Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales
First Series
PREFACE
The Hans Andersen Fairy Tales
will be read
in schools
and homes
as long
as
there are children
who love
to read.
As a story-teller
for children the author has no rival
in power
to enlist the imagination
and carry it
along natural,
healthful lines.
The power
of his tales
to charm
and elevate runs
like a living thread
through whatever he writes.
In the two books
in
which they are here presented they have met the tests
and held an undiminishing popularity
among the best children’s books.
They are recognized
as standards,
and
as juvenile writings come
to be more carefully standardized,
their place
in permanent literature
will grow wider
and more secure.
A few children’s authors
will be ranked
among the Immortals,
and Hans Andersen is one
of them.
Denmark
and Finland supplied the natural background
for the quaint fancies
and growing genius
of their gifted son,
who was story-teller,
playwright,
and poet
in one.
Love
of nature,
love
of country,
fellow-feeling
with life
in everything,
and a wonderful gift
for investing everything
with life wrought together
to produce
in him a character whose spell is
in all his writings.
“The Story
of My Life” is perhaps the most thrilling
of all
of them.
Recognized
in courts
of kings
and castles
of nobles,
he recited his little stories
with the same simplicity
by
which he had made them familiar
in cottages
of the peasantry,
and endeared himself alike
to all
who listened.
These attributes,
while they do not account
for his genius,
help us
to unravel the charm
of it.
The simplest
of the stories meet Ruskin’s requirement
for a child’s story
--they are sweet
and sad.
From most writers
who have contributed largely
to children’s literature only a few selected gems are likely
to gain permanence.
With Andersen the case is different.
While
there are such gems,
the greater value lies
in taking these stories
as a type
of literature
and living
in it a while,
through the power
of cumulative reading.
It is not too much
to say
that
there is a temper
and spirit
in Andersen
which is all his own
--a simple philosophy
which continuous reading is sure
to impart.
For this reason these are good books
for a child
to own;
an occasional re-reading
will inspire
in him a healthy,
normal taste
in reading.
Many
of the stories are
of value
to read
to very young children.
They guide an exuberant imagination
along natural channels.
The text
of the present edition is a reprint
of an earlier one
which was based upon a sentence-by-sentence comparison
of the four
or five translations current
in Europe
and America.
It has been widely commended
as enjoyable reading,
while faithful
to the letter
and spirit
of the Danish original.
A slight abridgment has been made
in two
of the longer stories.
The order
of the selections adapts the reading
to the growing child
--the First Series
should be sufficiently easy
for children
of
about eight
or nine years old.
J. H. STICKNEY
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE FIR TREE 1
LITTLE TUK 20
THE UGLY DUCKLING 30
LITTLE IDA’S FLOWERS 52
THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER 67
LITTLE THUMBELINA 77
SUNSHINE STORIES 101
THE DARNING-NEEDLE 109
THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL 117
THE LOVING PAIR 124
THE LEAPING MATCH 129
THE HAPPY FAMILY 134
THE GREENIES 141
OLE-LUK-OIE,
THE DREAM GOD 145
THE MONEY BOX 169
ELDER-TREE MOTHER 174
THE SNOW QUEEN 192
THE ROSES
and THE SPARROWS 253
THE OLD HOUSE 273
THE CONCEITED APPLE BRANCH 290
NOTES 299
HANS ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES
THE FIR TREE
FAR away
in the forest,
where the warm sun
and the fresh air made a sweet resting place,
grew a pretty little fir tree.
The situation was all
that
could be desired;
and yet the tree was not happy,
it wished so much
to be
like its tall companions,
the pines
and firs
which grew
around it.
The sun shone,
and the soft air fluttered its leaves,
and the little peasant children passed by,
prattling merrily;
but the fir tree did not heed them.
Sometimes the children
would bring a large basket
of raspberries
or strawberries,
wreathed
on straws,
and seat themselves near the fir tree,
and say,
“Is it not a pretty little tree?”
which made it feel
even more unhappy
than before.
And yet all this
while the tree grew a notch
or joint taller every year,
for
by the number
of joints
in the stem
of a fir tree we
can discover its age.
Still,
as it grew,
it complained:
“Oh!
how I wish I were
as tall
as the other trees;
then I
would spread out my branches
on every side,
and my crown
would overlook the wide world around.
I
should have the birds building their nests
on my boughs,
and
when the wind blew,
I
should bow
with stately dignity,
like my tall companions.”
So discontented was the tree,
that it took no pleasure
in the warm sunshine,
the birds,
or the rosy clouds
that floated
over it morning
and evening.
Sometimes
in winter,
when the snow lay white
and glittering
on the ground,
there was a little hare
that
would come springing along,
and jump right
over the little tree’s head;
then
how mortified it
would feel.
Two winters passed;
and
when the third arrived,
the tree had grown so tall
that the hare was obliged
to run round it.
Yet it remained unsatisfied
and
would exclaim:
“Oh!
to grow,
to grow;
if I could
but keep
on growing tall
and old!
There is nothing else worth caring for
in the world.”
In the autumn the woodcutters came,
as usual,
and cut down several
of the tallest trees;
and the young fir,
which was now grown
to a good,
full height,
shuddered
as the noble trees fell
to the earth
with a crash.
After the branches were lopped off,
the trunks looked so slender
and bare
that they
could scarcely be recognized.
Then they were placed,
one upon another,
upon wagons
and drawn
by horses out
of the forest.
Where
could they be going?
What
would become
of them?
The young fir tree wished very much
to know.
So
in the spring,
when the swallows
and the storks came,
it asked:
“Do you know
where those trees were taken?
Did you meet them?”
The swallows knew nothing;
but the stork,
after a little reflection,
nodded his head
and said:
“Yes,
I think I do.
As I flew
from Egypt,
I met several new ships,
and they had fine masts
that smelt
like fir.
These must have been the trees;
and I assure you they were stately;
they sailed right gloriously!”
“Oh,
how I wish I were tall enough
to go
on the sea,”
said the fir tree.
“Tell me
what is this sea,
and
what does it look like?”
“It
would take too much time
to explain
--a great deal too much,”
said the stork,
flying quickly away.
“Rejoice
in thy youth,”
said the sunbeam;
“rejoice
in thy fresh growth and
in the young life
that is
in thee.”
And the wind kissed the tree,
and the dew watered it
with tears,
but the fir tree regarded them not.
* * * * *
Christmas time drew near,
and many young trees were cut down,
some
that were
even smaller
and younger
than the fir tree,
who enjoyed neither rest nor peace
for longing
to leave its forest home.
These young trees,
which were chosen
for their beauty,
kept their branches,
and they,
also,
were laid
on wagons
and drawn
by horses far away out
of the forest.
“Where are they going?”
asked the fir tree.
“They are not taller
than I am;
indeed,
one is not so tall.
And
why do they keep all their branches?
Where are they going?”
“We know,
we know,”
sang the sparrows;
“we have looked
in
at the windows
of the houses
in the town,
and we know
what is done
with them.
Oh!
you cannot think
what honor
and glory they receive.
They are dressed up
in the most splendid manner.
We have seen them standing
in the middle
of a warm room,
and adorned
with all sorts
of beautiful things
--honey cakes,
gilded apples,
playthings,
and many hundreds
of wax tapers.”
“And then,”
asked the fir tree,
trembling
in all its branches,
“and
then
what happens?”
“We did not see any more,”
said the sparrows;
“but this was enough
for us.”
“I wonder whether anything so brilliant
will ever happen
to me,”
thought the fir tree.
“It
would be better even
than crossing the sea.
I long
for it almost
with pain.
Oh,
when
will Christmas be here?
I am now
as tall
and well grown
as those
which were taken away last year.
O
that I were now laid
on the wagon,
or standing
in the warm room
with all
that brightness
and splendor
around me!
Something better
and more beautiful is
to come after,
or the trees
would not be so decked out.
Yes,
what follows
will be grander
and more splendid.
What
can it be?
I am weary
with longing.
I scarcely know
what it is
that I feel.”
“Rejoice
in our love,”
said the air
and the sunlight.
“Enjoy thine own bright life
in the fresh air.”
But the tree
would not rejoice,
though it grew taller every day,
and winter
and summer its dark-green foliage might be seen
in the forest,
while passers-by
would say,
“What a beautiful tree!”
A short time
before the next Christmas the discontented fir tree was the first
to fall.
As the ax cut sharply
through the stem
and divided the pith,
the tree fell
with a groan
to the earth,
conscious
of pain
and faintness
and forgetting all its dreams
of happiness
in sorrow
at leaving its home
in the forest.
It knew
that it
should never again see its dear old companions the trees,
nor the little bushes
and many-colored flowers
that had grown
by its side;
perhaps not
even the birds.
Nor was the journey
at all pleasant.
The tree first recovered itself
while being unpacked
in the courtyard
of a house,
with several other trees;
and it heard a man say:
“We only want one,
and this is the prettiest.
This is beautiful!”
Then came two servants
in grand livery
and carried the fir tree
into a large
and beautiful apartment.
Pictures hung
on the walls,
and near the tall tile stove stood great china vases
with lions
on the lids.
There were rocking-chairs,
silken sofas,
and large tables covered
with pictures;
and
there were books,
and playthings
that had cost a hundred times a hundred dollars
--at least so said the children.
Then the fir tree was placed
in a large tub full
of sand
--but green baize hung all round it so
that no one
could know it was a tub
--and it stood
on a very handsome carpet.
Oh,
how the fir tree trembled!
What was going
to happen
to him now?
Some young ladies came,
and the servants helped them
to adorn the tree.
On one branch they hung little bags cut out
of colored paper,
and each bag was filled
with sweetmeats.
From other branches hung gilded apples
and walnuts,
as
if they had grown there;
and above
and all
around were hundreds
of red,
blue,
and white tapers,
which were fastened upon the branches.
Dolls,
exactly
like real men
and women,
were placed
under the green leaves,
--the tree had never seen such things before,
--and
at the very top was fastened a glittering star made
of gold tinsel.
Oh,
it was very beautiful.
“This evening,”
they all exclaimed,
“how bright it
will be!”
“O
that the evening were come,”
thought the tree,
“and the tapers lighted!
Then I shall know
what else is going
to happen.
Will the trees
of the forest come
to see me?
Will the sparrows peep
in
at the windows,
I wonder,
as they fly?
Shall I grow faster here than
in the forest,
and shall I keep
on all these ornaments during summer
and winter?”
But guessing was
of very little use.
His back ached
with trying,
and this pain is
as bad
for a slender fir tree
as headache is
for us.
At last the tapers were lighted,
and
then
what a glistening blaze
of splendor the tree presented!
It trembled so
with joy
in all its branches
that one
of the candles fell
among the green leaves
and burned some
of them.
“Help!
help!”
exclaimed the young ladies;
but no harm was done,
for they quickly extinguished the fire.
After this the tree tried not
to tremble
at all,
though the fire frightened him,
he was so anxious not
to hurt any
of the beautiful ornaments,
even
while their brilliancy dazzled him.
And now the folding doors were thrown open,
and a troop
of children rushed
in
as
if they intended
to upset the tree,
and were followed more slowly
by their elders.
For a moment the little ones stood silent
with astonishment,
and
then they shouted
for joy
till the room rang;
and they danced merrily round the tree
while one present after another was taken
from it.
“What are they doing?
What
will happen next?”
thought the tree.
At last the candles burned down
to the branches
and were put out.
Then the children received permission
to plunder the tree.
Oh,
how they rushed upon it!
There was such a riot
that the branches cracked,
and had it not been fastened
with the glistening star
to the ceiling,
it must have been thrown down.
Then the children danced about
with their pretty toys,
and no one noticed the tree except the children’s maid,
who came
and peeped
among the branches
to see
if an apple
or a fig had been forgotten.
* * * * *
“A story,
a story,”
cried the children,
pulling a little fat man
towards the tree.
“Now we shall be
in the green shade,”
said the man
as he seated himself
under it,
“and the tree
will have the pleasure
of hearing,
also;
but I shall only relate one story.
What shall it be?
Ivede-Avede
or Humpty Dumpty,
who fell downstairs,
but soon got up again,
and
at last married a princess?”
“Ivede-Avede,”
cried some;
“Humpty Dumpty,”
cried others;
and
there was a famous uproar.
But the fir tree remained quite still
and thought
to himself:
“Shall I have anything
to do
with all this?
Ought I
to make a noise,
too?”
but he had already amused them
as much
as they wished
and they paid no attention
to him.
Then the old man told them the story
of Humpty Dumpty
--how he fell downstairs,
and was raised up again,
and married a princess.
And the children clapped their hands
and cried,
“Tell another,
tell another,”
for they wanted
to hear the story
of Ivede-Avede;
but this time they had only “Humpty Dumpty.”
After this the fir tree became quite silent
and thoughtful.
Never had the birds
in the forest told such tales
as that
of Humpty Dumpty,
who fell downstairs,
and yet married a princess.
“Ah,
yes!
so it happens
in the world,”
thought the fir tree.
He believed it all,
because it was related
by such a pleasant man.
“Ah,
well!”
he thought,
“who knows?
Perhaps I may fall down,
too,
and marry a princess;”
and he looked forward joyfully
to the next evening,
expecting
to be again decked out
with lights
and playthings,
gold
and fruit.
“To-morrow I
will not tremble,”
thought he;
“I
will enjoy all my splendor,
and I shall hear the story
of Humpty Dumpty again,
and perhaps
of Ivede-Avede.”
And the tree remained quiet
and thoughtful all night.
In the morning the servants
and the housemaid came in.
“Now,”
thought the fir tree,
“all my splendor is going
to begin again.”
But they dragged him out
of the room
and upstairs
to the garret
and threw him
on the floor
in a dark corner
where no daylight shone,
and
there they left him.
“What does this mean?”
thought the tree.
“What am I
to do here?
