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[Illustration: THE FARMER'S WIFE]


THE QUEEN BEE AND OTHER NATURE STORIES

Translated from the Danish of

CARL EWALD

by

G · C · Moore Smith







Thomas Nelson & Sons
London · Edinburgh · Dublin
And New York · 1908 · · ·




PREFACE.

BY THE TRANSLATOR.


Carl Ewald's "Æventyr" or Nature Stories are well known and very
popular in Denmark and the rest of Scandinavia, though they have never
before this been brought to the notice of English readers. There are a
number of series of them, the first of which consists of the stories
given in this little book.

This first series appeared in 1882, but took its definitive form in
the edition of 1895. When it first appeared, it was introduced by a
preface written by the author's father, the well-known historical
novelist, H. F. Ewald. This preface ran as follows:--

"It has often been a subject of complaint that our story books, with
their nixies, trolls, and bewitched princes and princesses, give
children superstitious ideas, and affect their imagination in a way
which is not the best possible.

"The author of the little stories to which I am writing a word of
preface has struck out a way of his own. Holding that Nature, with
its manifold and many-coloured life, contains new material on which
children in their own way can draw, he has taken as the subject of his
stories the phenomena of natural history.

"As I think, he has performed his task in a taking and attractive
manner, the child's fancy being sufficiently enthralled at the same
time that it gets a true conception of the working of natural forces,
a conception which will fix itself in the memory all the better for
its poetical clothing.

"It seems to me that the author's view is a sound one, so I gladly
recommend his little book to parents who wish their children to read
what is both pleasurable and instructive."

There are some touches in the stories, of course, which belong rather
to Denmark than England--for example, the custom of ringing the church
bells at sunset, the complete disappearance of starlings in the winter
months, the "starlings' box" which is ready for them to rest in on
their return, the presence of the stork. The phenomenon of beech
forests extruding and supplanting oak forests (referred to by Dr.
Wallace in "Darwinism" as one of the most striking instances of
"natural selection") is one of which there are clearer traces in
Scandinavian countries than in Great Britain. But, on the whole,
Nature is the same in England as in Denmark, and the English child
who learns natural history from these stories will not be misdirected.

Meanwhile, I hope that these stories of Carl Ewald will be loved for
their own sake as stories merely. They have so much poetical
imagination, ingenuity of incident, and bright wit, that they seem
entitled to some share in the popularity accorded to the children's
tales of another Danish writer, Hans Christian Andersen. Some English
children have already listened to them eagerly, and many others, I
hope, will take them into their favour when they are sent out into the
world. They may even be read with pleasure by some who are children no
longer. If this is not so, the fault must lie with the translator.

    G. C. MOORE SMITH.
    SHEFFIELD, 1907.




CONTENTS.


    THE QUEEN BEE
    THE ANEMONES
    THE MIST
    THE BEECH AND THE OAK
    THE DRAGON-FLY AND THE WATER-LILY
    THE WEEDS
    THE SPARROW




LIST OF COLOURED PLATES.


    THE FARMER'S WIFE,        _After a Drawing by Edmund Dulac._

    THE BEEHIVES,             _After a Drawing by Gilbert James._

    MY LADY SPRING,           _After a Drawing by Margaret E. Thompson._

    THE EVENING HOUR,         _After a Drawing by Edmund Dulac._

    IN THE EARLY DAYS,        _After a Drawing by John Hassall._

    THE DRAGON-FLY
    AND THE WATER-LILY,       _After a Drawing by Marie Webb._

    THE FARMER AND HIS BOYS,  _After a Drawing by Gilbert James._

    PREPARING FOR FLIGHT,     _After a Drawing by Carton Moore Park._

    ILLUSTRATIVE BORDERS, HEADPIECES, ETC.




_A DEDICATION._

(_After CARL EWALD._)


    _We strayed, thy little hand in mine,
    One summer morning fresh and fine,
        In a wood where birches met;
    A great sun-bonnet served as frame
    To rounded childish cheeks aflame--
        Thy voice is ringing yet!
    Of birdies' songs, of flowers, of trees--
    Whate'er thy tender mind could seize--
        I wove thee tales, my pet:
    Ah, thou canst not remember it,
        And I can ne'er forget!_

    _And now my locks are thin and gray,
    For years since then have slipped away,
        For gladness or regret!
    And ah, the woods where now I roam,
    And those wide chambers of my home,
        Know thee no more, Ninette!
    Since I shall never find thee then,
    Oh, let this Book remind thee then
        Of a wood where birches met:
    For thou canst not remember it,
        And I can ne'er forget!_




EWALD'S DANISH NATURE STORIES.

Series I.




The Queen Bee

[Illustration: THE QUEEN BEE]


The farmer opened his hive. "Off with you!" he said to the bees. "The
sun is shining, and everywhere the flowers are coming out, so that it
is a joy to see them. Get to work, and gather a good lot of honey for
me to sell to the shopkeeper in the autumn. 'Many a streamlet makes a
river,' and you know these are bad times for farmers."

"What does that matter to us?" said the bees. But all the same they
flew out; for they had been sitting all the winter in the hive, and
they longed for a breath of fresh air.

They hummed and buzzed, they stretched their legs, they tried their
wings. They swarmed out in all directions; they crawled up and down
the hive; they flew off to the flowers and bushes, or wandered all
round on the ground. There were hundreds and hundreds of them.

Last of all came the queen. She was bigger than the others, and it was
she who ruled the hive.

"Stop your nonsense, little children," she said, "and set to work and
do something. A good bee does not idle, but turns to with a will and
makes good use of its time."

So she divided them into parties and set them to work.

"You over there, fly out and see if there is any honey in the flowers.
The others can collect flower-dust, and when you come home give it in
smartly to the old bees in the hive."

Away they flew at once. But all the very young ones stayed behind.
They made the last party, for they had never been out with the others.

"What are _we_ to do?" they asked.

"You! you must perspire," said the queen. "One, two, three! Then we
can begin our work."

And they perspired as well as they had learned to, and the prettiest
yellow wax came out of their bodies.

"Good!" said the queen. "Now we will begin to build."

The old bees took the wax, and began to build a number of little
six-sided cells, all alike and close up to one another. All the time
they were building, the others came flying in with flower-dust and
honey, which they laid at the queen's feet.

"We can now knead the dough," she said. "But first put a little honey
in--that makes it taste so much better."

They kneaded and kneaded, and before very long they had made some
pretty little loaves of bee-bread, which they carried into the cells.

"Now let us go on with the building," commanded the queen bee, and
they perspired wax and built for all they were worth.

"And now _my_ work begins," said the queen, and she heaved a deep
sigh; for her work was the hardest work of all.

She sat down in the middle of the hive and began to lay her eggs. She
laid great heaps of them, and the bees were kept very busy running
with the little eggs in their mouths and carrying them into the new
cells. Each egg had a little cell to itself; and when they had all
been put in their places, the queen gave orders to fix doors to all
the cells and shut them fast.

"Good!" she said, when this was done. "I want you now to build me ten
fine big rooms in the out-of-the-way parts of the hive."

The bees had them ready in no time, and then the queen laid ten pretty
eggs, one in each of the big rooms, and the doors were fixed as
before.

Every day the bees flew in and out, gathering great heaps of honey and
flower-dust; but in the evening, when their work was done, they would
open the doors just a crack and have a peep at the eggs.

"Take care," the queen said one day. "They are coming!"

And all the eggs burst at once, and in every cell lay a pretty little
bee-baby.

"What funny creatures!" said the young bees. "They have no eyes, and
where are their legs and wings?"

"They are grubs," said the queen. "You simpletons looked just like
that yourselves once upon a time. One must be a grub before one can
become a bee. Be quick now, and give them something to eat."

The bees bestirred themselves to feed the little ones, but they were
not equally kind to them all. The ten, however, that lay in the large
cells got as much to eat as ever they wanted, and every day a great
quantity of honey was carried in to them.

"They are princesses," said the queen, "so you must treat them well.
The others you can stint; they are only working people, and they must
accustom themselves to be content with what they can get."

And every morning the poor little wretches got a little piece of
bee-bread and nothing more, and with that they had to be satisfied,
though they were ever so hungry.

In one of the little six-sided cells close by the princesses' chambers
lay a little tiny grub. She was the youngest of them all, and only
just come out of the egg. She could not see, but she could plainly
hear the grown-up bees talking outside, and for a while she lay quite
still and kept her thoughts to herself.

All at once she said out loud, "I could eat a little more," and she
knocked at her door.

"You have had enough for to-day," answered the old bee who was
appointed to be head bee-nurse, creeping up and down in the passage
outside.

"Maybe, but I am hungry!" shouted the little grub. "I will go into one
of the princesses' chambers; I have not room to stir here."

"Just listen to her!" said the old bee mockingly. "One would think by
the demands she makes that she was a fine little princess. You are
born to toil and drudge, my little friend. You are a mere working bee,
and you will never be anything else all your days."

[Illustration: THE BEEHIVES]

"But I want to be queen!" cried the grub, and thumped on the door.

Of course the old bee did not answer such nonsense, but went on to the
others. From every side they were calling out for more food, and the
little grub could hear it all.

"It is hard, though," she thought, "that we should have to be so
hungry."

And then she knocked on the princess's wall and called to her, "Give
me a little of your honey. Let me come into your chamber. I am lying
here so hungry, and I am just as good as you."

