[Illustration]




                      HANS ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES




                            HANS:ANDERSEN’S
                           FAIRY:TALES;WITH
                           ILLUSTRATIONS:BY
                           W:HEATH:ROBINSON

                            [Illustration]

                               NEW:YORK
                           HENRY:HOLT:&:CO.
                                 1913




CONTENTS


[Illustration]

                                                                    PAGE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS                                                vii

LIST OF COLOURED PLATES                                               xi

THE MARSH KING’S DAUGHTER                                              2

TOMMELISE                                                             52

THE SNOW QUEEN.

PART THE FIRST--WHICH TREATS OF THE MIRROR AND ITS
FRAGMENTS                                                             69

PART THE SECOND--A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL                       72

PART THE THIRD--THE ENCHANTED FLOWER-GARDEN                           80

PART THE FOURTH--THE PRINCE AND THE PRINCESS                          90

PART THE FIFTH--THE LITTLE ROBBER-MAIDEN                              99

PART THE SIXTH--THE LAPLAND WOMAN AND THE FINLAND
WOMAN                                                                107

PART THE SEVENTH--WHICH TREATS OF THE SNOW QUEEN’S
PALACE, AND OF WHAT CAME TO PASS THEREIN                             112

ELFIN-MOUNT                                                          121

THE LITTLE MERMAID                                                   133

THE STORKS                                                           165

THE NIGHTINGALE                                                      173

THE WILD SWANS                                                       190

THE REAL PRINCESS                                                    214

THE RED SHOES                                                        218

THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES                                            229

THE SWINEHERD                                                        238

THE FLYING TRUNK                                                     247

THE LEAPING MATCH                                                    258

THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER                              263

THE UGLY DUCKLING                                                    271

THE NAUGHTY BOY                                                      286




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE

The marsh king’s daughter                                              1

She understood the speech of birds                                     2

It was he who pulled her down                                          7

The Nile flood had retired                                            13

There was a little bird that beat its wings                           27

Placed the golden circuit about his neck                              35

Then she saw the storks                                               41

The swallow soared high into the air                                  51

‘Thou poor little thing,’ said the field-mouse                        52

‘This is just the wife for my son,’ said the toad                     56

Oh, how terrified was poor Tommelise                                  59

That was the greatest of pleasures                                    65

They carried the mirror from place to place                           69

He chuckled with delight                                              71

She wore a large hat, with most beautiful flowers painted on it       79

Gerda knew every flower in the garden                                 87

Suddenly a large raven hopped upon the snow in front of her           94

Cabinet councillors were walking about barefooted                     97

And the nearer they were to the door the prouder they looked         102

And flapped his black wings at the carriage till it was
  out of sight                                                       106

The little robber-maiden                                             109

The snow queen                                                       112

She ran on as fast as she could                                      115

She entered the large, cold, empty hall                              117

Tailpiece                                                            119

The elfin king’s housekeeper                                         120

The mer-king must be invited first                                   124

They felt quite as if they were at home                              127

I will have thee myself to wife                                      130

The little mermaid                                                   132

She was on the whole a sensible sort of lady                         137

The youngest was the most lovely                                     140

They ate from their hands                                            148

Many an evening she rose to the place                                155

When the sun arose she awoke                                         159

Father stork                                                         164

‘Stork! stork! long-legged stork!’                                   168

And fetch one for each of the boys                                   170

‘Oh! how pretty that is!’ he would say                               172

Among the branches dwelt a nightingale                               177

They admired the city, the palace, and the garden                    179

The kitchen-maid                                                     181

The chief imperial nightingale bringer                               184

He was quite as successful as the real nightingale                   187

The wild swans                                                       189

So Elise took off her clothes and stepped into the water             195

And met an old woman with a basket full of berries                   198

Not a boat was to be seen                                            201

There was only just room for her and them                            204

I must venture to the churchyard                                     209

Tailpiece                                                            212

I have scarcely closed my eyes the whole night through               213

The old king himself went out to open it                             215

And the pea was preserved in the cabinet of curiosities              216

Karen                                                                217

And Karen was dressed very neatly                                    220

Karen and the old lady walked to church                              222

He sat there nodding at her                                          224

Dance she must, over field and meadow                                226

Two rogues calling themselves weavers made their appearance          228

‘Oh, it is excellent!’ replied the minister                          231

As if in the act of holding something up                             233

So now the emperor walked under his high canopy                      234

The two rogues                                                       235

Tailpiece                                                            236

The emperor’s daughter                                               237

All cares and sorrows were forgotten by him who inhaled its
fragrance                                                            239

And he wept like a child                                             241

‘Ach! du lieber Augustin’                                            243

Up flew the trunk                                                    246

The son lived merrily                                                248

He met a nurse                                                       249

Will you tell us a story? asked the queen                            252

‘But let it make us laugh,’ said the king                            253

Their slippers flew about their ears                                 255

And thus the frog won the princess                                   257

The old councillor                                                   259

‘Say nothing for the present,’ remarked the king                     260

It may not be perfectly true                                         261

The shepherdess and the chimney-sweeper                              262

Heading                                                              263

Tailpiece                                                            269

The poor duckling was scorned by all                                 270

He came to a large moor                                              275

And the cat said, ‘Can you purr?’                                    280

And every one said, ‘The new one is the best’                        283

Beware of him, dear child!                                           285

THE END                                                              289




LIST OF COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS


‘The bud opened into a full-blown flower, in the middle of
which lay a beautiful child’                               _Frontispiece_

‘She stood at the door and begged for a piece of
barley-corn’                                         _Facing page_    56

‘Yes! I will go with thee, said Tommelise, and she
seated herself on the bird’s back’                            ”       64

‘The swing moves and the bubbles fly upward with
bright ever-changing colours’                                 ”       84

‘He did not come to woo her, he said, he had only
come to hear the wisdom of the princess’                      ”       94

‘Round and round they went, such whirling and
twirling’                                                     ”      126

‘She put the statue in her garden’                            ”      134

‘With the rest of the children of air, soared high
above the rosy cloud’                                         ”      162

‘We will bring him two little ones, a brother and
a sister’                                                     ”      170

‘Then began the nightingale to sing’                          ”      176

‘The peasant’s wife sat on Sundays at the door of
her cottage reading her hymn-book’                            ”      190

‘Princesses he found in plenty, but whether they
were real princesses it was impossible for him
to decide’                                                    ”      214

‘She sat down one day and made out of some old
pieces of red cloth a pair of little shoes’       _Opposite page_    218

‘The Swineherd scolded and the rain poured down’       ”             244

‘She sat the live-long day upon the roof of her
palace, expecting him’                                 ”             256

‘He jumped down from the old man’s lap and
danced around him on the floor’                        ”             286

[Illustration: THE:MARSH:KING’S:DAUGHTER]




[Illustration: SHE UNDERSTOOD THE SPEECH OF BIRDS]


THE MARSH KING’S DAUGHTER


The storks tell their young ones ever so many fairy tales, all of them
from the fen and the moss. Generally the tales are suited to the
youngsters’ age and understanding. The baby birds are pleased if they
are told just ‘kribly, krably, plurry-murry!’ which they think
wonderful; but the older ones will have something with more sense in it,
or, at the least, a tale about themselves. Of the two oldest and longest
tales which have been told among the storks, one we all know--that about
Moses, who was placed by his mother in an ark on the waters of the Nile,
was found by the king’s daughter, and then was taught all learning, and
became a great man, and no one knows where he was buried. Everybody has
heard that tale.

But the other story is not known at all even now; perhaps because it is
really a chimney-corner tale. It has been handed down by mother-stork to
mother-stork for hundreds of years, and each in turn has told it better,
till now we are telling it best of all.

The first pair of storks who knew it had their summer quarters on a
Viking’s log-house by the moor in Wendsyssel, which is in the county of
Hjörring, near Skagen in Jutland, if we want to be accurate. To this day
there is still an enormous great moss there. You can read all about it
in your geography book. The moss lies where was once the bottom of the
sea, before the great upheaval of the land; and now it stretches for
miles, surrounded on all sides by watery meadows and quivering bog, with
turf-moss cloudberries and stunted trees growing. A fog hangs over it
almost continually, and till about seventy years ago wolves were still
found there. It may certainly be called a wild moor, and you can imagine
what lack of paths and what abundance of swamp and sea was there
thousands of years ago. In that waste man saw ages back just what he
sees to-day. The reeds were just as high, with the same kind of long
leaves and purplish-brown, feathery flowers as they have now; the
birches stood with white bark and fine, loose-hung leaves just as they
now stand; and for the living creatures that came there, why, the fly
wore its gauze suit of just the same cut as now, and the colour of the
stork’s dress was white and black, with red stockings. On the other
hand, the men of that time wore different clothes from those we wear.
But whoever it was, poor peasant or free hunter, that trod on the
quagmire, it happened thousands of years ago just as it does to-day--in
he went and down he sank, down to the Marsh King, as they called him,
who reigned beneath in the great Moss Kingdom. He was called also the
Mire King, but we will call him by the stork’s name for him--Marsh King.
People know very little about how he governed, but perhaps that is just
as well.

Near to the moss, and right in the Liim Fjord, stood the Viking’s
log-house, with paved cellar and tower two storeys high. On the roof the
storks had built their nest. Mother-stork sat on her eggs, and was
positive they would turn out well.

One evening father-stork had been out for a long time, and when he came
home he seemed excited and flurried.

‘I’ve dreadful news for you!’ he said to mother-stork.

‘Don’t get excited,’ said she. ‘Remember I’m sitting on my eggs, and I
might be upset by it, and then the eggs would suffer.’

‘You must know it!’ he answered. ‘She has come here, our landlord’s
daughter in Egypt! She has ventured on the journey here, and she is
lost!’

‘Why, she is of fairy descent! Tell me all about it; you know I can’t
bear to wait at this time, when I’m sitting.’

‘Listen, mother. It’s as you told me. She has believed what the doctor
said, that the moor-flowers here could do her sick father good, and so
she has flown here in a feather-dress with the other winged princesses,
who have to come to the north every year to bathe and renew their youth.
She has come, and she is lost!’

‘You’re getting too long-winded!’ said mother-stork. ‘The eggs may be
chilled! I can’t bear to be excited!’

‘I have watched,’ said father-stork, ‘and in the evening, when I went
into the reeds, where the quagmire is able to bear me, there came three
swans. Something in the way they flew told me, “Watch; that isn’t a real
swan; it’s only swan feathers.” You know the feeling, mother, as well
as I do; you can tell if it is right.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said she; ‘but tell me about the princess. I’m tired
of hearing about the swan’s feathers.’

‘Here, in the middle of the moor, you know,’ said father-stork, ‘is a
kind of lake; you can see a part of it if you stand up. There, by the
reeds and the green quagmire, lies a great elder-stump. The three swans
lighted on it, flapped their wings, and looked round them. Then one of
them threw off her swan’s plumage, and I saw it was our own princess, of
our house in Egypt. Then she sat down, and she had no other covering
than her own long, black hair. I heard her ask the two others to take
great care of her swan-skin while she plunged under the water to gather
a flower which she thought she saw. They nodded, and lifted up the loose
feather-dress. “I wonder what they mean to do with it,” said I to
myself; and no doubt she asked them the same. And she got an answer,
something she could see for herself. They flew aloft with her
feather-dress! “Sink down,” they cried; “you shall never fly in the
swan-skin again; never see Egypt again! Stay in the moss!” And so they
tore her feather-dress into a hundred pieces, till the feathers flew
about as if it was snowing, and off flew the two good-for-nothing
princesses.’

‘Oh, how dreadful!’ said mother-stork. ‘I can’t bear to hear it. But,
tell me, what else happened?’

‘Our princess moaned and wept. Her tears fell on the elder-stump, and it
was quite moved, for it was the Marsh King himself, who lives in the
quagmire. I saw the stump turn itself, so it wasn’t only a trunk, for it
put out long, muddy boughs like arms. Then the unhappy girl was
frightened, and sprang aside into the quivering marsh, which will not
bear me, much less her. In at once she sank, and down with her went the
elder-stump--it was he who pulled her down. Then a few big black
bubbles, and no trace of her left. She is engulfed in the marsh, and
will never return to Egypt with her flower. You couldn’t have borne to
see it, mother!’

‘You shouldn’t have told me anything of the sort just now; it may affect
the eggs. The princess can take good care of herself. She’ll get help
easily enough. Had it been you or I, there would have been an end of
us.’

‘However, I’ll go day by day to see about it,’ said father-stork; and so
he did.

The days and months went by. He saw at last one day that right from the
bottom of the marsh a green stalk pushed up till it reached the surface
of the water. Out of it grew a leaf, that grew wider and wider, and
close to it a bud put out. Then one morning, as the stork was flying
over it, it opened, with the sun’s warmth, into a full-blown flower, in
the middle of which lay a beautiful child, a little girl, as if she were
fresh from the bath. So like was the child to the princess from Egypt,
that at first the stork believed it to be herself turned a child again.
But when he thought it over, he decided that it was more likely to be
the child of the princess and the Marsh King, and that was why she was
lying in a water lily.

‘She mustn’t be left lying there,’ thought father-stork, ‘and there are
too many already in my nest. But I have it! The Viking’s wife has no
children, and she has often wished for a little one. Yes, I get the name
for bringing the babies; I will do it in sober truth for once! I’ll fly
to the Viking’s wife with the child. They’ll be delighted!’

So the stork took the little girl, flew to the log-house, made a hole
with his beak in the window, with panes made of bladder, laid the child
on the bosom of the Viking’s wife, and flew away

[Illustration: IT WAS HE WHO PULLED HER DOWN]

to mother-stork to tell her all about it. Her young ones heard it too,
for they were now old enough.

‘Listen; the princess is not dead. She has sent her little one up, and
the child has a home found for her.’

‘Yes, so I said from the first,’ said mother-stork. ‘Now think a little
about your own children. It’s almost time for our journey. I begin to
feel a tingling under my wings. The cuckoo and the nightingale are off
already, and I hear the quails chattering about it, and saying that we
shall soon have a favourable wind. Our young ones are quite fit for
training, I’m sure.’

Glad indeed was the Viking’s wife when she woke in the morning to find
the beautiful little child near her side. She kissed and fondled it, but
it screamed with passion, and threw out its arms and legs, and seemed
utterly miserable. At last it cried itself to sleep, and there it lay,
one of the prettiest babies you could set eyes on.

The Viking’s wife was so happy, so gay, so well, that she could not but
hope that her husband and his men would return as suddenly as the little
one had come, and so she and all her household busied themselves to get
everything into order. The long coloured tapestries, which she and her
maidens had woven with figures of their gods--Odin, Thor, Freya, as they
were called--were hung up; the slaves were set to polish the old shields
used for decoration; cushions were arranged on the benches, and dry wood
placed on the hearth in the middle of the hall, so that the fire could
be lit in a moment. The Viking’s wife took her share in the work, so
that by the evening she was very tired, and slept soundly.

When she woke towards daybreak she was terribly frightened. The little
child had vanished! She sprang up, lighted a brand, and looked
everywhere around. There, just at the foot of the bed where she had
lain, was, not a baby, but a great ugly toad! In utter disgust at it she
took a heavy stick to kill it, but the creature looked at her with such
wonderfully sad eyes that she could not destroy it. Once more she gazed
round; the toad uttered a faint, mournful croak. She started, and sprang
from the bedside to the window, and opened it. At that moment the sun
rose, and cast its rays upon the bed and upon the great toad. All at
once it seemed that the creature’s wide mouth shrank, and became small
and rosy; the limbs filled out into the most charming shape. It was her
own beautiful babe that lay there, not the hideous reptile!

‘What is this?’ cried the dame. ‘Was it an ill dream? Yes, there is my
own sweet elfin child lying there!’ She kissed it, and pressed it to her
heart; but it fought and bit like a wild kitten!

The Viking, however, did not come that day, nor the next; for though he
was on his way, the wind was against him as it blew to the south for the
storks. Fair wind for one is foul for the other.

In those two days and nights the Viking’s wife saw clearly how it was
with her little child. And dreadful indeed was the spell that lay on it.
By day it was as beautiful as an angel of light, but it had a bad, evil
disposition. By night, on the other hand, it was a hideous toad, quiet,
sad, with sorrowful eyes. It had two natures, which changed with its
outward form. And so it was that the baby, brought by the stork, had by
daylight its mother’s own rightful shape, but its father’s temper; while
again, night made the kinship with him evident in the bodily form, in
which, however, dwelt the mother’s mind and heart. Who could loose the
spell cast by the power of witchcraft? The Viking’s wife was worn and
distressed about it, and her heart was heavy for the unhappy being, of
whose condition she did not think that she dared tell her husband if he
came home then, for he would certainly follow the custom and practice of
the time, and expose the poor child on the high-road for any one that
liked to take away. The good dame had not the heart to do this: her
husband should see the child only by daylight.

One morning the wings of storks were heard above the roof. More than a
hundred pairs of the birds had rested themselves for the night after
their heavy exercise, and they now flew up, preparatory to starting
southwards.

‘All ready, and the wives and children?’ was their cry.

‘Oh, I’m so light,’ said the young storks. ‘My bones feel all
kribly-krably, as if I was filled with live frogs! How splendid it is to
have to go abroad!’

‘Keep up in the flight,’ said father and mother, ‘and don’t chatter so
much; it tires the chest.’

And they flew.

At the same moment a horn sounded over the moor. The Viking had landed
with all his men, returning laden with booty from the coasts of Gaul,
where the people, like those of Britain, used to chant in their terror:
‘From the rage of the Northmen, Lord, deliver us!’ Guess what stir and
festival now came to the Viking’s stronghold near the moor! A barrel of
mead was brought into hall; a huge fire was lighted; horses were
slaughtered; everything went duly. The heathen priest sprinkled the
slaves with warm blood, to begin their new life; the fire crackled; the
smoke curled under the roof; the soot fell down from the beams--but they
were used to that. Guests were invited, and received valuable gifts.
Plots and treachery were forgotten; they drank deep and threw the picked
bones in each other’s faces in good-humoured horse-play. The bard--a
kind of musician, but a warrior as well, who went with them, saw their
exploits, and sang about them--gave them a song in which they heard all
their warrior-deeds and feats of prowess. Each verse ended with the
refrain:

    ‘Wealth, kindred, life cannot endure,
     But the warrior’s glory standeth sure.’

And they all clashed upon their shields, and beat upon the table with
knives and fists, and made great clamour.

The Viking’s wife sat on the cross-bench in the open banqueting-hall.
She wore a robe of silk, with bracelets of gold and beads of amber. She
had put on her dress of state, and the bard sang of her, and told of the
golden treasure she had brought to her wealthy lord, while he was
delighted with the beautiful child, for he could see it by day in all
its loveliness. He was well pleased with the baby’s wildness, and said
she would become a right warrior-maid, and fight as his champion. She
did not even blink her eyes when a skilful hand cut her eyelashes with a
sharp sword as a rough joke.

The barrel of mead was drained, and a second brought in, and all got
well drunk, for they were folk who loved to drink their fill. They had a
proverb: ‘The kine know when to go to stall from pasture, but the fool
never knows when he has had enough.’ They knew it well enough, but know
and do are different things. They had another proverb, too: ‘The dearest
friend grows wearisome when he outstays his welcome.’ But on they
stayed. Meat and mead are good: it was glorious!--and the slaves slept
in the warm ashes, and dipped their fingers in the fat and licked them.
Oh, it was a great time!

Once again that year the Viking went on a raid, though the autumn gales
were rising. He led his men to the coast of Britain--‘just over the
water,’ he said; and his wife remained with the little girl. And truth
to tell, the foster-mother soon grew fonder of the unhappy toad with the
gentle eyes and deep sigh than of the beautiful child that fought and
bit all about her.

The raw, dank autumn mist, ‘Mouthless,’ which devours the leaves lay
over forest and moor; ‘Bird Featherless,’ as they called the snow, flew
closely all around; winter was nigh at hand. The sparrows took the
storks’ nests for themselves, and criticised the ways of the late owners
during their absence. And where were mother-and father-stork and their
young ones all the time? Down in the land of Egypt, where the sun shone
warm, as it does on a fine summer’s day with us. Tamarinds and acacias
bloomed round them; the crescent of Mahomet gleamed bright from the
cupolas of the mosques; pairs and pairs of storks sat on the slender
turrets, and rested after their long journey. Great flocks of them had
built nest by nest on the huge pillars and broken arches of temples and
forgotten cities. The date-palm raised its foliage on high, as if to
keep off the glare of the sun. Grey-white pyramids stood out against the
clear sky across the desert, where the ostrich raced at speed, and the
lion crouched with great, wise eyes, and saw the marble sphinx that lay
half-buried in the sand. The Nile flood had retired; the whole bed of
the river was swarming with frogs, and to the stork family that was
quite the best thing to be seen in the country. The young ones thought
their eyes must be playing them tricks, it all seemed so wonderful.

‘We always have it just like this in our warm country,’ said
mother-stork; and the young ones felt their appetites grow.

‘Will there be anything more to see?’ said they. ‘Shall we go much
farther into the country?’

[Illustration: THE NILE FLOOD HAD RETIRED]

‘There is nothing better to see,’ said mother-stork. ‘At that green
border is only a wild wood, where the trees crowd one upon another, and
are entangled together with thorny creepers. Only an elephant with his
clumsy legs can make a way there. The snakes are too large for us, and
the lizards too lively. If you try to go into the desert you get your
eyes full of sand in fair weather, and if there is much wind, you find
yourself buried under a sand-heap. No, this is the best place. Here are
frogs and locusts. I shall stop here, and you must stay with me.’ And
they stayed.

The old ones sat in their nest on the slender minaret and rested
themselves, while yet they were busy preening their feathers and rubbing
their beaks on their red-stockinged legs. They would raise their necks,
bow gravely, and hold up their heads with their high foreheads, fine,
smooth feathers, and brown eyes glancing sharply. The young hen-storks
walked gravely about among the coarse reeds, stealing glances at the
other young storks, and devouring a frog at every third step, or else a
small snake, which they found so good for their health, and so tasty.
The young males began to quarrel, beat each other with their wings,
pecked, yes, stabbed till the blood flowed! And so one and another got
betrothed, for that was the whole purpose of life. They built nests, and
from that sprang new quarrels, for in hot countries tempers are so
quick! Nevertheless, it was all delightful, especially to the old ones.
Everything that one’s own youngsters do becomes them. Every day there
was sunshine; every day was so much taken up with eating that there was
hardly time to think of amusement.

But inside the rich palace of their Egyptian landlord, as they called
him, joy was unknown. Rich and mighty lord, there he lay on a couch, his
limbs rigid, stretched out like a mummy, in the midst of the great hall
with its many-coloured walls; it looked just as if he was lying in a
tulip. His kinsmen and servants stood around him; he was not dead; you
could not call him alive; he existed. The healing moss-flower from the
northern land, which should have been searched for and gathered by her
who loved him most dearly, would never be brought. His young and
beautiful daughter, who flew in swan’s-plumage over sea and land, far
towards the north, would never return. ‘She is dead and gone!’ the two
swan-maidens had told him on their return. They had invented a whole
history of it. Said they:--

‘We all three flew high in the air: a hunter saw us and shot an arrow;
it struck our friend, and singing her farewell, like a dying swan, she
slowly sank, in the midst of a forest lake. There we buried her, near
the shore of the lake, under a fragrant weeping-birch. But we took our
revenge! We bound fire under the wings of a swallow which had built
under the hunter’s thatched roof! The thatch caught; the house blazed
up! He was burned in it, and the light shone over the lake as far as the
drooping birch tree under which she is buried. She will never come back
to the land of Egypt.’

And so they both wept; and the father-stork, when he heard it, chattered
with his beak till it rattled again.

‘Lies and make-up!’ said he. ‘I have a great mind to drive my beak into
their hearts.’

‘And break it off!’ said mother-stork. ‘And what good would that do?
Think first of yourself and your own family; everything else is of no
consequence!’

‘However, I will seat myself on the edge of the open court in the
morning, when all the learned doctors are met to talk about the illness.
Perhaps they will come a little nearer the truth.’

And the learned doctors came together, and talked and talked all about,
so that the stork could not make head or tail of it--nor did anything
come of it for the sickness, or for the daughter in the moor; but,
nevertheless, we shall be glad to hear something about it, for we are
obliged to listen to a great deal.

But now it will be a very good thing to learn what had gone before this
meeting, in order to understand the story better, for at least we know
as much as father-stork.

‘Love brings life! The highest love supports the highest life! Only
through love will he be able to secure the preservation of his life!’
was what they said; and very wisely and well said it was, according to
the learned.

‘That’s a pretty thought!’ said father-stork.

‘I don’t rightly understand it!’ said mother-stork, ‘and it isn’t my
fault, but the expressions! However, be that as it may, I’ve something
else to think about!’

Then the learned men had spoken of love for one thing to another, of the
difference there is between the affection of lovers and that of parent
and child; of the love of plant and sunbeam, where the rays of the sun
touch the bud and the young shoot thus comes forth--all this was
expounded at such great length and in so learned a way that it was
impossible for father-stork to follow it, much less to repeat it. He was
quite thoughtful about it, and half closed his eyes and stood on one leg
a whole day afterwards; such learning was too heavy for him to bear.

However, he understood one thing. He had heard both the common folk and
those of the highest rank say the same thing from the bottom of their
hearts--that it was a great misfortune for thousands of people, for the
country at large, that this man should be ill and not recover; it would
be a joy and blessing if he were restored to health. ‘But where does
the flower of health grow for him?’ that was what they had all inquired.
They sought it from the scrolls of wisdom, from the twinkling stars, and
from the winds; they had asked in all byways where they might find it,
and at last the learned and wise announced, as we have said: ‘Love
brings forth life, the life of a father,’ and so they said more than
they themselves understood. They repeated it, and wrote it as a
prescription: ‘Love brings forth life’; but how was the thing to be done
from this prescription? There lay the difficulty. At length they came to
an agreement about it; the help must come from the princess, who was
attached to her father with her whole soul and heart. And then they
decided how it was to be brought about (all this was more than a year
and a day before): she must go by night, at the new moon, to the marble
sphinx near the desert, must clear away the sand from the door with her
feet, and then go through the long passage that led into the middle of
one of the great pyramids, where in his mummy-case lay one of the mighty
kings of old, surrounded by splendour and magnificence. Here she was to
hold her ear to the lips of the dead, and then it would be revealed to
her how she was to gain life and health for her father.

All this she had done, and had learned in vision that, from the deep
marsh in the land of Denmark, a spot most clearly indicated, she might
bring home the marsh-flower, which there in the depth of the water had
touched her breast. Then he would be healed. So she flew in swan’s
plumage from the land of Egypt to the moor.

You see, father-stork and mother-stork were aware of all this, and now
we know the story more fully than before. We remember that the Marsh
King dragged her down to him; we know that for those at home she is
dead and gone; only the wisest of them all said still, with
mother-stork: ‘She takes good care of herself!’ and they were obliged to
wait, for that was all they knew about it.

‘I believe I can steal the swans’ plumage from the two good-for-nothing
princesses!’ said father-stork, ‘then they will not be able to go to the
moor to work mischief. I will hide the swans’ skins themselves till they
are wanted.’

‘Where will you hide them?’ asked mother-stork.

‘In our nest on the moor!’ said he. ‘I and the youngest of our brood can
be helped along with them, and if they are troublesome to us, there are
plenty of places on the way where we can hide them till next time of
moving. One swan’s dress would be enough for her, but two are better; it
is well to have plenty of luggage in a northern climate!’

‘You will get no thanks for it!’ said mother-stork. ‘However, you are
the master. I have nothing to say, except when I am sitting.’

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Viking’s stronghold near the moor, whither the storks flew at the
spring, the little girl had received her name. They had called her
Helga, but that was far too sweet for such a disposition as the one
possessed by this most beautiful child. Month after month it became more
evident, and as years went by--whilst the storks pursued the same
journey, in autumn towards the Nile, in spring towards the moor--the
little child became a grown girl, and before people thought of it, she
was in her sixteenth year, and the most beautiful of maidens. But the
fruit was a beautiful shell, the kernel hard and rough. She was wilder
than most people even in that hard gloomy age.

It was a delight to her to splash with her white hands in the hot blood
of the horse which had been slaughtered as a sacrifice; in her wildness
she bit off the neck of the black cock which should have been slain by
the heathen priest; and she said in sober earnest to her
foster-father:--

‘If thine enemy came and tied a rope to the beams of the roof, and
lifted it over thy chamber, whilst thou wast asleep, I should not wake
thee, even if I could! I would not hear it, my blood still so hums in my
ears where thou didst slap me years ago! Thou! I remember!

But the Viking did not believe what she said; he was, like the others,
infatuated with her beauty; and he did not know how disposition and
appearance changed in little Helga. She would sit without a saddle, as
if she had grown to the horse, when it galloped at full speed; and she
would not leap off, even when it fought with other vicious horses. In
all her clothes she would often cast herself from the bank into the
strong current of the fjord and swim to meet the Viking when his boat
was steering towards the land. She cut off the longest lock from her
beautiful long hair, and made it into a string for her bow. ‘Self-made
is well made!’ she said.

The Viking’s wife, according to the age and custom, was strong in will
and in disposition, but towards the daughter she seemed a mild, anxious
woman, for she knew that the dreadful child was bewitched.

When her mother stood on the balcony, or walked out into the courtyard,
it seemed as if Helga took an evil delight in placing herself on the
edge of the well, extending her arms and legs, and then leaping plump
into the narrow, deep hole, where she, with her frog-nature, dived, and
rose again, crawled out, just as if she was a cat, and came, dripping
with water, into the lofty hall, so that the green leaves which were
scattered on the floor floated about in the watery stream.

But there was one bond that restrained little Helga, and that was the
dusk of the evening. Then she became quiet and pensive, and would allow
herself to be called and led. She seemed to be drawn by some internal
feeling to her mother, and when the sun went down and the transformation
without and within her took place, she sat there quiet and melancholy,
shrunken together into the figure of a toad. Her body, indeed, was now
far larger than that creature’s, but it was only so much the more
disgusting. She looked like a miserable dwarf with frog’s head, and web
between the fingers. There was something of the deepest melancholy in
the expression of her eyes; she had no voice but a hollow moan, just
like a child that sobs in its dreams. The Viking’s wife could then take
her on her knees: she forgot the ugly form, and looked only at the
sorrowful eyes, and more than once she said:--

‘I could wish almost that thou wast always my dumb frog-child! Thou art
more frightful to look at when thy beauty returns to thee.’

And she wrote runes against witchcraft and disease, and cast them over
the wretched girl, but she saw no change.

‘Now that she is a full-grown woman, and so like the Egyptian mother,’
said father-stork, ‘one could not believe that she was once so little
that she lay in a water-lily. We have never seen her mother since! She
did not take care of herself, as you and the learned men thought. Year
out, year in, I have flown now in all directions over the moor, but she
has never made any sign. Yes, let me tell you that every year when I
have come up here some days ahead of you, to mend the nest and put one
thing and another straight, I have flown for a whole night, like an owl
or a bat, to and fro over the open water, but it was no use! Nor have
the two swan-dresses been any use which the young ones and I dragged
hither from the land of the Nile. Toilsome work it was, and it took us
three journeys to do it. They have now lain for many years at the bottom
of the nest, and if such a disaster as a fire should happen at any time,
and the log-house be burnt, they would be lost!’

‘And our good nest would be lost also!’ said mother-stork. ‘You think
too little of that, and too much of the feather-dress, and your
moss-princess! You had better take it to her and stay in the bog! You
are a useless father to your own family; I have said that ever since I
sat on an egg for the first time! I only hope that we or our young ones
may not get an arrow in the wing from that mad Viking girl! She does not
know what she is doing. We have lived here a little longer than she, she
should remember! We never forget our obligations; we pay our taxes
yearly, a feather, an egg, and a young one, as is right. Do you think,
when she is outside, I feel inclined to go down there, as in the old
days, and as I do in Egypt, where I am half a companion with them,
without their forgetting me, and peep into tub and pot? No, I sit up
here worrying myself about her--the hussy!--and about you too! You ought
to have let her lie in the water-lily, and there would have been an end
of her!’

‘You are kinder than your words!’ said father-stork. ‘I know you better
than you know yourself.’

And so he gave a jump, two heavy strokes of his wings, stretched his
legs behind him, and off he flew. He sailed away, without moving his
wings. At a good distance off he gave a powerful stroke; the sun shone
on his white feathers; he stretched his neck and head forward! That was
speed and flight!

‘But he is still the handsomest of them all!’ said the mother-stork,
‘only I don’t tell him that.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Early that autumn the Viking came home with spoil and captives. Among
these was a young Christian priest, one of those men who preached
against the idols of the northern countries. Often at that period did
the talk in the hall and in the bower of the women refer to the new
faith, which had made its way into all the countries of the south, and
by the holy Anskarius had been brought even to Haddeby on the Schlei.
Helga herself had heard of the faith in the White Christ, who out of
love to men had given Himself to save them; but for her, as they say, it
had gone in at one ear and out at the other. She seemed to have only a
perception of that word ‘love’ when she crouched in that closed room in
her miserable frog-form. But the Viking’s wife had listened to it, and
felt herself wonderfully affected by the story and traditions of the Son
of the only true God. The men, on coming home from their expedition, had
told of the splendid temples of costly hewn stone, erected for Him whose
message was love; and they brought home with them a pair of heavy golden
vessels, elaborately pierced, and with a fragrant odour about them, for
they were censers, which the Christian priests used to swing before the
altar where no blood was ever shed, but wine and consecrated bread
changed into His body and blood who had given Himself for generations
yet unborn.

In the deep paved cellar of the log house the young captive Christian
priest was confined, his feet and hands securely bound. The Viking’s
wife said that he was ‘as fair as Baldur,’ and she was touched by his
distress; but young Helga wished that a rope should be drawn through his
legs, and that he should be tied to the tails of wild oxen.

‘Then I would set the dogs loose. Halloo! away over bog and fen, out to
the moor! That would be jolly to see! jollier still to be able to follow
him on his course!’

But the Viking did not choose that he should be put to death that way,
but, as a denier and opposer of the high gods, he should be offered the
next morning on the blood-stone in the grove--the first time that a
human sacrifice had been offered there.

Young Helga asked that she might sprinkle the images of the gods and the
people with his blood. She sharpened her gleaming knife, and when one of
the great, ferocious dogs, of which there were a good many in the
court-yard, ran across her feet, she drove the knife into its side.
‘That is to test it,’ said she; and the Viking’s wife looked sadly at
the wild, ill-tempered girl, and, when the night came, and the beautiful
bodily form of her daughter was changed for the beauty of soul, she
spoke glowing words of sorrow to her from her own afflicted spirit.

The hideous toad with the goblin’s body stood before her, and fixed its
brown, sorrowful eyes on her; listening and seeming to understand with
the intelligence of a human being.

‘Never, even to my husband, has a word fallen from my tongue about the
twofold nature I endure in thee,’ said the Viking’s wife. ‘There is more
pity in my heart for thee than I could have believed! Great is the love
of a mother; but affection never comes into thy mind! Thy heart is like
the cold clod! Whence didst thou then come into my house?’

At that the hideous form trembled and shook. It seemed as if the word
touched some connexion between body and soul; great tears came into its
eyes.

‘Thy bitter trial will come some time!’ said the Viking’s wife; ‘and
terrible will it be for me! Better hadst thou been abandoned on the
highway as a child, and the night-frost had lulled thee into death!’ And
the Viking’s wife wept bitter tears, and, wrathful and sad, passed
behind the loose curtains which hung over the beam and divided the room.

The shrunken toad sat alone in the corner. There was silence, but after
a short interval there came from her breast a half-smothered sigh. It
was as if, painfully, a soul awoke to life in a corner of her heart. She
took one step forward, listened, took another step, and then with her
awkward hands she seized the heavy bar that was placed before the door.
Gently she put it back, and quietly she drew out the peg that was stuck
in over the latch. She took the lighted lamp that stood in front of the
rooms; it seemed as if a strong will gave her power. She drew the iron
pin out of the bolted shutter, and moved gently towards the prisoner. He
was asleep. She touched him with her cold, damp hand, and when he awoke
and saw that hideous form, he shuddered, as if at an evil vision. She
drew her knife, severed his bonds, and made signs to him to follow her.

He called upon the holy Name, made the sign of the cross, and as the
figure stood unchanged, he repeated the words of the Bible:--

‘“The Lord will preserve him and keep him alive: the Lord will deliver
him in time of trouble.” Who art thou? Whence is this reptile shape that
yet is so full of deeds of compassion?’

The toad-figure beckoned and guided him behind sheltering curtains by a
solitary way out to the stable, pointed at a horse; he mounted it, and
she seated herself before him and held on by the mane of the animal. The
prisoner understood her, and they rode away at a quick trot, by a path
he would never have discovered, out to the open heath.

He forgot her hideous form, for the favour and mercy of the Lord were
acting through this hobgoblin. He offered up pious prayers, and began to
sing holy songs; and she trembled; was it the power of the prayers and
hymns that acted upon her? or was it the coldness of the morning which
was so quickly coming? What was it that she felt? She raised herself up
in the breeze, and wished to stop the horse and spring off; but the
Christian priest held her fast with all his strength, and sang aloud a
Psalm, as if that would have power to loose the spell that held her in
that hideous frog shape, and the horse galloped forward yet more wildly.
The heaven became red; the first ray of the sun shot through the cloud,
and with that clear spring of light came the change of form--she was the
beautiful young girl with the demoniac, evil temper! In his arms he held
a peerless maiden, and in utter terror he sprang from the horse and
stopped it, for he thought he was encountering a new and deadly
witchcraft. But young Helga at the same time leapt to the ground; the
short child’s frock reached only to her knees; she drew the sharp knife
from her belt, and rushed at the startled man.

‘Let me get at you!’ she cried; ‘let me get at you, and you shall feel
the knife. Yes, you are as pale as hay! Slave! Beardless boy!’

She pressed him hard; they were engaged in a severe conflict, but it was
as if an unseen power gave strength to the Christian. He held her fast,
and the old oak tree hard by came to his help, for its roots, half
loosened from the earth, caught her feet as they slipped under them. A
spring gushed forth quite close to them; he sprinkled her with the fresh
water on breast and face, and charged the unclean spirit to come out of
her, signing her with the cross, according to the Christian rite. But
the water of baptism had no power there, where the spring of faith had
not yet arisen within.

Yet herein also was he strong; more than a man’s strength against the
rival power of evil lay in his act, and as if it overwhelmed her, she
dropped her arms, looked with a surprised glance and pale cheeks at him,
who seemed a powerful sorcerer, strong in wizardry and secret lore. They
were dark runes which he spoke, mystic signs which he was making in the
air! She would not have blinked if he had swung an axe or a sharp knife
before her eyes, but she did when he made the sign of the cross on her
forehead and breast; she now sat like a tame bird, her head bowed down
on her bosom.

Gently he told her of the work of love she had done for him in the
night, that she had come in the hideous skin of a frog, and had loosed
his bonds, and brought him out to light and life. He said that she also
was bound--bound in a closer bondage than he had been, but she, too,
with him should come to light and life. He would bring her to Haddeby,
to the holy Anskarius. There, in the Christian city, the enchantment
would be broken. But he would not dare to carry her in front of him on
the horse, although she herself was willing to sit there.

‘You must sit behind me on the horse, not in front of me! Thy
witch-beauty has a power that is from the evil one. I dread it--and yet
there is victory for me in Christ!’

He bent his knees and prayed gently and earnestly. It was as if the
silent glades of the forest were consecrated thereby into a holy church.
The birds began tosing as if they belonged to a new brotherhood; the
mint poured forth its fragrance as if it would take the place of
incense. The priest proclaimed aloud the words of Holy Writ:--

‘“The Dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that
sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into
the way of peace!”’

And he spoke about the longing of the whole Creation, and whilst he
spoke the horse, which had carried them in its wild race, stood quiet,
and shook the great brambles, so that the ripe, juicy berries fell on
little Helga’s hand, offering themselves for her refreshment.

[Illustration: THERE WAS A LITTLE BIRD THAT BEAT ITS WINGS]

Patiently she let herself be lifted on to the back of the horse, and sat
there like one walks in his sleep, who is not awake, but yet is not
moving in his dream. The Christian fastened two boughs together with a
strip of bark to form a cross, and held it aloft in his hands. So they
rode through the forest, which became denser as the way grew deeper, or
rather, there was no way at all. Sloes grew across the path; one was
obliged to ride around them. The spring did not become a running brook,
but a standing bog, and one had to ride around that. There was strength
and refreshment in the fresh forest air; there was not less power in the
word of gentleness which sounded in faith and Christian love, in the
heartfelt desire to bring the possessed to light and life.

They say that the drops of rain can hollow the hard stone, the billows
of the sea can in time wear smooth the broken, sharp-edged pieces of
rock. The dew of Grace, which had descended upon little Helga, pierced
the hardness and rounded the ruggedness of her nature, although it was
not yet evident, and she was not yet aware of it herself. But what does
the germ in the earth know of the refreshing moisture and the warm rays
of the sun, while yet it is hiding within itself plant and flower?