I
can hear nothing
in a place
like this;”
and he leaned
against the wall
and thought
and thought.
And he had time enough
to think,
for days
and nights passed
and no one came near him;
and when
at last somebody did come,
it was only
to push away some large boxes
in a corner.
So the tree was completely hidden
from sight,
as
if it had never existed.
[Illustration:
Threw him
on the floor .....
and
there they left him.]
“It is winter now,”
thought the tree;
“the ground is hard
and covered
with snow,
so
that people cannot plant me.
I shall be sheltered here,
I dare say,
until spring comes.
How thoughtful
and kind everybody is
to me!
Still,
I wish this place were not so dark
and so dreadfully lonely,
with not
even a little hare
to look at.
How pleasant it was out
in the forest
while the snow lay
on the ground,
when the hare
would run by,
yes,
and jump
over me,
too,
although I did not
like it then.
Oh!
it is terribly lonely here.”
“Squeak,
squeak,”
said a little mouse,
creeping cautiously
towards the tree;
then came another,
and they both sniffed
at the fir tree
and crept
in
and out
between the branches.
“Oh,
it is very cold,”
said the little mouse.
“If it were not we
should be very comfortable here,
shouldn’t we,
old fir tree?”
“I am not old,”
said the fir tree.
“There are many
who are older
than I am.”
“Where do you come from?”
asked the mice,
who were full
of curiosity;
“and
what do you know?
Have you seen the most beautiful places
in the world,
and
can you tell us all
about them?
And have you been
in the storeroom,
where cheeses lie
on the shelf
and hams hang
from the ceiling?
One
can run about
on tallow candles there;
one
can go
in thin
and come out fat.”
“I know nothing
of that,”
said the fir tree,
“but I know the wood,
where the sun shines
and the birds sing.”
And
then the tree told the little mice all
about its youth.
They had never heard such an account
in their lives;
and after they had listened
to it attentively,
they said:
“What a number
of things you have seen!
You must have been very happy.”
“Happy!”
exclaimed the fir tree;
and then,
as he reflected
on
what he had been telling them,
he said,
“Ah,
yes!
after all,
those were happy days.”
But
when he went
on
and related all
about Christmas Eve,
and
how he had been dressed up
with cakes
and lights,
the mice said,
“How happy you must have been,
you old fir tree.”
“I am not old
at all,”
replied the tree;
“I only came
from the forest this winter.
I am now checked
in my growth.”
“What splendid stories you
can tell,”
said the little mice.
And the next night four other mice came
with them
to hear
what the tree had
to tell.
The more he talked the more he remembered,
and
then he thought
to himself:
“Yes,
those were happy days;
but they may come again.
Humpty Dumpty fell downstairs,
and yet he married the princess.
Perhaps I may marry a princess,
too.”
And the fir tree thought
of the pretty little birch tree
that grew
in the forest;
a real princess,
a beautiful princess,
she was
to him.
“Who is Humpty Dumpty?”
asked the little mice.
And
then the tree related the whole story;
he
could remember every single word.
And the little mice were so delighted
with it
that they were ready
to jump
to the top
of the tree.
The next night a great many more mice made their appearance,
and
on Sunday two rats came
with them;
but the rats said it was not a pretty story
at all,
and the little mice were very sorry,
for it made them also think less
of it.
“Do you know only
that one story?”
asked the rats.
“Only
that one,”
replied the fir tree.
“I heard it
on the happiest evening
in my life;
but I did not know I was so happy
at the time.”
“We think it is a very miserable story,”
said the rats.
“Don’t you know any story
about bacon
or tallow
in the storeroom?”
“No,”
replied the tree.
“Many thanks
to you,
then,”
replied the rats,
and they went their ways.
The little mice also kept away after this,
and the tree sighed
and said:
“It was very pleasant
when the merry little mice sat round me
and listened
while I talked.
Now
that is all past,
too.
However,
I shall consider myself happy
when some one comes
to take me out
of this place.”
But
would this ever happen?
Yes;
one morning people came
to clear up the garret;
the boxes were packed away,
and the tree was pulled out
of the corner
and thrown roughly
on the floor;
then the servants dragged it out upon the staircase,
where the daylight shone.
“Now life is beginning again,”
said the tree,
rejoicing
in the sunshine
and fresh air.
Then it was carried downstairs
and taken
into the courtyard so quickly
that it forgot
to think
of itself
and
could only look about,
there was so much
to be seen.
The court was close
to a garden,
where everything looked blooming.
Fresh
and fragrant roses hung
over the little palings.
The linden trees were
in blossom,
while swallows flew here
and there,
crying,
“Twit,
twit,
twit,
my mate is coming”;
but it was not the fir tree they meant.
“Now I shall live,”
cried the tree joyfully,
spreading out its branches;
but alas!
they were all withered
and yellow,
and it lay
in a corner
among weeds
and nettles.
The star
of gold paper still stuck
in the top
of the tree
and glittered
in the sunshine.
Two
of the merry children
who had danced round the tree
at Christmas
and had been so happy were playing
in the same courtyard.
The youngest saw the gilded star
and ran
and pulled it off the tree.
“Look
what is sticking
to the ugly old fir tree,”
said the child,
treading
on the branches
till they crackled
under his boots.
And the tree saw all the fresh,
bright flowers
in the garden
and
then looked
at itself
and wished it had remained
in the dark corner
of the garret.
It thought
of its fresh youth
in the forest,
of the merry Christmas evening,
and
of the little mice
who had listened
to the story
of Humpty Dumpty.
“Past!
past!”
said the poor tree.
“Oh,
had I
but enjoyed myself
while I
could have done so!
but now it is too late.”
Then a lad came
and chopped the tree
into small pieces,
till a large bundle lay
in a heap
on the ground.
The pieces were placed
in a fire,
and they quickly blazed up brightly,
while the tree sighed so deeply
that each sigh was
like a little pistol shot.
Then the children
who were
at play came
and seated themselves
in front
of the fire,
and looked
at it
and cried,
“Pop,
pop.”
But
at each “pop,”
which was a deep sigh,
the tree was thinking
of a summer day
in the forest or
of some winter night there
when the stars shone brightly,
and
of Christmas evening,
and
of Humpty Dumpty,
--the only story it had ever heard
or knew how
to relate,
--till
at last it was consumed.
The boys still played
in the garden,
and the youngest wore
on his breast the golden star
with
which the tree had been adorned during the happiest evening
of its existence.
Now all was past;
the tree’s life was past
and the story also past
--for all stories must come
to an end
at some time
or other.
[Illustration]
LITTLE TUK
LITTLE TUK!
An odd name,
to be sure!
However,
it was not the little boy’s real name.
His real name was Carl;
but
when he was so young
that he
could not speak plainly,
he used
to call himself Tuk.
It
would be hard
to say why,
for it is not
at all
like “Carl”;
but the name does
as well
as any,
if one only knows it.
Little Tuk was left
at home
to take care
of his sister Gustava,
who was much younger
than himself;
and he had also
to learn his lesson.
Here were two things
to be done
at the same time,
and they did not
at all suit each other.
The poor boy sat
with his sister
in his lap,
singing
to her all the songs he knew,
yet giving,
now
and then,
a glance
into his geography,
which lay open beside him.
By to-morrow morning he must know the names
of all the towns
in Seeland
by heart,
and be able
to tell
about them all
that
could be told.
His mother came
at last,
and took little Gustava
in her arms.
Tuk ran quickly
to the window
and read
and read
till he had
almost read his eyes out
--for it was growing dark,
and his mother
could not afford
to buy candles.
“There goes the old washerwoman down the lane,”
said the mother,
as she looked out
of the window.
“She
can
hardly drag herself along,
poor thing;
and now she has
to carry
that heavy pail
from the pump.
Be a good boy,
little Tuk,
and run across
to help the poor creature,
will you not?”
And little Tuk ran quickly
and helped
to bear the weight
of the pail.
But
when he came back
into the room,
it was quite dark.
Nothing was said
about a candle,
and it was
of no use
to wish
for one;
he must go
to his little trundle-bed,
which was made
of an old settle.
There he lay,
still thinking
of the geography lesson,
of Seeland,
and
of all
that the master had said.
He
could not read the book again,
as he should
by rights have done,
for want
of a light.
So he put the geography-book
under his pillow.
Somebody had once told him
that
would help him wonderfully
to remember his lesson,
but he had never yet found
that one
could depend upon it.
There he lay
and thought
and thought,
till all
at once he felt
as though some one were gently sealing his mouth
and eyes
with a kiss.
He slept
and yet did not sleep,
for he seemed
to see the old washerwoman’s mild,
kind eyes fixed upon him,
and
to hear her say:
“It
would be a shame,
indeed,
for you not
to know your lesson to-morrow,
little Tuk.
You helped me;
now I
will help you,
and our Lord
will help us both.”
All
at once the leaves
of the book began
to rustle
under little Tuk’s head,
and he heard something crawling
about
under his pillow.
“Cluck,
cluck,
cluck!”
cried a hen,
as she crept
towards him.
(She came
from the town
of Kjöge.)
“I’m a Kjöge hen,”
she said.
And
then she told him
how many inhabitants the little town contained,
and
about the battle
that had once been fought there,
and
how it was now
hardly worth mentioning,
there were so many greater things.
[Illustration:
All
in a moment he was
on horseback,
and
on he went,
gallop,
gallop!]
Scratch,
scratch!
kribbley crabbley!
and now a great wooden bird jumped down upon the bed.
It was the popinjay
from the shooting ground
at Præstö.
He had reckoned the number
of inhabitants
in Præstö,
and found
that
there were
as many
as he had nails
in his body.
He was a proud bird.
“Thorwaldsen lived
in one corner
of Præstö,
close
by me.
Am I not a pretty bird,
a merry popinjay?”
And now little Tuk no longer lay
in bed.
All
in a moment he was
on horseback,
and
on he went,
gallop,
gallop!
A splendid knight,
with a bright helmet
and waving plume,
--a knight
of the olden time,
--held him
on his own horse;
and
on they rode together,
through the wood
of the ancient city
of Vordingborg,
and it was once again a great
and busy town.
The high towers
of the king’s castle rose
against the sky,
and bright lights were seen gleaming
through the windows.
Within were music
and merrymaking.
King Waldemar was leading out the noble ladies
of his court
to dance
with him.
Suddenly the morning dawned,
the lamps grew pale,
the sun rose,
the outlines
of the buildings faded away,
and
at last one high tower alone remained
to mark the spot
where the royal castle had stood.
The vast city had shrunk
into a poor,
mean-looking little town.
The schoolboys,
coming out
of school
with their geography-books
under their arms,
said,
“Two thousand inhabitants”;
but
that was a mere boast,
for the town had not nearly so many.
And little Tuk lay
in his bed.
He knew not whether he had been dreaming
or not,
but again
there was some one close
by his side.
“Little Tuk!
little Tuk!”
cried a voice;
it was the voice
of a young sailor boy.
“I am come
to bring you greeting
from Korsör.
Korsör is a new town,
a living town,
with steamers
and mail coaches.
Once people used
to call it a low,
ugly place,
but they do so no longer.
“‘I dwell
by the seaside,’
says Korsör;
‘I have broad highroads
and pleasure gardens;
and I have given birth
to a poet,
a witty one,
too,
which is more
than all poets are.
I once thought
of sending a ship all round the world;
but I did not do it,
though I might
as well have done so.
I dwell so pleasantly,
close
by the port;
and I am fragrant
with perfume,
for the loveliest roses bloom round
about me,
close
to my gates.’”
And little Tuk
could smell the roses
and see them
and their fresh green leaves.
But
in a moment they had vanished;
the green leaves spread
and thickened
--a perfect grove had grown up
above the bright waters
of the bay,
and
above the grove rose the two high-pointed towers
of a glorious old church.
From the side
of the grass-grown hill gushed a fountain
in rainbow-hued streams,
with a merry,
musical voice,
and close beside it sat a king,
wearing a gold crown upon his long dark hair.
This was King Hroar
of the springs;
and hard
by was the town
of Roskilde
(Hroar’s Fountain).
And up the hill,
on a broad highway,
went all the kings
and queens
of Denmark,
wearing golden crowns;
hand
in hand they passed
on
into the church,
and the deep music
of the organ mingled
with the clear rippling
of the fountain.
For nearly all the kings
and queens
of Denmark lie buried
in this beautiful church.
And little Tuk saw
and heard it all.
“Don’t forget the towns,”
said King Hroar.
Then all vanished;
though
where it went he knew not.
It seemed
like turning the leaves
of a book.
And now
there stood
before him an old peasant woman
from Sorö,
the quiet little town
where grass grows
in the very market place.
Her green linen apron was thrown
over her head
and back,
and the apron was very wet,
as
if it had been raining heavily.
“And so it has,”
she said.
And she told a great many pretty things
from Holberg’s comedies,
and recited ballads
about Waldemar
and Absalon;
for Holberg had founded an academy
in her native town.
All
at once she cowered down
and rocked her head
as
if she were a frog about
to spring.
“Koax!”
cried she;
“it is wet,
it is always wet,
and it is
as still
as the grave
in Sorö.”
She had changed
into a frog.
“Koax!”
and again she was an old woman.
“One must dress according
to the weather,”
she said.
“It is wet!
it is wet!
My native town is
like a bottle;
one goes
in
at the cork,
and
by the cork one must come out.
In old times we had the finest
of fish;
now we have fresh,
rosy-cheeked boys
at the bottom
of the bottle.
There they learn wisdom
--Greek,
Greek,
and Hebrew!
Koax!”
It sounded exactly
as
if frogs were croaking,
or
as
if some one were walking
over the great swamp
with heavy boots.
So tiresome was her tone,
all
on the same note,
that little Tuk fell fast asleep;
and a very good thing it was
for him.
But even
in sleep
there came a dream,
or whatever else it may be called.