"Are you? Just you wait till I am a reigning queen," said the
princess. "You may be sure that when that time comes I shall not
forget your impertinence."

But she had scarcely said this before the other princesses began to
cry out in the most dreadful manner.

"_You're_ not going to be queen! _I_ shall be queen! _I_ shall be
queen!" they shrieked all together, and they began to knock on the
walls and make a frightful disturbance.

The head bee-nurse came running up in an instant and opened the doors.

"What are your graces' orders?" she asked, dropping a curtsy and
scraping the ground with her feet.

"More honey!" they shouted, all in one voice. "But me first--me first.
I am the one who is to be queen."

"In a moment, in a moment, your graces," she answered, and ran off as
fast as her six legs could carry her.

She soon came back with many other bees. They were dragging ever so
much honey, which they crammed down the cross little princesses'
throats. And then they got them to hold their tongues and lie still
and rest.

But the little grub lay awake, thinking over what had happened. She
longed so much for some honey that she began to shake the door again.

"Give me some honey! I can't stand it any longer. I am just as good as
the others."

The old bee tried to hush her.

"Hold your tongue, little bawler! The queen's coming."

And at the same moment the queen bee came.

"Go your ways," she said to the bees; "I wish to be alone."

For a long time she stood in silence before the princesses' chambers.

"Now they are lying there asleep," she said at last. "From morning
till evening they do nothing but eat and sleep, and they grow bigger
and fatter every day. In a few days they will be full grown, and will
creep out of their cells. Then my turn will be over. I know that too
well. I have heard the bees saying to one another that they would like
to have a younger and more beautiful queen, and they will chase me
away in disgrace. But I will not submit to it. To-morrow I will kill
them all; then I can remain queen till I die."

Then she went away. But the little grub had heard all she said.

"Dear me!" she thought; "it is really a pity about the little
princesses. They are certainly very uppish, and they have not been
nice to me, but still it would be sad if the wicked queen killed
them. I think I will tell the old growler outside in the passage all
about it."

She began once more knocking at the door, and the head bee-nurse came
running up, but this time she was fearfully angry.

"You must mind what you are doing, my good grub," she said. "You are
the youngest of them all, and you are the worst for making a noise.
Next time I shall tell the queen."

"First listen to me," said the grub, and she told her about the
queen's wicked design.

"Good gracious! is that true?" cried the old nurse, and beat her wings
in horror. And without hearing a word more, she hurried off to tell
the other bees.

"I think I deserve a little honey for what I have done," said the
little grub. "But I can now lie down and sleep with a good
conscience."

Next evening, when the queen thought that all the bees were in bed,
she came to kill the princesses. The grub could hear her talking aloud
to herself. But she was quite afraid of the wicked queen, and dared
not stir.

"I hope she won't kill the princesses," she thought, and squeezed
herself nearer to the door to hear what happened.

The queen looked cautiously round on all sides, and then opened the
first of the doors. But at the same moment the bees swarmed out from
all directions, seized her by the legs and wings, and dragged her out.

"What is the matter?" she cried. "Are you raising a rebellion?"

"No, your majesty," answered the bees, with great reverence; "but we
know that you are intending to kill the princesses, and _that_ you
shall not be allowed to do. What would become of us in the autumn
after your majesty's death?"

"Let me go!" cried the queen, and tried to get away. "I am queen now
anyway, and have the power to do what I like. How do you know that I
shall die in the autumn?"

But the bees held her fast, and dragged her outside the hive. There
they set her free, but she shook her wings in a passion and said to
them,--

"You are disloyal subjects, who are not worth ruling over. I won't
stay here an hour longer, but I will go out into the world and build a
new nest. Are there any of you who will come with me?"

Some of the old bees, who had been grubs at the same time as the
queen, declared that they would follow her. And soon after they flew
away.

"Now we have no queen," said the others, "we must take good care of
the princesses." And so they crammed them with honey from morning till
night; and they grew, and grabbed, and squabbled, and made more noise
each day than the day before.

As for the little grub, no one gave a single thought to her.

One morning the doors of the princesses' chambers flew open, and all
ten of them stepped out, beautiful full-grown queen bees. The other
bees ran up and gazed at them in admiration.

"How pretty they are!" they said. "It is hard to say which is the
most beautiful."

"_I_ am!" one cried.

"You make a mistake," said another, and stabbed her with her sting.

"You are rather conceited," shrieked a third. "I imagine that _I_ am
rather prettier than you are."

And immediately they all began calling out at once, and soon after
began to fight with one another as hard as ever they could.

The bees would have liked to separate them, but the old head bee-nurse
said to them,--

"Let them go on fighting; then we shall see which of them is the
strongest, and we will choose her to be our queen. We can't do with
more than one."

At this the bees formed round in a ring and looked on at the battle.
It lasted a long time, and it was fiercely fought. Wings and legs
which had been bitten off were flying about in the air, and after some
time eight of the princesses lay dead upon the ground. The two last
were still fighting. One of them had lost all her wings, and the
other had only four legs left.

"She will be a poor sort of queen whichever of the two we get," said
one of the bees. "We should have done better to have kept the old
one."

But she might have spared herself the remark, for in the same moment
the princesses gave each other such a stab with their stings that they
both fell dead as a door-nail.

"That is a pretty business!" called the bees, and ran about among each
other in dismay. "Now we have no queen! What shall we do? what shall
we do?"

In despair they crawled about the hive, and did not know which way to
turn. But the oldest and cleverest sat in a corner and held a council.
For a long time they talked this way and that as to what they should
decide on doing in their unhappy circumstances. But at last the head
bee-nurse got a hearing, and said,--

"I can tell you how you can get out of the difficulty, if you will but
follow my advice. I remember that the same misfortune happened to us
in this hive a long time ago. I was then a grub myself. I lay in my
cell, and distinctly heard what took place. All the princesses had
killed one another, and the old queen had gone out into the world: it
was just as it is now. But the bees took one of us grubs and laid her
in one of the princesses' cells. They fed her every day with the
finest and best honey in the whole hive; and when she was full-grown,
she was a charming and good queen. I can clearly remember the whole
affair, for I thought at the time that they might just as well have
taken me. But we may do the same thing again. I propose that we act in
the same way."

The bees were delighted, and cried that they would willingly do so,
and they ran off at once to fetch a grub.

"Wait a moment," cried the head bee-nurse, "and take me with you. At
any rate, I will come and help you. Consider now. It must be one of
the youngest grubs, for she must have time to think over her new
position. When one has been brought up to be a mere drudge, it is not
easy to accustom oneself to wear a crown."

That also seemed to the bees to be wise, and the old one went on,--

"Close by the side of the princesses' cells lies a little grub. She is
the youngest of them all. She must have learnt a good deal by hearing
the princesses' refined conversation, and I have noticed that she has
some character. Besides, it was she who was honourable enough to tell
me about the wicked intentions of the old queen. Let us take her."

At once they went in a solemn procession to the six-sided cell where
the little grub lay. The head bee-nurse politely knocked at the door,
opened it cautiously, and told the grub what the bees had decided. At
first she could hardly believe her own ears; but when they had carried
her carefully into one of the large, delightful chambers, and brought
her as much honey as she could eat, she perceived that it was all in
earnest.

"So I am to be queen after all," she said to the head bee-nurse. "You
would not believe it, you old growler!"

"I hope that your majesty will forget the rude remarks that I made at
the time you lay in the six-sided cell," said the old bee, with a
respectful bow.

"I forgive you," said the new-baked princess. "Fetch me some more
honey."

A little time after the grub was full grown, and stepped out of her
cell as big and as beautiful as the bees could wish. And besides, she
knew how to command.

"Away with you!" she said. "We must have more honey for our use in the
winter, and you others must perspire more wax. I am thinking of
building a new wing to the hive. The new princesses shall live there
next year; it is very unsuitable for them to be so near common grubs."

"Heyday!" said the bees to one another. "One would think she had been
a queen ever since she lay in the egg."

"No," said the head bee-nurse; "that is not so. But she has had
_queenly thoughts_, and that is the great thing."




The Anemones

[Illustration: The Anemones]


"Peeweet! peeweet!" cried the plover, as he flew over the bog in the
wood. "My Lady Spring is coming! I can tell it from the feeling in my
legs and wings."

When the new grass that lay below in the earth heard that, it pushed
up at once and peeped out merrily from among the old yellow grass of
last year. For the grass is always in a great hurry.

The anemones in among the trees also heard the plover's cry; but they,
on the contrary, would not come up yet on any account.

"You must not believe the plover," they whispered to one another. "He
is a gay young spark who is not to be depended upon. He always comes
too early, and begins crying out at once. No, we will wait quietly
till the starlings and swallows come. They are sensible, steady-going
people who know what's what, and don't go sailing with half a wind."

And then the starlings came. They perched on the stumps in front of
their summer villa, and looked about them.

"Too early as usual," said Daddy Starling. "Not a green leaf and not a
fly to be seen, except an old tough one from last year, which isn't
worth opening one's bill for."

Mother Starling said nothing, but she did not seem any more enchanted
with the prospect.

"If we had only stayed in our cosy winter home down there beyond the
mountains," said Daddy Starling. He was angry at his wife's not
answering him, because he was so cold that he thought it might do him
good to have a little fun. "But it is _your_ fault, as it was last
year. You are always in such a dreadful hurry to come out to the
country."

