; and when he awoke, the sun was up, and all the
little birds were singing round him, "Good morning, good morning.
Are you not up yet?"

It was Sunday, and the bells were ringing for church. As the
people went in, John followed them; he heard God's word, joined in
singing the psalms, and listened to the preacher. It seemed to him
just as if he were in his own church, where he had been christened,
and had sung the psalms with his father. Out in the churchyard were
several graves, and on some of them the grass had grown very high.
John thought of his father's grave, which he knew at last would look
like these, as he was not there to weed and attend to it. Then he
set to work, pulled up the high grass, raised the wooden crosses which
had fallen down, and replaced the wreaths which had been blown away
from their places by the wind, thinking all the time, "Perhaps some
one is doing the same for my father's grave, as I am not there to do
it."

Outside the church door stood an old beggar, leaning on his
crutch. John gave him his silver shillings, and then he continued
his journey, feeling lighter and happier than ever. Towards evening,
the weather became very stormy, and he hastened on as quickly as he
could, to get shelter; but it was quite dark by the time he reached
a little lonely church which stood on a hill. "I will go in here,"
he said, "and sit down in a corner; for I am quite tired, and want
rest."

So he went in, and seated himself; then he folded his hands, and
offered up his evening prayer, and was soon fast asleep and
dreaming, while the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed
without. When he awoke, it was still night; but the storm had
ceased, and the moon shone in upon him through the windows. Then he
saw an open coffin standing in the centre of the church, which
contained a dead man, waiting for burial. John was not at all timid;
he had a good conscience, and he knew also that the dead can never
injure any one. It is living wicked men who do harm to others. Two
such wicked persons stood now by the dead man, who had been brought to
the church to be buried. Their evil intentions were to throw the
poor dead body outside the church door, and not leave him to rest in
his coffin.

"Why do you do this?" asked John, when he saw what they were going
to do; "it is very wicked. Leave him to rest in peace, in Christ's
name."

"Nonsense," replied the two dreadful men. "He has cheated us; he
owed us money which he could not pay, and now he is dead we shall
not get a penny; so we mean to have our revenge, and let him lie
like a dog outside the church door."

"I have only fifty dollars," said John, "it is all I possess in
the world, but I will give it to you if you will promise me faithfully
to leave the dead man in peace. I shall be able to get on without
the money; I have strong and healthy limbs, and God will always help
me."

"Why, of course," said the horrid men, "if you will pay his debt
we will both promise not to touch him. You may depend upon that;"
and then they took the money he offered them, laughed at him for his
good nature, and went their way.

Then he laid the dead body back in the coffin, folded the hands,
and took leave of it; and went away contentedly through the great
forest. All around him he could see the prettiest little elves dancing
in the moonlight, which shone through the trees. They were not
disturbed by his appearance, for they knew he was good and harmless
among men. They are wicked people only who can never obtain a
glimpse of fairies. Some of them were not taller than the breadth of a
finger, and they wore golden combs in their long, yellow hair. They
were rocking themselves two together on the large dew-drops with which
the leaves and the high grass were sprinkled. Sometimes the
dew-drops would roll away, and then they fell down between the stems
of the long grass, and caused a great deal of laughing and noise among
the other little people. It was quite charming to watch them at
play. Then they sang songs, and John remembered that he had learnt
those pretty songs when he was a little boy. Large speckled spiders,
with silver crowns on their heads, were employed to spin suspension
bridges and palaces from one hedge to another, and when the tiny drops
fell upon them, they glittered in the moonlight like shining glass.
This continued till sunrise. Then the little elves crept into the
flower-buds, and the wind seized the bridges and palaces, and
fluttered them in the air like cobwebs.

As John left the wood, a strong man's voice called after him,
"Hallo, comrade, where are you travelling?"

"Into the wide world," he replied; "I am only a poor lad, I have
neither father nor mother, but God will help me."

"I am going into the wide world also," replied the stranger;
"shall we keep each other company?"

"With all my heart," he said, and so they went on together. Soon
they began to like each other very much, for they were both good;
but John found out that the stranger was much more clever than
himself. He had travelled all over the world, and could describe
almost everything. The sun was high in the heavens when they seated
themselves under a large tree to eat their breakfast, and at the
same moment an old woman came towards them. She was very old and
almost bent double. She leaned upon a stick and carried on her back
a bundle of firewood, which she had collected in the forest; her apron
was tied round it, and John saw three great stems of fern and some
willow twigs peeping out. Just as she came close up to them, her
foot slipped and she fell to the ground screaming loudly; poor old
woman, she had broken her leg! John proposed directly that they should
carry the old woman home to her cottage; but the stranger opened his
knapsack and took out a box, in which he said he had a salve that
would quickly make her leg well and strong again, so that she would be
able to walk home herself, as if her leg had never been broken. And
all that he would ask in return was the three fern stems which she
carried in her apron.

"That is rather too high a price," said the old woman, nodding her
head quite strangely. She did not seem at all inclined to part with
the fern stems. However, it was not very agreeable to lie there with a
broken leg, so she gave them to him; and such was the power of the
ointment, that no sooner had he rubbed her leg with it than the old
mother rose up and walked even better than she had done before. But
then this wonderful ointment could not be bought at a chemist's.

"What can you want with those three fern rods?" asked John of
his fellow-traveller.

"Oh, they will make capital brooms," said he; "and I like them
because I have strange whims sometimes." Then they walked on
together for a long distance.

"How dark the sky is becoming," said John; "and look at those
thick, heavy clouds."

"Those are not clouds," replied his fellow-traveller; "they are
mountains--large lofty mountains--on the tops of which we should be
above the clouds, in the pure, free air. Believe me, it is
delightful to ascend so high, tomorrow we shall be there." But the
mountains were not so near as they appeared; they had to travel a
whole day before they reached them, and pass through black forests and
piles of rock as large as a town. The journey had been so fatiguing
that John and his fellow-traveller stopped to rest at a roadside
inn, so that they might gain strength for their journey on the morrow.
In the large public room of the inn a great many persons were
assembled to see a comedy performed by dolls. The showman had just
erected his little theatre, and the people were sitting round the room
to witness the performance. Right in front, in the very best place,
sat a stout butcher, with a great bull-dog by his side who seemed very
much inclined to bite. He sat staring with all his eyes, and so indeed
did every one else in the room. And then the play began. It was a
pretty piece, with a king and a queen in it, who sat on a beautiful
throne, and had gold crowns on their heads. The trains to their
dresses were very long, according to the fashion; while the
prettiest of wooden dolls, with glass eyes and large mustaches,
stood at the doors, and opened and shut them, that the fresh air might
come into the room. It was a very pleasant play, not at all
mournful; but just as the queen stood up and walked across the
stage, the great bull-dog, who should have been held back by his
master, made a spring forward, and caught the queen in the teeth by
the slender wrist, so that it snapped in two. This was a very dreadful
disaster. The poor man, who was exhibiting the dolls, was much
annoyed, and quite sad about his queen; she was the prettiest doll
he had, and the bull-dog had broken her head and shoulders off. But
after all the people were gone away, the stranger, who came with John,
said that he could soon set her to rights. And then he brought out his
box and rubbed the doll with some of the salve with which he had cured
the old woman when she broke her leg. As soon as this was done the
doll's back became quite right again; her head and shoulders were
fixed on, and she could even move her limbs herself: there was now
no occasion to pull the wires, for the doll acted just like a living
creature, excepting that she could not speak. The man to whom the show
belonged was quite delighted at having a doll who could dance of
herself without being pulled by the wires; none of the other dolls
could do this.

During the night, when all the people at the inn were gone to bed,
some one was heard to sigh so deeply and painfully, and the sighing
continued for so long a time, that every one got up to see what
could be the matter. The showman went at once to his little theatre
and found that it proceeded from the dolls, who all lay on the floor
sighing piteously, and staring with their glass eyes; they all
wanted to be rubbed with the ointment, so that, like the queen, they
might be able to move of themselves. The queen threw herself on her
knees, took off her beautiful crown, and, holding it in her hand,
cried, "Take this from me, but do rub my husband and his courtiers."

The poor man who owned the theatre could scarcely refrain from
weeping; he was so sorry that he could not help them. Then he
immediately spoke to John's comrade, and promised him all the money he
might receive at the next evening's performance, if he would only
rub the ointment on four or five of his dolls. But the fellow-traveller
said he did not require anything in return, excepting the sword
which the showman wore by his side. As soon as he received the
sword he anointed six of the dolls with the ointment, and they
were able immediately to dance so gracefully that all the living girls
in the room could not help joining in the dance. The coachman danced
with the cook, and the waiters with the chambermaids, and all the
strangers joined; even the tongs and the fire-shovel made an
attempt, but they fell down after the first jump. So after all it
was a very merry night. The next morning John and his companion left
the inn to continue their journey through the great pine-forests and
over the high mountains. They arrived at last at such a great height
that towns and villages lay beneath them, and the church steeples
looked like little specks between the green trees. They could see
for miles round, far away to places they had never visited, and John
saw more of the beautiful world than he had ever known before. The sun
shone brightly in the blue firmament above, and through the clear
mountain air came the sound of the huntsman's horn, and the soft,
sweet notes brought tears into his eyes, and he could not help
exclaiming, "How good and loving God is to give us all this beauty and
loveliness in the world to make us happy!"

His fellow-traveller stood by with folded hands, gazing on the
dark wood and the towns bathed in the warm sunshine. At this moment
there sounded over their heads sweet music. They looked up, and
discovered a large white swan hovering in the air, and singing as
never bird sang before. But the song soon became weaker and weaker,
the bird's head drooped, and he sunk slowly down, and lay dead at
their feet.

"It is a beautiful bird," said the traveller, "and these large
white wings are worth a great deal of money. I will take them with me.
You see now that a sword will be very useful."

So he cut off the wings of the dead swan with one blow, and
carried them away with him.

They now continued their journey over the mountains for many
miles, till they at length reached a large city, containing hundreds
of towers, that shone in the sunshine like silver. In the midst of the
city stood a splendid marble palace, roofed with pure red gold, in
which dwelt the king. John and his companion would not go into the
town immediately; so they stopped at an inn outside the town, to
change their clothes; for they wished to appear respectable as they
walked through the streets. The landlord told them that the king was a
very good man, who never injured any one: but as to his daughter,
"Heaven defend us!"

She was indeed a wicked princess. She possessed beauty enough--nobody
could be more elegant or prettier than she was; but what of
that? for she was a wicked witch; and in consequence of her conduct
many noble young princes had lost their lives. Any one was at
liberty to make her an offer; were he a prince or a beggar, it
mattered not to her. She would ask him to guess three things which she
had just thought of, and if he succeed, he was to marry her, and be
king over all the land when her father died; but if he could not guess
these three things, then she ordered him to be hanged or to have his
head cut off. The old king, her father, was very much grieved at her
conduct, but he could not prevent her from being so wicked, because he
once said he would have nothing more to do with her lovers; she
might do as she pleased. Each prince who came and tried the three
guesses, so that he might marry the princess, had been unable to
find them out, and had been hanged or beheaded. They had all been
warned in time, and might have left her alone, if they would. The
old king became at last so distressed at all these dreadful
circumstances, that for a whole day every year he and his soldiers
knelt and prayed that the princess might become good; but she
continued as wicked as ever. The old women who drank brandy would
color it quite black before they drank it, to show how they mourned;
and what more could they do?

"What a horrible princess!" said John; "she ought to be well
flogged. If I were the old king, I would have her punished in some
way."

Just then they heard the people outside shouting, "Hurrah!" and,
looking out, they saw the princess passing by; and she was really so
beautiful that everybody forgot her wickedness, and shouted
"Hurrah!" Twelve lovely maidens in white silk dresses, holding
golden tulips in their hands, rode by her side on coal-black horses.
The princess herself had a snow-white steed, decked with diamonds
and rubies. Her dress was of cloth of gold, and the whip she held in
her hand looked like a sunbeam. The golden crown on her head glittered
like the stars of heaven, and her mantle was formed of thousands of
butterflies' wings sewn together. Yet she herself was more beautiful
than all.

When John saw her, his face became as red as a drop of blood,
and he could scarcely utter a word. The princess looked exactly like
the beautiful lady with the golden crown, of whom he had dreamed on
the night his father died. She appeared to him so lovely that he could
not help loving her.

"It could not be true," he thought, "that she was really a
wicked witch, who ordered people to be hanged or beheaded, if they
could not guess her thoughts. Every one has permission to go and ask
her hand, even the poorest beggar. I shall pay a visit to the palace,"
he said; "I must go, for I cannot help myself."

Then they all advised him not to attempt it; for he would be
sure to share the same fate as the rest. His fellow-traveller also
tried to persuade him against it; but John seemed quite sure of
success. He brushed his shoes and his coat, washed his face and his
hands, combed his soft flaxen hair, and then went out alone into the
town, and walked to the palace.

"Come in," said the king, as John knocked at the door. John opened
it, and the old king, in a dressing gown and embroidered slippers,
came towards him. He had the crown on his head, carried his sceptre in
one hand, and the orb in the other. "Wait a bit," said he, and he
placed the orb under his arm, so that he could offer the other hand to
John; but when he found that John was another suitor, he began to weep
so violently, that both the sceptre and the orb fell to the floor, and
he was obliged to wipe his eyes with his dressing gown. Poor old king!
"Let her alone," he said; "you will fare as badly as all the others.
Come, I will show you." Then he led him out into the princess's
pleasure gardens, and there he saw a frightful sight. On every tree
hung three or four king's sons who had wooed the princess, but had not
been able to guess the riddles she gave them. Their skeletons
rattled in every breeze, so that the terrified birds never dared to
venture into the garden. All the flowers were supported by human bones
instead of sticks, and human skulls in the flower-pots grinned
horribly. It was really a doleful garden for a princess. "Do you see
all this?" said the old king; "your fate will be the same as those who
are here, therefore do not attempt it. You really make me very
unhappy,--I take these things to heart so very much."

John kissed the good old king's hand, and said he was sure it
would be all right, for he was quite enchanted with the beautiful
princess. Then the princess herself came riding into the palace yard
with all her ladies, and he wished her "Good morning." She looked
wonderfully fair and lovely when she offered her hand to John, and
he loved her more than ever. How could she be a wicked witch, as all
the people asserted? He accompanied her into the hall, and the
little pages offered them gingerbread nuts and sweetmeats, but the old
king was so unhappy he could eat nothing, and besides, gingerbread
nuts were too hard for him. It was decided that John should come to
the palace the next day, when the judges and the whole of the
counsellors would be present, to try if he could guess the first
riddle. If he succeeded, he would have to come a second time; but if
not, he would lose his life,--and no one had ever been able to guess
even one. However, John was not at all anxious about the result of his
trial; on the contrary, he was very merry. He thought only of the
beautiful princess, and believed that in some way he should have help,
but how he knew not, and did not like to think about it; so he
danced along the high-road as he went back to the inn, where he had
left his fellow-traveller waiting for him. John could not refrain from
telling him how gracious the princess had been, and how beautiful
she looked. He longed for the next day so much, that he might go to
the palace and try his luck at guessing the riddles. But his comrade
shook his head, and looked very mournful. "I do so wish you to do
well," said he; "we might have continued together much longer, and now
I am likely to lose you; you poor dear John! I could shed tears, but I
will not make you unhappy on the last night we may be together. We
will be merry, really merry this evening; to-morrow, after you are
gone, shall be able to weep undisturbed."

It was very quickly known among the inhabitants of the town that
another suitor had arrived for the princess, and there was great
sorrow in consequence. The theatre remained closed, the women who sold
sweetmeats tied crape round the sugar-sticks, and the king and the
priests were on their knees in the church. There was a great
lamentation, for no one expected John to succeed better than those who
had been suitors before.

In the evening John's comrade prepared a large bowl of punch,
and said, "Now let us be merry, and drink to the health of the
princess." But after drinking two glasses, John became so sleepy, that
he could not keep his eyes open, and fell fast asleep. Then his
fellow-traveller lifted him gently out of his chair, and laid him on
the bed; and as soon as it was quite dark, he took the two large wings
which he had cut from the dead swan, and tied them firmly to his own
shoulders. Then he put into his pocket the largest of the three rods
which he had obtained from the old woman who had fallen and broken her
leg. After this he opened the window, and flew away over the town,
straight towards the palace, and seated himself in a corner, under the
window which looked into the bedroom of the princess.

The town was perfectly still when the clocks struck a quarter to
twelve. Presently the window opened, and the princess, who had large
black wings to her shoulders, and a long white mantle, flew away
over the city towards a high mountain. The fellow-traveller, who had
made himself invisible, so that she could not possibly see him, flew
after her through the air, and whipped the princess with his rod, so
that the blood came whenever he struck her. Ah, it was a strange
flight through the air! The wind caught her mantle, so that it
spread out on all sides, like the large sail of a ship, and the moon
shone through it. "How it hails, to be sure!" said the princess, at
each blow she received from the rod; and it served her right to be
whipped.

At last she reached the side of the mountain, and knocked. The
mountain opened with a noise like the roll of thunder, and the
princess went in. The traveller followed her; no one could see him, as
he had made himself invisible. They went through a long, wide passage.
A thousand gleaming spiders ran here and there on the walls, causing
them to glitter as if they were illuminated with fire. They next
entered a large hall built of silver and gold. Large red and blue
flowers shone on the walls, looking like sunflowers in size, but no
one could dare to pluck them, for the stems were hideous poisonous
snakes, and the flowers were flames of fire, darting out of their
jaws. Shining glow-worms covered the ceiling, and sky-blue bats
flapped their transparent wings. Altogether the place had a
frightful appearance. In the middle of the floor stood a throne
supported by four skeleton horses, whose harness had been made by
fiery-red spiders. The throne itself was made of milk-white glass, and
the cushions were little black mice, each biting the other's tail.
Over it hung a canopy of rose-colored spider's webs, spotted with
the prettiest little green flies, which sparkled like precious stones.
On the throne sat an old magician with a crown on his ugly head, and a
sceptre in his hand. He kissed the princess on the forehead, seated
her by his side on the splendid throne, and then the music
commenced. Great black grasshoppers played the mouth organ, and the
owl struck herself on the body instead of a drum. It was altogether
a ridiculous concert. Little black goblins with false lights in
their caps danced about the hall; but no one could see the
traveller, and he had placed himself just behind the throne where he
could see and hear everything. The courtiers who came in afterwards
looked noble and grand; but any one with common sense could see what
they really were, only broomsticks, with cabbages for heads. The
magician had given them life, and dressed them in embroidered robes.
It answered very well, as they were only wanted for show. After
there had been a little dancing, the princess told the magician that
she had a new suitor, and asked him what she could think of for the
suitor to guess when he came to the castle the next morning.

"Listen to what I say," said the magician, "you must choose
something very easy, he is less likely to guess it then. Think of
one of your shoes, he will never imagine it is that. Then cut his head
off; and mind you do not forget to bring his eyes with you to-morrow
night, that I may eat them."

The princess curtsied low, and said she would not forget the eyes.

The magician then opened the mountain and she flew home again, but
the traveller followed and flogged her so much with the rod, that
she sighed quite deeply about the heavy hail-storm, and made as much
haste as she could to get back to her bedroom through the window.
The traveller then returned to the inn where John still slept, took
off his wings and laid down on the bed, for he was very tired. Early
in the morning John awoke, and when his fellow-traveller got up, he
said that he had a very wonderful dream about the princess and her
shoe, he therefore advised John to ask her if she had not thought of
her shoe. Of course the traveller knew this from what the magician
in the mountain had said.

"I may as well say that as anything," said John. "Perhaps your
dream may come true; still I will say farewell, for if I guess wrong I
shall never see you again."

Then they embraced each other, and John went into the town and
walked to the palace. The great hall was full of people, and the
judges sat in arm-chairs, with eider-down cushions to rest their heads
upon, because they had so much to think of. The old king stood near,
wiping his eyes with his white pocket-handkerchief. When the
princess entered, she looked even more beautiful than she had appeared
the day before, and greeted every one present most gracefully; but
to John she gave her hand, and said, "Good morning to you."