His little sister Gustava,
with her blue eyes
and flaxen ringlets,
was grown
into a tall,
beautiful girl,
who,
though she had no wings,
could fly;
and away they now flew
over Seeland
--over its green woods
and blue waters.
“Hark!
Do you hear the cock crow,
little Tuk?
‘Cock-a-doodle-do!’ The fowls are flying hither
from Kjöge,
and you shall have a farmyard,
a great,
great poultry yard
of your own!
You shall never suffer hunger
or want.
The golden goose,
the bird
of good omen,
shall be yours;
you shall become a rich
and happy man.
Your house shall rise up
like King Waldemar’s towers
and be richly decked
with statues
like those
of Thorwaldsen
at Præstö.
“Understand me well;
your good name shall be borne round the world,
like the ship
that was
to sail
from Korsör,
and
at Roskilde you shall speak
and give counsel wisely
and well,
little Tuk,
like King Hroar;
and when
at last you shall lie
in your peaceful grave you shall sleep
as quietly--”
“As
if I lay sleeping
in Sorö,”
said Tuk,
and he woke.
It was a bright morning,
and he
could not remember his dream,
but it was not necessary
that he should.
One has no need
to know
what one
will live
to see.
And now he sprang quickly out
of bed
and sought his book,
that had lain
under his pillow.
He read his lesson
and found
that he knew the towns perfectly well.
And the old washerwoman put her head
in
at the door
and said,
with a friendly nod:
“Thank you,
my good child,
for yesterday’s help.
May the Lord fulfill your brightest
and most beautiful dreams!
I know he will.”
Little Tuk had forgotten
what he had dreamed,
but it did not matter.
There was One above
who knew it all.
[Illustration]
THE UGLY DUCKLING
IT was so beautiful
in the country.
It was the summer time.
The wheat fields were golden,
the oats were green,
and the hay stood
in great stacks
in the green meadows.
The stork paraded
about
among them
on his long red legs,
chattering away
in Egyptian,
the language he had learned
from his lady mother.
All
around the meadows
and cornfields grew thick woods,
and
in the midst
of the forest was a deep lake.
Yes,
it was beautiful,
it was delightful
in the country.
In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farmhouse circled all about
with deep canals;
and
from the walls down
to the water’s edge grew great burdocks,
so high
that
under the tallest
of them a little child might stand upright.
The spot was
as wild
as
if it had been
in the very center
of the thick wood.
In this snug retreat sat a duck upon her nest,
watching
for her young brood
to hatch;
but the pleasure she had felt
at first was
almost gone;
she had begun
to think it a wearisome task,
for the little ones were so long coming out
of their shells,
and she seldom had visitors.
The other ducks liked much better
to swim about
in the canals than
to climb the slippery banks
and sit
under the burdock leaves
to have a gossip
with her.
It was a long time
to stay so much
by herself.
At length,
however,
one shell cracked,
and soon another,
and
from each came a living creature
that lifted its head
and cried “Peep,
peep.”
“Quack,
quack!”
said the mother;
and
then they all tried
to say it,
too,
as well
as they could,
while they looked all
about them
on every side
at the tall green leaves.
Their mother allowed them
to look about
as much
as they liked,
because green is good
for the eyes.
“What a great world it is,
to be sure,”
said the little ones,
when they found
how much more room they had than
when they were
in the eggshell.
“Is this all the world,
do you imagine?”
said the mother.
“Wait
till you have seen the garden.
Far beyond
that it stretches down
to the pastor’s field,
though I have never ventured
to such a distance.
Are you all out?”
she continued,
rising
to look.
“No,
not all;
the largest egg lies
there yet,
I declare.
I wonder
how long this business is
to last.
I’m really beginning
to be tired
of it;”
but
for all
that she sat down again.
“Well,
and
how are you to-day?”
quacked an old duck
who came
to pay her a visit.
“There’s one egg
that takes a deal
of hatching.
The shell is hard
and
will not break,”
said the fond mother,
who sat still upon her nest.
“But just look
at the others.
Have I not a pretty family?
Are they not the prettiest little ducklings you ever saw?
They are the image
of their father
--the good
for naught!
He never comes
to see me.”
“Let me see the egg that
will not break,”
said the old duck.
“I’ve no doubt it’s a Guinea fowl’s egg.
The same thing happened
to me once,
and a deal
of trouble it gave me,
for the young ones are afraid
of the water.
I quacked
and clucked,
but all
to no purpose.
Let me take a look
at it.
Yes,
I am right;
it’s a Guinea fowl,
upon my word;
so take my advice
and leave it
where it is.
Come
to the water
and teach the other children
to swim.”
“I think I
will sit a little
while longer,”
said the mother.
“I have sat so long,
a day
or two more
won’t matter.”
“Very well,
please yourself,”
said the old duck,
rising;
and she went away.
* * * * *
At last the great egg broke,
and the latest bird cried “Peep,
peep,”
as he crept forth
from the shell.
How big
and ugly he was!
The mother duck stared
at him
and did not know what
to think.
“Really,”
she said,
“this is an enormous duckling,
and it is not
at all
like any
of the others.
I wonder
if he
will turn out
to be a Guinea fowl.
Well,
we shall see
when we get
to the water
--for
into the water he must go,
even
if I have
to push him
in myself.”
On the next day the weather was delightful.
The sun shone brightly
on the green burdock leaves,
and the mother duck took her whole family down
to the water
and jumped
in
with a splash.
“Quack,
quack!”
cried she,
and one after another the little ducklings jumped in.
The water closed
over their heads,
but they came up again
in an instant
and swam
about quite prettily,
with their legs paddling
under them
as easily
as possible;
their legs went
of their own accord;
and the ugly gray-coat was also
in the water,
swimming
with them.
“Oh,”
said the mother,
“that is not a Guinea fowl.
See
how well he uses his legs,
and
how erect he holds himself!
He is my own child,
and he is not so very ugly after all,
if you look
at him properly.
Quack,
quack!
come
with me now.
I
will take you
into grand society
and introduce you
to the farmyard,
but you must keep close
to me
or you may be trodden upon;
and,
above all,
beware
of the cat.”
When they reached the farmyard,
there was a wretched riot going on;
two families were fighting
for an eel’s head,
which,
after all,
was carried off
by the cat.
“See,
children,
that is the way
of the world,”
said the mother duck,
whetting her beak,
for she
would have liked the eel’s head herself.
“Come,
now,
use your legs,
and let me see
how well you
can behave.
You must bow your heads prettily
to
that old duck yonder;
she is the highest born
of them all
and has Spanish blood;
therefore she is well off.
Don’t you see she has a red rag tied
to her leg,
which is something very grand
and a great honor
for a duck;
it shows
that every one is anxious not
to lose her,
and
that she is
to be noticed
by both man
and beast.
Come,
now,
don’t turn
in your toes;
a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart,
just
like his father
and mother,
in this way;
now bend your necks
and say
‘Quack!’”
The ducklings did
as they were bade,
but the other ducks stared,
and said,
“Look,
here comes another brood
--as
if
there were not enough
of us already!
And bless me,
what a queer-looking object one
of them is;
we
don’t want him here”;
and
then one flew out
and bit him
in the neck.
“Let him alone,”
said the mother;
“he is not doing any harm.”
“Yes,
but he is so big
and ugly.
He’s a perfect fright,”
said the spiteful duck,
“and therefore he must be turned out.
A little biting
will do him good.”
“The others are very pretty children,”
said the old duck
with the rag
on her leg,
“all
but
that one.
I wish his mother
could smooth him up a bit;
he is really ill-favored.”
“That is impossible,
your grace,”
replied the mother.
“He is not pretty,
but he has a very good disposition
and swims
as well
as the others
or
even better.
I think he
will grow up pretty,
and perhaps be smaller.
He has remained too long
in the egg,
and therefore his figure is not properly formed;”
and
then she stroked his neck
and smoothed the feathers,
saying:
“It is a drake,
and therefore not
of so much consequence.
I think he
will grow up strong
and able
to take care
of himself.”
“The other ducklings are graceful enough,”
said the old duck.
“Now make yourself
at home,
and
if you find an eel’s head you
can bring it
to me.”
And so they made themselves comfortable;
but the poor duckling
who had crept out
of his shell last
of all
and looked so ugly was bitten
and pushed
and made fun of,
not only
by the ducks but
by all the poultry.
[Illustration:
Bless me,
what a queer-looking object one
of them is ...]
“He is too big,”
they all said;
and the turkey cock,
who had been born
into the world
with spurs
and fancied himself really an emperor,
puffed himself out
like a vessel
in full sail
and flew
at the duckling.
He became quite red
in the head
with passion,
so
that the poor little thing did not know where
to go,
and was quite miserable
because he was so ugly as
to be laughed at
by the whole farmyard.
So it went
on
from day
to day;
it got worse
and worse.
The poor duckling was driven about
by every one;
even his brothers
and sisters were unkind
to him
and
would say,
“Ah,
you ugly creature,
I wish the cat
would get you”
and his mother had been heard
to say she wished he had never been born.
The ducks pecked him,
the chickens beat him,
and the girl
who fed the poultry pushed him
with her feet.
So
at last he ran away,
frightening the little birds
in the hedge
as he flew
over the palings.
“They are afraid
because I am so ugly,”
he said.
So he flew still farther,
until he came out
on a large moor inhabited
by wild ducks.
Here he remained the whole night,
feeling very sorrowful.
In the morning,
when the wild ducks rose
in the air,
they stared
at their new comrade.
“What sort
of a duck are you?”
they all said,
coming round him.
He bowed
to them
and was
as polite
as he
could be,
but he did not reply
to their question.
“You are exceedingly ugly,”
said the wild ducks;
“but that
will not matter
if you do not want
to marry one
of our family.”
Poor thing!
he had no thoughts
of marriage;
all he wanted was permission
to lie
among the rushes
and drink some
of the water
on the moor.
After he had been
on the moor two days,
there came two wild geese,
or rather goslings,
for they had not been out
of the egg long,
which accounts
for their impertinence.
“Listen,
friend,”
said one
of them
to the duckling;
“you are so ugly
that we
like you very well.
Will you go
with us
and become a bird
of passage?
Not far
from here is another moor,
in
which
there are some wild geese,
all
of them unmarried.
It is a chance
for you
to get a wife.
You may make your fortune,
ugly
as you are.”
“Bang,
bang,”
sounded
in the air,
and the two wild geese fell dead
among the rushes,
and the water was tinged
with blood.
“Bang,
bang,”
echoed far
and wide
in the distance,
and whole flocks
of wild geese rose up
from the rushes.
The sound continued
from every direction,
for the sportsmen surrounded the moor,
and some were
even seated
on branches
of trees,
overlooking the rushes.
The blue smoke
from the guns rose
like clouds
over the dark trees,
and
as it floated away
across the water,
a number
of sporting dogs bounded
in
among the rushes,
which bent
beneath them wherever they went.
How they terrified the poor duckling!
He turned away his head
to hide it
under his wing,
and
at the same moment a large,
terrible dog passed quite near him.
His jaws were open,
his tongue hung
from his mouth,
and his eyes glared fearfully.
He thrust his nose close
to the duckling,
showing his sharp teeth,
and
then “splash,
splash,”
he went
into the water,
without touching him.
“Oh,”
sighed the duckling,
“how thankful I am
for being so ugly;
even a dog
will not bite me.”
And so he lay quite still,
while the shot rattled
through the rushes,
and gun after gun was fired
over him.
It was late
in the day
before all became quiet,
but even
then the poor young thing did not dare
to move.
He waited quietly
for several hours
and then,
after looking carefully
around him,
hastened away
from the moor
as fast
as he could.
He ran
over field
and meadow
till a storm arose,
and he
could
hardly struggle
against it.
Towards evening he reached a poor little cottage
that seemed ready
to fall,
and only seemed
to remain standing
because it
could not decide
on
which side
to fall first.
The storm continued so violent
that the duckling
could go no farther.
He sat down
by the cottage,
and
then he noticed
that the door was not quite closed,
in consequence
of one
of the hinges having given way.
There was,
therefore,
a narrow opening near the bottom large enough
for him
to slip through,
which he did very quietly,
and got a shelter
for the night.
Here,
in this cottage,
lived a woman,
a cat,
and a hen.
The cat,
whom his mistress called “My little son,”
was a great favorite;
he
could raise his back,
and purr,
and could
even throw out sparks
from his fur
if it were stroked the wrong way.
The hen had very short legs,
so she was called “Chickie Short-legs.”
She laid good eggs,
and her mistress loved her
as
if she had been her own child.
In the morning the strange visitor was discovered;
the cat began
to purr
and the hen
to cluck.
“What is
that noise about?”
said the old woman,
looking
around the room.
But her sight was not very good;
therefore
when she saw the duckling she thought it must be a fat duck
that had strayed
from home.
“Oh,
what a prize!”
she exclaimed.
“I hope it is not a drake,
for
then I shall have some ducks’ eggs.
I must wait
and see.”
So the duckling was allowed
to remain
on trial
for three weeks;
but
there were no eggs.
Now the cat was the master
of the house,
and the hen was the mistress;
and they always said,
“We
and the world,”
for they believed themselves
to be half the world,
and
by far the better half,
too.
The duckling thought
that others might hold a different opinion
on the subject,
but the hen
would not listen
to such doubts.
“Can you lay eggs?”
she asked.
“No.”
“Then have the goodness
to cease talking.”
“Can you raise your back,
or purr,
or throw out sparks?”
said the cat.
“No.”
“Then you have no right
to express an opinion
when sensible people are speaking.”
So the duckling sat
in a corner,
feeling very low-spirited;
but
when the sunshine
and the fresh air came
into the room
through the open door,
he began
to feel such a great longing
for a swim
that he
could not help speaking
of it.
“What an absurd idea!”
said the hen.
“You have nothing else
to do;
therefore you have foolish fancies.