"If I am in a hurry, I know the reason for it," said Mother Starling.
"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you didn't know it also,
since they are your eggs just as much as mine."

"What do you mean?" said Daddy Starling, much insulted. "When have I
neglected my family? Perhaps you even want me to sit in the cold and
sing to you?"

"Yes, I do," said Mother Starling in the tone he couldn't resist.

He began to pipe at once as well as he knew how. But Mother Starling
had no sooner heard the first notes than she gave him a flap with her
wings and snapped at him with her beak.

"Oh, please stop it!" she cried bitterly. "It sounds so sad that it
makes one quite heartsick. Instead of piping like that, get the
anemones to come up. I think it must be time for them. And besides,
one always feels warmer when there are others freezing besides
oneself."

Now as soon as the anemones had heard the first piping of the
starling, they cautiously stuck out their heads from the earth. But
they were so tightly wrapped up in green kerchiefs that one could not
get a glimpse of them. They looked like green shoots which might turn
into anything.

"It is too early," they whispered. "It is a shame of the starling to
entice us out. One can't rely on anything in the world nowadays."

Then the swallow came.

"Chee! chee!" he twittered, and shot through the air on his long,
tapering wings. "Out with you, you stupid flowers! Don't you see that
my Lady Spring has come?"

But the anemones had grown cautious. They only drew their green
kerchiefs a little apart and peeped out.

"One swallow does not make a summer," they said. "Where is your wife?
You have only come here to see if it is possible to stay here, and you
want to take us in. But we are not so stupid. We know very well that
if we once catch a bad cold we are done for, for this year at any
rate."

[Illustration: MY LADY SPRING]

"You are cowards," said the swallow, perching himself on the
forest-ranger's weathercock, and peering out over the landscape.

But the anemones waited still and shivered. A few of them who could
not control their impatience threw off their kerchiefs in the sun. The
cold at night nipped and killed them; and the story of their pitiful
death was passed on from flower to flower, and caused a great
consternation.

And then--one delightfully mild, still night--my Lady Spring came.

No one knows how she looks, because no one has ever seen her. But all
long for her, and thank her and bless her. She goes through the wood
and touches the flowers and trees, and at once they burst out. She
goes through the cattle-stalls and unties the beasts, and lets them
out on to the field. She goes straight into the hearts of men and
fills them with gladness. She makes it hard for the best boy to sit
still on his form at school, and she is the cause of a terrible
number of mistakes in the copy-books.

But she does not do all this at once. Night after night she plies her
task, and she comes first to him who longs for her most.

So it happened that on the very night of her coming she went straight
to the anemones, who stood in their green kerchiefs and didn't know
how to hold out any longer.

And one, two, three! there they stood in their newly-ironed white
collars, and looked so fresh and so pretty that the starlings sang
their prettiest songs out of sheer joy in them.

"Ah, how sweet it is here!" said the anemones. "How warm the sun is,
and how the birds sing! It is a thousand times better than last year."

But they said the same thing every year, so one needn't take any
account of it.

There were many others who were quite beside themselves when they saw
the anemones had come out. One was a schoolboy who wanted to have his
summer holidays at once; and another was the beech tree, who felt
exceedingly put out.

"Aren't you coming soon to me, my Lady Spring?" he said. "I am a much
more important person than those silly anemones, and I can't really
hold in my buds much longer."

"I am coming, I am coming," answered my Lady Spring. "But you must
give me a little time."

She went on her way through the wood, and at every step many and many
an anemone burst into flower. They stood in crowds round the roots of
the birch tree, and bashfully bowed their round heads to the earth.

"Look up," said my Lady Spring, "and rejoice in God's bright sunshine.
Your life is short, so you must enjoy it while you have it."

The anemones did as she told them. They stretched and strained, and
spread their white petals to all sides, to drink as much sunshine as
they could. They pushed their heads against one another, and twined
their stalks together, and laughed, and were immensely happy.

"Now I can wait no longer," said the beech, and he burst into leaf.

Leaf after leaf crept forth from its green sheath and waved in the
wind. The great tree made a green arch, like a mighty roof over the
earth.

"Dear me, is it already evening?" asked the anemones, who noticed that
it had grown quite dark.

"No; it is Death," said my Lady Spring. "Now _your_ time is over. It
happens to you just as it happens to all that is best on earth.
Everything in turn must spring to life, and bloom, and die."

"Die?" cried some little anemones. "Must we die already?"

And some of the big ones grew quite red in the face in their terror
and vexation.

"We know what it is," they said. "It is the beech that is the death of
us. He steals the sunshine for his own leaves, and does not allow us a
single ray. He is a mean, wicked thing."

They stood for some days, grumbling and crying. Then my Lady Spring
came for the last time through the wood. She had still the oak trees
and some other crusty old fellows to attend to.

"Lie down nicely in the earth and go to sleep," she said to the
anemones. "It is of no use to kick against the pricks. Next year I
will come back and waken you once more to life."

And some of the anemones did as she told them. But others still
stretched their heads into the air, and grew so ugly and stalky that
it was horrid to see them.

"Fie for shame!" they cried to the beech leaves. "It is you who are
killing us."

But the beech shook his long boughs and let his brown husks drop down
to the ground.

"Wait till the autumn, you little simpletons," he said, laughing.
"Then you shall see."

The anemones could not understand what he meant. But when they had
stretched themselves till they were as tall as they could be, they
broke off and withered.

       *       *       *       *       *

The summer was over, and the farmer had carried his corn home from the
field.

The wood was still green, but it was a darker green than before; and
in many places red and yellow leaves glowed among the green ones. The
sun was tired after his hot work in the summer, and went early to bed.

At night Winter was stealing about among the trees to see if his time
was not soon coming. When he found a flower, he gallantly kissed it,
saying,--

"What! are you here still? I am charmed to meet you. Please stay where
you are. I am a good old man, and would not harm a cat."

But the flower shuddered at his kiss, and the transparent dewdrop that
hung from its petal froze to ice at the instant.

Again and again Winter ran through the wood. When he breathed on them,
the leaves turned yellow and the earth grew hard.

Even the anemones, who lay below in the earth waiting till my Lady
Spring should come back as she had promised, they too felt his breath
and shuddered down in their roots.

"Ugh! how cold it is!" they said to one another. "How shall we stand
the winter? We shall die for a certainty before it is over."

"Now it's _my_ time," said Winter. "Now I need no longer steal about
like a thief in the night. After to-day I shall look everybody in the
face, and bite their noses, and make their eyes run with water."

At night he let loose the storm. "Let me see you make a clean sweep,"
he said. And the storm obeyed his command. He went howling through the
wood, and shook the branches till they creaked and cracked. Any that
were rotten broke off, and those that held on had to turn and bow this
way and that.

"Away with that finery!" howled the storm as he tore off the leaves.
"This is not the time to dress yourself up. The snow will soon be
coming on to your branches; that will be quite another story."

All the leaves fell in terror to the earth, but the storm would not
let them rest. He seized them round the waist and waltzed with them
out over the field, high up into the air, and into the wood again,
swept them into great heaps, and then scattered them in all
directions--just as it pleased him.

Not till morning came did the storm grow weary and lie down to rest.

"Now you shall have peace for a time," he said. "I will take a rest
till we have the spring cleaning. Then we can have another turn
together--that is, if there are any of you left by then."

And the leaves lay down to rest, and spread themselves like a thick
carpet over the whole land.

The anemones felt that it had become pleasantly warm.

"Can it be my Lady Spring already?" they asked each other.

"I haven't got my buds ready," shouted one of them.

"Nor I! Nor I!" cried the others in one voice.

But one of them took courage and peeped out over the earth.

"Good-morning!" cried the withered beech leaves. "It is a little too
early, little lady. I hope you will be none the worse for it."

"Isn't it my Lady Spring?" inquired the anemone.

"Not yet," answered the beech leaves. "It is only the green beech
leaves that you were so angry with last summer. The green has gone
from us, so we have no great finery to boast of now. We have enjoyed
our youth and had our fling, I can tell you. And now we lie here and
protect all the little flowers in the earth against the winter."

"And meanwhile _I_ stand shivering in all my bare boughs," said the
beech peevishly.

The anemones talked it over one to another down below in the earth,
and thought it was grand.

"Those grand beech leaves!" they said.

"Mind you remember this next summer when I burst into leaf," said the
beech.

"We will! we will!" whispered the anemones.

But that sort of promise is easily made--and easily broken.




THE MIST

[Illustration: THE MIST]


The sun had just gone down.

The frog was croaking his "good-night," which lasted so long that
there seemed no end to it. The bee was creeping into its hive, and
little children were crying because they had to go to bed. The flower
was closing up its petals and bowing its head; the bird was tucking
its bill under its wing; and the stag was laying himself down to rest
in the tall, soft grass in the glade of the wood.

From the village church the bells were ringing for sunset, and when
that was over the old clerk went home. On his way he had a little chat
or two with the people who were out for an evening stroll, or were
standing before their gate and smoking a pipe till they bade him
good-night and shut the door.

Then it grew quite quiet, and the darkness fell. There was a light in
the parson's house, and there was one also in the doctor's. But the
farmers' houses were dark, because in summer-time the farmers get up
so early that they must go early to bed.

And then the stars began to twinkle, and the moon crept higher and
higher up the sky. Down in the village a dog was barking. But it must
have been barking in a dream, for there was nothing to bark at.