As a mother’s song for her child imperceptibly fastens itself into its
mind, and it babbles single words after her, without understanding them,
although they afterwards collect themselves in its thoughts, and become
clear in the course of time, so in her the Word worked which is able to
create.

They rode out of the forest, away over the heath, again through pathless
forest, and towards evening they met some robbers.

‘Where have you stolen that fair maiden?’ they shouted; they stopped the
horse, and snatched the two riders from it, for they were strong men.
The priest had no other weapon than the knife which he had taken from
little Helga to defend himself with; one of the robbers swung his axe,
but the young Christian avoided it, and lightly sprang aside, or he
would have been struck; but the edge of the axe sank deep into the
horse’s neck, so that the blood streamed out, and the animal fell to the
earth. Then little Helga started, as if awakened out of a long, deep
meditation, and threw herself down on the expiring animal. The Christian
priest placed himself before her in order to defend her, but one of the
robbers dashed a ponderous iron mace against his forehead, crushing it.
The blood and brains spurted around, and he fell dead to the earth.

The robbers seized little Helga by her white arm. At that moment the sun
went down, and as the last ray faded, she was changed to a hideous toad.
Her greenish mouth opened across half her face; her arms became thin and
slimy, and her hands grew broad and covered with webbing. Terror seized
the robbers at the sight. She stood among them, a hideous monster; then,
frog-like, hopped away, with bounds higher than she was herself, and
vanished in the thicket. The robbers knew it for an evil trick of Loge,
or secret magic art, and hurried away in affright.

       *       *       *       *       *

The full moon was already rising, and soon shone forth in splendour, and
little Helga crept forth from the thicket in the skin of a wretched
toad. She stood by the bodies of the Christian priest and of the horse,
and she looked at them with eyes that seemed to weep. Her frog’s head
uttered a moan like a child beginning to cry. She threw herself now upon
one, now upon the other; she took water in her hand, which the webbed
skin had made larger and more hollow, and poured it over them. They were
dead, and would remain dead; she understood that. Wild animals would
soon come and devour their bodies; but that must not be! So she dug in
the earth as deep as she could. To open a grave for them was her wish,
but she had nothing to dig it with except a strong bough of a tree and
her weak hands; but on them there was webbing stretched between her
fingers. She tore it, and the blood flowed. These means would be of no
use, she could see. Then she took water and washed the dead man’s face,
covered it with fresh green leaves, fetched great boughs and laid them
over him, shook leaves between them, then took the heaviest stones she
was able to lift, laid them over the dead bodies, and filled up the
openings with moss. Then the mound seemed strong and protected, but this
arduous task had occupied the entire night--the sun now burst forth, and
little Helga stood in all her beauty, with bleeding hands, and, for the
first time, with tears on her flushed maiden cheeks.

In this transformation, it seemed as if the two natures struggled within
her. She trembled, and gazed around her as if she had awoke from a
frightful dream. Running to a slender beech, she held fast to it for
support, then climbed to the top of the tree, as lithely as a cat, and
clung fast to it. There she sat like a frightened squirrel, sat there
all through the long day in the deep solitude of the forest, where all
is still and death-like as they say. Yet a pair of butterflies fluttered
about at play or in quarrel; there were ant-hills close by with many
hundreds of busy little creatures that crowded backwards and forwards.
Countless gnats danced in the air, swarm upon swarm; hosts of buzzing
flies chased each other about; birds, dragon-flies, and other small
winged creatures filled the air. The earth-worm crept out from the moist
soil, the mole raised itself above the ground. In all else it was still
and death-like around, or what one calls death-like indeed! Nothing took
any notice of little Helga, except the jays, which flew screaming around
the top of the tree where she was sitting. They jumped along the
branches near her in daring inquisitiveness. One glance of her eye was
enough to chase them away again; but they could not quite make her out,
neither could she understand herself.

When evening was near, and the sun began to go down, her approaching
change called her to movement again. She let herself slide down from the
tree, and when the last ray of the sun disappeared, she sat there in
the toad’s shrunken form, with the webbed skin of her hands lacerated,
but her eyes now sparkled with a brilliancy of beauty which they had
scarcely possessed before, even in her beautiful human shape. They were
now the gentle eyes of a pious maiden that looked from behind the
reptile’s outward shape, and told of a deepened mind, of a true human
heart. The beautiful eyes swam with tears, heavy tears that relieved her
heart.

The cross of boughs bound together with a strip of bark, the last work
of him who now lay dead and buried, was still lying on the grave she had
made. Little Helga now took it, at some unprompted impulse, and planted
it amongst the stones, over him and the slain horse. The sadness of the
recollection brought tears to her eyes, and with the grief in her heart
she traced the same sign in the earth around the grave that so
honourably enclosed the dead. As with both hands she traced the sign of
the cross, the webbing fell off like a torn glove! She washed herself in
the water of the spring, and looked with astonishment at her fine white
hands. Again she made the sign of the cross in the air between herself
and the grave; her lips quivered, her tongue moved, and that Name, which
she had heard pronounced most frequently on her ride through the forest,
came audibly from her mouth--she said, ‘Jesus Christ!’

The toad’s skin fell off: she was a beautiful young maiden; but her head
drooped wearily, her limbs needed repose--she slept.

Her slumber was short; at midnight she awoke. The dead horse was
standing before her, shining, and full of life, that gleamed in light
from its eyes and from its wounded neck. Close by she saw the murdered
Christian priest, ‘more beautiful than Baldur!’ as the Viking’s wife
would have said; and he appeared surrounded with a glory of fire.

There was an earnest look in his large, gentle eyes, just and searching,
so penetrating a gaze that it seemed to shine into the inmost recesses
of her heart. Little Helga trembled before it, and her memory was
awakened with a power as if it was the Day of Judgment. Every kind
action that had been done for her, every kindly word that had been
spoken to her, seemed endued with life; she understood that it was mercy
which had taken care of her during her days of trial, in which the child
of spirit and clay works and strives. She owned that she had only
followed the bent of her own desire, and had done nothing on her own
part. Everything had been given to her, everything had been allowed, so
to speak. She bowed herself humbly, ashamed before Him who alone can
read the hidden things of the heart; and in that instant there seemed to
come to her a fiery touch of purifying flame--the flame of the Holy
Spirit.

‘Thou daughter of the mire,’ said the Christian priest, ‘from the mire,
from the earth thou art sprung; from earth thou shalt again arise. The
fire within thee returns in personality to its source; the ray is not
from the sun, but from God. No soul shall perish, but far distant is the
time when life shall be merged in eternity. I come from the land of the
dead; so shalt thou at some time travel through the deep valley to the
shining hill-country, where grace and fulness dwell. I may not lead thee
to Hadde for Christian baptism. First thou must burst the water-shield
over the deep moorland, and draw up the living root that gave thee life
and cradled thee. Thou must do thy work before the consecration may come
to thee.’

And he lifted her on to the horse, handed her a golden censer, like
that which she had seen in the Viking’s castle, from which there came a
sweet, strong fragrance. The open wound on the forehead of the slain
shone like a radiant diadem. He took the cross from the grave, raised it
on high; and now they went off through the air, over the rustling
forest, then over the mounds where the warriors were buried, sitting on
their dead steeds; and these majestic forms arose, and rode out to the
tops of the hills. A broad golden hoop with a gold knob gleamed on their
foreheads in the moonlight, and their cloaks fluttered in the wind. The
dragon that sits and broods over treasure raised its head, and looked
after them. Dwarfs peered forth from the hills, and the furrows swarmed
with red, blue, and green lights, like a cluster of sparks in a burnt
piece of paper.

Away over wood and heath, stream and pool, they flew to the moor, and
floated over that in great circles. The Christian priest raised the
cross on high; it shone like gold, and from his lips came the
eucharistic chant. Little Helga sang with him, as a child joins in the
song of its mother. She swung the censer, and there came a fragrance as
if from an altar, so powerful, so subtly operating, that the rushes and
reeds of the moor put forth their flowers. All the germs sprang up from
the deep soil; everything that had life arose. A veil of water-lilies
spread itself like an embroidered carpet of flowers, and on it lay a
sleeping woman, young and beautiful. Little Helga thought she saw
herself mirrored in the still water; but it was her mother that she saw,
the Marsh King’s wife, the princess from the waters of the Nile.

The dead Christian priest bade the sleeper be lifted on to the horse;
but that sank under the burden as if its body was only a winding-sheet
flying in the breeze; but the sign of the cross made the airy phantom
strong, and all three rode to the firm ground.

A cock crowed in the Viking’s stronghold. The phantoms rose up in the
mist, and were dispersed in the wind, but mother and daughter stood
there together.

‘Is that myself that I see in the deep water?’ said the mother.

‘Is that myself that I see in the bright shield?’ exclaimed the
daughter; and they came close together, breast to breast in each other’s
arms. The mother’s heart beat strongest, and she understood it all.

‘My child! My own heart’s flower! My lotus from the deep waters!’

And she embraced her child, and wept over her; and the tears were as a
baptism of new life and affection for little Helga.

‘I came hither in a swan’s skin, and I took it off,’ said the mother. ‘I
sank through the quivering swamp, deep into the mire of the bog, that
enclosed me as with a wall. But soon I found a fresher current about me;
a power seemed to draw me ever deeper and deeper. I felt a pressure of
sleep on my eyelids; I slept, I dreamt--I seemed to lie again in the
pyramids of Egypt; but there still stood before me the moving
elder-stump, which had frightened me on the surface of the moor. I
looked at the crevices in the bark, and they shone forth in colours and
became hieroglyphics--it was the case of a mummy which I was looking at.
That burst, and out of it stepped a lord a thousand years old, a mummy
form, black as pitch, shining black like a wood-snail or the slimy black
mud--the Marsh King, or the mummy of the pyramid, I did not know which.
He flung his arms about me, and I felt that I should die. When I first
returned to life again, and my

[Illustration: PLACED THE GOLDEN CIRCUIT ABOUT HIS NECK]

breast became warm, there was a little bird which beat its wings, and
twittered and sang. It flew up from my breast towards the dark, heavy
roof, but a long green band still fastened it to me. I heard and
understood its longing notes: “Liberty! sunshine! to my father!” Then I
thought of my father in the sun-lit land of my home, my life, my
affection! and I loosed the band and let him flutter away--home to his
father. Since that hour I have not dreamed; I slept a long and heavy
sleep till the moment when the sounds and fragrance arose and raised
me.’

That green band from the mother’s heart to the bird’s wings, whither had
it passed now? where was it lying cast away? Only the stork had seen it.
The band was that green stalk; the knot was that shining flower which
served as a cradle for the child who now had grown in beauty, and again
reposed near the mother’s heart.

And whilst they stood there in close embrace, the father-stork flew in
circles about them, made speed to his nest, fetched from thence the
feather-dresses kept for so many years and threw one over each of them;
and they flew, and raised themselves from the earth like two white
swans.

‘Let us talk,’ said father-stork, ‘now that we can understand each
other’s speech, although the beak is cut differently on one bird and on
the other! It is the most lucky thing possible that you came to-night.
In the morning we should have been off, mother, and I, and the young
ones! We are flying to the South! Yes, look at me! I am an old friend
from the land of the Nile, and that is the mother; she has more in her
heart than in her chatter. She always believed that the princess was
only taking care of herself. I and the young ones have brought the
swan-skins here. Well, how glad I am! And what a fortunate thing it is
that I am here still! At daybreak we shall set off, a large party of
storks. We fly in front; you can fly behind, and then you will not
mistake the way. I and the young ones will then be able to keep an eye
upon you!’

‘And the lotus flower, that I ought to bring,’ said the Egyptian
princess, ‘it flies in swan’s plumage by my side! I have the flower of
my heart with me; thus it has released itself. Homeward! homeward!’

But Helga said that she could not leave the land of Denmark till she had
once more seen her foster-mother, the kind wife of the Viking. In
Helga’s thoughts came up every beautiful remembrance, every affectionate
word, every tear which her foster-mother had shed, and it almost seemed
at that instant as if she clung closest to that mother.

‘Yes, we will go to the Viking’s house,’ said the stork-father. ‘There I
expect mother and the young ones. How they will open their eyes and
chatter about it! Yes, mother doesn’t say so very much; what she does is
short and pithy, and so she thinks the best! I will sound the rattle
directly, so that she will hear we are coming.’

And so father-stork chattered his beak, and flew with the swans to the
Viking’s stronghold.

Every one there was lying deep in slumber. The Viking’s wife had not
gone to rest till late that night; she was still in fear for little
Helga, who had disappeared three days ago with the Christian priest. She
must have helped him to escape, for it was her horse that was missing
from the stable. By what power had all this been brought about? The
Viking’s wife thought about the wonderful works which she had heard were
performed by the White Christ, and by those who believed in Him and
followed Him. Her changing thoughts shaped themselves into a dream. It
appeared to her that she was still sitting on her bed, awake, and
meditating, and that darkness shrouded everything outside. A storm
arose; she heard the rolling of the sea in the west and the east, from
the North Sea and the waters of the Cattegat. That huge serpent which
encircles the earth in the depths of the ocean shook convulsively; it
was Ragnarök, the twilight of the gods, as the heathen called the last
hour, when everything should pass away, even the high gods themselves.
The trumpet sounded, and the gods rode forth over the rainbow, arrayed
in steel, to take part in the last contest. Before them flew the winged
warrior-maidens, and behind them in array marched the forms of dead
warriors. The whole sky was illuminated by the northern lights, but the
darkness again prevailed. It was an appalling hour.

And close by the frightened Viking’s wife little Helga sat on the floor
in the hideous form of a toad, trembling and nestling herself up against
her foster-mother, who took her on her lap and affectionately held her
fast, although she seemed more hideous than a toad. The air was full of
the sound of sword-strokes and the blows of maces, of arrows whizzing,
as if a furious hail-storm was raging above them. The hour had come when
earth and heaven should fail, the stars should fall, and everything be
burned up in the fire of Surtr; but the dreamer knew that a new earth
and heaven would come, and the corn wave where the sea now rolled over
the barren sand bottom; that the God who cannot be named rules, and up
to Him rose Baldur, the gentle and kind, loosed from the realm of death.
He came--the Viking’s wife saw him, and knew his face. It was the
captive Christian priest.

‘White Christ!’ she cried aloud; and as she mentioned that Name she
pressed a kiss on the hideous forehead of her frog-child; the toad’s
skin fell off, and little Helga stood there in all her beauty, gentle
as she had never been before, and with beaming eyes. She kissed her
foster-mother’s hands, blessed her for all her care and affection with
which she had surrounded her in the days of her distress and trial;
thanked her for the thoughts to which she had given birth in her;
thanked her for mentioning the Name which she repeated, ‘White Christ!’
and then little Helga rose up as a noble swan, her wings expanded
themselves wide, wide, with a rustling as when a flock of birds of
passage flies away!

With that the Viking’s wife awoke, and still heard outside the same
strong sound of wings. She knew that it was time for the storks to
depart, and no doubt that was what she heard. Still, she wished to see
them once before their journey, and to bid them farewell. She stood up,
went out on to the balcony, and there she saw on the ridge of the
out-house rows of storks, and round the courtyard and over the lofty
trees crowds of others were flying in great circles. But straight in
front of her, on the edge of the well, where little Helga had so often
sat and frightened her with her wildness, two swans now sat and looked
at her with intelligent eyes. Her dream came to her mind; it still quite
filled her as if it had been reality. She thought of little Helga in the
form of a swan, she thought of the Christian priest, and she felt a
strange joy in her heart.

The swans beat their wings, and bent their necks, as if they wished so
to salute her; and the Viking’s wife stretched out her arms towards them
as if she understood, and smiled at them through her tears.

Then, with a noise of wings and chattering, all the storks arose to
start on their journey to the south.

‘We cannot wait for the swans!’ said mother-stork. ‘If they wish to come
with us they may; but we can’t wait here till the plovers start! It is
a very good thing to travel in family parties; not like the chaffinches
and ruffs, where the males fly by themselves and the females by
themselves; that is certainly not proper! And what are those swans
flapping their wings for?’

‘Every one flies in his own way!’ said father-stork. ‘The swans go in
slanting line, the cranes in a triangle, and the plovers in a wavy,
snake-like line.’

‘Don’t mention serpents when we are flying up here!’ said mother-stork;
‘it only excites the appetites of our young ones when they can’t be
satisfied.’

       *       *       *       *       *

‘Are those the high mountains down there which I have heard of?’ asked
Helga in the swan’s skin.

‘Those are thunder-clouds which drive below us,’ said the mother.

‘What are those white clouds which lift themselves so high?’ asked
Helga.

‘Those are the everlasting snow-clad hills which you see,’ said the
mother; and they flew over the Alps, down towards the blue
Mediterranean.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘Land of Africa! Coast of Egypt!’ jubilantly sang the daughter of the
Nile in her swan form, when, high in the air, she descried her native
land, like a yellowish white, undulating streak.

And as the birds saw it, they hastened their flight.

‘I smell the mud of the Nile and the wet frogs!’ said mother-stork. ‘It
quite excites me! Yes, now you shall taste them; now you shall see the
adjutant bird, the ibis,

[Illustration: THEN SHE SAW THE STORKS]

and the cranes! They all belong to our family, but they are not nearly
so handsome as we are. They stick themselves up, especially the ibis; he
is now quite pampered by the Egyptians--they make a mummy of him, and
stuff him with aromatic herbs. I would rather be stuffed with live
frogs, and so would you, and so you shall be. It is better to have
something inside you while you live than to be in state when you are
dead! That is my opinion, and that is always right!’

‘Now the storks are come!’ they said in the rich house on the bank of
the Nile, where, in the open hall on soft cushions covered with a
leopard’s skin, the royal master lay outstretched, neither living nor
dead, hoping for the lotus flower from the deep marsh in the north.
Kinsmen and servants stood around him.

And into the hall flew two beautiful white swans, which had come with
the storks! They threw off their dazzling feather-dress, and there stood
two beautiful women, as much alike as two drops of dew! They bent down
over the pale, withered old man; they put back their long hair, and when
little Helga stooped over her grandfather, the colour returned to his
cheeks, his eyes sparkled, and life came into his stiffened limbs. The
old man raised himself healthy and vigorous; daughter and granddaughter
held him in their arms as if they were giving him a morning salutation
in their joy after a long, heavy dream.

       *       *       *       *       *

And there was joy over all the house and in the storks’ nest, but there
it was chiefly over the good food, and the swarming hosts of frogs; and
whilst the learned men made haste to note down in brief the history of
the two princesses and the flower of health, which was such a great
event and a blessing for house and country, the parent storks related it
in their fashion to their own family, but not till they had all
satisfied their hunger, or else they would have had something else to do
than to listen to stories.

‘Now you will become somebody!’ whispered mother-stork; ‘that is
certain!’

‘Well! what should I become?’ said father-stork; ‘and what have I done?
A mere nothing!’

‘You have done more than all the others! But for you and the young ones
the two princesses would never have seen Egypt again, and made the old
man well. You will become somebody! You will certainly receive a
Doctor’s degree, and our young ones will bear it afterwards, and their
young ones will have it in turn. You look already like an Egyptian
doctor--in my eyes!’

The wise and learned expounded the fundamental idea, as they called it,
that ran through the whole history: ‘Love brings forth life!’--they gave
that explanation in different ways--‘the warm sunbeam was the Egyptian
princess, she descended to the Marsh King, and in their meeting the
flower sprang forth----’

‘I can’t repeat the words quite right,’ said father-stork, who had heard
it from the roof, and was expected to tell them all about it in his
nest. ‘What they said was so involved, it was so clever, that they
immediately received honours and gifts. Even the head cook obtained a
high mark of distinction--that was for the soup!’

‘And what did you receive?’ inquired mother-stork; ‘they ought not to
forget the most important, and that is yourself. The learned have only
chattered about it all, but your turn will come!’

Late that night, while peaceful slumber enwrapped the now prosperous
house, there was one who was still awake; and that was not the
father-stork, though he stood on one leg in the nest and slept like a
sentinel. No, little Helga was awake. She leaned out over the balcony
and gazed at the clear sky, with the great, bright stars, larger and
purer in their lustre than she had seen them in the north, and yet the
same. She thought of the Viking’s wife by the moor, of her
foster-mother’s gentle eyes, and the tears she had shed over her poor
toad-child, who now stood in the light and splendour of the stars by the
waters of the Nile in the soft air of spring. She thought of the love in
that heathen woman’s breast, that love which she had shown to a
miserable creature who, in human form, was an evil brute, and in the
form of an animal, loathsome to look at and to touch. She looked at the
shining stars, and called to mind the splendour on the forehead of the
dead man, when they flew away over forest and moor; tones resounded in
her recollection, words she had heard pronounced when they rode away,
and she sat as if paralysed--words about the great Author of Love, the
highest Love, embracing all generations.

Yes, how much had been given, gained, obtained! Little Helga’s thoughts
were occupied, night and day, with all her good fortune, and she stood
in contemplation of it like a child which turns quickly from the giver
to all the beautiful presents that have been given; so she rose up in
her increasing happiness, which could come and would come. She was
indeed borne in mysterious ways to even higher joy and happiness, and in
this she lost herself one day so entirely that she thought no more of
the Giver. It was the strength of youthful courage that inspired her
bold venture. Her eyes shone, but suddenly she was called back by a
great clamour in the courtyard beneath. There she saw two powerful
ostriches running hurriedly about in narrow circles. She had never
before seen that creature, so great a bird, so clumsy and heavy. Its
wings looked as if they were clipped, the bird itself as if it had been
injured, and she inquired what had been done to it, and for the first
time heard the tradition which the Egyptians relate about the ostrich.

The race had at one time been beautiful, its wings large and powerful;
then, one evening, a mighty forest bird said to it: ‘Brother, shall we
fly to the river in the morning, if God will, and drink?’ And the
ostrich replied: ‘I will.’ When day broke they flew off, at first high
up towards the sun--the eye of God--ever higher and higher, the ostrich
far before all the others; it flew in its pride towards the light; it
relied on its own strength, and not on the Giver; it did not say, ‘If
God will!’ Then the avenging angel drew back the veil from the burning
flame, and in that instant the bird’s wings were burnt; it sank
miserably to the earth. Its descendants are no longer able to raise
themselves; they fly in terror, rush about in circles in that narrow
space. It is a reminder to us men, in all our thoughts, in all our
actions, to say: ‘If God will!’

And Helga thoughtfully bowed her head, looked at the hurrying ostrich,
saw its fear, saw its silly delight at the sight of its own great shadow
on the white sunlit wall. And deep seriousness fixed itself into her
mind and thoughts. So rich a life, so full of prosperity, was given, was
obtained--what would happen? What was yet to come? The best thing: ‘If
God will!’

       *       *       *       *       *

In the early spring, when the storks again started for the north, little
Helga took her gold bracelet, scratched her name on it, beckoned to the
stork-father, placed the golden circlet about his neck, and asked him to
bear it to the Viking’s wife, by which she would understand that her
foster-daughter was alive, and that she was happy, and thought of her.

‘That is heavy to carry!’ thought the father-stork when it was placed
around his neck; ‘but one does not throw gold and honour on the
high-road. They will find it true up there that the stork brings
fortune!’

‘You lay gold, and I lay eggs!’ said the mother-stork; ‘but you only lay
once, and I lay every year! But it vexes me that neither of us is
appreciated.’

‘But we are quite aware of it ourselves, mother!’ said father-stork.

‘But you can’t hang that on you,’ said mother-stork. ‘It neither gives
us fair wind nor food.’

And so they flew.

The little nightingale, that sang in the tamarind-bush, also wished to
start for the north immediately. Little Helga had often heard him up
there near the moor; she wished to give him a message, for she
understood the speech of birds when she flew in the swan’s skin, and she
had often since that time used it with the stork and the swallow. The
nightingale would understand her, and she asked him to fly to the
beech-forest on the peninsula of Jutland, where she had erected the
grave of stones and boughs; there she asked him to bid all the small
birds to protect the grave, and always to sing their songs around it.
And the nightingale flew--and time flew also.

       *       *       *       *       *

The eagle stood on the pyramid in the autumn, and saw a magnificent
array of richly laden camels, with armed men in costly clothing, on
snorting Arabian steeds, shining as white as silver, and with red
quivering nostrils, their heavy thick manes hanging down about their
slender legs. Rich visitors, a royal prince from the land of Arabia,
beautiful as a prince ought to be, came to that noble house, where the
storks’ nest now stood empty, its former occupants now far away in the
northern land, but soon to return. And they came exactly on that day
which was most filled with joy and mirth. There was a grand wedding, and
little Helga was the bride arrayed in silk and jewels; the bridegroom
was the young prince from the land of Arabia; and the two sat highest at
the table between the mother and grandfather. But she did not look at
the bridegroom’s brown, manly cheek, where his black beard curled; she
did not look at his dark, fiery eyes, which were fastened upon her; she
looked outwards and upwards towards the twinkling, sparkling stars,
which beamed down from heaven.

Then there was a rustling sound of strong wing-strokes outside in the
air--the storks had returned; and the old couple, however tired they
might be with the journey, and however much they needed rest, still flew
on to the railing of the verandah immediately they were aware whose
festivity it was. They had already heard, at the frontier of the
country, that little Helga had allowed them to be painted on the wall
because they belonged to her history.

‘That is very nicely borne in mind,’ said father-stork.

‘It is very little!’ said the stork-mother; ‘she could not have done
less.’

And when Helga saw them, she got up and went out into the verandah to
them to pat them on the back. The old storks curtsied with their necks,
and the youngest of their young ones looked on, and felt themselves
honoured.

And Helga looked up to the bright stars which shone clearer and clearer;
and between them and her a form seemed to move still purer than the air,
and seen through it, that hovered quite near her--it was the dead
Christian priest; so he came on the day of her festivity, came from the
Kingdom of Heaven.

‘The splendour and glory which are there surpass everything that earth
knows!’ he said.

And little Helga prayed gently and from her heart, as she had never
prayed before, that she only for one single minute might dare to look
within, might only cast one single glance into the Kingdom of Heaven, to
the Father of all.

And he raised her into the splendour and glory, in one current of sounds
and thoughts; it was not only round about her that it shone and sounded,
but within her. No words are able to describe it.

‘Now we must return; you are wanted!’ he said.

‘Only one glance more!’ she entreated; ‘only one short minute!’

‘We must go back to the earth; all the guests have gone away.’

‘Only one glance! the last----’

       *       *       *       *       *

And little Helga stood outside in the verandah; but all the torches
outside were extinguished, all the lights in the wedding chamber were
gone, the storks were gone, no guests to be seen, no bridegroom;
everything seemed to be blown away in three short minutes.

Then Helga was filled with terror, and she went through the great, empty
hall, into the next room. Strange soldiers were sleeping there. She
opened a side door that led into her apartment, and when she expected to
stand there, she found herself outside in the garden; but it was not
like this before--the heaven was red and shining, it was towards
daybreak.

Only three minutes in Heaven, and a whole night had passed on the earth!

       *       *       *       *       *

Then she saw the storks; she cried to them, speaking their language, and
father-stork turned his head, listened, and drew near her.

‘You are speaking our language!’ said he; ‘what do you want? Why do you
come here, you strange woman?’

‘It is I! it is Helga! Don’t you know me? Three minutes ago we were
talking together, yonder in the verandah.’

‘That is a mistake!’ said the stork; ‘you must have dreamt it!’

‘No, no!’ she said, and reminded him of the Viking’s stronghold and the
moor, and of the journey hither!

Then father-stork blinked his eyes: ‘That is a very old story; I have
heard it from my great-great-great-grandmother’s time! Yes, certainly,
there was such a princess in Egypt from the land of Denmark, but she
disappeared on the night of her wedding many hundreds of years ago, and
never came back again. That you may read for yourself on the monument in
the garden; there are sculptured both swans and storks, and at the top
you yourself stand in white marble.’

It was indeed so. Little Helga saw it, understood it, and fell on her
knees.

The sun broke forth, and as in former times at the touch of its beams
the toad form disappeared and the beautiful shape was seen, so she
raised herself now at the baptism of light in a form of brighter beauty,
purer than the air, a ray of light--to the Father of all.

Her body sank in dust; there lay a faded lotus-flower where she had
stood.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘Then that was a new ending to the story!’ said the father-stork. ‘I had
not at all expected it! but I rather like it!’

‘I wonder what my young ones will say about it!’ said the mother-stork.

‘Yes, that is certainly the principal thing!’ answered the father.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE SWALLOW SOARED HIGH INTO THE AIR]

[Illustration: ‘THOU POOR LITTLE THING!’ SAID THE FIELD-MOUSE]




TOMMELISE


Once upon a time there lived a young wife who longed exceedingly to
possess a little child of her own, so she went to an old witch-woman and
said to her, ‘I wish so very much to have a child, a little tiny child;
won’t you give me one, old mother?’

‘Oh, with all my heart!’ replied the witch. ‘Here is a barley-corn for
you; it is not exactly of the same sort as those that grow on the
farmer’s fields, or that are given to the fowls in the poultry yard, but
do you sow it in a flower-pot, and then you shall see what you shall
see!’

‘Thank you, thank you!’ cried the woman, and she gave the witch a silver
sixpence, and then having returned home sowed the barley-corn as she
had been directed, whereupon a large and beautiful flower immediately
shot forth from the flower-pot. It looked like a tulip, but the petals
were tightly folded up; it was still in bud.

‘What a lovely flower!’ exclaimed the peasant-woman, and she kissed the
pretty red and yellow leaves, and as she kissed them the flower gave a
loud report and opened. It was indeed a tulip, but on the small green
pointal in the centre of the flower there sat a little tiny girl, so
pretty and delicate, but her whole body scarcely bigger than the young
peasant’s thumb. So she called her Tommelise.

A pretty varnished walnut-shell was given her as a cradle, blue violet
leaves served as her mattresses, and a rose-leaf was her coverlet; here
she slept at night, but in the daytime she played on the table. The
peasant-wife had filled a plate with water, and laid flowers in it,
their blossoms bordering the edge of the plate, while the stalks lay in
the water; on the surface floated a large tulip-leaf, and on it
Tommelise might sit and sail from one side of the plate to the other,
two white horse hairs having been given her for oars. That looked quite
charming! And Tommelise could sing too, and she sang in such low sweet
tones as never were heard before.

One night, while she was lying in her pretty bed, a great ugly toad came
hopping in through the broken window-pane. The toad was such a great
creature, old and withered-looking, and wet too; she hopped at once down
upon the table where Tommelise lay sleeping under the red rose petal.

‘That is just the wife for my son,’ said the toad; and she seized hold
of the walnut-shell, with Tommelise in it, and hopped away with her
through the broken pane down into the garden. Here flowed a broad
stream; its banks were muddy and swampy, and it was amongst this mud
that the old toad and her son dwelt. Ugh, how hideous and deformed he
was! just like his mother.

‘Coax, coax, brekke-ke-kex!’ was all he could find to say on seeing the
pretty little maiden in the walnut-shell.

‘Don’t make such a riot, or you’ll wake her!’ said old mother toad. ‘She
may easily run away from us, for she is as light as a swan-down feather.
I’ll tell you what we’ll do; we’ll take her out into the brook, and set
her down on one of the large water-lily leaves; it will be like an
island to her, who is so light and small. Then she cannot run away from
us, and we can go and get ready the state-rooms down under the mud,
where you and she are to dwell together.’

Out in the brook there grew many water-lilies, with their broad green
leaves, each of which seemed to be floating over the water. The leaf
which was the farthest from the shore was also the largest; to it swam
old mother toad, and on it she set the walnut-shell, with Tommelise.

The poor little tiny creature awoke quite early next morning, and, when
she saw where she was, she began to weep most bitterly, for there was
nothing but water on all sides of the large green leaf, and she could in
no way reach the land.

Old mother toad was down in the mud, decorating her apartments with
bulrushes and yellow buttercups, so as to make it quite gay and tidy to
receive her new daughter-in-law. At last, she and her frightful son swam
together to the leaf where she had left Tommelise; they wanted to fetch
her pretty cradle, and place it for her in the bridal chamber before she
herself was conducted into it. Old mother toad bowed low in the water,
and said to her, ‘Here is my son, he is to be thy husband, and you will
dwell together so comfortably down in the mud!’

‘Coax, coax, brekke-ke-kex!’ was all that her son could say.

Then they took the neat little bed and swam away with it, whilst
Tommelise sat alone on the green leaf, weeping, for she did not like the
thought of living with the withered old toad, and having her ugly son
for a husband. The little fishes that were swimming to and fro in the
water beneath had heard what mother toad had said, so they now put up
their heads--they wanted to see the little maid. And when they saw her,
they were charmed with her delicate beauty, and it vexed them very much
that the hideous old toad should carry her off. No, that should never
be! They surrounded the green stalk in the water, whereon rested the
water-lily leaf, and gnawed it asunder with their teeth, and then the
leaf floated away down the brook, with Tommelise on it; away, far away,
where the old toad could not follow.

Tommelise sailed past so many places, and the wild birds among the
bushes saw her and sang, ‘Oh, what a sweet little maiden!’ On and on,
farther and farther, floated the leaf: Tommelise was on her travels.

A pretty little white butterfly kept fluttering round and round her, and
at last settled down on the leaf, for he loved Tommelise very much, and
she was so pleased. There was nothing to trouble her now that she had no
fear of the old toad pursuing her, and wherever she sailed everything
was so beautiful, for the sun shone down on the water, making it bright
as liquid gold. And now she took off her sash, and tied one end of it
round the butterfly, fastening the other end firmly into the leaf. On
floated the leaf, faster and faster, and Tommelise with it.

Presently a great cock-chafer came buzzing past; he caught sight of her,
and immediately fastening his claw round her slender waist, flew up
into a tree with her. But the green leaf still floated down the brook,
and the butterfly with it; he was bound to the leaf and could not get
loose.

[Illustration: ‘THIS IS JUST THE WIFE FOR MY SON,’ SAID THE TOAD]

Oh, how terrified was poor Tommelise when the cock-chafer carried her up
into the tree, and how sorry she felt, too, for the darling white
butterfly which she had left tied fast to the leaf; she feared that if
he could not get away, he would perish of hunger. But the cock-chafer
cared nothing for that. He settled with her upon the largest leaf in the
tree, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat, and hummed her
praises, telling her she was very pretty, although she was not at all
like a

[Illustration]

hen-chafer. And by-and-by all the chafers who lived in that tree came to
pay her a visit; they looked at Tommelise, and one Miss Hen-chafer drew
in her feelers, saying, ‘She has only two legs, how miserable that
looks!’ ‘She has no feelers,’ cried another. ‘And see how thin and lean
her waist is; why, she is just like a human being!’ observed a third.
‘How very, very ugly she is!’ at last cried all the lady-chafers in
chorus. The chafer who had carried off Tommelise still could not
persuade himself that she was otherwise than pretty, but, as all the
rest kept repeating and insisting that she was ugly, he at last began to
think they must be in the right, and determined to have nothing more to
do with her; she might go wherever she would, for aught he cared, he
said. And so the whole swarm flew down from the tree with her, and set
her on a daisy; then she wept because she was so ugly that the
lady-chafers would not keep company with her, and yet Tommelise was the
prettiest little creature that could be imagined, soft and delicate and
transparent as the loveliest rose leaf.

All the summer long poor Tommelise lived alone in the wide wood. She
wove herself a bed of grass-straw, and hung it under a large
burdock-leaf which sheltered her from the rain; she dined off the honey
from the flowers, and drank from the dew that every morning spangled the
leaves and herblets around her. Thus passed the summer and autumn, but
then came winter, the cold, long winter. All the birds who had sung so
sweetly to her flew away, trees and flowers withered, the large
burdock-leaf under which Tommelise had lived rolled itself up and became
a dry, yellow stalk, and Tommelise was fearfully cold, for her clothes
were wearing out, and she herself was so slight and frail, poor little
thing! she was nearly frozen to death. It began to snow, and every light
flake that fell upon her made her feel as we should if a whole
shovelful of snow were thrown upon us, for we are giants in comparison
with a little creature only an inch long. She wrapped herself up in a
withered leaf, but it gave her no warmth; she shuddered with cold.

Close outside the wood, on the skirt of which Tommelise had been living,
lay a large corn-field, but the corn had been carried away long ago,
leaving only the dry, naked stubble standing up from the hard-frozen
earth. It was like another wood to Tommelise, and oh, how she shivered
with cold as she made her way through. At last she came past the
field-mouse’s door; for the field-mouse had made herself a little hole
under the stubble, and there she dwelt snugly and comfortably, having a
room full of corn, and a neat kitchen and store-chamber besides. And
poor Tommelise must now play the beggar-girl; she stood at the door and
begged for a little piece of a barley-corn, for she had had nothing to
eat during two whole days.

‘Thou poor little thing!’ said the field-mouse, who was indeed a
thoroughly good-natured old creature, ‘come into my warm room and dine
with me.’

And as she soon took a great liking to Tommelise, she proposed to her to
stay. ‘You may dwell with me all the winter if you will, but keep my
room clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I love stories dearly.’

And Tommelise did all that the kind old field-mouse required of her, and
was made very comfortable in her new abode.

‘We shall have a visitor presently,’ observed the field-mouse; ‘my
next-door neighbour comes to see me once every week. He is better off
than I am, has large rooms in his house, and wears a coat of such
beautiful black velvet. It would be a capital thing for you if you could
secure him for your husband, but unfortunately he is blind, he cannot
see you. You must tell him the prettiest stories you know.’

[Illustration: OH, HOW TERRIFIED WAS POOR TOMMELISE!]

But Tommelise did not care at all about pleasing their neighbour Mr.
Mole, nor did she wish to marry him. He came and paid a visit in his
black-velvet suit, he was so rich and so learned, and the field-mouse
declared his domestic offices were twenty times larger than hers, but
the sun and the pretty flowers he could not endure, he was always
abusing them, though he had never seen either. Tommelise was called upon
to sing for his amusement, and by the time she had sung ‘Lady-bird,
lady-bird, fly away home!’ and ‘The Friar of Orders Grey,’ the mole had
quite fallen in love with her through the charm of her sweet voice;
however, he said nothing, he was such a prudent, cautious animal.

He had just been digging a long passage through the earth from their
house to his, and he now gave permission to the field-mouse and
Tommelise to walk in it as often as they liked; however, he bade them
not be afraid of the dead bird that lay in the passage; it was a whole
bird, with beak and feathers entire, and therefore he supposed it must
have died quite lately, at the beginning of the winter, and had been
buried just in the place where he had dug his passage.

The mole took a piece of tinder, which shines like fire in the dark, in
his mouth, and went on first to light his friends through the long dark
passage, and when they came to the place where the dead bird lay, he
thrust his broad nose up against the ceiling and pushed up the earth, so
as to make a great hole for the light to come through. In the midst of
the floor lay a swallow, his wings clinging firmly to his sides, his
head and legs drawn under the feathers; the poor bird had evidently died
of cold. Tommelise felt so very sorry, for she loved all the little
birds, who had sung and chirped so merrily to her the whole summer long;
but the mole kicked it with his short legs, saying, ‘Here’s a fine end
to all its whistling! a miserable thing it must be to be born a bird.
None of my children will be birds, that’s a comfort! Such creatures have
nothing but their “quivit,” and must be starved to death in the winter.’

‘Yes, indeed, a sensible animal like you may well say so,’ returned the
field-mouse; ‘what has the bird got by all his chirping and chirruping?
when winter comes it must starve and freeze; and it is such a great
creature too!’

Tommelise said nothing, but when the two others had turned their backs
upon the bird, she bent over it, smoothed down the feathers that covered
its head, and kissed the closed eyes. ‘Perhaps it was this one that sang
so delightfully to me in the summer-time,’ thought she; ‘how much
pleasure it has given me, the dear, dear bird!’

The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight had pierced,
and then followed the ladies home. But Tommelise could not sleep that
night, so she got out of her bed, and wove a carpet out of hay, and then
went out and spread it round the dead bird; she also fetched some soft
cotton from the field-mouse’s room, which she laid over the bird, that
it might be warm amid the cold earth.

‘Farewell, thou dear bird,’ said she; ‘farewell, and thanks for thy
beautiful song in the summer-time, when all the trees were green, and
the sun shone so warmly upon us!’ And she pressed her head against the
bird’s breast, but was terrified to feel something beating within it. It
was the bird’s heart. The bird was not dead; it had lain in a swoon, and
now that it was warmer its life returned.

Every autumn all the swallows fly away to warm countries; but if one of
them linger behind, it freezes and falls down as though dead, and the
cold snow covers it.

Tommelise trembled with fright, for the bird was very large compared
with her, who was only an inch in length. However, she took courage,
laid the cotton more closely round the poor swallow, and fetching a leaf
which had served herself as a coverlet, spread it over the bird’s head.

The next night she stole out again, and found that the bird’s life had
quite returned, though it was so feeble that only for one short moment
could it open its eyes to look at Tommelise, who stood by with a piece
of tinder in her hand--she had no other lantern.