Now came the time for John to guess what she was thinking of;
and oh, how kindly she looked at him as she spoke. But when he uttered
the single word shoe, she turned as pale as a ghost; all her wisdom
could not help her, for he had guessed rightly. Oh, how pleased the
old king was! It was quite amusing to see how he capered about. All
the people clapped their hands, both on his account and John's, who
had guessed rightly the first time. His fellow-traveller was glad
also, when he heard how successful John had been. But John folded
his hands, and thanked God, who, he felt quite sure, would help him
again; and he knew he had to guess twice more. The evening passed
pleasantly like the one preceding. While John slept, his companion
flew behind the princess to the mountain, and flogged her even
harder than before; this time he had taken two rods with him. No one
saw him go in with her, and he heard all that was said. The princess
this time was to think of a glove, and he told John as if he had again
heard it in a dream. The next day, therefore, he was able to guess
correctly the second time, and it caused great rejoicing at the
palace. The whole court jumped about as they had seen the king do
the day before, but the princess lay on the sofa, and would not say
a single word. All now depended upon John. If he only guessed
rightly the third time, he would marry the princess, and reign over
the kingdom after the death of the old king: but if he failed, he
would lose his life, and the magician would have his beautiful blue
eyes. That evening John said his prayers and went to bed very early,
and soon fell asleep calmly. But his companion tied on his wings to
his shoulders, took three rods, and, with his sword at his side,
flew to the palace. It was a very dark night, and so stormy that the
tiles flew from the roofs of the houses, and the trees in the garden
upon which the skeletons hung bent themselves like reeds before the
wind. The lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled in one
long-continued peal all night. The window of the castle opened, and
the princess flew out. She was pale as death, but she laughed at the
storm as if it were not bad enough. Her white mantle fluttered in
the wind like a large sail, and the traveller flogged her with the
three rods till the blood trickled down, and at last she could
scarcely fly; she contrived, however, to reach the mountain. "What a
hail-storm!" she said, as she entered; "I have never been out in
such weather as this."

"Yes, there may be too much of a good thing sometimes," said the
magician.

Then the princess told him that John had guessed rightly the
second time, and if he succeeded the next morning, he would win, and
she could never come to the mountain again, or practice magic as she
had done, and therefore she was quite unhappy. "I will find out
something for you to think of which he will never guess, unless he
is a greater conjuror than myself. But now let us be merry."

Then he took the princess by both hands, and they danced with
all the little goblins and Jack-o'-lanterns in the room. The red
spiders sprang here and there on the walls quite as merrily, and the
flowers of fire appeared as if they were throwing out sparks. The
owl beat the drum, the crickets whistled and the grasshoppers played
the mouth-organ. It was a very ridiculous ball. After they had
danced enough, the princess was obliged to go home, for fear she
should be missed at the palace. The magician offered to go with her,
that they might be company to each other on the way. Then they flew
away through the bad weather, and the traveller followed them, and
broke his three rods across their shoulders. The magician had never
been out in such a hail-storm as this. Just by the palace the magician
stopped to wish the princess farewell, and to whisper in her ear,
"To-morrow think of my head."

But the traveller heard it, and just as the princess slipped
through the window into her bedroom, and the magician turned round
to fly back to the mountain, he seized him by the long black beard,
and with his sabre cut off the wicked conjuror's head just behind
the shoulders, so that he could not even see who it was. He threw
the body into the sea to the fishes, and after dipping the head into
the water, he tied it up in a silk handkerchief, took it with him to
the inn, and then went to bed. The next morning he gave John the
handkerchief, and told him not to untie it till the princess asked him
what she was thinking of. There were so many people in the great
hall of the palace that they stood as thick as radishes tied
together in a bundle. The council sat in their arm-chairs with the
white cushions. The old king wore new robes, and the golden crown
and sceptre had been polished up so that he looked quite smart. But
the princess was very pale, and wore a black dress as if she were
going to a funeral.

"What have I thought of?" asked the princess, of John. He
immediately untied the handkerchief, and was himself quite
frightened when he saw the head of the ugly magician. Every one
shuddered, for it was terrible to look at; but the princess sat like a
statue, and could not utter a single word. At length she rose and gave
John her hand, for he had guessed rightly.

She looked at no one, but sighed deeply, and said, "You are my
master now; this evening our marriage must take place."

"I am very pleased to hear it," said the old king. "It is just
what I wish."

Then all the people shouted "Hurrah." The band played music in the
streets, the bells rang, and the cake-women took the black crape off
the sugar-sticks. There was universal joy. Three oxen, stuffed with
ducks and chickens, were roasted whole in the market-place, where
every one might help himself to a slice. The fountains spouted forth
the most delicious wine, and whoever bought a penny loaf at the
baker's received six large buns, full of raisins, as a present. In the
evening the whole town was illuminated. The soldiers fired off
cannons, and the boys let off crackers. There was eating and drinking,
dancing and jumping everywhere. In the palace, the high-born gentlemen
and beautiful ladies danced with each other, and they could be heard
at a great distance singing the following song:--

  "Here are maidens, young and fair,
  Dancing in the summer air;
  Like two spinning-wheels at play,
  Pretty maidens dance away--
  Dance the spring and summer through
  Till the sole falls from your shoe."


But the princess was still a witch, and she could not love John.
His fellow-traveller had thought of that, so he gave John three
feathers out of the swan's wings, and a little bottle with a few drops
in it. He told him to place a large bath full of water by the
princess's bed, and put the feathers and the drops into it. Then, at
the moment she was about to get into bed, he must give her a little
push, so that she might fall into the water, and then dip her three
times. This would destroy the power of the magician, and she would
love him very much. John did all that his companion told him to do.
The princess shrieked aloud when he dipped her under the water the
first time, and struggled under his hands in the form of a great black
swan with fiery eyes. As she rose the second time from the water,
the swan had become white, with a black ring round its neck. John
allowed the water to close once more over the bird, and at the same
time it changed into a most beautiful princess. She was more lovely
even than before, and thanked him, while her eyes sparkled with tears,
for having broken the spell of the magician. The next day, the king
came with the whole court to offer their congratulations, and stayed
till quite late. Last of all came the travelling companion; he had his
staff in his hand and his knapsack on his back. John kissed him many
times and told him he must not go, he must remain with him, for he was
the cause of all his good fortune. But the traveller shook his head,
and said gently and kindly, "No: my time is up now; I have only paid
my debt to you. Do you remember the dead man whom the bad people
wished to throw out of his coffin? You gave all you possessed that
he might rest in his grave; I am that man." As he said this, he
vanished.

The wedding festivities lasted a whole month. John and his
princess loved each other dearly, and the old king lived to see many a
happy day, when he took their little children on his knees and let
them play with his sceptre. And John became king over the whole
country.




TWO BROTHERS

On one of the Danish islands, where old Thingstones, the seats
of justice of our forefathers, still stand in the cornfields, and huge
trees rise in the forests of beech, there lies a little town whose low
houses are covered with red tiles. In one of these houses strange
things were brewing over the glowing coals on the open hearth; there
was a boiling going on in glasses, and a mixing and distilling,
while herbs were being cut up and pounded in mortars. An elderly man
looked after it all.

"One must only do the right thing," he said; "yes, the right--the
correct thing. One must find out the truth concerning every
created particle, and keep to that."

In the room with the good housewife sat her two sons; they were
still small, but had great thoughts. Their mother, too, had always
spoken to them of right and justice, and exhorted them to keep to
the truth, which she said was the countenance of the Lord in this
world.

The elder of the boys looked roguish and enterprising. He took a
delight in reading of the forces of nature, of the sun and the moon;
no fairy tale pleased him so much. Oh, how beautiful it must be, he
thought, to go on voyages of discovery, or to find out how to
imitate the wings of birds and then to be able to fly! Yes, to find
that out was the right thing. Father was right, and mother was
right--truth holds the world together.

The younger brother was quieter, and buried himself entirely in
his books. When he read about Jacob dressing himself in sheep-skins to
personify Esau, and so to usurp his brother's birthright, he would
clench his little fist in anger against the deceiver; when he read
of tyrants and of the injustice and wickedness of the world, tears
would come into his eyes, and he was quite filled with the thought
of the justice and truth which must and would triumph.

One evening he was lying in bed, but the curtains were not yet
drawn close, and the light streamed in upon him; he had taken his book
into bed with him, for he wanted to finish reading the story of Solon.
His thoughts lifted and carried him away a wonderful distance; it
seemed to him as if the bed had become a ship flying along under
full sail. Was he dreaming, or what was happening? It glided over
the rolling waves and across the ocean of time, and to him came the
voice of Solon; spoken in a strange tongue, yet intelligible to him,
he heard the Danish motto: "By law the land is ruled."

The genius of the human race stood in the humble room, bent down
over the bed and imprinted a kiss on the boy's forehead: "Be thou
strong in fame and strong in the battle of life! With truth in thy
heart fly toward the land of truth!"

The elder brother was not yet in bed; he was standing at the
window looking out at the mist which rose from the meadows. They
were not elves dancing out there, as their old nurse had told him;
he knew better--they were vapours which were warmer than the air,
and that is why they rose. A shooting star lit up the sky, and the
boy's thoughts passed in a second from the vapours of the earth up
to the shining meteor. The stars gleamed in the heavens, and it seemed
as if long golden threads hung down from them to the earth.

"Fly with me," sang a voice, which the boy heard in his heart. And
the mighty genius of mankind, swifter than a bird and than an
arrow--swifter than anything of earthly origin--carried him out into
space, where the heavenly bodies are bound together by the rays that
pass from star to star. Our earth revolved in the thin air, and the
cities upon it seemed to lie close to each other. Through the
spheres echoed the words:

"What is near, what is far, when thou art lifted by the mighty
genius of mind?"

And again the boy stood by the window, gazing out, whilst his
younger brother lay in bed. Their mother called them by their names:
"Anders Sandoe" and "Hans Christian."

Denmark and the whole world knows them--the two brothers Oersted.




TWO MAIDENS

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

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

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

"Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a thing, and we
won't be called things--that's insulting us."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE UGLY DUCKLING

It was lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden
corn, the green oats, and the haystacks piled up in the meadows looked
beautiful. The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in
the Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The
corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst
of which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about
in the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house
close by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side
grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a
little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre
of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on her nest, watching
for her young brood to hatch; she was beginning to get tired of her
task, for the little ones were a long time coming out of their shells,
and she seldom had any visitors. The other ducks liked much better
to swim about in the river than to climb the slippery banks, and sit
under a burdock leaf, to have a gossip with her. At length one shell
cracked, and then another, and from each egg came a living creature
that lifted its head and cried, "Peep, peep." "Quack, quack," said the
mother, and then they all quacked as well as they could, and looked
about them on every side at the large green leaves. Their mother
allowed them to look as much as they liked, because green is good
for the eyes. "How large the world is," said the young ducks, when
they found how much more room they now had than while they were inside
the egg-shell. "Do you imagine this is the whole world?" asked the
mother; "Wait till you have seen the garden; it stretches far beyond
that to the parson's field, but I have never ventured to such a
distance. Are you all out?" she continued, rising; "No, I declare, the
largest egg lies there still. I wonder how long this is to last, I
am quite tired of it;" and she seated herself again on the nest.

"Well, how are you getting on?" asked an old duck, who paid her
a visit.

"One egg is not hatched yet," said the duck, "it will not break.
But just look at all the others, are they not the prettiest little
ducklings you ever saw? They are the image of their father, who is
so unkind, he never comes to see."

"Let me see the egg that will not break," said the duck; "I have
no doubt it is a turkey's egg. I was persuaded to hatch some once, and
after all my care and trouble with the young ones, they were afraid of
the water. I quacked and clucked, but all to no purpose. I could not
get them to venture in. Let me look at the egg. Yes, that is a
turkey's egg; take my advice, leave it where it is and teach the other
children to swim."

"I think I will sit on it a little while longer," said the duck;
"as I have sat so long already, a few days will be nothing."

"Please yourself," said the old duck, and she went away.

At last the large egg broke, and a young one crept forth crying,
"Peep, peep." It was very large and ugly. The duck stared at it and
exclaimed, "It is very large and not at all like the others. I
wonder if it really is a turkey. We shall soon find it out, however
when we go to the water. It must go in, if I have to push it myself."

On the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun shone
brightly on the green burdock leaves, so the mother duck took her
young brood down to the water, and jumped in with a splash. "Quack,
quack," cried she, and one after another the little ducklings jumped
in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up again in an
instant, and swam about quite prettily with their legs paddling
under them as easily as possible, and the ugly duckling was also in
the water swimming with them.

"Oh," said the mother, "that is not a turkey; how well he uses his
legs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he
is not so very ugly after all if you look at him properly. Quack,
quack! come with me now, I will take you into grand society, and
introduce you to the farmyard, but you must keep close to me or you
may be trodden upon; and, above all, beware of the cat."

When they reached the farmyard, there was a great disturbance, two
families were fighting for an eel's head, which, after all, was
carried off by the cat. "See, children, that is the way of the world,"
said the mother duck, whetting her beak, for she would have liked
the eel's head herself. "Come, now, use your legs, and let me see
how well you can behave. You must bow your heads prettily to that
old duck yonder; she is the highest born of them all, and has
Spanish blood, therefore, she is well off. Don't you see she has a red
flag tied to her leg, which is something very grand, and a great honor
for a duck; it shows that every one is anxious not to lose her, as she
can be recognized both by man and beast. Come, now, don't turn your
toes, a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart, just like
his father and mother, in this way; now bend your neck, and say
'quack.'"

The ducklings did as they were bid, but the other duck stared, and
said, "Look, here comes another brood, as if there were not enough
of us already! and what a queer looking object one of them is; we
don't want him here," and then one flew out and bit him in the neck.

"Let him alone," said the mother; "he is not doing any harm."

"Yes, but he is so big and ugly," said the spiteful duck "and
therefore he must be turned out."

"The others are very pretty children," said the old duck, with the
rag on her leg, "all but that one; I wish his mother could improve him
a little."

"That is impossible, your grace," replied the mother; "he is not
pretty; but he has a very good disposition, and swims as well or
even better than the others. I think he will grow up pretty, and
perhaps be smaller; he has remained too long in the egg, and therefore
his figure is not properly formed;" and then she stroked his neck
and smoothed the feathers, saying, "It is a drake, and therefore not
of so much consequence. I think he will grow up strong, and able to
take care of himself."

"The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old duck. "Now
make yourself at home, and if you can find an eel's head, you can
bring it to me."

And so they made themselves comfortable; but the poor duckling,
who had crept out of his shell last of all, and looked so ugly, was
bitten and pushed and made fun of, not only by the ducks, but by all
the poultry. "He is too big," they all said, and the turkey cock,
who had been born into the world with spurs, and fancied himself
really an emperor, puffed himself out like a vessel in full sail,
and flew at the duckling, and became quite red in the head with
passion, so that the poor little thing did not know where to go, and
was quite miserable because he was so ugly and laughed at by the whole
farmyard. So it went on from day to day till it got worse and worse.
The poor duckling was driven about by every one; even his brothers and
sisters were unkind to him, and would say, "Ah, you ugly creature, I
wish the cat would get you," and his mother said she wished he had
never been born. The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him, and
the girl who fed the poultry kicked him with her feet. So at last he
ran away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over
the palings.

"They are afraid of me because I am ugly," he said. So he closed
his eyes, and flew still farther, until he came out on a large moor,
inhabited by wild ducks. Here he remained the whole night, feeling
very tired and sorrowful.

In the morning, when the wild ducks rose in the air, they stared
at their new comrade. "What sort of a duck are you?" they all said,
coming round him.

He bowed to them, and was as polite as he could be, but he did not
reply to their question. "You are exceedingly ugly," said the wild
ducks, "but that will not matter if you do not want to marry one of
our family."

Poor thing! he had no thoughts of marriage; all he wanted was
permission to lie among the rushes, and drink some of the water on the
moor. After he had been on the moor two days, there came two wild
geese, or rather goslings, for they had not been out of the egg
long, and were very saucy. "Listen, friend," said one of them to the
duckling, "you are so ugly, that we like you very well. Will you go
with us, and become a bird of passage? Not far from here is another
moor, in which there are some pretty wild geese, all unmarried. It
is a chance for you to get a wife; you may be lucky, ugly as you are."

"Pop, pop," sounded in the air, and the two wild geese fell dead
among the rushes, and the water was tinged with blood. "Pop, pop,"
echoed far and wide in the distance, and whole flocks of wild geese
rose up from the rushes. The sound continued from every direction, for
the sportsmen surrounded the moor, and some were even seated on
branches of trees, overlooking the rushes. The blue smoke from the
guns rose like clouds over the dark trees, and as it floated away
across the water, a number of sporting dogs bounded in among the
rushes, which bent beneath them wherever they went. How they terrified
the poor duckling! He turned away his head to hide it under his
wing, and at the same moment a large terrible dog passed quite near
him. His jaws were open, his tongue hung from his mouth, and his
eyes glared fearfully. He thrust his nose close to the duckling,
showing his sharp teeth, and then, "splash, splash," he went into
the water without touching him, "Oh," sighed the duckling, "how
thankful I am for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me." And
so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes,
and gun after gun was fired over him. It was late in the day before
all became quiet, but even then the poor young thing did not dare to
move. He waited quietly for several hours, and then, after looking
carefully around him, hastened away from the moor as fast as he could.
He ran over field and meadow till a storm arose, and he could hardly
struggle against it. Towards evening, he reached a poor little cottage
that seemed ready to fall, and only remained standing because it could
not decide on which side to fall first. The storm continued so
violent, that the duckling could go no farther; he sat down by the
cottage, and then he noticed that the door was not quite closed in
consequence of one of the hinges having given way. There was therefore
a narrow opening near the bottom large enough for him to slip through,
which he did very quietly, and got a shelter for the night. A woman, a
tom cat, and a hen lived in this cottage. The tom cat, whom the
mistress called, "My little son," was a great favorite; he could raise
his back, and purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur if it
were stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs, so she was
called "Chickie short legs." She laid good eggs, and her mistress
loved her as if she had been her own child. In the morning, the
strange visitor was discovered, and the tom cat began to purr, and the
hen to cluck.

"What is that noise about?" said the old woman, looking round
the room, but her sight was not very good; therefore, when she saw the
duckling she thought it must be a fat duck, that had strayed from
home. "Oh what a prize!" she exclaimed, "I hope it is not a drake, for
then I shall have some duck's eggs. I must wait and see." So the
duckling was allowed to remain on trial for three weeks, but there
were no eggs. Now the tom cat was the master of the house, and the hen
was mistress, and they always said, "We and the world," for they
believed themselves to be half the world, and the better half too. The
duckling thought that others might hold a different opinion on the
subject, but the hen would not listen to such doubts. "Can you lay
eggs?" she asked. "No." "Then have the goodness to hold your
tongue." "Can you raise your back, or purr, or throw out sparks?" said
the tom cat. "No." "Then you have no right to express an opinion
when sensible people are speaking." So the duckling sat in a corner,
feeling very low spirited, till the sunshine and the fresh air came
into the room through the open door, and then he began to feel such
a great longing for a swim on the water, that he could not help
telling the hen.

"What an absurd idea," said the hen. "You have nothing else to do,
therefore you have foolish fancies. If you could purr or lay eggs,
they would pass away."

"But it is so delightful to swim about on the water," said the
duckling, "and so refreshing to feel it close over your head, while
you dive down to the bottom."

"Delightful, indeed!" said the hen, "why you must be crazy! Ask
the cat, he is the cleverest animal I know, ask him how he would
like to swim about on the water, or to dive under it, for I will not
speak of my own opinion; ask our mistress, the old woman--there is
no one in the world more clever than she is. Do you think she would
like to swim, or to let the water close over her head?"

"You don't understand me," said the duckling.

"We don't understand you? Who can understand you, I wonder? Do you
consider yourself more clever than the cat, or the old woman? I will
say nothing of myself. Don't imagine such nonsense, child, and thank
your good fortune that you have been received here. Are you not in a
warm room, and in society from which you may learn something. But
you are a chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable. Believe
me, I speak only for your own good. I may tell you unpleasant
truths, but that is a proof of my friendship. I advise you, therefore,
to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible."

"I believe I must go out into the world again," said the duckling.

"Yes, do," said the hen. So the duckling left the cottage, and
soon found water on which it could swim and dive, but was avoided by
all other animals, because of its ugly appearance. Autumn came, and
the leaves in the forest turned to orange and gold. Then, as winter
approached, the wind caught them as they fell and whirled them in
the cold air. The clouds, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, hung low in
the sky, and the raven stood on the ferns crying, "Croak, croak." It
made one shiver with cold to look at him. All this was very sad for
the poor little duckling. One evening, just as the sun set amid
radiant clouds, there came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the
bushes. The duckling had never seen any like them before. They were
swans, and they curved their graceful necks, while their soft
plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a singular cry, as
they spread their glorious wings and flew away from those cold regions
to warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher and
higher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange
sensation as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water like a
wheel, stretched out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so
strange that it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those
beautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight,
he dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself with
excitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they had
flown, but he felt towards them as he had never felt for any other
bird in the world. He was not envious of these beautiful creatures,
but wished to be as lovely as they. Poor ugly creature, how gladly
he would have lived even with the ducks had they only given him
encouragement. The winter grew colder and colder; he was obliged to
swim about on the water to keep it from freezing, but every night
the space on which he swam became smaller and smaller. At length it
froze so hard that the ice in the water crackled as he moved, and
the duckling had to paddle with his legs as well as he could, to
keep the space from closing up. He became exhausted at last, and lay
still and helpless, frozen fast in the ice.