"Is there anybody there?" asked the mist.

But nobody answered, for nobody was there. So the mist issued forth in
her bright, airy robes. She went dancing over the meadows, up and
down, to and fro. Then she lay quite still for a moment, and then she
took to dancing again. Out over the lake she skipped and deep into the
wood, where she threw her long, damp arms round the trunks of the
trees.

"Who are you, my friend?" asked the night-violet,[A] who stood there
giving forth fragrance just to please herself.

[Footnote A: An inconspicuous flower which in Denmark is very fragrant
in the evening, the "night-smelling rocket" (_Hesperis tristis_).]

The mist did not answer, but went on dancing.

"I asked you who you were," said the night-violet. "And as you don't
answer me, I conclude that you are a rude person."

"I will now conclude _you_," said the mist. And then she spread
herself round the night-violet, so that her petals were dashed with
wet.

"Oh, oh!" cried the night-violet. "Keep your fingers to yourself, my
friend. I have a feeling as if I had been dipped in the pond. You have
no reason for getting so angry just because I asked you who you are."

The mist let go of her again.

"Who am I?" she said. "You could not understand even if I told you."

"Try," said the night-violet.

"I am the dewdrop on the flower, the cloud in the sky, and the mist on
the meadow," said the mist.

"I beg your pardon," said the night-violet. "Would you mind saying
that again? The dewdrop I know. It settles every morning on my leaves,
and I don't think it is at all like you."

"No; but it is I all the same," said the mist mournfully. "But no one
knows me. I must live my life under many shapes. One time I am dew,
and another time I am rain; and yet another time I babble as a clear,
cool streamlet through the wood. But when I dance on the meadows in
the evening, men say that it is the marsh-lady brewing."

"It is a strange story," said the night-violet. "Do you mind telling
it to me? The night is long, and I sometimes get a little bored by
it."'

"It is a sad story," answered the mist. "But you may have it and
welcome."

But when she was about to lie down the night-violet shook with terror
in all her petals.

"Be so kind as to keep at a little distance," she said, "at least till
you have properly introduced yourself. I have never cared to be on
familiar terms with people I don't know."

So the mist lay down a little way off and began her story:--

"I was born deep down in the earth--far deeper than your roots go.
There I and my sisters--for we are a large family, you must
understand--came into the world as waves of a hidden spring, pure and
clear as crystal; and for a long time we had to stay in our
hiding-place. But one day we suddenly leapt from a hillside into the
full light of the sun. You can well imagine how delightful it was to
come tumbling down through the wood. We hopped over stones and rippled
against the bank. Pretty little fishes gambolled amongst us, and the
trees bent over so that their beautiful green was reflected in our
waters. If a leaf fell, we cradled it and fondled it and carried it
out with us into the wide world. Ah, that was delightful! It was
indeed the happiest time of my life."

"But when are you going to tell me how you came to turn into mist?"
asked the night-violet impatiently. "I know all about the underground
spring. When the air is quite still, I can hear it murmur from where
I stand."

The mist lifted herself a little and took a turn round the meadow.
Then she came back, and went on with her story:--

"It is the worst of this world that one is never contented with what
one has. So it was with us. We kept running on and on, till at last we
ran into a great lake, where water-lilies rocked on the water and
dragon-flies hummed on their great stiff wings. Up on the surface the
lake was clear as a mirror. But whether we wished it or not, we had to
run right down by the bottom, where it was dark and gruesome. And this
I could not endure. I longed for the sunbeams. I knew them so well
from the time I used to run in the brook. There they used to peep down
through the leaves and pass over me in fleeting gleams. I longed so
much to see them again that I stole up to the surface, and lay down in
the sunshine all amongst the white water-lilies and their great green
leaves. But, ugh! how the sun burnt me there on the lake! It was
scarcely bearable. Bitterly did I regret that I had not stopped down
below."

[Illustration: THE EVENING HOUR]

"I can't say this part of your story is very amusing," said the
night-violet. "Isn't the mist soon coming?"

"Here it is!" said the mist, and dropped down once more on the flower,
so that it nearly had the breath squeezed out of it.

"Ough! ough!" shrieked the night-violet. "Upon my word, you are the
most ill-natured person I have ever known. Move off, and go on with
your story, since it must be so."

"In the evening, when the sun had set, I suddenly became wonderfully
light," said the mist. "I don't know how it came about, but I thought
I could rise up from the lake and fly; and before I knew anything
about it, I was drifting over the water, far away from the
dragon-flies and the water-lilies. The evening breeze bore me away. I
flew high up into the air, and there I met many of my sisters, who had
been just as eager for novelty as myself, and had had the same fate.
We drifted across the sky, for, you see, we had become clouds."

"I am not sure I do see," said the night-violet. "The thing sounds
incredible."

"But it is true all the same," answered the mist. "And let me tell
you what happened then. The wind carried us for a long way through
the air. But all at once it would not do so any more, and let us
drop. Down we fell on to the earth as a splashing shower of rain.
The flowers all shut up in a hurry, and the birds crept under
cover--except, of course, the ducks and the geese, for, you know, the
wetter it is the more they like it. Yes--and the farmer too! He wanted
rain so much for his crops, he stood there hugely delighted, and did
not in the least mind getting wet. But otherwise we really did make
quite a sensation."

"Oh! so you are the rain as well?" said the night-violet. "I must say
you have plenty to do."

"Yes, I'm never idle," said the mist.

"All the same, I have not yet heard how you became mist," said the
night-violet. "Only, _please_ don't get into a passion again. You know
you promised to tell me without my asking you, and I would sooner
hear the whole story over again than shiver once more in your horrid,
clammy arms."

The mist lay silent and sobbed for a few moments. Then she went on
with her story:--

"After I had fallen on the earth as rain, I sank down into the black
soil, and was already congratulating myself on soon getting back to my
birthplace, the deep underground spring. There, at any rate, one
enjoyed peace and had no cares. But, as I was sinking into the ground,
the tree roots sucked me up, and I had to wander about for a whole day
in the boughs and leaves. They treated me as a beast of burden, I
assure you. All the food that the leaves and flowers needed I had to
carry up to them from the roots. It was not till the evening that I
managed to get away. When the sun had gone down the flowers and trees
all heaved a deep sigh, and I and my sisters flew off in that sigh in
the form of bright airy mists. To-night we dance on the meadow. But
when the sun rises in the morning we shall turn into those pretty
transparent dewdrops which hang from your petals. When you shake us
off we shall sink deeper and deeper till we reach the spring we came
from--that is, if some root or other does not snap us up on the way.
And so the journey goes on. Down the brook, out into the lake, up into
the air, down again to the earth--"

"Stop!" said the night-violet. "If I listen to you any more, I shall
become quite sea-sick."

Now the frog began to stir. He stretched his legs, and went down to
the ditch to take his morning bath. The birds began to twitter in the
wood, and the bellow of the stag echoed amongst the trees. It was on
the point of dawn, and here came the sun peeping up over the hill.

"Hullo, what is that?" he said. "What a strange sight! One can't see
one's hand before one's face. Wind of the morning! up with you, you
sluggard, and drive the foul mists away."

The morning wind came over the meadow, and away went the mists. And at
the very same moment the first rays of the sun fell right on the
night-violet.

"Heyday!" said the flower. "We have got the sun already, so I had
better make haste and shut up. Where in the world has the mist gone
to?"

"I am still here," said the dewdrop that hung on its stalk.

But the night-violet shook herself peevishly. "You may stuff up
children with that nonsense," she said. "As for me, I don't believe a
word of your whole story. It is as weak as water."

Then the sun laughed and said, "You are quite right _there_!"




THE BEECH AND THE OAK

[Illustration: THE BEECH AND THE OAK]


It all happened long, long ago. There were no towns then with houses
and streets, and church steeples domineering over everything. There
were no schools, for there were not many boys, and those that there
were learnt from their father to shoot with the bow and arrow, to hunt
the stag in his covert, to kill the bear in order to make clothes out
of his skin, and to rub two pieces of wood together till they caught
fire. When they knew this perfectly, they had finished their
education. There were no railways either, and no cultivated fields, no
ships on the sea, no books, for there was nobody who could read them.

There was scarcely anything except trees. But trees there were in
plenty. They stood everywhere from coast to coast; they saw themselves
reflected in all the rivers and lakes, and stretched their mighty
boughs up towards heaven. They leaned out over the shore, dipped their
boughs in the black fen water, and from the high hills looked out
proudly over the land.

They all knew each other, for they belonged to a great family, and
were proud of it.

"We are all _oak_ trees," they said. "We own the land, and rule over
it."

And they were right. There were only a few human beings there in those
days, and those that there were were nothing better than wild animals.
The bear, the wolf, and the fox went out hunting, while the stag
grazed by the edge of the fen. The field-mouse sat outside his hole
and ate acorns, and the beaver built his artistic houses by the river
banks.

One day the bear came trudging along and lay down at full breadth
under a great oak tree.

"Are you there again, you robber?" said the oak, and shook a lot of
withered leaves down over him.

"You should not squander your leaves, my old friend," said the bear,
licking his paws. "That is all the shade you can give against the
sun."

"If you are not pleased with me, you can go," answered the oak
proudly. "I am lord in the land, and whatever way you look you find my
brothers and nothing else."