‘Thanks to thee, thou sweet little child!’ said the sick swallow. ‘I
feel delightfully warm now; soon I shall recover my strength, and be
able to fly again, out in the warm sunshine.’

‘Oh, no,’ she replied, ‘it is too cold without, it snows and freezes!
Thou must stay in thy warm bed; I will take care of thee.’

She brought the swallow water in a flower-petal and he drank, and then
he told her how he had torn one of his wings in a thorn bush, and
therefore could not fly fast enough to keep up with the other swallows
who were all migrating to the warm countries. He had at last fallen to
the earth, and more than that he could not remember; he did not at all
know how he had got underground.

However, underground he remained all the winter long, and Tommelise was
kind to him, and loved him dearly, but she never said a word about him
either to the mole or the field-mouse, for she knew they could not
endure the poor swallow.

As soon as the spring came and the sun’s warmth had penetrated the
earth, the swallow said farewell to Tommelise, and she opened for him
the covering of earth which the mole had thrown back before. The sun
shone in upon them so deliciously, and the swallow asked whether she
would not go with him; she might sit upon his back, and then they would
fly together far out into the greenwood. But Tommelise knew it would vex
the old field-mouse if she were to leave her.

‘No, I cannot, I must not go,’ said Tommelise.

‘Fare thee well, then, thou good and pretty maiden,’ said the swallow,
and away he flew into the sunshine. Tommelise looked after him and the
tears came into her eyes, for she loved the poor swallow so much.

‘Quivit, quivit,’ sang the bird, as he flew into the greenwood. And
Tommelise was now sad indeed. She was not allowed to go out into the
warm sunshine; the wheat that had been sown in the field above the
field-mouse’s house grew up so high that it seemed a perfect forest to
the poor little damsel who was only an inch in stature.

‘This summer you must work at getting your wedding clothes ready,’ said
the field-mouse, for their neighbour, the blind dull mole in the
black-velvet suit had now made his proposals in form to Tommelise. ‘You
shall have worsted and linen in plenty; you shall be well provided with
all manner of clothes and furniture before you become the mole’s wife.’
So Tommelise was obliged to work hard at the distaff, and the
field-mouse hired four spiders to spin and weave night and day. Every
evening came the mole, and always began to talk about the summer soon
coming to an end, and that then, when the sun would no longer shine so
warmly, scorching the earth till it was as dry as a stone, yes, then,
his nuptials with Tommelise should take place. But this sort of
conversation did not please her at all; she was thoroughly wearied of
his dulness and his prating. Every morning when the sun rose, and every
evening when it set, she used to steal out at the door, and when the
wind blew the tops of the corn aside, so that she could see the blue sky
through the opening, she thought how bright and beautiful it was out
here, and wished most fervently to see the dear swallow once more; but
he never came, he must have been flying far away in the beautiful
greenwood.

Autumn came, and Tommelise’s wedding clothes were ready.

‘Four weeks more, and you shall be married!’ said the field-mouse. But
Tommelise wept, and said she would not marry the dull mole.

‘Fiddlestick!’ exclaimed the field-mouse; ‘don’t be obstinate, child, or
I shall bite thee with my white teeth! Is he not handsome, pray? Why,
the Queen has not got such a black-velvet dress as he wears! And isn’t
he rich? rich both in kitchens and cellars? Be thankful to get such a
husband!’

So Tommelise must be married. The day fixed had arrived, the mole had
already come to fetch his bride, and she must dwell with him, deep under
the earth, never again to come out into the warm sunshine which she
loved so much, and which he could not endure. The poor child was in
despair at the thought that she must now bid farewell to the beautiful
sun of which she had at least been allowed to catch a glimpse every now
and then while she lived with the field-mouse.

‘Farewell, thou glorious sun!’ she cried, throwing her arms up into the
air, and she walked on a little way beyond the field-mouse’s door; the
corn was already reaped, and only the dry stubble surrounded her.
‘Farewell, farewell!’ repeated she, as she clasped her tiny arms round a
little red flower that grew there. ‘Greet the dear swallow from me, if
thou shouldst see him.’

‘Quivit! quivit!’--there was a fluttering of wings just over her head;
she looked up, and behold! the little swallow was flying past. And how
pleased he was when he perceived Tommelise! She told how that she had
been obliged to accept the disagreeable mole as a husband, and that she
would have to dwell deep underground where the sun never pierced. And
she could not help weeping as she spoke.

‘The cold winter will soon be here!’ said the swallow; ‘I shall fly far
away to the warm countries. Wilt thou go with me? Thou canst sit on my
back, and tie thyself firmly

[Illustration]

to me with thy sash, and thus we shall fly away from the stupid mole and
his dark room, far away over the mountains to those countries where the
sun shines so brightly, where it is always summer, and flowers blossom
all the year round. Come and fly with me, thou sweet little Tommelise,
who didst save my life when I lay frozen in the dark cellars of the
earth!’

[Illustration: THAT WAS THE GREATEST OF PLEASURES]

‘Yes, I will go with thee!’ said Tommelise. And she seated herself on
the bird’s back, her feet resting on the out-spread wings, and tied her
girdle firmly round one of the strongest feathers, and then the swallow
soared high into the air, and flew away over forest and over lake, over
mountains whose crests are covered with snow all the year round. How
Tommelise shivered as she breathed the keen frosty air! However, she
soon crept down under the bird’s warm feathers, her head still peering
forth, eager to behold all the glory and beauty beneath her. At last
they reached the warm countries. There the sun shone far more brightly
than in her native clime. The heavens seemed twice as high, and twice as
blue; and ranged along the sloping hills grew, in rich luxuriance, the
loveliest green and purple grapes. Citrons and melons were seen in the
groves, the fragrance of myrtles and balsams filled the air, and by the
wayside gambolled groups of pretty merry children, chasing large
bright-winged butterflies.

But the swallow did not rest here; still he flew on; and still the scene
seemed to grow more and more beautiful. Near a calm, blue lake, overhung
by lofty trees, stood a half-ruined palace of white marble, built in
times long past; vine-wreaths trailed up the long slender pillars, and
on the capitals, among the green leaves and waving tendrils, many a
swallow had built his nest, and one of these nests belonged to the
swallow on whose back Tommelise was riding.

‘This is my house,’ said the swallow, ‘but if thou wouldst rather choose
for thyself one of the splendid flowers growing beneath us, I will take
thee there, and thou shalt make thy home in the loveliest of them all.’

‘That will be charming!’ exclaimed she, clapping her tiny hands.

On the green turf beneath there lay the fragments of a white marble
column which had fallen to the ground, and around these fragments twined
some beautiful large white flowers. The swallow flew down with
Tommelise, and set her on one of the broad petals. But what was her
surprise when she saw sitting in the very heart of the flower a little
mannikin, fair and transparent as though he were made of glass! wearing
the prettiest gold crown on his head, and the brightest, most delicate
wings on his shoulders, yet scarcely one whit larger than Tommelise
herself. He was the spirit of the flower. In every blossom there dwelt
one such faëry youth or maiden, but this one was the king of all these
flower-spirits.

‘Oh, how handsome he is, this king!’ whispered Tommelise to the swallow.
The faëry prince was quite startled at the sudden descent of the
swallow, who was a sort of giant compared with him; but when he saw
Tommelise he was delighted, for she was the very loveliest maiden he had
ever seen. So he took his gold crown off his own head and set it upon
hers, asked her name, and whether she would be his bride, and reign as
queen over all the flower-spirits. This, you see, was quite a different
bridegroom from the son of the ugly old toad, or the blind mole with his
black-velvet coat. So Tommelise replied ‘Yes’ to the beautiful prince,
and then the lady and gentlemen faëries came out, each from a separate
flower, to pay their homage to Tommelise; so gracefully and courteously
they paid their homage: and every one of them brought her a present.

But the best of all the presents was a pair of transparent wings; they
were fastened on Tommelise’s shoulders, and enabled her to fly from
flower to flower. That was the greatest of pleasures; and the little
swallow sat in his nest above and sang to her his sweetest song; in his
heart, however, he was very sad, for he loved Tommelise, and would have
wished never to part from her.

‘Thou shalt no longer be called Tommelise,’ said the king of flowers to
her, ‘for it is not a pretty name, and thou art so lovely! We will call
thee Maia.’

‘Farewell! farewell!’ sang the swallow, and away he flew from the warm
countries, far away back to Denmark. There he had a little nest just
over the window of the man who writes stories for children. ‘Quivit,
quivit, quivit!’ he sang to him, and from him we have learned this
history.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THEY CARRIED THE MIRROR FROM PLACE TO PLACE]




THE SNOW QUEEN

IN SEVEN PARTS




PART THE FIRST

WHICH TREATS OF THE MIRROR AND ITS FRAGMENTS


Listen! We are beginning our story! When we arrive at the end of it we
shall, it is to be hoped, know more than we do now. There was once a
magician! a wicked magician!! a most wicked magician!!! Great was his
delight at having constructed a mirror possessing this peculiarity,
viz:--that everything good and beautiful, when reflected in it, shrank
up almost to nothing, whilst those things that were ugly and useless
were magnified, and made to appear ten times worse than before. The
loveliest landscapes reflected in this mirror looked like boiled
spinach; and the handsomest persons appeared odious, or as if standing
upon their heads, their features being so distorted that their friends
could never have recognised them. Moreover, if one of them had a
freckle, he might be sure that it would seem to spread over the nose and
mouth; and if a good or pious thought glanced across his mind, a wrinkle
was seen in the mirror. All this the magician thought highly
entertaining, and he chuckled with delight at his own clever invention.
Those who frequented the school of magic where he taught spread abroad
the fame of this wonderful mirror, and declared that by its means the
world and its inhabitants might be seen now for the first time as they
really were. They carried the mirror from place to place, till at last
there was no country nor person that had not been misrepresented in it.
Its admirers now must needs fly up to the sky with it, to see if they
could carry on their sport even there. But the higher they flew the more
wrinkled did the mirror become; they could scarcely hold it together.
They flew on and on, higher and higher, till at last the mirror trembled
so fearfully that it escaped

[Illustration: HE CHUCKLED WITH DELIGHT]

from their hands, and fell to the earth, breaking into millions,
billions, and trillions of pieces. And then it caused far greater
unhappiness than before, for fragments of it, scarcely so large as a
grain of sand, would be flying about in the air, and sometimes get into
people’s eyes, causing them to view everything the wrong way, or to have
eyes only for what was perverted and corrupt; each little fragment
having retained the peculiar properties of the entire mirror. Some
people were so unfortunate as to receive a little splinter into their
hearts--that was terrible! The heart became cold and hard, like a lump
of ice. Some pieces were large enough to be used as window panes, but it
was of no use to look at one’s friends through such panes as those.
Other fragments were made into spectacles, and then what trouble people
had with setting and re-setting them!

The wicked magician was greatly amused with all this, and he laughed
till his sides ached.

There are still some little splinters of this mischievous mirror flying
about in the air. We shall hear more about them very soon.




PART THE SECOND

A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL

IN a large town, where there are so many houses and inhabitants that
there is not room enough for all the people to possess a little garden
of their own, and therefore many are obliged to content themselves with
keeping a few plants in pots, there dwelt two poor children, whose
garden was somewhat larger than a flower-pot. They were not brother and
sister, but they loved each other as much as if they had been, and their
parents lived in two attics exactly opposite. The roof of one
neighbour’s house nearly joined the other, the gutter ran along between,
and there was in each roof a little window, so that you could stride
across the gutter from one window to the other. The parents of each
child had a large wooden box in which grew herbs for kitchen use, and
they had placed these boxes upon the gutter, so near that they almost
touched each other. A beautiful little rose-tree grew in each box,
scarlet runners entwined their long shoots over the windows, and,
uniting with the branches of the rose-trees, formed a flowery arch
across the street. The boxes were very high, and the children knew that
they might not climb over them, but they often obtained leave to sit on
their little stools, under the rose-trees, and thus they passed many a
delightful hour.

But when winter came there was an end to these pleasures. The windows
were often quite frozen over, and then they heated halfpence on the
stove, held the warm copper against the frozen pane, and thus made a
little round peep-hole, behind which would sparkle a bright gentle eye,
one from each window.

The little boy was called Kay, the little girl’s name was Gerda. In
summer-time they could get out of window and jump over to each other;
but in winter there were stairs to run down, and stairs to run up, and
sometimes the wind roared, and the snow fell without-doors.

‘Those are the white bees swarming there!’ said the old grandmother.

‘Have they a Queen bee?’ asked the little boy, for he knew that the real
bees have one.

‘They have,’ said the grandmother. ‘She flies yonder where they swarm so
thickly; she is the largest of them, and never remains upon the earth,
but flies up again into the black cloud. Sometimes on a winter’s night
she flies through the streets of the town, and breathes with her frosty
breath upon the windows, and then they are covered with strange and
beautiful forms, like trees and flowers.’

‘Yes, I have seen them!’ said both the children--they knew that this was
true.

‘Can the Snow Queen come in here?’ asked the little girl.

‘If she do come in,’ said the boy, ‘I will put her on the warm stove and
then she will melt.’

And the grandmother stroked his hair and told him some stories.

That same evening, after little Kay had gone home, and was half
undressed, he crept upon the chair by the window and peeped through the
little round hole. Just then a few snow-flakes fell outside, and one,
the largest of them, remained lying on the edge of one of the
flower-pots. The snow-flake appeared larger and larger, and at last took
the form of a lady dressed in the finest white crape, her attire being
composed of millions of star-like particles. She was exquisitely fair
and delicate, but entirely of ice, glittering, dazzling ice; her eyes
gleamed like two bright stars, but there was no rest or repose in them.
She nodded at the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was
frightened and jumped down from the chair; he then fancied he saw a
large bird fly past the window.

There was a clear frost next day, and soon afterwards came spring--the
trees and flowers budded, the swallows built their nests, the windows
were opened, and the little children sat once more in their little
garden upon the gutter that ran along the roofs of the houses.

The roses blossomed beautifully that summer, and the little girl had
learned a hymn in which there was something about roses; it reminded her
of her own. So she sang it to the little boy, and he sang it with her.

    ‘Our roses bloom and fade away,
     Our Infant Lord abides alway;
     May we be blessed His face to see,
     And ever little children be!’

And the little ones held each other by the hand, kissed the roses, and
looked up into the blue sky, talking away all the time. What glorious
summer days were those! how delightful it was to sit under those
rose-trees which seemed as if they never intended to leave off
blossoming! One day Kay and Gerda were sitting looking at their
picture-book full of birds and animals, when suddenly--the clock on the
old church tower was just striking five--Kay exclaimed, ‘Oh, dear! what
was that shooting pain in my heart: and now again, something has
certainly got into my eye!’

The little girl turned and looked at him. He winked his eyes; no, there
was nothing to be seen.

‘I believe it is gone,’ said he; but gone it was not. It was one of
those glass splinters from the Magic Mirror, the wicked glass which made
everything great and good reflected in it to appear little and hateful,
and which magnified everything ugly and mean. Poor Kay had also received
a splinter in his heart; it would now become hard and cold like a lump
of ice. He felt the pain no longer, but the splinter was there.

‘Why do you cry?’ asked he; ‘you look so ugly when you cry! there is
nothing the matter with me. Fie!’ exclaimed he again, ‘this rose has an
insect in it, and just look at this! After all, they are ugly roses! and
it is an ugly box they grow in!’ then he kicked the box, and tore off
the roses.

‘O Kay, what are you doing?’ cried the little girl, but when he saw how
it grieved her, he tore off another rose, and jumped down through his
own window, away from his once dear little Gerda.

Ever afterwards when she brought forward the picture-book, he called it
a baby’s book, and when her grandmother told stories, he interrupted her
with a ‘but,’ and sometimes, whenever he could manage it, he would get
behind her, put on her spectacles, and speak just as she did; he did
this in a very droll manner, and so people laughed at him. Very soon he
could mimic everybody in the street. All that was singular and awkward
about them could Kay imitate, and his neighbours said, ‘What a
remarkable head that boy has!’ But no, it was the glass splinter which
had fallen into his eye, the glass splinter which had pierced into his
heart--it was these which made him regardless whose feelings he wounded,
and even made him tease the little Gerda who loves him so fondly.

His games were now quite different from what they used to be, they were
so rational! One winter’s day when it was snowing, he came out with a
large burning-glass in his hand, and holding up the skirts of his blue
coat let the snow-flakes fall upon them. ‘Now look through the glass,
Gerda!’ said he, returning to the house. Every snow-flake seemed much
larger, and resembled a splendid flower, or a star with ten points; they
were quite beautiful. ‘See, how curious!’ said Kay, ‘these are far more
interesting than real flowers, there is not a single blemish in them;
they would be quite perfect if only they did not melt.’

Soon after this Kay came in again, with thick gloves on his hands, and
his sledge slung across his back. He called out to Gerda, ‘I have got
leave to drive on the great square where the other boys play!’ and away
he went.

The boldest boys in the square used to fasten their sledges firmly to
the wagons of the country people, and thus drive a good way along with
them; this they thought particularly pleasant. Whilst they were in the
midst of their play, a large sledge painted white passed by; in it sat a
person wrapped in a rough white fur, and wearing a rough white cap. When
the sledge had driven twice round the square, Kay bound to it his little
sledge, and was carried on with it. On they went, faster and faster,
into the next street. The person who drove the large sledge turned
round and nodded kindly to Kay, just as if they had been old
acquaintances, and every time Kay was going to loose his little sledge
turned and nodded again, as if to signify that he must stay. So Kay sat
still, and they passed through the gates of the town. Then the snow
began to fall so thickly that the little boy could not see his own hand,
but he was still carried on. He tried hastily to unloose the cords and
free himself from the large sledge, but it was of no use; his little
carriage could not be unfastened, and glided on swift as the wind. Then
he cried out as loud as he could, but no one heard him, the snow fell
and the sledge flew; every now and then it made a spring as if driving
over hedges and ditches. He was very much frightened; he would have
repeated ‘Our Father,’ but he could remember nothing but the
multiplication table.

The snow-flakes seemed larger and larger, at last they looked like great
white fowls. All at once they fell aside, the large sledge stopped, and
the person who drove it arose from the seat. He saw that the cap and
coat were entirely of snow, that it was a lady, tall and slender, and
dazzlingly white--it was the Snow Queen!

‘We have driven fast!’ said she, ‘but no one likes to be frozen; creep
under my bear-skin,’ and she seated him in the sledge by her side, and
spread her cloak around him--he felt as if he were sinking into a drift
of snow.

‘Are you still cold?’ asked she, and then she kissed his brow. Oh! her
kiss was colder than ice. It went to his heart, although that was half
frozen already; he thought he should die. It was, however, only for a
moment; directly afterwards he was quite well, and no longer felt the
intense cold around.

‘My sledge! do not forget my sledge!’--he thought first of that--it was
fastened to one of the white fowls which flew behind with it on his
back. The Snow Queen kissed Kay again, and he entirely forgot little
Gerda, her grandmother, and all at home.

‘Now you must have no more kisses!’ said she, ‘else I should kiss thee
to death.’

Kay looked at her, she was so beautiful; a more intelligent, more lovely
countenance, he could not imagine; she no longer appeared to him ice,
cold ice as at the time when she sat outside the window and beckoned to
him; in his eyes she was perfect; he felt no fear. He told her how well
he could reckon in his head, even fractions; that he knew the number of
square miles of every country, and the number of the inhabitants
contained in different towns. She smiled, and then it occurred to him
that, after all, he did not yet know so very much. He looked up into the
wide, wide space, and she flew with him high up into the black cloud
while the storm was raging; it seemed now to Kay as though singing songs
of olden time.

They flew over woods and over lakes, over sea and over land; beneath
them the cold wind whistled, the wolves howled, the snow glittered, and
the black crow flew cawing over the plain, whilst above them shone the
moon, so clear and tranquil.

Thus did Kay spend the long, long winter night; all day he slept at the
feet of the Snow Queen.

[Illustration: SHE WORE A LARGE HAT, WITH MOST BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS PAINTED
ON IT]




PART THE THIRD

THE ENCHANTED FLOWER-GARDEN


But how fared it with little Gerda when Kay never returned? Where could
he be? No one knew, no one could give any account of him. The boy said
that they had seen him fasten his sledge to another larger and very
handsome one which had driven into the street, and thence through the
gates of the town. No one knew where he was, and many were the tears
that were shed; little Gerda wept much and long, for the boys said he
must be dead, he must have been drowned in the river that flowed not far
from the town. Oh, how long and dismal the winter days were now! At last
came the spring, with its warm sunshine.

‘Alas, Kay is dead and gone,’ said little Gerda.

‘That I do not believe,’ said the sunshine.

‘He is dead and gone,’ said she to the swallows.

‘That we do not believe,’ returned they, and at last little Gerda
herself did not believe it.

‘I will put on my new red shoes,’ said she one morning, ‘those which Kay
has never seen, and then I will go down to the river and ask after him.’

It was quite early. She kissed her old grandmother, who was still
sleeping, put on her red shoes, and went alone through the gates of the
town towards the river.

‘Is it true,’ said she, ‘that thou hast taken my little playfellow away?
I will give thee my red shoes if thou wilt restore him to me!’

And the wavelets of the river flowed towards her in a manner which she
fancied was unusual; she fancied that they intended to accept her
offer, so she took off her red shoes--though she prized them more than
anything else she possessed--and threw them into the stream; but they
fell near the shore, and the little waves bore them back to her, as
though they would not take from her what she most prized, as they had
not got little Kay. However, she thought she had not thrown the shoes
far enough, so she stepped into a little boat which lay among the reeds
by the shore, and, standing at the farthest end of it, threw them from
thence into the water. The boat was not fastened, and her movements in
it caused it to glide away from the shore. She saw this, and hastened to
get out, but by the time she reached the other end of the boat it was
more than a yard distant from the land; she could not escape, and the
boat glided on.

Little Gerda was much frightened and began to cry, but no one besides
the sparrows heard her, and they could not carry her back to the land;
however, they flew along the banks, and sang, as if to comfort her,
‘Here we are, here we are!’ The boat followed the stream. Little Gerda
sat in it quite still; her red shoes floated behind her, but they could
not overtake the boat, which glided along faster than they did.

Beautiful were the shores of that river; lovely flowers, stately old
trees, and bright green hills dotted with sheep and cows, were seen in
abundance, but not a single human being.

‘Perhaps the river may bear me to my dear Kay,’ thought Gerda, and then
she became more cheerful, and amused herself for hours with looking at
the lovely country around her. At last she glided past a large
cherry-garden, wherein stood a little cottage with thatched roof and
curious red and blue windows; two wooden soldiers stood at the door, who
presented arms when they saw the little vessel approach.

Gerda called to them, thinking that they were alive, but they,
naturally enough, made no answer. She came close up to them, for the
stream drifted the boat to the land.

Gerda called still louder, whereupon an old lady came out of the house,
supporting herself on a crutch; she wore a large hat, with most
beautiful flowers painted on it.

‘Thou poor little child!’ said the old woman, ‘the mighty flowing river
has indeed borne thee a long, long way,’ and she walked right into the
water, seized the boat with her crutch, drew it to land, and took out
the little girl.

Gerda was glad to be on dry land again, although she was a little afraid
of the strange old lady.

‘Come and tell me who thou art, and how thou camest hither,’ said she.

And Gerda told her all, and the old lady shook her head, and said, ‘Hem!
hem!’ And when Gerda asked if she had seen little Kay, the lady said
that he had not arrived there yet, but that he would be sure to come
soon, and that in the meantime Gerda must not be sad; that she might
stay with her, might eat her cherries, and look at her flowers, which
were prettier than any picture-book, and could each tell her a story.

She then took Gerda by the hand; they went together into the cottage,
and the old lady shut the door. The windows were very high and their
panes of different coloured glass, red, blue, and yellow, so that when
the bright daylight streamed through them, various and beautiful were
the hues reflected upon the room. Upon a table in the centre was placed
a plate of very fine cherries, and of these Gerda was allowed to eat as
many as she liked. And whilst she was eating them, the old dame combed
her hair with a golden comb, and the bright flaxen ringlets fell on each
side of her pretty, gentle face, which looked as round and as fresh as a
rose.

‘I have long wished for such a dear little girl,’ said the old lady. ‘We
shall see if we cannot live very happily together.’ And, as she combed
little Gerda’s hair, the child thought less and less of her
foster-brother Kay, for the old lady was an enchantress. She did not,
however, practise magic for the sake of mischief, but merely for her own
amusement. And now she wished very much to keep little Gerda, to live
with her; so, fearing that if Gerda saw her roses, she would be reminded
of her own flowers and of little Kay, and that then she might run away,
she went out into the garden, and extended her crutch over all her
rose-bushes, upon which, although they were full of leaves and blossoms,
they immediately sank into the black earth, and no one would have
guessed that such plants had ever grown there.

Then she led Gerda into this flower-garden. Oh how beautiful and how
fragrant it was! Flowers of all seasons and all climes grew there in
fulness of beauty--certainly no picture-book could be compared with it.
Gerda bounded with delight, and played among the flowers till the sun
set behind the tall cherry-trees; after which a pretty little bed, with
crimson silk cushions, stuffed with blue violet leaves, was prepared for
her, and here she slept so sweetly and had such dreams as a queen might
have on her bridal eve.

The next day she again played among the flowers in the warm sunshine,
and many more days were spent in the same manner. Gerda knew every
flower in the garden, but, numerous as they were, it seemed to her that
one was wanting, she could not tell which. She was sitting one day,
looking at her hostess’s hat, which had flowers painted on it, and,
behold, the loveliest among them was a rose! The old lady had entirely
forgotten the painted rose on her hat, when she made the real roses to
disappear from her garden and sink into the ground. This is often the
case when things are done hastily.

‘What,’ cried Gerda ‘are there no roses in the garden?’ And she ran from
one bed to another, sought and sought again, but no rose was to be
found. She sat down and wept, and it so chanced that her tears fell on a
spot where a rose-tree had formerly stood, and as soon as her warm tears
had moistened the earth, the bush shot up anew, as fresh and as blooming
as it was before it had sunk into the ground; and Gerda threw her arms
around it, kissed the blossoms, and immediately recalled to memory the
beautiful roses at home, and her little playfellow Kay. ‘Oh, how could I
stay here so long!’ exclaimed the little maiden. ‘I left my home to seek
for Kay. Do you know where he is?’ she asked of the roses; ‘think you
that he is dead?’

‘Dead he is not,’ said the roses. ‘We have been down in the earth; the
dead are there, but not Kay.’

‘I thank you,’ said little Gerda, and she went to the other flowers,
bent low over their cups, and asked, ‘Know you not where little Kay is?’

But every flower stood in the sunshine dreaming its own little tale.
They related their stories to Gerda, but none of them knew anything of
Kay.

‘And what think you?’ said the tiger-lily.

‘Listen to the drums beating, boom! boom! They have but two notes,
always boom! boom! Listen to the dirge the women are singing! Listen to
the chorus of priests! Enveloped in her long red robes stands the Hindoo
wife on the funeral pile; the flames blaze around her and her dead
husband, but the Hindoo wife thinks not of the dead. She thinks only of
the living, and the anguish which consumes her spirit is keener than the
fire which will soon reduce her body to ashes.

[Illustration]

Can the flame of the heart expire amid the flames of the funeral pile?’

‘I do not understand that at all!’ said little Gerda.

‘That is my tale!’ said the tiger-lily.

‘What says the convolvulus?’

‘Hanging over a narrow mountain causeway, behold an ancient, baronial
castle. Thick evergreens grow amongst the time stained walls, their
leafy branches entwine about the balcony, and there stands a beautiful
maiden; she bends over the balustrades and fixes her eyes with eager
expectation on the road winding beneath. The rose hangs not fresher and
lovelier on its stem than she; the apple-blossom which the wind
threatens every moment to tear from its branch is not more fragile and
trembling. Listen to the rustling of her rich silken robe! Listen to her
half-whispered words, “He comes not yet”.’

‘Is it Kay you mean?’ asked little Gerda.

‘I do but tell you my tale--my dream,’ replied the convolvulus.

‘What says the little snowdrop?’

‘Between two trees hangs a swing. Two pretty little maidens, their dress
as white as snow, and long green ribbands fluttering from their hats,
sit and swing themselves in it. Their brother stands up in the swing, he
has thrown his arms round the ropes to keep himself steady, for in one
hand he holds a little cup, in the other a pipe made of clay; he is
blowing soap bubbles. The swing moves and the bubbles fly upwards with
bright, ever-changing colours; the last hovers on the edge of the pipe,
and moves with the wind. The swing is still in motion, and the little
black dog, almost as light as the soap bubbles, rises on his hind feet
and tries to get into the swing also; away goes the swing, the dog
falls, is out of temper, and barks; he is laughed at, and the bubbles
burst. A swinging board, a frothy, fleeting image is my song.’

‘What you describe may be all very pretty, but you speak so mournfully,
and there is nothing about Kay.’

‘What say the hyacinths?’

‘There were three fair sisters, transparent and delicate they were; the
kirtle of the one was red, that of the second blue, of the third pure
white; hand in hand they danced in the moonlight beside the quiet lake;
they were not fairies, but daughters of men. Sweet was the fragrance
when the maidens vanished into the wood; the fragrance grew stronger;
three biers, whereon lay the fair sisters, glided out from the depths of
the wood, and floated upon the lake; the glow-worms flew shining around
like little hovering lamps. Sleep the dancing maidens, or are they dead?
The odour from the flowers tells us they are corpses, the evening bells
peal out their dirge.’

‘You make me quite sad,’ said little Gerda. ‘Your fragrance is so strong
I cannot help thinking of the dead maidens. Alas! and is little Kay
dead? The roses have been under the earth, and they say no!’

‘Ding dong! ding dong!’ rang the hyacinth bells. ‘We toll not for little
Kay, we know him not! We do but sing our own song, the only one we
know!’

And Gerda went to the buttercup, which shone so brightly from among her
smooth green leaves.

‘Thou art like a little bright sun,’ said Gerda; ‘tell me, if thou
canst, where I may find my playfellow.’

And the buttercup glittered so brightly, and looked at Gerda. What song
could the buttercup sing? Neither was hers about Kay. ‘One bright spring
morning, the sun shone warmly upon a little court-yard. The bright beams
streamed down the white walls of a neighbouring house, and close by

[Illustration: GERDA KNEW EVERY FLOWER IN THE GARDEN]

grew the first yellow flower of spring, glittering like gold in the warm
sunshine. An old grandmother sat without in her arm-chair, her
grand-daughter, a pretty, lowly maiden, had just returned home from a
short visit; she kissed her grandmother; there was gold, pure gold, in
that loving kiss:

                ‘Gold was the flower!
    Gold the fresh, bright, morning hour!’

‘That is my little story,’ said the buttercup.

‘My poor old grandmother!’ sighed Gerda; ‘yes, she must be wishing for
me, just as she wished for little Kay. But I shall soon go home again,
and take Kay with me. It is of no use to ask the flowers about him; they
only know their own song, they can give me no information.’ And she
folded her little frock round her, that she might run the faster; but,
in jumping over the narcissus, it caught her foot, as if wishing to stop
her, so she turned and looked at the tall yellow flower, ‘Have you any
news to give me?’ She bent over the narcissus, waiting for an answer.

And what said the narcissus?

‘I can look at myself!--I can see myself! Oh, how sweet is my
fragrance!’ Up in the little attic-chamber stands a little dancer. She
rests sometimes on one leg, sometimes on two. She has trampled the whole
world under her feet; she is nothing but an illusion. She pours water
from a tea-pot upon a piece of cloth she holds in her hand--it is her
bodice; cleanliness is a fine thing! Her white dress hangs on the hook,
that has also been washed by the water from the tea-pot, and dried on
the roof of the house. She puts it on, and wraps a saffron-coloured
handkerchief round her neck; it makes the dress look all the whiter.
With one leg extended, there she stands, as though on a stalk. ‘I can
look at myself!--I see myself!’

‘I don’t care if you do!’ said Gerda. ‘You need not have told me that!’
and away she ran to the end of the garden.

The gate was closed, but she pressed upon the rusty lock till it broke.
The gate sprang open, and little Gerda, with bare feet, ran out into the
wide world. Three times she looked back, there was no one following her;
she ran till she could run no longer, and then sat down to rest upon a
large stone. Casting a glance around, she saw that the summer was past,
that it was now late in the autumn. Of course, she had not remarked this
in the enchanted garden, where there were sunshine and flowers all the
year round.

‘How long I must have stayed there!’ said little Gerda. ‘So, it is now
autumn! Well, then, there is no time to lose!’ and she rose to pursue
her way.

Oh, how sore and weary were her little feet; and all around looked so
cold and barren. The long willow-leaves had already turned yellow, and
the dew trickled down from them like water. The leaves fell off the
trees, one by one; the sloe alone bore fruit, and its berries were so
sharp and bitter! Cold, and grey, and sad seemed the world to her that
day.

[Illustration]




PART THE FOURTH

THE PRINCE AND THE PRINCESS


Gerda was again obliged to stop and take rest. Suddenly a
large raven hopped upon the snow in front of her, saying,
‘Caw!--Caw!--Good-day!--Good-day!’ He sat for some time on the withered
branch of a tree just opposite, eyeing the little maiden, and wagging
his head, and he now came forward to make acquaintance and to ask her
whither she was going all alone. That word ‘alone’ Gerda understood
right well--she felt how sad a meaning it has. She told the raven the
history of her life and fortunes, and asked if he had seen Kay.

And the raven nodded his head, half doubtfully, and said, ‘That is
possible--possible.’

‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed the little girl, and she kissed the raven
so vehemently that it is a wonder she did not squeeze him to death.

‘More moderately!--moderately!’ said the raven. ‘I think I know. I think
it may be little Kay; but he has certainly forsaken thee for the
princess.’

‘Dwells he with a princess?’ asked Gerda.

‘Listen to me,’ said the raven, ‘but it is so difficult to speak your
language! Do you understand Ravenish? If so, I can tell you much
better.’

‘No! I have never learned Ravenish,’ said Gerda, ‘but my grandmother
knew it, and Pye-language also. Oh, how I wish I had learned it!’

‘Never mind,’ said the raven, ‘I will relate my story in the best manner
I can, though bad will be the best’; and he told all he knew.

‘In the kingdom wherein we are now sitting, there dwells a princess, a
most uncommonly clever princess. All the newspapers in the world has she
read, and forgotten them again, so clever is she. It is not long since
she ascended the throne, which I have heard is not quite so agreeable a
situation as one would fancy; and immediately after she began to sing a
new song, the burden of which was this, “Why should I not marry me?”
“There is some sense in this song!” said she, and she determined she
would marry, but at the same time declared that the man whom she would
choose must be able to answer sensibly whenever people spoke to him, and
must be good for something else besides merely looking grand and
stately. The ladies of the court were then all drummed together, in
order to be informed of her intentions, whereupon they were highly
delighted, and one exclaimed, “That is just what I wish”; and another,
that she had lately been thinking of the very same thing. Believe me,’
continued the raven, ‘every word I say is true, for I have a tame
beloved who hops at pleasure about the palace, and she has told me all
this.’

Of course the ‘beloved’ was also a raven, for birds of a feather flock
together.

‘Proclamations, adorned with borders of hearts, were immediately issued,
wherein, after enumerating the style and titles of the princess, it was
set forth that every well-favoured youth was free to go to the palace
and converse with the princess, and that whoever should speak in such
wise as showed that he felt himself at home, there would be the one the
princess would choose for her husband.

‘Yes, indeed,’ continued the raven, ‘you may believe me; all this is as
true as that I sit here. The people all crowded to the palace; there was
famous pressing and squeezing; but it was all of no use, either the
first or the second day; the young men could speak well enough while
they were outside the palace gates, but when they entered, and saw the
royal guard in silver uniform, and the lackeys on the staircase in gold,
and the spacious saloon, all lighted up, they were quite confounded.
They stood before the throne where the princess sat, and when she spoke
to them, they could only repeat the last word she had uttered, which,
you know, it was not particularly interesting for her to hear over
again. It was just as though they had been struck dumb the moment they
entered the palace, for as soon as they got out, they could talk fast
enough. There was a regular procession constantly moving from the gates
of the town to the gates of the palace. I was there, and saw it with my
own eyes,’ said the raven. ‘They grew both hungry and thirsty whilst
waiting at the palace, but no one could get even so much as a glass of
water; to be sure, some of them, wiser than the rest, had brought with
them slices of bread and butter, but none would give any to his
neighbour, for he thought to himself, “Let him look hungry, and then the
princess will be sure not to choose him.”’

‘But Kay, little Kay, when did he come?’ asked Gerda; ‘was he among the
crowd?’

‘Presently, presently; we have just come to him. On the third day
arrived a youth with neither horse nor carriage; gaily he marched up to
the palace; his eyes sparkled like yours; he had long beautiful hair,
but was very meanly clad.’

‘That was Kay!’ exclaimed Gerda. ‘Oh then I have found him,’ and she
clapped her hands with delight.

‘He carried a knapsack on his back,’ said the raven.

‘No, not a knapsack,’ said Gerda, ‘a sledge, for he had a sledge with
him when he left home.’

‘It is possible,’ rejoined the raven, ‘I did not look very closely, but
this I heard from my beloved, that when he entered the palace gates and
saw the royal guard in silver, and the lackeys in gold upon the
staircase, he did not seem in the least confused, but nodded pleasantly
and said to them, “It must be very tedious standing out here; I prefer
going in.” The halls glistened with light, cabinet councillors and
excellencies were walking about bare-footed and carrying golden keys--it
was just a place to make a man solemn and silent--and the youth’s boots
creaked horribly, yet he was not at all afraid.’

‘That most certainly was Kay!’ said Gerda; ‘I know he had new boots; I
have heard them creak in my grandmother’s room.’

‘Indeed they did creak,’ said the raven, ‘but merrily went he up to the
princess, who was sitting upon a pearl as large as a spinning-wheel,
whilst all the ladies of the court, with the maids of honour and their
handmaidens, ranged in order, stood on one side, and all the gentlemen
in waiting, with their gentlemen, and their gentlemen’s gentlemen, who
also kept pages, stood ranged in order on the other side, and the nearer
they were to the door the prouder they looked. The gentlemen’s
gentlemen’s page, who always wears slippers, one dare hardly look at, so
proudly he stands at the door.’

‘That must be dreadful!’ said little Gerda. ‘And has Kay really won the
princess?’

‘Had I not been a raven I should have won her myself,

[Illustration: SUDDENLY A LARGE RAVEN HOPPED UPON THE SNOW IN FRONT OF
HER]

[Illustration]

notwithstanding my being betrothed. The young man spoke as well as I
speak when I converse in Ravenish; that I have heard from my tame
beloved. He was handsome and lively--“He did not come to woo her,” he
said, “he had only come to hear the wisdom of the princess,” and he
liked her much, and she liked him in return.’

‘Yes, to be sure, that was Kay,’ said Gerda; ‘he was so clever, he could
reckon in his head, even fractions! Oh, will you not take me into the
palace?’

‘Ah! that is easily said,’ replied the raven, ‘but how is it to be done?
I will talk it over with my tame beloved; she will advise us what to do,
for I must tell you that such a little girl as you are will never gain
permission to enter publicly.’

‘Yes, I shall!’ cried Gerda. ‘When Kay knows that I am here, he will
immediately come out and fetch me.’

‘Wait for me at the trellis yonder,’ said the raven. He wagged his head
and away he flew.

The raven did not return till late in the evening. ‘Caw, caw,’ said he.
‘My tame beloved greets you kindly, and sends you a piece of bread which
she took from the kitchen; there is plenty of bread there, and you must
certainly be hungry. It is not possible for you to enter the palace, for
you have bare feet; the royal guard in silver uniform, and the lackeys
in gold, would never permit it; but do not weep, thou shalt go there. My
beloved knows a little back staircase leading to the sleeping
apartments, and she knows also where to find the key.’

And they went into the garden, down the grand avenue, where the leaves
dropped upon them as they passed along, and, when the lights in the
palace one by one had all been extinguished, the raven took Gerda to a
back-door which stood half open. Oh, how Gerda’s heart beat with fear
and expectation! It was just as though she was about to do something
wrong, although she only wanted to know whether Kay was really
there--yes, it must be he, she remembered so well his bright eyes and
long hair. She would see if his smile were the same as it used to be
when they sat together under the rose-trees. He would be so glad to see
her, to hear how far she had come for his sake, how all his home mourned
his absence. Her heart trembled with fear and joy.

They went up the staircase. A small lamp placed on a cabinet gave a
glimmering light; on the floor stood the tame raven, who first turned
her head on all sides, and then looked at Gerda, who made her curtsy, as
her grandmother had taught her.

‘My betrothed has told me much about you, my good young maiden,’ said
the tame raven; ‘your adventures, too, are extremely interesting! If you
will take the lamp, I will show you the way. We are going straight on,
we shall not meet any one now.’

‘It seems to me as if some one were behind us,’ said Gerda; and in fact
there was a rushing sound as of something passing; strange-looking
shadows flitted rapidly along the wall, horses with long, slender legs
and fluttering manes, huntsmen, knights, and ladies.