Early in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw what
had happened. He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and
carried the duckling home to his wife. The warmth revived the poor
little creature; but when the children wanted to play with him, the
duckling thought they would do him some harm; so he started up in
terror, fluttered into the milk-pan, and splashed the milk about the
room. Then the woman clapped her hands, which frightened him still
more. He flew first into the butter-cask, then into the meal-tub,
and out again. What a condition he was in! The woman screamed, and
struck at him with the tongs; the children laughed and screamed, and
tumbled over each other, in their efforts to catch him; but luckily he
escaped. The door stood open; the poor creature could just manage to
slip out among the bushes, and lie down quite exhausted in the newly
fallen snow.

It would be very sad, were I to relate all the misery and
privations which the poor little duckling endured during the hard
winter; but when it had passed, he found himself lying one morning
in a moor, amongst the rushes. He felt the warm sun shining, and heard
the lark singing, and saw that all around was beautiful spring. Then
the young bird felt that his wings were strong, as he flapped them
against his sides, and rose high into the air. They bore him
onwards, until he found himself in a large garden, before he well knew
how it had happened. The apple-trees were in full blossom, and the
fragrant elders bent their long green branches down to the stream
which wound round a smooth lawn. Everything looked beautiful, in the
freshness of early spring. From a thicket close by came three
beautiful white swans, rustling their feathers, and swimming lightly
over the smooth water. The duckling remembered the lovely birds, and
felt more strangely unhappy than ever.

"I will fly to those royal birds," he exclaimed, "and they will
kill me, because I am so ugly, and dare to approach them; but it
does not matter: better be killed by them than pecked by the ducks,
beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden who feeds the
poultry, or starved with hunger in the winter."

Then he flew to the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans.
The moment they espied the stranger, they rushed to meet him with
outstretched wings.

"Kill me," said the poor bird; and he bent his head down to the
surface of the water, and awaited death.

But what did he see in the clear stream below? His own image; no
longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a
graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck's nest, in a
farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a
swan's egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble,
because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and
happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the new-comer,
and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.

Into the garden presently came some little children, and threw
bread and cake into the water.

"See," cried the youngest, "there is a new one;" and the rest were
delighted, and ran to their father and mother, dancing and clapping
their hands, and shouting joyously, "There is another swan come; a new
one has arrived."

Then they threw more bread and cake into the water, and said, "The
new one is the most beautiful of all; he is so young and pretty."
And the old swans bowed their heads before him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing; for
he did not know what to do, he was so happy, and yet not at all proud.
He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard
them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the
elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun
shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his
slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, "I
never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly
duckling."




UNDER THE WILLOW-TREE

The region round the little town of Kjoge is very bleak and
cold. The town lies on the sea shore, which is always beautiful; but
here it might be more beautiful than it is, for on every side the
fields are flat, and it is a long way to the forest. But when
persons reside in a place and get used to it, they can always find
something beautiful in it,--something for which they long, even in the
most charming spot in the world which is not home. It must be owned
that there are in the outskirts of the town some humble gardens on the
banks of a little stream that runs on towards the sea, and in summer
these gardens look very pretty. Such indeed was the opinion of two
little children, whose parents were neighbors, and who played in these
gardens, and forced their way from one garden to the other through the
gooseberry-bushes that divided them. In one of the gardens grew an
elder-tree, and in the other an old willow, under which the children
were very fond of playing. They had permission to do so, although
the tree stood close by the stream, and they might easily have
fallen into the water; but the eye of God watches over the little
ones, otherwise they would never be safe. At the same time, these
children were very careful not to go too near the water; indeed, the
boy was so afraid of it, that in the summer, while the other
children were splashing about in the sea, nothing could entice him
to join them. They jeered and laughed at him, and he was obliged to
bear it all as patiently as he could. Once the neighbor's little girl,
Joanna, dreamed that she was sailing in a boat, and the boy--Knud
was his name--waded out in the water to join her, and the water came
up to his neck, and at last closed over his head, and in a moment he
had disappeared. When little Knud heard this dream, it seemed as if he
could not bear the mocking and jeering again; how could he dare to
go into the water now, after Joanna's dream! He never would do it, for
this dream always satisfied him. The parents of these children, who
were poor, often sat together while Knud and Joanna played in the
gardens or in the road. Along this road--a row of willow-trees had
been planted to separate it from a ditch on one side of it. They
were not very handsome trees, for the tops had been cut off;
however, they were intended for use, and not for show. The old
willow-tree in the garden was much handsomer, and therefore the
children were very fond of sitting under it. The town had a large
market-place; and at the fair-time there would be whole rows, like
streets, of tents and booths containing silks and ribbons, and toys
and cakes, and everything that could be wished for. There were
crowds of people, and sometimes the weather would be rainy, and splash
with moisture the woollen jackets of the peasants; but it did not
destroy the beautiful fragrance of the honey-cakes and gingerbread
with which one booth was filled; and the best of it was, that the
man who sold these cakes always lodged during the fair-time with
little Knud's parents. So every now and then he had a present of
gingerbread, and of course Joanna always had a share. And, more
delightful still, the gingerbread seller knew all sorts of things to
tell and could even relate stories about his own gingerbread. So one
evening he told them a story that made such a deep impression on the
children that they never forgot it; and therefore I think we may as
well hear it too, for it is not very long.

"Once upon a time," said he, "there lay on my counter two
gingerbread cakes, one in the shape of a man wearing a hat, the
other of a maiden without a bonnet. Their faces were on the side
that was uppermost, for on the other side they looked very
different. Most people have a best side to their characters, which
they take care to show to the world. On the left, just where the heart
is, the gingerbread man had an almond stuck in to represent it, but
the maiden was honey cake all over. They were placed on the counter as
samples, and after lying there a long time they at last fell in love
with each other; but neither of them spoke of it to the other, as they
should have done if they expected anything to follow. 'He is a man, he
ought to speak the first word,' thought the gingerbread maiden; but
she felt quite happy--she was sure that her love was returned. But his
thoughts were far more ambitious, as the thoughts of a man often
are. He dreamed that he was a real street boy, that he possessed
four real pennies, and that he had bought the gingerbread lady, and
ate her up. And so they lay on the counter for days and weeks, till
they grew hard and dry; but the thoughts of the maiden became ever
more tender and womanly. 'Ah well, it is enough for me that I have
been able to live on the same counter with him,' said she one day;
when suddenly, 'crack,' and she broke in two. 'Ah,' said the
gingerbread man to himself, 'if she had only known of my love, she
would have kept together a little longer.' And here they both are, and
that is their history," said the cake man. "You think the history of
their lives and their silent love, which never came to anything,
very remarkable; and there they are for you." So saying, he gave
Joanna the gingerbread man, who was still quite whole--and to Knud the
broken maiden; but the children had been so much impressed by the
story, that they had not the heart to eat the lovers up.

The next day they went into the churchyard, and took the two
cake figures with them, and sat down under the church wall, which
was covered with luxuriant ivy in summer and winter, and looked as
if hung with rich tapestry. They stuck up the two gingerbread
figures in the sunshine among the green leaves, and then told the
story, and all about the silent love which came to nothing, to a group
of children. They called it, "love," because the story was so
lovely, and the other children had the same opinion. But when they
turned to look at the gingerbread pair, the broken maiden was gone!
A great boy, out of wickedness, had eaten her up. At first the
children cried about it; but afterwards, thinking very probably that
the poor lover ought not to be left alone in the world, they ate him
up too: but they never forgot the story.

The two children still continued to play together by the
elder-tree, and under the willow; and the little maiden sang beautiful
songs, with a voice that was as clear as a bell. Knud, on the
contrary, had not a note of music in him, but knew the words of the
songs, and that of course is something. The people of Kjoge, and
even the rich wife of the man who kept the fancy shop, would stand and
listen while Joanna was singing, and say, "She has really a very sweet
voice."

Those were happy days; but they could not last forever. The
neighbors were separated, the mother of the little girl was dead,
and her father had thoughts of marrying again and of residing in the
capital, where he had been promised a very lucrative appointment as
messenger. The neighbors parted with tears, the children wept sadly;
but their parents promised that they should write to each other at
least once a year.

After this, Knud was bound apprentice to a shoemaker; he was
growing a great boy, and could not be allowed to run wild any
longer. Besides, he was going to be confirmed. Ah, how happy he
would have been on that festal day in Copenhagen with little Joanna;
but he still remained at Kjoge, and had never seen the great city,
though the town is not five miles from it. But far across the bay,
when the sky was clear, the towers of Copenhagen could be seen; and on
the day of his confirmation he saw distinctly the golden cross on
the principal church glittering in the sun. How often his thoughts
were with Joanna! but did she think of him? Yes. About Christmas
came a letter from her father to Knud's parents, which stated that
they were going on very well in Copenhagen, and mentioning
particularly that Joanna's beautiful voice was likely to bring her a
brilliant fortune in the future. She was engaged to sing at a concert,
and she had already earned money by singing, out of which she sent her
dear neighbors at Kjoge a whole dollar, for them to make merry on
Christmas eve, and they were to drink her health. She had herself
added this in a postscript, and in the same postscript she wrote,
"Kind regards to Knud."

The good neighbors wept, although the news was so pleasant; but
they wept tears of joy. Knud's thoughts had been daily with Joanna,
and now he knew that she also had thought of him; and the nearer the
time came for his apprenticeship to end, the clearer did it appear
to him that he loved Joanna, and that she must be his wife; and a
smile came on his lips at the thought, and at one time he drew the
thread so fast as he worked, and pressed his foot so hard against
the knee strap, that he ran the awl into his finger; but what did he
care for that? He was determined not to play the dumb lover as both
the gingerbread cakes had done; the story was a good lesson to him.

At length he become a journeyman; and then, for the first time, he
prepared for a journey to Copenhagen, with his knapsack packed and
ready. A master was expecting him there, and he thought of Joanna, and
how glad she would be to see him. She was now seventeen, and he
nineteen years old. He wanted to buy a gold ring for her in Kjoge, but
then he recollected how far more beautiful such things would be in
Copenhagen. So he took leave of his parents, and on a rainy day,
late in the autumn, wandered forth on foot from the town of his birth.
The leaves were falling from the trees; and, by the time he arrived at
his new master's in the great metropolis, he was wet through. On the
following Sunday he intended to pay his first visit to Joanna's
father. When the day came, the new journeyman's clothes were brought
out, and a new hat, which he had brought in Kjoge. The hat became
him very well, for hitherto he had only worn a cap. He found the house
that he sought easily, but had to mount so many stairs that he
became quite giddy; it surprised him to find how people lived over one
another in this dreadful town.

On entering a room in which everything denoted prosperity,
Joanna's father received him very kindly. The new wife was a
stranger to him, but she shook hands with him, and offered him coffee.

"Joanna will be very glad to see you," said her father. "You
have grown quite a nice young man, you shall see her presently; she is
a good child, and is the joy of my heart, and, please God, she will
continue to be so; she has her own room now, and pays us rent for it."
And the father knocked quite politely at a door, as if he were a
stranger, and then they both went in. How pretty everything was in
that room! a more beautiful apartment could not be found in the
whole town of Kjoge; the queen herself could scarcely be better
accommodated. There were carpets, and rugs, and window curtains
hanging to the ground. Pictures and flowers were scattered about.
There was a velvet chair, and a looking-glass against the wall, into
which a person might be in danger of stepping, for it was as large
as a door. All this Knud saw at a glance, and yet, in truth, he saw
nothing but Joanna. She was quite grown up, and very different from
what Knud had fancied her, and a great deal more beautiful. In all
Kjoge there was not a girl like her; and how graceful she looked,
although her glance at first was odd, and not familiar; but for a
moment only, then she rushed towards him as if she would have kissed
him; she did not, however, although she was very near it. Yes, she
really was joyful at seeing the friend of her childhood once more, and
the tears even stood in her eyes. Then she asked so many questions
about Knud's parents, and everything, even to the elder-tree and the
willow, which she called "elder-mother and willow-father," as if
they had been human beings; and so, indeed, they might be, quite as
much as the gingerbread cakes. Then she talked about them, and the
story of their silent love, and how they lay on the counter together
and split in two; and then she laughed heartily; but the blood
rushed into Knud's cheeks, and his heart beat quickly. Joanna was
not proud at all; he noticed that through her he was invited by her
parents to remain the whole evening with them, and she poured out
the tea and gave him a cup herself; and afterwards she took a book and
read aloud to them, and it seemed to Knud as if the story was all
about himself and his love, for it agreed so well with his own
thoughts. And then she sang a simple song, which, through her singing,
became a true story, and as if she poured forth the feelings of her
own heart.

"Oh," he thought, "she knows I am fond of her." The tears he could
not restrain rolled down his cheeks, and he was unable to utter a
single word; it seemed as if he had been struck dumb.

When he left, she pressed his hand, and said, "You have a kind
heart, Knud: remain always as you are now." What an evening of
happiness this had been; to sleep after it was impossible, and Knud
did not sleep.

At parting, Joanna's father had said, "Now, you won't quite forget
us; you must not let the whole winter go by without paying us
another visit;" so that Knud felt himself free to go again the
following Sunday evening, and so he did. But every evening after
working hours--and they worked by candle-light then--he walked out
into the town, and through the street in which Joanna lived, to look
up at her window. It was almost always lighted up; and one evening
he saw the shadow of her face quite plainly on the window blind;
that was a glorious evening for him. His master's wife did not like
his always going out in the evening, idling, wasting time, as she
called it, and she shook her head.

But his master only smiled, and said, "He is a young man, my dear,
you know."

"On Sunday I shall see her," said Knud to himself, "and I will
tell her that I love her with my whole heart and soul, and that she
must be my little wife. I know I am now only a poor journeyman
shoemaker, but I will work and strive, and become a master in time.
Yes, I will speak to her; nothing comes from silent love. I learnt
that from the gingerbread-cake story."

Sunday came, but when Knud arrived, they were all unfortunately
invited out to spend the evening, and were obliged to tell him so.

Joanna pressed his hand, and said, "Have you ever been to the
theatre? you must go once; I sing there on Wednesday, and if you
have time on that day, I will send you a ticket; my father knows where
your master lives." How kind this was of her! And on Wednesday,
about noon, Knud received a sealed packet with no address, but the
ticket was inside; and in the evening Knud went, for the first time in
his life, to a theatre. And what did he see? He saw Joanna, and how
beautiful and charming she looked! He certainly saw her being
married to a stranger, but that was all in the play, and only a
pretence; Knud well knew that. She could never have the heart, he
thought, to send him a ticket to go and see it, if it had been real.
So he looked on, and when all the people applauded and clapped their
hands, he shouted "hurrah." He could see that even the king smiled
at Joanna, and seemed delighted with her singing. How small Knud felt;
but then he loved her so dearly, and thought she loved him, and the
man must speak the first word, as the gingerbread maiden had
thought. Ah, how much there was for him in that childish story. As
soon as Sunday arrived, he went again, and felt as if he were about to
enter on holy ground. Joanna was alone to welcome him, nothing could
be more fortunate.

"I am so glad you are come," she said. "I was thinking of sending
my father for you, but I had a presentiment that you would be here
this evening. The fact is, I wanted to tell you that I am going to
France. I shall start on Friday. It is necessary for me to go there,
if I wish to become a first-rate performer."

Poor Knud! it seemed to him as if the whole room was whirling
round with him. His courage failed, and he felt as if his heart
would burst. He kept down the tears, but it was easy to see how
sorrowful he was.

"You honest, faithful soul," she exclaimed; and the words loosened
Knud's tongue, and he told her how truly he had loved her, and that
she must be his wife; and as he said this, he saw Joanna change color,
and turn pale. She let his hand fall, and said, earnestly and
mournfully, "Knud, do not make yourself and me unhappy. I will
always be a good sister to you, one in whom you can trust; but I can
never be anything more." And she drew her white hand over his
burning forehead, and said, "God gives strength to bear a great
deal, if we only strive ourselves to endure."

At this moment her stepmother came into the room, and Joanna
said quickly, "Knud is so unhappy, because I am going away;" and it
appeared as if they had only been talking of her journey. "Come, be
a man," she added, placing her hand on his shoulder; "you are still a
child, and you must be good and reasonable, as you were when we were
both children, and played together under the willow-tree."

Knud listened, but he felt as if the world had slid out of its
course. His thoughts were like a loose thread fluttering to and fro in
the wind. He stayed, although he could not tell whether she had
asked him to do so. But she was kind and gentle to him; she poured out
his tea, and sang to him; but the song had not the old tone in it,
although it was wonderfully beautiful, and made his heart feel ready
to burst. And then he rose to go. He did not offer his hand, but she
seized it, and said--

"Will you not shake hands with your sister at parting, my old
playfellow?" and she smiled through the tears that were rolling down
her cheeks. Again she repeated the word "brother," which was a great
consolation certainly; and thus they parted.

She sailed to France, and Knud wandered about the muddy streets of
Copenhagen. The other journeymen in the shop asked him why he looked
so gloomy, and wanted him to go and amuse himself with them, as he was
still a young man. So he went with them to a dancing-room. He saw many
handsome girls there, but none like Joanna; and here, where he thought
to forget her, she was more life-like before his mind than ever.
"God gives us strength to bear much, if we try to do our best," she
had said; and as he thought of this, a devout feeling came into his
mind, and he folded his hands. Then, as the violins played and the
girls danced round the room, he started; for it seemed to him as if he
were in a place where he ought not to have brought Joanna, for she was
here with him in his heart; and so he went out at once. As he went
through the streets at a quick pace, he passed the house where she
used to live; it was all dark, empty, and lonely. But the world went
on its course, and Knud was obliged to go on too.

Winter came; the water was frozen, and everything seemed buried in
a cold grave. But when spring returned, and the first steamer prepared
to sail, Knud was seized with a longing to wander forth into the
world, but not to France. So he packed his knapsack, and travelled
through Germany, going from town to town, but finding neither rest
or peace. It was not till he arrived at the glorious old town of
Nuremberg that he gained the mastery over himself, and rested his
weary feet; and here he remained.

Nuremberg is a wonderful old city, and looks as if it had been cut
out of an old picture-book. The streets seem to have arranged
themselves according to their own fancy, and as if the houses objected
to stand in rows or rank and file. Gables, with little towers,
ornamented columns, and statues, can be seen even to the city gate;
and from the singular-shaped roofs, waterspouts, formed like
dragons, or long lean dogs, extend far across to the middle of the
street. Here, in the market-place, stood Knud, with his knapsack on
his back, close to one of the old fountains which are so beautifully
adorned with figures, scriptural and historical, and which spring up
between the sparkling jets of water. A pretty servant-maid was just
filling her pails, and she gave Knud a refreshing draught; she had a
handful of roses, and she gave him one, which appeared to him like a
good omen for the future. From a neighboring church came the sounds of
music, and the familiar tones reminded him of the organ at home at
Kjoge; so he passed into the great cathedral. The sunshine streamed
through the painted glass windows, and between two lofty slender
pillars. His thoughts became prayerful, and calm peace rested on his
soul. He next sought and found a good master in Nuremberg, with whom
he stayed and learnt the German language.

The old moat round the town had been converted into a number of
little kitchen gardens; but the high walls, with their heavy-looking
towers, are still standing. Inside these walls the ropemaker twisted
his ropes along a walk built like a gallery, and in the cracks and
crevices of the walls elderbushes grow and stretch their green
boughs over the small houses which stand below. In one of these houses
lived the master for whom Knud worked; and over the little garret
window where he sat, the elder-tree waved its branches. Here he
dwelt through one summer and winter, but when spring came again, he
could endure it no longer. The elder was in blossom, and its fragrance
was so homelike, that he fancied himself back again in the gardens
of Kjoge. So Knud left his master, and went to work for another who
lived farther in the town, where no elder grew. His workshop was quite
close to one of the old stone bridges, near to a water-mill, round
which the roaring stream rushed and foamed always, yet restrained by
the neighboring houses, whose old, decayed balconies hung over, and
seemed ready to fall into the water. Here grew no elder; here was
not even a flower-pot, with its little green plant; but just
opposite the workshop stood a great willow-tree, which seemed to
hold fast to the house for fear of being carried away by the water. It
stretched its branches over the stream just as those of the
willow-tree in the garden at Kjoge had spread over the river. Yes,
he had indeed gone from elder-mother to willow-father. There was a
something about the tree here, especially in the moonlight nights,
that went direct to his heart; yet it was not in reality the
moonlight, but the old tree itself. However, he could not endure it:
and why? Ask the willow, ask the blossoming elder! At all events, he
bade farewell to Nuremberg and journeyed onwards. He never spoke of
Joanna to any one; his sorrow was hidden in his heart. The old
childish story of the two cakes had a deep meaning for him. He
understood now why the gingerbread man had a bitter almond in his left
side; his was the feeling of bitterness, and Joanna, so mild and
friendly, was represented by the honeycake maiden. As he thought
upon all this, the strap of his knapsack pressed across his chest so
that he could hardly breathe; he loosened it, but gained no relief. He
saw but half the world around him; the other half he carried with
him in his inward thoughts; and this is the condition in which he left
Nuremberg. Not till he caught sight of the lofty mountains did the
world appear more free to him; his thoughts were attracted to outer
objects, and tears came into his eyes. The Alps appeared to him like
the wings of earth folded together; unfolded, they would display the
variegated pictures of dark woods, foaming waters, spreading clouds,
and masses of snow. "At the last day," thought he, "the earth will
unfold its great wings, and soar upwards to the skies, there to
burst like a soap-bubble in the radiant glance of the Deity. Oh,"
sighed he, "that the last day were come!"