"True," muttered the bear. "That is just what is so sickening. I have
been for a little tour abroad, I may tell you, and am just a little
bit spoilt. It was in a land down towards the south--there I took a
nap under the beech trees. They are tall, slim trees, not crooked old
things like you. And their tops are so dense that the sunbeams cannot
creep through them. It was a real pleasure there to take a midday nap,
I assure you."

"Beech trees?" said the oak inquisitively. "What are they?"

"You might well wish you were half as pretty as a beech tree," said
the bear. "But I don't want to chatter any more with you just now. I
have had to trot a mile on account of a confounded hunter who struck
me on one of my hind legs with an arrow. Now I should like to have a
sleep, and perhaps you will be kind enough to leave me at peace, since
you cannot give me shade."

The bear stretched himself out and closed his eyes; but he got no
sleep _that_ time, for the other trees had heard his story, and they
began chattering and talking and rustling their leaves in a way never
known in the wood before.

"What on earth can those trees be?" said one of them.

"It is, of course, a mere story; the bear wishes to impose upon us,"
said the other.

"What kind of trees can they be whose leaves sit so close together
that the sunbeams cannot creep between them?" asked a little oak, who
was listening to what the big ones were talking about.

But by his side stood an old gnarled tree, who gave the little oak a
clout on the head with one of his lowest boughs.

"Hold your tongue," he said, "and don't talk till you have something
to talk about. You need none of you believe a word of the bear's
nonsense. I am much taller than you, and I can see far out over the
wood. But so far as ever I can see, there is nothing but oak trees."

The little oak was shamefaced, and held his tongue; and the other big
trees spoke to one another in low whispers, for they had great respect
for the old one.

But the bear got up and rubbed his eyes. "Now you have disturbed my
midday nap," he growled angrily, "and I declare that I will have my
revenge. When I come back I will bring some beech nuts with me, and I
vow you will all turn yellow with jealousy when you see how pretty the
new trees are."

Then he made off. But the oaks talked the whole day long one to
another about the funny trees he had told them about.

"If they come, I will kill them," said the little oak tree, but
directly afterwards he got one on the head from the old oak.

"If they come, you shall treat them politely, you young dog," said he.
"But they will not come."

       *       *       *       *       *

But in this the old oak was wrong, for they did come.

Towards autumn the bear came back and lay down under the old oak.

"My friends down there wish me to present their compliments," he said,
and he picked some funny things out of his shaggy coat. "Here you may
see what I have for you."

"What is it?" asked the oak.

"That is _beech_," answered the bear--"the beech nuts which I promised
you."

Then he trampled them into the ground and prepared to go back.

"It is a pity I cannot stay and see how angry you will be," he
growled, "but those confounded human beings have begun to press one so
hard. The day before yesterday they killed my wife and one of my
brothers, and I must see about finding a place where I can live in
peace. There is scarcely a spot left where a self-respecting bear can
stay. Good-bye, you old, gnarled oak trees!"

When the bear had shambled off, the trees looked at one another
anxiously.

"Let us see what comes of it," said the old oak.

And after this they composed themselves to rest. The winter came and
tore all their leaves off them, the snow lay high over the whole land,
and every tree stood deep in his own thoughts and dreamt of the
spring.

And when the spring came the grass stood green, and the birds began
singing where they left off last. The flowers came up in multitudes
from the earth, and everything looked fresh and gay.

The oak trees alone stood with leafless boughs.

"It is the most dignified thing to come last!" they said one to
another. "The kings of the wood do not come till the whole company is
assembled."

But at last they came. All the leaves burst forth from the swollen
buds, and the trees looked at one another and complimented one
another on their beauty. The little oak had grown ever so much. He was
very proud of it, and he thought that he had now the right to join in
the conversation.

"Nothing has come yet of the bear's beech trees," he said jeeringly,
at the same time glancing anxiously up at the old oak, who used to
give him one on the head.

The old oak heard what he said very plainly, and the other trees also;
but they said nothing. Not one of them had forgotten what the bear had
told them, and every morning when the sun came out they peeped down to
look for the beeches. They were really a little uneasy, but they were
too proud to talk about it.

And one day the little shoots did at last burst forth from the earth.
The sun shone on them, and the rain fell on them, so it was not long
before they grew tall.

"Oh, how pretty they are!" said the great oak, and stooped his crooked
boughs still more, so that they could get a good view of them.

"You are welcome among us," said the old oak, and graciously inclined
his head to them. "You shall be my foster-children, and be treated
just as well as my own."

"Thanks," said the little beeches, and they said no more.

But the little oak could not bear the strange trees. "It is dreadful
the way you shoot up into the air," he said in vexation. "You are
already half as tall as I am. But I beg you to take notice that I am
much older, and of good family besides."

The beeches laughed with their little, tiny green leaves, but said
nothing.

"Shall I bend my branches a little aside so that the sun can shine
better on you?" the old tree asked politely.

"Many thanks," answered the beeches. "We can grow very nicely in the
shade."

And the whole summer passed by, and another summer after that, and
still more summers. The beeches went on growing, and at last quite
overtopped the little oak.

"Keep your leaves to yourself," cried the oak; "you overshadow me, and
that is what I can't endure. I must have plenty of sunshine. Take
your leaves away or I perish."

The beeches only laughed and went on growing. At last they closed
together over the little oak's head, and then he died.

"That was a horrid thing to do," a great oak called out, and shook his
boughs in terror.

But the old oak took his foster-children under his protection.

"It serves him right," he said. "He is paid out for his boasting. I
say it, though he is my own flesh and blood. But now you must behave
yourselves, little beeches, or I will give you a clout on the head."

Years went by, and the beeches went on growing, and they grew till
they were tall young trees, which reached up among the branches of the
old oak.

"You begin to be rather pushing," the old tree said. "You should try
to grow a little broader, and stop this shooting up into the air. Just
see where your branches are soaring. Bend them properly, as you see us
do. How will you be able to hold out when a regular storm comes? I
assure you the wind gives one's head a good shaking. My old boughs
have creaked many a time; and what do you think will become of the
flimsy finery that you stick up in the air?"

[Illustration: IN THE EARLY DAYS]

"Every one has his own manner of growth, and we have ours," answered
the young beeches. "This is the way it's done where we come from, and
we are perhaps as good as you are."

"That is not a polite way of speaking to an old tree with moss on his
boughs," said the oak. "I begin to repent that I was so kind to you.
If you have a spark of honourable feeling alive in you, be good enough
to move your leaves a little to one side. There have been scarcely any
buds on my lowest branches this year, you overshadow me so."

"I don't quite understand how that concerns us," answered the beeches.
"Every one has quite enough to do to look after himself. If he is
equal to his work, and has luck, it turns out well for him; if not,
he must be prepared to go to the wall. That is the way of the world."

Then the oak's lowest branch died, and he began to be seriously
alarmed.

"You are pretty things," he said, "if this is the way you reward me
for my hospitality. When you were little I let you grow at my feet,
and sheltered you against the storm. I let the sun shine on you as
much as ever he would, and I treated you as if you were my own
children. And in return for all this you stifle me."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said the beeches. So they put forth flowers and
fruit, and when the fruit was ripe the wind shook the boughs and
scattered it round far and wide.

"You are quick people like me," said the wind. "I like you for it, and
am glad to do you a good turn."

And the fox rolled on the ground at the foot of the beech trees and
got his fur full of the prickly fruits, and ran with them far out into
the country. The bear did the same, and grinned into the bargain at
the old oak while he lay and rested in the shadow of the beeches. The
field-mouse was beside himself with joy over his new food, and thought
that beech nuts tasted much nicer than acorns. All around new little
beech trees shot up, which grew just as fast as their parents, and
looked as green and as happy as if they did not know what an uneasy
conscience was.

But the old oak gazed sadly out over the wood. The light-green beech
leaves were peeping out everywhere, and the oaks were sighing and
bewailing their distress to one another.

"They are taking our strength out of us," they said, and shook as much
as the beeches around would let them. "The land is ours no longer."

One bough died after another, and the storm broke them off and cast
them on the ground. The old oak had now only a few leaves left at the
very top.

"The end is near," he said gravely.

By this time there were many more human beings in the land than there
were before, and they made haste to hew down the oaks while there were
still some remaining.

"Oak timber is better than beech timber," they said.

"At last we get a little appreciation," said the old oak, "but we have
to pay for it with our lives."

Then he said to the beech trees,--

"What was I thinking of when I helped you on in your young days? What
an old stupid I was! Before that, we oak trees were lords in the land;
and now every year I see my brothers around me perishing in the fight
against you. It will soon be all over with me, and not one of my
acorns has sprouted under your shade. But before I die I should like
to know the name you give to such conduct."

"That will not take long to say, old friend," answered the beeches.
"We call it _competition_, and that is not any discovery of our own.
It is competition which rules the world."

"I do not know these foreign words of yours," said the oak. "I call it
mean ingratitude." And then he died.




The Dragon-Fly and the Water-lily

[Illustration: The Dragon-Fly: and the Water-lily:]


In among the green bushes and trees ran the brook. Tall,
straight-growing rushes stood along its banks, and whispered to the
wind. Out in the middle of the water floated the water-lily, with its
white flower and its broad green leaves.

Generally it was quite calm on the brook. But when, now and again, it
chanced that the wind took a little turn over it, there was a rustle
in the rushes, and the water-lily sometimes ducked completely under
the waves. Then its leaves were lifted up in the air and stood on
their edges, so that the thick green stalks that came up from the very
bottom of the stream found that it was all they could do to hold
fast.