‘These are only dreams!’ said the raven; ‘they come to amuse the great
personages here at night; you will have a better opportunity of looking
at them when you are in bed. I hope that when you arrive at honours and
dignities you will show a grateful heart.’

‘Do not talk of that!’ said the wood-raven.

They now entered the first saloon; its walls were covered with
rose-coloured satin, embroidered with gold flowers. The Dreams rustled
past them, but with such rapidity that Gerda could not see them. The
apartments through which they passed vied with each other in splendour,
and at last they reached the sleeping-hall. In the centre of this room
stood a pillar of gold resembling the stem of a large palm-tree, whose
leaves of glass, costly glass, formed the ceiling, and depending from
the tree, hung near the door, on thick golden stalks, two beds in the
form of lilies--the one was white, wherein reposed the princess, the
other was red, and here must Gerda seek her playfellow, Kay. She bent
aside one of the red leaves and saw a brown neck. Oh, it must be Kay!
She called him by his name aloud, held the lamp close to him, the Dreams
again rushed by--he awoke, turned his head, and behold! it was not Kay.

The prince resembled him only about the throat; he was, however, young
and handsome; and the princess looked out from the white lily petals,
and asked what was the matter. Then little Gerda wept and told her whole
story, and what the ravens had done for her. ‘Poor child!’ said the
prince and princess; and they praised the ravens, and said they were not
at all angry with them. Such liberties must never be taken again in
their palace, but this time they should be rewarded.

[Illustration: CABINET COUNCILLORS WERE WALKING ABOUT BAREFOOTED]

‘Would you like to fly away free to the woods?’ asked the princess,
addressing the ravens, ‘or to have the appointment secured to you as
Court-Ravens with the perquisites belonging to the kitchen, such as
crumbs and leavings?’

And both the ravens bowed low and chose the appointment at Court, for
they thought of old age, and said it would be so comfortable to be well
provided for in their declining years. Then the prince arose and made
Gerda sleep in his bed; and she folded her little hands, thinking, ‘How
kind both men and animals are to me!’ She closed her eyes and slept
soundly and sweetly, and all the Dreams flitted about her; they looked
like angels from heaven, and seemed to be drawing a sledge whereon Kay
sat and nodded to her. But this was only fancy, for as soon as she awoke
all the beautiful visions had vanished.

The next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet. She
was invited to stay at the palace and enjoy all sorts of diversions, but
she begged only for a little carriage and a horse, and a pair of little
boots,--all she desired was to go again into the wide world to seek Kay.

And they gave her the boots and a muff besides; she was dressed so
prettily. And as soon as she was ready there drove up to the door a new
carriage of pure gold with the arms of the prince and princess
glittering upon it like a star, the coachman, the footman, and
outriders, all wearing gold crowns. The prince and princess themselves
helped her into the carriage and wished her success. The wood-raven, who
was now married, accompanied her the first three miles; he sat by her
side, for riding backwards was a thing he could not bear. The other
raven stood at the door flapping her wings; she did not go with them on
account of a headache she had felt ever since she had received her
appointment, in consequence of eating too much. The carriage was well
provided with sugar-plums, fruit, and gingerbread nuts.

‘Farewell! farewell!’ cried the prince and princess. Little Gerda wept,
and the raven wept out of sympathy. But his farewell was a far sorer
trial; he flew up to the branch of a tree and flapped his black wings at
the carriage till it was out of sight.

[Illustration]




PART THE FIFTH

THE LITTLE ROBBER MAIDEN


They drove through the dark, dark forest; the carriage shone like a
torch. Unfortunately its brightness attracted the eyes of the robbers
who dwelt in the forest-shades; they could not bear it.

‘That is gold! gold!’ cried they. Forward they rushed, seized the
horses, stabbed the outriders, coachman, and footmen to death, and
dragged little Gerda out of the carriage.

‘She is plump, she is pretty, she has been fed on nut-kernels,’ said the
old robber-wife, who had a long, bristly beard, and eyebrows hanging
like bushes over her eyes. ‘She is like a little fat lamb, and how
smartly she is dressed!’ and she drew out her bright dagger, glittering
most terribly.

‘Oh, oh!’ cried the woman, for at the very moment she had lifted her
dagger to stab Gerda, her own wild and wilful daughter jumped upon her
back and bit her ear violently. ‘You naughty child!’ said the mother.

‘She shall play with me,’ said the little robber-maiden, ‘she shall give
me her muff and her pretty frock, and sleep with me in my bed!’ And then
she bit her mother again, till the robber-wife sprang up and shrieked
with pain, whilst the robbers all laughed, saying, ‘Look at her playing
with her young one!’

‘I will get into the carriage,’ and so spoiled and wayward was the
little robber-maiden that she always had her own way, and she and Gerda
sat together in the carriage, and drove over stock and stone farther and
farther into the wood. The little robber-maiden was about as tall as
Gerda, but much stronger; she had broad shoulders, and a very dark skin;
her eyes were quite black, and had an expression almost melancholy. She
put her arm round Gerda’s waist, and said, ‘She shall not kill thee so
long as I love thee! Art thou not a princess?’

‘No!’ said Gerda; and then she told her all that had happened to her,
and how much she loved little Kay.

The robber-maiden looked earnestly in her face, shook her head, and
said, ‘She shall not kill thee even if I do quarrel with thee; then,
indeed, I would rather do it myself!’ And she dried Gerda’s tears, and
put both her hands into the pretty muff that was so soft and warm.

The carriage at last stopped in the middle of the courtyard of the
robbers’ castle. This castle was half-ruined; crows and ravens flew out
of the openings, and some fearfully large bull-dogs, looking as if they
could devour a man in a moment, jumped round the carriage; they did not
bark, for that was forbidden.

The maidens entered a large, smoky hall, where a tremendous fire was
blazing on the stone floor; the smoke rose up to the ceiling, seeking a
way of escape, for there was no chimney; a large caldron full of soup
was boiling over the fire, whilst hares and rabbits were roasting on the
spit.

‘Thou shalt sleep with me and my little pets to-night!’ said the
robber-maiden. Then they had some food, and afterwards went to the
corner wherein lay straw and a piece of carpet. Nearly a hundred pigeons
were perched on staves and laths around them; they seemed to be asleep,
but were startled when the little maidens approached.

‘These all belong to me,’ said Gerda’s companion, and seizing hold of
one of the nearest, she held the poor bird by the feet and swung it.
‘Kiss it,’ said she, flapping it into Gerda’s face. ‘The rabble from the
wood sit up there,’ continued she, pointing to a number of laths
fastened across a hole in the wall; ‘those are wood-pigeons, they would
fly away if I did not keep them shut up. And here is my old favourite!’
She pulled forward by the horn a reindeer who wore a bright copper ring
round his neck, by which he was fastened to a large stone. ‘We are
obliged to chain him up, or he would run away from us; every evening I
tickle his neck with my sharp dagger; it makes him fear me so much!’ and
the robber-maiden drew out a long dagger from a gap in the wall, and
passed it over the reindeer’s throat; the poor animal struggled and
kicked, but the girl laughed, and then she pulled Gerda into bed with
her.

‘Will you keep the dagger in your hand whilst you sleep?’ asked Gerda,
looking timidly at the dangerous plaything.

‘I always sleep with my dagger by my side,’ replied the little
robber-maiden; ‘one never knows what may happen. But now tell me all
over again what you told me before about

[Illustration: AND THE NEARER THEY WERE TO THE DOOR THE PROUDER THEY
LOOKED]

Kay, and the reason of your coming into the wide world all by yourself.’

And Gerda again related her history, and the wood-pigeons imprisoned
above listened, but the others were fast asleep. The little
robber-maiden threw one arm round Gerda’s neck, and holding the dagger
with the other, was also soon asleep; one could hear her heavy
breathing, but Gerda could not close her eyes throughout the night--she
knew not what would become of her, whether she would even be suffered to
live. The robbers sat round the fire drinking and singing. Oh, it was a
dreadful night for the poor little girl!

Then spoke the wood-pigeons, ‘Coo, coo, coo! we have seen little Kay. A
white fowl carried his sledge, he himself was in the Snow Queen’s
chariot, which passed through the wood whilst we sat in our nest. She
breathed upon us young ones as she passed, and all died of her breath
excepting us two,--coo, coo, coo!’

‘What are you saying?’ cried Gerda; ‘where was the Snow Queen going? Do
you know anything about it?’

‘She travels most likely to Lapland, where ice and snow abide all the
year round. Ask the reindeer bound to the rope there.’

‘Yes, ice and snow are there all through the year; it is a glorious
land!’ said the reindeer. ‘There, free and happy, one can roam through
the wide sparkling valleys! There the Snow Queen has her summer-tent;
her strong castle is very far off, near the North Pole, on the island
called Spitsbergen.’

‘O Kay, dear Kay!’ sighed Gerda.

‘You must lie still,’ said the robber-maiden, ‘or I will thrust my
dagger into your side.’

When morning came Gerda repeated to her what the wood-pigeons had said,
and the little robber-maiden looked grave for a moment, then nodded her
head, saying, ‘No matter! no matter! Do you know where Lapland is?’
asked she of the reindeer.

‘Who should know but I?’ returned the animal, his eyes kindling. ‘There
was I born and bred, there how often have I bounded over the wild icy
plains!’

‘Listen to me!’ said the robber-maiden to Gerda. ‘You see all our men
are gone; my mother is still here and will remain, but towards noon she
will drink a little out of the great flask, and after that she will
sleep--then I will do something for you!’ And so saying she jumped out
of bed, sprang upon her mother, pulled her by the beard, and said, ‘My
own dear mam, good morning!’ and the mother caressed her so roughly that
she was red and blue all over; however, it was from pure love.

When her mother was fast asleep, the robber-maiden went up to the
reindeer, and said, ‘I should have great pleasure in stroking you a few
more times with my sharp dagger, for then you look so droll, but never
mind, I will unloose your chain and help you to escape, on condition
that you run as fast as you can to Lapland, and take this little girl to
the castle of the Snow Queen, where her playfellow is. You must have
heard her story, for she speaks loud enough, and you know well how to
listen.’

The reindeer bounded with joy, and the robber-maiden lifted Gerda on his
back, taking the precaution to bind her on firmly, as well as to give
her a little cushion to sit on. ‘And here,’ said she, ‘are your fur
boots, you will need them in that cold country; the muff I must keep
myself, it is too pretty to part with; but you shall not be frozen. Here
are my mother’s huge gloves, they reach up to the elbow; put them
on--now your hands look as clumsy as my old mother’s!’

And Gerda shed tears of joy.

‘I cannot bear to see you crying!’ said the little robber-maiden, ‘you
ought to look glad; see, here are two loaves and a piece of bacon for
you, that you may not be hungry on the way.’ She fastened this provender
also on the reindeer’s back, opened the door, called away the great
dogs, and then cutting asunder with her dagger the rope which bound the
reindeer, shouted to him, ‘Now then, run! but take good care of the
little girl.’

And Gerda stretched out her hands to the robber-maiden and bade her
farewell, and the reindeer fleeted through the forest, over stock and
stone, over desert and heath, over meadow and moor. The wolves howled
and the ravens shrieked. ‘Isch! Isch!’ a red light flashed--one might
have fancied the sky was sneezing.

‘Those are my dear old Northern Lights!’ said the reindeer; ‘look at
them, how beautiful they are!’ And he ran faster than ever, night and
day he ran--the loaves were eaten, so was the bacon--at last they were
in Lapland.

[Illustration: AND FLAPPED HIS BLACK WINGS AT THE CARRIAGE TILL IT WAS
OUT OF SIGHT]




PART THE SIXTH

THE LAPLAND WOMAN AND THE FINLAND WOMAN


They stopped at a little hut, a wretched hut it was; the roof very
nearly touched the ground, and the door was so low that whoever wished
to go either in or out was obliged to crawl upon hands and knees. No one
was at home except the old Lapland woman, who was busy boiling fish over
a lamp filled with train oil. The reindeer related to her Gerda’s whole
history, not, however, till after he had made her acquainted with his
own, which appeared to him of much more importance. Poor Gerda,
meanwhile, was so overpowered by the cold that she could not speak.

‘Ah, poor things!’ said the Lapland woman, ‘you have still a long way
before you! You have a hundred miles to run before you can arrive in
Finland: the Snow Queen dwells there, and burns blue lights every
evening. I will write for you a few words on a piece of dried
stock-fish--paper I have none--and you may take it with you to the wise
Finland woman who lives there; she will advise you better than I can.’

So when Gerda had well warmed herself and taken some food, the Lapland
woman wrote a few words on a dried stock-fish, bade Gerda take care of
it, and bound her once more firmly on the reindeer’s back.

Onwards they sped, the wondrous Northern Lights, now of the loveliest,
brightest blue colour, shone all through the night, and amidst these
splendid illuminations they arrived in Finland, and knocked at the
chimney of the wise-woman, for door to her house she had none.

Hot, very hot was it within--so much so that the wise-woman wore
scarcely any clothing; she was low in stature and very dirty. She
immediately loosened little Gerda’s dress, took off her fur boots and
thick gloves, laid a piece of ice on the reindeer’s head, and then read
what was written on the stock-fish. She read it three times. After the
third reading she knew it by heart, and threw the fish into the
porridge-pot, for it might make a very excellent supper, and she never
wasted anything.

The reindeer then repeated his own story, and when that was finished he
told of little Gerda’s adventures, and the wise-woman twinkled her wise
eyes, but spoke not a word.

‘Thou art so powerful,’ continued the reindeer, ‘that I know thou canst
twist all the winds of the world into a thread, of which if the pilot
loosen one knot he will have a favourable wind; if he loosen the second
it will blow sharp, and if he loosen the third, so tremendous a storm
will arise that the trees of the forest will be uprooted, and the ship
wrecked. Wilt thou not mix for this little maiden that wonderful draught
which will give her the strength of twelve men, and thus enable her to
overcome the Snow Queen?’

‘The strength of twelve men!’ repeated the wise-woman, ‘that would be of
much use to be sure!’ and she walked away, drew forth a large parchment
roll from a shelf and began to read. What strange characters were seen
inscribed on the scroll as the wise-woman slowly unrolled it! She read
so intently that the perspiration ran down her forehead.

But the reindeer pleaded so earnestly for little Gerda, and Gerda’s eyes
were raised so entreatingly and tearfully, that at last the wise-woman’s
eyes began to twinkle again out of sympathy, and she drew the reindeer
into a corner, and putting a fresh piece of ice upon his head, whispered
thus:

‘Little Kay is still with the Snow Queen, in whose abode everything is
according to his taste, and therefore he believes it to be the best
place in the world. But that is because he has a glass splinter in his
heart, and a glass splinter in his eye--until he has got rid of them he
will never feel like a human being, and the Snow Queen will always
maintain her influence over him.’

‘But canst thou not give something to little Gerda whereby she may
overcome all these evil influences?’

[Illustration: THE LITTLE ROBBER-MAIDEN]

‘I can give her no power so great as that which she already possesses.
Seest thou not how strong she is? Seest thou not that both men and
animals must serve her--a poor little girl wandering barefoot through
the world? Her power is greater than ours; it proceeds from her heart,
from her being a loving and innocent child. If this power which she
already possesses cannot give her access to the Snow Queen’s palace, and
enable her to free Kay’s eye and heart from the glass fragment, we can
do nothing for her! Two miles hence is the Snow Queen’s garden; thither
thou canst carry the little maiden. Put her down close by the bush
bearing red berries and half covered with snow: lose no time, and hasten
back to this place!’

And the wise-woman lifted Gerda on the reindeer’s back, and away they
went.

‘Oh, I have left my boots behind! I have left my gloves behind,’ cried
little Gerda, when it was too late. The cold was piercing, but the
reindeer dared not stop; on he ran until he reached the bush with the
red berries. Here he set Gerda down, kissed her, the tears rolling down
his cheeks the while, and ran fast back again--which was the best thing
he could do. And there stood poor Gerda, without shoes, without gloves,
alone in that barren region, that terribly icy-cold Finland.

She ran on as fast as she could; a whole regiment of snow-flakes came to
meet her. They did not fall from the sky, which was cloudless and bright
with the Northern Lights; they ran straight along the ground, and the
farther Gerda advanced the larger they grew. Gerda then remembered how
large and curious the snow-flakes had appeared to her when one day she
had looked at them through a burning-glass; these, however, were very
much larger, they were living forms, they were in fact the Snow Queen’s
guards. Their shapes were the strangest that could be imagined; some
looked like great ugly porcupines, others like snakes rolled into knots
with their heads peering forth, and others like little fat bears with
bristling hair--all, however, were alike dazzlingly white--all were
living snow-flakes. Little Gerda began to repeat ‘Our Father’:
meanwhile, the cold was so intense that she could see her own breath,
which, as it escaped her mouth, ascended into the air like vapour; the
cold grew intense, the vapour more dense, and at length took the forms
of little bright angels which, as they touched the earth, became larger
and more distinct. They wore helmets on their heads, and carried shields
and spears in their hands; their number increased so rapidly that, by
the time Gerda had finished her prayer, a whole legion stood around her.
They thrust with their spears against the horrible snow-flakes, which
fell into thousands of pieces, and little Gerda walked on unhurt and
undaunted. The angels touched her hands and feet, and then she scarcely
felt the cold, and boldly approached the Snow Queen’s palace.

But before we accompany her there, let us see what Kay is doing. He is
certainly not thinking of little Gerda; least of all can he imagine that
she is now standing at the palace gate.

[Illustration]




PART THE SEVENTH

WHICH TREATS OF THE SNOW QUEEN’S PALACE, AND OF WHAT CAME TO PASS
THEREIN


The walls of the palace were formed of the driven snow, its doors and
windows of the cutting winds. There were above a hundred halls, the
largest of them many miles in extent, all illuminated by the Northern
Lights, all alike vast, empty, icily cold, and dazzlingly white. No
sounds of mirth ever resounded through these dreary spaces; no cheerful
scene refreshed the sight--not even so much as a bear’s ball, such as
one might imagine sometimes takes place, the tempest forming a band of
musicians, and the polar bears standing on their hind paws and
exhibiting themselves in the oddest positions. Nor was there ever a
card-assembly, wherein the cards might be held in the mouth and dealt
out by paws; nor even a small select coffee-party for the white young
lady foxes. Vast, empty, and cold were the Snow Queen’s chambers, and
the Northern Lights flashed, now high, now low, in regular gradations.
In the midst of the empty, interminable snow saloon lay a frozen lake;
it was broken into a thousand pieces, but these pieces so exactly
resembled each other, that the breaking of them might well be deemed a
work of more than human skill. The Snow Queen, when at home, always sat
in the centre of this lake; she used to say that she was then sitting on
the Mirror of Reason, and that hers was the best, indeed the only one,
in the world.

Little Kay was quite blue, nay, almost black with cold, but he did not
observe it, for the Snow Queen had kissed away the shrinking feeling he
used to experience, and his heart was like a lump of ice. He was busied
among the sharp icy fragments, laying and joining them together in every
possible way, just as people do with what are called Chinese puzzles.
Kay could form the most curious and complete figures--this was the
ice-puzzle of reason--and in his eyes these figures were of the utmost
importance. He often formed whole words, but there was one word he could
never succeed in forming--it was Eternity. The Snow Queen had said to
him, ‘When thou canst put that figure together, thou shalt become thine
own master and I will give thee the whole world, and a new pair of
skates besides.’

But he could never do it.

‘Now I am going to the warm countries,’ said the Snow Queen. ‘I shall
flit through the air, and look into the black caldrons’--she meant the
burning mountains, Etna and Vesuvius. ‘I shall whiten them a little;
that will be good for the citrons and vineyards.’ So away flew the Snow
Queen, leaving Kay sitting all alone in the large empty hall of ice. He
looked at the fragments, and thought and thought till his head ached. He
sat so still and so stiff that one might have fancied that he too was
frozen.

Cold and cutting blew the winds when little Gerda passed through the
palace gates, but she repeated her evening prayer, and they immediately
sank to rest. She entered the large, cold, empty hall: she saw Kay, she
recognised him, she flew upon his neck, she held him fast, and cried,
‘Kay! dear, dear Kay! I have found thee at last!’

But he sat still as before, cold, silent, motionless; his unkindness
wounded poor Gerda deeply. Hot and bitter were the tears she shed; they
fell upon his breast, they reached his heart, they thawed the ice and
dissolved the tiny splinter of glass within it. He looked at her whilst
she sang her hymn--

    ‘Our roses bloom and fade away,
     Our Infant Lord abides alway;
     May we be blessed His face to see,
     And ever little children be!’

Then Kay burst into tears. He wept till the glass splinter floated in
his eye and fell with his tears; he knew his old companion immediately,
and exclaimed with joy, ‘Gerda, my dear little Gerda, where hast thou
been all this time?--and where have I been?’

He looked around him. ‘How cold it is here! how wide and empty!’ and he
embraced Gerda, whilst she laughed and wept by turns. Even the pieces of
ice took part in their joy; they danced about merrily, and when they
were wearied and lay down they formed of their own accord the mystical
letters of which the Snow Queen had said that when Kay could put them
together he should be his own master, and that she would give him the
whole world, with a new pair of skates besides.

And Gerda kissed his cheeks, whereupon they became fresh and glowing as
ever; she kissed his eyes, and they sparkled like her own; she kissed
his hands and feet, and he was once more healthy and merry. The Snow
Queen might now come home as soon as she liked--it mattered not; Kay’s
charter of freedom stood written on the mirror in bright icy characters.

[Illustration: SHE RAN ON AS FAST AS SHE COULD]

They took each other by the hand, and wandered forth out of the palace,
talking meanwhile about the aged grandmother and the rose-trees on the
roof of their houses; and as they walked on, the winds were hushed into
a calm, and the sun burst forth in splendour from among the dark
storm-clouds. When they arrived at the bush with the red berries, they
found the reindeer standing by awaiting their arrival; he had brought
with him another and younger reindeer, whose udders were full, and who
gladly gave her warm milk to refresh the young travellers.

The old reindeer and the young hind now carried Kay and Gerda on their
backs, first to the little hot room of the wise-woman of Finland, where
they warmed themselves, and received advice how to proceed in their
journey home, and afterwards to the abode of the Lapland woman, who made
them some new clothes and provided them with a sledge.

The whole party now ran on together till they came to the boundary of
the country; but just where the green leaves began to sprout, the
Lapland woman and the two reindeers took their leave. ‘Farewell!
farewell!’ said they all. And the first little birds they had seen for
many a long day began to chirp, and warble their pretty songs; and the
trees of the forest burst upon them full of rich and variously tinted
foliage. Suddenly the green boughs parted asunder, and a spirited horse
galloped up. Gerda knew it well, for it was the one which had been
harnessed to her gold coach; and on it sat a young girl wearing a bright
scarlet cap, and with pistols on the holster before her. It was indeed
no other than the robber-maiden, who, weary of her home in the forest,
was going on her travels, first to the north and afterwards to other
parts of the world. She at once recognised Gerda, and Gerda had not
forgotten her. Most joyful was their greeting.

‘A fine gentleman you are, to be sure, you graceless young truant!’ said
she to Kay. ‘I should like to know if you deserved that any one should
be running to the end of the world on your account!’

[Illustration: SHE ENTERED THE LARGE, COLD, EMPTY HALL]

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

‘They are gone travelling into foreign countries,’ replied the
robber-maiden.

‘And the raven?’ asked Gerda.

‘Ah! the raven is dead,’ returned she. ‘The tame beloved has become a
widow; so she hops about with a piece of worsted wound round her leg;
she moans most piteously, and chatters more than ever! But tell me now
all that has happened to you, and how you managed to pick up your old
playfellow.’

And Gerda and Kay told their story.

‘Snip-snap-snurre-basselurre!’ said the robber-maiden. She pressed the
hands of both, promised that if ever she passed through their town she
would pay them a visit, and then bade them farewell, and rode away out
into the wide world.

Kay and Gerda walked on hand in hand, and wherever they went it was
spring, beautiful spring, with its bright flowers and green leaves.

They arrived at a large town, the church bells were ringing merrily, and
they immediately recognised the high towers rising into the sky--it was
the town wherein they had lived. Joyfully they passed through the
streets, joyfully they stopped at the door of Gerda’s grandmother. They
walked up the stairs and entered the well-known room. The clock said
‘Tick, tick!’ and the hands moved as before. Only one alteration could
they find, and that was in themselves, for they saw that they were now
full-grown persons. The rose-trees on the roof blossomed in front of the
open window, and there beneath them stood the children’s stools. Kay and
Gerda went and sat down upon them, still holding each other by the
hands; the cold, hollow splendour of the Snow Queen’s palace they had
forgotten, it seemed to them only an unpleasant dream. The grandmother
meanwhile sat amid God’s bright sunshine, and read from the Bible these
words: ‘Unless ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the
kingdom of heaven.’

And Kay and Gerda gazed on each other; they now understood the words of
their hymn--

    ‘Our roses bloom and fade away,
     Our Infant Lord abides alway;
     May we be blessed His face to see,
     And ever little children be!’

There they sat, those two happy ones, grown-up and yet
children--children in heart, while all around them glowed bright
summer,--warm, glorious summer.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE ELFIN KING’S HOUSEKEEPER]




ELFIN-MOUNT


Several large lizards were running nimbly in and out among the clefts of
an old tree; they could understand each other perfectly well, for they
all spoke the lizards’ language. ‘Only hear what a rumbling and
grumbling there is in the old Elfin-mount yonder!’ observed one lizard.
‘I have not been able to close my eyes for the last two nights; I might
as well have had the toothache, for the sleep I have had!’

‘There is something in the wind, most certainly!’ rejoined the second
lizard. ‘They raise the Mount upon four red pillars till cock-crowing;
there is a regular cleaning and dusting going on, and the Elfin-maidens
are learning new dances--such a stamping they make in them! There is
certainly something in the wind!’

‘Yes; I have been talking it over with an earth-worm of my
acquaintance,’ said a third lizard. ‘The earth-worm has just come from
the Mount; he has been grubbing in the ground there for days and nights
together, and has overheard a good deal; he can’t see at all, poor
wretch! but no one can be quicker than he is at feeling and hearing.
They are expecting strangers at the Elfin-mount--distinguished
strangers; but who they are, the earth-worm would not say; most likely
he did not know. All the wills-o’-the-wisp are engaged to form a
procession of torches--so they call it; and all the silver and gold, of
which there is such a store in the Elfin-mount, is being fresh rubbed
up, and set out to shine in the moonlight.’

‘But who can these strangers be?’ exclaimed all the lizards with one
voice. ‘What can be in the wind? Only listen!--what buzzing and
humming!’

Just then the Elfin-mount parted asunder; and an elderly Elfin damsel
came tripping out--she was the old Elfin-King’s housekeeper, and
distantly related to his family, on which account she wore an amber
heart on her forehead, but was otherwise plainly dressed. Like all other
elves, she was hollow in the back. She was very quick and light-footed;
trip--trip--trip, away she ran, straight into the marsh, to the
night-raven. ‘You are invited to Elfin-mount, for this very evening,’
said she; ‘but will you not first do us a very great kindness, and be
the bearer of the other invitations? You do not keep house, yourself,
you know; so you can easily oblige us. We are expecting some very
distinguished strangers, Trolds in fact; and his Elfin Majesty intends
to welcome them in person.’

‘Who are to be invited?’ inquired the night-raven.

‘Why, to the grand ball all the world may come; even men, if they could
but talk in their sleep, or do a little bit of anything in our way. But
the first banquet must be very select; none but guests of the very
highest rank must be present. To say the truth, I and the King have been
having a little dispute; for I insist, that not even ghosts may be
admitted to-night. The Mer-King and his daughters must be invited first;
they don’t much like coming on land, but I’ll promise they shall each
have a wet stone, or, perhaps, something better still, to sit on; and
then, I think, they cannot possibly refuse us this time. All old Trolds
of the first rank we must have; also, the River-Spirit and the Nisses;
and, I fancy, we cannot pass over the Death-Horse and Kirkegrim; true,
they do not belong to our set, they are too solemn for us, but they are
connected with the family, and pay us regular visits.’

‘Caw!’ said the night-raven; and away he flew to bear the invitations.

The Elfin-maidens were still dancing in the Elfin-mount; they danced
with long scarfs woven from mist and moonlight, and for those who like
that sort of thing it looks pretty enough. The large state-room in the
Mount had been regularly cleaned and cleared out; the floor had been
washed with moonshine, and the walls rubbed with witches’ fat till they
shone as tulips do when held up to the light. In the kitchen, frogs were
roasting on the spit; while divers other choice dishes, such as mushroom
seed, hemlock soup, etc., were prepared or preparing. These were to
supply the first courses; rusty nails, bits of coloured glass, and such
like dainties, were to come in for the dessert; there was also bright
saltpetre wine, and ale brewed in the brewery of the Wise Witch of the
Moor.

The old Elfin-King’s gold crown had been fresh rubbed with
powdered slate-pencil; new curtains had been hung up in all the
sleeping-rooms,--yes, there was indeed a rare bustle and commotion.

‘Now, we must have the rooms scented with cows’ hairs and swine’s
bristles; and then, I think, I shall have done my part!’ said the
Elfin-King’s housekeeper.

‘Dear papa,’ said the youngest of the daughters, ‘won’t you tell me now
who these grand visitors are?’

‘Well!’ replied His Majesty, ‘I suppose there’s no use in keeping it a
secret. Let two of my daughters get themselves ready for their
wedding-day, that’s all! Two of them most certainly will be married. The
Chief of the Norwegian Trolds, he who dwells in old Dofrefield, and has
so many castles of freestone among these rocky fastnesses, besides a
gold-mine,--which is a capital thing, let me tell you,--he is coming
down here with his two boys, who are both to choose themselves a bride.
Such an honest, straightforward, true old Norseman is this mountain
chief! so merry and jovial! he and I are old comrades; he came down here
years ago to fetch his wife; she is dead now; she was the daughter of
the Rock-King at Möen. Oh, how I long to see the old Norseman again! His
sons, they say, are rough unmannerly cubs, but perhaps report may have
done them injustice, and at any rate they are sure to improve in a year
or two, when they have sown their wild oats. Let me see how you will
polish them up!’

[Illustration: THE MER-KING MUST BE INVITED FIRST]

‘And how soon are they to be here?’ inquired his youngest daughter
again.

‘That depends on wind and weather!’ returned the Elfin-King. ‘They
travel economically; they come at the ship’s convenience. I wanted them
to pass over by Sweden, but the old man would not hear of that. He does
not keep pace with the times, that’s the only fault I can find with
him.’

Just then two wills-o’-the-wisp were seen dancing up in a vast hurry,
each trying to get before the other, and to be the first to bring the
news.

‘They come, they come!’ cried both with one voice.

‘Give me my crown, and let me stand in the moonlight!’ said the
Elfin-King.

And his seven daughters lifted their long scarfs and bowed low to the
earth.

There stood the Trold Chief from the Dofrefield, wearing a crown
composed of icicles and polished pine cones; for the rest, he was
equipped in a bear-skin cloak and sledge-boots; his sons were clad more
slightly, and kept their throats uncovered, by way of showing that they
cared nothing about the cold.

‘Is that a mount?’ asked the youngest of them, pointing to it. ‘Why, up
in Norway we should call it a cave!’

‘You foolish boy!’ replied his father; ‘a cave you go into, a mount you
go up! Where are your eyes, not to see the difference?’

The only thing that surprised them in this country, they said, was that
the people should speak and understand their language.

‘Behave yourselves now!’ said the old man; ‘don’t let your host fancy
you never went into decent company before!’

And now they all entered the Elfin-mount, into the grand saloon, where a
really very select party was assembled, although at such short notice
that it seemed almost as though some fortunate gust of wind had blown
them together. And every possible arrangement had been made for the
comfort of each of the guests; the Mer-King’s family, for instance, sat
at table in large tubs of water, and they declared they felt quite as if
they were at home. All behaved with strict good-breeding except the two
young northern Trolds, who at last so far forgot themselves as to put
their legs on the table.

‘Take your legs away from the plates!’ said their father, and they
obeyed, but not so readily as they might have done. Presently they took
some pine cones out of their pockets and began pelting the lady who sat
between them, and then, finding their boots incommode them, they took
them off, and coolly gave them to this lady to hold. But their father,
the old mountain Chief, conducted himself very differently; he talked so
delightfully about the proud Norse mountains, and the torrents, white
with dancing spray, that dashed foaming down their rocky steeps with a
noise loud and hoarse as thunder, yet musical as the full burst of an
organ, touched by a master hand; he told of the salmon leaping up from
the wild waters while the Neck was playing on his golden harp; he told
of the star-light winter nights when the sledge bells tinkled so
merrily, and the youths ran with lighted torches over the icy crust, so
glassy and transparent that through it they could see the fishes
whirling to and fro in deadly terror beneath their feet; he told of the
gallant northern youths and pretty maidens singing songs of old time,
and dancing the Hallinge dance,--yes, so charmingly he described all
this, that you could not but fancy you heard and saw it all. Oh fie, for
shame: all of a sudden the mountain Chief turned round upon the elderly
Elfin maiden, and gave her a cousinly salute, and he was not yet
connected ever so remotely with the family.

The young Elfin-maidens were now called upon to dance. First they danced
simple dances, then stamping dances, and

[Illustration]

they did both remarkably well. Last came the most difficult of all, the
‘Dance out of the dance,’ as it was called. Bravo! how long their legs
seemed to grow, and how they whirled and spun about! You could hardly
distinguish legs from arms, or arms from legs. Round and round they
went, such whirling and twirling, such whirring and whizzing there was
that it made the death-horse feel quite dizzy, and at last he grew so
unwell that he was obliged to leave the table.

[Illustration: THEY FELT QUITE AS IF THEY WERE AT HOME]

‘Hurrah!’ cried the mountain Chief, ‘they know how to use their limbs
with a vengeance! but can they do nothing else than dance, stretch out
their feet, and spin round like a whirlwind?’

‘You shall judge for yourself,’ replied the Elfin-King, and here he
called the eldest of his daughters to him. She was transparent and fair
as moonlight; she was, in fact, the most delicate of all the sisters;
she put a white wand between her lips and vanished: that was her
accomplishment.

But the mountain Chief said he should not at all like his wife to
possess such an accomplishment as this, and he did not think his sons
would like it either.

The second could walk by the side of herself, just as though she had a
shadow, which elves and trolds never have.

The accomplishment of the third sister was of quite another kind: she
had learned how to brew good ale from the Wise Witch of the Moor, and
she also knew how to lard alder-wood with glow-worms.

‘She will make a capital housewife,’ remarked the old mountain Chief.

And now advanced the fourth Elfin damsel; she carried a large gold harp,
and no sooner had she struck the first chord than all the company lifted
their left feet--for elves are left-sided--and when she struck the
second chord, they were all compelled to do whatever she wished.

‘A dangerous lady, indeed!’ said the old Trold Chief. Both of his sons
now got up and strode out of the mount; they were heartily weary of
these accomplishments.

‘And what can the next daughter do?’ asked the mountain Chief.

‘I have learned to love the north,’ replied she, ‘and I have resolved
never to marry unless I may go to Norway.’

But the youngest of the sisters whispered to the old man, ‘That is only
because she has heard an old Norse rhyme, which says that when the end
of the world shall come, the Norwegian rocks shall stand firm amid the
ruins; she is very much afraid of death, and therefore she wants to go
to Norway.’

‘Ho, ho!’ cried the mountain Chief, ‘sits the wind in that quarter? But
what can the seventh and last do?’

‘The sixth comes before the seventh,’ said the Elfin-King; for he could
count better than to make such a mistake. However, the sixth seemed in
no hurry to come forward.

‘I can only tell people the truth,’ said she. ‘Let no one trouble
himself about me; I have enough to do to sew my shroud!’

And now came the seventh and last, and what could she do? Why, she could
tell fairy tales, as many as any one could wish to hear.

‘Here are my five fingers,’ said the mountain Chief; ‘tell me a story
for each finger.’

And the Elfin-maiden took hold of his wrist, and told her stories, and
he laughed till his sides ached, and when she came to the finger that
wore a gold ring, as though it knew it might be wanted, the mountain
Chief suddenly exclaimed, ‘Hold fast what thou hast; the hand is thine!
I will have thee myself to wife!’ But the Elfin-maiden said that she had
still two more stories to tell, one for the ring-finger, and another for
the little finger.

‘Keep them for next winter, we’ll hear them then,’ replied the mountain
Chief. ‘And we’ll hear about the “Loves of the Fir-Tree and the Birch,”
about the Valkyria’s gifts too, for we all love fairy legends in Norway,
and no one there can tell them so charmingly as thou dost. And then we
will sit in our rocky halls, whilst the fir-logs are blazing and
crackling in the stove, and drink mead out of the golden horns of the
old Norse kings; the Neck has taught me a few of his rare old ditties,
besides the Garbo will often come and pay us a visit, and he will sing
thee all the sweet songs that the mountain maidens sang in days of
yore;--that will be most delightful! The salmon in the torrent will
spring up and beat himself against the rock walls, but in vain, he will
not be able to get in. Oh, thou canst not imagine what a happy, glorious
life we lead in that dear old Norway! But where are the boys?’

Where were the boys? Why, they were racing about in the fields and
blowing out the poor wills-o’-the-wisp, who were just ranging themselves
in the proper order to make a procession of torches.

‘What do you mean by making all this riot?’ inquired the mountain Chief.
‘I have been choosing you a mother; now you come and choose yourselves
wives from among your aunts.’

[Illustration: I WILL HAVE THEE MYSELF TO WIFE]

But his sons said they would rather make speeches and drink toasts; they
had not the slightest wish to marry. And accordingly they made speeches,
tossed off their glasses and turned them topsy-turvy on the table, to
show that they were quite empty; after this they took off their coats,
and most unceremoniously lay down on the table and went to sleep. But
the old mountain Chief, the while, danced round the hall with his young
bride, and exchanged boots with her, because that is not so vulgar as
exchanging rings.

‘Listen, the cock is crowing!’ exclaimed the lady-housekeeper. ‘We must
make haste and shut the window-shutters close, or the sun will scorch
our complexions.’

And herewith Elfin-mount closed.

But outside, in the cloven trunk, the lizards kept running up and down,
and one and all declared, ‘What a capital fellow that old Norwegian
Trold is!’ ‘For my part, I prefer the boys,’ said the earth-worm;--but
he, poor wretch, could see nothing either of them or of their father, so
his opinion was not worth much.

[Illustration: THE LITTLE MERMAID]




THE LITTLE MERMAID


Far out in the wide sea,--where the water is blue as the loveliest
cornflower, and clear as the purest crystal, where it is so deep that
very, very many church-towers must be heaped one upon another in order
to reach from the lowest depth to the surface above,--dwell the
Mer-people.

Now you must not imagine that there is nothing but sand below the water:
no, indeed, far from it! Trees and plants of wondrous beauty grow there,
whose stems and leaves are so light, that they are waved to and fro by
the slightest motion of the water, almost as if they were living beings.
Fishes, great and small, glide in and out among the branches, just as
birds fly about among our trees.

Where the water is deepest stands the palace of the Mer-king. The walls
of this palace are of coral, and the high, pointed windows are of amber;
the roof, however, is composed of mussel-shells, which, as the billows
pass over them, are continually opening and shutting. This looks
exceedingly pretty, especially as each of these mussel-shells contains a
number of bright, glittering pearls, one only of which would be the most
costly ornament in the diadem of a king in the upper world.

The Mer-king, who lived in this palace, had been for many years a
widower; his old mother managed the household affairs for him. She was,
on the whole, a sensible sort of a lady, although extremely proud of
her high birth and station, on which account she wore twelve oysters on
her tail, whilst the other inhabitants of the sea, even those of
distinction, were allowed only six. In every other respect she merited
unlimited praise, especially for the affection she showed to the six
little princesses, her grand-daughters. These were all very beautiful
children; the youngest was, however, the most lovely; her skin was as
soft and delicate as a rose-leaf, her eyes were of as deep a blue as the
sea, but like all other mermaids, she had no feet, her body ended in a
tail like that of a fish.

The whole day long the children used to play in the spacious apartments
of the palace, where beautiful flowers grew out of the walls on all
sides around them. When the great amber windows were opened, fishes
would swim into these apartments as swallows fly into our rooms; but the
fishes were bolder than the swallows, they swam straight up to the
little princesses, ate from their hands, and allowed themselves to be
caressed.

In front of the palace there was a large garden, full of fiery red and
dark blue trees, whose fruit glittered like gold, and whose flowers
resembled a bright, burning sun. The sand that formed the soil of the
garden was of a bright blue colour, something like flames of sulphur;
and a strangely beautiful blue was spread over the whole, so that one
might have fancied oneself raised very high in the air, with the sky at
once above and below, certainly not at the bottom of the sea. When the
waters were quite still, the sun might be seen looking like a purple
flower, out of whose cup streamed forth the light of the world.