If you
could purr
or lay eggs,
they
would pass away.”
“But it is so delightful
to swim about
on the water,”
said the duckling,
“and so refreshing
to feel it close
over your head
while you dive down
to the bottom.”
“Delightful,
indeed!
it must be a queer sort
of pleasure,”
said the hen.
“Why,
you must be crazy!
Ask the cat
--he is the cleverest animal I know;
ask him
how he
would like
to swim about
on the water,
or
to dive
under it,
for I
will not speak
of my own opinion.
Ask our mistress,
the old woman;
there is no one
in the world more clever
than she is.
Do you think she
would relish swimming
and letting the water close
over her head?”
“I see you
don’t understand me,”
said the duckling.
“We
don’t understand you?
Who
can understand you,
I wonder?
Do you consider yourself more clever
than the cat
or the old woman?
--I
will say nothing
of myself.
Don’t imagine such nonsense,
child,
and thank your good fortune
that you have been so well received here.
Are you not
in a warm room and
in society
from
which you may learn something?
But you are a chatterer,
and your company is not very agreeable.
Believe me,
I speak only
for your good.
I may tell you unpleasant truths,
but
that is a proof
of my friendship.
I advise you,
therefore,
to lay eggs
and learn
to purr
as quickly
as possible.”
“I believe I must go out
into the world again,”
said the duckling.
“Yes,
do,”
said the hen.
So the duckling left the cottage
and soon found water
on
which it
could swim
and dive,
but he was avoided
by all other animals because
of his ugly appearance.
Autumn came,
and the leaves
in the forest turned
to orange
and gold;
then,
as winter approached,
the wind caught them
as they fell
and whirled them
into the cold air.
The clouds,
heavy
with hail
and snowflakes,
hung low
in the sky,
and the raven stood
among the reeds,
crying,
“Croak,
croak.”
It made one shiver
with cold
to look
at him.
All this was very sad
for the poor little duckling.
One evening,
just
as the sun was setting amid radiant clouds,
there came a large flock
of beautiful birds out
of the bushes.
The duckling had never seen any
like them before.
They were swans;
and they curved their graceful necks,
while their soft plumage shone
with dazzling whiteness.
They uttered a singular cry
as they spread their glorious wings
and flew away
from those cold regions
to warmer countries
across the sea.
They mounted higher
and higher
in the air,
and the ugly little duckling had a strange sensation
as he watched them.
He whirled himself
in the water
like a wheel,
stretched out his neck
towards them,
and uttered a cry so strange
that it frightened
even himself.
Could he ever forget those beautiful,
happy birds!
And when
at last they were out
of his sight,
he dived
under the water
and rose again
almost beside himself
with excitement.
He knew not the names
of these birds nor
where they had flown,
but he felt
towards them
as he had never felt
towards any other bird
in the world.
He was not envious
of these beautiful creatures;
it never occurred
to him
to wish
to be
as lovely
as they.
Poor ugly creature,
how gladly he
would have lived even
with the ducks,
had they only treated him kindly
and given him encouragement.
The winter grew colder
and colder;
he was obliged
to swim about
on the water
to keep it
from freezing,
but every night the space
on
which he swam became smaller
and smaller.
At length it froze so hard
that the ice
in the water crackled
as he moved,
and the duckling had
to paddle
with his legs
as well
as he could,
to keep the space
from closing up.
He became exhausted
at last
and lay still
and helpless,
frozen fast
in the ice.
Early
in the morning a peasant
who was passing
by saw
what had happened.
He broke the ice
in pieces
with his wooden shoe
and carried the duckling home
to his wife.
The warmth revived the poor little creature;
but
when the children wanted
to play
with him,
the duckling thought they
would do him some harm,
so he started up
in terror,
fluttered
into the milk pan,
and splashed the milk
about the room.
Then the woman clapped her hands,
which frightened him still more.
He flew first
into the butter cask,
then
into the meal tub
and out again.
What a condition he was in!
The woman screamed
and struck
at him
with the tongs;
the children laughed
and screamed
and tumbled
over each other
in their efforts
to catch him,
but luckily he escaped.
The door stood open;
the poor creature
could just manage
to slip out
among the bushes
and lie down quite exhausted
in the newly fallen snow.
It
would be very sad were I
to relate all the misery
and privations
which the poor little duckling endured during the hard winter;
but
when it had passed he found himself lying one morning
in a moor,
amongst the rushes.
He felt the warm sun shining
and heard the lark singing
and saw
that all
around was beautiful spring.
Then the young bird felt
that his wings were strong,
as he flapped them
against his sides
and rose high
into the air.
They bore him onwards until,
before he well knew
how it had happened,
he found himself
in a large garden.
The apple trees were
in full blossom,
and the fragrant elders bent their long green branches down
to the stream,
which wound round a smooth lawn.
Everything looked beautiful
in the freshness
of early spring.
From a thicket close
by came three beautiful white swans,
rustling their feathers
and swimming lightly
over the smooth water.
The duckling saw these lovely birds
and felt more strangely unhappy
than ever.
“I
will fly
to these royal birds,”
he exclaimed,
“and they
will kill me because,
ugly
as I am,
I dare
to approach them.
But it does not matter;
better be killed
by them
than pecked
by the ducks,
beaten
by the hens,
pushed about
by the maiden
who feeds the poultry,
or starved
with hunger
in the winter.”
Then he flew
to the water
and swam
towards the beautiful swans.
The moment they espied the stranger they rushed
to meet him
with outstretched wings.
“Kill me,”
said the poor bird
and he bent his head down
to the surface
of the water
and awaited death.
But
what did he see
in the clear stream below?
His own image
--no longer a dark-gray bird,
ugly
and disagreeable
to look at,
but a graceful
and beautiful swan.
To be born
in a duck’s nest
in a farmyard is
of no consequence
to a bird
if it is hatched
from a swan’s egg.
He now felt glad
at having suffered sorrow
and trouble,
because it enabled him
to enjoy so much better all the pleasure
and happiness
around him;
for the great swans swam round the newcomer
and stroked his neck
with their beaks,
as a welcome.
Into the garden presently came some little children
and threw bread
and cake
into the water.
[Illustration:
The new one is the most beautiful
of all ...]
“See,”
cried the youngest,
“there is a new one;”
and the rest were delighted,
and ran
to their father
and mother,
dancing
and clapping their hands
and shouting joyously,
“There is another swan come;
a new one has arrived.”
Then they threw more bread
and cake
into the water
and said,
“The new one is the most beautiful
of all,
he is so young
and pretty.”
And the old swans bowed their heads
before him.
Then he felt quite ashamed
and hid his head
under his wing,
for he did not know what
to do,
he was so happy
--yet he was not
at all proud.
He had been persecuted
and despised
for his ugliness,
and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful
of all the birds.
Even the elder tree bent down its boughs
into the water
before him,
and the sun shone warm
and bright.
Then he rustled his feathers,
curved his slender neck,
and cried joyfully,
from the depths
of his heart,
“I never dreamed
of such happiness
as this
while I was the despised ugly duckling.”
[Illustration]
LITTLE IDA’S FLOWERS
“MY POOR flowers are quite faded!”
said little Ida.
“Only yesterday evening they were so pretty,
and now all the leaves are drooping.
Why do they do that?”
she asked
of the student,
who sat
on the sofa.
He was a great favorite
with her,
because he used
to tell her the prettiest
of stories
and cut out the most amusing things
in paper
--hearts
with little ladies dancing
in them,
and high castles
with doors
which one
could open
and shut.
He was a merry student.
“Why do the flowers look so wretched to-day?”
asked she again,
showing him a bouquet
of faded flowers.
“Do you not know?”
replied the student.
“The flowers went
to a ball last night,
and are tired.
That’s
why they hang their heads.”
“What an idea,”
exclaimed little Ida.
“Flowers cannot dance!”
“Of course they
can dance!
When it is dark,
and we are all gone
to bed,
they jump about
as merrily
as possible.
They have a ball
almost every night.”
“And
can their children go
to the ball?”
asked Ida.
“Oh,
yes,”
said the student;
“daisies
and lilies
of the valley,
that are quite little.”
“And
when is it
that the prettiest flowers dance?”
“Have you not been
to the large garden outside the town gate,
in front
of the castle
where the king lives
in summer
--the garden
that is so full
of lovely flowers?
You surely remember the swans
which come swimming up
when you give them crumbs
of bread?
Believe me,
they have capital balls there.”
“I was out
there only yesterday
with my mother,”
said Ida,
“but
there were no leaves
on the trees,
and I did not see a single flower.
What has become
of them?
There were so many
in the summer.”
“They are inside the palace now,”
replied the student.
“As soon
as the king
and all his court go back
to the town,
the flowers hasten out
of the garden
and
into the palace,
where they have famous times.
Oh,
if you could
but see them!
The two most beautiful roses seat themselves
on the throne
and act king
and queen.
All the tall red cockscombs stand
before them
on either side
and bow;
they are the chamberlains.
Then all the pretty flowers come,
and
there is a great ball.
The blue violets represent the naval cadets;
they dance
with hyacinths
and crocuses,
who take the part
of young ladies.
The tulips
and the tall tiger lilies are old ladies,
--dowagers,
--who see
to it
that the dancing is well done
and
that all things go
on properly.”
“But,”
asked little Ida,
“is
there no one there
to harm the flowers
for daring
to dance
in the king’s castle?”
“No one knows anything
about it,”
replied the student.
“Once during the night,
perhaps,
the old steward
of the castle does,
to be sure,
come
in
with his great bunch
of keys
to see
that all is right;
but the moment the flowers hear the clanking
of the keys they stand stock-still
or hide themselves
behind the long silk window curtains.
Then the old steward
will say,
‘Do I not smell flowers here?’
but he can’t see them.”
“That is very funny,”
exclaimed little Ida,
clapping her hands
with glee;
“but
should not I be able
to see the flowers?”
“To be sure you
can see them,”
replied the student.
“You have only
to remember
to peep
in
at the windows the next time you go
to the palace.
I did so this very day,
and saw a long yellow lily lying
on the sofa.
She was a court lady.”
“Do the flowers
in the Botanical Garden go
to the ball?
Can they go all
that long distance?”
“Certainly,”
said the student;
“for the flowers
can fly
if they please.
Have you not seen the beautiful red
and yellow butterflies
that look so much
like flowers?
They are
in fact nothing else.
They have flown off their stalks high
into the air
and flapped their little petals just
as
if they were wings,
and thus they came
to fly about.
As a reward
for always behaving well they have leave
to fly about
in the daytime,
too,
instead
of sitting quietly
on their stalks
at home,
till
at last the flower petals have become real wings.
That you have seen yourself.
“It may be,
though,
that the flowers
in the Botanical Garden have never been
in the king’s castle.
They may not have heard
what frolics take place
there every night.
But I’ll tell you;
if,
the next time you go
to the garden,
you whisper
to one
of the flowers
that a great ball is
to be given yonder
in the castle,
the news
will spread
from flower
to flower
and they
will all fly away.
Then
should the professor come
to his garden
there
won’t be a flower there,
and he
will not be able
to imagine
what has become
of them.”
“But
how
can one flower tell it
to another?
for I am sure the flowers cannot speak.”
“No;
you are right there,”
returned the student.
“They cannot speak,
but they
can make signs.
Have you ever noticed that
when the wind blows a little the flowers nod
to each other
and move all their green leaves?
They
can make each other understand
in this way just
as well
as we do
by talking.”
“And does the professor understand their pantomime?”
asked Ida.
“Oh,
certainly;
at least part
of it.
He came
into his garden one morning
and saw
that a great stinging nettle was making signs
with its leaves
to a beautiful red carnation.
It was saying,
‘You are so beautiful,
and I love you
with all my heart!’
but the professor doesn’t like
that sort
of thing,
and he rapped the nettle
on her leaves,
which are her fingers;
but she stung him,
and since
then he has never dared
to touch a nettle.”
“Ha!
ha!”
laughed little Ida,
“that is very funny.”
“How
can one put such stuff
into a child’s head?”
said a tiresome councilor,
who had come
to pay a visit.
He did not
like the student
and always used
to scold
when he saw him cutting out the droll pasteboard figures,
such
as a man hanging
on a gibbet
and holding a heart
in his hand
to show
that he was a stealer
of hearts,
or an old witch riding
on a broomstick
and carrying her husband
on the end
of her nose.
The councilor
could not bear such jokes,
and he
would always say,
as now:
“How
can any one put such notions
into a child’s head?
They are only foolish fancies.”
But
to little Ida all
that the student had told her was very entertaining,
and she kept thinking it over.
She was sure now
that her pretty yesterday’s flowers hung their heads
because they were tired,
and
that they were tired
because they had been
to the ball.
So she took them
to the table
where stood her toys.
Her doll lay sleeping,
but Ida said
to her,
“You must get up,
and be content
to sleep to-night
in the table drawer,
for the poor flowers are ill
and must have your bed
to sleep in;
then perhaps they
will be well again
by to-morrow.”
And she
at once took the doll out,
though the doll looked vexed
at giving up her cradle
to the flowers.
Ida laid the flowers
in the doll’s bed
and drew the coverlet quite
over them,
telling them
to lie still
while she made some tea
for them
to drink,
in order
that they might be well next day.
And she drew the curtains
about the bed,
that the sun might not shine
into their eyes.
All the evening she thought
of nothing
but
what the student had told her;
and
when she went
to bed herself,
she ran
to the window
where her mother’s tulips
and hyacinths stood.
She whispered
to them,
“I know very well
that you are going
to a ball to-night.”
The flowers pretended not
to understand
and did not stir so much
as a leaf,
but
that did not prevent Ida
from knowing
what she knew.
When she was
in bed she lay
for a long time thinking
how delightful it must be
to see the flower dance
in the king’s castle,
and said
to herself,
“I wonder
if my flowers have really been there.”