Silently he wandered on through the country of the Alps, which
seemed to him like a fruit garden, covered with soft turf. From the
wooden balconies of the houses the young lacemakers nodded as he
passed. The summits of the mountains glowed in the red evening sunset,
and the green lakes beneath the dark trees reflected the glow. Then he
thought of the sea coast by the bay Kjoge, with a longing in his heart
that was, however, without pain. There, where the Rhine rolls onward
like a great billow, and dissolves itself into snowflakes, where
glistening clouds are ever changing as if here was the place of
their creation, while the rainbow flutters about them like a
many-colored ribbon, there did Knud think of the water-mill at
Kjoge, with its rushing, foaming waters. Gladly would he have remained
in the quiet Rhenish town, but there were too many elders and
willow-trees.

So he travelled onwards, over a grand, lofty chain of mountains,
over rugged,--rocky precipices, and along roads that hung on the
mountain's side like a swallow's nest. The waters foamed in the depths
below him. The clouds lay beneath him. He wandered on, treading upon
Alpine roses, thistles, and snow, with the summer sun shining upon
him, till at length he bid farewell to the lands of the north. Then he
passed on under the shade of blooming chestnut-trees, through
vineyards, and fields of Indian corn, till conscious that the
mountains were as a wall between him and his early recollections;
and he wished it to be so.

Before him lay a large and splendid city, called Milan, and here
he found a German master who engaged him as a workman. The master
and his wife, in whose workshop he was employed, were an old, pious
couple; and the two old people became quite fond of the quiet
journeyman, who spoke but little, but worked more, and led a pious,
Christian life; and even to himself it seemed as if God had removed
the heavy burden from his heart. His greatest pleasure was to climb,
now and then, to the roof of the noble church, which was built of
white marble. The pointed towers, the decorated and open cloisters,
the stately columns, the white statues which smiled upon him from
every corner and porch and arch,--all, even the church itself,
seemed to him to have been formed from the snow of his native land.
Above him was the blue sky; below him, the city and the wide-spreading
plains of Lombardy; and towards the north, the lofty mountains,
covered with perpetual snow. And then he thought of the church of
Kjoge, with its red, ivy-clad walls, but he had no longing to go
there; here, beyond the mountains, he would die and be buried.

Three years had passed away since he left his home; one year of
that time he had dwelt at Milan.

One day his master took him into the town; not to the circus in
which riders performed, but to the opera, a large building, itself a
sight well worth seeing. The seven tiers of boxes, which reached
from the ground to a dizzy height, near the ceiling, were hung with
rich, silken curtains; and in them were seated elegantly-dressed
ladies, with bouquets of flowers in their hands. The gentlemen were
also in full dress, and many of them wore decorations of gold and
silver. The place was so brilliantly lighted that it seemed like
sunshine, and glorious music rolled through the building. Everything
looked more beautiful than in the theatre at Copenhagen, but then
Joanna had been there, and--could it be? Yes--it was like magic,--she
was here also: for, when the curtain rose, there stood Joanna,
dressed in silk and gold, and with a golden crown upon her head. She
sang, he thought, as only an angel could sing; and then she stepped
forward to the front and smiled, as only Joanna could smile, and
looked directly at Knud. Poor Knud! he seized his master's hand, and
cried out loud, "Joanna," but no one heard him, excepting his
master, for the music sounded above everything.

"Yes, yes, it is Joanna," said his master; and he drew forth a
printed bill, and pointed to her name, which was there in full. Then
it was not a dream. All the audience applauded her, and threw
wreaths of flowers at her; and every time she went away they called
for her again, so that she was always coming and going. In the
street the people crowded round her carriage, and drew it away
themselves without the horses. Knud was in the foremost row, and
shouted as joyously as the rest; and when the carriage stopped
before a brilliantly lighted house, Knud placed himself close to the
door of her carriage. It flew open, and she stepped out; the light
fell upon her dear face, and he could see that she smiled as she
thanked them, and appeared quite overcome. Knud looked straight in her
face, and she looked at him, but she did not recognize him. A man,
with a glittering star on his breast, gave her his arm, and people
said the two were engaged to be married. Then Knud went home and
packed up his knapsack; he felt he must return to the home of his
childhood, to the elder-tree and the willow. "Ah, under that
willow-tree!" A man may live a whole life in one single hour.

The old couple begged him to remain, but words were useless. In
vain they reminded him that winter was coming, and that the snow had
already fallen on the mountains. He said he could easily follow the
track of the closely-moving carriages, for which a path must be kept
clear, and with nothing but his knapsack on his back, and leaning on
his stick, he could step along briskly. So he turned his steps to
the mountains, ascended one side and descended the other, still
going northward till his strength began to fail, and not a house or
village could be seen. The stars shone in the sky above him, and
down in the valley lights glittered like stars, as if another sky were
beneath him; but his head was dizzy and his feet stumbled, and he felt
ill. The lights in the valley grew brighter and brighter, and more
numerous, and he could see them moving to and fro, and then he
understood that there must be a village in the distance; so he exerted
his failing strength to reach it, and at length obtained shelter in
a humble lodging. He remained there that night and the whole of the
following day, for his body required rest and refreshment, and in
the valley there was rain and a thaw. But early in the morning of
the third day, a man came with an organ and played one of the melodies
of home; and after that Knud could remain there no longer, so he
started again on his journey toward the north. He travelled for many
days with hasty steps, as if he were trying to reach home before all
whom he remembered should die; but he spoke to no one of this longing.
No one would have believed or understood this sorrow of his heart, the
deepest that can be felt by human nature. Such grief is not for the
world; it is not entertaining even to friends, and poor Knud had no
friends; he was a stranger, wandering through strange lands to his
home in the north.

He was walking one evening through the public roads, the country
around him was flatter, with fields and meadows, the air had a
frosty feeling. A willow-tree grew by the roadside, everything
reminded him of home. He felt very tired; so he sat down under the
tree, and very soon began to nod, then his eyes closed in sleep. Yet
still he seemed conscious that the willow-tree was stretching its
branches over him; in his dreaming state the tree appeared like a
strong, old man--the "willow-father" himself, who had taken his
tired son up in his arms to carry him back to the land of home, to the
garden of his childhood, on the bleak open shores of Kjoge. And then
he dreamed that it was really the willow-tree itself from Kjoge, which
had travelled out in the world to seek him, and now had found him
and carried him back into the little garden on the banks of the
streamlet; and there stood Joanna, in all her splendor, with the
golden crown on her head, as he had last seen her, to welcome him
back. And then there appeared before him two remarkable shapes,
which looked much more like human beings than when he had seen them in
his childhood; they were changed, but he remembered that they were the
two gingerbread cakes, the man and the woman, who had shown their best
sides to the world and looked so good.

"We thank you," they said to Knud, "for you have loosened our
tongues; we have learnt from you that thoughts should be spoken
freely, or nothing will come of them; and now something has come of
our thoughts, for we are engaged to be married." Then they walked
away, hand-in-hand, through the streets of Kjoge, looking very
respectable on the best side, which they were quite right to show.
They turned their steps to the church, and Knud and Joanna followed
them, also walking hand-in-hand; there stood the church, as of old,
with its red walls, on which the green ivy grew.

The great church door flew open wide, and as they walked up the
broad aisle, soft tones of music sounded from the organ. "Our master
first," said the gingerbread pair, making room for Knud and Joanna. As
they knelt at the altar, Joanna bent her head over him, and cold,
icy tears fell on his face from her eyes. They were indeed tears of
ice, for her heart was melting towards him through his strong love,
and as her tears fell on his burning cheeks he awoke. He was still
sitting under the willow-tree in a strange land, on a cold winter
evening, with snow and hail falling from the clouds, and beating
upon his face.

"That was the most delightful hour of my life," said he, "although
it was only a dream. Oh, let me dream again." Then he closed his
eyes once more, and slept and dreamed.

Towards morning there was a great fall of snow; the wind drifted
it over him, but he still slept on. The villagers came forth to go
to church; by the roadside they found a workman seated, but he was
dead! frozen to death under a willow-tree.




IN THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA

Some years ago, large ships were sent towards the north pole, to
explore the distant coasts, and to try how far men could penetrate
into those unknown regions. For more than a year one of these ships
had been pushing its way northward, amid snow and ice, and the sailors
had endured many hardships; till at length winter set in, and the
sun entirely disappeared; for many weeks there would be constant
night. All around, as far as the eye could reach, nothing could be
seen but fields of ice, in which the ship remained stuck fast. The
snow lay piled up in great heaps, and of these the sailors made
huts, in the form of bee-hives, some of them as large and spacious
as one of the "Huns' graves," and others only containing room enough
to hold three or four men. It was not quite dark; the northern
lights shot forth red and blue flames, like continuous fireworks,
and the snow glittered, and reflected back the light, so that the
night here was one long twilight. When the moon was brightest, the
natives came in crowds to see the sailors. They had a very singular
appearance in their rough, hairy dresses of fur, and riding in sledges
over the ice. They brought with them furs and skins in great
abundance, so that the snow-houses were soon provided with warm
carpets, and the furs also served for the sailors to wrap themselves
in, when they slept under the roofs of snow, while outside it was
freezing with a cold far more severe than in the winter with us. In
our country it was still autumn, though late in the season; and they
thought of that in their distant exile, and often pictured to
themselves the yellow leaves on the trees at home. Their watches
pointed to the hours of evening, and time to go to sleep, although
in these regions it was now always night.

In one of the huts, two of the men laid themselves down to rest.
The younger of these men had brought with him from home his best,
his dearest treasure--a Bible, which his grandmother had given him
on his departure. Every night the sacred volume rested under his head,
and he had known from his childhood what was written in it. Every
day he read in the book, and while stretched on his cold couch, the
holy words he had learnt would come into his mind: "If I take the
wings of the morning, and fly to the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there Thou art with me, and Thy right hand shall uphold me;"
and under the influence of that faith which these holy words inspired,
sleep came upon him, and dreams, which are the manifestations of God
to the spirit. The soul lives and acts, while the body is at rest.
He felt this life in him, and it was as if he heard the sound of dear,
well-known melodies, as if the breezes of summer floated around him;
and over his couch shone a ray of brightness, as if it were shining
through the covering of his snow-roof. He lifted his head, and saw
that the bright gleaming was not the reflection of the glittering
snow, but the dazzling brightness of the pinions of a mighty angel,
into whose beaming face he was gazing. As from the cup of a lily,
the angel rose from amidst the leaves of the Bible; and, stretching
out his arm, the walls of the hut sunk down, as though they had been
formed of a light, airy veil of mist, and the green hills and
meadows of home, with its ruddy woods, lay spread around him in the
quiet sunshine of a lovely autumn day. The nest of the stork was
empty, but ripe fruit still hung on the wild apple-tree, although
the leaves had fallen. The red hips gleamed on the hedges, and the
starling which hung in the green cage outside the window of the
peasant's hut, which was his home, whistled the tune which he had
taught him. His grandmother hung green birds'-food around the cage, as
he, her grandson, had been accustomed to do. The daughter of the
village blacksmith, who was young and fair, stood at the well, drawing
water. She nodded to the grandmother, and the old woman nodded to her,
and pointed to a letter which had come from a long way off. That
very morning the letter had arrived from the cold regions of the
north; there, where the absent one was sweetly sleeping under the
protecting hand of God. They laughed and wept over the letter; and he,
far away, amid ice and snow, under the shadow of the angel's wings,
wept and smiled with them in spirit; for he saw and heard it all in
his dream. From the letter they read aloud the words of Holy Writ: "In
the uttermost parts of the sea, Thy right hand shall uphold me." And
as the angel spread his wings like a veil over the sleeper, there
was the sound of beautiful music and a hymn. Then the vision fled.
It was dark again in the snow-hut: but the Bible still rested
beneath his head, and faith and hope dwelt in his heart. God was
with him, and he carried home in his heart, even "in the uttermost
parts of the sea."




WHAT ONE CAN INVENT

There was once a young man who was studying to be a poet. He
wanted to become one by Easter, and to marry, and to live by poetry.
To write poems, he knew, only consists in being able to invent
something; but he could not invent anything. He had been born too
late--everything had been taken up before he came into the world,
and everything had been written and told about.

"Happy people who were born a thousand years ago!" said he. "It
was an easy matter for them to become immortal. Happy even was he
who was born a hundred years ago, for then there was still something
about which a poem could be written. Now the world is written out, and
what can I write poetry about?"

Then he studied till he became ill and wretched, the wretched man!
No doctor could help him, but perhaps the wise woman could. She
lived in the little house by the wayside, where the gate is that she
opened for those who rode and drove. But she could do more than unlock
the gate. She was wiser than the doctor who drives in his own carriage
and pays tax for his rank.

"I must go to her," said the young man.

The house in which she dwelt was small and neat, but dreary to
behold, for there were no flowers near it--no trees. By the door stood
a bee-hive, which was very useful. There was also a little
potato-field, very useful, and an earth bank, with sloe bushes upon
it, which had done blossoming, and now bore fruit, sloes, that draw
one's mouth together if one tastes them before the frost has touched
them.

"That's a true picture of our poetryless time, that I see before
me now," thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a
grain of gold that he found by the door of the wise woman.

"Write that down!" said she. "Even crumbs are bread. I know why
you come hither. You cannot invent anything, and yet you want to be
a poet by Easter."

"Everything has been written down," said he. "Our time is not
the old time."

"No," said the woman. "In the old time wise women were burnt,
and poets went about with empty stomachs, and very much out at elbows.
The present time is good, it is the best of times; but you have not
the right way of looking at it. Your ear is not sharpened to hear, and
I fancy you do not say the Lord's Prayer in the evening. There is
plenty here to write poems about, and to tell of, for any one who
knows the way. You can read it in the fruits of the earth, you can
draw it from the flowing and the standing water; but you must
understand how--you must understand how to catch a sunbeam. Now just
you try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then
pray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself."

The last was a very difficult thing to do--more than a wise
woman ought to ask.

He received the spectacles and the ear-trumpet, and was posted
in the middle of the potato-field. She put a great potato into his
hand. Sounds came from within it; there came a song with words, the
history of the potato, an every-day story in ten parts, an interesting
story. And ten lines were enough to tell it in.

And what did the potato sing?

She sang of herself and of her family, of the arrival of the
potato in Europe, of the misrepresentation to which she had been
exposed before she was acknowledged, as she is now, to be a greater
treasure than a lump of gold.

"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the
council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of
our great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how
to plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole
bushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in
the ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from
which he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and
produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away.
Nobody thought of what was in the ground--the blessing--the potato.
Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers
have; they and we, it is all one."

What a story it was!

"Well, and that will do," said the woman. "Now look at the sloe
bush."

"We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but
higher towards the north than they grew," said the Sloes. "There
were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and
storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found
plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes--sloe
bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And
they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or
'Sloeland.'"

"That is quite a romantic story," said the young man.

"Yes, certainly. But now come with me," said the wise woman, and
she led him to the bee-hive.

He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing
in all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught
of air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their
business. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with
little baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was
poured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew
in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other
bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but
still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's
wings, and she had to stay where she was.

"Now get upon the earth bank," said the wise woman. "Come and look
out over the highway, where you can see the people."

"What a crowd it is!" said the young man. "One story after
another. It whirls and whirls! It's quite a confusion before my
eyes. I shall go out at the back."

"No, go straight forward," said the woman. "Go straight into the
crowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear
and the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something.
But, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my
ear-trumpet again."

And so saying, she took both from him.

"Now I do not see the smallest thing," said the young man, "and
now I don't hear anything more."

"Why, then, you can't be a poet by Easter," said the wise woman.

"But, by what time can I be one?" asked he.

"Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to
invent anything."

"What must I do to earn my bread by poetry?"

"You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their
writings and thus you will kill them. Don't be put out of countenance.
Strike at them boldly, and you'll have carnival cake, on which you can
support yourself and your wife too."

"What one can invent!" cried the young man. And so he hit out
boldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.

We have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT.




THE WICKED PRINCE

There lived once upon a time a wicked prince whose heart and
mind were set upon conquering all the countries of the world, and on
frightening the people; he devastated their countries with fire and
sword, and his soldiers trod down the crops in the fields and
destroyed the peasants' huts by fire, so that the flames licked the
green leaves off the branches, and the fruit hung dried up on the
singed black trees. Many a poor mother fled, her naked baby in her
arms, behind the still smoking walls of her cottage; but also there
the soldiers followed her, and when they found her, she served as
new nourishment to their diabolical enjoyments; demons could not
possibly have done worse things than these soldiers! The prince was of
opinion that all this was right, and that it was only the natural
course which things ought to take. His power increased day by day, his
name was feared by all, and fortune favoured his deeds.

He brought enormous wealth home from the conquered towns, and
gradually accumulated in his residence riches which could nowhere be
equalled. He erected magnificent palaces, churches, and halls, and all
who saw these splendid buildings and great treasures exclaimed
admiringly: "What a mighty prince!" But they did not know what endless
misery he had brought upon other countries, nor did they hear the
sighs and lamentations which rose up from the debris of the
destroyed cities.

The prince often looked with delight upon his gold and his
magnificent edifices, and thought, like the crowd: "What a mighty
prince! But I must have more--much more. No power on earth must
equal mine, far less exceed it."

He made war with all his neighbours, and defeated them. The
conquered kings were chained up with golden fetters to his chariot
when he drove through the streets of his city. These kings had to
kneel at his and his courtiers' feet when they sat at table, and
live on the morsels which they left. At last the prince had his own
statue erected on the public places and fixed on the royal palaces;
nay, he even wished it to be placed in the churches, on the altars,
but in this the priests opposed him, saying: "Prince, you are mighty
indeed, but God's power is much greater than yours; we dare not obey
your orders."

"Well," said the prince. "Then I will conquer God too." And in his
haughtiness and foolish presumption he ordered a magnificent ship to
be constructed, with which he could sail through the air; it was
gorgeously fitted out and of many colours; like the tail of a peacock,
it was covered with thousands of eyes, but each eye was the barrel
of a gun. The prince sat in the centre of the ship, and had only to
touch a spring in order to make thousands of bullets fly out in all
directions, while the guns were at once loaded again. Hundreds of
eagles were attached to this ship, and it rose with the swiftness of
an arrow up towards the sun. The earth was soon left far below, and
looked, with its mountains and woods, like a cornfield where the
plough had made furrows which separated green meadows; soon it
looked only like a map with indistinct lines upon it; and at last it
entirely disappeared in mist and clouds. Higher and higher rose the
eagles up into the air; then God sent one of his numberless angels
against the ship. The wicked prince showered thousands of bullets upon
him, but they rebounded from his shining wings and fell down like
ordinary hailstones. One drop of blood, one single drop, came out of
the white feathers of the angel's wings and fell upon the ship in
which the prince sat, burnt into it, and weighed upon it like
thousands of hundredweights, dragging it rapidly down to the earth
again; the strong wings of the eagles gave way, the wind roared
round the prince's head, and the clouds around--were they formed by
the smoke rising up from the burnt cities?--took strange shapes,
like crabs many, many miles long, which stretched their claws out
after him, and rose up like enormous rocks, from which rolling
masses dashed down, and became fire-spitting dragons.

The prince was lying half-dead in his ship, when it sank at last
with a terrible shock into the branches of a large tree in the wood.

"I will conquer God!" said the prince. "I have sworn it: my will
must be done!"