Each of the little princesses had her own plot in the garden, where she
might plant and sow at her pleasure. One chose hers to be made in the
shape of a whale, another preferred the figure of a mermaid, but the
youngest had hers quite round

[Illustration]

like the sun, and planted in it only those flowers that were red, as the
sun seemed to her. She was certainly a singular child, very quiet and
thoughtful. Whilst her sisters were adorning themselves with all sorts
of gay things that came out of a ship which had been wrecked, she asked
for nothing but a beautiful white marble statue of a boy, which had been
found in it. She put the statue in her garden, and planted a red weeping
willow by its side. The tree grew up quickly, and let its long boughs
fall upon the bright blue ground, where ever-moving shadows played in
violet hues, as if boughs and root were embracing.

Nothing pleased the little princess more than to hear about the world of
human beings living above the sea. She made her old grandmother tell her
everything she knew about ships, towns, men, and land animals, and was
particularly pleased when she heard that the flowers of the upper world
had a pleasant fragrance (for the flowers of the sea are scentless), and
that the woods were green, and the fishes fluttering among the branches
of various gay colours, and that they could sing with a loud clear
voice. The old lady meant birds, but she called them fishes, because her
grandchildren, having never seen a bird, would not otherwise have
understood her.

‘When you have attained your fifteenth year,’ added she, ‘you will be
permitted to rise to the surface of the sea; you will then sit by
moonlight in the clefts of the rocks, see the ships sail by, and learn
to distinguish towns and men.’

The next year the eldest of the sisters reached this happy age, but the
others--alas! the second sister was a year younger than the eldest, the
third a year younger than the second, and so on; the youngest had still
five whole years to wait till that joyful time should come when she also
might rise to the surface of the water and see what was going on in the
upper world; however, the eldest promised to tell the others of
everything she might see, when the first day of her being of age
arrived; for the grandmother gave them but little information, and there
was so much that they wished to hear.

But none of all the sisters longed so ardently for the day when she
should be released from childish restraint as the youngest, she who had
longest to wait, and was so quiet and thoughtful. Many a night she stood
by the open window, looking up through the clear blue water, whilst the
fishes were leaping and playing around her. She could see the sun and
the moon; their light was pale, but they appeared larger than they do to
those who live in the upper world. If a shadow passed over them, she
knew it must be either a whale or a ship sailing by full of human
beings, who indeed little thought that, far beneath them, a little
mermaid was passionately stretching forth her white hands towards their
ship’s keel.

The day had now arrived when the eldest princess had attained her
fifteenth year, and was therefore allowed to rise up to the surface of
the sea.

When she returned she had a thousand things to relate. Her chief
pleasure had been to sit upon a sandbank in the moonlight, looking at
the large town which lay on the coast, where lights were beaming like
stars, and where music was playing; she had heard the distant noise of
men and carriages, she had seen the high church-towers, had listened to
the ringing of the bells; and just because she could not go there she
longed the more after all these things.

How attentively did her youngest sister listen to her words! And when
she next stood at night-time by her open window, gazing upward through
the blue waters, she thought so intensely of the great noisy city that
she fancied she could hear the church-bells ringing.

Next year the second sister received permission to swim wherever she
pleased. She rose to the surface of the sea, just when the sun was
setting; and this sight so delighted her, that she declared it to be
more beautiful than anything else she had seen above the waters.

‘The whole sky seemed tinged with gold,’ said she, ‘and it is impossible
for me to describe to you the beauty of the clouds. Now red, now violet,
they glided over me; but still more swiftly flew over the water a flock
of white swans, just where the sun was descending; I looked after them,
but the sun disappeared, and the bright rosy light on the surface of the
sea and on the edges of the clouds was gradually extinguished.’

[Illustration: SHE WAS ON THE WHOLE A SENSIBLE SORT OF LADY]

It was now time for the third sister to visit the upper world. She was
the boldest of the six, and ventured up a river. On its shores she saw
green hills covered with woods and vineyards, from among which arose
houses and castles; she heard the birds singing, and the sun shone with
so much power, that she was continually obliged to plunge below, in
order to cool her burning face. In a little bay she met with a number of
children, who were bathing and jumping about; she would have joined in
their gambols, but the children fled back to land in great terror, and a
little black animal barked at her in such a manner, that she herself was
frightened at last, and swam back to the sea. She could not, however,
forget the green woods, the verdant hills, and the pretty children,
who, although they had no fins, were swimming about in the river so
fearlessly.

The fourth sister was not so bold, she remained in the open sea, and
said on her return home she thought nothing could be more beautiful. She
had seen ships sailing by, so far off that they looked like sea-gulls,
she had watched the merry dolphins gambolling in the water, and the
enormous whales, sending up into the air a thousand sparkling fountains.

The year after, the fifth sister attained her fifteenth year. Her
birthday happened at a different season to that of her sisters; it was
winter, the sea was of a green colour, and immense icebergs were
floating on its surface. These, she said, looked like pearls; they were,
however, much larger than the church-towers in the land of human beings.
She sat down upon one of these pearls, and let the wind play with her
long hair, but then all the ships hoisted their sails in terror, and
escaped as quickly as possible. In the evening the sky was covered with
sails; and whilst the great mountains of ice alternately sank and rose
again, and beamed with a reddish glow, flashes of lightning burst forth
from the clouds, and the thunder rolled on, peal after peal. The sails
of all the ships were instantly furled, and horror and affright reigned
on board, but the princess sat still on the iceberg, looking
unconcernedly at the blue zig-zag of the flashes.

The first time that either of these sisters rose out of the sea, she was
quite enchanted at the sight of so many new and beautiful objects, but
the novelty was soon over, and it was not long ere their own home
appeared more attractive than the upper world, for there only did they
find everything agreeable.

Many an evening would the five sisters rise hand in hand from the depths
of the ocean. Their voices were far sweeter than any human voice, and
when a storm was coming on, they would swim in front of the ships, and
sing,--oh! how sweetly did they sing! describing the happiness of those
who lived at the bottom of the sea, and entreating the sailors not to be
afraid, but to come down to them.

The mariners, however, did not understand their words; they fancied the
song was only the whistling of the wind, and thus they lost the hidden
glories of the sea; for if their ships were wrecked, all on board were
drowned, and none but dead men ever entered the Mer-king’s palace.

Whilst the sisters were swimming at evening-time, the youngest would
remain motionless and alone, in her father’s palace, looking up after
them. She would have wept, but mermaids cannot weep, and therefore, when
they are troubled, suffer infinitely more than human beings do.

‘Oh, if I were but fifteen!’ sighed she, ‘I know that I should love the
upper world and its inhabitants so much.’

At last the time she had so longed for arrived.

‘Well, now it is your turn,’ said the grandmother; ‘come here, that I
may adorn you like your sisters.’ And she wound around her hair a wreath
of white lilies, whose every petal was the half of a pearl, and then
commanded eight large oysters to fasten themselves to the princess’s
tail, in token of her high rank.

‘But that is so very uncomfortable!’ said the little princess.

‘One must not mind slight inconveniences when one wishes to look well,’
said the old lady.

How willingly would the princess have given up all this splendour, and
exchanged her heavy crown for the red flowers of her garden, which were
so much more becoming to her. But she dared not do so. ‘Farewell,’ said
she; and she rose from the sea, light as a flake of foam.

[Illustration: THE YOUNGEST WAS THE MOST LOVELY]

When, for the first time in her life, she appeared on the surface of the
water, the sun had just sunk below the horizon, the clouds were beaming
with bright golden and rosy hues, the evening star was shining in the
pale western sky, the air was mild and refreshing, and the sea as smooth
as a looking-glass. A large ship with three masts lay on the still
waters; one sail only was unfurled, but not a breath was stirring, and
the sailors were quietly seated on the cordage and ladders of the
vessel. Music and song resounded from the deck, and after it grew dark
hundreds of lamps all on a sudden burst forth into light, whilst
innumerable flags were fluttering overhead. The little mermaid swam
close up to the captain’s cabin, and every now and then when the ship
was raised by the motion of the water, she could look through the clear
window panes. She saw within many richly dressed men; the handsomest
among them was a young prince with large black eyes. He could not
certainly be more than sixteen years old, and it was in honour of his
birthday that a grand festival was being celebrated. The crew were
dancing on the deck, and when the young prince appeared among them, a
hundred rockets were sent up into the air, turning night into day, and
so terrifying the little mermaid, that for some minutes she plunged
beneath the water. However, she soon raised her little head again, and
then it seemed as if all the stars were falling down upon her. Such a
fiery shower she had never even seen before, never had she heard that
men possessed such wonderful powers. Large suns revolved around her,
bright fishes swam in the air, and everything was reflected perfectly on
the clear surface of the sea. It was so light in the ship, that
everything could be seen distinctly. Oh, how happy the young prince was!
He shook hands with the sailors, laughed and jested with them, whilst
sweet notes of music mingled with the silence of night.

It was now late, but the little mermaid could not tear herself away from
the ship and the handsome young prince. She remained looking through the
cabin window, rocked to and fro by the waves. There was a foaming and
fermentation in the depths beneath, and the ship began to move on
faster; the sails were spread, the waves rose high, thick clouds
gathered over the sky, and the noise of distant thunder was heard. The
sailors perceived that a storm was coming on, so they again furled the
sails. The great vessel was tossed about on the tempestuous ocean like a
light boat, and the waves rose to an immense height, towering over the
ship, which alternately sank beneath and rose above them. To the little
mermaid this seemed most delightful, but the ship’s crew thought very
differently. The vessel cracked, the stout masts bent under the violence
of the billows, the waters rushed in. For a minute the ship tottered to
and fro, then the main-mast broke, as if it had been a reed; the ship
turned over, and was filled with water. The little mermaid now perceived
that the crew was in danger, for she herself was forced to beware of the
beams and splinters torn from the vessel, and floating about on the
waves. But at the same time it became pitch dark so that she could not
distinguish anything; presently, however, a dreadful flash of lightning
disclosed to her the whole of the wreck. Her eyes sought the young
prince--the same instant the ship sank to the bottom. At first she was
delighted, thinking that the prince must now come to her abode; but she
soon remembered that man cannot live in water, and that therefore if the
prince ever entered her palace, it would be as a corpse.

‘Die! no, he must not die!’ She swam through the fragments with which
the water was strewn regardless of the danger she was incurring, and at
last found the prince all but exhausted, and with great difficulty
keeping his head above water. He had already closed his eyes, and must
inevitably have been drowned, had not the little mermaid come to his
rescue. She seized hold of him and kept him above water, suffering the
current to bear them on together.

Towards morning the storm was hushed; no trace, however, remained of the
ship. The sun rose like fire out of the sea; his beams seemed to
restore colour to the prince’s cheeks, but his eyes were still closed.
The mermaid kissed his high forehead and stroked his wet hair away from
his face. He looked like the marble statue in her garden; she kissed him
again and wished most fervently that he might recover.

She now saw the dry land with its mountains glittering with snow. A
green wood extended along the coast, and at the entrance of the wood
stood a chapel or convent, she could not be sure which. Citron and lemon
trees grew in the garden adjoining it, an avenue of tall palm trees led
up to the door. The sea here formed a little bay, in which the water was
quite smooth but very deep, and under the cliffs there were dry, firm
sands. Hither swam the little mermaid with the seemingly dead prince;
she laid him upon the warm sand, and took care to place his head high,
and to turn his face to the sun.

The bells began to ring in the large white building which stood before
her, and a number of young girls came out to walk in the garden. The
mermaid went away from the shore, hid herself behind some stones,
covered her head with foam, so that her little face could not be seen,
and watched the prince with unremitting attention.

It was not long before one of the young girls approached. She seemed
quite frightened at finding the prince in this state, apparently dead;
soon, however, she recovered herself, and ran back to call her sisters.
The little mermaid saw that the prince revived, and that all around
smiled kindly and joyfully upon him--for her, however, he looked not, he
knew not that it was she who had saved him, and when the prince was
taken into the house she felt so sad, that she immediately plunged
beneath the water, and returned to her father’s palace.

If she had been before quiet and thoughtful, she now grew still more
so. Her sisters asked her what she had seen in the upper world, but she
made no answer.

Many an evening she rose to the place where she had left the prince. She
saw the snow on the mountains melt, the fruits in the garden ripen and
gathered, but the prince she never saw, so she always returned
sorrowfully to her subterranean abode. Her only pleasure was to sit in
her little garden gazing on the beautiful statue so like the prince. She
cared no longer for her flowers; they grew up in wild luxuriance,
covered the steps, and entwined their long stems and tendrils among the
boughs of the trees, so that her whole garden became a bower.

At last, being unable to conceal her sorrow any longer, she revealed the
secret to one of her sisters, who told it to the other princesses, and
they to some of their friends. Among them was a young mermaid who
recollected the prince, having been an eye-witness herself to the
festivities in the ship; she knew also in what country the prince lived,
and the name of its king.

‘Come, little sister!’ said the princesses, and embracing her, they rose
together arm in arm, out of the water, just in front of the prince’s
palace.

This palace was built of bright yellow stones, a flight of white marble
steps led from it down to the sea. A gilded cupola crowned the building,
and white marble figures, which might almost have been taken for real
men and women, were placed among the pillars surrounding it. Through the
clear glass of the high windows one might look into magnificent
apartments hung with silken curtains, the walls adorned with magnificent
paintings. It was a real treat to the little royal mermaids to behold so
splendid an abode; they gazed through the windows of one of the largest
rooms, and in the centre saw a fountain playing, whose waters sprang up
so high as to reach the glittering cupola above, through which the
sunbeams fell dancing on the water, and brightening the pretty plants
which grew around it.

The little mermaid now knew where her beloved prince dwelt, and
henceforth she went there almost every evening. She often approached
nearer the land than her sisters had ventured, and even swam up the
narrow channel that flowed under the marble balcony. Here on a bright
moonlight night, she would watch the young prince, who believed himself
alone.

Sometimes she saw him sailing on the water in a gaily painted boat with
many coloured flags waving above. She would then hide among the green
reeds which grew on the banks, listening to his voice, and if any one in
the boat noticed the rustling of her long silver veil, which was caught
now and then by the light breeze, they only fancied it was a swan
flapping his wings.

Many a night when the fishermen were casting their nets by the beacon’s
light, she heard them talking of the prince, and relating the noble
actions he had performed. She was then so happy, thinking how she had
saved his life when struggling with the waves, and remembering how his
head had rested on her bosom, and how she had kissed him when he knew
nothing of it, and could never even dream of such a thing.

Human beings became more and more dear to her every day; she wished that
she were one of them. Their world seemed to her much larger than that of
the mer-people; they could fly over the ocean in their ships, as well as
climb to the summits of those high mountains that rose above the clouds;
and their wooded domains extended much farther than a mermaid’s eye
could penetrate.

There were many things that she wished to hear explained, but her
sisters could not give her any satisfactory answer; she was again
obliged to have recourse to the old queen-mother, who knew a great deal
about the upper world, which she used to call ‘the country above the
sea.’

‘Do men when they are not drowned live for ever?’ she asked one day. ‘Do
they not die as we do, who live at the bottom of the sea?’

‘Yes,’ was the grandmother’s reply, ‘they must die like us, and their
life is much shorter than ours. We live to the age of three hundred
years, but when we die, we become foam on the sea, and are not allowed
even to share a grave among those that are dear to us. We have no
immortal souls, we can never live again, and are like the grass which,
when once cut down, is withered for ever. Human beings, on the contrary,
have souls that continue to live when their bodies become dust, and as
we rise out of the water to admire the abode of man, they ascend to
glorious unknown dwellings in the skies which we are not permitted to
see.’

‘Why have not _we_ immortal souls?’ asked the little mermaid. ‘I would
willingly give up my three hundred years to be a human being for only
one day, thus to become entitled to that heavenly world above.’

‘You must not think of that,’ answered her grandmother, ‘it is much
better as it is; we live longer and are far happier than human beings.’

‘So I must die, and be dashed like foam over the sea, never to rise
again and hear the gentle murmur of the ocean, never again see the
beautiful flowers and the bright sun! Tell me, dear grandmother, are
there no means by which I may obtain an immortal soul?’

‘No!’ replied the old lady. ‘It is true that if thou couldst so win the
affections of a human being as to become dearer to him than either
father or mother; if he loved thee with all his heart, and promised
whilst the priest joined his hands with thine to be always faithful to
thee; then his soul would flow into thine, and thou wouldst then become
partaker of human bliss. But that can never be! for what in our eyes is
the most beautiful part of our body, the tail, the inhabitants of the
earth think hideous, they cannot bear it. To appear handsome to them,
the body must have two clumsy props which they call legs.’

The little mermaid sighed and looked mournfully at the scaly part of her
form, otherwise so fair and delicate.

‘We are happy,’ added the old lady, ‘we shall jump and swim about
merrily for three hundred years; that is a long time, and afterwards we
shall repose peacefully in death. This evening we have a court ball.’

The ball which the queen-mother spoke of was far more splendid than any
that earth has ever seen. The walls of the saloon were of crystal, very
thick, but yet very clear; hundreds of large mussel-shells were planted
in rows along them; these shells were some of rose-colour, some green as
grass, but all sending forth a bright light, which not only illuminated
the whole apartment, but also shone through the glassy walls so as to
light up the waters around for a great space, and making the scales of
the numberless fishes, great and small, crimson and purple, silver and
gold-coloured, appear more brilliant than ever.

Through the centre of the saloon flowed a bright, clear stream, on the
surface of which danced mermen and mermaids to the melody of their own
sweet voices, voices far sweeter than those of the dwellers upon earth.
The little princess sang more harmoniously than any other, and they
clapped their hands and applauded her. She was pleased at this, for she
knew well that there was neither on earth or in the sea a more beautiful
voice than hers. But her thoughts soon returned to the world above her:
she could not forget the handsome prince; she could not control her
sorrow at not having an immortal soul. She stole away from her father’s
palace, and whilst all was joy within, she sat alone lost in thought in
her little neglected garden. On a sudden she heard the tones of horns
resounding over the water far away in the distance, and she said to
herself, ‘Now he is going out to hunt, he whom I love more than my
father and my mother, with whom my thoughts are constantly occupied, and
to whom I would so willingly trust the happiness of my life! All! all,
will I risk to win him--and an immortal soul! Whilst my sisters are
still dancing in the palace, I will go to the enchantress whom I have
hitherto feared so much, but who is, nevertheless, the only person who
can advise and help me.’

[Illustration: THEY ATE FROM THEIR HANDS]

So the little mermaid left the garden, and went to the foaming whirlpool
beyond which dwelt the enchantress. She had never been this way
before--neither flowers nor sea-grass bloomed along her path; she had to
traverse an extent of bare grey sand till she reached the whirlpool,
whose waters were eddying and whizzing like mill-wheels, tearing
everything they could seize along with them into the abyss below. She
was obliged to make her way through this horrible place, in order to
arrive at the territory of the enchantress. Then she had to pass through
a boiling, slimy bog, which the enchantress called her turf-moor: her
house stood in a wood beyond this, and a strange abode it was. All the
trees and bushes around were polypi, looking like hundred-headed
serpents shooting up out of the ground; their branches were long slimy
arms with fingers of worms, every member, from the root to the uttermost
tip, ceaselessly moving and extending on all sides. Whatever they seized
they fastened upon so that it could not loosen itself from their grasp.
The little mermaid stood still for a minute looking at this horrible
wood; her heart beat with fear, and she would certainly have returned
without attaining her object, had she not remembered the prince--and
immortality. The thought gave her new courage, she bound up her long
waving hair, that the polypi might not catch hold of it, crossed her
delicate arms over her bosom, and, swifter than a fish can glide through
the water, she passed these unseemly trees, who stretched their eager
arms after her in vain. She could not, however, help seeing that every
polypus had something in his grasp, held as firmly by a thousand little
arms as if enclosed by iron bands. The whitened skeletons of a number of
human beings who had been drowned in the sea, and had sunk into the
abyss, grinned horribly from the arms of these polypi; helms, chests,
skeletons of land animals were also held in their embrace; among other
things might be seen even a little mermaid whom they had seized and
strangled! What a fearful sight for the unfortunate princess!

But she got safely through this wood of horrors, and then arrived at a
slimy place, where immense, fat snails were crawling about, and in the
midst of this place stood a house built of the bones of unfortunate
people who had been shipwrecked. Here sat the witch caressing a toad in
the same manner as some persons would a pet bird. The ugly fat snails
she called her chickens, and she permitted them to crawl about her.

‘I know well what you would ask of me,’ said she to the little princess.
‘Your wish is foolish enough, yet it shall be fulfilled, though its
accomplishment is sure to bring misfortune on you, my fairest princess.
You wish to get rid of your tail, and to have instead two stilts like
those of human beings, in order that a young prince may fall in love
with you, and that you may obtain an immortal soul. Is it not so?’
Whilst the witch spoke these words, she laughed so violently that her
pet toad and snails fell from her lap. ‘You come just at the right
time,’ continued she; ‘had you come after sunset, it would not have been
in my power to have helped you before another year. I will prepare for
you a drink with which you must swim to land, you must sit down upon the
shore and swallow it, and then your tail will fall and shrink up to the
things which men call legs. This transformation will, however, be very
painful; you will feel as though a sharp knife passed through your body.
All who look on you after you have been thus changed will say that you
are the loveliest child of earth they have ever seen; you will retain
your peculiar undulating movements, and no dancer will move so lightly,
but every step you take will cause you pain all but unbearable; it will
seem to you as though you were walking on the sharp edges of swords, and
your blood will flow. Can you endure all this suffering? If so, I will
grant your request.’

‘Yes, I will,’ answered the princess, with a faltering voice; for she
remembered her dear prince, and the immortal soul which her suffering
might win.

‘Only consider,’ said the witch, ‘that you can never again become a
mermaid, when once you have received a human form. You may never return
to your sisters, and your father’s palace; and unless you shall win the
prince’s love to such a degree that he shall leave father and mother for
you, that you shall be mixed up with all his thoughts and wishes, and
unless the priest join your hands, so that you become man and wife, you
will never obtain the immortality you seek. The morrow of the day on
which he is united to another will see your death; your heart will break
with sorrow, and you will be changed to foam on the sea.’

‘Still I will venture!’ said the little mermaid, pale and trembling as a
dying person.

‘Besides all this, I must be paid, and it is no slight thing that I
require for my trouble. Thou hast the sweetest voice of all the dwellers
in the sea, and thou thinkest by its means to charm the prince; this
voice, however, I demand as my recompense. The best thing thou
possessest I require in exchange for my magic drink; for I shall be
obliged to sacrifice my own blood, in order to give it the sharpness of
a two-edged sword.’

‘But if you take my voice from me,’ said the princess, ‘what have I left
with which to charm the prince?’

‘Thy graceful form,’ replied the witch, ‘thy modest gait, and speaking
eyes. With such as these, it will be easy to infatuate a vain human
heart. Well now! hast thou lost courage? Put out thy little tongue, that
I may cut it off, and take it for myself, in return for my magic drink.’

‘Be it so!’ said the princess, and the witch took up her caldron, in
order to mix her potion. ‘Cleanliness is a good thing,’ remarked she,
as she began to rub the caldron with a handful of toads and snails. She
then scratched her bosom, and let the black blood trickle down into the
caldron, every moment throwing in new ingredients, the smoke from the
mixture assuming such horrible forms, as were enough to fill beholders
with terror, and a moaning and groaning proceeding from it, which might
be compared to the weeping of crocodiles. The magic drink at length
became clear and transparent as pure water; it was ready.

‘Here it is!’ said the witch to the princess, cutting out her tongue at
the same moment. The poor little mermaid was now dumb: she could neither
sing nor speak.

‘If the polypi should attempt to seize you, as you pass through my
little grove,’ said the witch, ‘you have only to sprinkle some of this
magic drink over them, and their arms will burst into a thousand
pieces.’ But the princess had no need of this counsel, for the polypi
drew hastily back, as soon as they perceived the bright phial, that
glittered in her hand like a star; thus she passed safely through the
formidable wood over the moor, and across the foaming mill-stream.

She now looked once again at her father’s palace; the lamps in the
saloon were extinguished, and all the family were asleep. She would not
go in, for she could not speak if she did; she was about to leave her
home for ever; her heart was ready to break with sorrow at the thought;
she stole into the garden, plucked a flower from the bed of each of her
sisters as a remembrance, kissed her hand again and again, and then rose
through the dark blue waters to the world above.

The sun had not yet risen when she arrived at the prince’s dwelling, and
ascended those well-known marble steps. The moon still shone in the sky
when the little mermaid drank off the wonderful liquid contained in her
phial. She felt it run through her like a sharp knife, and she fell
down in a swoon. When the sun rose, she awoke; and felt a burning pain
in all her limbs, but--she saw standing close to her the object of her
love, the handsome young prince, whose coal-black eyes were fixed
inquiringly upon her. Full of shame she cast down her own, and
perceived, instead of the long fish-like tail she had hitherto borne,
two slender legs; but she was quite naked, and tried in vain to cover
herself with her long thick hair. The prince asked who she was, and how
she had got there; and she, in reply, smiled and gazed upon him with her
bright blue eyes, for alas! she could not speak. He then led her by the
hand into the palace. She found that the witch had told her true--she
felt as though she were walking on the edges of sharp swords, but she
bore the pain willingly; on she passed, light as a zephyr, and all who
saw her wondered at her light, undulating movements.

When she entered the palace, rich clothes of muslin and silk were
brought to her; she was lovelier than all who dwelt there, but she could
neither speak nor sing. Some female slaves, gaily dressed in silk and
gold brocade, sang before the prince and his royal parents; and one of
them distinguished herself by her clear sweet voice, which the prince
applauded by clapping his hands. This made the little mermaid very sad,
for she knew that she used to sing far better than the young slave.
‘Alas!’ thought she, ‘if he did but know that, for his sake, I have
given away my voice for ever.’

The slaves began to dance; our lovely little mermaiden then arose,
stretched out her delicate white arms, and hovered gracefully about the
room. Every motion displayed more and more the perfect symmetry and
elegance of her figure; and the expression which beamed in her speaking
eyes touched the hearts of the spectators far more than the song of the
slaves.

All present were enchanted, but especially the young prince, who called
her his dear little foundling. And she danced again and again, although
every step cost her excessive pain. The prince then said she should
always be with him; and accordingly a sleeping-place was prepared for
her on velvet cushions in the anteroom of his own apartment.

The prince caused a suit of male apparel to be made for her, in order
that she might accompany him in his rides; so together they traversed
the fragrant woods, where green boughs brushed against their shoulders,
and the birds sang merrily among the fresh leaves. With him she climbed
up steep mountains, and although her tender feet bled, so as to be
remarked by the attendants, she only smiled, and followed her dear
prince to the heights, whence they could see the clouds chasing each
other beneath them, like a flock of birds migrating to other countries.

During the night she would, when all in the palace were at rest, walk
down the marble steps, in order to cool her feet in the deep waters; she
would then think of those beloved ones who dwelt in the lower world.

One night, as she was thus bathing her feet, her sisters swam together
to the spot, arm in arm and singing, but alas! so mournfully! She
beckoned to them, and they immediately recognised her, and told her how
great was the mourning in her father’s house for her loss. From this
time the sisters visited her every night; and once they brought with
them the old grandmother, who had not seen the upper world for a great
many years; they likewise brought their father, the Mer-king, with his
crown on his head; but these two old people did not venture near enough
to land to be able to speak to her.

The little mermaiden became dearer and dearer to the prince every day;
but he only looked upon her as a sweet, gentle child, and the thought of
making her his wife never entered his head. And yet his wife she must
be, ere she could receive an immortal soul; his wife she must be, or she
would change into foam, and be driven restlessly over the billows of the
sea!

‘Dost thou not love me above all others?’ her eyes seemed to ask, as he
pressed her fondly in his arms, and kissed her lovely brow.

[Illustration: MANY AN EVENING SHE ROSE TO THE PLACE]

‘Yes,’ the prince would say, ‘thou art dearer to me than any other, for
no one is as good as thou art! Thou lovest me so much; and thou art so
like a young maiden whom I have seen but once, and may never see again.
I was on board a ship, which was wrecked by a sudden tempest; the waves
threw me on the shore, near a holy temple, where a number of young girls
are occupied constantly with religious services. The youngest of them
found me on the shore, and saved my life. I saw her only once, but her
image is vividly impressed upon my memory, and her alone can I love. But
she belongs to the holy temple; and thou who resemblest her so much hast
been given to me for consolation; never will we be parted!’

‘Alas! he does not know that it was I who saved his life,’ thought the
little mermaiden, sighing deeply; ‘I bore him over the wild waves, into
the wooded bay, where the holy temple stood; I sat behind the rocks,
waiting till some one should come. I saw the pretty maiden approach,
whom he loves more than me,’--and again she heaved a deep sigh, for she
could not weep. ‘He said that the young girl belongs to the holy temple;
she never comes out into the world, so they cannot meet each other
again,--and I am always with him, see him daily; I will love him, and
devote my whole life to him.’

‘So the prince is going to be married to the beautiful daughter of the
neighbouring king,’ said the courtiers, ‘that is why he is having that
splendid ship fitted out. It is announced that he wishes to travel, but
in reality he goes to see the princess; a numerous retinue will
accompany him.’ The little mermaiden smiled at these and similar
conjectures, for she knew the prince’s intentions better than any one
else.

‘I must go,’ he said to her, ‘I must see the beautiful princess; my
parents require me to do so; but they will not compel me to marry her,
and bring her home as my bride. And it is quite impossible for me to
love her, for she cannot be so like the beautiful girl in the temple as
thou art; and if I were obliged to choose, I should prefer thee, my
little silent foundling, with the speaking eyes.’ And he kissed her rosy
lips, played with her locks, and folded her in his arms, whereupon arose
in her heart a sweet vision of human happiness, and immortal bliss.

‘Thou art not afraid of the sea, art thou, my sweet silent child?’ asked
he tenderly, as they stood together in the splendid ship, which was to
take them to the country of the neighbouring king. And then he told her
of the storms that sometimes agitate the waters; of the strange fishes
that inhabit the deep, and of the wonderful things seen by divers. But
she smiled at his words, for she knew better than any child of earth
what went on in the depths of the ocean.

At night-time, when the moon shone brightly, and when all on board were
fast asleep, she sat in the ship’s gallery, looking down into the sea.
It seemed to her, as she gazed through the foamy track made by the
ship’s keel, that she saw her father’s palace, and her grandmother’s
silver crown. She then saw her sisters rise out of the water, looking
sorrowful and stretching out their hands towards her. She nodded to
them, smiled, and would have explained that everything was going on
quite according to her wishes; but just then the cabin boy approached,
upon which the sisters plunged beneath the water so suddenly that the
boy thought what he had seen on the waves was nothing but foam.

The next morning the ship entered the harbour of the king’s splendid
capital. Bells were rung, trumpets sounded, and soldiers marched in
procession through the city, with waving banners, and glittering
bayonets. Every day witnessed some new entertainments, balls and parties
followed each other; the princess, however, was not yet in the town; she
had been sent to a distant convent for education, and had there been
taught the practice of all royal virtues. At last she arrived at the
palace.

The little mermaid had been anxious to see this unparalleled princess;
and she was now obliged to confess that she had never before seen so
beautiful a creature.

The skin of the princess was so white and delicate that the veins might
be seen through it, and her dark eyes sparkled beneath a pair of finely
formed eye-brows.

‘It is herself!’ exclaimed the prince, when they met, ‘it is she who
saved my life, when I lay like a corpse on the sea-shore!’ and he
pressed his blushing bride to his beating heart.

‘Oh, I am all too happy!’ said he to his dumb foundling. ‘What I never
dared to hope for has come to pass. Thou must rejoice in my happiness,
for thou lovest me more than all others who surround me.’--And the
little mermaid kissed his hand in silent sorrow; it seemed to her as if
her heart was breaking already, although the morrow of his marriage-day,
which must inevitably see her death, had not yet dawned.

Again rung the church-bells, whilst heralds rode through the streets of
the capital, to announce the approaching bridal. Odorous flames burned
in silver candlesticks on all the altars; the priests swung their golden
censers; and bride and bridegroom joined hands, whilst the holy words
that united them were spoken. The little mermaid, clad in silk and cloth
of gold, stood behind the princess, and held the train of the bridal
dress; but her ear heard nothing of the solemn music; her eye saw not
the holy ceremony; she remembered her approaching end, she remembered
that she had lost both this world and the next.

That very same evening bride and bridegroom went on board the ship;
cannons were fired, flags waved with the breeze, and in the centre of
the deck stood a magnificent pavilion of purple and cloth of gold,
fitted up with the richest and softest couches. Here the princely pair
were to spend the night. A favourable wind swelled the sails, and the
ship glided lightly over the blue waters.

As soon as it was dark, coloured lamps were hung out and dancing began
on the deck. The little mermaid was thus involuntarily reminded of what
she had seen the first time she rose to the upper world. The spectacle
that now presented itself was equally splendid--and she was obliged to
join in the

[Illustration: WHEN THE SUN AROSE SHE AWOKE]

dance, hovering lightly as a bird over the ship boards. All applauded
her, for never had she danced with more enchanting grace. Her little
feet suffered extremely, but she no longer felt the pain; the anguish
her heart suffered was much greater. It was the last evening she might
see him, for whose sake she had forsaken her home and all her family,
had given away her beautiful voice, and suffered daily the most violent
pain--all without his having the least suspicion of it. It was the last
evening that she might breathe the same atmosphere in which he, the
beloved one, lived; the last evening when she might behold the deep blue
sea, and the starry heavens--an eternal night, in which she might
neither think nor dream, awaited her. And all was joy in the ship; and
she, her heart filled with thoughts of death and annihilation, smiled
and danced with the others, till past midnight. Then the prince kissed
his lovely bride, and arm in arm they entered the magnificent tent
prepared for their repose.

All was now still; the steersman alone stood at the ship’s helm. The
little mermaid leaned her white arms on the gallery, and looked towards
the east, watching for the dawn; she well knew that the first sunbeam
would witness her dissolution. She saw her sisters rise out of the sea;
deadly pale were their features; and their long hair no more fluttered
over their shoulders, it had all been cut off.

‘We have given it to the witch,’ said they, ‘to induce her to help thee,
so that thou mayest not die. She has given to us a penknife: here it is!
Before the sun rises, thou must plunge it into the prince’s heart; and
when his warm blood trickles down upon thy feet they will again be
changed to a fish-like tail; thou wilt once more become a mermaid, and
wilt live thy full three hundred years, ere thou changest to foam on the
sea. But hasten! either he or thou must die before sunrise. Our aged
mother mourns for thee so much her grey hair has fallen off through
sorrow, as ours fell before the scissors of the witch. Kill the prince,
and come down to us! Hasten! hasten! dost thou not see the red streaks
on the eastern sky, announcing the near approach of the sun? A few
minutes more and he rises, and then all will be over with thee.’ At
these words they sighed deeply and vanished.

The little mermaid drew aside the purple curtains of the pavilion, where
lay the bride and bridegroom; bending over them, she kissed the prince’s
forehead, and then glancing at the sky, she saw that the dawning light
became every moment brighter. The prince’s lips unconsciously murmured
the name of his bride--he was dreaming of her, and her only, whilst the
fatal penknife trembled in the hand of the unhappy mermaid. All at once,
she threw far out into the sea that instrument of death; the waves rose
like bright blazing flames around, and the water where it fell seemed
tinged with blood. With eyes fast becoming dim and fixed, she looked
once more at her beloved prince; then plunged from the ship into the
sea, and felt her body slowly but surely dissolving into foam.

The sun rose from his watery bed; his beams fell so softly and warmly
upon her, that our little mermaid was scarcely sensible of dying. She
still saw the glorious sun; and over her head hovered a thousand
beautiful, transparent forms; she could still distinguish the white
sails of the ship, and the bright red clouds in the sky; the voices of
those airy creatures above her had a melody so sweet and soothing, that
a human ear would be as little able to catch the sound as her eye was
capable of distinguishing their forms; they hovered around her without
wings, borne by their own lightness through the air. The little mermaid
at last saw that she had a body as transparent as theirs; and felt
herself raised gradually from the foam of the sea to higher regions.

‘Where are they taking me?’ asked she, and her words sounded just like
the voices of those heavenly beings.

‘Speak you to the daughters of air?’ was the answer. ‘The mermaid has no
immortal soul, and can only acquire that heavenly gift by winning the
love of one of the sons of men; her immortality depends upon union with
man. Neither do the daughters of air possess immortal souls, but they
can acquire them by their own good deeds. We fly to hot countries, where
the children of earth are sinking under sultry pestilential breezes--our
fresh cooling breath revives them. We diffuse ourselves through the
atmosphere; we perfume it with the delicious fragrance of flowers; and
thus spread delight and health over the earth. By doing good in this
manner for three hundred years, we win immortality, and receive a share
of the eternal bliss of human beings. And thou, poor little mermaid!
who, following the impulse of thine own heart, hast done and suffered so
much, thou art now raised to the airy world of spirits, that by
performing deeds of kindness for three hundred years, thou mayest
acquire an immortal soul.’

The little mermaid stretched out her transparent arms to the sun; and,
for the first time in her life, tears moistened her eyes.

And now again all were awake and rejoicing in the ship; she saw the
prince, with his pretty bride; they had missed her; they looked
sorrowfully down on the foamy waters, as if they knew she had plunged
into the sea; unseen she kissed the bridegroom’s forehead, smiled upon
him, and then, with the rest of the children of air, soared high above
the rosy cloud which was sailing so peacefully over the ship.

[Illustration]

‘After three hundred years we shall fly in the kingdom of Heaven!’

‘We may arrive there even sooner,’ whispered one of her sisters. ‘We fly
invisibly through the dwellings of men, where there are children; and
whenever we find a good child, who gives pleasure to his parents and
deserves their love, the good God shortens our time of probation. No
child is aware that we are flitting about his room, and that whenever
joy draws from us a smile, a year is struck out of our three hundred.
But when we see a rude naughty child, we weep bitter tears of sorrow,
and every tear we shed adds a day to our time of probation.’

[Illustration]

[Illustration: FATHER-STORK]




THE STORKS


On the roof of a house situated at the extremity of a small town, a
stork had built his nest. There sat the mother-stork, with her four
young ones, who all stretched out their little black bills, which had
not yet become red. Not far off, upon the parapet, erect and proud,
stood the father-stork; he had drawn one of his legs under him, being
weary of standing on two. You might have fancied him carved in wood, he
stood so motionless. ‘It looks so grand,’ thought he, ‘for my wife to
have a sentinel to keep guard over her nest; people cannot know that I
am her husband, they will certainly think that I am commanded to stand
here--how well it looks!’ and so he remained standing on one leg.

In the street below, a number of children were playing together. When
they saw the storks, one of the liveliest amongst them began to sing as
much as he could remember of some old rhymes about storks, in which he
was soon joined by the others--

    ‘Stork! stork! long-legged stork!
     Into thy nest I prithee walk;
     There sits thy mate,
     With her four children so great.
     The first we’ll hang like a cat,
     The second we’ll burn,
     The third on a spit we’ll turn,
     The fourth drown dead as a rat!’

‘Only listen to what the boys are singing,’ said the little storks;
‘they say we shall be hanged and burnt!’

‘Never mind,’ said the mother, ‘don’t listen to them; they will do you
no harm.’

But the boys went on singing, and pointed their fingers at the storks:
only one little boy, called Peter, said ‘it was a sin to mock and tease
animals, and that he would have nothing to do with it.’

The mother-stork again tried to comfort her little ones. ‘Never mind,’
said she; ‘see how composedly your father is standing there, and upon
one leg only.’

‘But we are so frightened!’ said the young ones, drawing their heads
down into the nest.

The next day, when the children were again assembled to play together,
and saw the storks, they again began their song--

    ‘The first we ‘ll hang like a cat,
     The second we’ll burn!’

‘And are we really to be hanged and burnt?’ asked the young storks.

‘No indeed!’ said the mother. ‘You shall learn to fly: I will teach you
myself. Then we can fly over to the meadow, and pay a visit to the
frogs. They will bow to us in the water, and say, “Croak, croak!” and
then we shall eat them; will not that be nice?’

‘And what then?’ asked the little storks.

‘Then all the storks in the country will gather together, and the
autumnal exercise will begin. It is of the greatest consequence that you
should fly well then; for every one who does not, the general will stab
to death with his bill; so you must pay great attention when we begin to
drill you, and learn very quickly.’

‘Then we shall really be killed after all, as the boys said? Oh, listen!
they are singing it again!’

‘Attend to me, and not to them!’ said the mother. ‘After the grand
exercise, we shall fly to warm countries, far, far away from here, over
mountains and forests. We shall fly to Egypt, where are the
three-cornered stone houses whose summits reach the clouds; they are
called pyramids, and are older than it is possible for storks to
imagine. There is a river too, which overflows its banks, so as to make
the whole country like a marsh, and we shall go into the marsh and eat
frogs.’

‘Oh!’ said the young ones.

‘Yes, it is delightful! one does nothing but eat all the day long. And
whilst we are so comfortable, in this country not a single green leaf is
left on the trees, and it is so cold that the clouds are frozen, and
fall down upon the earth in little white pieces.’--She meant snow, but
she could not express herself more clearly.