Then she fell asleep.
* * * * *
In the night she woke.
She had been dreaming
of the student
and the flowers
and the councilor,
who told her they were making game
of her.
All was still
in the room,
the night lamp was burning
on the table,
and her father
and mother were both asleep.
“I wonder
if my flowers are still lying
in Sophie’s bed,”
she thought
to herself.
“How I
should like
to know!”
She raised herself a little
and looked
towards the door,
which stood half open;
within lay the flowers
and all her playthings.
She listened,
and it seemed
to her
that she heard some one playing upon the piano,
but quite softly,
and more sweetly
than she had ever heard before.
“Now all the flowers are certainly dancing,”
thought she.
“Oh,
how I
should like
to see them!”
but she dared not get up
for fear
of waking her father
and mother.
“If they
would only come
in here!”
But the flowers did not come,
and the music went
on so prettily
that she
could restrain herself no longer,
and she crept out
of her little bed,
stole softly
to the door,
and peeped
into the room.
Oh,
what a pretty sight it was!
[Illustration:
On the floor all the flowers danced gracefully ....]
There was no night lamp
in the room,
still it was quite bright;
the moon shone
through the window down upon the floor,
and it was almost
like daylight.
The hyacinths
and tulips stood there
in two rows.
Not one was left
on the window,
where stood the empty flower pots.
On the floor all the flowers danced gracefully,
making all the turns,
and holding each other
by their long green leaves
as they twirled around.
At the piano sat a large yellow lily,
which little Ida remembered
to have seen
in the summer,
for she recollected
that the student had said,
“How
like she is
to Miss Laura,”
and
how every one had laughed
at the remark.
But now she really thought
that the lily was very
like the young lady.
It had exactly her manner
of playing
--bending its long yellow face,
now
to one side
and now
to the other,
and nodding its head
to mark the time
of the beautiful music.
A tall blue crocus now stepped forward,
sprang upon the table
on
which lay Ida’s playthings,
went straight
to the doll’s cradle,
and drew back the curtains.
There lay the sick flowers;
but they rose
at once,
greeted the other flowers,
and made a sign
that they
would like
to join
in the dance.
They did not look
at all ill now.
Suddenly a heavy noise was heard,
as
of something falling
from the table.
Ida glanced
that way
and saw
that it was the rod she had found
on her bed
on Shrove Tuesday,
and
that it seemed
to wish
to belong
to the flowers.
It was a pretty rod,
for a wax figure
that looked exactly
like the councilor sat upon the head
of it.
The rod began
to dance,
and the wax figure
that was riding
on it became long
and great,
like the councilor himself,
and began
to exclaim,
“How
can one put such stuff
into a child’s head?”
It was very funny
to see,
and little Ida
could not help laughing,
for the rod kept
on dancing,
and the councilor had
to dance too,
--there was no help
for it,
--whether he remained tall
and big
or became a little wax figure again.
But the other flowers said a good word
for him,
especially those
that had lain
in the doll’s bed,
so that
at last the rod left it
in peace.
At the same time
there was a loud knocking inside the drawer
where Sophie,
Ida’s doll,
lay
with many other toys.
She put out her head
and asked
in great astonishment:
“Is
there a ball here?
Why has no one told me
of it?”
She sat down upon the table,
expecting some
of the flowers
to ask her
to dance
with them;
but
as they did not,
she let herself fall upon the floor so as
to make a great noise;
and
then the flowers all came crowding about
to ask
if she were hurt,
and they were very polite
--especially those
that had lain
in her bed.
She was not
at all hurt,
and the flowers thanked her
for the use
of her pretty bed
and took her
into the middle
of the room,
where the moon shone,
and danced
with her,
while the other flowers formed a circle
around them.
So now Sophie was pleased
and said they might keep her bed,
for she did not mind sleeping
in the drawer the least
in the world.
But the flowers replied:
“We thank you most heartily
for your kindness,
but we shall not live long enough
to need it;
we shall be quite dead
by to-morrow.
But tell little Ida she is
to bury us out
in the garden near the canary bird’s grave;
and
then we shall wake again next summer
and be
even more beautiful
than we have been this year.”
“Oh,
no,
you must not die,”
said Sophie,
kissing them
as she spoke;
and
then a great company
of flowers came dancing in.
Ida
could not imagine
where they
could have come from,
unless
from the king’s garden.
Two beautiful roses led the way,
wearing golden crowns;
then followed wallflowers
and pinks,
who bowed
to all present.
They brought a band
of music
with them.
Wild hyacinths
and little white snowdrops jingled merry bells.
It was a most remarkable orchestra.
Following these were an immense number
of flowers,
all dancing
--violets,
daisies,
lilies
of the valley,
and others
which it was a delight
to see.
At last all the happy flowers wished one another good night.
Little Ida,
too,
crept back
to bed,
to dream
of all
that she had seen.
When she rose next morning she went
at once
to her little table
to see
if her flowers were there.
She drew aside the curtains
of her little bed;
yes,
there lay the flowers,
but they were much more faded to-day
than yesterday.
Sophie too was
in the drawer,
but she looked very sleepy.
“Do you remember
what you were
to say
to me?”
asked Ida
of her.
But Sophie looked quite stupid
and had not a word
to say.
“You are not kind
at all,”
said Ida;
“and yet all the flowers let you dance
with them.”
Then she chose
from her playthings a little pasteboard box
with birds painted
on it,
and
in it she laid the dead flowers.
“That shall be your pretty casket,”
said she;
“and
when my cousins come
to visit me,
by
and by,
they shall help me
to bury you
in the garden,
in order
that next summer you may grow again
and be still more beautiful.”
The two cousins were two merry boys,
Gustave
and Adolphe.
Their father had given them each a new crossbow,
which they brought
with them
to show
to Ida.
She told them
of the poor flowers
that were dead
and were
to be buried
in the garden.
So the two boys walked
in front,
with their bows slung
across their shoulders,
and little Ida followed,
carrying the dead flowers
in their pretty coffin.
A little grave was dug
for them
in the garden.
Ida first kissed the flowers
and
then laid them
in the earth,
and Adolphe
and Gustave shot
with their crossbows
over the grave,
for they had neither guns nor cannons.
[Illustration]
THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER
THERE were once five
and twenty tin soldiers.
They were brothers,
for they had all been made out
of the same old tin spoon.
They all shouldered their bayonets,
held themselves upright,
and looked straight
before them.
Their uniforms were very smart-looking
--red
and blue
--and very splendid.
The first thing they heard
in the world,
when the lid was taken off the box
in
which they lay,
was the words “Tin soldiers!”
These words were spoken
by a little boy,
who clapped his hands
for joy.
The soldiers had been given him
because it was his birthday,
and now he was putting them out upon the table.
Each was exactly
like the rest
to a hair,
except one
who had
but one leg.
He had been cast last
of all,
and
there had not been quite enough tin
to finish him;
but he stood
as firmly upon his one leg
as the others upon their two,
and it was he whose fortunes became so remarkable.
On the table
where the tin soldiers had been set up were several other toys,
but the one
that attracted most attention was a pretty little paper castle.
Through its tiny windows one
could see straight
into the hall.
In front
of the castle stood little trees,
clustering round a small mirror
which was meant
to represent a transparent lake.
Swans
of wax swam upon its surface,
and it reflected back their images.
All this was very pretty,
but prettiest
of all was a little lady
who stood
at the castle’s open door.
She too was cut out
of paper,
but she wore a frock
of the clearest gauze
and a narrow blue ribbon
over her shoulders,
like a scarf,
and
in the middle
of the ribbon was placed a shining tinsel rose.
The little lady stretched out both her arms,
for she was a dancer,
and
then she lifted one leg so high
that the Soldier quite lost sight
of it.
He thought that,
like himself,
she had
but one leg.
“That
would be just the wife
for me,”
thought he,
“if she were not too grand.
But she lives
in a castle,
while I have only a box,
and
there are five
and twenty
of us
in that.
It
would be no place
for a lady.
Still,
I must try
to make her acquaintance.”
A snuffbox happened
to be upon the table
and he lay down
at full length
behind it,
and here he
could easily watch the dainty little lady,
who still remained standing
on one leg without losing her balance.
When the evening came all the other tin soldiers were put away
in their box,
and the people
in the house went
to bed.
Now the playthings began
to play
in their turn.
They visited,
fought battles,
and gave balls.
The tin soldiers rattled
in the box,
for they wished
to join the rest,
but they
could not lift the lid.
The nutcrackers turned somersaults,
and the pencil jumped about
in a most amusing way.
There was such a din
that the canary woke
and began
to speak
--and
in verse,
too.
The only ones
who did not move
from their places were the Tin Soldier
and the Lady Dancer.
She stood
on tiptoe
with outstretched arms,
and he was just
as persevering
on his one leg;
he never once turned away his eyes
from her.
Twelve o’clock struck
--crash!
up sprang the lid
of the snuffbox.
There was no snuff
in it,
but a little black goblin.
You see it was not a real snuffbox,
but a jack-in-the-box.
“Tin Soldier,”
said the Goblin,
“keep thine eyes
to thyself.
Gaze not
at
what does not concern thee!”
But the Tin Soldier pretended not
to hear.
“Only wait,
then,
till to-morrow,”
remarked the Goblin.
Next morning,
when the children got up,
the Tin Soldier was placed
on the window sill,
and,
whether it was the Goblin
or the wind
that did it,
all
at once the window flew open
and the Tin Soldier fell head foremost
from the third story
to the street below.
It was a tremendous fall!
Over
and
over he turned
in the air,
till
at last he rested,
his cap
and bayonet sticking fast
between the paving stones,
while his one leg stood upright
in the air.
[Illustration:
Away he sailed ...
down the gutter ...]
The maidservant
and the little boy came down
at once
to look
for him,
but,
though they nearly trod upon him,
they
could not manage
to find him.
If the Soldier had
but once called “Here am I!”
they might easily enough have heard him,
but he did not think it becoming
to cry out
for help,
being
in uniform.
It now began
to rain;
faster
and faster fell the drops,
until
there was a heavy shower;
and
when it was over,
two street boys came by.
“Look you,”
said one,
“there lies a tin soldier.
He must come out
and sail
in a boat.”
So they made a boat out
of an old newspaper
and put the Tin Soldier
in the middle
of it,
and away he sailed down the gutter,
while the boys ran along
by his side,
clapping their hands.
Goodness!
how the waves rocked
that paper boat,
and
how fast the stream ran!
The Tin Soldier became quite giddy,
the boat veered round so quickly;
still he moved not a muscle,
but looked straight
before him
and held his bayonet tightly.
All
at once the boat passed
into a drain,
and it became
as dark
as his own old home
in the box.
“Where am I going now?”
thought he.
“Yes,
to be sure,
it is all
that Goblin’s doing.
Ah!
if the little lady were
but sailing
with me
in the boat,
I
would not care
if it were twice
as dark.”
Just
then a great water rat,
that lived
under the drain,
darted suddenly out.
“Have you a passport?”
asked the rat.
“Where is your passport?”
But the Tin Soldier kept silence
and only held his bayonet
with a firmer grasp.
The boat sailed on,
but the rat followed.
Whew!
how he gnashed his teeth
and cried
to the sticks
and straws:
“Stop him!
stop him!
He hasn’t paid toll!
He hasn’t shown his passport!”
But the stream grew stronger
and stronger.
Already the Tin Soldier
could see daylight
at the point
where the tunnel ended;
but
at the same time he heard a rushing,
roaring noise,
at
which a bolder man might have trembled.
Think!
just
where the tunnel ended,
the drain widened
into a great sheet
that fell
into the mouth
of a sewer.
It was
as perilous a situation
for the Soldier
as sailing down a mighty waterfall
would be
for us.
He was now so near it
that he
could not stop.
The boat dashed on,
and the Tin Soldier held himself so well
that no one might say
of him
that he so much
as winked an eye.
Three
or four times the boat whirled round
and round;
it was full
of water
to the brim
and must certainly sink.
The Tin Soldier stood up
to his neck
in water;
deeper
and deeper sank the boat,
softer
and softer grew the paper;
and now the water closed
over the Soldier’s head.
He thought
of the pretty little dancer whom he
should never see again,
and
in his ears rang the words
of the song:
Wild adventure,
mortal danger,
Be thy portion,
valiant stranger.
The paper boat parted
in the middle,
and the Soldier was about
to sink,
when he was swallowed
by a great fish.
Oh,
how dark it was!
darker
even than
in the drain,
and so narrow;
but the Tin Soldier retained his courage;
there he lay
at full length,
shouldering his bayonet
as before.
To
and fro swam the fish,
turning
and twisting
and making the strangest movements,
till
at last he became perfectly still.
Something
like a flash
of daylight passed
through him,
and a voice said,
“Tin Soldier!”
The fish had been caught,
taken
to market,
sold
and bought,
and taken
to the kitchen,
where the cook had cut him
with a large knife.
She seized the Tin Soldier
between her finger
and thumb
and took him
to the room
where the family sat,
and
where all were eager
to see the celebrated man
who had traveled
in the maw
of a fish;
but the Tin Soldier remained unmoved.
He was not
at all proud.
They set him upon the table there.
But
how
could so curious a thing happen?
The Soldier was
in the very same room
in
which he had been before.
He saw the same children,
the same toys stood upon the table,
and
among them the pretty dancing maiden,
who still stood upon one leg.
She too was steadfast.
That touched the Tin Soldier’s heart.
He
could have wept tin tears,
but
that
would not have been proper.
He looked
at her
and she looked
at him,
but neither spoke a word.
And now one
of the little boys took the Tin Soldier
and threw him
into the stove.
He gave no reason
for doing so,
but no doubt the Goblin
in the snuffbox had something
to do
with it.
The Tin Soldier stood now
in a blaze
of red light.