And he spent seven years in the construction of wonderful ships to
sail through the air, and had darts cast from the hardest steel to
break the walls of heaven with. He gathered warriors from all
countries, so many that when they were placed side by side they
covered the space of several miles. They entered the ships and the
prince was approaching his own, when God sent a swarm of gnats--one
swarm of little gnats. They buzzed round the prince and stung his face
and hands; angrily he drew his sword and brandished it, but he only
touched the air and did not hit the gnats. Then he ordered his
servants to bring costly coverings and wrap him in them, that the
gnats might no longer be able to reach him. The servants carried out
his orders, but one single gnat had placed itself inside one of the
coverings, crept into the prince's ear and stung him. The place
burnt like fire, and the poison entered into his blood. Mad with pain,
he tore off the coverings and his clothes too, flinging them far away,
and danced about before the eyes of his ferocious soldiers, who now
mocked at him, the mad prince, who wished to make war with God, and
was overcome by a single little gnat.




THE WILD SWANS

Far away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is
winter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named
Eliza. The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school
with a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They wrote with
diamond pencils on gold slates, and learnt their lessons so quickly
and read so easily that every one might know they were princes.
Their sister Eliza sat on a little stool of plate-glass, and had a
book full of pictures, which had cost as much as half a kingdom. Oh,
these children were indeed happy, but it was not to remain so
always. Their father, who was king of the country, married a very
wicked queen, who did not love the poor children at all. They knew
this from the very first day after the wedding. In the palace there
were great festivities, and the children played at receiving
company; but instead of having, as usual, all the cakes and apples
that were left, she gave them some sand in a tea-cup, and told them to
pretend it was cake. The week after, she sent little Eliza into the
country to a peasant and his wife, and then she told the king so
many untrue things about the young princes, that he gave himself no
more trouble respecting them.

"Go out into the world and get your own living," said the queen.
"Fly like great birds, who have no voice." But she could not make them
ugly as she wished, for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild
swans. Then, with a strange cry, they flew through the windows of
the palace, over the park, to the forest beyond. It was early
morning when they passed the peasant's cottage, where their sister
Eliza lay asleep in her room. They hovered over the roof, twisted
their long necks and flapped their wings, but no one heard them or saw
them, so they were at last obliged to fly away, high up in the clouds;
and over the wide world they flew till they came to a thick, dark
wood, which stretched far away to the seashore. Poor little Eliza
was alone in her room playing with a green leaf, for she had no
other playthings, and she pierced a hole through the leaf, and
looked through it at the sun, and it was as if she saw her brothers'
clear eyes, and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks, she thought
of all the kisses they had given her. One day passed just like
another; sometimes the winds rustled through the leaves of the
rose-bush, and would whisper to the roses, "Who can be more
beautiful than you!" But the roses would shake their heads, and say,
"Eliza is." And when the old woman sat at the cottage door on
Sunday, and read her hymn-book, the wind would flutter the leaves, and
say to the book, "Who can be more pious than you?" and then the
hymn-book would answer "Eliza." And the roses and the hymn-book told
the real truth. At fifteen she returned home, but when the queen saw
how beautiful she was, she became full of spite and hatred towards
her. Willingly would she have turned her into a swan, like her
brothers, but she did not dare to do so yet, because the king wished
to see his daughter. Early one morning the queen went into the
bath-room; it was built of marble, and had soft cushions, trimmed with
the most beautiful tapestry. She took three toads with her, and kissed
them, and said to one, "When Eliza comes to the bath, seat yourself
upon her head, that she may become as stupid as you are." Then she
said to another, "Place yourself on her forehead, that she may
become as ugly as you are, and that her father may not know her."
"Rest on her heart," she whispered to the third, "then she will have
evil inclinations, and suffer in consequence." So she put the toads
into the clear water, and they turned green immediately. She next
called Eliza, and helped her to undress and get into the bath. As
Eliza dipped her head under the water, one of the toads sat on her
hair, a second on her forehead, and a third on her breast, but she did
not seem to notice them, and when she rose out of the water, there
were three red poppies floating upon it. Had not the creatures been
venomous or been kissed by the witch, they would have been changed
into red roses. At all events they became flowers, because they had
rested on Eliza's head, and on her heart. She was too good and too
innocent for witchcraft to have any power over her. When the wicked
queen saw this, she rubbed her face with walnut-juice, so that she was
quite brown; then she tangled her beautiful hair and smeared it with
disgusting ointment, till it was quite impossible to recognize the
beautiful Eliza.

When her father saw her, he was much shocked, and declared she was
not his daughter. No one but the watch-dog and the swallows knew
her; and they were only poor animals, and could say nothing. Then poor
Eliza wept, and thought of her eleven brothers, who were all away.
Sorrowfully, she stole away from the palace, and walked, the whole
day, over fields and moors, till she came to the great forest. She
knew not in what direction to go; but she was so unhappy, and longed
so for her brothers, who had been, like herself, driven out into the
world, that she was determined to seek them. She had been but a
short time in the wood when night came on, and she quite lost the
path; so she laid herself down on the soft moss, offered up her
evening prayer, and leaned her head against the stump of a tree. All
nature was still, and the soft, mild air fanned her forehead. The
light of hundreds of glow-worms shone amidst the grass and the moss,
like green fire; and if she touched a twig with her hand, ever so
lightly, the brilliant insects fell down around her, like
shooting-stars.

All night long she dreamt of her brothers. She and they were
children again, playing together. She saw them writing with their
diamond pencils on golden slates, while she looked at the beautiful
picture-book which had cost half a kingdom. They were not writing
lines and letters, as they used to do; but descriptions of the noble
deeds they had performed, and of all they had discovered and seen.
In the picture-book, too, everything was living. The birds sang, and
the people came out of the book, and spoke to Eliza and her
brothers; but, as the leaves turned over, they darted back again to
their places, that all might be in order.

When she awoke, the sun was high in the heavens; yet she could not
see him, for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly over her
head; but his beams were glancing through the leaves here and there,
like a golden mist. There was a sweet fragrance from the fresh green
verdure, and the birds almost perched upon her shoulders. She heard
water rippling from a number of springs, all flowing in a lake with
golden sands. Bushes grew thickly round the lake, and at one spot an
opening had been made by a deer, through which Eliza went down to
the water. The lake was so clear that, had not the wind rustled the
branches of the trees and the bushes, so that they moved, they would
have appeared as if painted in the depths of the lake; for every
leaf was reflected in the water, whether it stood in the shade or
the sunshine. As soon as Eliza saw her own face, she was quite
terrified at finding it so brown and ugly; but when she wetted her
little hand, and rubbed her eyes and forehead, the white skin
gleamed forth once more; and, after she had undressed, and dipped
herself in the fresh water, a more beautiful king's daughter could not
be found in the wide world. As soon as she had dressed herself
again, and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring, and
drank some water out of the hollow of her hand. Then she wandered
far into the forest, not knowing whither she went. She thought of
her brothers, and felt sure that God would not forsake her. It is
God who makes the wild apples grow in the wood, to satisfy the hungry,
and He now led her to one of these trees, which was so loaded with
fruit, that the boughs bent beneath the weight. Here she held her
noonday repast, placed props under the boughs, and then went into
the gloomiest depths of the forest. It was so still that she could
hear the sound of her own footsteps, as well as the rustling of
every withered leaf which she crushed under her feet. Not a bird was
to be seen, not a sunbeam could penetrate through the large, dark
boughs of the trees. Their lofty trunks stood so close together, that,
when she looked before her, it seemed as if she were enclosed within
trellis-work. Such solitude she had never known before. The night
was very dark. Not a single glow-worm glittered in the moss.

Sorrowfully she laid herself down to sleep; and, after a while, it
seemed to her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head,
and that the mild eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven.
When she awoke in the morning, she knew not whether she had dreamt
this, or if it had really been so. Then she continued her wandering;
but she had not gone many steps forward, when she met an old woman
with berries in her basket, and she gave her a few to eat. Then
Eliza asked her if she had not seen eleven princes riding through
the forest.

"No," replied the old woman, "But I saw yesterday eleven swans,
with gold crowns on their heads, swimming on the river close by." Then
she led Eliza a little distance farther to a sloping bank, and at
the foot of it wound a little river. The trees on its banks
stretched their long leafy branches across the water towards each
other, and where the growth prevented them from meeting naturally, the
roots had torn themselves away from the ground, so that the branches
might mingle their foliage as they hung over the water. Eliza bade the
old woman farewell, and walked by the flowing river, till she
reached the shore of the open sea. And there, before the young
maiden's eyes, lay the glorious ocean, but not a sail appeared on
its surface, not even a boat could be seen. How was she to go farther?
She noticed how the countless pebbles on the sea-shore had been
smoothed and rounded by the action of the water. Glass, iron,
stones, everything that lay there mingled together, had taken its
shape from the same power, and felt as smooth, or even smoother than
her own delicate hand. "The water rolls on without weariness," she
said, "till all that is hard becomes smooth; so will I be unwearied
in my task. Thanks for your lessons, bright rolling waves; my heart
tells me you will lead me to my dear brothers." On the foam-covered
sea-weeds, lay eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered up and
placed together. Drops of water lay upon them; whether they were
dew-drops or tears no one could say. Lonely as it was on the
sea-shore, she did not observe it, for the ever-moving sea showed more
changes in a few hours than the most varying lake could produce during
a whole year. If a black heavy cloud arose, it was as if the sea said,
"I can look dark and angry too;" and then the wind blew, and the waves
turned to white foam as they rolled. When the wind slept, and the
clouds glowed with the red sunlight, then the sea looked like a rose
leaf. But however quietly its white glassy surface rested, there was
still a motion on the shore, as its waves rose and fell like the
breast of a sleeping child. When the sun was about to set, Eliza saw
eleven white swans with golden crowns on their heads, flying towards
the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon. Then Eliza
went down the slope from the shore, and hid herself behind the bushes.
The swans alighted quite close to her and flapped their great white
wings. As soon as the sun had disappeared under the water, the
feathers of the swans fell off, and eleven beautiful princes,
Eliza's brothers, stood near her. She uttered a loud cry, for,
although they were very much changed, she knew them immediately. She
sprang into their arms, and called them each by name. Then, how
happy the princes were at meeting their little sister again, for
they recognized her, although she had grown so tall and beautiful.
They laughed, and they wept, and very soon understood how wickedly
their mother had acted to them all. "We brothers," said the eldest,
"fly about as wild swans, so long as the sun is in the sky; but as
soon as it sinks behind the hills, we recover our human shape.
Therefore must we always be near a resting place for our feet before
sunset; for if we should be flying towards the clouds at the time we
recovered our natural shape as men, we should sink deep into the
sea. We do not dwell here, but in a land just as fair, that lies
beyond the ocean, which we have to cross for a long distance; there is
no island in our passage upon which we could pass, the night;
nothing but a little rock rising out of the sea, upon which we can
scarcely stand with safety, even closely crowded together. If the
sea is rough, the foam dashes over us, yet we thank God even for
this rock; we have passed whole nights upon it, or we should never
have reached our beloved fatherland, for our flight across the sea
occupies two of the longest days in the year. We have permission to
visit out home once in every year, and to remain eleven days, during
which we fly across the forest to look once more at the palace where
our father dwells, and where we were born, and at the church, where
our mother lies buried. Here it seems as if the very trees and
bushes were related to us. The wild horses leap over the plains as
we have seen them in our childhood. The charcoal burners sing the
old songs, to which we have danced as children. This is our
fatherland, to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have
found you, our dear little sister. Two days longer we can remain
here, and then must we fly away to a beautiful land which is not our
home; and how can we take you with us? We have neither ship nor boat."

"How can I break this spell?" said their sister. And then she
talked about it nearly the whole night, only slumbering for a few
hours. Eliza was awakened by the rustling of the swans' wings as
they soared above. Her brothers were again changed to swans, and
they flew in circles wider and wider, till they were far away; but one
of them, the youngest swan, remained behind, and laid his head in
his sister's lap, while she stroked his wings; and they remained
together the whole day. Towards evening, the rest came back, and as
the sun went down they resumed their natural forms. "To-morrow,"
said one, "we shall fly away, not to return again till a whole year
has passed. But we cannot leave you here. Have you courage to go
with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood; and
will not all our wings be strong enough to fly with you over the sea?"

"Yes, take me with you," said Eliza. Then they spent the whole
night in weaving a net with the pliant willow and rushes. It was
very large and strong. Eliza laid herself down on the net, and when
the sun rose, and her brothers again became wild swans, they took up
the net with their beaks, and flew up to the clouds with their dear
sister, who still slept. The sunbeams fell on her face, therefore
one of the swans soared over her head, so that his broad wings might
shade her. They were far from the land when Eliza woke. She thought
she must still be dreaming, it seemed so strange to her to feel
herself being carried so high in the air over the sea. By her side lay
a branch full of beautiful ripe berries, and a bundle of sweet
roots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them for her, and
placed them by her side. She smiled her thanks to him; she knew it was
the same who had hovered over her to shade her with his wings. They
were now so high, that a large ship beneath them looked like a white
sea-gull skimming the waves. A great cloud floating behind them
appeared like a vast mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow
and those of the eleven swans, looking gigantic in size. Altogether it
formed a more beautiful picture than she had ever seen; but as the sun
rose higher, and the clouds were left behind, the shadowy picture
vanished away. Onward the whole day they flew through the air like a
winged arrow, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their sister to
carry. The weather seemed inclined to be stormy, and Eliza watched the
sinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was
not yet in sight. It appeared to her as if the swans were making great
efforts with their wings. Alas! she was the cause of their not
advancing more quickly. When the sun set, they would change to men,
fall into the sea and be drowned. Then she offered a prayer from her
inmost heart, but still no appearance of the rock. Dark clouds came
nearer, the gusts of wind told of a coming storm, while from a
thick, heavy mass of clouds the lightning burst forth flash after
flash. The sun had reached the edge of the sea, when the swans
darted down so swiftly, that Eliza's head trembled; she believed
they were falling, but they again soared onward. Presently she
caught sight of the rock just below them, and by this time the sun was
half hidden by the waves. The rock did not appear larger than a seal's
head thrust out of the water. They sunk so rapidly, that at the moment
their feet touched the rock, it shone only like a star, and at last
disappeared like the last spark in a piece of burnt paper. Then she
saw her brothers standing closely round her with their arms linked
together. There was but just room enough for them, and not the
smallest space to spare. The sea dashed against the rock, and
covered them with spray. The heavens were lighted up with continual
flashes, and peal after peal of thunder rolled. But the sister and
brothers sat holding each other's hands, and singing hymns, from which
they gained hope and courage. In the early dawn the air became calm
and still, and at sunrise the swans flew away from the rock with
Eliza. The sea was still rough, and from their high position in the
air, the white foam on the dark green waves looked like millions of
swans swimming on the water. As the sun rose higher, Eliza saw
before her, floating on the air, a range of mountains, with shining
masses of ice on their summits. In the centre, rose a castle
apparently a mile long, with rows of columns, rising one above
another, while, around it, palm-trees waved and flowers bloomed as
large as mill wheels. She asked if this was the land to which they
were hastening. The swans shook their heads, for what she beheld
were the beautiful ever-changing cloud palaces of the "Fata
Morgana," into which no mortal can enter. Eliza was still gazing at
the scene, when mountains, forests, and castles melted away, and
twenty stately churches rose in their stead, with high towers and
pointed gothic windows. Eliza even fancied she could hear the tones of
the organ, but it was the music of the murmuring sea which she
heard. As they drew nearer to the churches, they also changed into a
fleet of ships, which seemed to be sailing beneath her; but as she
looked again, she found it was only a sea mist gliding over the ocean.
So there continued to pass before her eyes a constant change of scene,
till at last she saw the real land to which they were bound, with
its blue mountains, its cedar forests, and its cities and palaces.
Long before the sun went down, she sat on a rock, in front of a
large cave, on the floor of which the over-grown yet delicate green
creeping plants looked like an embroidered carpet. "Now we shall
expect to hear what you dream of to-night," said the youngest brother,
as he showed his sister her bedroom.

"Heaven grant that I may dream how to save you," she replied.
And this thought took such hold upon her mind that she prayed
earnestly to God for help, and even in her sleep she continued to
pray. Then it appeared to her as if she were flying high in the air,
towards the cloudy palace of the "Fata Morgana," and a fairy came
out to meet her, radiant and beautiful in appearance, and yet very
much like the old woman who had given her berries in the wood, and who
had told her of the swans with golden crowns on their heads. "Your
brothers can be released," said she, "if you have only courage and
perseverance. True, water is softer than your own delicate hands,
and yet it polishes stones into shapes; it feels no pain as your
fingers would feel, it has no soul, and cannot suffer such agony and
torment as you will have to endure. Do you see the stinging nettle
which I hold in my hand? Quantities of the same sort grow round the
cave in which you sleep, but none will be of any use to you unless
they grow upon the graves in a churchyard. These you must gather
even while they burn blisters on your hands. Break them to pieces with
your hands and feet, and they will become flax, from which you must
spin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves; if these are then
thrown over the eleven swans, the spell will be broken. But
remember, that from the moment you commence your task until it is
finished, even should it occupy years of your life, you must not
speak. The first word you utter will pierce through the hearts of your
brothers like a deadly dagger. Their lives hang upon your tongue.
Remember all I have told you." And as she finished speaking, she
touched her hand lightly with the nettle, and a pain, as of burning
fire, awoke Eliza.

It was broad daylight, and close by where she had been sleeping
lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream. She fell on her
knees and offered her thanks to God. Then she went forth from the cave
to begin her work with her delicate hands. She groped in amongst the
ugly nettles, which burnt great blisters on her hands and arms, but
she determined to bear it gladly if she could only release her dear
brothers. So she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the
flax. At sunset her brothers returned and were very much frightened
when they found her dumb. They believed it to be some new sorcery of
their wicked step-mother. But when they saw her hands they
understood what she was doing on their behalf, and the youngest
brother wept, and where his tears fell the pain ceased, and the
burning blisters vanished. She kept to her work all night, for she
could not rest till she had released her dear brothers. During the
whole of the following day, while her brothers were absent, she sat in
solitude, but never before had the time flown so quickly. One coat was
already finished and she had begun the second, when she heard the
huntsman's horn, and was struck with fear. The sound came nearer and
nearer, she heard the dogs barking, and fled with terror into the
cave. She hastily bound together the nettles she had gathered into a
bundle and sat upon them. Immediately a great dog came bounding
towards her out of the ravine, and then another and another; they
barked loudly, ran back, and then came again. In a very few minutes
all the huntsmen stood before the cave, and the handsomest of them was
the king of the country. He advanced towards her, for he had never
seen a more beautiful maiden.

"How did you come here, my sweet child?" he asked. But Eliza shook
her head. She dared not speak, at the cost of her brothers' lives. And
she hid her hands under her apron, so that the king might not see
how she must be suffering.

"Come with me," he said; "here you cannot remain. If you are as
good as you are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, I will
place a golden crown upon your head, and you shall dwell, and rule,
and make your home in my richest castle." And then he lifted her on
his horse. She wept and wrung her hands, but the king said, "I wish
only for your happiness. A time will come when you will thank me for
this." And then he galloped away over the mountains, holding her
before him on this horse, and the hunters followed behind them. As the
sun went down, they approached a fair royal city, with churches, and
cupolas. On arriving at the castle the king led her into marble halls,
where large fountains played, and where the walls and the ceilings
were covered with rich paintings. But she had no eyes for all these
glorious sights, she could only mourn and weep. Patiently she
allowed the women to array her in royal robes, to weave pearls in
her hair, and draw soft gloves over her blistered fingers. As she
stood before them in all her rich dress, she looked so dazzlingly
beautiful that the court bowed low in her presence. Then the king
declared his intention of making her his bride, but the archbishop
shook his head, and whispered that the fair young maiden was only a
witch who had blinded the king's eyes and bewitched his heart. But the
king would not listen to this; he ordered the music to sound, the
daintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance.
After-wards he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but
not a smile appeared on her lips or sparkled in her eyes. She looked
the very picture of grief. Then the king opened the door of a little
chamber in which she was to sleep; it was adorned with rich green
tapestry, and resembled the cave in which he had found her. On the
floor lay the bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles,
and under the ceiling hung the coat she had made. These things had
been brought away from the cave as curiosities by one of the huntsmen.

"Here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the
cave," said the king; "here is the work with which you employed
yourself. It will amuse you now in the midst of all this splendor to
think of that time."

When Eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a
smile played around her mouth, and the crimson blood rushed to her
cheeks. She thought of her brothers, and their release made her so
joyful that she kissed the king's hand. Then he pressed her to his
heart. Very soon the joyous church bells announced the marriage feast,
and that the beautiful dumb girl out of the wood was to be made the
queen of the country. Then the archbishop whispered wicked words in
the king's ear, but they did not sink into his heart. The marriage was
still to take place, and the archbishop himself had to place the crown
on the bride's head; in his wicked spite, he pressed the narrow
circlet so tightly on her forehead that it caused her pain. But a
heavier weight encircled her heart--sorrow for her brothers. She
felt not bodily pain. Her mouth was closed; a single word would cost
the lives of her brothers. But she loved the kind, handsome king,
who did everything to make her happy more and more each day; she loved
him with all her heart, and her eyes beamed with the love she dared
not speak. Oh! if she had only been able to confide in him and tell
him of her grief. But dumb she must remain till her task was finished.
Therefore at night she crept away into her little chamber, which had
been decked out to look like the cave, and quickly wove one coat after
another. But when she began the seventh she found she had no more
flax. She knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew in the
churchyard, and that she must pluck them herself. How should she get
out there? "Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which my
heart endures?" said she. "I must venture, I shall not be denied
help from heaven." Then with a trembling heart, as if she were about
to perform a wicked deed, she crept into the garden in the broad
moonlight, and passed through the narrow walks and the deserted
streets, till she reached the churchyard. Then she saw on one of the
broad tombstones a group of ghouls. These hideous creatures took off
their rags, as if they intended to bathe, and then clawing open the
fresh graves with their long, skinny fingers, pulled out the dead
bodies and ate the flesh! Eliza had to pass close by them, and they
fixed their wicked glances upon her, but she prayed silently, gathered
the burning nettles, and carried them home with her to the castle. One
person only had seen her, and that was the archbishop--he was awake
while everybody was asleep. Now he thought his opinion was evidently
correct. All was not right with the queen. She was a witch, and had
bewitched the king and all the people. Secretly he told the king
what he had seen and what he feared, and as the hard words came from
his tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads as if
they would say. "It is not so. Eliza is innocent."

But the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that
they witnessed against her, and were shaking their heads at her
wickedness. Two large tears rolled down the king's cheeks, and he went
home with doubt in his heart, and at night he pretended to sleep,
but there came no real sleep to his eyes, for he saw Eliza get up
every night and disappear in her own chamber. From day to day his brow
became darker, and Eliza saw it and did not understand the reason, but
it alarmed her and made her heart tremble for her brothers. Her hot
tears glittered like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while
all who saw her were wishing they could be queens. In the mean time
she had almost finished her task; only one coat of mail was wanting,
but she had no flax left, and not a single nettle. Once more only, and
for the last time, must she venture to the churchyard and pluck a
few handfuls. She thought with terror of the solitary walk, and of the
horrible ghouls, but her will was firm, as well as her trust in
Providence. Eliza went, and the king and the archbishop followed
her. They saw her vanish through the wicket gate into the
churchyard, and when they came nearer they saw the ghouls sitting on
the tombstone, as Eliza had seen them, and the king turned away his
head, for he thought she was with them--she whose head had rested on
his breast that very evening. "The people must condemn her," said
he, and she was very quickly condemned by every one to suffer death by
fire. Away from the gorgeous regal halls was she led to a dark, dreary
cell, where the wind whistled through the iron bars. Instead of the
velvet and silk dresses, they gave her the coats of mail which she had
woven to cover her, and the bundle of nettles for a pillow; but
nothing they could give her would have pleased her more. She continued
her task with joy, and prayed for help, while the street-boys sang
jeering songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with a kind
word. Towards evening, she heard at the grating the flutter of a
swan's wing, it was her youngest brother--he had found his sister, and
she sobbed for joy, although she knew that very likely this would be
the last night she would have to live. But still she could hope, for
her task was almost finished, and her brothers were come. Then the
archbishop arrived, to be with her during her last hours, as he had
promised the king. But she shook her head, and begged him, by looks
and gestures, not to stay; for in this night she knew she must
finish her task, otherwise all her pain and tears and sleepless nights
would have been suffered in vain. The archbishop withdrew, uttering
bitter words against her; but poor Eliza knew that she was innocent,
and diligently continued her work.

The little mice ran about the floor, they dragged the nettles to
her feet, to help as well as they could; and the thrush sat outside
the grating of the window, and sang to her the whole night long, as
sweetly as possible, to keep up her spirits.

It was still twilight, and at least an hour before sunrise, when
the eleven brothers stood at the castle gate, and demanded to be
brought before the king. They were told it could not be, it was yet
almost night, and as the king slept they dared not disturb him. They
threatened, they entreated. Then the guard appeared, and even the king
himself, inquiring what all the noise meant. At this moment the sun
rose. The eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven wild swans
flew away over the castle.

And now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of
the city, to see the witch burnt. An old horse drew the cart on
which she sat. They had dressed her in a garment of coarse
sackcloth. Her lovely hair hung loose on her shoulders, her cheeks
were deadly pale, her lips moved silently, while her fingers still
worked at the green flax. Even on the way to death, she would not give
up her task. The ten coats of mail lay at her feet, she was working
hard at the eleventh, while the mob jeered her and said, "See the
witch, how she mutters! She has no hymn-book in her hand. She sits
there with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it in a thousand pieces."

And then they pressed towards her, and would have destroyed the
coats of mail, but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her,
and alighted on the cart. Then they flapped their large wings, and the
crowd drew on one side in alarm.

"It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent," whispered many of
them; but they ventured not to say it aloud.

As the executioner seized her by the hand, to lift her out of
the cart, she hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans,
and they immediately became eleven handsome princes; but the
youngest had a swan's wing, instead of an arm; for she had not been
able to finish the last sleeve of the coat.

"Now I may speak," she exclaimed. "I am innocent."

Then the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her, as before
a saint; but she sank lifeless in her brothers' arms, overcome with
suspense, anguish, and pain.

"Yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother; and then he
related all that had taken place; and while he spoke there rose in the
air a fragrance as from millions of roses. Every piece of faggot in
the pile had taken root, and threw out branches, and appeared a
thick hedge, large and high, covered with roses; while above all
bloomed a white and shining flower, that glittered like a star. This
flower the king plucked, and placed in Eliza's bosom, when she awoke
from her swoon, with peace and happiness in her heart. And all the
church bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great troops.
And a marriage procession returned to the castle, such as no king
had ever before seen.




THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN, SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN

There was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slipped
away from him--so he said. The Story that used to visit him of its own
accord no longer came and knocked at his door. And why did it come
no longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had not
thought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he had
expected it, it would certainly not have come; for without there was
war, and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it.

The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey,
for they thought of no danger; and, behold, when they arrived, the
nest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were all
in disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses were
stamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but they
came to an end.

And now they were past and gone--so people said; yet no Story came
and knocked at the door, or gave any tidings of its presence.

"I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many other
things," said the man.

But the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by,
and he longed--oh, so very much!--for the Story.

"I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock?"

And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in which
it had come to him, sometimes young and charming, like spring
itself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in her
hair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamed
like deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.

Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and had
opened its box and let silver ribbon come fluttering out, with
verses and inscriptions of old remembrances.

But it was most charming of all when it came as an old
grandmother, with silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. She
knew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before the
princesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay
outside the castles, guarding them. She told with such an air of
truth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her,
and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and to
hear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passed
since it all happened.

"Will it ever knock at my door again?" said the man, and he
gazed at the door, so that black spots came before his eyes and upon
the floor; he did not know if it was blood, or mourning crape from the
dark heavy days.

And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story
might not have hidden itself, like the princess in the old tale. And
he would now go in search of it; if he found it, it would beam in
new splendor, lovelier than ever.

"Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that
balances on the margin of the well. Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it
lies hidden in a certain flower--that flower in one of the great books
on the book-shelf."

And the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain
information on this point; but there was no flower to be found.
There he read about Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale
had been invented and put together by a monk in France, that it was
a romance, "translated into Danish and printed in that language;" that
Holger Danske had never really lived, and consequently could never
come again, as we have sung, and have been so glad to believe. And
William Tell was treated just like Holger Danske. These were all
only myths--nothing on which we could depend; and yet it is all
written in a very learned book.

"Well, I shall believe what I believe!" said the man. "There grows
no plantain where no foot has trod."

And he closed the book and put it back in its place, and went to
the fresh flowers at the window. Perhaps the Story might have hidden
itself in the red tulips, with the golden yellow edges, or in the
fresh rose, or in the beaming camellia. The sunshine lay among the
flowers, but no Story.

The flowers which had been here in the dark troublous time had
been much more beautiful; but they had been cut off, one after
another, to be woven into wreaths and placed in coffins, and the
flag had waved over them! Perhaps the Story had been buried with the
flowers; but then the flowers would have known of it, and the coffin
would have heard it, and every little blade of grass that shot forth
would have told of it. The Story never dies.

Perhaps it has been here once, and has knocked; but who had eyes
or ears for it in those times? People looked darkly, gloomily, and
almost angrily at the sunshine of spring, at the twittering birds, and
all the cheerful green; the tongue could not even bear the old
merry, popular songs, and they were laid in the coffin with so much
that our heart held dear. The Story may have knocked without obtaining
a hearing; there was none to bid it welcome, and so it may have gone
away.

"I will go forth and seek it. Out in the country! out in the wood!
and on the open sea beach!"

Out in the country lies an old manor house, with red walls,
pointed gables, and a red flag that floats on the tower. The
nightingale sings among the finely-fringed beech-leaves, looking at
the blooming apple trees of the garden, and thinking that they bear
roses. Here the bees are mightily busy in the summer-time, and hover
round their queen with their humming song. The autumn has much to tell
of the wild chase, of the leaves of the trees, and of the races of men
that are passing away together. The wild swans sing at Christmas-time
on the open water, while in the old hall the guests by the fireside
gladly listen to songs and to old legends.

Down into the old part of the garden, where the great avenue of
wild chestnut trees lures the wanderer to tread its shades, went the
man who was in search of the Story; for here the wind had once
murmured something to him of "Waldemar Daa and his Daughters." The
Dryad in the tree, who was the Story-mother herself, had here told him
the "Dream of the Old Oak Tree." Here, in the time of the ancestral
mother, had stood clipped hedges, but now only ferns and stinging
nettles grew there, hiding the scattered fragments of old sculptured
figures; the moss is growing in their eyes, but they can see as well
as ever, which was more than the man could do who was in search of the
Story, for he could not find that. Where could it be?

The crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees, and
screamed, "Krah! da!--Krah! da!"

And he went out of the garden and over the grass-plot of the yard,
into the alder grove; there stood a little six-sided house, with a
poultry-yard and a duck-yard. In the middle of the room sat the old
woman who had the management of the whole, and who knew accurately
about every egg that was laid, and about every chicken that could
creep out of an egg. But she was not the Story of which the man was in
search; that she could attest with a Christian certificate of
baptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer.

Without, not far from the house, is a hill covered with
red-thorn and broom. Here lies an old grave-stone, which was brought
here many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial town, a
remembrance of one of the most honored councillors of the place; his
wife and his five daughters, all with folded hands and stiff ruffs,
stand round him. One could look at them so long, that it had an effect
upon the thoughts, and these reacted upon the stones, as if they
were telling of old times; at least it had been so with the man who
was in search of the Story.

As he came nearer, he noticed a living butterfly sitting on the
forehead of the sculptured councillor. The butterfly flapped its
wings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned fatigued to
sit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.
Four-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were seven specimens close
to each other. When fortune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked
the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.

"Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be
better still," thought the man; but he could not find it here.

And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered
with vapor. The moor-woman was at her brewing.


It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon
the sea, over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone
bright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look like a great
lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells--and in the
moonlight the eye realizes these myths.

Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that
William Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in
popular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths.
Yes, Holger Danske will return again!

As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly
against the window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not
let in, even when they knock. The window flew open of itself, and an
old woman looked in at the man.

"What's your pleasure?" said he. "Who are you? You're looking in
at the first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder?"

"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket," she replied.
"Indeed, you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one."

"Who are you?" asked the man again.

"The Moor-woman," she replied. "The Moor-woman who brews. I was at
it. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled
it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat
against the window; and now the beer's running out of the cask, and
that won't do good to anybody."

"Pray tell me some more!" said the man.

"Yes, wait a little," answered the Moor-woman. "I've something
else to do just now." And she was gone.

The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood
before him again.

"Now it's done," she said; "but I shall have half the beer to brew
over again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have
you to ask me? I've come back, for I always keep my word, and you have
seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a
six-leaved one. That inspires respect, for that's an order that
grows beside the sandy way; but that every one does not find. What
have you to ask me? Don't stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for I
must go back again directly to my bung and my cask."

And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the
Moor-woman had met it in her journeyings.

"By the big brewing-vat!" exclaimed the woman, "haven't you got
stories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.
Here are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even
the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and
the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen
to stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done
here, and other things to notice!"

"What do you mean by that?" asked the man, "and what do you know
of the world? You don't see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps!"

"Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps," said the Moor-woman,
"for they're out--they're let loose--that's what we must talk about!
Come to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will
tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your
seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still
fresh, and the moon stands high!"

And the Moor-woman was gone.

It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had
died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood
in the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her
brewing.

"You've been a long time coming!" said the Moor-woman. "Witches
get forward faster than men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch
folk!"

"What have you to say to me now?" asked the man. "Is it anything
about the Story?"

"Can you never get beyond asking about that?" retorted the woman.

"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?" resumed
the man.

"Don't get on your stilts," said the crone, "and I'll answer
you. You think of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story,
as if she were the lady of the whole troop. She's the oldest of us
all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I've
been young, too, and she's no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty
elf-maiden, and have danced in my time with the others in the
moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the
forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there,
running about. Sometimes she took up her night's lodging in a
half-blown tulip, or in a field flower; sometimes she would slip
into the church, and wrap herself in the mourning crape that hung down
from the candles on the altar."

"You are capitally well-informed," said the man.

"I ought at least to know as much as you," answered the
Moor-woman. "Stories and poetry--yes, they're like two yards of the
same piece of stuff; they can go and lie down where they like, and one
can brew all their prattle, and have it all the better and cheaper.
You shall have it from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard-full of
poetry in bottles. It makes essences; and that's the best of
it--bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people want of
poetry, in bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief,
on holidays, to smell."

"Why, these are wonderful things that you're telling!" said the
man. "You have poetry in bottles?"

"More than you can require," said the woman. "I suppose you know
the history of 'the Girl who Trod on the Loaf, so that she might not
soil her shoes'? That has been written, and printed too."

"I told that story myself," said the man.

"Yes, then you must know it; and you must know also that the
girl sank into the earth directly, to the Moor-woman, just as Old
Bogey's grandmother was paying her morning visit to inspect the
brewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and asked to have her as a
remembrance of her visit, and got her too; while I received a
present that's of no use to me--a travelling druggist's shop--a
whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grandmother told me where
the cupboard was to be placed, and there it's standing still. Just
look! You've your seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, one of
which is a six-leaved one, and so you will be able to see it."

And really in the midst of the moor lay something like a great
knotted block of alder, and that was the old grandmother's cupboard.
The Moor-woman said that this was always open to her and to every
one in the land, if they only knew where the cupboard stood. It
could be opened either at the front or at the back, and at every
side and corner--a perfect work of art, and yet only an old alder
stump in appearance. The poets of all lands, and especially those of
our own country, had been arranged here; the spirit of them had been
extracted, refined, criticised and renovated, and then stored up in
bottles. With what may be called great aptitude, if it was not
genius the grandmother had taken as it were the flavor of this and
of that poet, and had added a little devilry, and then corked up the
bottles for use during all future times.

"Pray let me see," said the man.

"Yes, but there are more important things to hear," replied the
Moor-woman.

"But now we are at the cupboard!" said the man. And he looked
in. "Here are bottles of all sizes. What is in this one? and what in
that one yonder?"

"Here is what they call may-balm," replied the woman. "I have
not tried it myself. But I have not yet told you the 'more
important' thing you were to hear. THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP'S IN THE TOWN!
That's of much more consequence than poetry and stories. I ought,
indeed, to hold my tongue; but there must be a necessity--a fate--a
something that sticks in my throat, and that wants to come out. Take
care, you mortals!"

"I don't understand a word of all this!" cried the man.

"Be kind enough to seat yourself on that cupboard," she retorted,
"but take care you don't fall through and break the bottles--you know
what's inside of them. I must tell of the great event. It occurred no
longer ago than the day before yesterday. It did not happen earlier.
It has now three hundred and sixty-three days to run about. I suppose
you know how many days there are in a year?"

And this is what the Moor-woman told:

"There was a great commotion yesterday out here in the marsh!
There was a christening feast! A little Will-o'-the-Wisp was born
here--in fact, twelve of them were born all together; and they have
permission, if they choose to use it, to go abroad among men, and to
move about and command among them, just as if they were born
mortals. That was a great event in the marsh, and accordingly all
the Will-o'-the-Wisps, male and female, went dancing like little
lights across the moor. There are some of them of the dog species, but
those are not worth mentioning. I sat there on the cupboard, and had
all the twelve little new-born Will-o'-the-Wisps upon my lap. They
shone like glow-worms; they already began to hop, and increased in
size every moment, so that before a quarter of an hour had elapsed,
each of them looked just as large as his father or his uncle. Now,
it's an old-established regulation and favor, that when the moon
stands just as it did yesterday, and the wind blows just as it blew
then, it is allowed and accorded to all Will-o'-the-Wisps--that is, to
all those who are born at that minute of time--to become mortals,
and individually to exert their power for the space of one year.

"The Will-o'-the-Wisp may run about in the country and through the
world, if it is not afraid of falling into the sea, or of being
blown out by a heavy storm. It can enter into a person and speak for
him, and make all the movements it pleases. The Will-o'-the-Wisp may
take whatever form he likes, of man or woman, and can act in their
spirit and in their disguise in such a way that he can effect whatever
he wishes to do. But he must manage, in the course of the year, to
lead three hundred and sixty-five people into a bad way, and in a
grand style, too. To lead them away from the right and the truth;
and then he reaches the highest point. Such a Will-o'-the-Wisp can
attain to the honor of being a runner before the devil's state
coach; and then he'll wear clothes of fiery yellow, and breathe
forth flames out of his throat. That's enough to make a simple
Will-o'-the-Wisp smack his lips. But there's some danger in this,
and a great deal of work for a Will-o'-the-Wisp who aspires to play so
distinguished a part. If the eyes of the man are opened to what he is,
and if the man can then blow him away, it's all over with him, and
he must come back into the marsh; or if, before the year is up, the
Will-o'-the-Wisp is seized with a longing to see his family, and so
returns to it and gives the matter up, it is over with him likewise,
and he can no longer burn clear, and soon becomes extinguished, and
cannot be lit up again; and when the year has elapsed, and he has
not led three hundred and sixty-five people away from the truth and
from all that is grand and noble, he is condemned to be imprisoned
in decayed wood, and to lie glimmering there, without being able to
move; and that's the most terrible punishment that can be inflicted on
a lively Will-o'-the-Wisp.

"Now, all this I know, and all this I told to the twelve little
Will-o'-the-Wisps whom I had on my lap, and who seemed quite crazy
with joy.

"I told them that the safest and most convenient course was to
give up the honor, and do nothing at all; but the little flames
would not agree to this, and already fancied themselves clad in
fiery yellow clothes, breathing flames from their throats.

"'Stay with us,' said some of the older ones.

"'Carry on your sport with mortals,' said the others.

"'The mortals are drying up our meadows; they've taken to
draining. What will our successors do?'

"'We want to flame; we will flame--flame!' cried the new-born
Will-o'the-Wisps.

"And thus the affair was settled.

"And now a ball was given, a minute long; it could not well be
shorter. The little elf-maidens whirled round three times with the
rest, that they might not appear proud, but they preferred dancing
with one another.

"And now the sponsors' gifts were presented, and presents were
thrown them. These presents flew like pebbles across the sea-water.
Each of the elf-maidens gave a little piece of her veil.

"'Take that,' they said, 'and then you'll know the higher dance,
the most difficult turns and twists--that is to say, if you should
find them necessary. You'll know the proper deportment, and then you
can show yourself in the very pick of society.'

"The night raven taught each of the young Will-o'-the-Wisps to
say, 'Goo-goo-good,' and to say it in the right place; and that's a
great gift which brings its own reward.

"The owl and the stork--but they said it was not worth mentioning,
and so we won't mention it.

"King Waldemar's wild chase was just then rushing over the moor,
and when the great lords heard of the festivities that were going
on, they sent a couple of handsome dogs, which hunt on the spoor of
the wind, as a present; and these might carry two or three of the
Will-o'-the-Wisps. A couple of old Alpas, spirits who occupy
themselves with Alp-pressing, were also at the feast; and from these
the young Will-o'-the-Wisps learned the art of slipping through
every key-hole, as if the door stood open before them. These Alpas
offered to carry the youngsters to the town, with which they were well
acquainted. They usually rode through the atmosphere on their own back
hair, which is fastened into a knot, for they love a hard seat; but
now they sat sideways on the wild hunting dogs, took the young
Will-o'-the-Wisps in their laps, who wanted to go into the town to
mislead and entice mortals, and, whisk! away they were. Now, this is
what happened last night. To-day the Will-o'-the-Wisps are in the
town, and have taken the matter in hand--but where and how? Ah, can
you tell me that? Still, I've a lightning conductor in my great toe,
and that will always tell me something."