‘And will the naughty boys be frozen to pieces too?’ asked the young
storks.

‘No, they will not be frozen to pieces; but they will be nearly as badly
off as if they were; they will be obliged to crowd round the fire in
their little dark rooms; while you, on the contrary, will be flying
about in foreign lands, where there are beautiful flowers and warm
sunshine.’

Well, time passed away, and the young storks grew so tall, that when
they stood upright in the nest they could see the country around to a
great distance. The father-stork used to bring them every day the nicest
little frogs, as well as snails, and all the other stork tit-bits he
could find. Oh! it was so droll to see him show them his tricks; he
would lay his head upon his tail, make a rattling noise with his bill,
and then tell them such charming stories all about the moors.

‘Now you must learn to fly!’ said the mother one day; and accordingly,
all the four young storks were obliged to come out upon the parapet.
Oh, how they trembled! And though they balanced themselves on their
wings, they were very near falling.

‘Only look at me,’ said the mother. ‘This is the way you must hold your
heads; and in this manner place your feet,--one, two! one, two! this
will help you to get on.’ She flew a little way, and the young ones made
an awkward spring after her,--bounce! down they fell; for their bodies
were heavy.

[Illustration: ‘STORK! STORK! LONG-LEGGED STORK!’]

‘I will not fly,’ said one of the young ones, as he crept back into the
nest. ‘I do not want to go into the warm countries!’

‘Do you want to be frozen to death during the winter? Shall the boys
come, and hang, burn, or roast you? Wait a little, I will call them!’

‘Oh no!’ said the little stork; and again he began to hop about on the
roof like the others. By the third day they could fly pretty well, and
so they thought they could also sit and take their ease in the air; but
bounce! down they tumbled, and found themselves obliged to make use of
their wings. The boys now came into the street, singing their favourite
song--

    ‘Stork! stork! long-legged stork!’

‘Shall not we fly down and peck out their eyes?’ said the young ones.

‘No, leave them alone!’ said the mother. ‘Attend to me, that is of much
more importance!--one, two, three, now to the right!--one, two, three,
now to the left, round the chimneypot! That was very well; you managed
your wings so neatly last time, that I will permit you to come with me
to-morrow to the marsh: several first-rate stork families will be there
with their children. Let it be said that mine are the prettiest and best
behaved of all; and remember to stand very upright, and to throw out
your chest; that looks well, and gives such an air of distinction!’

‘But are we not to take revenge upon those rude boys?’ asked the young
ones.

‘Let them screech as much as they please! You will fly among the clouds,
you will go to the land of the pyramids, when they must shiver with
cold, and have not a single green leaf to look at, nor a single sweet
apple to eat!’

‘Yes, we shall be revenged!’ whispered they one to another. And then
they were drilled again.

Of all the boys in the town, the forwardest in singing nonsensical
verses was always the same one who had begun teasing the storks, a
little urchin not more than six years old. The young storks indeed
fancied him a hundred years old, because he was bigger than either
their father or mother, and what should they know about the ages of
children, or grown up human beings! All their schemes of revenge were
aimed at this little boy; he had been the first to tease them, and
continued to do so. The young storks were highly excited about it, and
the older they grew, the less they were inclined to endure persecution.
Their mother, in order to pacify them, at last promised that they should
be revenged, but not until the last day of their stay in this place.

‘We must first see how you behave yourselves at the grand exercise; if
then you should fly badly, and the general should thrust his beak into
your breast, the boys will, in some measure, be proved in the right. Let
me see how well you will behave!’

‘Yes, that you shall!’ said the young ones. And now they really took
great pains, practised every day, and at last flew so lightly and
prettily, that it was a pleasure to see them.

[Illustration: AND FETCH ONE FOR EACH OF THE BOYS]

Well, now came the autumn. All the storks assembled, in order to fly
together to warm countries for the winter. What a practising there was!
Away they went over woods and fields, towns and villages, merely to see
how well they could fly, for they had a long journey before them. The
young storks distinguished themselves so honourably that they were
pronounced ‘worthy of frogs and serpents.’ This was the highest
character

[Illustration]

they could obtain; now they were allowed to eat frogs and serpents, and
accordingly they did eat them.

‘Now we will have our revenge!’ said they.

‘Very well!’ said the mother; ‘I have been thinking what will be the
best. I know where the pool is in which all the little human children
lie until the storks come and take them to their parents: the pretty
little things sleep and dream so pleasantly as they will never dream
again. All parents like to have a little child, and all children like to
have a little brother or sister. We will fly to the pool and fetch one
for each of the boys who has not sung that wicked song, nor made a jest
of the storks; and the other naughty children shall have none.’

‘But he who first sung those naughty rhymes! that great ugly fellow!
what shall we do to him?’ cried the young storks.

‘In the pool there lies a little child who has dreamed away his life; we
will take it for him, and he will weep because he has only a little dead
brother. But as to the good boy who said it was a sin to mock and tease
animals, surely you have not forgotten him? We will bring him two little
ones, a brother and a sister. And as this little boy’s name is Peter,
you too shall for the future be called “Peter!”’

And it came to pass just as the mother said; and all the storks were
called ‘Peter,’ and are still so called to this very day.

[Illustration: ‘OH! HOW PRETTY THAT IS!’ HE WOULD SAY]




THE NIGHTINGALE


In China, as you well know, the Emperor is Chinese, and all around him
are Chinese also. Now what I am about to relate happened many years ago,
but even on that very account it is the more important that you should
hear the story now, before it is forgotten.

The Emperor’s palace was the most magnificent palace in the world; it
was made entirely of fine porcelain, exceedingly costly; but at the same
time so brittle, that it was dangerous even to touch it.

The choicest flowers were to be seen in the garden; and to the most
splendid of all these little silver bells were fastened, in order that
their tinkling might prevent any one from passing by without noticing
them. Yes! everything in the Emperor’s garden was excellently well
arranged; and the garden extended so far, that even the gardener did not
know the end of it; whoever walked beyond it, however, came to a
beautiful wood, with very high trees; and beyond that, to the sea. The
wood went down quite to the sea, which was very deep and blue; large
ships could sail close under the branches; and among the branches dwelt
a nightingale, who sang so sweetly, that even the poor fisherman, who
had so much else to do, when he came out at night-time to cast his nets,
would stand still and listen to her song. ‘Oh! how pretty that is!’ he
would say--but then he was obliged to mind his work, and forget the
bird; yet the following night, if again the nightingale sang, and the
fisherman came out, again he would say, ‘Oh! how pretty that is!’

Travellers came from all parts of the world to the Emperor’s city; and
they admired the city, the palace, and the garden; but if they heard the
nightingale, they all said, ‘This is the best.’ And they talked about
her after they went home, and learned men wrote books about the city,
the palace, and the garden; nor did they forget the nightingale: she was
extolled above everything else; and poets wrote the most beautiful
verses about the nightingale of the wood near the sea.

These books went round the world, and one of them at last reached the
Emperor. He was sitting in his golden arm-chair; he read and read, and
nodded his head every moment; for these splendid descriptions of the
city, the palace, and the garden pleased him greatly. ‘But the
nightingale is the best of all,’ was written in the book.

‘What in the world is this?’ said the Emperor. ‘The nightingale! I do
not know it at all! Can there be such a bird in my empire, in my garden
even, without my having even heard of it? Truly one may learn something
from books.’

So he called his Cavalier;[1] now this was so grand a personage, that no
one of inferior rank might speak to him; and if one did venture to ask
him a question, his only answer was ‘Pish!’ which has no particular
meaning.

[1] Gentleman in waiting.

‘There is said to be a very remarkable bird here, called the
nightingale,’ said the Emperor; ‘her song, they say, is worth more than
anything else in all my dominions; why has no one ever told me of her?’

‘I have never before heard her mentioned,’ said the Cavalier; ‘she has
never been presented at court.’

‘I wish her to come, and sing before me this evening,’ said the
Emperor. ‘The whole world knows what I have, and I do not know it
myself!’

‘I have never before heard her mentioned,’ said the Cavalier, ‘but I
will seek her, I will find her.’

But where was she to be found? The Cavalier ran up one flight of steps,
down another, through halls, and through passages; not one of all whom
he met had ever heard of the nightingale; and the Cavalier returned to
the Emperor, and said, ‘It must certainly be an invention of the man who
wrote the book. Your Imperial Majesty must not believe all that is
written in books; much in them is pure invention, and there is what is
called the Black Art.’

‘But the book in which I have read it,’ said the Emperor, ‘was sent me
by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan, and therefore it cannot be
untrue. I wish to hear the nightingale; she must be here this evening,
and if she do not come, after supper the whole court shall be flogged.’

‘Tsing-pe!’ said the Cavalier; and again he ran upstairs, and
downstairs, through halls, and through passages, and half the court ran
with him; for not one would have relished the flogging. Many were the
questions asked respecting the wonderful nightingale, whom the whole
world talked of, and about whom no one at court knew anything.

At last they met a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said, ‘Oh yes!
the nightingale! I know her very well. Oh! how she can sing! Every
evening I carry the fragments left at table to my poor sick mother. She
lives by the sea-shore; and when I am coming back, and stay to rest a
little in the wood, I hear the nightingale sing; it makes the tears come
into my eyes! it is just as if my mother kissed me.’

‘Little kitchen maiden,’ said the Cavalier, ‘I will procure for you a
sure appointment in the kitchen, together with permission to see His
Majesty the Emperor dine, if you will conduct us to the nightingale, for
she is expected at court this evening.’

So they went together to the wood, where the nightingale was accustomed
to sing; and half the court went with them. Whilst on their way, a cow
began to low.

‘Oh!’ said the court pages, ‘now we have her! It is certainly an
extraordinary voice for so small an animal; surely I have heard it
somewhere before.’

‘No, those are cows you hear lowing,’ said the little kitchen-maid, ‘we
are still far from the place.’

The frogs were now croaking in the pond.

‘That is famous!’ said the chief court-preacher, ‘now I hear her; it
sounds just like little church-bells.’

‘No, those are frogs,’ said the little kitchen-maid, ‘but now I think we
shall soon hear her.’

Then began the nightingale to sing.

‘There she is!’ said the little girl. ‘Listen! listen! there she sits,’
and she pointed to a little grey bird up in the branches.

‘Is it possible?’ said the Cavalier. ‘I should not have thought it. How
simple she looks! she must certainly have changed colour at the sight of
so many distinguished personages.’

‘Little nightingale!’ called out the kitchen-maid, ‘our gracious Emperor
wishes you to sing something to him.’

‘With the greatest pleasure,’ said the nightingale, and she sang in such
a manner that it was delightful to hear her.

‘It sounds like glass bells,’ said the Cavalier. ‘And look at her little
throat, how it moves! It is singular that we should never have heard her
before; she will have great success at court.’

[Illustration]

‘Shall I sing again to the Emperor?’ asked the nightingale, for she
thought the Emperor was among them.

‘Most excellent nightingale!’ said the Cavalier, ‘I have the honour to
invite you to a court festival, which is to take place this evening,
when His Imperial Majesty will be enchanted with your delightful song.’

[Illustration: AMONG THE BRANCHES DWELT A NIGHTINGALE]

‘My song would sound far better among the green trees,’ said the
nightingale; however, she followed willingly when she heard that the
Emperor wished it.

There was a regular trimming and polishing at the palace; the walls and
the floors, which were all of porcelain, glittered with a thousand gold
lamps; the loveliest flowers, with the merriest tinkling bells, were
placed in the passages; there was a running to and fro, which made all
the bells to ring, so that one could not hear his own words.

In the midst of the grand hall where the Emperor sat, a golden perch was
erected, on which the nightingale was to sit. The whole court was
present, and the little kitchen-maid received permission to stand behind
the door, for she had now actually the rank and title of ‘Maid of the
Kitchen.’ All were dressed out in their finest clothes; and all eyes
were fixed upon the little grey bird, to whom the Emperor nodded as a
signal for her to begin.

And the nightingale sang so sweetly, that tears came into the Emperor’s
eyes, tears rolled down his cheeks; and the nightingale sang more
sweetly still, and touched the hearts of all who heard her; and the
Emperor was so merry, that he said, ‘The nightingale should have his
golden slippers, and wear them round her neck.’ But the nightingale
thanked him, and said she was already sufficiently rewarded.

‘I have seen tears in the Emperor’s eyes; that is the greatest reward I
can have. The tears of an Emperor have a particular value. Heaven knows
I am sufficiently rewarded.’ And then she sang again with her sweet,
lovely voice.

‘It is the most amiable coquetry ever known,’ said the ladies present;
and they put water into their mouths, and tried to move their throats as
she did when they spoke; they thought to become nightingales also.
Indeed even the footmen and chamber-maids declared that they were quite
contented; which was a great thing to say, for of all people they are
the most difficult to satisfy. Yes indeed! the nightingale’s success was
complete. She was now to remain at court, to have her own cage; with
permission to fly out twice in the day, and once in the night. Twelve
attendants were allotted her, who were to hold a silken band, fastened
round her foot; and they kept good hold. There was no pleasure in
excursions made in this manner.

[Illustration: THEY ADMIRED THE CITY, THE PALACE, AND THE GARDEN]

All the city was talking of the wonderful bird; and when two persons
met, one would say only ‘night,’ and the other ‘gale,’ and then they
sighed, and understood each other perfectly; indeed eleven of the
children of the citizens were named after the nightingale, but none of
them had her tones in their throats.

One day a large parcel arrived for the Emperor, on which was written
‘Nightingale.’

‘Here we have another new book about our far-famed bird,’ said the
Emperor. But it was not a book; it was a little piece of mechanism,
lying in a box; an artificial nightingale, which was intended to look
like the living one, but was covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and
sapphires. When this artificial bird had been wound up, it could sing
one of the tunes that the real nightingale sang; and its tail, all
glittering with silver and gold, went up and down all the time. A little
band was fastened round its neck, on which was written, ‘The nightingale
of the Emperor of China is poor compared with the nightingale of the
Emperor of Japan.’

‘That is famous!’ said every one; and he who had brought the bird
obtained the title of ‘Chief Imperial Nightingale Bringer.’ ‘Now they
shall sing together; we will have a duet.’

And so they must sing together; but it did not succeed, for the real
nightingale sang in her own way, and the artificial bird produced its
tones by wheels. ‘It is not his fault,’ said the artist, ‘he keeps exact
time and quite according to method.’

So the artificial bird must now sing alone; he was quite as successful
as the real nightingale; and then he was so much prettier to look at;
his plumage sparkled like jewels.

Three and thirty times he sang one and the same tune, and yet he was not
weary; every one would willingly have heard

[Illustration: THE KITCHEN-MAID]

him again; however, the Emperor now wished the real nightingale should
sing something--but where was she? No one had remarked that she had
flown out of the open window; flown away to her own green wood.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ said the Emperor; and all the courtiers
abused the nightingale, and called her a most ungrateful creature. ‘We
have the best bird at all events,’ said they, and for the four and
thirtieth time they heard the same tune, but still they did not quite
know it, because it was so difficult. The artist praised the bird
inordinately; indeed he declared it was superior to the real
nightingale, not only in its exterior, all sparkling with diamonds, but
also intrinsically.

‘For see, my noble lords, his Imperial Majesty especially, with the real
nightingale, one could never reckon on what was coming; but everything
is settled with the artificial bird; he will sing in this one way, and
no other: this can be proved, he can be taken to pieces, and the works
can be shown, where the wheels lie, how they move, and how one follows
from another.’

‘That is just what I think,’ said everybody; and the artist received
permission to show the bird to the people on the following Sunday. ‘They
too should hear him sing,’ the Emperor said. So they heard him, and were
as well pleased as if they had all been drinking tea; for it is tea that
makes Chinese merry, and they all said oh! and raised their
fore-fingers, and nodded their heads. But the fisherman, who had heard
the real nightingale, said, ‘It sounds very pretty, almost like the real
bird; but yet there is something wanting, I do not know what.’

The real nightingale was, however, banished the empire.

The artificial bird had his place on a silken cushion, close to the
Emperor’s bed; all the presents he received, gold and precious stones,
lay around him; he had obtained the rank and title of ‘High Imperial
Dessert Singer,’ and, therefore, his place was number one on the left
side; for the Emperor thought that the side where the heart was situated
must be the most honourable, and the heart is situated on the left side
of an Emperor, as well as with other folks.

And the artist wrote five and twenty volumes about the artificial bird,
with the longest and most difficult words that are to be found in the
Chinese language. So, of course, all said they had read and understood
them, otherwise they would have been stupid, and perhaps would have been
flogged.

Thus it went on for a year. The Emperor, the court, and all the Chinese
knew every note of the artificial bird’s song by heart; but that was the
very reason they enjoyed it so much, they could now sing with him. The
little boys in the street sang ‘Zizizi, cluck, cluck, cluck!’ and the
Emperor himself sang too--yes indeed, that was charming!

But one evening, when the bird was in full voice, and the Emperor lay in
bed, and listened, there was suddenly a noise, ‘bang,’ inside the bird,
then something sprang ‘fur-r-r-r,’ all the wheels were running about,
and the music stopped.

The Emperor jumped quickly out of bed, and had his chief physician
called; but of what use could he be? Then a clockmaker was fetched, and
at last, after a great deal of discussion and consultation, the bird was
in some measure put to rights again; but the clockmaker said he must be
spared much singing, for the pegs were almost worn out, and it was
impossible to renew them, at least so that the music should be correct.

There was great lamentation, for now the artificial bird was allowed to
sing only once a year, and even then there were difficulties; however,
the artist made a short speech full of his favourite long words, and
said the bird was as good as ever: so then, of course, it was as good as
ever.

When five years were passed away, a great affliction visited the whole
empire, for in their hearts the people thought highly of their Emperor;
and now he was ill, and it was reported that he could not live. A new
Emperor had already been chosen, and the people stood in the street,
outside the palace, and asked the Cavalier how the Emperor was?

[Illustration: THE CHIEF IMPERIAL NIGHTINGALE BRINGER]

‘Pish!’ said he, and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his magnificent bed; all the court
believed him to be already dead, and every one had hastened away to
greet the new Emperor; the men ran out for a little gossip on the
subject, and the maids were having a grand coffee-party.

The floors of all the rooms and passages were covered with cloth, in
order that not a step should be heard--it was everywhere so still! so
still! But the Emperor was not yet dead; stiff and pale he lay in his
splendid bed, with the long velvet curtains, and heavy gold tassels. A
window was opened above, and the moon shone down on the Emperor and the
artificial bird.

The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it appeared to him as though
something was sitting on his chest; he opened his eyes, and saw that it
was Death, who had put on the Emperor’s crown, and with one hand held
the golden scimitar, with the other the splendid imperial banner;
whilst, from under the folds of the thick velvet hangings, the
strangest-looking heads were seen peering forth; some with an expression
absolutely hideous, and others with an extremely gentle and lovely
aspect: they were the bad and good deeds of the Emperor, which were now
all fixing their eyes upon him, whilst Death sat on his heart.

‘Dost thou know this?’ they whispered one after another. ‘Dost thou
remember that?’ And they began reproaching him in such a manner that the
sweat broke out upon his forehead.

‘I have never known anything like it,’ said the Emperor. ‘Music, music,
the great Chinese drum!’ cried he; ‘let me not hear what they are
saying.’

They went on, however; and Death, quite in the Chinese fashion, nodded
his head to every word.

‘Music, music!’ cried the Emperor. ‘Thou dear little artificial bird!
sing, I pray thee, sing!--I have given thee gold and precious stones, I
have even hung my golden slippers round thy neck--sing, I pray thee,
sing!’

But the bird was silent; there was no one there to wind him up, and he
could not sing without this. Death continued to stare at the Emperor
with his great hollow eyes! and everywhere it was still, fearfully
still!

All at once the sweetest song was heard from the window; it was the
little living nightingale who was sitting on a branch outside--she had
heard of her Emperor’s severe illness, and was come to sing to him of
comfort and hope. As she sang, the spectral forms became paler and
paler, the blood flowed more and more quickly through the Emperor’s
feeble members, and even Death listened and said, ‘Go on, little
nightingale, go on.’

‘Wilt thou give me the splendid gold scimitar? Wilt thou give me the gay
banner, and the Emperor’s crown?’

And Death gave up all these treasures for a song; and the nightingale
sang on: she sang of the quiet churchyard, where white roses blossom,
where the lilac sends forth its fragrance, and the fresh grass is
bedewed with the tears of the sorrowing friends of the departed. Then
Death was seized with a longing after his garden, and like a cold white
shadow, flew out at the window.

‘Thanks, thanks,’ said the Emperor, ‘thou heavenly little bird, I know
thee well. I have banished thee from my realm, and thou hast sung away
those evil faces from my bed, and Death from my heart; how shall I
reward thee?’

‘Thou hast already rewarded me,’ said the nightingale; ‘I have seen
tears in thine eyes, as when I sang to thee for the first time: those I
shall never forget, they are jewels which do so much good to a
minstrel’s heart! but sleep now, and wake fresh and healthy; I will sing
thee to sleep.’

And she sang--and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. Oh, how soft and
kindly was that sleep!

The sun shone in at the window when he awoke, strong and healthy. Not
one of his servants had returned, for they all believed him dead; but
the nightingale still sat and sang.

[Illustration: HE WAS QUITE AS SUCCESSFUL AS THE REAL NIGHTINGALE]

‘Thou shalt always stay with me,’ said the Emperor, ‘thou shalt only
sing when it pleases thee, and the artificial bird I will break into a
thousand pieces.’

‘Do not so,’ said the nightingale; ‘truly he has done what he could;
take care of him. I cannot stay in the palace; but let me come when I
like: I will sit on the branches close to the window, in the evening,
and sing to thee, that thou mayest become happy and thoughtful. I will
sing to thee of the joyful and the sorrowing, I will sing to thee of all
that is good or bad, which is concealed from thee. The little minstrel
flies afar to the fisherman’s hut, to the peasant’s cottage, to all who
are far distant from thee and thy court. I love thy heart more than thy
crown, and yet the crown has an odour of something holy about it. I will
come, I will sing. But thou must promise me one thing.’

‘Everything,’ said the Emperor. And now he stood in his imperial
splendour, which he had put on himself, and held the scimitar so heavy
with gold to his heart. ‘One thing I beg of thee: let no one know that
thou hast a little bird, who tells thee everything, then all will go on
well.’ And the nightingale flew away.

The attendants came in to look at their dead Emperor. Lo! there they
stood--and the Emperor said, ‘Good-morning!’

[Illustration: THE WILD SWANS]




THE WILD SWANS


Far hence, in a country whither the Swallows fly in our winter-time,
there dwelt a King who had eleven sons, and one daughter, the beautiful
Elise. The eleven brothers (they were princes) went to school with stars
on their breasts and swords by their sides; they wrote on golden tablets
with diamond pens, and could read either with a book or without one--in
short, it was easy to perceive that they were princes. Their sister
Elise used to sit upon a little glass stool, and had a picture-book
which had cost the half of a kingdom. Oh, the children were so happy!
but happy they were not to remain always.

Their father the King married a very wicked Queen, who was not at all
kind to the poor children; they found this out on the first day after
the marriage, when there was a grand gala at the palace; for when the
children played at receiving company, instead of having as many cakes
and sweetmeats as they liked, the Queen gave them only some sand in a
little dish, and told them to imagine that was something nice.

The week after, she sent the little Elise to be brought up by some
peasants in the country, and it was not long before she told the King so
many falsehoods about the poor princes that he would have nothing more
to do with them.

‘Away, out into the world, and take care of yourselves,’ said the wicked
Queen; ‘fly away in the form of great speechless birds.’ But she could
not make their transformation so

[Illustration]

disagreeable as she wished,--the Princes were changed into eleven white
swans. Sending forth a strange cry, they flew out of the palace windows,
over the park and over the wood.

It was still early in the morning when they passed by the place where
Elise lay sleeping in the peasant’s cottage; they flew several times
round the roof, stretched their long necks, and flapped their wings, but
no one either heard or saw them; they were forced to fly away, up to the
clouds and into the wide world, so on they went to the forest, which
extended as far as the sea-shore.

The poor little Elise stood in the peasant’s cottage amusing herself
with a green leaf, for she had no other plaything. She pricked a hole in
the leaf and peeped through it at the sun, and then she fancied she saw
her brother’s bright eyes, and whenever the warm sunbeams shone full
upon her cheeks, she thought of her brother’s kisses.

One day passed exactly like the other. When the wind blew through the
thick hedge of rose-trees in front of the house, she would whisper to
the roses, ‘Who is more beautiful than you?’ but the roses would shake
their heads and say, ‘Elise.’ And when the peasant’s wife sat on Sundays
at the door of her cottage reading her hymn-book, the wind would rustle
in the leaves and say to the book, ‘Who is more pious than
thou?’--‘Elise,’ replied the hymn-book. And what the roses and the
hymn-book said, was no more than the truth.

Elise was now fifteen years old, she was sent for home; but when the
Queen saw how beautiful she was, she hated her the more, and would
willingly have transformed her like her brothers into a wild swan, but
she dared not do so, because the King wished to see his daughter.

So the next morning the Queen went into a bath which was made of marble,
and fitted up with soft pillows and the gayest carpets; she took three
toads, kissed them, and said to one, ‘Settle thou upon Elise’s head that
she may become dull and sleepy like thee.’--‘Settle thou upon her
forehead,’ said she to another, ‘and let her become ugly like thee, so
that her father may not know her again.’ And ‘Do thou place thyself upon
her bosom,’ whispered she to the third, ‘that her heart may become
corrupt and evil, a torment to herself.’ She then put the toads into the
clear water, which was immediately tinted with a green colour, and
having called Elise, took off her clothes and made her get into the
bath--one toad settled among her hair, another on her forehead, and the
third upon her bosom, but Elise seemed not at all aware of it; she rose
up and three poppies were seen swimming on the water. Had not the
animals been poisonous and kissed by a witch, they would have been
changed into roses whilst they remained on Elise’s head and heart--she
was too good for magic to have any power over her. When the Queen
perceived this, she rubbed walnut juice all over the maiden’s skin, so
that it became quite swarthy, smeared a nasty salve over her lovely
face, and entangled her long thick hair,--it was impossible to recognise
the beautiful Elise after this.

When her father saw her he was shocked, and said she could not be his
daughter; no one would have anything to do with her but the mastiff and
the swallows; but they, poor things, could not say anything in her
favour.

Poor Elise wept, and thought of her eleven brothers, not one of whom she
saw at the palace. In great distress she stole away and wandered the
whole day over fields and moors, till she reached the forest. She knew
not where to go, but she was so sad, and longed so much to see her
brothers, who had been driven out into the world, that she determined to
seek and find them.

She had not been long in the forest when night came on, and she lost her
way amid the darkness. So she lay down on the soft moss, said her
evening prayer, and leaned her head against the trunk of a tree. It was
so still in the forest, the air was mild, and from the grass and mould
around gleamed the green light of many hundred glowworms, and when Elise
lightly touched one of the branches hanging over her, bright insects
fell down upon her like falling stars.

All the night long she dreamed of her brothers. They were all children
again, played together, wrote with diamond pens upon golden tablets, and
looked at the pictures in the beautiful book which had cost half of a
kingdom. But they did not as formerly make straight strokes and pothooks
upon the tablets; no, they wrote of the bold actions they had performed,
and the strange adventures they had encountered, and in the picture-book
everything seemed alive--the birds sang, men and women stepped from the
book and talked to Elise and her brothers; however, when she turned over
the leaves, they jumped back into their places, so that the pictures did
not get confused together.

When Elise awoke the sun was already high in the heavens. She could not
see it certainly, for the tall trees of the forest entwined their
thickly leaved branches closely together, which, as the sunbeams played
upon them, looked like a golden veil waving to and fro. And the air was
so fragrant, and the birds perched upon Elise’s shoulders. She heard the
noise of water, there were several springs forming a pool, with the
prettiest pebbles at the bottom, bushes were growing thickly round, but
the deer had trodden a broad path through them, and by this path Elise
went down to the water’s edge. The water was so clear that had not the
boughs and bushes around been moved to and fro by the wind, you might
have fancied they were painted upon the smooth surface, so distinctly
was each little leaf mirrored upon it, whether glowing in the sunlight
or lying in the shade.

As soon as Elise saw her face reflected in the water, she was quite
startled, so brown and ugly did it look; however, when she wetted her
little hand, and rubbed her brow and eyes, the white skin again
appeared.--So Elise took off her clothes, stepped into the fresh water,
and in the whole world there was not a king’s daughter more beautiful
than she then appeared.

After she had again dressed herself, and had braided her long hair, she
went to the bubbling spring, drank out of the hollow of her hand, and
then wandered farther into the forest. She knew not where she was going,
but she thought of her brothers, and of the good God who, she felt,
would never forsake her. He it was who made the wild crab-trees grow in
order to feed the hungry, and who showed her a tree whose boughs bent
under the weight of their fruit. She made her noonday meal under its
shade, propped up the boughs, and then walked on amid the dark twilight
of the forest. It was so still that she could hear her own footsteps,
and the rustling of each little withered leaf that was crushed beneath
her feet; not a bird was to be seen, not a single sunbeam penetrated
through the thick foliage, and the tall stems of the trees stood so
close together, that when she looked straight before her, she seemed
enclosed by trellis-work upon trellis-work. Oh! there was a solitariness
in this forest such as Elise had never known before.

And the night was so dark! not a single glowworm sent forth its light.
Sad and melancholy she lay down to sleep, and then it seemed to her as
though the boughs above her opened, and that she saw the Angel of God
looking down upon her with gentle aspect, and a thousand little cherubs
all around

[Illustration: SO ELISE TOOK OFF HER CLOTHES AND STEPPED INTO THE
WATER]

him. When she awoke in the morning she could not tell whether this was a
dream, or whether she had really been so watched.

She walked on a little farther and met an old woman with a basket full
of berries; the old woman gave her some of them, and Elise asked if she
had not seen eleven princes ride through the wood.

‘No,’ said the old woman, ‘but I saw yesterday eleven Swans with golden
crowns on their heads swim down the brook near this place.’

And she led Elise on a little farther to a precipice, the base of which
was washed by a brook; the trees on each side stretched their long leafy
branches towards each other, and where they could not unite, the roots
had disengaged themselves from the earth and hung their interlaced
fibres over the water.

Elise bade the old woman farewell, and wandered by the side of the
stream till she came to the place where it reached the open sea.

The great, the beautiful sea lay extended before the maiden’s eyes, but
not a ship, not a boat was to be seen; how was she to go on? She
observed the numberless little stones on the shore, all of which the
waves had washed into a round form; glass, iron, stone, everything that
lay scattered there, had been moulded into shape, and yet the water
which had effected this was much softer than Elise’s delicate little
hand. ‘It rolls on unweariedly,’ said she, ‘and subdues what is so hard;
I will be no less unwearied! Thank you for the lesson you have given me,
ye bright rolling waves; some day, my heart tells me, you shall carry me
to my dear brothers!’

There lay upon the wet sea-grass eleven white swan-feathers; Elise
collected them together; drops of water hung about them, whether dew or
tears she could not tell. She was quite alone on the sea-shore, but she
did not care for that; the sea presented an eternal variety to her, more
indeed in a few hours than the gentle inland waters would have offered
in a whole year. When a black cloud passed over the sky, it seemed as if
the sea would say, ‘I too can look dark,’ and then the wind would blow
and the waves fling out their white foam; but when the clouds shone with
a bright red tint, and the winds were asleep, the sea also became like a
rose-leaf in hue; it was now green, now white, but as it reposed
peacefully, a slight breeze on the shore caused the water to heave
gently like the bosom of a sleeping child.

At sunset Elise saw eleven Wild Swans with golden crowns on their heads
fly towards the land; they flew one behind another, looking like a
streaming white ribbon. Elise climbed the precipice, and concealed
herself behind a bush; the swans settled close to her, and flapped their
long white wings.

As the sun sank beneath the water, the swans also vanished, and in their
place stood eleven handsome princes, the brothers of Elise. She uttered
a loud cry, for although they were very much altered, Elise knew that
they were, felt that they must be, her brothers; she ran into their
arms, called them by their names--and how happy were _they_ to see and
recognise their sister, who was now grown so tall and so beautiful! They
laughed and wept, and soon told each other how wickedly their
step-mother had acted towards them.

‘We,’ said the eldest of the brothers, ‘fly or swim as long as the sun
is above the horizon, but when it sinks below, we appear again in our
human form; we are therefore obliged to look out for a safe
resting-place, for if at sunset we were flying among the clouds, we
should fall down as soon as we resumed our own form. We do not dwell
here, a land quite as beautiful as this lies on the opposite side of the
sea, but it is far off. To reach it, we have to cross the deep waters,
and there is no island midway on which we may rest at night; one little
solitary rock rises from the waves, and upon it we only just find room
enough to stand side by side. There we spend the night in our human
form, and when the sea is rough, we are sprinkled by its foam; but we
are thankful for this resting-place, for without it we

[Illustration: AND MET AN OLD WOMAN WITH A BASKET FULL OF BERRIES]

should never be able to visit our dear native country. Only once in the
year is this visit to the home of our fathers permitted; we require two
of the longest days for our flight, and can remain here only eleven
days, during which time we fly over the large forest, whence we can see
the palace in which we were born, where our father dwells, and the tower
of the church in which our mother was buried. Here even the trees and
bushes seem of kin to us, here the wild horses still race over the
plains, as in the days of our childhood, here the charcoal-burner still
sings the same old tunes to which we used to dance in our youth, here we
are still attracted, and here we have found thee, thou dear little
sister! We have yet two days longer to stay here, then we must fly over
the sea to a land beautiful indeed, but not our fatherland. How shall we
take thee with us? we have neither ship nor boat!’

‘How shall I be able to release you?’ said the sister. And so they went
on talking almost the whole of the night. They slumbered only a few
hours.

Elise was awakened by the rustling of swans’ wings which were fluttering
above her. Her brothers were again transformed, and for some time flew
around in large circles. At last they flew far, far away; one of them
remained behind, it was the youngest; he laid his head in her lap and
she stroked his white wings; they remained the whole day together.
Towards evening the others came back, and when the sun was set, again
they stood on the firm ground in their natural form.

‘To-morrow we shall fly away, and may not return for a year, but we
cannot leave thee; hast thou courage to accompany us? My arm is strong
enough to bear thee through the forest; shall we not have sufficient
strength in our wings to transport thee over the sea?’

‘Yes, take me with you,’ said Elise. They spent the whole night in
weaving a mat of the pliant willow bark and the tough rushes, and their
mat was thick and strong. Elise lay down upon it, and when the sun had
risen, and the brothers were again transformed into wild swans, they
seized the mat with their beaks and flew up high among the clouds with
their dear sister, who was still sleeping. The sunbeams shone full upon
her face, so one of the swans flew over her head, and shaded her with
his broad wings.

They were already far from land when Elise awoke: she thought she was
still dreaming, so strange did it appear to her to be travelling through
the air, and over the sea. By her side lay a cluster of pretty berries,
and a handful of savoury roots. Her youngest brother had collected and
laid them there; and she thanked him with a smile, for she knew him as
the swan who flew over her head and shaded her with his wings.

They flew so high, that the first ship they saw beneath them seemed like
a white sea-gull hovering over the water. Elise saw behind her a large
cloud, it looked like a mountain, and on it she saw the gigantic shadows
of herself and the eleven swans--it formed a picture more splendid than
any she had ever yet seen; soon, however, the sun rose higher, the cloud
remained far behind, and then the floating shadowy picture disappeared.

The whole day they continued flying with a whizzing noise somewhat like
an arrow, but yet they went slower than usual--they had their sister to
carry. A heavy tempest was gathering, the evening approached; anxiously
did Elise watch the sun, it was setting. Still the solitary rock could
not be seen; it appeared to her that the swans plied their wings with
increasing vigour. Alas! it would be her fault if her brothers did not
arrive at the place in time; they would become human beings when the sun
set, and if this happened before they reached the rock, they must fall
into the sea, and be drowned. She prayed to God most fervently, still no
rock was to be seen; the black clouds drew nearer, violent gusts of wind
announced the approach of a tempest, the clouds rested perpendicularly
upon a fearfully large wave which rolled quickly forwards, one flash of
lightning rapidly succeeded another.

The sun was now on the rim of the sea. Elise’s heart beat violently; the
swans shot downwards so swiftly that she thought she must fall, but
again they began to hover; the sun was half sunk beneath the water, and
at that moment she saw the little rock below her; it looked like a
seal’s head when he raises it just above the water. And the sun was
sinking fast,--it seemed scarcely larger than a star,--her foot touched
the hard ground, and it vanished altogether, like the last spark on a
burnt piece of paper. Arm in arm stood her brothers around her--there
was only just room for her and them; the sea beat tempestuously against
the rock, flinging over them a shower of foam; the sky seemed in a
continual blaze, with the fast-succeeding flashes of fire that lightened
it, and peal after peal rolled on the thunder, but sister and brothers
kept firm hold of each other’s hands. They sang a psalm, and their psalm
gave them comfort and courage.

[Illustration: NOT A BOAT WAS TO BE SEEN]

By daybreak the air was pure and still, and as soon as the sun rose, the
swans flew away with Elise from the rock. The waves rose higher and
higher, and when they looked from the clouds down upon the
blackish-green sea, covered as it was with white foam, they might have
fancied that millions of swans were swimming on its surface.

As day advanced, Elise saw floating in the air before her a land of
mountains intermixed with glaciers, and in the centre a palace a mile in
length, with splendid colonnades, surrounded by palm-trees and
gorgeous-looking flowers as large as mill-wheels. She asked if this were
the country to which they were flying, but the swans shook their heads,
for what she saw was the beautiful airy castle of the fairy Morgana,
where no human being was admitted; and whilst Elise still bent her eyes
upon it, mountains, trees, and castle all disappeared, and in their
place stood twelve churches with high towers and pointed windows--she
fancied she heard the organ play, but it was only the murmur of the sea.
She was now close to these churches, but behold! they have changed into
a large fleet sailing under them; she looked down and saw it was only a
sea-mist passing rapidly over the water. An eternal variety floated
before her eyes, till at last the actual land to which she was going
appeared in sight. Beautiful blue mountains, cedar woods, towns, and
castles rose to view. Long before sunset Elise sat down among the
mountains, in front of a large cavern; delicate young creepers grew
around so thickly, that it appeared covered with gay embroidered
carpets.

‘Now we shall see what thou wilt dream of to-night!’ said her youngest
brother, as he showed her the sleeping-chamber destined for her.

‘Oh that I could dream how you might be released from the spell!’ said
she; and this thought completely occupied her. She prayed most earnestly
for God’s assistance, nay, even in her dreams she continued praying, and
it appeared to her that she was flying up high in the air towards the
castle of the fairy Morgana. The fairy came forward to meet her, radiant
and beautiful, and yet she fancied she resembled the old woman who had
given her berries in the forest, and told her of the swans with golden
crowns.

‘Thou _canst_ release thy brothers,’ said she, ‘but hast thou courage
and patience sufficient? The water is indeed softer than thy delicate
hands, and yet can mould the hard stones to its will, but then it cannot
feel the pain which thy tender fingers will feel; it has no heart, and
cannot suffer the anxiety and grief which thou must suffer. Dost thou
see these stinging-nettles which I have in my hand? There are many of
the same kind growing round the cave where thou art sleeping; only those
that grow there or on the graves in the church-yard are of use, remember
that! Thou must pluck them, although they will sting thy hand; thou must
trample on the nettles with thy feet, and get yarn from them, and with
this yarn thou must weave eleven shirts with long sleeves;--throw them
over the eleven wild swans, and the spell is broken. But mark this: from
the moment that thou beginnest thy work till it is completed, even
should it occupy thee for years, thou must not speak a word; the first
syllable that escapes thy lips will fall like a dagger into the hearts
of thy brothers; on thy tongue depends their life. Mark well all this!’

And at the same moment the fairy touched Elise’s hands with a nettle,
which made them burn like fire, and Elise awoke. It was broad daylight,
and close to her lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream.
She fell upon her knees, thanked God, and then went out of the cave in
order to begin her work. She plucked with her own delicate hands the
disagreeable stinging-nettles; they burned large blisters on her hands
and arms, but she bore the pain willingly in the hope of releasing her
dear brothers. She trampled on the nettles with her naked feet, and spun
the green yarn.

At sunset came her brothers. Elise’s silence quite frightened them, they
thought it must be the effect of some fresh spell of their wicked
step-mother; but when they saw her blistered hands, they found out what
their sister was doing for their sakes. The youngest brother wept, and
when his tears fell upon her hands, Elise felt no more pain, the
blisters disappeared.

The whole night she spent in her work, for she could not rest till she
had released her brothers. All the following days she sat in her
solitude, for the swans had flown away; but never had time passed so
quickly. One shirt was ready; she now began the second.