All day long the larva of the dragon-fly was crawling up and down the
water-lily's stalk.

"Dear me, how stupid it must be to be a water-lily!" it said, and
peeped up at the flower.

"You chatter as a person of your small mind might be expected to do,"
answered the water-lily. "It is just the very nicest thing there is."

"I don't understand that," said the larva. "I should like at this
moment to tear myself away, and fly about in the air like the big,
beautiful dragon-flies."

"Pooh!" said the water-lily. "That would be a funny kind of pleasure.
No; to lie still on the water and dream, to bask in the sun, and now
and then to be rocked up and down by the waves--there's some sense in
_that_!"

The larva sat thinking for a minute or two.

"I have a longing for something greater," it said at last. "If I had
my will, I would be a dragon-fly. I would fly on strong, stiff wings
along the stream, kiss your white flower, rest a moment on your
leaves, and then fly on."

"You are ambitious," answered the water-lily, "and that is stupid of
you. One knows what one has, but one does not know what one may get.
May I, by the way, make so bold as to ask you how you would set about
becoming a dragon-fly? You don't look as if that was what you were
born for. In any case you will have to grow a little prettier, you
gray, ugly thing."

"Yes, that is the worst part of it," the larva answered sadly. "I
don't know myself how it will come about, but I hope it _will_ come
about some time or other. That is why I crawl about down here and eat
all the little creatures I can get hold of."

"Then you think you can attain to something great _by feeding_!" the
water-lily said, with a laugh. "That would be a funny way of getting
up in the world."

"Yes; but I believe it is the right way for me!" cried the dragon-fly
grub earnestly.

"All day long I go on eating till I get fat and big; and one fine day,
as I think, all my fat will turn into wings with gold on them, and
everything else that belongs to a proper dragon-fly!"

The water-lily shook its clever white head.

"Put away your silly thoughts," it said, "and be content with your
lot. You can knock about undisturbed down here among my leaves, and
crawl up and down the stalk to your heart's desire. You have
everything that you need, and no cares or worries--what more do you
want?"

"You are of a low nature," answered the larva, "and therefore you have
no sense of higher things. In spite of what you say, I wish to become
a dragon-fly." And then it crawled right down to the bottom of the
water to catch more creatures and stuff itself still bigger.

But the water-lily lay quietly on the water and thought things over.

"I can't understand these animals," it said to itself. "They knock
about from morning till night, chase one another and eat one another,
and are never at peace. We flowers have more sense. Peacefully and
quietly we grow up side by side, bask in the sunshine, and drink the
rain, and take everything as it comes. And I am the luckiest of them
all. Many a time have I been floating happily out here on the water,
while the other flowers there on dry land were tormented with drought.
The flowers' lot is the best; but naturally the stupid animals can't
see it."

When the sun went down the dragon-fly larva was sitting on the stalk,
saying nothing, with its legs drawn up under it. It had eaten ever so
many little creatures, and was so big that it had a feeling as if it
would burst. But all the same it was not altogether happy. It was
speculating on what the water-lily had said, and it could hardly get
to sleep the whole night long on account of its unquiet thoughts. All
this speculating gave it a headache, for it was work which it was not
used to. It had a back-ache too, and a stomach-ache. It felt just as
though it was going to break in pieces, and die on the spot.

When the sky began to grow gray in the early morning it could hold out
no longer.

"I can't make it out," it said in despair. "I am tormented and
worried, and I don't know what will be the end of it. Perhaps the
water-lily is right, and I shall never be anything else but a poor,
miserable larva. But that is a fearful thing to think of. I did so
long to become a dragon-fly and fly about in the sun. Oh, my back! my
back! I do believe I am dying!"

It had a feeling as if its back was splitting, and it shrieked with
pain. At that moment there was a rustle among the rushes on the bank
of the stream.

"That's the morning breeze," thought the larva; "I shall at least see
the sun when I die." And with great trouble it crawled up one of the
leaves of the water-lily, stretched out its legs, and made ready to
die.

But when the sun rose, like a red ball, in the east, suddenly it felt
a hole in the middle of its back. It had a creepy, tickling feeling,
and then a feeling of tightness and oppression. Oh, it was torture
without end!

Being bewildered, it closed its eyes; but it still felt as though it
were being squeezed and crushed. At last it suddenly noticed that it
was free; and when it opened its eyes it was floating through the air
on stiff, shining wings, a beautiful dragon-fly. Down on the leaf of
the water-lily lay its ugly gray larva case.

"Hurrah!" cried the new dragon-fly. "So I have got my darling wish
fulfilled!" and it started off at once through the air at such a rate
that you would think it had to fly to the ends of the earth.

"The creature has got its desire at any rate," thought the water-lily.
"Let us see if it will be any the happier for it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days later the dragon-fly came flying back, and seated itself on
the flower of the water-lily.

"Oh, good-morning," said the water-lily. "Do I see you once more? I
thought you had grown too fine to greet your old friends."

"Good-day," said the dragon-fly. "Where shall I lay my eggs?"

"Oh, you are sure to find some place," answered the flower. "Sit down
for a bit, and tell me if you are any happier now than when you were
crawling up and down my stalk, a little ugly larva."

"Where shall I lay my eggs? Where shall I lay my eggs?" screamed the
dragon-fly, and flew humming around from place to place, laid one here
and one there, and finally seated itself, tired and weary, on one of
the leaves.

"Well?" said the water-lily.

"Oh, it was better in the old days--much better," sighed the
dragon-fly. "The sunshine is really delightful, and it is a real
pleasure to fly over the water; but I have no time to enjoy it. I have
been so terribly busy, I tell you. In the old days I had nothing to
think about; now I have to fly about all day long to get my silly eggs
disposed of. I haven't a moment free. I have scarcely time to eat."

"Didn't I tell you so?" cried the water-lily in triumph. "Didn't I
prophesy that your happiness would be hollow?"

"Good-bye," sighed the dragon-fly. "I have not time to listen to your
disagreeable remarks. I must lay some more eggs."

But just as it was about to fly off the starling came.

"What a pretty little dragon-fly!" it said; "it will be a delightful
tit-bit for my little ones."

Snap! it killed the dragon-fly with its bill, and flew off with it.

"What a shocking thing!" cried the water-lily, as its leaves shook
with terror. "Those animals! those animals! They are funny creatures.
I do indeed value my quiet, peaceful life. I harm nobody, and nobody
wants to pick a quarrel with me. I am very luck--"

It did not finish what it was saying, for at that instant a boat came
gliding close by.

"What a pretty little water-lily!" cried Ellen, who sat in the boat.
"I will have it!"

She leant over the gunwale and wrenched off the flower. When she had
got home she put it in a glass of water, and there it stood for three
days among a whole company of other flowers.

"I can't make it out," it said on the morning of the fourth day. "I
have not come off a bit better than that miserable dragon-fly."

"The flowers are now withered," said Ellen, and she threw them out of
the window.

So there lay the water-lily with its fine white petals on the dirty
ground.

[Illustration: THE DRAGONFLY AND THE WATERLILY]




The Weeds

[Illustration: The Weeds]


It was a beautiful, fruitful season. Rain and sunshine came by turns
just as it was best for the corn. As soon as ever the farmer began to
think that things were rather dry, you might depend upon it that next
day it would rain. And when he thought that he had had rain enough,
the clouds broke at once, just as if they were under his command.

So the farmer was in a good humour, and he did not grumble as he
usually does. He looked pleased and cheerful as he walked over the
field with his two boys.

"It will be a splendid harvest this year," he said. "I shall have my
barns full, and shall make a pretty penny. And then Jack and Will
shall have some new trousers, and I'll let them come with me to
market."

"If you don't cut me soon, farmer, I shall sprawl on the ground," said
the rye, and she bowed her heavy ear quite down towards the earth.

The farmer could not hear her talking, but he could see what was in
her mind, and so he went home to fetch his scythe.

"It is a good thing to be in the service of man," said the rye. "I can
be quite sure that all my grain will be well cared for. Most of it
will go to the mill: not that that proceeding is so very enjoyable,
but in that way it will be made into beautiful new bread, and one must
put up with something for the sake of honour. The rest the farmer will
save, and sow next year in his field."

At the side of the field, along the hedge, and the bank above the
ditch, stood the weeds. There were dense clumps of them--thistle and
burdock, poppy and harebell, and dandelion; and all their heads were
full of seed. It had been a fruitful year for them also, for the sun
shines and the rain falls just as much on the poor weed as on the rich
corn.

"No one comes and mows _us_ down and carries us to a barn," said the
dandelion, and he shook his head, but very cautiously, so that the
seeds should not fall before their time. "But what will become of all
our children?"

"It gives me a headache to think about it," said the poppy. "Here I
stand with hundreds and hundreds of seeds in my head, and I haven't
the faintest idea where I shall drop them."

"Let us ask the rye to advise us," answered the burdock.

And so they asked the rye what they should do.

"When one is well off, one had better not meddle with other people's
business," answered the rye. "I will only give you one piece of
advice: take care you don't throw your stupid seed on to the field,
for then you will have to settle accounts with _me_."

This advice did not help the wild flowers at all, and the whole day
they stood pondering what they should do. When the sun set they shut
up their petals and went to sleep; but the whole night through they
were dreaming about their seed, and next morning they had found a
plan.