The heat he felt was terrible,
but whether it proceeded
from the fire
or
from the love
in his heart,
he did not know.
He saw
that the colors were quite gone
from his uniform,
but whether
that had happened
on the journey
or had been caused
by grief,
no one
could say.
He looked
at the little lady,
she looked
at him,
and he felt himself melting;
still he stood firm
as ever,
with his bayonet
on his shoulder.
Then suddenly the door flew open;
the wind caught the Dancer,
and she flew straight
into the stove
to the Tin Soldier,
flashed up
in a flame,
and was gone!
The Tin Soldier melted
into a lump;
and
in the ashes the maid found him next day,
in the shape
of a little tin heart,
while
of the Dancer nothing remained save the tinsel rose,
and
that was burned
as black
as a coal.
[Illustration]
LITTLE THUMBELINA
THERE was once a woman
who wished very much
to have a little child.
She went
to a fairy
and said:
“I
should so very much like
to have a little child.
Can you tell me
where I
can find one?”
“Oh,
that
can be easily managed,”
said the fairy.
“Here is a barleycorn;
it is not exactly
of the same sort
as those
which grow
in the farmers’ fields,
and
which the chickens eat.
Put it
into a flowerpot
and see what
will happen.”
“Thank you,”
said the woman;
and she gave the fairy twelve shillings,
which was the price
of the barleycorn.
Then she went home
and planted it,
and
there grew up a large,
handsome flower,
somewhat
like a tulip
in appearance,
but
with its leaves tightly closed,
as
if it were still a bud.
“It is a beautiful flower,”
said the woman,
and she kissed the red
and golden-colored petals;
and
as she did so the flower opened,
and she
could see
that it was a real tulip.
But within the flower,
upon the green velvet stamens,
sat a very delicate
and graceful little maiden.
She was scarcely half
as long
as a thumb,
and they gave her the name
of Little Thumb,
or Thumbelina,
because she was so small.
A walnut shell,
elegantly polished,
served her
for a cradle;
her bed was formed
of blue violet leaves,
with a rose leaf
for a counterpane.
Here she slept
at night,
but during the day she amused herself
on a table,
where the peasant wife had placed a plate full
of water.
Round this plate were wreaths
of flowers
with their stems
in the water,
and upon it floated a large tulip leaf,
which served the little one
for a boat.
Here she sat
and rowed herself
from side
to side,
with two oars made
of white horsehair.
It was a very pretty sight.
Thumbelina
could also sing so softly
and sweetly
that nothing
like her singing had ever
before been heard.
One night,
while she lay
in her pretty bed,
a large,
ugly,
wet toad crept
through a broken pane
of glass
in the window
and leaped right upon the table
where she lay sleeping
under her rose-leaf quilt.
“What a pretty little wife this
would make
for my son,”
said the toad,
and she took up the walnut shell
in
which Thumbelina lay asleep,
and jumped
through the window
with it,
into the garden.
In the swampy margin
of a broad stream
in the garden lived the toad
with her son.
He was uglier even
than his mother;
and
when he saw the pretty little maiden
in her elegant bed,
he
could only cry “Croak,
croak,
croak.”
“Don’t speak so loud,
or she
will wake,”
said the toad,
“and
then she might run away,
for she is
as light
as swan’s-down.
We
will place her
on one
of the water-lily leaves out
in the stream;
it
will be
like an island
to her,
she is so light
and small,
and
then she cannot escape;
and
while she is
there we
will make haste
and prepare the stateroom
under the marsh,
in
which you are
to live
when you are married.”
Far out
in the stream grew a number
of water lilies
with broad green leaves
which seemed
to float
on the top
of the water.
The largest
of these leaves appeared farther off
than the rest,
and the old toad swam out
to it
with the walnut shell,
in
which Thumbelina still lay asleep.
The tiny creature woke very early
in the morning
and began
to cry bitterly
when she found
where she was,
for she
could see nothing
but water
on every side
of the large green leaf,
and no way
of reaching the land.
Meanwhile the old toad was very busy
under the marsh,
decking her room
with rushes
and yellow wildflowers,
to make it look pretty
for her new daughter-in-law.
Then she swam out
with her ugly son
to the leaf
on
which she had placed poor Thumbelina.
She wanted
to bring the pretty bed,
that she might put it
in the bridal chamber
to be ready
for her.
The old toad bowed low
to her
in the water
and said,
“Here is my son;
he
will be your husband,
and you
will live happily together
in the marsh
by the stream.”
“Croak,
croak,
croak,”
was all her son
could say
for himself.
So the toad took up the elegant little bed
and swam away
with it,
leaving Thumbelina all alone
on the green leaf,
where she sat
and wept.
She
could not bear
to think
of living
with the old toad
and having her ugly son
for a husband.
The little fishes
who swam about
in the water
beneath had seen the toad
and heard
what she said,
so now they lifted their heads
above the water
to look
at the little maiden.
As soon
as they caught sight
of her they saw she was very pretty,
and it vexed them
to think
that she must go
and live
with the ugly toads.
“No,
it must never be!”
So they gathered together
in the water,
round the green stalk
which held the leaf
on
which the little maiden stood,
and gnawed it away
at the root
with their teeth.
Then the leaf floated down the stream,
carrying Thumbelina far away out
of reach
of land.
Thumbelina sailed past many towns,
and the little birds
in the bushes saw her
and sang,
“What a lovely little creature.”
So the leaf swam away
with her farther
and farther,
till it brought her
to other lands.
A graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her and
at last alighted
on the leaf.
The little maiden pleased him,
and she was glad
of it,
for now the toad
could not possibly reach her,
and the country through
which she sailed was beautiful,
and the sun shone upon the water
till it glittered
like liquid gold.
She took off her girdle
and tied one end
of it round the butterfly,
fastening the other end
of the ribbon
to the leaf,
which now glided
on much faster
than before,
taking Thumbelina
with it
as she stood.
Presently a large cockchafer flew by.
The moment he caught sight
of her he seized her round her delicate waist
with his claws
and flew
with her
into a tree.
The green leaf floated away
on the brook,
and the butterfly flew
with it,
for he was fastened
to it
and
could not get away.
Oh,
how frightened Thumbelina felt
when the cockchafer flew
with her
to the tree!
But especially was she sorry
for the beautiful white butterfly
which she had fastened
to the leaf,
for
if he
could not free himself he
would die
of hunger.
But the cockchafer did not trouble himself
at all
about the matter.
He seated himself
by her side,
on a large green leaf,
gave her some honey
from the flowers
to eat,
and told her she was very pretty,
though not
in the least
like a cockchafer.
[Illustration:
Glided
on much faster
than
before ....]
After a time all the cockchafers
who lived
in the tree came
to pay Thumbelina a visit.
They stared
at her,
and
then the young lady cockchafers turned up their feelers
and said,
“She has only two legs!
how ugly
that looks.”
“She has no feelers,”
said another.
“Her waist is quite slim.
Pooh!
she is
like a human being.”
“Oh,
she is ugly,”
said all the lady cockchafers.
The cockchafer
who had run away
with her believed all the others
when they said she was ugly.
He
would have nothing more
to say
to her,
and told her she might go
where she liked.
Then he flew down
with her
from the tree
and placed her
on a daisy,
and she wept
at the thought
that she was so ugly
that
even the cockchafers
would have nothing
to say
to her.
And all the
while she was really the loveliest creature
that one
could imagine,
and
as tender
and delicate
as a beautiful rose leaf.
During the whole summer poor little Thumbelina lived quite alone
in the wide forest.
She wove herself a bed
with blades
of grass
and hung it up
under a broad leaf,
to protect herself
from the rain.
She sucked the honey
from the flowers
for food
and drank the dew
from their leaves every morning.
So passed away the summer
and the autumn,
and
then came the winter
--the long,
cold winter.
All the birds
who had sung
to her so sweetly had flown away,
and the trees
and the flowers had withered.
The large shamrock
under the shelter
of
which she had lived was now rolled together
and shriveled up;
nothing remained
but a yellow,
withered stalk.
She felt dreadfully cold,
for her clothes were torn,
and she was herself so frail
and delicate
that she was nearly frozen
to death.
It began
to snow,
too;
and the snowflakes,
as they fell upon her,
were
like a whole shovelful falling upon one
of us,
for we are tall,
but she was only an inch high.
She wrapped herself
in a dry leaf,
but it cracked
in the middle
and
could not keep her warm,
and she shivered
with cold.
Near the wood
in
which she had been living was a large cornfield,
but the corn had been cut a long time;
nothing remained
but the bare,
dry stubble,
standing up out
of the frozen ground.
It was
to her
like struggling
through a large wood.
Oh!
how she shivered
with the cold.
She came
at last
to the door
of a field mouse,
who had a little den
under the corn stubble.
There dwelt the field mouse
in warmth
and comfort,
with a whole roomful
of corn,
a kitchen,
and a beautiful dining room.
Poor Thumbelina stood
before the door,
just
like a little beggar girl,
and asked
for a small piece
of barleycorn,
for she had been without a morsel
to eat
for two days.
“You poor little creature,”
said the field mouse,
for she was really a good old mouse,
“come
into my warm room
and dine
with me.”
She was pleased
with Thumbelina,
so she said,
“You are quite welcome
to stay
with me all the winter,
if you like;
but you must keep my rooms clean
and neat,
and tell me stories,
for I shall like
to hear them very much.”
And Thumbelina did all
that the field mouse asked her,
and found herself very comfortable.
“We shall have a visitor soon,”
said the field mouse one day;
“my neighbor pays me a visit once a week.
He is better off
than I am;
he has large rooms,
and wears a beautiful black velvet coat.
If you
could only have him
for a husband,
you
would be well provided
for indeed.
But he is blind,
so you must tell him some
of your prettiest stories.”
Thumbelina did not feel
at all interested
about this neighbor,
for he was a mole.
However,
he came
and paid his visit,
dressed
in his black velvet coat.
“He is very rich
and learned,
and his house is twenty times larger
than mine,”
said the field mouse.
He was rich
and learned,
no doubt,
but he always spoke slightingly
of the sun
and the pretty flowers,
because he had never seen them.
Thumbelina was obliged
to sing
to him,
“Ladybird,
ladybird,
fly away home,”
and many other pretty songs.
And the mole fell
in love
with her
because she had so sweet a voice;
but he said nothing yet,
for he was very prudent
and cautious.
A short time before,
the mole had dug a long passage
under the earth,
which led
from the dwelling
of the field mouse
to his own,
and here she had permission
to walk
with Thumbelina whenever she liked.
But he warned them not
to be alarmed
at the sight
of a dead bird
which lay
in the passage.
It was a perfect bird,
with a beak
and feathers,
and
could not have been dead long.
It was lying just
where the mole had made his passage.
The mole took
in his mouth a piece
of phosphorescent wood,
which glittered
like fire
in the dark.
Then he went
before them
to light them
through the long,
dark passage.
When they came
to the spot
where the dead bird lay,
the mole pushed his broad nose
through the ceiling,
so
that the earth gave way
and the daylight shone
into the passage.
In the middle
of the floor lay a swallow,
his beautiful wings pulled close
to his sides,
his feet
and head drawn up
under his feathers
--the poor bird had evidently died
of the cold.
It made little Thumbelina very sad
to see it,
she did so love the little birds;
all the summer they had sung
and twittered
for her so beautifully.
But the mole pushed it aside
with his crooked legs
and said:
“He
will sing no more now.
How miserable it must be
to be born a little bird!
I am thankful
that none
of my children
will ever be birds,
for they
can do nothing
but cry
‘Tweet,
tweet,’
and must always die
of hunger
in the winter.”
“Yes,
you may well say that,
as a clever man!”
exclaimed the field mouse.
“What is the use
of his twittering if,
when winter comes,
he must either starve
or be frozen
to death?
Still,
birds are very high bred.”
Thumbelina said nothing,
but
when the two others had turned their backs upon the bird,
she stooped down
and stroked aside the soft feathers
which covered his head,
and kissed the closed eyelids.
“Perhaps this was the one
who sang
to me so sweetly
in the summer,”
she said;
“and
how much pleasure it gave me,
you dear,
pretty bird.”
The mole now stopped up the hole through
which the daylight shone,
and
then accompanied the ladies home.
But during the night Thumbelina
could not sleep;
so she got out
of bed
and wove a large,
beautiful carpet
of hay.
She carried it
to the dead bird
and spread it
over him,
with some down
from the flowers
which she had found
in the field mouse’s room.
It was
as soft
as wool,
and she spread some
of it
on each side
of the bird,
so
that he might lie warmly
in the cold earth.
“Farewell,
pretty little bird,”
said she,
“farewell.
Thank you
for your delightful singing during the summer,
when all the trees were green
and the warm sun shone upon us.”
Then she laid her head
on the bird’s breast,
but she was alarmed,
for it seemed
as
if something inside the bird went “thump,
thump.”
It was the bird’s heart;
he was not really dead,
only benumbed
with the cold,
and the warmth had restored him
to life.
In autumn all the swallows fly away
into warm countries;
but
if one happens
to linger,
the cold seizes it,
and it becomes chilled
and falls down
as
if dead.
It remains
where it fell,
and the cold snow covers it.
Thumbelina trembled very much;
she was quite frightened,
for the bird was large,
a great deal larger
than herself
(she was only an inch high).
But she took courage,
laid the wool more thickly
over the poor swallow,
and
then took a leaf
which she had used
for her own counterpane
and laid it
over his head.
The next night she again stole out
to see him.
He was alive,
but very weak;
he
could only open his eyes
for a moment
to look
at Thumbelina,
who stood by,
holding a piece
of decayed wood
in her hand,
for she had no other lantern.
“Thank you,
pretty little maiden,”
said the sick swallow;
“I have been so nicely warmed
that I shall soon regain my strength
and be able
to fly
about again
in the warm sunshine.”