[Illustration: THERE WAS ONLY JUST ROOM FOR HER AND THEM]

Suddenly a hunting-horn resounded among the mountains. Elise was
frightened. The noise came nearer, she heard the hounds barking; in
great terror she fled into the cave, bound up the nettles which she had
gathered and combed into a bundle, and sat down upon it.

In the same moment a large dog sprang out from the bushes; two others
immediately followed; they barked loudly, ran away and then returned. It
was not long before the hunters stood in front of the cave; the
handsomest among them was the King of that country; he stepped up to
Elise. Never had he seen a lovelier maiden.

‘How camest thou here, thou beautiful child?’ said he. Elise shook her
head; she dared not speak, a word might have cost her the life of her
brothers; and she hid her hands under her apron lest the King should see
how she was suffering.

‘Come with me,’ said he, ‘thou must not stay here! If thou art good as
thou art beautiful, I will dress thee in velvet and silk, I will put a
gold crown upon thy head, and thou shalt dwell in my palace!’ So he
lifted her upon his horse, while she wept and wrung her hands; but the
King said, ‘I only desire thy happiness! thou shalt thank me for this
some day!’ and away he rode over mountains and valleys, holding her on
his horse in front, whilst the other hunters followed. When the sun set,
the King’s magnificent capital with its churches and cupolas lay before
them, and the King led Elise into the palace, where, in a high marble
hall, fountains were playing, and the walls and ceiling displayed the
most beautiful paintings. But Elise cared not for all this splendour;
she wept and mourned in silence, even whilst some female attendants
dressed her in royal robes, wove costly pearls in her hair, and drew
soft gloves over her blistered hands.

And now she was full dressed, and as she stood in her splendid attire,
her beauty was so dazzling, that the courtiers all bowed low before her;
and the King chose her for his bride, although the Archbishop shook his
head, and whispered that the ‘beautiful lady of the wood must certainly
be a witch, who had blinded their eyes, and infatuated the King’s
heart.’

But the King did not listen; he ordered that music should be played. A
sumptuous banquet was served up, and the loveliest maidens danced round
the bride; she was led through fragrant gardens into magnificent halls,
but not a smile was seen to play upon her lips or beam from her eyes.
The King then opened a small room next her sleeping apartment; it was
adorned with costly green tapestry, and exactly resembled the cave in
which she had been found; upon the ground lay the bundle of yarn which
she had spun from the nettles, and by the wall hung the shirt she had
completed. One of the hunters had brought all this, thinking there must
be something wonderful in it.

‘Here thou mayest dream of thy former home,’ said the King; ‘here is the
work which employed thee; amidst all thy present splendour it may
sometimes give thee pleasure to fancy thyself there again.’

When Elise saw what was so dear to her heart, she smiled, and the blood
returned to her cheeks; she thought her brothers might still be
released, and she kissed the King’s hand; he pressed her to his heart
and ordered the bells of all the churches in the city to be rung, to
announce the celebration of their wedding. The beautiful dumb maiden of
the wood was to become Queen of the land.

The Archbishop whispered evil words in the King’s ear, but they made no
impression upon him; the marriage was solemnised, and the Archbishop
himself was obliged to put the crown upon her head. In his rage he
pressed the narrow rim so firmly on her forehead that it hurt her; but a
heavier weight (sorrow for her brothers) lay upon her heart, she did not
feel bodily pain. She was still silent, a single word would have killed
her brothers; her eyes, however, beamed with heartfelt love to the King,
so good and handsome, who had done so much to make her happy. She became
more warmly attached to him every day. Oh, how much she wished she might
confide to him all her sorrows! but she was forced to remain silent,
she could not speak until her work was completed. To this end she stole
away every night, and went into the little room that was fitted up in
imitation of the cave; there she worked at her shirts, but by the time
she had begun the seventh all her yarn was spent.

She knew that the nettles she needed grew in the church-yard, but she
must gather them herself; how was she to get them?

‘Oh, what is the pain in my fingers compared to the anguish my heart
suffers?’ thought she. ‘I must venture to the church-yard; the good God
will not withdraw His protection from me!’

Fearful as though she were about to do something wrong, one moonlight
night she crept down to the garden, and through the long avenues got
into the lonely road leading to the church-yard. She saw sitting on one
of the broadest tombstones a number of ugly old witches. They took off
their ragged clothes as if they were going to bathe, and digging with
their long lean fingers into the fresh grass, drew up the dead bodies
and devoured the flesh. Elise was obliged to pass close by them, and the
witches fixed their wicked eyes upon her; but she repeated her prayer,
gathered the stinging-nettles, and took them back with her into the
palace. One person only had seen her; it was the Archbishop, he was
awake when others slept; now he was convinced that all was not right
about the Queen: she must be a witch, who had through her enchantments
infatuated the King, and all the people.

In the Confessional he told the King what he had seen, and what he
feared; and when the slanderous words came from his lips, the sculptured
images of the saints shook their heads as though they would say, ‘It is
untrue, Elise is innocent!’ But the Archbishop explained the omen quite
otherwise; he thought it was a testimony against her that the holy
images shook their heads at hearing of her sin.

Two large tears rolled down the King’s cheeks. He returned home in
doubt; he pretended to sleep at night, though sleep never visited him;
and he noticed that Elise rose from her bed every night, and every time
he followed her secretly and saw her enter her little room.

His countenance became darker every day; Elise perceived it, though she
knew not the cause. She was much pained, and besides, what did she not
suffer in her heart for her brothers! Her bitter tears ran down on the
royal velvet and purple; they looked like bright diamonds, and all who
saw the magnificence that surrounded her, wished themselves in her
place. She had now nearly finished her work, only one shirt was wanting;
unfortunately, yarn was wanting also, she had not a single nettle left.
Once more, only this one time, she must go to the church-yard and gather
a few handfuls. She shuddered when she thought of the solitary walk and
of the horrid witches, but her resolution was as firm as her trust in
God.

Elise went; the King and the Archbishop followed her; they saw her
disappear at the church-yard door, and when they came nearer, they saw
the witches sitting on the tombstones as Elise had seen them, and the
King turned away, for he believed her whose head had rested on his bosom
that very evening to be amongst them. ‘Let the people judge her!’ said
he. And the people condemned her to be burnt.

She was now dragged from the King’s sumptuous apartments into a dark,
damp prison, where the wind whistled through the grated window. Instead
of velvet and silk, they gave her the bundle of nettles she had
gathered; on that must she lay her head, the shirts she had woven must
serve her as mattress and counterpane;--but they could not have given
her anything she valued so much; and she continued her work, at the same
time praying earnestly to her God. The boys sang scandalous songs about
her in front of her prison; not a soul comforted her with one word of
love.

[Illustration: I MUST VENTURE TO THE CHURCH-YARD]

Towards evening she heard the rustling of Swans’ wings at the grating.
It was the youngest of her brothers, who had at last found his sister,
and she sobbed aloud for joy, although she knew that the coming night
would probably be the last of her life; but then her work was almost
finished and her brother was near.

The Archbishop came in order to spend the last hour with her; he had
promised the King he would; but she shook her head and entreated him
with her eyes and gestures to go--this night she must finish her work,
or all she had suffered, her pain, her anxiety, her sleepless nights,
would be in vain. The Archbishop went away with many angry words, but
the unfortunate Elise knew herself to be perfectly innocent, and went on
with her work.

Little mice ran busily about and dragged the nettles to her feet,
wishing to help her; and the thrush perched on the iron bars of the
window, and sang all night as merrily as he could, that Elise might not
lose courage.

It was still twilight, just one hour before sunrise, when the eleven
brothers stood before the palace gates, requesting an audience with the
King; but it could not be, they were told, it was still night, the King
was asleep, and they dared not wake him. They entreated, they
threatened, the guard came up, the King himself at last stepped out to
ask what was the matter,--at that moment the sun rose, the brothers
could be seen no longer, and eleven white Swans flew away over the
palace.

The people poured forth from the gates of the city; they wished to see
the witch burnt. One wretched horse drew the cart in which Elise was
placed; a coarse frock of sackcloth had been put on her, her beautiful
long hair hung loosely over her shoulders, her cheeks were of a deadly
paleness, her lips moved gently, and her fingers wove the green yarn:
even on her way to her cruel death she did not give up her work; the ten
shirts lay at her feet, she was now labouring to complete the eleventh.
The rabble insulted her.

‘Look at the witch, how she mutters! She has not a hymn-book in her
hand, no, there she sits with her accursed hocus-pocus. Tear it from
her, tear it into a thousand pieces!’

And they all crowded about her, and were on the point of snatching away
the shirts, when eleven white Swans came flying towards the cart; they
settled all round her, and flapped their wings. The crowd gave way in
terror.

‘It is a sign from Heaven! she is certainly innocent!’ whispered some;
they dared not say so aloud.

The Sheriff now seized her by the hand--in a moment she threw the eleven
shirts over the Swans, and eleven handsome Princes appeared in their
place. The youngest had, however, only one arm, and a wing instead of
the other, for one sleeve was deficient in his shirt, it had not been
quite finished.

‘Now I may speak,’ said she: ‘I am innocent!’

And the people who had seen what had happened bowed before her as before
a saint. She, however, sank lifeless in her brothers’ arms; suspense,
fear, and grief had quite exhausted her.

‘Yes, she is innocent,’ said her eldest brother, and he now related
their wonderful history. Whilst he spoke a fragrance as delicious as
though it proceeded from millions of roses, diffused itself around, for
every piece of wood in the funeral pile had taken root and sent forth
branches, a hedge of blooming red roses surrounded Elise, and above all
the others blossomed a flower of dazzling white colour, bright as a
star; the King plucked it and laid it on Elise’s bosom, whereupon she
awoke from her trance with peace and joy in her heart.

And all the church-bells began to ring of their own accord, and birds
flew to the spot in swarms, and there was a festive procession back to
the palace, such as no King has ever seen equalled.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: I HAVE SCARCELY CLOSED MY EYES THE WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH]




THE REAL PRINCESS


There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess; but then she
must be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world in hopes of
finding such a lady; but there was always something wrong. Princesses he
found in plenty; but whether they were real Princesses it was impossible
for him to decide, for now one thing, now another, seemed to him not
quite right about the ladies. At last he returned to his palace quite
cast down, because he wished so much to have a real Princess for his
wife.

One evening a fearful tempest arose; it thundered and lightened, and the
rain poured down from the sky in torrents; besides, it was as dark as
pitch. All at once there was heard a violent knocking at the door, and
the old King, the Prince’s father, went out himself to open it.

It was a Princess who was standing outside the door. What with the rain
and the wind, she was in a sad condition: the water trickled down from
her hair, and her clothes clung to her body. She said she was a real
Princess.

‘Ah, we shall soon see that!’ thought the old Queen-mother; however, she
said not a word of what she was going to do, but went quietly into the
bedroom, took all the bedclothes off the bed, and put three little peas
on the bedstead. She then laid twenty mattresses one upon another over
the three peas, and put twenty feather-beds over the mattresses.

Upon this bed the Princess was to pass the night.

[Illustration]

The next morning she was asked how she had slept. ‘Oh, very badly
indeed!’ she replied. ‘I have scarcely closed my eyes the whole night
through. I do not know what was in my bed, but I had something hard
under me, and am all over black and blue. It has hurt me so much!’

[Illustration: THE OLD KING HIMSELF WENT OUT TO OPEN IT]

Now it was plain that the lady must be a real Princess, since she had
been able to feel the three little peas through the twenty mattresses
and twenty feather-beds. None but a real Princess could have had such a
delicate sense of feeling.

[Illustration: THE PEAS WERE PRESERVED IN THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES]

The Prince accordingly made her his wife, being now convinced that he
had found a real Princess. The three peas were, however, put into the
cabinet of curiosities, where they are still to be seen, provided they
are not lost.

Was not this a lady of real delicacy?

[Illustration: KAREN]




THE RED SHOES


There was once a little girl, very pretty and delicate, but so poor that
in summer-time she always went barefoot, and in winter wore large wooden
shoes, so that her little ankles grew quite red and sore.

In the village dwelt the shoemaker’s mother. She sat down one day and
made out of some old pieces of red cloth a pair of little shoes; they
were clumsy enough, certainly, but they fitted the little girl tolerably
well, and she gave them to her. The little girl’s name was Karen.

It was the day of her mother’s funeral when the red shoes were given to
Karen; they were not at all suitable for mourning, but she had no
others, and in them she walked with bare legs behind the miserable straw
bier.

Just then a large old carriage rolled by; in it sat a large old lady;
she looked at the little girl and pitied her, and she said to the
priest, ‘Give me the little girl and I will take care of her.’

And Karen thought it was all for the sake of the red shoes that the old
lady had taken this fancy to her, but the old lady said they were
frightful, and they were burnt. And Karen was dressed very neatly; she
was taught to read and to work; and people told her she was pretty--but
the mirror said, ‘Thou art more than pretty, thou art beautiful!’

It happened one day that the Queen travelled through that part of the
country with her little daughter, the Princess; and all the people,
Karen amongst them, crowded in front of

[Illustration]

the palace, whilst the little Princess stood, dressed in white, at a
window, for every one to see her. She wore neither train nor gold crown;
but on her feet were pretty red morocco shoes, much prettier ones indeed
than those the shoemaker’s mother had made for little Karen. Nothing in
the world could be compared to these red shoes!

Karen was now old enough to be confirmed, she was to have both new frock
and new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the measure of her
little foot. Large glass cases full of neat shoes and shining boots were
fixed round the room; however, the old lady’s sight was not very good,
and, naturally enough, she had not so much pleasure in looking at them
as Karen had. Amongst the shoes was a pair of red ones, just like those
worn by the Princess. How gay they were! and the shoemaker said they had
been made for a count’s daughter, but had not quite fitted her.

‘They are of polished leather,’ said the old lady, ‘see how they shine!’

‘Yes, they shine beautifully!’ exclaimed Karen. And as the shoes fitted
her, they were bought; but the old lady did not know that they were red,
for she would never have suffered Karen to go to confirmation in red
shoes. But Karen did so. Everybody looked at her feet, and as she walked
up the nave to the chancel, it seemed to her that even the antique
sculptured figures on the monuments, with their stiff ruffs and long
black robes, fixed their eyes on her red shoes. Of them only she thought
when the Bishop laid his hand on her head, when he spoke of Holy
Baptism, of her covenant with God, and how that she must now be a
full-grown Christian. The organ sent forth its deep, solemn tones, the
children’s sweet voices mingled with those of the choristers, but Karen
still thought only of her red shoes.

[Illustration: AND KAREN WAS DRESSED VERY NEATLY]

That afternoon, when the old lady was told that Karen had worn red shoes
at her confirmation, she was much vexed, and told Karen that they were
quite unsuitable, and that, henceforward, whenever she went to church,
she must wear black shoes, were they ever so old.

Next Sunday was the communion day. Karen looked first at the red shoes,
then at the black ones, then at the red again, and--put them on.

It was beautiful sunshiny weather; Karen and the old lady walked to
church through the corn-fields; the path was very dusty.

At the church door stood an old soldier; he was leaning on crutches, and
had a marvellously long beard, not white, but reddish-hued, and he bowed
almost to the earth, and asked the old lady if he might wipe the dust
off her shoes. And Karen put out her little foot also. ‘Oh, what pretty
dancing-shoes!’ quoth the old soldier; ‘take care, and mind you do not
let them slip off when you dance’; and he passed his hands over them.

The old lady gave the soldier a halfpenny, and then went with Karen into
church.

And every one looked at Karen’s red shoes; and all the carved figures,
too, bent their gaze upon them; and when Karen knelt before the altar,
the red shoes still floated before her eyes; she thought of them and of
them only, and she forgot to join in the hymn of praise--she forgot to
repeat ‘Our Father.’

At last all the people came out of church, and the old lady got into her
carriage. Karen was just lifting her foot to follow her, when the old
soldier standing in the porch exclaimed, ‘Only look, what pretty
dancing-shoes!’ And Karen could not help it, she felt she must make a
few of her dancing steps; and after she had once begun, her feet
continued to move, just as though the shoes had received power over
them; she danced round the church-yard, she could not stop. The coachman
was obliged to run after her; he took hold of her and lifted her into
the carriage, but the feet still continued to dance, so as to kick the
good old lady most cruelly. At last the shoes were taken off, and the
feet had rest.

[Illustration: KAREN AND THE OLD LADY WALKED TO CHURCH]

And now the shoes were put away in a press, but Karen could not help
going to look at them every now and then.

The old lady lay ill in bed; the doctor said she could not live much
longer. She certainly needed careful nursing, and who should be her
nurse and constant attendant but Karen? But there was to be a grand ball
in the town. Karen was invited; she looked at the old lady who was
almost dying--she looked at the red shoes--she put them on, there could
be no harm in doing that, at least; she went to the ball, and began to
dance. But when she wanted to move to the right, the shoes bore her to
the left; and when she would dance up the room, the shoes danced down
the room, danced down the stairs, through the streets, and through the
gates of the town. Dance she did, and dance she must, straight out into
the dark wood.

Something all at once shone through the trees. She thought at first it
must be the moon’s bright face, shining blood-red through the night
mists; but no, it was the old soldier with the red beard--he sat there,
nodding at her, and repeating, ‘Only look, what pretty dancing-shoes!’

She was very much frightened, and tried to throw off her red shoes, but
could not unclasp them. She hastily tore off her stockings; but the
shoes she could not get rid of--they had, it seemed, grown on to her
feet. Dance she did, and dance she must, over field and meadow, in rain
and in sunshine, by night and by day. By night! that was most horrible!
She danced into the lonely church-yard, but the dead there danced not,
they were at rest. She would fain have sat down on the poor man’s grave,
where the bitter tansy grew, but for her there was neither rest nor
respite. She danced past the open church door; there she saw an angel,
clad in long white robes, and with wings that reached from his shoulders
to the earth; his countenance was grave and stern, and in his hand he
held a broad glittering sword.

‘Dance thou shalt,’ said he; ‘dance on, in thy red shoes, till thou art
pale and cold, and thy skin shrinks and crumples up like a skeleton’s!
Dance thou shalt still, from door to door, and wherever proud, vain
children live thou shalt knock, so that they may hear thee and fear!
Dance shalt thou, dance on----’

‘Mercy!’ cried Karen; but she heard not the angel’s answer, for the
shoes carried her through the gate, into the fields, along highways and
by-ways, and still she must dance.

One morning she danced past a door she knew well; she heard
psalm-singing from within, and presently a coffin, strewn with flowers,
was borne out. Then Karen knew that the good old lady was dead, and she
felt herself a thing forsaken by all mankind, and accursed by the Angel
of God.

[Illustration: HE SAT THERE NODDING AT HER]

Dance she did, and dance she must, even through the dark night; the
shoes bore her continually over thorns and briars, till her limbs were
torn and bleeding. Away she danced over the heath to a little solitary
house; she knew that the headsman dwelt there, and she tapped with her
fingers against the panes, crying--

‘Come out! come out!--I cannot come in to you, I am dancing.’

And the headsman replied, ‘Surely thou knowest not who I am. I cut off
the heads of wicked men, and my axe is very sharp and keen.’

‘Cut not off my head!’ said Karen; ‘for then I could not live to repent
of my sin; but cut off my feet with the red shoes.’

And then she confessed to him all her sin, and the headsman cut off her
feet with the red shoes on them; but even after this the shoes still
danced away with those little feet over the fields, and into the deep
forests.

And the headsman made her a pair of wooden feet and hewed down some
boughs to serve her as crutches, and he taught her the psalm which is
always repeated by criminals, and she kissed the hand that had guided
the axe, and went her way over the heath. ‘Now I have certainly suffered
quite enough through the red shoes,’ thought Karen, ‘I will go to church
and let people see me once more!’ and she went as fast as she could to
the church-porch, but as she approached it, the red shoes danced before
her and she was frightened and turned her back.

All that week through she endured the keenest anguish and shed many
bitter tears; however, when Sunday came, she said to herself, ‘Well, I
must have suffered and striven enough by this time, I dare say I am
quite as good as many of those who are holding their heads so high in
church.’ So she took courage and went there, but she had not passed the
churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes again dancing before her,
and in great terror she again turned back, and more deeply than ever
bewailed her sin.

She then went to the pastor’s house, and begged that some employment
might be given her, promising to work diligently and do all she could;
she did not wish for any wages, she said, she only wanted a roof to
shelter her, and to dwell with good people. And the pastor’s wife had
pity on her, and took her into her service. And Karen was grateful and
industrious.

Every evening she sat silently listening to the pastor, while he read
the Holy Scriptures aloud. All the children loved her, but when she
heard them talk about dress and finery, and about being as beautiful as
a queen, she would sorrowfully shake her head.

[Illustration: DANCE SHE MUST, OVER FIELD AND MEADOW]

Again Sunday came, all the pastor’s household went to church, and they
asked her if she would not go too, but she sighed and looked with tears
in her eyes upon her crutches.

When they were all gone, she went into her own little, lowly chamber--it
was but just large enough to contain a bed and chair--and there she sat
down with her psalm-book in her hand, and whilst she was meekly and
devoutly reading in it, the wind wafted the tones of the organ from the
church into her room, and she lifted up her face to heaven and prayed,
with tears, ‘O God, help me!’

Then the sun shone brightly, so brightly!--and behold! close before her
stood the white-robed Angel of God, the same whom she had seen on that
night of horror at the church-porch, but his hand wielded not now, as
then, a sharp, threatening sword--he held a lovely green bough, full of
roses. With this he touched the ceiling, which immediately rose to a
great height, a bright gold star spangling in the spot where the Angel’s
green bough had touched it. And he touched the walls, whereupon the room
widened, and Karen saw the organ, the old monuments, and the
congregation all sitting in their richly carved seats and singing from
their psalm-books.

For the church had come home to the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or
rather the chamber had grown, as it were, into the church; she sat with
the rest of the pastor’s household, and, when the psalm was ended, they
looked up and nodded to her, saying, ‘Thou didst well to come, Karen!’

‘This is mercy!’ said she.

And the organ played again, and the children’s voices in the choir
mingled so sweetly and plaintively with it! The bright sunbeams streamed
warmly through the windows upon Karen’s seat; her heart was so full of
sunshine, of peace and gladness, that it broke; her soul flew upon a
sunbeam to her Father in heaven, where not a look of reproach awaited
her, not a word was breathed of the red shoes.

[Illustration: TWO ROGUES CALLING THEMSELVES WEAVERS MADE THEIR
APPEARANCE]




THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES


Many years ago, there was an Emperor, who was so excessively fond of new
clothes that he spent all his money in dress. He did not trouble himself
in the least about his soldiers; nor did he care to go either to the
theatre or the chase, except for the opportunities then afforded him for
displaying his new clothes. He had a different suit for each hour of the
day; and as of any other king or emperor one is accustomed to say, ‘He
is sitting in council,’ it was always said of him, ‘The Emperor is
sitting in his wardrobe.’

Time passed away merrily in the large town which was his capital;
strangers arrived every day at the court. One day, two rogues, calling
themselves weavers, made their appearance. They gave out that they knew
how to weave stuffs of the most beautiful colours and elaborate
patterns, the clothes manufactured from which should have the wonderful
property of remaining invisible to every one who was unfit for the
office he held, or who was extraordinarily simple in character.

‘These must indeed be splendid clothes!’ thought the Emperor. ‘Had I
such a suit, I might, at once, find out what men in my realms are unfit
for their office, and also be able to distinguish the wise from the
foolish! This stuff must be woven for me immediately.’ And he caused
large sums of money to be given to both the weavers, in order that they
might begin their work directly.

So the two pretended weavers set up two looms, and affected to work very
busily, though in reality they did nothing at all. They asked for the
most delicate silk and the purest gold thread, put both into their own
knapsacks, and then continued their pretended work at the empty looms
until late at night.

‘I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my cloth,’
said the Emperor to himself, after some little time had elapsed; he was,
however, rather embarrassed, when he remembered that a simpleton, or one
unfit for his office, would be unable to see the manufacture. ‘To be
sure,’ he thought, ‘he had nothing to risk in his own person; but yet,
he would prefer sending somebody else, to bring him intelligence about
the weavers, and their work, before he troubled himself in the affair.’
All the people throughout the city had heard of the wonderful property
the cloth was to possess; and all were anxious to learn how wise, or how
ignorant, their neighbours might prove to be.

‘I will send my faithful old minister to the weavers,’ said the Emperor
at last, after some deliberation, ‘he will be best able to see how the
cloth looks; for he is a man of sense, and no one can be more suitable
for his office than he is.’

So the faithful old minister went into the hall, where the knaves were
working with all their might at their empty looms. ‘What can be the
meaning of this?’ thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide. ‘I
cannot discover the least bit of thread on the looms!’ However, he did
not express his thoughts aloud.

The impostors requested him very courteously to be so good as to come
nearer their looms; and then asked him whether the design pleased him,
and whether the colours were not very beautiful, at the same time
pointing to the empty frames. The poor old minister looked and looked,
he could not discover anything on the looms, for a very good reason,
viz. there was nothing there. ‘What!’ thought he again, ‘is it possible
that I am a simpleton? I have never thought so myself; and no one must
know it now if I am so. Can it be that I am unfit for my office? No,
that must not be said either. I will never confess that I could not see
the stuff.’

‘Well, Sir Minister,’ said one of the knaves, still pretending to work,
‘you do not say whether the stuff pleases you.’

‘Oh, it is excellent!’ replied the old minister, looking at the loom
through his spectacles. ‘This pattern, and the colours--yes, I will tell
the Emperor without delay how very beautiful I think them.’

[Illustration: ‘OH, IT IS EXCELLENT!’ REPLIED THE MINISTER]

‘We shall be much obliged to you,’ said the impostors, and then they
named the different colours and described the pattern of the pretended
stuff. The old minister listened attentively to their words, in order
that he might repeat them to the Emperor; and then the knaves asked for
more silk and gold, saying that it was necessary to complete what they
had begun. However, they put all that was given them into their
knapsacks, and continued to work with as much apparent diligence as
before at their empty looms.

The Emperor now sent another officer of his court to see how the men
were getting on, and to ascertain whether the cloth would soon be ready.
It was just the same with this gentleman as with the minister; he
surveyed the looms on all sides, but could see nothing at all but the
empty frames.

‘Does not the stuff appear as beautiful to you as it did to my lord the
minister?’ asked the impostors of the Emperor’s second ambassador; at
the same time making the same gestures as before, and talking of the
design and colours which were not there.

‘I certainly am not stupid!’ thought the messenger. ‘It must be that I
am not fit for my good, profitable office! That is very odd; however, no
one shall know anything about it.’ And accordingly he praised the stuff
he could not see, and declared that he was delighted with both colours
and patterns. ‘Indeed, please your Imperial Majesty,’ said he to his
sovereign, when he returned, ‘the cloth which the weavers are preparing
is extraordinarily magnificent.’

The whole city was talking of the splendid cloth which the Emperor had
ordered to be woven at his own expense.

And now the Emperor himself wished to see the costly manufacture whilst
it was still on the loom. Accompanied by a select number of officers of
the court, among whom were the two honest men who had already admired
the cloth, he went to the crafty impostors, who, as soon as they were
aware of the Emperor’s approach, went on working more diligently than
ever, although they still did not pass a single thread through the
looms.

‘Is not the work absolutely magnificent?’ said the two officers of the
Crown, already mentioned. ‘If your Majesty will only be pleased to look
at it! what a splendid design! what glorious colours!’ and, at the same
time, they pointed to the empty frames; for they imagined that every one
else could see this exquisite piece of workmanship.

‘How is this?’ said the Emperor to himself, ‘I can see nothing! this is
indeed a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an
Emperor? that would be the worst thing that could happen. Oh! the cloth
is charming,’ said he aloud. ‘It has my complete approbation.’ And he
smiled most graciously, and looked closely at the empty looms; for on no
account would he say that he could not see what two of the officers of
his court had praised so much. All his retinue now strained their eyes,
hoping to discover something on the looms, but they could see no more
than the others; nevertheless, they all exclaimed, ‘Oh, how beautiful!’
and advised his Majesty to have some new clothes made from this splendid
material, for the approaching procession. ‘Magnificent! charming!
excellent!’ resounded on all sides; and every one was uncommonly gay.
The Emperor shared in the general satisfaction; and presented the
impostors with the riband of an order of knighthood, to be worn in their
button-holes, and the title of ‘Gentlemen Weavers.’

The rogues sat up the whole of the night before the day on which the
procession was to take place, and had sixteen lights burning, so that
every one might see how anxious they were to finish the Emperor’s new
suit. They pretended to roll the cloth off the looms; cut the air with
their scissors; and sewed with needles without any thread in them.
‘See!’ cried they at last, ‘the Emperor’s new clothes are ready!’

[Illustration: AS IF IN THE ACT OF HOLDING SOMETHING UP]

And now the Emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the
weavers; and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act of holding
something up, saying, ‘Here are your Majesty’s trousers! here is the
scarf! here is the mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one
might fancy one has nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that,
however, is the great virtue of this delicate cloth.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ said all the courtiers, although not one of them could
see anything of this exquisite manufacture.

‘If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your
clothes, we will fit on the new suit in front of the looking-glass.’

The Emperor was accordingly undressed, and the rogues pretended to array
him in his new suit; the Emperor turning round, from side to side,
before the looking-glass.

[Illustration: SO NOW THE EMPEROR WALKED UNDER HIS HIGH CANOPY]

‘How splendid his Majesty looks in his new clothes! and how well they
fit!’ every one cried out. ‘What a design! what colours! these are
indeed royal robes!’

‘The canopy which is to be borne over your Majesty in the procession is
waiting,’ announced the chief master of the ceremonies.

‘I am quite ready,’ answered the Emperor. ‘Do my new clothes fit well?’
asked he, turning himself round again before the looking-glass, in
order that he might appear to be examining his handsome suit.

The lords of the bed-chamber, who were to carry his Majesty’s train,
felt about on the ground, as if they were lifting up the ends of the
mantle, and pretending to be carrying something; for they would by no
means betray anything like simplicity or unfitness for their office.

[Illustration]

So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the
procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people
standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, ‘Oh! how beautiful are
our Emperor’s new clothes! what a magnificent train there is to the
mantle! and how gracefully the scarf hangs!’ in short, no one would
allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in
doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit for
his office. Certainly, none of the Emperor’s various suits had ever made
so great an impression as these invisible ones.

‘But the Emperor has nothing at all on!’ said a little child. ‘Listen to
the voice of innocence!’ exclaimed his father; and what the child had
said was whispered from one to another.

‘But he has nothing at all on!’ at last cried out all the people. The
Emperor was vexed, for he knew that the people were right; but he
thought the procession must go on now! And the lords of the bed-chamber
took greater pains than ever to appear holding up a train, although, in
reality, there was no train to hold.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE SWINEHERD


There was once a poor Prince, who had a kingdom; his kingdom was very
small, but still quite large enough to marry upon; and he wished to
marry.

It was certainly rather cool of him to say to the Emperor’s daughter,
Will you have me? But so he did; for his name was renowned far and wide;
and there were a hundred princesses who would have answered ‘Yes!’ and
‘Thank you kindly.’ We shall see what this Princess said.

Listen!

It happened that where the Prince’s father lay buried, there grew a
rose-tree--a most beautiful rose-tree, which blossomed only once in
every five years, and even then bore only one flower, but that _was_ a
rose! It smelt so sweet, that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by
him who inhaled its fragrance.

And furthermore, the Prince had a nightingale, who could sing in such a
manner that it seemed as though all sweet melodies dwelt in her little
throat. So the Princess was to have the rose, and the nightingale; and
they were accordingly put into large silver caskets, and sent to her.

The Emperor had them brought into a large hall, where the Princess was
playing at ‘Visiting,’ with the ladies of the court; and when she saw
the caskets with the presents, she clapped her hands for joy.

‘Ah, if it were but a little pussy-cat!’ said she--but the rose-tree
with its beautiful rose came to view.

‘Oh, how prettily it is made!’ said all the court ladies.

‘It is more than pretty,’ said the Emperor, ‘it is charming!’

[Illustration: ALL CARES AND SORROWS WERE FORGOTTEN BY HIM WHO INHALED
ITS FRAGRANCE]

But the Princess touched it, and was almost ready to cry.

‘Fie, papa!’ said she, ‘it is not made at all, it is natural!’

‘Let us see what is in the other casket, before we get into a bad
humour,’ said the Emperor. So the nightingale came forth, and sang so
delightfully that at first no one could say anything ill-humoured of
her.

‘_Superbe! charmant!_’ exclaimed the ladies; for they all used to
chatter French, each one worse than her neighbour.

‘How much the bird reminds me of the musical box that belonged to our
blessed Empress,’ said an old knight. ‘Oh yes! these are the same tones,
the same execution.’

‘Yes! yes!’ said the Emperor, and he wept like a child at the
remembrance.

‘I will still hope that it is not a real bird,’ said the Princess.

‘Yes, it is a real bird,’ said those who had brought it. ‘Well, then,
let the bird fly,’ said the Princess; and she positively refused to see
the Prince.

However, he was not to be discouraged; he daubed his face over brown and
black, pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door.

‘Good day to my lord the Emperor!’ said he. ‘Can I have employment at
the palace?’

‘Why, yes,’ said the Emperor, ‘I want some one to take care of the pigs,
for we have a great many of them.’

So the Prince was appointed ‘Imperial Swineherd.’ He had a dirty little
room close by the pig-sty; and there he sat the whole day, and worked.
By the evening he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot. Little bells
were hung all round it; and when the pot was boiling, these bells
tinkled in the most charming manner, and played the old melody,

    ‘Ach! du lieber Augustin,
     lles ist weg, weg, weg!’[2]

[2]

    ‘Ah! dear Augustine,
     ll is gone, gone, gone!’


But what was still more curious, whoever held his finger in the smoke of
the kitchen-pot, immediately smelt all the dishes that were cooking on
every hearth in the city.--This, you see, was something quite different
from the rose.

[Illustration: AND HE WEPT LIKE A CHILD]

Now the Princess happened to walk that way; and when she heard the tune,
she stood quite still, and seemed pleased; for she could play ‘Lieber
Augustin’; it was the only piece she knew; and she played it with one
finger.

‘Why, there is my piece,’ said the Princess; ‘that swineherd must
certainly have been well educated! Go in and ask him the price of the
instrument.’

So one of the court ladies must run in; however, she drew on wooden
slippers first.

‘What will you take for the kitchen-pot?’ said the lady.

‘I will have ten kisses from the Princess,’ said the swineherd.

‘Yes, indeed!’ said the lady.

‘I cannot sell it for less,’ rejoined the swineherd.

‘He is an impudent fellow!’ said the Princess, and she walked on; but
when she had gone a little way, the bells tinkled so prettily,

    ‘Ach! du lieber Augustin,
     Alles ist weg, weg, weg!’

‘Stay,’ said the Princess. ‘Ask him if he will have ten kisses from the
ladies of my court.’

‘No, thank you!’ said the swineherd, ‘ten kisses from the Princess, or I
keep the kitchen-pot myself.’

‘That must not be either!’ said the Princess; ‘but do you all stand
before me that no one may see us.’

And the court-ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread out
their dresses: the swineherd got ten kisses, and the Princess--the
kitchen-pot.

That was delightful! the pot was boiling the whole evening, and the
whole of the following day. They knew perfectly well what was cooking at
every fire throughout the city, from the chamberlain’s to the cobbler’s:
the court ladies danced, and clapped their hands.

‘We know who has soup, and who has pancakes for dinner to-day; who has
cutlets, and who has eggs. How interesting!’

‘Yes, but keep my secret, for I am an Emperor’s daughter.’

[Illustration: ‘ACH! DU LIEBER AUGUSTIN’]

The swineherd--that is to say, the Prince, for no one knew that he was
other than an ill-favoured swineherd--let not a day pass without working
at something; he at last constructed a rattle, which, when it was swung
round, played all the waltzes and jig-tunes which have ever been heard
since the creation of the world.

‘Ah, that is _superbe_!’ said the Princess when she passed by. ‘I have
never heard prettier compositions! Go in and ask him the price of the
instrument; but mind, he shall have no more kisses!’

‘He will have a hundred kisses from the Princess!’ said the lady who had
been to ask.

‘I think he is not in his right senses!’ said the Princess, and walked
on; but when she had gone a little way, she stopped again. ‘One must
encourage art,’ said she. ‘I am the Emperor’s daughter. Tell him he
shall, as on yesterday, have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest
from the ladies of the court.’

‘Oh!--but we should not like that at all!’ said they. ‘What are you
muttering?’ asked the Princess; ‘if I can kiss him, surely you can!
Remember that you owe everything to me.’ So the ladies were obliged to
go to him again.

‘A hundred kisses from the Princess!’ said he, ‘or else let every one
keep his own.’

‘Stand round!’ said she; and all the ladies stood round her whilst the
kissing was going on.

‘What can be the reason for such a crowd close by the pig-sty?’ said the
Emperor, who happened just then to step out on the balcony; he rubbed
his eyes and put on his spectacles. ‘They are the ladies of the court; I
must go down and see what they are about!’ So he pulled up his slippers
at the heel, for he had trodden them down.

As soon as he had got into the court-yard, he moved very softly, and the
ladies were so much engrossed with counting the kisses that all might go
on fairly, that they did not perceive the Emperor. He rose on his
tiptoes.

‘What is all this?’ said he, when he saw what was going on, and he boxed
the Princess’s ears with his slipper, just as the swineherd was taking
the eighty-sixth kiss.

‘March out!’ said the Emperor, for he was very angry; and both Princess
and swineherd were thrust out of the city.

[Illustration]

The Princess now stood and wept, the swineherd scolded, and the rain
poured down.

‘Alas! unhappy creature that I am!’ said the Princess. ‘If I had but
married the handsome young Prince! Ah, how unfortunate I am!’

And the swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown colour
from his face, threw off his dirty clothes, and stepped forth in his
princely robes; he looked so noble that the Princess could not help
bowing before him.

‘I am come to despise thee,’ said he. ‘Thou wouldst not have an
honourable prince! thou couldst not prize the rose and the nightingale,
but thou wast ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a trumpery
plaything. Thou art rightly served.’

He then went back to his own little kingdom, and shut the door of his
palace in her face. Now she might well sing

    ‘Ach! du lieber Augustin,
     Alles ist weg, weg, weg!’

[Illustration: UP FLEW THE TRUNK]




THE FLYING TRUNK


There was once a merchant, so rich that he might have paved the whole
street where he lived and an alley besides with pieces of silver, but
this he did not do; he knew another way of using his money, and whenever
he laid out a shilling he gained a crown in return: a merchant he lived,
and a merchant he died.

All his money then went to his son. But the son lived merrily and spent
all his time in pleasures, went to masquerades every evening, made
bank-notes into paper kites, and played at ducks and drakes in the pond
with gold pieces instead of stones. In this manner his money soon
vanished, until at last he had only a few pennies left, and his wardrobe
was reduced to a pair of slippers and an old dressing-gown. His friends
cared no more about him, now that they could no longer walk abroad with
him; one of them, however, more good-natured than the rest, sent him an
old trunk, with this advice, ‘Pack up, and be off!’ This was all very
fine, but he had nothing that he could pack up, so he put himself into
the trunk.

It was a droll trunk! When the lock was pressed close it could fly. The
merchant’s son did press the lock, and lo! up flew the trunk with him
through the chimney, high into the clouds, on and on, higher and higher;
the lower part cracked, which rather frightened him, for if it had
broken in two, a pretty fall he would have had!

However, it descended safely, and he found himself in Turkey. He hid
the trunk under a heap of dry leaves in a wood, and walked into the next
town: he could do so very well, for among the Turks everybody goes about
clad as he was, in dressing-gown and slippers. He met a nurse, carrying
a little child in her arms. ‘Hark ye, Turkish nurse,’ quoth he; ‘what
palace is that with the high windows close by the town?’

[Illustration: THE SON LIVED MERRILY]

‘The King’s daughter dwells there,’ replied the nurse; ‘it has been
prophesied of her that she shall be made very unhappy by a lover, and
therefore no one may visit her, except when the King and Queen are with
her.’

‘Thank you,’ said the merchant’s son, and he immediately went back into
the wood, sat down in his trunk, flew up to the roof of the palace, and
crept through the window into the Princess’s apartment.

She was lying asleep on the sofa. She was so beautiful that the
merchant’s son could not help kneeling down to kiss her hand, whereupon
she awoke, and was not a little frightened at the sight of this
unexpected visitor; but he told her, however, that he was the Turkish
prophet, and had come down from the sky on purpose to woo her, and on
hearing this she was well pleased. So they sat down side by side, and he
talked to her about her eyes, how that they were beautiful dark-blue
seas, and that thoughts and feelings floated like mermaidens therein;
and he spoke of her brow, how that it was a fair snowy mountain, with
splendid halls and pictures, and many other such like things he told
her.

[Illustration: HE MET A NURSE]

Oh, these were charming stories! and thus he wooed the Princess, and she
immediately said ‘Yes!’

‘But you must come here on Saturday,’ said she; ‘the King and Queen have
promised to drink tea with me that evening; they will be so proud and
so pleased when they hear that I am to marry the Turkish prophet! And
mind you tell them a very pretty story, for they are exceedingly fond of
stories; my mother likes them to be very moral and aristocratic, and my
father likes them to be merry, so as to make him laugh.’