The poppy was the first to wake. She cautiously opened some little
trap-doors at the top of her head, so that the sun could shine right
in on the seeds. Then she called to the morning breeze, who was
running and playing along the hedge.

"Little breeze," she said, in friendly tones, "will you do me a
service?"

"Yes, indeed," said the breeze. "I shall be glad to have something to
do."

"It is the merest trifle," said the poppy. "All I want of you is to
give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds may fly out of the
trap-doors."

"All right," said the breeze.

And the seeds flew out in all directions. The stalk snapped, it is
true; but the poppy did not mind about that, for when one has
provided for one's children, one has really nothing more to do in the
world.

[Illustration: THE FARMER AND HIS BOYS]

"Good-bye," said the breeze, and would have run on farther.

"Wait a moment," said the poppy. "Promise me first that you will not
tell the others, else they might get hold of the same idea, and then
there would be less room for my seeds."

"I am mute as the grave," answered the breeze, running off.

"Ho! ho!" said the harebell. "Haven't you time to do me a little, tiny
service?"

"Well," said the breeze, "what is it?"

"I merely wanted to ask you to give me a little shake," said the
harebell. "I have opened some trap-doors in my head, and I should like
to have my seed sent a good way off into the world. But you mustn't
tell the others, or else they might think of doing the same thing."

"Oh! of course not," said the breeze, laughing. "I shall be as dumb as
a stone wall." And then she gave the flower a good shake and went on
her way.

"Little breeze, little breeze," called the dandelion, "whither away so
fast?"

"Is there anything the matter with you too?" asked the breeze.

"Nothing at all," answered the dandelion. "Only I should like a few
words with you."

"Be quick then," said the breeze, "for I am thinking seriously of
lying down and having a rest."

"You cannot help seeing," said the dandelion, "what a fix we are in
this year to get all our seeds put out in the world; for, of course,
one wishes to do what one can for one's children. What is to happen to
the harebell and the poppy and the poor burdock I really don't know.
But the thistle and I have put our heads together, and we have hit on
a plan. Only we must have you to help us."

"That makes _four_ of them," thought the breeze, and could not help
laughing out loud.

"What are you laughing at?" asked the dandelion. "I saw you whispering
just now to the harebell and poppy; but if you breathe a word to them,
I won't tell you anything."

"Why, of course not," said the breeze. "I am mute as a fish. What is
it you want?"

"We have set up a pretty little umbrella on the top of our seeds. It
is the sweetest little plaything imaginable. If you will only blow a
little on me, the seeds will fly into the air and fall down wherever
you please. Will you do so?"

"Certainly," said the breeze.

And ush! it went over the thistle and the dandelion and carried all
the seeds with it into the cornfield.

The burdock still stood and pondered. Its head was rather thick, and
that was why it waited so long. But in the evening a hare leapt over
the hedge.

"Hide me! Save me!" he cried. "The farmer's dog Trusty is after me."

"You can creep behind the hedge," said the burdock, "then I will hide
you."

"You don't look to me much good for that job," said the hare, "but in
time of need one must help oneself as one can." And so he got in
safety behind the hedge.

"Now you may repay me by taking some of my seeds with you over into
the cornfield," said the burdock; and it broke off some of its many
heads and fixed them on the hare.

A little later Trusty came trotting up to the hedge.

"Here's the dog," whispered the burdock, and with one spring the hare
leapt over the hedge and into the rye.

"Haven't you seen the hare, burdock?" asked Trusty. "I see I have got
too old to go hunting. I am quite blind in one eye, and I have
completely lost my scent."

"Yes, I have seen him," answered the burdock; "and if you will do me a
service, I will show you where he is."

Trusty agreed, and the burdock fastened some heads on his back, and
said to him,--

"If you will only rub yourself against the stile there in the
cornfield, my seeds will fall off. But you must not look for the hare
there, for a little while ago I saw him run into the wood."

Trusty dropped the burs on the field and trotted to the wood.

"Well, I've got _my_ seeds put out in the world all right," said the
burdock, and laughed as if much pleased with itself; "but it is
impossible to say what will become of the thistle and the dandelion,
and the harebell and the poppy."

       *       *       *       *       *

Spring had come round once more, and the rye stood high already.

"We are pretty well off on the whole," said the rye plants. "Here we
stand in a great company, and not one of us but belongs to our own
noble family. And we don't get in each other's way in the very least.
It is a grand thing to be in the service of man."

But one fine day a crowd of little poppies, and thistles and
dandelions, and burdocks and harebells poked up their heads above
ground, all amongst the flourishing rye.

"What does _this_ mean?" asked the rye. "Where in the world are _you_
sprung from?"

And the poppy looked at the harebell and asked, "Where do _you_ come
from?"

And the thistle looked at the burdock and asked, "Where in the world
have _you_ come from?"

They were all equally astonished, and it was an hour before they had
explained. But the rye was the angriest, and when she had heard all
about Trusty and the hare and the breeze she grew quite wild.

"Thank heaven, the farmer shot the hare last autumn," she said; "and
Trusty, fortunately, is also dead, the old scamp. So I am at peace, as
far as _they_ are concerned. But how dare the breeze promise to drop
the seeds of the weeds in the farmer's cornfield?"

"Don't be in such a passion, you green rye," said the breeze, who had
been lying behind the hedge and hearing everything. "I ask no one's
permission, but do as I like; and now I'm going to make you bow to
me."

Then she passed over the young rye, and the thin blades swayed
backwards and forwards.

"You see," she said, "the farmer attends to his rye, because that is
_his_ business. But the rain and the sun and I--we attend to all of
you without respect of persons. To our eyes the poor weed is just as
pretty as the rich corn."

The farmer now came out to look at his rye, and when he saw the weeds
in the cornfield he scratched his head with vexation and began to
growl.

"It's that scurvy wind that's done this," he said to Jack and Will, as
they stood by his side with their hands in the pockets of their new
trousers.

But the breeze flew towards them and knocked all their caps off their
heads, and rolled them far away to the road. The farmer and the two
boys ran after them, but the wind ran faster than they did.

It finished up by rolling the caps into the village pond, and the
farmer and the boys had to stand a long time fishing for them before
they got them out.

[Illustration: PREPARING for FLIGHT]




The Sparrow

[Illustration: THE SPARROW]


The swallow was in a bad temper. He sat on the roof close by the
starlings' box and drooped his bill.

"There is not a fly left to chase," he whined piteously. "They are all
gone, and I am _so_ hungry--_so_ hungry!"

"This morning I could not get a single worm," said the starling, and
shook his head wisely.

The stork came strutting along, and stood on one leg in the ploughed
field just outside the garden, and looked most melancholy.

"I suppose none of you have seen a frog?" he asked. "There isn't one
down in the marsh, and I have not had any breakfast to-day."

Then the thrush flew up and perched on the roof of the starlings' box.

"How crestfallen you all are," he said. "What is the matter with you?"

"Ah," answered the starling, "there's nothing else the matter, only
the leaves are beginning to fall off the trees, and the butterflies
and flies and worms are all eaten up."

"Yes, that is bad for you," said the thrush.

"Well, isn't it just as bad for you, you conceited creature?" said the
swallow.

But the thrush piped gaily and shook his head.

"Not quite," he said. "I have always the fir trees, which don't lose
their leaves; and I can live very many weeks yet on all the delicious
berries in the wood."

"Let us stop squabbling," said the stork. "We had better consider
together what we are to do."

"We can soon agree about that," answered the starling, "for we have no
choice. We must _travel_. All my little ones can fly quite well now;
we have been drilling every morning down in the meadow. I have already
warned them that we shall be starting off one of these days."

The other birds thought this very sensible--all except the thrush, who
thought there was no hurry. So they agreed to collect next day down in
the meadow, and hold a grand review of the party that was to travel.

They flew off, each to his own quarters; but up under the roof sat the
sparrow, who had heard all they had been saying.

"Ah, if only I could travel with them!" he said to himself. "I should
so like to see foreign lands. My neighbour the swallow has told me how
delightful it is. Such a lot of flies and cherries and corn, and it's
so delightfully warm. But no one asks _me_ to fly with him. I am only
a poor sparrow, and the others are birds of wealth and position."

He sat thinking it all over for a long time, and the more he thought
the sadder he became. When the swallow came home in the evening, the
sparrow asked if he could not get him leave to travel with them.

"You? You want to go with us?" asked the swallow, laughing at him
scornfully. "You would soon be sick of it. It means flying, flying
over land and sea, over hill and dale. Many and many a mile we fly in
one journey without a rest. How do you imagine your short wings are
going to support you so long as that?"

"Oh, but I should so like to go with you," the sparrow pleaded.
"Couldn't you get leave for me to fly with the rest? I have such a
longing for it. I _must_ go with you."

"I believe you are mad," said the swallow. "You forget who you are."

"Oh no," said the sparrow.

But the swallow took it upon him to instruct him about his position in
society.

"Don't you see," he said, "the rich merchant who lived here in the
country during the summer has now moved into town, and the baron who
lives on Tower Island has done the same? The painter who was staying
out here is also by this time in Copenhagen; and they won't come out
here again till next spring. We birds of high station act in the same
way. As soon as ever we smell winter, we make our way to lands where
life is more enjoyable--to the warm south. But you poor wretches must
of course stay at home and suffer. That is how things are arranged in
this world. It is just the same with day labourers, and cottagers, and
other poor folks."