“Oh,”
said she,
“it is cold out
of doors now;
it snows
and freezes.
Stay
in your warm bed;
I
will take care
of you.”
She brought the swallow some water
in a flower leaf,
and after he had drunk,
he told her
that he had wounded one
of his wings
in a thornbush
and
could not fly
as fast
as the others,
who were soon far away
on their journey
to warm countries.
At last he had fallen
to the earth,
and
could remember nothing more,
nor
how he came
to be
where she had found him.
All winter the swallow remained underground,
and Thumbelina nursed him
with care
and love.
She did not tell either the mole
or the field mouse anything
about it,
for they did not
like swallows.
Very soon the springtime came,
and the sun warmed the earth.
Then the swallow bade farewell
to Thumbelina,
and she opened the hole
in the ceiling
which the mole had made.
The sun shone
in upon them so beautifully
that the swallow asked her
if she
would go
with him.
She
could sit
on his back,
he said,
and he
would fly away
with her
into the green woods.
But she knew it
would grieve the field mouse
if she left her
in
that manner,
so she said,
“No,
I cannot.”
“Farewell,
then,
farewell,
you good,
pretty little maiden,”
said the swallow,
and he flew out
into the sunshine.
* * * * *
Thumbelina looked after him,
and the tears rose
in her eyes.
She was very fond
of the poor swallow.
“Tweet,
tweet,”
sang the bird,
as he flew out
into the green woods,
and Thumbelina felt very sad.
She was not allowed
to go out
into the warm sunshine.
The corn
which had been sowed
in the field
over the house
of the field mouse had grown up high
into the air
and formed a thick wood
to Thumbelina,
who was only an inch
in height.
[Illustration:
Nothing must be wanting
when you are the wife
of the mole ...]
“You are going
to be married,
little one,”
said the field mouse.
“My neighbor has asked
for you.
What good fortune
for a poor child
like you!
Now we
will prepare your wedding clothes.
They must be woolen
and linen.
Nothing must be wanting
when you are the wife
of the mole.”
Thumbelina had
to turn the spindle,
and the field mouse hired four spiders,
who were
to weave day
and night.
Every evening the mole visited her
and was continually speaking
of the time
when the summer
would be over.
Then he
would keep his wedding day
with Thumbelina;
but now the heat
of the sun was so great
that it burned the earth
and made it hard,
like stone.
As soon
as the summer was
over the wedding
should take place.
But Thumbelina was not
at all pleased,
for she did not
like the tiresome mole.
Every morning
when the sun rose
and every evening
when it went down she
would creep out
at the door,
and
as the wind blew aside the ears
of corn so
that she
could see the blue sky,
she thought
how beautiful
and bright it seemed out there
and wished so much
to see her dear friend,
the swallow,
again.
But he never returned,
for
by this time he had flown far away
into the lovely green forest.
When autumn arrived Thumbelina had her outfit quite ready,
and the field mouse said
to her,
“In four weeks the wedding must take place.”
Then she wept
and said she
would not marry the disagreeable mole.
“Nonsense,”
replied the field mouse.
“Now
don’t be obstinate,
or I shall bite you
with my white teeth.
He is a very handsome mole;
the queen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets
and furs.
His kitchens
and cellars are quite full.
You ought
to be very thankful
for such good fortune.”
So the wedding day was fixed,
on
which the mole was
to take her away
to live
with him,
deep
under the earth,
and never again
to see the warm sun,
because _he_ did not
like it.
The poor child was very unhappy
at the thought
of saying farewell
to the beautiful sun,
and
as the field mouse had given her permission
to stand
at the door,
she went
to look
at it once more.
“Farewell,
bright sun,”
she cried,
stretching out her arm
towards it;
and
then she walked a short distance
from the house,
for the corn had been cut,
and only the dry stubble remained
in the fields.
“Farewell,
farewell,”
she repeated,
twining her arm
around a little red flower
that grew just
by her side.
“Greet the little swallow
from me,
if you
should see him again.”
“Tweet,
tweet,”
sounded
over her head suddenly.
She looked up,
and
there was the swallow himself flying close by.
As soon
as he spied Thumbelina he was delighted.
She told him
how unwilling she was
to marry the ugly mole,
and
to live always
beneath the earth,
nevermore
to see the bright sun.
And
as she told him,
she wept.
“Cold winter is coming,”
said the swallow,
“and I am going
to fly away
into warmer countries.
Will you go
with me?
You
can sit
on my back
and fasten yourself
on
with your sash.
Then we
can fly away
from the ugly mole
and his gloomy rooms
--far away,
over the mountains,
into warmer countries,
where the sun shines more brightly
than here;
where it is always summer,
and the flowers bloom
in greater beauty.
Fly now
with me,
dear little one;
you saved my life
when I lay frozen
in
that dark,
dreary passage.”
“Yes,
I
will go
with you,”
said Thumbelina;
and she seated herself
on the bird’s back,
with her feet
on his outstretched wings,
and tied her girdle
to one
of his strongest feathers.
The swallow rose
in the air
and flew
over forest
and
over sea
--high
above the highest mountains,
covered
with eternal snow.
Thumbelina
would have been frozen
in the cold air,
but she crept
under the bird’s warm feathers,
keeping her little head uncovered,
so
that she might admire the beautiful lands
over
which they passed.
At length they reached the warm countries,
where the sun shines brightly
and the sky seems so much higher
above the earth.
Here
on the hedges and
by the wayside grew purple,
green,
and white grapes,
lemons
and oranges hung
from trees
in the fields,
and the air was fragrant
with myrtles
and orange blossoms.
Beautiful children ran
along the country lanes,
playing
with large gay butterflies;
and
as the swallow flew farther
and farther,
every place appeared still more lovely.
At last they came
to a blue lake,
and
by the side
of it,
shaded
by trees
of the deepest green,
stood a palace
of dazzling white marble,
built
in the olden times.
Vines clustered round its lofty pillars,
and
at the top were many swallows’ nests,
and one
of these was the home
of the swallow
who carried Thumbelina.
“This is my house,”
said the swallow;
“but it
would not do
for you
to live there
--you
would not be comfortable.
You must choose
for yourself one
of those lovely flowers,
and I
will put you down upon it,
and
then you shall have everything
that you
can wish
to make you happy.”
“That
will be delightful,”
she said,
and clapped her little hands
for joy.
A large marble pillar lay
on the ground,
which,
in falling,
had been broken
into three pieces.
Between these pieces grew the most beautiful large white flowers,
so the swallow flew down
with Thumbelina
and placed her
on one
of the broad leaves.
But
how surprised she was
to see
in the middle
of the flower a tiny little man,
as white
and transparent
as
if he had been made
of crystal!
He had a gold crown
on his head,
and delicate wings
at his shoulders,
and was not much larger
than was she herself.
He was the angel
of the flower,
for a tiny man
and a tiny woman dwell
in every flower,
and this was the king
of them all.
“Oh,
how beautiful he is!”
whispered Thumbelina
to the swallow.
The little prince was
at first quite frightened
at the bird,
who was
like a giant compared
to such a delicate little creature
as himself;
but
when he saw Thumbelina he was delighted
and thought her the prettiest little maiden he had ever seen.
He took the gold crown
from his head
and placed it
on hers,
and asked her name and
if she
would be his wife
and queen
over all the flowers.
This certainly was a very different sort
of husband
from the son
of the toad,
or the mole
with his black velvet
and fur,
so she said Yes
to the handsome prince.
Then all the flowers opened,
and out
of each came a little lady
or a tiny lord,
all so pretty it was quite a pleasure
to look
at them.
Each
of them brought Thumbelina a present;
but the best gift was a pair
of beautiful wings,
which had belonged
to a large white fly,
and they fastened them
to Thumbelina’s shoulders,
so
that she might fly
from flower
to flower.
Then
there was much rejoicing,
and the little swallow,
who sat
above them
in his nest,
was asked
to sing a wedding song,
which he did
as well
as he could;
but
in his heart he felt sad,
for he was very fond
of Thumbelina
and
would have liked never
to part
from her again.
“You must not be called Thumbelina any more,”
said the spirit
of the flowers
to her.
“It is an ugly name,
and you are so very lovely.
We
will call you Maia.”
“Farewell,
farewell,”
said the swallow,
with a heavy heart,
as he left the warm countries,
to fly back
into Denmark.
There he had a nest
over the window
of a house
in
which dwelt the writer
of fairy tales.
The swallow sang “Tweet,
tweet,”
and
from his song came the whole story.
[Illustration]
SUNSHINE STORIES
“I AM going
to tell a story,”
said the Wind.
“I beg your pardon,”
said the Rain,
“but now it is my turn.
Have you not been howling round the corner this long time,
as hard
as ever you could?”
“Is this the gratitude you owe me?”
said the Wind;
“I,
who
in honor
of you turn inside out
--yes,
even break
--all the umbrellas,
when the people
won’t have anything
to do
with you.”
“I
will speak myself,”
said the Sunshine.
“Silence!”
and the Sunshine said it
with such glory
and majesty
that the weary Wind fell prostrate,
and the Rain,
beating
against him,
shook him,
as she said:
“We
won’t stand it!
She is always breaking through
--is Madame Sunshine.
Let us not listen
to her;
what she has
to say is not worth hearing.”
And still the Sunshine began
to talk,
and this is
what she said:
“A beautiful swan flew
over the rolling,
tossing waves
of the ocean.
Every one
of its feathers shone
like gold;
and one feather drifted down
to the great merchant vessel that,
with sails all set,
was sailing away.
“The feather fell upon the light curly hair
of a young man,
whose business it was
to care
for the goods
in the ship
--the supercargo he was called.
The feather
of the bird
of fortune touched his forehead,
became a pen
in his hand,
and brought him such luck
that he soon became a wealthy merchant,
rich enough
to have bought
for himself spurs
of gold
--rich enough
to change a golden plate
into a nobleman’s shield,
on which,”
said the Sunshine,
“I shone.”
* * * * *
“The swan flew farther,
away
and away,
over the sunny green meadow,
where the little shepherd boy,
only seven years old,
had lain down
in the shade
of the old tree,
the only one
there was
in sight.
“In its flight the swan kissed one
of the leaves
of the tree,
and falling
into the boy’s hand,
it was changed
to three leaves
--to ten
--to a whole book;
yes,
and
in the book he read
about all the wonders
of nature,
about his native language,
about faith
and knowledge.
At night he laid the book
under his pillow,
that he might not forget
what he had been reading.
“The wonderful book led him also
to the schoolroom,
and thence everywhere,
in search
of knowledge.
I have read his name
among the names
of learned men,”
said the Sunshine.
* * * * *
“The swan flew
into the quiet,
lonely forest,
and rested awhile
on the deep,
dark lake
where the lilies grow,
where the wild apples are
to be found
on the shore,
where the cuckoo
and the wild pigeon have their homes.
“In the wood was a poor woman gathering firewood
--branches
and dry sticks
that had fallen.
She bore them
on her back
in a bundle,
and
in her arms she held her little child.
She too saw the golden swan,
the bird
of fortune,
as it rose
from
among the reeds
on the shore.
What was it
that glittered so?
A golden egg
that was still quite warm.
She laid it
in her bosom,
and the warmth remained.
Surely
there was life
in the egg!
She heard the gentle pecking inside the shell,
but she thought it was her own heart
that was beating.
“At home
in her poor cottage she took out the egg.
‘Tick!
tick!’ it said,
as
if it had been a gold watch,
but it was not;
it was an egg
--a real,
living egg.
“The egg cracked
and opened,
and a dear little baby swan,
all feathered
as
with the purest gold,
pushed out its tiny head.
Around its neck were four rings,
and
as this woman had four boys
--three
at home,
and this little one
that was
with her
in the lonely wood
--she understood
at once
that
there was one
for each boy.
Just
as she had taken them the little gold bird took flight.
“She kissed each ring,
then made each
of the children kiss one
of the rings,
laid it next the child’s heart awhile,
then put it
on his finger.
I saw it all,”
said the Sunshine,
“and I saw
what happened afterward.
[Illustration:
The egg cracked
and opened ....]
“One
of the boys,
while playing
by a ditch,
took a lump
of clay
in his hand,
then turned
and twisted it
till it took shape
and was
like Jason,
who went
in search
of the Golden Fleece
and found it.
“The second boy ran out upon the meadow,
where stood the flowers
--flowers
of all imaginable colors.
He gathered a handful
and squeezed them so tightly
that the juice flew
into his eyes,
and some
of it wet the ring upon his hand.
It cribbled
and crawled
in his brain and
in his hands,
and after many a day
and many a year,
people
in the great city talked
of the famous painter
that he was.
“The third child held the ring
in his teeth,
and so tightly
that it gave forth sound
--the echo
of a song
in the depth
of his heart.
Then thoughts
and feelings rose
in beautiful sounds,
--rose
like singing swans,
--plunged,
too,
like swans,
into the deep,
deep sea.
He became a great musical composer,
a master,
of whom every country has the right
to say,
‘He was mine,
for he was the world’s.’
“And the fourth little one
--yes,
he was the
‘ugly duck’
of the family.
They said he had the pip
and must eat pepper
and butter
like a sick chicken,
and
that was
what was given him;
but
of me he got a warm,
sunny kiss,”
said the Sunshine.
“He had ten kisses
for one.
He was a poet
and was first kissed,
then buffeted all his life through.
“But he held
what no one
could take
from him
--the ring
of fortune
from Dame Fortune’s golden swan.
His thoughts took wing
and flew up
and away
like singing butterflies
--emblems
of an immortal life.”
“That was a dreadfully long story,”
said the Wind.
“And so stupid
and tiresome,”
said the Rain.
“Blow upon me,
please,
that I may revive a little.”
And
while the Wind blew,
the Sunshine said:
“The swan
of fortune flew
over the lovely bay
where the fishermen had set their nets.