‘Yes, I shall bring no other bridal present than a tale,’ replied the
merchant’s son; and here they parted, but not before the Princess had
given her lover a sabre all covered with gold. He knew excellently well
what use to make of this present.

So he flew away, bought a new dressing-gown, and then sat down in the
wood to compose the tale which was to be ready by Saturday, and
certainly he found composition not the easiest thing in the world.

At last he was ready, and at last Saturday came.

The King, the Queen, and the whole court were waiting tea for him at the
Princess’s palace. The suitor was received with much ceremony.

‘Will you not tell us a story?’ asked the Queen; ‘a story that is
instructive and full of deep meaning.’

‘But let it make us laugh,’ said the King.

‘With pleasure,’ replied the merchant’s son; and now you must hear his
story:--

       *       *       *       *       *

There was once a bundle of matches, who were all extremely proud of
their high descent, for their genealogical tree, that is to say, the
tall fir-tree, from which each of them was a splinter, had been a tree
of great antiquity, and distinguished by his height from all the other
trees of the forest. The matches were now lying on the mantlepiece,
between a tinder-box and an old iron saucepan, and to these two they
often talked about their youth. ‘Ah, when we were upon the green
branches,’ said they; ‘when we really lived upon green branches--that
was a happy time! Every morning and evening we had diamond-tea--that is,
dew; the whole day long we had sunshine, at least whenever the sun
shone, and all the little birds used to tell stories to us. It might
easily be seen, too, that we were rich, for the other trees were clothed
with leaves only during the summer, whereas our family could afford to
wear green clothes both summer and winter. But at last came the
wood-cutters: then was the great revolution, and our family was
dispersed. The paternal trunk obtained a situation as mainmast to a
magnificent ship, which could sail round the world if it chose; the
boughs were transported to various places, and our vocation was
henceforth to kindle lights for low, common people. Now you will
understand how it comes to pass that persons of such high descent as we
are should be living in a kitchen.’

‘To be sure, mine is a very different history,’ remarked the iron
saucepan, near which the matches were lying. ‘From the moment I came
into the world until now, I have been rubbed and scrubbed, and boiled
over and over again--oh, how many times! I love to have to do with what
is solidly good, and am really of the first importance in this house. My
only recreation is to stand clean and bright upon this mantlepiece after
dinner, and hold some rational conversation with my companions. However,
excepting the water-pail, who now and then goes out into the court, we
all of us lead a very quiet domestic life here. Our only newsmonger is
the turf-basket, but he talks in such a democratic way about
“government” and the “people”--why, I assure you, not long ago, there
was an old jar standing here, who was so much shocked by what he heard
said that he fell down from the mantlepiece and broke into a thousand
pieces! That turf-basket is a Liberal, that’s the fact.’

‘Now, you talk too much,’ interrupted the tinder-box, and the steel
struck the flint, so that the sparks flew out. ‘Why should we not spend
a pleasant evening?’

[Illustration: ‘WILL YOU TELL US A STORY?’ ASKED THE QUEEN]

‘Yes, let us settle who is of highest rank among us!’ proposed the
matches.

‘Oh no; for my part I would rather not speak of myself,’ objected the
earthenware pitcher. ‘Suppose we have an intellectual entertainment? I
will begin; I will relate something of everyday life, such as we have
all experienced; one can easily transport oneself into it, and that is
so interesting! Near the Baltic, among the Danish beech-groves----’

‘That is a capital beginning!’ cried all the plates at once; ‘it will
certainly be just the sort of story for me!’

‘Yes, there I spent my youth in a very quiet family; the furniture was
rubbed, the floors were washed, clean curtains were hung up every
fortnight.’

‘How very interesting! what a charming way you have of describing
things!’ said the hair-broom. ‘Any one might guess immediately that it
is a lady who is speaking; the tale breathes such a spirit of
cleanliness!’

‘Very true; so it does!’ exclaimed the water-pail, and in the excess of
his delight he gave a little jump, so that some of the water splashed
upon the floor.

And the pitcher went on with her tale, and the end proved as good as the
beginning.

All the plates clattered applause, and the hair-broom took some green
parsley out of the sand-hole and crowned the pitcher, for he knew that
this would vex the others; and, thought he, ‘If I crown her to-day, she
will crown me to-morrow.’

‘Now I will dance,’ said the fire-tongs, and accordingly she did dance,
and oh! it was wonderful to see how high she threw one of her legs up
into the air; the old chair-cover in the corner tore with horror at
seeing her. ‘Am not I to be crowned too?’ asked the tongs, and she was
crowned forthwith.

‘These are the vulgar rabble!’ thought the matches.

[Illustration: ‘BUT LET IT MAKE US LAUGH,’ SAID THE KING]

The tea-urn was now called upon to sing, but she had a cold; she said
she could only sing when she was boiling; however, this was all her
pride and affectation. The fact was she never cared to sing except when
she was standing on the parlour-table before company.

On the window-ledge lay an old quill-pen, with which the maids used to
write; there was nothing remarkable about her, except that she had been
dipped too low in the ink; however, she was proud of that. ‘If the
tea-urn does not choose to sing,’ quoth she, ‘she may let it alone;
there is a nightingale in the cage hung just outside--he can sing; to
be sure, he had never learnt the notes--never mind, we will not speak
evil of any one this evening!’

‘I think it highly indecorous,’ observed the tea-kettle, who was the
vocalist of the kitchen, and a half-brother of the tea-urn’s, ‘that a
foreign bird should be listened to. Is it patriotic? I appeal to the
turf-basket.’

‘I am only vexed,’ said the turf-basket. ‘I am vexed from my inmost soul
that such things are thought of at all. Is it a becoming way of spending
the evening? Would it not be much more rational to reform the whole
house, and establish a totally new order of things, rather more
according to nature? Then every one would get into his right place, and
I would undertake to direct the revolution. What say you to it? That
would be something worth the doing!’

‘Oh yes, we will make a grand commotion!’ cried they all. Just then the
door opened--it was the servant-maid. They all stood perfectly still,
not one dared stir, yet there was not a single kitchen utensil among
them all but was thinking about the great things he could have done, and
how great was his superiority over the others.

‘Ah, if I had chosen it,’ thought each of them, ‘what a merry evening we
might have had!’

The maid took the matches and struck a light--oh, how they sputtered and
blazed up!

‘Now every one may see,’ thought they, ‘that we are of highest rank;
what a splendid, dazzling light we give, how glorious!’--and in another
moment they were burnt out.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘That is a capital story,’ said the Queen; ‘I quite felt myself
transported into the kitchen;--yes, thou shalt have our daughter!’

‘With all my heart,’ said the King; ‘on Monday thou shalt marry our
daughter.’ They said ‘thou’ to him now, since he was so soon to become
one of the family.

The wedding was a settled thing; and on the evening preceding, the whole
city was illuminated; cakes, buns, and sugar-plums were thrown out among
the people; all the little boys in the streets stood upon tiptoes,
shouting ‘Hurrah!’ and whistling through their fingers--it was famous!

[Illustration: THEIR SLIPPERS FLEW ABOUT THEIR EARS]

‘Well, I suppose I ought to do my part too,’ thought the merchant’s son,
so he went and bought sky-rockets, squibs, Catherine-wheels,
Roman-candles, and all kinds of fireworks conceivable; put them all
into his trunk, and flew up into the air, letting them off as he flew.

Hurrah! what a glorious sky-rocket was that!

All the Turks jumped up to look, so hastily that their slippers flew
about their ears; such a meteor they had never seen before. Now they
might be sure that it was indeed the prophet who was to marry their
Princess.

As soon as the merchant’s son had returned in his trunk to the wood, he
said to himself, ‘I will now go into the city and hear what people say
about me, and what sort of figure I made in the air.’ And, certainly,
this was a very natural idea.

Oh, what strange accounts were given! Every one whom he accosted had
beheld the bright vision in a way peculiar to himself, but all agreed
that it was marvellously beautiful.

‘I saw the great prophet with my own eyes,’ declared one; ‘he had eyes
like sparkling stars, and a beard like foaming water.’

‘He flew enveloped in a mantle of fire,’ said another; ‘the prettiest
little cherubs were peeping forth from under its folds.’

Yes; he heard of many beautiful things, and the morrow was to be his
wedding-day.

He now went back to the wood, intending to get into his trunk again, but
where was it?

Alas! the trunk was burnt. One spark from the fireworks had been left in
it, and set it on fire; the trunk now lay in ashes. The poor merchant’s
son could never fly again--could never again visit his bride.

She sat the livelong day upon the roof of her palace expecting him; she
expects him still; he, meantime, goes about the world telling stories,
but none of his stories now are so pleasant as that one which he related
in the Princess’s palace about the Brimstone Matches.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE LEAPING MATCH


The flea, the grasshopper, and the frog once wanted to try which of them
could jump highest; so they invited the whole world, and anybody else
who liked, to come and see the grand sight. Three famous jumpers were
they, as was seen by every one when they met together in the room.

‘I will give my daughter to him who shall jump highest,’ said the King;
‘it would be too bad for you to have the trouble of jumping, and for us
to offer you no prize.’

The flea was the first to introduce himself; he had such polite manners,
and bowed to the company on every side, for he was of noble blood;
besides, he was accustomed to the society of man, which had been a great
advantage to him.

Next came the grasshopper; he was not quite so slightly and elegantly
formed as the flea; however, he knew perfectly well how to conduct
himself, and wore a green uniform, which belonged to him by right of
birth. Moreover, he declared himself to have sprung from a very ancient
and honourable Egyptian family, and that in his present home he was very
highly esteemed, so much so, indeed, that he had been taken out of the
field and put into a card-house three stories high, built on purpose for
him, and all of court-cards, the coloured sides being turned inwards: as
for the doors and windows in his house, they were cut out of the body of
the Queen of Hearts. ‘And I can sing so well,’ added he, ‘that sixteen
parlour-bred crickets, who have chirped and chirped ever since they
were born and yet could never get anybody to build them a card-house,
after hearing me have fretted themselves ten times thinner than ever,
out of sheer envy and vexation!’ Both the flea and the grasshopper knew
excellently well how to make the most of themselves, and each considered
himself quite an equal match for a princess.

[Illustration: THE OLD COUNCILLOR]

The frog said not a word; however, it might be that he thought the more,
and the house-dog, after going snuffing about him, confessed that the
frog must be of a good family. And the old councillor, who in vain
received three orders to hold his tongue, declared that the frog must be
gifted with the spirit of prophecy, for that one could read on his back
whether there was to be a severe or a mild winter, which, to be sure, is
more than can be read on the back of the man who writes the weather
almanack.

‘Ah, I say nothing for the present!’ remarked the old King, ‘but I
observe everything, and form my own private opinion thereupon.’ And now
the match began. The flea jumped so high that no one could see what had
become of him, and so they insisted that he had not jumped at all,
‘which was disgraceful, after he had made such a fuss!’

The grasshopper only jumped half as high, but he jumped right into the
King’s face, and the King declared he was quite disgusted by his
rudeness.

[Illustration: ‘I SAY NOTHING FOR THE PRESENT,’ REMARKED THE KING]

The frog stood still as if lost in thought; at last people fancied he
did not intend to jump at all.

‘I’m afraid he is ill!’ said the dog; and he went snuffing at him
again, when lo! all at once he made a little side-long jump into the lap
of the Princess, who was sitting on a low stool close by.

Then spoke the King: ‘There is nothing higher than my daughter,
therefore he who jumps up to her jumps highest; but only a person of
good understanding would ever have thought of that, and thus the frog
has shown us that he has understanding. He has brains in his head, that
he has!’

[Illustration]

And thus the frog won the Princess.

‘I jumped highest for all that!’ exclaimed the flea. ‘But it’s all the
same to me; let her have the stiff-legged, slimy creature, if she like
him! I jumped highest, but I am too light and airy for this stupid
world; the people can neither see me nor catch me; dulness and heaviness
win the day with them!’

And so the flea went into foreign service, where, it is said, he was
killed.

And the grasshopper sat on a green bank, meditating on the world and its
goings on, and at length he repeated the flea’s last words--‘Yes,
dulness and heaviness win the day! dulness and heaviness win the day!’
And then he again began singing his own peculiar, melancholy song, and
it is from him that we have learnt this history; and yet, my friend,
though you read it here in a printed book, it may not be perfectly
true.

[Illustration: THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER]




[Illustration]


THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER


Have you never seen an old-fashioned oaken-wood cabinet, quite black
with age and covered with varnish and carving-work? Just such a piece of
furniture, an old heir-loom that had been the property of its present
mistress’s great-grandmother, once stood in a parlour. It was carved
from top to bottom--roses, tulips, and little stags’ heads with long,
branching antlers, peering forth from the curious scrolls and foliage
surrounding them. Moreover, in the centre panel of the cabinet was
carved the full-length figure of a man, who seemed to be perpetually
grinning, perhaps at himself, for in truth he was a most ridiculous
figure; he had crooked legs, small horns on his forehead, and a long
beard. The children of the house used to call him ‘the crooked-legged
Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant,’ for this was a long,
hard name, and not many figures, whether carved in wood or in stone,
could boast of such a title. There he stood, his eyes always fixed upon
the table under the pier-glass, for on this table stood a pretty little
porcelain shepherdess, her mantle gathered gracefully round her, and
fastened with a red rose; her shoes and hat were gilt, her hand held a
crook--oh, she was charming! Close by her stood a little
chimney-sweeper, likewise of porcelain. He was as clean and neat as any
of the other figures, indeed, the manufacturer might just as well have
made a prince as a chimney-sweeper of him, for though elsewhere black as
a coal, his face was as fresh and rosy as a girl’s, which was certainly
a mistake,--it ought to have been black. His ladder in his hand, there
he kept his station, close by the little shepherdess; they had been
placed together from the first, had always remained on the same spot,
and had thus plighted their troth to each other; they suited each other
so well, they were both young people, both of the same kind of
porcelain, both alike fragile and delicate.

Not far off stood a figure three times as large as the others. It was an
old Chinese mandarin who could nod his head; he too was of porcelain,
and declared that he was grandfather to the little shepherdess. He could
not prove his assertion; however, he insisted that he had authority
over her, and so, when ‘the crooked-legged
Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant’ made proposals to the
little shepherdess, he nodded his head in token of his consent.

‘Now, you will have a husband,’ said the old mandarin to her, ‘a husband
who, I verily believe, is of mahogany-wood; you will be the wife of a
Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant, of a man who has a whole
cabinet full of silverplate, besides a store of no one knows what in the
secret drawers!’

‘I will not go into that dismal cabinet!’ declared the little
shepherdess. ‘I have heard say that eleven porcelain ladies are already
imprisoned there.’

‘Then you shall be the twelfth, and you will be in good company!’
rejoined the mandarin. ‘This very night, when the old cabinet creaks,
your nuptials shall be celebrated, as sure as I am a Chinese mandarin!’

Whereupon he nodded his head and fell asleep.

But the little shepherdess wept, and turned to the beloved of her heart,
the porcelain chimney-sweep.

‘I believe I must ask you,’ said she, ‘to go out with me into the wide
world, for here we cannot stay.’

‘I will do everything you wish,’ replied the little chimney-sweeper;
‘let us go at once. I think I can support you by my profession.’

‘If you could but get off the table!’ sighed she; ‘I shall never be
happy till we are away, out in the wide world.’

And he comforted her, and showed her how to set her little foot on the
carved edges and gilded foliage twining round the leg of the table, till
at last they reached the floor. But turning to look at the old cabinet,
they saw everything in a grand commotion, all the carved stags putting
their little heads farther out, raising their antlers, and moving their
throats, whilst ‘the crooked-legged
Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant’ sprang up, and shouted
out to the old Chinese mandarin, ‘Look, they are eloping! they are
eloping!’ They were not a little frightened, and quickly jumped into an
open drawer for protection.

In this drawer there were three or four incomplete packs of cards, and
also a little puppet-theatre; a play was being performed, and all the
queens, whether of diamonds, hearts, clubs, or spades, sat in the front
row fanning themselves with the flowers they held in their hands; behind
them stood the knaves, showing that they had each two heads, one above
and one below, as most cards have. The play was about two persons who
were crossed in love, and the shepherdess wept over it, for it was just
like her own history.

‘I cannot bear this!’ said she. ‘Let us leave the drawer.’ But when they
had again reached the floor, on looking up at the table, they saw that
the old Chinese mandarin had awakened, and was rocking his whole body to
and fro with rage.

‘Oh, the old mandarin is coming!’ cried the little shepherdess, and down
she fell on her porcelain knees in the greatest distress. ‘A sudden
thought has struck me,’ said the chimney-sweeper: ‘suppose we creep into
the large pot-pourri vase that stands in the corner; there we can rest
upon roses and lavender, and throw salt in his eyes if he come near us.’

‘That will not do at all,’ said she; ‘besides, I know that the old
mandarin was once betrothed to the pot-pourri vase, and no doubt there
is still some slight friendship existing between them. No, there is no
help for it, we must wander forth together into the wide world.’

‘Hast thou indeed the courage to go with me into the wide world?’ asked
the chimney-sweeper. ‘Hast thou considered how large it is, and that we
may never return home again?’

‘I have,’ replied she.

And the chimney-sweeper looked keenly at her, and then said, ‘My path
leads through the chimney! hast thou indeed the courage to creep with me
through the stove, through the flues and the tunnel? Well do I know the
way! We shall mount up so high that they cannot come near us, and at the
top there is a cavern that leads into the wide world.’

And he led her to the door of the stove.

‘Oh, how black it looks!’ sighed she; however, she went on with him,
through the flues and through the tunnel, where it was dark, pitch
dark.

‘Now we are in the chimney,’ said he; ‘and look, what a lovely star
shines above us!’

And there was actually a star in the sky, shining right down upon them,
as if to show them the way. And they crawled and crept--a fearful path
was theirs--so high, so very high! but he guided and supported her, and
showed her the best places whereon to plant her tiny porcelain feet,
till they reached the edge of the chimney, where they sat down to rest,
for they were very tired, and indeed not without reason.

Heaven with all its stars was above them, and the town with all its
roofs lay beneath them; the wide, wide world surrounded them. The poor
shepherdess had never imagined all this; she leant her little head on
her chimney-sweeper’s arm, and wept so vehemently that the gilding broke
off from her waistband.

‘This is too much!’ exclaimed she. ‘This can I not endure! The world is
all too large! Oh that I were once more upon the little table under the
pier-glass! I shall never be happy till I am there again. I have
followed thee out into the wide world, surely thou canst follow me home
again, if thou lovest me!’

And the chimney-sweeper talked very sensibly to her, reminding
her of the old Chinese mandarin and ‘the crooked-legged
Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant,’ but she wept so
bitterly, and kissed her little chimney-sweep so fondly, that at last he
could not but yield to her request, unreasonable as it was.

So with great difficulty they crawled down the chimney, crept through
the flues and the tunnel, and at length found themselves once more in
the dark stove; but they still lurked behind the door, listening, before
they would venture to return into the room. Everything was quite still;
they peeped out: alas! on the ground lay the old Chinese mandarin. In
attempting to follow the runaways, he had fallen down off the table and
had broken into three pieces; his head lay shaking in a corner; ‘the
crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant’ stood
where he had always stood, thinking over what had happened.

‘Oh, how shocking!’ exclaimed the little shepherdess; ‘old grandfather
is broken in pieces, and we are the cause! I shall never survive it!’
and she wrung her delicate hands.

‘He can be put together again,’ replied the chimney-sweeper. ‘He can
very easily be put together; only be not so impatient! If they glue his
back together, and put a strong rivet in his neck, then he will be as
good as new again, and will be able to say plenty of unpleasant things
to us.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked she. And then they climbed up the table
to the place where they had stood before.

‘See how far we have been!’ observed the chimney-sweeper, ‘we might have
spared ourselves all the trouble.’

‘If we could but have old grandfather put together!’ said the
shepherdess. ‘Will it cost very much?’

And he was put together; the family had his back glued and his neck
riveted; he was as good as new, but could no longer nod his head.

‘You have certainly grown very proud since you broke in
pieces!’ remarked the crooked-legged
Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant, ‘but I must say, for my
part, I do not see that there is anything to be proud of. Am I to have
her or am I not? Just answer me that!’

And the chimney-sweeper and the little shepherdess looked imploringly at
the old mandarin; they were so afraid lest he should nod his head. But
nod he could not, and it was disagreeable to him to tell a stranger
that he had a rivet in his neck: so the young porcelain people always
remained together; they blessed the grandfather’s rivet, and loved each
other till they broke in pieces.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE POOR DUCKLING WAS SCORNED BY ALL]




THE UGLY DUCKLING


It was beautiful in the country, it was summer-time; the wheat was
yellow, the oats were green, the hay was stacked up in the green
meadows, and the stork paraded about on his long red legs, discoursing
in Egyptian, which language he had learned from his mother. The fields
and meadows were skirted by thick woods, and a deep lake lay in the
midst of the woods.--Yes, it was indeed beautiful in the country! The
sunshine fell warmly on an old mansion, surrounded by deep canals, and
from the walls down to the water’s edge there grew large burdock-leaves,
so high that children could stand upright among them without being
perceived. This place was as wild and unfrequented as the thickest part
of the wood, and on that account a duck had chosen to make her nest
there. She was sitting on her eggs; but the pleasure she had felt at
first was now almost gone, because she had been there so long, and had
so few visitors, for the other ducks preferred swimming on the canals to
sitting among the burdock-leaves gossiping with her.

At last the eggs cracked one after another, ‘Tchick tchick!’ All the
eggs were alive, and one little head after another appeared. ‘Quack,
quack,’ said the duck, and all got up as well as they could; they peeped
about from under the green leaves, and as green is good for the eyes,
their mother let them look as long as they pleased.

‘How large the world is!’ said the little ones, for they found their
present situation very different to their former confined one, while yet
in the egg-shells.

‘Do you imagine this to be the whole of the world?’ said the mother; ‘it
extends far beyond the other side of the garden, to the pastor’s field;
but I have never been there. Are you all here?’ And then she got up.
‘No, I have not got you all, the largest egg is still here. How long
will this last? I am so weary of it!’ And then she sat down again.

‘Well, and how are you getting on?’ asked an old duck, who had come to
pay her a visit.

‘This one egg keeps me so long,’ said the mother, ‘it will not break.
But you should see the others; they are the prettiest little ducklings I
have seen in all my days; they are all like their father,--the
good-for-nothing fellow! he has not been to visit me once.’

‘Let me see the egg that will not break,’ said the old duck; ‘depend
upon it, it is a turkey’s egg. I was cheated in the same way once
myself, and I had such trouble with the young ones; for they were afraid
of the water, and I could not get them there. I called and scolded, but
it was all of no use. But let me see the egg--ah yes! to be sure, that
is a turkey’s egg. Leave it, and teach the other little ones to swim.’

‘I will sit on it a little longer,’ said the duck. ‘I have been sitting
so long, that I may as well spend the harvest here.’

‘It is no business of mine,’ said the old duck, and away she waddled.

The great egg burst at last, ‘Tchick, tchick,’ said the little one, and
out it tumbled--but oh, how large and ugly it was! The duck looked at
it, ‘That is a great, strong creature,’ said she, ‘none of the others
are at all like it; can it be a young turkey-cock? Well, we shall soon
find out, it must go into the water, though I push it in myself!

The next day there was delightful weather, and the sun shone warmly upon
all the green leaves when mother-duck with all her family went down to
the canal; plump she went into the water, ‘Quack, quack,’ cried she, and
one duckling after another jumped in. The water closed over their heads,
but all came up again, and swam together in the pleasantest manner;
their legs moved without effort. All were there, even the ugly grey one.

‘No! it is not a turkey,’ said the old duck; ‘only see how prettily it
moves its legs, how upright it holds itself; it is my own child! it is
also really very pretty when one looks more closely at it; quack, quack,
now come with me, I will take you into the world, introduce you in the
duck-yard; but keep close to me, or some one may tread on you, and
beware of the cat.’

So they came into the duck-yard. There was a horrid noise; two families
were quarrelling about the remains of an eel, which in the end was
secured by the cat.

‘See, my children, such is the way of the world,’ said the mother-duck,
wiping her beak, for she too was fond of roasted eels. ‘Now use your
legs,’ said she, ‘keep together, and bow to the old duck you see yonder.
She is the most distinguished of all the fowls present, and is of
Spanish blood, which accounts for her dignified appearance and manners.
And look, she has a red rag on her leg; that is considered extremely
handsome, and is the greatest distinction a duck can have. Don’t turn
your feet inwards; a well-educated duckling always keeps his legs far
apart, like his father and mother, just so--look, now bow your necks,
and say “quack.”’

And they did as they were told. But the other ducks who were in the yard
looked at them and said aloud, ‘Only see, now we have another brood, as
if there were not enough of us already. And fie! how ugly that one is!
We will not endure it’; and immediately one of the ducks flew at him,
and bit him in the neck.

‘Leave him alone,’ said the mother, ‘he is doing no one any harm.’

‘Yes, but he is so large, and so strange-looking, and therefore he shall
be teased.’

‘Those are fine children that our good mother has,’ said the old duck
with the red rag on her leg. ‘All are pretty except one, and that has
not turned out well; I almost wish it could be hatched over again.’

‘That cannot be, please your highness,’ said the mother. ‘Certainly he
is not handsome, but he is a very good child, and swims as well as the
others, indeed rather better. I think he will grow like the others all
in good time, and perhaps will look smaller. He stayed so long in the
egg-shell, that is the cause of the difference,’ and she scratched the
duckling’s neck, and stroked his whole body. ‘Besides,’ added she, ‘he
is a drake; I think he will be very strong, therefore it does not matter
so much; he will fight his way through.’

‘The other ducks are very pretty,’ said the old duck, ‘pray make
yourselves at home, and if you find an eel’s head you can bring it to
me.’

And accordingly they made themselves at home.

But the poor little duckling, who had come last out of its egg-shell,
and who was so ugly, was bitten, pecked, and teased by both ducks and
hens. ‘It is so large,’ said they all. And the turkey-cock, who had come
into the world with spurs on, and therefore fancied he was an emperor,
puffed himself up like a ship in full sail, and marched up to the
duckling quite red with passion. The poor little thing scarcely knew
what to do; he was quite distressed, because he was so ugly, and because
he was the jest of the poultry-yard.

[Illustration: HE CAME TO A WIDE MOOR]

So passed the first day, and afterwards matters grew worse and worse;
the poor duckling was scorned by all. Even his brothers and sisters
behaved unkindly, and were constantly saying, ‘The cat fetch thee, thou
nasty creature!’ The mother said, ‘Ah, if thou wert only far away!’ The
ducks bit him, the hens pecked him, and the girl who fed the poultry
kicked him. He ran over the hedge; the little birds in the bushes were
terrified. ‘That is because I am so ugly,’ thought the duckling,
shutting his eyes, but he ran on. At last he came to a wide moor, where
lived some wild ducks; here he lay the whole night, so tired and so
comfortless. In the morning the wild ducks flew up, and perceived their
new companion. ‘Pray, who are you?’ asked they; and our little duckling
turned himself in all directions, and greeted them as politely as
possible.

‘You are really uncommonly ugly,’ said the wild ducks; ‘however that
does not matter to us, provided you do not marry into our families.’
Poor thing! he had never thought of marrying; he only begged permission
to lie among the reeds, and drink the water of the moor.

There he lay for two whole days--on the third day there came two wild
geese, or rather ganders, who had not been long out of their egg-shells,
which accounts for their impertinence.

‘Hark ye,’ said they, ‘you are so ugly that we like you infinitely well;
will you come with us, and be a bird of passage? On another moor, not
far from this, are some dear, sweet, wild geese, as lovely creatures as
have ever said “hiss, hiss.” You are truly in the way to make your
fortune, ugly as you are.’

Bang! a gun went off all at once, and both wild geese were stretched
dead among the reeds; the water became red with blood;--bang! a gun went
off again, whole flocks of wild geese flew up from among the reeds, and
another report followed.

There was a grand hunting party: the hunters lay in ambush all around;
some were even sitting in the trees, whose huge branches stretched far
over the moor. The blue smoke rose through the thick trees like a mist,
and was dispersed as it fell over the water; the hounds splashed about
in the mud, the reeds and rushes bent in all directions. How frightened
the poor little duck was! He turned his head, thinking to hide it under
his wings, and in a moment a most formidable-looking dog stood close to
him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes sparkling fearfully.
He opened wide his jaws at the sight of our duckling, showed him his
sharp white teeth, and, splash, splash! he was gone, gone without
hurting him.

‘Well! let me be thankful,’ sighed he, ‘I am so ugly, that even the dog
will not eat me.’

And now he lay still, though the shooting continued among the reeds,
shot following shot.

The noise did not cease till late in the day, and even then the poor
little thing dared not stir; he waited several hours before he looked
around him, and then hastened away from the moor as fast as he could. He
ran over fields and meadows, though the wind was so high that he had
some difficulty in proceeding.

Towards evening he reached a wretched little hut, so wretched that it
knew not on which side to fall, and therefore remained standing. The
wind blew violently, so that our poor little duckling was obliged to
support himself on his tail, in order to stand against it; but it became
worse and worse. He then remarked that the door had lost one of its
hinges, and hung so much awry that he could creep through the crevice
into the room, which he did.

In this room lived an old woman, with her tom-cat and her hen; and the
cat, whom she called her little son, knew how to set up his back and
purr; indeed he could even emit sparks when stroked the wrong way. The
hen had very short legs, and was therefore called ‘Cuckoo Shortlegs’;
she laid very good eggs, and the old woman loved her as her own child.

The next morning the new guest was perceived; the cat began to mew, and
the hen to cackle.

‘What is the matter?’ asked the old woman, looking round; however, her
eyes were not good, so she took the young duckling to be a fat duck who
had lost her way. ‘This is a capital catch,’ said she, ‘I shall now have
duck’s eggs, if it be not a drake: we must try.’

And so the duckling was put to the proof for three weeks, but no eggs
made their appearance.

Now the cat was the master of the house, and the hen was the mistress,
and they used always to say, ‘We and the World,’ for they imagined
themselves to be not only the half of the world, but also by far the
better half. The duckling thought it was possible to be of a different
opinion, but that the hen would not allow.

‘Can you lay eggs?’ asked she.

‘No.’

‘Well, then, hold your tongue.’

And the cat said, ‘Can you set up your back? can you purr?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, you should have no opinion when reasonable persons are
speaking.’

So the duckling sat alone in a corner, and was in a very bad humour;
however, he happened to think of the fresh air and bright sunshine, and
these thoughts gave him such a strong desire to swim again that he could
not help telling it to the hen.

‘What ails you?’ said the hen. ‘You have nothing to do, and, therefore,
brood over these fancies; either lay eggs, or purr, then you will forget
them.’

‘But it is so delicious to swim,’ said the duckling, ‘so delicious when
the waters close over your head, and you plunge to the bottom.’

‘Well, that is a queer sort of a pleasure,’ said the hen; ‘I think you
must be crazy. Not to speak of myself, ask the cat--he is the most
sensible animal I know--whether he would like to swim or to plunge to
the bottom of the water. Ask our mistress, the old woman--there is no
one in the world wiser than she--do you think she would take pleasure in
swimming, and in the waters closing over her head?’

‘You do not understand me,’ said the duckling.

‘What, we do not understand you! so you think yourself wiser than the
cat, and the old woman, not to speak of myself. Do not fancy any such
thing, child, but be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown
you. Are you not lodged in a warm room, and have you not the advantage
of society from which you can learn something? But you are a simpleton,
and it is wearisome to have anything to do with you. Believe me, I wish
you well. I tell you unpleasant truths, but it is thus that real
friendship is shown. Come, for once give yourself the trouble to learn
to purr, or to lay eggs.’

‘I think I will go out into the wide world again,’ said the duckling.

‘Well, go,’ answered the hen.

So the duckling went. He swam on the surface of the water, he plunged
beneath, but all animals passed him by, on account of his ugliness. And
the autumn came, the leaves turned yellow and brown, the wind caught
them and danced them about, the air was very cold, the clouds were heavy
with hail or snow, and the raven sat on the hedge and croaked:--the poor
duckling was certainly not very comfortable!

One evening, just as the sun was setting with unusual brilliancy, a
flock of large beautiful birds rose from out of the brushwood; the
duckling had never seen anything so beautiful before; their plumage was
of a dazzling white, and they had long, slender necks. They were swans;
they uttered a singular cry, spread out their long, splendid wings, and
flew away from these cold regions to warmer countries, across the open
sea. They flew so high, so very high! and the little ugly duckling’s
feelings were so strange; he turned round and round in the water like a
mill-wheel, strained his neck to look after them, and sent forth such a
loud and strange cry, that it almost frightened himself.--Ah! he could
not forget them, those noble

[Illustration: AND THE CAT SAID, ‘CAN YOU PURR?’]

birds! those happy birds! When he could see them no longer, he plunged
to the bottom of the water, and when he rose again was almost beside
himself. The duckling knew not what the birds were called, knew not
whither they were flying, yet he loved them as he had never before loved
anything; he envied them not, it would never have occurred to him to
wish such beauty for himself; he would have been quite contented if the
duck in the duck-yard had but endured his company--the poor ugly animal!

And the winter was so cold, so cold! The duckling was obliged to swim
round and round in the water, to keep it from freezing; but every night
the opening in which he swam became smaller and smaller; it froze so
that the crust of ice crackled; the duckling was obliged to make good
use of his legs to prevent the water from freezing entirely; at last,
wearied out, he lay stiff and cold in the ice.

Early in the morning there passed by a peasant, who saw him, broke the
ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and brought him home to his wife.

He now revived; the children would have played with him, but our
duckling thought they wished to tease him, and in his terror jumped into
the milk-pail, so that the milk was spilled about the room: the good
woman screamed and clapped her hands; he flew thence into the pan where
the butter was kept, and thence into the meal-barrel, and out again, and
then how strange he looked!

The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs; the children ran
races with each other trying to catch him, and laughed and screamed
likewise. It was well for him that the door stood open; he jumped out
among the bushes into the new-fallen snow--he lay there as in a dream.

But it would be too melancholy to relate all the trouble and misery
that he was obliged to suffer during the severity of the winter--he was
lying on a moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine warmly
again, the larks sang, and beautiful spring had returned.

And once more he shook his wings. They were stronger than formerly, and
bore him forwards quickly, and before he was well aware of it, he was in
a large garden where the apple-trees stood in full bloom, where the
syringas sent forth their fragrance and hung their long green branches
down into the winding canal. Oh, everything was so lovely, so full of
the freshness of spring! And out of the thicket came three beautiful
white swans. They displayed their feathers so proudly, and swam so
lightly, so lightly! The duckling knew the glorious creatures, and was
seized with a strange melancholy.

‘I will fly to them, those kingly birds!’ said he. ‘They will kill me,
because I, ugly as I am, have presumed to approach them; but it matters
not, better to be killed by them than to be bitten by the ducks, pecked
by the hens, kicked by the girl who feeds the poultry, and to have so
much to suffer during the winter!’ He flew into the water, and swam
towards the beautiful creatures--they saw him and shot forward to meet
him. ‘Only kill me,’ said the poor animal, and he bowed his head low,
expecting death,--but what did he see in the water?--he saw beneath him
his own form, no longer that of a plump, ugly, grey bird--it was that of
a swan.

It matters not to have been born in a duck-yard, if one has been hatched
from a swan’s egg.

The good creature felt himself really elevated by all the troubles and
adversities he had experienced. He could now rightly estimate his own
happiness, and the larger swans swam round him, and stroked him with
their beaks.

Some little children were running about in the garden;

[Illustration: AND EVERY ONE SAID, ‘THE NEW ONE IS THE BEST’]

they threw grain and bread into the water, and the youngest exclaimed,
‘There is a new one!’--the others also cried out, ‘Yes, there is a new
swan come!’ and they clapped their hands, and danced around. They ran to
their father and mother, bread and cake were thrown into the water, and
every one said, ‘The new one is the best, so young, and so beautiful!’
and the old swans bowed before him. The young swan felt quite ashamed,
and hid his head under his wings; he scarcely knew what to do, he was
all too happy, but still not proud, for a good heart is never proud.

He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided, and he now heard
every one say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. The
syringas bent down their branches towards him low into the water, and
the sun shone so warmly and brightly--he shook his feathers, stretched
his slender neck, and in the joy of his heart said, ‘How little did I
dream of so much happiness when I was the ugly, despised duckling!’

[Illustration]




THE NAUGHTY BOY


There was once an old poet, such a good, honest old poet! He was sitting
alone in his own little room on a very stormy evening; the wind was
roaring without, and the rain poured down in torrents. But the old man
sat cosily by his warm stove, the fire was blazing brightly, and some
apples were roasting in front of it.

‘Those poor people who have no roof to shelter them to-night will, most
assuredly, not have a dry thread left on their skin,’ said the
kind-hearted old man.

‘Oh, open the door! open the door! I am so cold, and quite wet through
besides--open the door!’ cried a voice from without. The voice was like
a child’s, and seemed half-choked with sobs. ‘Rap, rap, rap!’ it went on
knocking at the door, whilst the rain still kept streaming down from the
clouds, and the wind rattled among the window-panes.

‘Poor thing!’ said the old poet; and he arose and opened the door. There
stood a little boy, almost naked; the water trickled down from his long
flaxen hair; he was shivering with cold, and had he been left much
longer out in the street, he must certainly have perished in the storm.

‘Poor boy!’ said the old poet again, taking him by the hand, and leading
him into his room. ‘Come to me, and we’ll soon make thee warm again, and
I will give thee some wine, and some roasted apples for thy supper, my
pretty child!’

And, of a truth, the boy was exceedingly pretty. His eyes

[Illustration]

shone as bright as stars, and his hair, although dripping with water,
curled in beautiful ringlets. He looked quite like a little cherub, but
he was very pale, and trembled in every limb with cold. In his hand he
held a pretty little cross-bow, but it seemed entirely spoilt by the
rain, and the colours painted on the arrows all ran one into another.

The old poet sat down again beside the stove, and took the little boy in
his lap; he wrung the water out of his streaming hair, warmed the
child’s hands within his own, and gave him mulled wine to drink. The boy
soon became himself again, the rosy colour returned to his cheeks, he
jumped down from the old man’s lap, and danced around him on the floor.

‘Thou art a merry fellow!’ said the poet. ‘Thou must tell me thy name.’

‘They call me Cupid,’ replied the boy. ‘Don’t you know me? There lies my
bow; ah, you can’t think how capitally I can shoot! See, the weather is
fine again now; the moon is shining bright.’

‘But thy bow is spoilt,’ said the old man.

‘That would be a sad disaster, indeed,’ remarked the boy, as he took the
bow in his hand and examined it closely. ‘Oh, it is quite dry by this
time, and it is not a bit damaged; the string, too, is quite strong
enough, I think. However, I may as well try it!’ He then drew his bow,
placed an arrow before the string, took his aim, and shot direct into
the old poet’s heart. ‘Now you may be sure that my cross-bow is not
spoilt!’ cried he, as, with a loud laugh, he ran away.

The naughty boy! This was, indeed, ungrateful of him, to shoot to the
heart the good old man who had so kindly taken him in, warmed him, and
dried his clothes, given him sweet wine, and nice roasted apples for
supper!

The poor poet lay groaning on the ground, for the arrow had wounded him
sorely. ‘Fie, for shame, Cupid!’ cried he, ‘thou art a wicked boy! I
will tell all good children how thou hast treated me, and bid them take
heed and never play with thee, for thou wilt assuredly do them a
mischief, as thou hast done to me.’

All the good boys and girls to whom he related this story were on their
guard against the wicked boy, Cupid; but, notwithstanding, he made fools
of them again and again, he is so terribly cunning! When the students
are returning home from lecture, he walks by their side, dressed in a
black gown, and with a book under his arm. They take him to be a
fellow-student, and so they suffer him to walk arm-in-arm with them,
just as if he were one of their intimate friends. But whilst they are
thus familiar with him, all of a sudden he thrusts his arrows into their
bosoms. Even when young girls are going to church, he will follow and
watch for his opportunity: he is always waylaying people. In the
theatre, he sits in the great chandelier, and kindles such a bright, hot
flame, men fancy it a lamp, but they are soon undeceived. He wanders
about in the royal gardens and all the public walks, making mischief
everywhere; nay, once he even shot thy father and mother to the heart!
Only ask them, dear child, and they will certainly tell thee all about
it. In fine, this fellow, this Cupid, is a very wicked boy! Do not play
with him! He waylays everybody, boys and girls, youths and maidens, men
and women, rich and poor, old and young. Only think of this: he once
shot an arrow into thy good old grandmother’s heart! It happened a long
time ago, and she has recovered from the wound, but she will never
forget him, depend upon it.

Fie, for shame! wicked Cupid! Is he not a mischievous boy?

Beware of him, beware of him, dear child!

[Illustration: THE END]

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press