"Why, this is a complete story," exclaimed the man.

"Yes, but it is only the beginning," replied the woman. "Can you
tell me how the Will-o'-the-Wisps deport themselves, and how they
behave? and in what shapes they have aforetime appeared and led people
into crooked paths?"

"I believe," replied the man, "that one could tell quite a romance
about the Will-o'-the-Wisps, in twelve parts; or, better still, one
might make quite a popular play of them."

"You might write that," said the woman, "but it's best let alone."

"Yes, that's better and more agreeable," the man replied, "for
then we shall escape from the newspapers, and not be tied up by
them, which is just as uncomfortable as for a Will-o'-the-Wisp to
lie in decaying wood, to have to gleam, and not to be able to stir."

"I don't care about it either way," cried the woman. "Let the rest
write, those who can, and those who cannot likewise. I'll grant you an
old bung from my cask that will open the cupboard where poetry's
kept in bottles, and you may take from that whatever may be wanting.
But you, my good man, seem to have blotted your hands sufficiently
with ink, and to have come to that age of satiety that you need not be
running about every year for stories, especially as there are much
more important things to be done. You must have understood what is
going on?"

"The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in town," said the man. "I've heard it,
and I have understood it. But what do you think I ought to do? I
should be thrashed if I were to go to the people and say, 'Look,
yonder goes a Will-o'-the-Wisp in his best clothes!'

"They also go in undress," replied the woman. "The
Will-o'-the-Wisp can assume all kinds of forms, and appear in every
place. He goes into the church, but not for the sake of the service;
and perhaps he may enter into one or other of the priests. He speaks
in the Parliament, not for the benefit of the country, but only for
himself. He's an artist with the color-pot as well as in the
theatre; but when he gets all the power into his own hands, then the
pot's empty! I chatter and chatter, but it must come out, what's
sticking in my throat, to the disadvantage of my own family. But I
must now be the woman that will save a good many people. It is not
done with my good will, or for the sake of a medal. I do the most
insane things I possibly can, and then I tell a poet about it, and
thus the whole town gets to know of it directly."

"The town will not take that to heart," observed the man; "that
will not disturb a single person; for they will all think I'm only
telling them a story if I say, 'The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the town,
says the Moor-woman. Take care of yourselves!'"




THE STORY OF THE WIND

"Near the shores of the great Belt, which is one of the straits
that connect the Cattegat with the Baltic, stands an old mansion
with thick red walls. I know every stone of it," says the Wind. "I saw
it when it was part of the castle of Marck Stig on the promontory. But
the castle was obliged to be pulled down, and the stone was used again
for the walls of a new mansion on another spot--the baronial residence
of Borreby, which still stands near the coast. I knew them well, those
noble lords and ladies, the successive generations that dwelt there;
and now I'm going to tell you of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. How
proud was his bearing, for he was of royal blood, and could boast of
more noble deeds than merely hunting the stag and emptying the
wine-cup. His rule was despotic: 'It shall be,' he was accustomed to
say. His wife, in garments embroidered with gold, stepped proudly over
the polished marble floors. The tapestries were gorgeous, and the
furniture of costly and artistic taste. She had brought gold and plate
with her into the house. The cellars were full of wine. Black, fiery
horses, neighed in the stables. There was a look of wealth about the
house of Borreby at that time. They had three children, daughters,
fair and delicate maidens--Ida, Joanna, and Anna Dorothea; I have
never forgotten their names. They were a rich, noble family, born in
affluence and nurtured in luxury.

"Whir-r-r, whir-r-r!" roared the Wind, and went on, "I did not see
in this house, as in other great houses, the high-born lady sitting
among her women, turning the spinning-wheel. She could sweep the
sounding chords of the guitar, and sing to the music, not always
Danish melodies, but the songs of a strange land. It was 'Live and let
live,' here. Stranger guests came from far and near, music sounded,
goblets clashed, and I," said the Wind, "was not able to drown the
noise. Ostentation, pride, splendor, and display ruled, but not the
fear of the Lord.

"It was on the evening of the first day of May," the Wind
continued, "I came from the west, and had seen the ships overpowered
with the waves, when all on board persisted or were cast shipwrecked
on the coast of Jutland. I had hurried across the heath and over
Jutland's wood-girt eastern coast, and over the island of Funen, and
then I drove across the great belt, sighing and moaning. At length I
lay down to rest on the shores of Zeeland, near to the great house
of Borreby, where the splendid forest of oaks still flourished. The
young men of the neighborhood were collecting branches and brushwood
under the oak-trees. The largest and dryest they could find they
carried into the village, and piled them up in a heap and set them
on fire. Then the men and maidens danced, and sung in a circle round
the blazing pile. I lay quite quiet," said the Wind, "but I silently
touched a branch which had been brought by one of the handsomest of
the young men, and the wood blazed up brightly, blazed brighter than
all the rest. Then he was chosen as the chief, and received the name
of the Shepherd; and might choose his lamb from among the maidens.
There was greater mirth and rejoicing than I had ever heard in the
halls of the rich baronial house. Then the noble lady drove by towards
the baron's mansion with her three daughters, in a gilded carriage
drawn by six horses. The daughters were young and beautiful--three
charming blossoms--a rose, a lily, and a white hyacinth. The mother
was a proud tulip, and never acknowledged the salutations of any of
the men or maidens who paused in their sport to do her honor. The
gracious lady seemed like a flower that was rather stiff in the stalk.
Rose, lily, and hyacinth--yes, I saw them all three. Whose little
lambs will they one day become? thought I; their shepherd will be a
gallant knight, perhaps a prince. The carriage rolled on, and the
peasants resumed their dancing. They drove about the summer through
all the villages near. But one night, when I rose again, the high-born
lady lay down to rise again no more; that thing came to her which
comes to us all, in which there is nothing new. Waldemar Daa
remained for a time silent and thoughtful. 'The loftiest tree may be
bowed without being broken,' said a voice within him. His daughters
wept; all the people in the mansion wiped their eyes, but Lady Daa had
driven away, and I drove away too," said the Wind. "Whir-r-r,
whir-r-r-!

"I returned again; I often returned and passed over the island
of Funen and the shores of the Belt. Then I rested by Borreby, near
the glorious wood, where the heron made his nest, the haunt of the
wood-pigeons, the blue-birds, and the black stork. It was yet
spring, some were sitting on their eggs, others had already hatched
their young broods; but how they fluttered about and cried out when
the axe sounded through the forest, blow upon blow! The trees of the
forest were doomed. Waldemar Daa wanted to build a noble ship, a
man-of-war, a three-decker, which the king would be sure to buy; and
these, the trees of the wood, the landmark of the seamen, the refuge
of the birds, must be felled. The hawk started up and flew away, for
its nest was destroyed; the heron and all the birds of the forest
became homeless, and flew about in fear and anger. I could well
understand how they felt. Crows and ravens croaked, as if in scorn,
while the trees were cracking and falling around them. Far in the
interior of the wood, where a noisy swarm of laborers were working,
stood Waldemar Daa and his three daughters, and all were laughing at
the wild cries of the birds, excepting one, the youngest, Anna
Dorothea, who felt grieved to the heart; and when they made
preparations to fell a tree that was almost dead, and on whose naked
branches the black stork had built her nest, she saw the poor little
things stretching out their necks, and she begged for mercy for
them, with the tears in her eyes. So the tree with the black stork's
nest was left standing; the tree itself, however, was not worth much
to speak of. Then there was a great deal of hewing and sawing, and
at last the three-decker was built. The builder was a man of low
origin, but possessing great pride; his eyes and forehead spoke of
large intellect, and Waldemar Daa was fond of listening to him, and so
was Waldemar's daughter Ida, the eldest, now about fifteen years
old; and while he was building the ship for the father, he was
building for himself a castle in the air, in which he and Ida were
to live when they were married. This might have happened, indeed, if
there had been a real castle, with stone walls, ramparts, and a
moat. But in spite of his clever head, the builder was still but a
poor, inferior bird; and how can a sparrow expect to be admitted
into the society of peacocks?

"I passed on in my course," said the Wind, "and he passed away
also. He was not allowed to remain, and little Ida got over it,
because she was obliged to do so. Proud, black horses, worth looking
at, were neighing in the stable. And they were locked up; for the
admiral, who had been sent by the king to inspect the new ship, and
make arrangements for its purchase, was loud in admiration of these
beautiful horses. I heard it all," said the Wind, "for I accompanied
the gentlemen through the open door of the stable, and strewed
stalks of straw, like bars of gold, at their feet. Waldemar Daa wanted
gold, and the admiral wished for the proud black horses; therefore
he praised them so much. But the hint was not taken, and
consequently the ship was not bought. It remained on the shore covered
with boards,--a Noah's ark that never got to the water--Whir-r-r-r--and
that was a pity.

"In the winter, when the fields were covered with snow, and the
water filled with large blocks of ice which I had blown up to the
coast," continued the Wind, "great flocks of crows and ravens, dark
and black as they usually are, came and alighted on the lonely,
deserted ship. Then they croaked in harsh accents of the forest that
now existed no more, of the many pretty birds' nests destroyed and the
little ones left without a home; and all for the sake of that great
bit of lumber, that proud ship, that never sailed forth. I made the
snowflakes whirl till the snow lay like a great lake round the ship,
and drifted over it. I let it hear my voice, that it might know what
the storm has to say. Certainly I did my part towards teaching it
seamanship.

"That winter passed away, and another winter and summer both
passed, as they are still passing away, even as I pass away. The
snow drifts onwards, the apple-blossoms are scattered, the leaves
fall,--everything passes away, and men are passing away too. But the
great man's daughters are still young, and little Ida is a rose as
fair to look upon as on the day when the shipbuilder first saw her.
I often tumbled her long, brown hair, while she stood in the garden by
the apple-tree, musing, and not heeding how I strewed the blossoms
on her hair, and dishevelled it; or sometimes, while she stood
gazing at the red sun and the golden sky through the opening
branches of the dark, thick foliage of the garden trees. Her sister
Joanna was bright and slender as a lily; she had a tall and lofty
carriage and figure, though, like her mother, rather stiff in back.
She was very fond of walking through the great hall, where hung the
portraits of her ancestors. The women were represented in dresses of
velvet and silk, with tiny little hats, embroidered with pearls, on
their braided hair. They were all handsome women. The gentlemen
appeared clad in steel, or in rich cloaks lined with squirrel's fur;
they wore little ruffs, and swords at their sides. Where would
Joanna's place be on that wall some day? and how would he look,--her
noble lord and husband? This is what she thought of, and often spoke
of in a low voice to herself. I heard it as I swept into the long
hall, and turned round to come out again. Anna Dorothea, the pale
hyacinth, a child of fourteen, was quiet and thoughtful; her large,
deep, blue eyes had a dreamy look, but a childlike smile still
played round her mouth. I was not able to blow it away, neither did
I wish to do so. We have met in the garden, in the hollow lane, in the
field and meadow, where she gathered herbs and flowers which she
knew would be useful to her father in preparing the drugs and mixtures
he was always concocting. Waldemar Daa was arrogant and proud, but
he was also a learned man, and knew a great deal. It was no secret,
and many opinions were expressed on what he did. In his fireplace
there was a fire, even in summer time. He would lock himself in his
room, and for days the fire would be kept burning; but he did not talk
much of what he was doing. The secret powers of nature are generally
discovered in solitude, and did he not soon expect to find out the art
of making the greatest of all good things--the art of making gold?
So he fondly hoped; therefore the chimney smoked and the fire crackled
so constantly. Yes, I was there too," said the Wind. "'Leave it
alone,' I sang down the chimney; 'leave it alone, it will all end in
smoke, air, coals, and ashes, and you will burn your fingers.' But
Waldemar Daa did not leave it alone, and all he possessed vanished
like smoke blown by me. The splendid black horses, where are they?
What became of the cows in the field, the old gold and silver
vessels in cupboards and chests, and even the house and home itself?
It was easy to melt all these away in the gold-making crucible, and
yet obtain no gold. And so it was. Empty are the barns and
store-rooms, the cellars and cupboards; the servants decreased in
number, and the mice multiplied. First one window became broken, and
then another, so that I could get in at other places besides the door.
'Where the chimney smokes, the meal is being cooked,' says the
proverb; but here a chimney smoked that devoured all the meals for the
sake of gold. I blew round the courtyard," said the Wind, "like a
watchman blowing his home, but no watchman was there. I twirled the
weather-cock round on the summit of the tower, and it creaked like the
snoring of a warder, but no warder was there; nothing but mice and
rats. Poverty laid the table-cloth; poverty sat in the wardrobe and in
the larder. The door fell off its hinges, cracks and fissures made
their appearance everywhere; so that I could go in and out at
pleasure, and that is how I know all about it. Amid smoke and ashes,
sorrow, and sleepless nights, the hair and beard of the master of
the house turned gray, and deep furrows showed themselves around his
temples; his skin turned pale and yellow, while his eyes still
looked eagerly for gold, the longed-for gold, and the result of his
labor was debt instead of gain. I blew the smoke and ashes into his
face and beard; I moaned through the broken window-panes, and the
yawning clefts in the walls; I blew into the chests and drawers
belonging to his daughters, wherein lay the clothes that had become
faded and threadbare, from being worn over and over again. Such a song
had not been sung, at the children's cradle as I sung now. The
lordly life had changed to a life of penury. I was the only one who
rejoiced aloud in that castle," said the Wind. "At last I snowed
them up, and they say snow keeps people warm. It was good for them,
for they had no wood, and the forest, from which they might have
obtained it, had been cut down. The frost was very bitter, and I
rushed through loop-holes and passages, over gables and roofs with
keen and cutting swiftness. The three high-born daughters were lying
in bed because of the cold, and their father crouching beneath his
leather coverlet. Nothing to eat, nothing to burn, no fire on the
hearth! Here was a life for high-born people! 'Give it up, give it
up!' But my Lord Daa would not do that. 'After winter, spring will
come,' he said, 'after want, good times. We must not lose patience, we
must learn to wait. Now my horses and lands are all mortgaged, it is
indeed high time; but gold will come at last--at Easter.'

"I heard him as he thus spoke; he was looking at a spider's web,
and he continued, 'Thou cunning little weaver, thou dost teach me
perseverance. Let any one tear thy web, and thou wilt begin again
and repair it. Let it be entirely destroyed, thou wilt resolutely
begin to make another till it is completed. So ought we to do, if we
wish to succeed at last.'

"It was the morning of Easter-day. The bells sounded from the
neighboring church, and the sun seemed to rejoice in the sky. The
master of the castle had watched through the night, in feverish
excitement, and had been melting and cooling, distilling and mixing. I
heard him sighing like a soul in despair; I heard him praying, and I
noticed how he held his breath. The lamp burnt out, but he did not
observe it. I blew up the fire in the coals on the hearth, and it
threw a red glow on his ghastly white face, lighting it up with a
glare, while his sunken eyes looked out wildly from their cavernous
depths, and appeared to grow larger and more prominent, as if they
would burst from their sockets. 'Look at the alchymic glass,' he
cried; 'something glows in the crucible, pure and heavy.' He lifted it
with a trembling hand, and exclaimed in a voice of agitation, 'Gold!
gold!' He was quite giddy, I could have blown him down," said the
Wind; "but I only fanned the glowing coals, and accompanied him
through the door to the room where his daughter sat shivering. His
coat was powdered with ashes, and there were ashes in his beard and in
his tangled hair. He stood erect, and held high in the air the brittle
glass that contained his costly treasure. 'Found! found! Gold!
gold!' he shouted, again holding the glass aloft, that it might
flash in the sunshine; but his hand trembled, and the alchymic glass
fell from it, clattering to the ground, and brake in a thousand
pieces. The last bubble of his happiness had burst, with a whiz and
a whir, and I rushed away from the gold-maker's house.

"Late in the autumn, when the days were short, and the mist
sprinkled cold drops on the berries and the leafless branches, I
came back in fresh spirits, rushed through the air, swept the sky
clear, and snapped off the dry twigs, which is certainly no great
labor to do, yet it must be done. There was another kind of sweeping
taking place at Waldemar Daa's, in the castle of Borreby. His enemy,
Owe Ramel, of Basnas, was there, with the mortgage of the house and
everything it contained, in his pocket. I rattled the broken
windows, beat against the old rotten doors, and whistled through
cracks and crevices, so that Mr. Owe Ramel did not much like to remain
there. Ida and Anna Dorothea wept bitterly, Joanna stood, pale and
proud, biting her lips till the blood came; but what could that avail?
Owe Ramel offered Waldemar Daa permission to remain in the house
till the end of his life. No one thanked him for the offer, and I
saw the ruined old gentleman lift his head, and throw it back more
proudly than ever. Then I rushed against the house and the old
lime-trees with such force, that one of the thickest branches, a
decayed one, was broken off, and the branch fell at the entrance,
and remained there. It might have been used as a broom, if any one had
wanted to sweep the place out, and a grand sweeping-out there really
was; I thought it would be so. It was hard for any one to preserve
composure on such a day; but these people had strong wills, as
unbending as their hard fortune. There was nothing they could call
their own, excepting the clothes they wore. Yes, there was one thing
more, an alchymist's glass, a new one, which had been lately bought,
and filled with what could be gathered from the ground of the treasure
which had promised so much but failed in keeping its promise. Waldemar
Daa hid the glass in his bosom, and, taking his stick in his hand, the
once rich gentleman passed with his daughters out of the house of
Borreby. I blew coldly upon his flustered cheeks, I stroked his gray
beard and his long white hair, and I sang as well as I was able,
'Whir-r-r, whir-r-r. Gone away! Gone away!' Ida walked on one side
of the old man, and Anna Dorothea on the other; Joanna turned round,
as they left the entrance. Why? Fortune would not turn because she
turned. She looked at the stone in the walls which had once formed
part of the castle of Marck Stig, and perhaps she thought of his
daughters and of the old song,--

  "The eldest and youngest, hand-in-hand,
  Went forth alone to a distant land."

These were only two; here there were three, and their father with them
also. They walked along the high-road, where once they had driven in
their splendid carriage; they went forth with their father as beggars.
They wandered across an open field to a mud hut, which they rented for
a dollar and a half a year, a new home, with bare walls and empty
cupboards. Crows and magpies fluttered about them, and cried, as if in
contempt, 'Caw, caw, turned out of our nest--caw, caw,' as they had
done in the wood at Borreby, when the trees were felled. Daa and his
daughters could not help hearing it, so I blew about their ears to
drown the noise; what use was it that they should listen? So they went
to live in the mud hut in the open field, and I wandered away, over
moor and meadow, through bare bushes and leafless forests, to the open
sea, to the broad shores in other lands, 'Whir-r-r, whir-r-r! Away,
away!' year after year."

And what became of Waldemar Daa and his daughters? Listen; the
Wind will tell us:

"The last I saw of them was the pale hyacinth, Anna Dorothea. She
was old and bent then; for fifty years had passed and she had outlived
them all. She could relate the history. Yonder, on the heath, near the
town of Wiborg, in Jutland, stood the fine new house of the canon. It
was built of red brick, with projecting gables. It was inhabited, for
the smoke curled up thickly from the chimneys. The canon's gentle lady
and her beautiful daughters sat in the bay-window, and looked over the
hawthorn hedge of the garden towards the brown heath. What were they
looking at? Their glances fell upon a stork's nest, which was built
upon an old tumbledown hut. The roof, as far as one existed at all,
was covered with moss and lichen. The stork's nest covered the greater
part of it, and that alone was in a good condition; for it was kept in
order by the stork himself. That is a house to be looked at, and not
to be touched," said the Wind. "For the sake of the stork's nest it
had been allowed to remain, although it is a blot on the landscape.
They did not like to drive the stork away; therefore the old shed was
left standing, and the poor woman who dwelt in it allowed to stay. She
had the Egyptian bird to thank for that; or was it perchance her
reward for having once interceded for the preservation of the nest of
its black brother in the forest of Borreby? At that time she, the
poor woman, was a young child, a white hyacinth in a rich garden. She
remembered that time well; for it was Anna Dorothea.