The sparrow said nothing to this long speech; but when the swallow
dropped asleep in his nest, _he_ lay awake and wept over his hard
fate. He had still not quite given up hope of going with them all the
same.

Next day the birds came flying from all directions, and settled down
in the meadow. There were starlings and storks and swallows, besides
many little singing-birds. But neither the cuckoo nor the nightingale
was there, for they had left long ago. "Fall in!" commanded an old
stork. He had been ten times in Egypt, and was therefore reckoned the
wisest of them all.

All the birds lined up, and then the oldest and most experienced went
round and saw if they had their travelling equipment in order. All
those who had their wings rumpled, or had lost some of their
tail-feathers, or did not look strong and well, were dismissed or
chased away. If they did not obey commands at once, they were beaten
to death without mercy.

You may be sure there was a great disturbance when they discovered the
sparrow, who had flown up without being noticed, and had planted
himself in the ranks with the others.

"A creature like that!" the starling called out. "_He_ wants to go
too!"

"Such a pair of wings!" said the swallow. "He thinks that with them he
can fly to Italy!"

And all the birds of passage began to scream at once and laugh at the
poor sparrow, who sat quite terrified in the midst of them.

"I know quite well," he said humbly, "that I am only a poor little
sparrow. But I should so like to see the warm, pleasant lands you are
going to. Try to take me with you. I will use my wings as well as
ever I can. I implore you to let me come!"

"He has some cheek, hasn't he?" said the old stork. "But he shall be
allowed to keep his miserable life. Chase him away at once, and then
let us be off!"

So the birds chased the sparrow away, and he hid his miserable self
under the eaves.

When the review was over, the birds of passage began to make off.
Company after company, they flew away through the air, whilst the
sparrow peered out from under the eaves and gazed sadly after them.

"Now they have all gone," he said. "No one but me is left behind."

"Me too!" screamed the crow.

"And me," said the chaffinch.

"And me too, if you please," peeped the tomtit.

"Yes," said the sparrow, "that is how it is. It is just as the swallow
says--all we _poor_ birds must stay here and suffer."

       *       *       *       *       *

The winter had come. Over all the fields lay the snow, and there was
ice on the water. All the leaves lay dead and shrivelled on the
ground; and there were no flowers, except here and there a poor frozen
daisy, which stood gleaming white among the yellow grass.

And the flies and the gnats, and the butterflies and the cockchafers
were dead. The snake lay torpid, and so did the lizard. The frog had
gone into his winter quarters at the bottom of the pond, sitting deep
in the mud, with only his nose sticking up into the air. And that was
how he intended to sit the whole winter through.

The birds who had remained behind had not, after all, such a very bad
time of it. The crows held great gatherings every evening in the wood,
and screamed and chattered so loudly one could hear them ever so far
away. The chaffinch and the tomtit hopped about cheerfully enough in
the bushes, and picked up what they could find. The sparrow alone was
always out of sorts. He sat on the ridge of the roof and hunched
himself up, but the whole time he was thinking about the birds of
passage.

"They are there by this time," he said to himself. "Here we have ice
and snow; but down south, in the pleasant, warm countries, they have
endless summer. Here I have a job to find even some dry bread; but
_there_ they have more than they can manage to eat. Ah, if one only
had gone with them!"

"Come down and join us," called the chaffinch and the tomtit.

But the sparrow shook his head, and remained sitting on the ridge of
the roof.

"I am consumed with longing, I can't endure it!" he screamed, and he
took a long flight to cool his blood.

But it was of no use. Wherever he came, it seemed to him that
everything was so wretched and bare.

Out in the field the lark was flying up to the sky and singing its
trills.

"Good-morning, sparrow," it twittered. "I am glad to see that you have
not gone away. I am also staying on, as long as I can stand it. It is
so delightful at home here, even in winter. Only see how the trees
have decked themselves out with hoarfrost, how the ice glistens, and
how gleaming white the snow is!"

"It is miserable," said the sparrow. "Poverty and want everywhere."

But the lark did not hear a word of what he said; he flew on his way,
singing joyously.

"Craw!" screamed the black jackdaws. "The winter is not so bad after
all." And then they walked proudly round the field and looked about on
all sides, for they knew that they cut a fine figure against the white
snow.

"The winter is really quite peaceful," said the field-mouse, as he
stuck his nose out of his hole. "If only it doesn't stay too long, the
food will last. I filled my pantry well last summer, and as long as
one has food one can always keep warm."

The sparrow heard it all, but it did not do him a bit of good.

"They seem to be contented enough with their lot," he said to himself,
"and I suppose it is all right for them. But this miserable life of
mine does not satisfy _me_!"

So he flew home in the sulks, and settled himself again on the ridge
of the roof.

"Oh, I know what I will do," he cried suddenly. "I will creep into the
swallow's nest and sleep there to-night, then I can dream that I am a
swallow."

And he did so, and dreamt all night that he was flying over hill and
dale, over land and sea, all the way to Italy. He thought he was so
light, so free, and his wings carried him as straight as an arrow
through the air. It was the most delightful dream he had ever had.

After this he crept every evening into the swallow's nest, and lay
there till ever so late in the morning. When he came out, he sat
crunched up on the ridge of the roof or in the bare lime tree. If the
gardener's wife had not thrown out some crumbs to him now and then, he
would certainly have starved to death. For he didn't care a rap about
anything; he merely longed for the evening to come, so that he could
dream again. Every evening he dreamt the same thing, but he never
grew tired of it.

"This is nearly as good as actually going with them," he thought. "If
only I could dream in the daytime in the same way."

But in time his head got quite muddled, and he paid no attention to
anything.

Little by little the winter was slipping away, and now it was gone
altogether. The days grew longer, and there was more warmth in the
sunshine.

"What! are you still here?" said the sun. And he stared so hard at the
snow that at last it grew quite bashful, and melted away and sank into
the earth.

"Wait a moment," said the cloud to the sun; "we must have a thorough
cleaning before your turn comes."

So it fell like a sousing rain on the earth, washing the leaves of the
trees and bushes, and collecting into quite a little lake on the ice.

"Now I am coming! now I am coming!" said the real lake, which lay
below, under the ice.

It heaved its breast, and with a great sigh the roof of ice burst,
and all the little scales began hopping and dancing like boys who have
escaped from school.

Then the sun broke out from the cloud, and a thousand little green
shoots peeped up from the earth.

"Lend me your wings," said the winter to the storm; "I must be off."

And away it flew to the cold lands right away in the north, where
there is winter always.

At last a message came from my Lady Spring that now they might expect
her any day.

The only person who saw nothing of what was going on was the sparrow.
The whole day he lay there in the swallow's nest, only flying out for
a quarter of an hour to take a little bit of food. He hadn't the least
idea that it was now going to be summer again. He had grown quite
silly, and imagined that he was the swallow.

But one day the swallow came back.

"Chee! chee!" he peeped; "is everything in order to receive us?"

This is what he wished first of all to see about, and so he flew all
day long over cornfield and meadow.

"There are not many gnats here yet, but they may still come," he said
in the evening when he came home.

Then he peeped into the starlings' box to say "How-do" to his
neighbours; but it chanced that at the moment there was no one at
home, so he got ready to go to bed.

But when he was going to creep into his nest he noticed there was
somebody there already.

"What's this?" he said. "Who has taken the liberty to borrow my nest?"

"It is not yours," said the sparrow, who was lying there. "_I_ am the
swallow, and I have just come home from Africa. You may take my word
for it, it was delightful there. I have heaps of things to tell you."

The swallow sat for a moment quite speechless. Then he screamed out in
a furious passion,--

"You may take my word for it, I shall have something to say to _you_,
you wretched sparrow! I might have guessed it was you who had the
impudence to steal my nest. I noticed you were a little cracked even
last year. Now, look sharp and come out of that. _At once_, I say!"

But it was no good the swallow's screaming and threatening. The
sparrow was quite sure that he was in the right. He went on telling
the swallow how he had just come home from Africa, and was so tired he
really must have a quiet time to sleep.

"I will have my revenge," said the swallow as he flew away.

And there in the nest the sparrow lay asleep, dreaming of the warm,
delightful land with all the gnats and flies and cherries.

He was still lying fast asleep when, in the middle of the night, the
swallow came back. He had filled his broad bill with mud, and quite
quietly began to wall up the hole into the nest. To and fro he flew
the whole night long, and by the time the sun rose the hole was quite
closed up.

"Now he's happy," thought the swallow, as he began to build himself a
new nest.

Three days later the swallow and the starling met in the meadow. They
said, "How do you do?" and told each other all they had gone through
since they last saw one another.

"The most remarkable thing comes last," said the swallow. "Just fancy!
When I came home I found the sparrow had taken my nest, and I could
not get him to come out."

"Well, I never!" cried the starling. "What on earth did you do to
him?"

"Come and see," answered the swallow.

They both flew off to the nest, and the swallow told him how he had
taken his revenge. Then they pecked a hole with their bills, and out
fell the poor sparrow to the ground quite dead.

"It serves him right," said the swallow.

And the starling nodded, for he thought so too.

But the chaffinch and the tomtit stood below on the ground and gazed
at the dead bird.

"Poor sparrow!" said the chaffinch. "I am sorry for him."

"He couldn't expect a better fate," said the tomtit. "He was
ambitious; and that is what one has no right to be when one is only a
sparrow."

[Illustration: THE END]