"'O-h, o-h,' she sighed; for people can sigh like the moaning of
the wind among the reeds and rushes. 'O-h, o-h,' she would say, 'no
bell sounded at thy burial, Waldemar Daa. The poor school-boys did not
even sing a psalm when the former lord of Borreby was laid in the
earth to rest. O-h, everything has an end, even misery. Sister Ida
became the wife of a peasant; that was the hardest trial which
befell our father, that the husband of his own daughter should be a
miserable serf, whom his owner could place for punishment on the
wooden horse. I suppose he is under the ground now; and Ida--alas!
alas! it is not ended yet; miserable that I am! Kind Heaven, grant
me that I may die.'

"That was Anna Dorothea's prayer in the wretched hut that was left
standing for the sake of the stork. I took pity on the proudest of the
sisters," said the Wind. "Her courage was like that of a man; and in
man's clothes she served as a sailor on board ship. She was of few
words, and of a dark countenance; but she did not know how to climb,
so I blew her overboard before any one found out that she was a woman;
and, in my opinion, that was well done," said the Wind.

On such another Easter morning as that on which Waldemar Daa
imagined he had discovered the art of making gold, I heard the tones
of a psalm under the stork's nest, and within the crumbling walls.
It was Anna Dorothea's last song. There was no window in the hut, only
a hole in the wall; and the sun rose like a globe of burnished gold,
and looked through. With what splendor he filled that dismal dwelling!
Her eyes were glazing, and her heart breaking; but so it would have
been, even had the sun not shone that morning on Anna Dorothea. The
stork's nest had secured her a home till her death. I sung over her
grave; I sung at her father's grave. I know where it lies, and where
her grave is too, but nobody else knows it.

"New times now; all is changed. The old high-road is lost amid
cultivated fields; the new one now winds along over covered graves;
and soon the railway will come, with its train of carriages, and
rush over graves where lie those whose very names are forgoten. All
passed away, passed away!

"This is the story of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. Tell it
better, any of you, if you know how," said the Wind; and he rushed
away, and was gone.




THE WINDMILL

A windmill stood upon the hill, proud to look at, and it was proud
too.

"I am not proud at all," it said, "but I am very much
enlightened without and within. I have sun and moon for my outward
use, and for inward use too; and into the bargain I have stearine
candles, train oil and lamps, and tallow candles. I may well say
that I'm enlightened. I'm a thinking being, and so well constructed
that it's quite delightful. I have a good windpipe in my chest, and
I have four wings that are placed outside my head, just beneath my
hat. The birds have only two wings, and are obliged to carry them on
their backs. I am a Dutchman by birth, that may be seen by my
figure--a flying Dutchman. They are considered supernatural beings,
I know, and yet I am quite natural. I have a gallery round my chest,
and house-room beneath it; that's where my thoughts dwell. My
strongest thought, who rules and reigns, is called by others 'The
Man in the Mill.' He knows what he wants, and is lord over the meal
and the bran; but he has his companion, too, and she calls herself
'Mother.' She is the very heart of me. She does not run about stupidly
and awkwardly, for she knows what she wants, she knows what she can
do, she's as soft as a zephyr and as strong as a storm; she knows
how to begin a thing carefully, and to have her own way. She is my
soft temper, and the father is my hard one. They are two, and yet one;
they each call the other 'My half.' These two have some little boys,
young thoughts, that can grow. The little ones keep everything in
order. When, lately, in my wisdom, I let the father and the boys
examine my throat and the hole in my chest, to see what was going on
there,--for something in me was out of order, and it's well to examine
one's self,--the little ones made a tremendous noise. The youngest
jumped up into my hat, and shouted so there that it tickled me. The
little thoughts may grow--I know that very well; and out in the
world thoughts come too, and not only of my kind, for as far as I
can see, I cannot discern anything like myself; but the wingless
houses, whose throats make no noise, have thoughts too, and these come
to my thoughts, and make love to them, as it is called. It's wonderful
enough--yes, there are many wonderful things. Something has come
over me, or into me,--something has changed in the mill-work. It seems
as if the one half, the father, had altered, and had received a better
temper and a more affectionate helpmate--so young and good, and yet
the same, only more gentle and good through the course of time. What
was bitter has passed away, and the whole is much more comfortable.

"The days go on, and the days come nearer and nearer to
clearness and to joy; and then a day will come when it will be over
with me; but not over altogether. I must be pulled down that I may
be built up again; I shall cease, but yet shall live on. To become
quite a different being, and yet remain the same! That's difficult for
me to understand, however enlightened I may be with sun, moon,
stearine, train oil, and tallow. My old wood-work and my old
brick-work will rise again from the dust!

"I will hope that I may keep my old thoughts, the father in the
mill, and the mother, great ones and little ones--the family; for I
call them all, great and little, the company of thoughts, because I
must, and cannot refrain from it.

"And I must also remain 'myself,' with my throat in my chest, my
wings on my head, the gallery round my body; else I should not know
myself, nor could the others know me, and say, 'There's the mill on
the hill, proud to look at, and yet not proud at all.'"

That is what the mill said. Indeed, it said much more, but that is
the most important part.

And the days came, and the days went, and yesterday was the last
day.

Then the mill caught fire. The flames rose up high, and beat out
and in, and bit at the beams and planks, and ate them up. The mill
fell, and nothing remained of it but a heap of ashes. The smoke
drove across the scene of the conflagration, and the wind carried it
away.

Whatever had been alive in the mill remained, and what had been
gained by it has nothing to do with this story.

The miller's family--one soul, many thoughts, and yet only one--built
a new, a splendid mill, which answered its purpose. It was quite
like the old one, and people said, "Why, yonder is the mill on the
hill, proud to look at!" But this mill was better arranged, more
according to the time than the last, so that progress might be made.
The old beams had become worm-eaten and spongy--they lay in dust and
ashes. The body of the mill did not rise out of the dust as they had
believed it would do. They had taken it literally, and all things
are not to be taken literally.




THE STORY OF THE YEAR

It was near the end of January, and a terrible fall of snow was
pelting down, and whirling through the streets and lanes; the
windows were plastered with snow on the outside, snow fell in masses
from the roofs. Every one seemed in a great hurry; they ran, they
flew, fell into each other's arms, holding fast for a moment as long
as they could stand safely. Coaches and horses looked as if they had
been frosted with sugar. The footmen stood with their backs against
the carriages, so as to turn their faces from the wind. The foot
passengers kept within the shelter of the carriages, which could
only move slowly on in the deep snow. At last the storm abated, and
a narrow path was swept clean in front of the houses; when two persons
met in this path they stood still, for neither liked to take the first
step on one side into the deep snow to let the other pass him. There
they stood silent and motionless, till at last, as if by tacit
consent, they each sacrificed a leg and buried it in the deep snow.
Towards evening, the weather became calm. The sky, cleared from the
snow, looked more lofty and transparent, while the stars shone with
new brightness and purity. The frozen snow crackled under foot, and
was quite firm enough to bear the sparrows, who hopped upon it in
the morning dawn. They searched for food in the path which had been
swept, but there was very little for them, and they were terribly
cold. "Tweet, tweet," said one to another; "they call this a new
year, but I think it is worse than the last. We might just as well
have kept the old year; I'm quite unhappy, and I have a right to be
so."

"Yes, you have; and yet the people ran about and fired off guns,
to usher in the new year," said a little shivering sparrow. "They
threw things against the doors, and were quite beside themselves
with joy, because the old year had disappeared. I was glad too, for
I expected we should have some warm days, but my hopes have come to
nothing. It freezes harder than ever; I think mankind have made a
mistake in reckoning time."

"That they have," said a third, an old sparrow with a white
poll; "they have something they call a calendar; it's an invention
of their own, and everything must be arranged according to it, but
it won't do. When spring comes, then the year begins. It is the
voice of nature, and I reckon by that."

"But when will spring come?" asked the others.

"It will come when the stork returns, but he is very uncertain,
and here in the town no one knows anything about it. In the country
they have more knowledge; shall we fly away there and wait? we shall
be nearer to spring then, certainly."

"That may be all very well," said another sparrow, who had been
hopping about for a long time, chirping, but not saying anything of
consequence, "but I have found a few comforts here in town which,
I'm afraid, I should miss out in the country. Here in this
neighborhood, there lives a family of people who have been so sensible
as to place three or four flower-pots against the wall in the
court-yard, so that the openings are all turned inward, and the bottom
of each points outward. In the latter a hole has been cut large enough
for me to fly in and out. I and my husband have built a nest in one of
these pots, and all our young ones, who have now flown away, were
brought up there. The people who live there of course made the whole
arrangement that they might have the pleasure of seeing us, or they
would not have done it. It pleased them also to strew bread-crumbs for
us, and so we have food, and may consider ourselves provided for. So I
think my husband and I will stay where we are; although we are not
very happy, but we shall stay."

"And we will fly into the country," said the others, "to see if
spring is coming." And away they flew.

In the country it was really winter, a few degrees colder than
in the town. The sharp winds blew over the snow-covered fields. The
farmer, wrapped in warm clothing, sat in his sleigh, and beat his arms
across his chest to keep off the cold. The whip lay on his lap. The
horses ran till they smoked. The snow crackled, the sparrows hopped
about in the wheel-ruts, and shivered, crying, "Tweet, tweet; when
will spring come? It is very long in coming."

"Very long indeed," sounded over the field, from the nearest
snow-covered hill. It might have been the echo which people heard,
or perhaps the words of that wonderful old man, who sat high on a heap
of snow, regardless of wind or weather. He was all in white; he had on
a peasant's coarse white coat of frieze. He had long white hair, a
pale face, and large clear blue eyes. "Who is that old man?" asked the
sparrows.

"I know who he is," said an old raven, who sat on the fence, and
was condescending enough to acknowledge that we are all equal in the
sight of Heaven, even as little birds, and therefore he talked with
the sparrows, and gave them the information they wanted. "I know who
the old man is," he said. "It is Winter, the old man of last year;
he is not dead yet, as the calendar says, but acts as guardian to
little Prince Spring who is coming. Winter rules here still. Ugh!
the cold makes you shiver, little ones, does it not?"

"There! Did I not tell you so?" said the smallest of the sparrows.
"The calendar is only an invention of man, and is not arranged
according to nature. They should leave these things to us; we are
created so much more clever than they are."

One week passed, and then another. The forest looked dark, the
hard-frozen lake lay like a sheet of lead. The mountains had
disappeared, for over the land hung damp, icy mists. Large black crows
flew about in silence; it was as if nature slept. At length a
sunbeam glided over the lake, and it shone like burnished silver.
But the snow on the fields and the hills did not glitter as before.
The white form of Winter sat there still, with his un-wandering gaze
fixed on the south. He did not perceive that the snowy carpet seemed
to sink as it were into the earth; that here and there a little
green patch of grass appeared, and that these patches were covered
with sparrows.

"Tee-wit, tee-wit; is spring coming at last?"

Spring! How the cry resounded over field and meadow, and through
the dark-brown woods, where the fresh green moss still gleamed on
the trunks of the trees, and from the south came the two first
storks flying through the air, and on the back of each sat a lovely
little child, a boy and a girl. They greeted the earth with a kiss,
and wherever they placed their feet white flowers sprung up from
beneath the snow. Hand in hand they approached the old ice-man,
Winter, embraced him and clung to his breast; and as they did so, in a
moment all three were enveloped in a thick, damp mist, dark and heavy,
that closed over them like a veil. The wind arose with mighty rustling
tone, and cleared away the mist. Then the sun shone out warmly. Winter
had vanished away, and the beautiful children of Spring sat on the
throne of the year.

"This is really a new year," cried all the sparrows, "now we shall
get our rights, and have some return for what we suffered in winter."

Wherever the two children wandered, green buds burst forth on bush
and tree, the grass grew higher, and the corn-fields became lovely
in delicate green.

The little maiden strewed flowers in her path. She held her
apron before her: it was full of flowers; it was as if they sprung
into life there, for the more she scattered around her, the more
flowers did her apron contain. Eagerly she showered snowy blossoms
over apple and peach-trees, so that they stood in full beauty before
even their green leaves had burst from the bud. Then the boy and the
girl clapped their hands, and troops of birds came flying by, no one
knew from whence, and they all twittered and chirped, singing
"Spring has come!" How beautiful everything was! Many an old dame came
forth from her door into the sunshine, and shuffled about with great
delight, glancing at the golden flowers which glittered everywhere
in the fields, as they used to do in her young days. The world grew
young again to her, as she said, "It is a blessed time out here
to-day." The forest already wore its dress of dark-green buds. The
thyme blossomed in fresh fragrance. Primroses and anemones sprung
forth, and violets bloomed in the shade, while every blade of grass
was full of strength and sap. Who could resist sitting down on such
a beautiful carpet? and then the young children of Spring seated
themselves, holding each other's hands, and sang, and laughed, and
grew. A gentle rain fell upon them from the sky, but they did not
notice it, for the rain-drops were their own tears of joy. They kissed
each other, and were betrothed; and in the same moment the buds of the
trees unfolded, and when the sun rose, the forest was green. Hand in
hand the two wandered beneath the fresh pendant canopy of foliage,
while the sun's rays gleamed through the opening of the shade, in
changing and varied colors. The delicate young leaves filled the air
with refreshing odor. Merrily rippled the clear brooks and rivulets
between the green, velvety rushes, and over the many-colored pebbles
beneath. All nature spoke of abundance and plenty. The cuckoo sang,
and the lark carolled, for it was now beautiful spring. The careful
willows had, however, covered their blossoms with woolly gloves; and
this carefulness is rather tedious. Days and weeks went by, and the
heat increased. Warm air waved the corn as it grew golden in the
sun. The white northern lily spread its large green leaves over the
glossy mirror of the woodland lake, and the fishes sought the
shadows beneath them. In a sheltered part of the wood, the sun shone
upon the walls of a farm-house, brightening the blooming roses, and
ripening the black juicy berries, which hung on the loaded
cherry-trees, with his hot beams. Here sat the lovely wife of
Summer, the same whom we have seen as a child and a bride; her eyes
were fixed on dark gathering clouds, which in wavy outlines of black
and indigo were piling themselves up like mountains, higher and
higher. They came from every side, always increasing like a rising,
rolling sea. Then they swooped towards the forest, where every sound
had been silenced as if by magic, every breath hushed, every bird
mute. All nature stood still in grave suspense. But in the lanes and
the highways, passengers on foot or in carriages were hurrying to find
a place of shelter. Then came a flash of light, as if the sun had
rushed forth from the sky, flaming, burning, all-devouring, and
darkness returned amid a rolling crash of thunder. The rain poured
down in streams,--now there was darkness, then blinding light,--now
thrilling silence, then deafening din. The young brown reeds on the
moor waved to and fro in feathery billows; the forest boughs were
hidden in a watery mist, and still light and darkness followed each
other, still came the silence after the roar, while the corn and the
blades of grass lay beaten down and swamped, so that it seemed
impossible they could ever raise themselves again. But after a while
the rain began to fall gently, the sun's rays pierced the clouds,
and the water-drops glittered like pearls on leaf and stem. The
birds sang, the fishes leaped up to the surface of the water, the
gnats danced in the sunshine, and yonder, on a rock by the heaving
salt sea, sat Summer himself, a strong man with sturdy limbs and long,
dripping hair. Strengthened by the cool bath, he sat in the warm
sunshine, while all around him renewed nature bloomed strong,
luxuriant, and beautiful: it was summer, warm, lovely summer. Sweet
and pleasant was the fragrance wafted from the clover-field, where the
bees swarmed round the ruined tower, the bramble twined itself over
the old altar, which, washed by the rain, glittered in the sunshine;
and thither flew the queen bee with her swarm, and prepared wax and
honey. But Summer and his bosom-wife saw it with different eyes, to
them the altar-table was covered with the offerings of nature. The
evening sky shone like gold, no church dome could ever gleam so
brightly, and between the golden evening and the blushing morning
there was moonlight. It was indeed summer. And days and weeks
passed, the bright scythes of the reapers glittered in the
corn-fields, the branches of the apple-trees bent low, heavy with
the red and golden fruit. The hop, hanging in clusters, filled the air
with sweet fragrance, and beneath the hazel-bushes, where the nuts
hung in great bunches, rested a man and a woman--Summer and his
grave consort.

"See," she exclaimed, "what wealth, what blessings surround us.
Everything is home-like and good, and yet, I know not why, I long
for rest and peace; I can scarcely express what I feel. They are
already ploughing the fields again; more and more the people wish
for gain. See, the storks are flocking together, and following the
plough at a short distance. They are the birds from Egypt, who carried
us through the air. Do you remember how we came as children to this
land of the north; we brought with us flowers and bright sunshine, and
green to the forests, but the wind has been rough with them, and
they are now become dark and brown, like the trees of the south, but
they do not, like them, bear golden fruit."

"Do you wish to see golden fruit?" said the man, "then rejoice,"
and he lifted his arm. The leaves of the forest put on colors of red
and gold, and bright tints covered the woodlands. The rose-bushes
gleamed with scarlet hips, and the branches of the elder-trees hung
down with the weight of the full, dark berries. The wild chestnuts
fell ripe from their dark, green shells, and in the forests the
violets bloomed for the second time. But the queen of the year
became more and more silent and pale.

"It blows cold," she said, "and night brings the damp mist; I long
for the land of my childhood." Then she saw the storks fly away
every one, and she stretched out her hands towards them. She looked at
the empty nests; in one of them grew a long-stalked corn flower, in
another the yellow mustard seed, as if the nest had been placed
there only for its comfort and protection, and the sparrows were
flying round them all.

"Tweet, where has the master of the nest gone?" cried one, "I
suppose he could not bear it when the wind blew, and therefore he
has left this country. I wish him a pleasant journey."

The forest leaves became more and more yellow, leaf after leaf
fell, and the stormy winds of Autumn howled. The year was now far
advanced, and upon the fallen, yellow leaves, lay the queen of the
year, looking up with mild eyes at a gleaming star, and her husband
stood by her. A gust of wind swept through the foliage, and the leaves
fell in a shower. The summer queen was gone, but a butterfly, the last
of the year, flew through the cold air. Damp fogs came, icy winds
blew, and the long, dark nights of winter approached. The ruler of the
year appeared with hair white as snow, but he knew it not; he
thought snow-flakes falling from the sky covered his head, as they
decked the green fields with a thin, white covering of snow. And
then the church bells rang out for Christmas time.

"The bells are ringing for the new-born year," said the ruler,
"soon will a new ruler and his bride be born, and I shall go to
rest with my wife in yonder light-giving star."

In the fresh, green fir-wood, where the snow lay all around, stood
the angel of Christmas, and consecrated the young trees that were to
adorn his feast.

"May there be joy in the rooms, and under the green boughs,"
said the old ruler of the year. In a few weeks he had become a very
old man, with hair as white as snow. "My resting-time draws near;
the young pair of the year will soon claim my crown and sceptre."

"But the night is still thine," said the angel of Christmas,
"for power, but not for rest. Let the snow lie warmly upon the
tender seed. Learn to endure the thought that another is worshipped
whilst thou art still lord. Learn to endure being forgotten while
yet thou livest. The hour of thy freedom will come when Spring
appears."

"And when will Spring come?" asked Winter.

"It will come when the stork returns."

And with white locks and snowy beard, cold, bent, and hoary, but
strong as the wintry storm, and firm as the ice, old Winter sat on the
snowdrift-covered hill, looking towards the south, where Winter had
sat before, and gazed. The ice glittered, the snow crackled, the
skaters skimmed over the polished surface of the lakes; ravens and
crows formed a pleasing contrast to the white ground, and not a breath
of wind stirred, and in the still air old Winter clenched his fists,
and the ice lay fathoms deep between the lands. Then came the sparrows
again out of the town, and asked, "Who is that old man?" The raven sat
there still, or it might be his son, which is the same thing, and he
said to them,--

"It is Winter, the old man of the former year; he is not dead,
as the calendar says, but he is guardian to the spring, which is
coming."

"When will Spring come?" asked the sparrows, "for we shall have
better times then, and a better rule. The old times are worth
nothing."

And in quiet thought old Winter looked at the leafless forest,
where the graceful form and bends of each tree and branch could be
seen; and while Winter slept, icy mists came from the clouds, and
the ruler dreamt of his youthful days and of his manhood, and in the
morning dawn the whole forest glittered with hoar frost, which the sun
shook from the branches,--and this was the summer dream of Winter.

"When will Spring come?" asked the sparrows. "Spring!" Again the
echo sounded from the hills on which the snow lay. The sunshine became
warmer, the snow melted, and the birds twittered, "Spring is
coming!" And high in the air flew the first stork, and the second
followed; a lovely child sat on the back of each, and they sank down
on the open field, kissed the earth, and kissed the quiet old man;
and, as the mist from the mountain top, he vanished away and
disappeared. And the story of the year was finished.

"This is all very fine, no doubt," said the sparrows, "and it is
very beautiful; but it is not according to the calendar, therefore, it
must be all wrong."