The very poorest one
among them was wishing
to marry
--and marry he did.
“To him the swan brought a piece
of amber.
Amber draws things
toward itself,
and this piece drew hearts
to the house
where the fisherman lived
with his bride.
Amber is the most wonderful
of incense,
and
there came a soft perfume,
as
from a holy place,
a sweet breath
from beautiful nature,
that God has made.
And the fisherman
and his wife were happy
and grateful
in their peaceful home,
content even
in their poverty.
And so their life became a real Sunshine Story.”
“I think we had better stop now,”
said the Wind.
“I am dreadfully bored.
The Sunshine has talked long enough.”
“I think so,
too,”
said the Rain.
And
what do we others
who have heard the story say?
We say,
“Now the story’s done.”
[Illustration]
THE DARNING-NEEDLE
THERE was once a Darning-needle
who thought herself so fine
that she came
at last
to believe
that she was fit
for embroidery.
“Mind now
that you hold me fast,”
she said
to the Fingers
that took her up.
“Pray
don’t lose me.
If I
should fall
on the ground I
should certainly be lost,
I am so fine.”
“That’s more
than you
can tell,”
said the Fingers,
as they grasped her tightly
by the waist.
“I come
with a train,
you see,”
said the Darning-needle,
as she drew her long thread after her;
but
there was no knot
in the thread.
The Fingers pressed the point
of the Needle upon an old pair
of slippers,
in
which the upper leather had burst
and must be sewed together.
The slippers belonged
to the cook.
“This is very coarse work!”
said the Darning-needle.
“I shall never get
through alive.
There,
I’m breaking!
I’m breaking!”
and break she did.
“Did I not say so?”
said the Darning-needle.
“I’m too delicate
for such work
as that.”
“Now it’s quite useless
for sewing,”
said the Fingers;
but they still held her all the same,
for the cook presently dropped some melted sealing wax upon the needle
and
then pinned her neckerchief
in front
with it.
“See,
now I’m a breastpin,”
said the Darning-needle.
“I well knew
that I
should come
to honor;
when one is something,
one always comes
to something.
Merit is sure
to rise.”
And
at this she laughed,
only inwardly,
of course,
for one
can never see
when a Darning-needle laughs.
There she sat now,
quite
at her ease,
and
as proud
as
if she sat
in a state carriage
and gazed upon all
about her.
“May I take the liberty
to ask
if you are made
of gold?”
she asked
of the pin,
her neighbor.
“You have a splendid appearance
and quite a remarkable head,
though it is so little.
You
should do
what you can
to grow
--of course it is not every one that
can have sealing wax dropped upon her.”
And the Darning-needle drew herself up so proudly
that she fell out
of the neckerchief
into the sink,
which the cook was
at
that moment rinsing.
“Now I’m going
to travel,”
said the Darning-needle,
“if only I
don’t get lost.”
But
that was just
what happened
to her.
“I’m too delicate
for this world,”
she said,
as she found herself
in the gutter.
“But I know
who I am,
and
there is always some little pleasure
in that!”
It was thus
that the Darning-needle kept up her proud bearing
and lost none
of her good humor.
And now all sorts
of things swam
over her
--chips
and straws
and scraps
of old newspapers.
“Only see
how they sail along,”
said the Darning-needle
to herself.
“They little know
what is
under them,
though it is I,
and I sit firmly here.
See!
there goes a chip!
It thinks
of nothing
in the world
but itself
--of nothing
in the world
but a chip!
There floats a straw;
see
how it turns
and twirls about.
Do think
of something
besides yourself
or you may easily run
against a stone.
There swims a bit
of a newspaper.
What’s written upon it is forgotten long ago,
yet
how it spreads itself out
and gives itself airs!
I sit patiently
and quietly here!
I know
what I am,
and I shall remain the same
--always.”
One day
there lay something beside her
that glittered splendidly.
She thought it must be a diamond,
but it was really only a bit
of broken glass
from a bottle.
As it shone so brightly the Darning-needle spoke
to it,
introducing herself
as a breastpin.
“You are a diamond,
I suppose,”
she said.
“Why,
yes,
something
of the sort.”
So each believed the other
to be some rare
and costly trinket;
and they began
to converse together upon the world,
saying
how very conceited it was.
“Yes,”
said the Darning-needle,
“I have lived
in a young lady’s box;
and the young lady happened
to be a cook.
She had five fingers upon each
of her hands,
and anything more conceited
and arrogant
than those five fingers,
I never saw.
And yet they were only there
that they might take me out
of the box
or put me back again.”
“Were they
of high descent?”
asked the Bit
of Bottle.
“Did they shine?”
“No,
indeed,”
replied the Darning-needle;
“but they were none the less haughty.
There were five brothers
of them
--all
of the Finger family.
And they held themselves so proudly side
by side,
though they were
of quite different heights.
The outermost,
Thumbling he was called,
was short
and thick set;
he generally stood out
of the rank,
a little
in front
of the others;
he had only one joint
in his back,
and
could only bow once;
but he used
to say that
if he were cut off
from a man,
that man
would be cut off
from military service.
Foreman,
the second,
put himself forward
on all occasions,
meddled
with sweet
and sour,
pointed
to sun
and moon,
and
when the fingers wrote,
it was he
who pressed the pen.
Middleman,
the third
of the brothers,
could look
over the others’ heads,
and gave himself airs
for that.
Ringman,
the fourth,
went about
with a gold belt
about his waist;
and little Playman,
whom they called Peter Spielman,
did nothing
at all
and was proud
of that,
I suppose.
There was nothing
to be heard
but boasting,
and
that is
why I took myself away.”
“And now we sit here together
and shine,”
said the Bit
of Bottle.
At
that very moment some water came rushing
along the gutter,
so
that it overflowed
and carried the glass diamond along
with it.
“So he is off,”
said the Darning-needle,
“and I still remain.
I am left here
because I am too slender
and genteel.
But that’s my pride,
and pride is honorable.”
And proudly she sat,
thinking many thoughts.
“I
could
almost believe I had been born
of a sunbeam,
I’m so fine.
It seems
as
if the sunbeams were always trying
to seek me
under the water.
Alas,
I’m so delicate
that
even my own mother cannot find me.
If I had my old eye still,
which broke off,
I think I
should cry
--but no,
I
would not;
it’s not genteel
to weep.”
One day a couple
of street boys were paddling about
in the gutter,
hunting
for old nails,
pennies,
and such like.
It was dirty work,
but they seemed
to find great pleasure
in it.
“Hullo!”
cried one
of them,
as he pricked himself
with the Darning-needle;
“here’s a fellow
for you!”
“I’m not a fellow!
I’m a young lady!”
said the Darning-needle,
but no one heard it.
The sealing wax had worn off,
and she had become quite black;
“but black makes one look slender,
and is always becoming.”
She thought herself finer even
than before.
“There goes an eggshell sailing along,”
said the boys;
and they stuck the Darning-needle
into the shell.
“A lady
in black,
and within white walls!”
said the Darning-needle;
“that is very striking.
Now every one
can see me.
I hope I shall not be seasick,
for
then I shall break.”
But the fear was needless;
she was not seasick,
neither did she break.
“Nothing is so good
to prevent seasickness as
to have a steel stomach and
to bear
in mind
that one is something a little more
than an ordinary person.
My seasickness is all
over now.
The more genteel
and honorable one is,
the more one
can endure.”
Crash went the eggshell,
as a wagon rolled
over both
of them.
It was a wonder
that she did not break.
“Mercy,
what a crushing weight!”
said the Darning-needle.
“I’m growing seasick,
after all.
I’m going
to break!”
But she was not sick,
and she did not break,
though the wagon wheels rolled
over her.
She lay
at full length
in the road,
and
there let her lie.
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
IT was dreadfully cold;
it was snowing fast,
and was
almost dark,
as evening came on
--the last evening
of the year.
In the cold
and the darkness,
there went
along the street a poor little girl,
bareheaded
and
with naked feet.
When she left home she had slippers on,
it is true;
but they were much too large
for her feet
--slippers
that her mother had used
till then,
and the poor little girl lost them
in running
across the street
when two carriages were passing terribly fast.
When she looked
for them,
one was not
to be found,
and a boy seized the other
and ran away
with it,
saying he
would use it
for a cradle some day,
when he had children
of his own.
So
on the little girl went
with her bare feet,
that were red
and blue
with cold.
In an old apron
that she wore were bundles
of matches,
and she carried a bundle also
in her hand.
No one had bought so much
as a bunch all the long day,
and no one had given her
even a penny.
Poor little girl!
Shivering
with cold
and hunger she crept along,
a perfect picture
of misery.
The snowflakes fell
on her long flaxen hair,
which hung
in pretty curls
about her throat;
but she thought not
of her beauty nor
of the cold.
Lights gleamed
in every window,
and
there came
to her the savory smell
of roast goose,
for it was New Year’s Eve.
And it was this
of
which she thought.
In a corner formed
by two houses,
one
of
which projected beyond the other,
she sat cowering down.
She had drawn
under her her little feet,
but still she grew colder
and colder;
yet she dared not go home,
for she had sold no matches
and
could not bring a penny
of money.
Her father
would certainly beat her;
and,
besides,
it was cold enough
at home,
for they had only the house-roof
above them,
and though the largest holes had been stopped
with straw
and rags,
there were left many through
which the cold wind
could whistle.
[Illustration:
Where the light fell upon the wall it became transparent.]
And now her little hands were nearly frozen
with cold.
Alas!
a single match might do her good
if she might only draw it
from the bundle,
rub it
against the wall,
and warm her fingers
by it.
So
at last she drew one out.
Whisht!
How it blazed
and burned!
It gave out a warm,
bright flame
like a little candle,
as she held her hands
over it.
A wonderful little light it was.
It really seemed
to the little girl
as
if she sat
before a great iron stove
with polished brass feet
and brass shovel
and tongs.
So blessedly it burned
that the little maiden stretched out her feet
to warm them also.
How comfortable she was!
But lo!
the flame went out,
the stove vanished,
and nothing remained
but the little burned match
in her hand.
She rubbed another match
against the wall.
It burned brightly,
and
where the light fell upon the wall it became transparent
like a veil,
so
that she
could see
through it
into the room.
A snow-white cloth was spread upon the table,
on
which was a beautiful china dinner-service,
while a roast goose,
stuffed
with apples
and prunes,
steamed famously
and sent forth a most savory smell.
And
what was more delightful still,
and wonderful,
the goose jumped
from the dish,
with knife
and fork still
in its breast,
and waddled
along the floor straight
to the little girl.
But the match went out then,
and nothing was left
to her
but the thick,
damp wall.
She lighted another match.
And now she was
under a most beautiful Christmas tree,
larger
and far more prettily trimmed
than the one she had seen
through the glass doors
at the rich merchant’s.
Hundreds
of wax tapers were burning
on the green branches,
and gay figures,
such
as she had seen
in shop windows,
looked down upon her.
The child stretched out her hands
to them;
then the match went out.
Still the lights
of the Christmas tree rose higher
and higher.
She saw them now
as stars
in heaven,
and one
of them fell,
forming a long trail
of fire.
“Now some one is dying,”
murmured the child softly;
for her grandmother,
the only person
who had loved her,
and
who was now dead,
had told her
that whenever a star falls a soul mounts up
to God.
She struck yet another match
against the wall,
and again it was light;
and
in the brightness
there appeared
before her the dear old grandmother,
bright
and radiant,
yet sweet
and mild,
and happy
as she had never looked
on earth.
“Oh,
grandmother,”
cried the child,
“take me
with you.
I know you
will go away
when the match burns out.
You,
too,
will vanish,
like the warm stove,
the splendid New Year’s feast,
the beautiful Christmas tree.”
And lest her grandmother
should disappear,
she rubbed the whole bundle
of matches
against the wall.
And the matches burned
with such a brilliant light
that it became brighter
than noonday.
Her grandmother had never looked so grand
and beautiful.
She took the little girl
in her arms,
and both flew together,
joyously
and gloriously,
mounting higher
and higher,
far
above the earth;
and
for them
there was neither hunger,
nor cold,
nor care
--they were
with God.
But
in the corner,
at the dawn
of day,
sat the poor girl,
leaning
against the wall,
with red cheeks
and smiling mouth
--frozen
to death
on the last evening
of the old year.
Stiff
and cold she sat,
with the matches,
one bundle
of
which was burned.
“She wanted
to warm herself,
poor little thing,”
people said.
No one imagined
what sweet visions she had had,
or
how gloriously she had gone
with her grandmother
to enter upon the joys
of a new year.
[Illustration]
THE LOVING PAIR
A WHIPPING Top
and a Ball lay close together
in a drawer
among other playthings.
One day the Top said
to the Ball,
“Since we are living so much together,
why
should we not be lovers?”
But the Ball,
being made
of morocco leather,
thought herself a very high-bred lady,
and
would hear nothing
of such a proposal.
On the next day the little boy
to whom the playthings belonged came
to the drawer;
he painted the Top red
and yellow,
and drove a bright brass nail right
through the head
of it;
it looked very smart indeed
as it spun
around after that.
“Look
at me,”
said he
to the Ball.
“What do you say
to me now;
why
should we not make a match
of it,
and become man
and wife?
We suit each other so well!
--you
can jump
and I
can dance.
There
would not be a happier pair
in the whole world!”
“Do you think so?”
said the Ball.
“Perhaps you do not know
that my father
and mother were morocco slippers,
and
that I have a Spanish cork
in my body!”
“Yes,
but
then I am made
of mahogany,”
said the Top;
“the Mayor himself turned me.
He has a turning lathe
of his own,
and he took great pleasure
in making me.”
“Can I trust you
in this?”
asked the Ball.
“May I never be whipped again,
if
what I tell you is not true,”
returned the Top.
“You plead your cause well,”
said the Ball;
“but I am not free
to listen
to your proposal.
I am
as good
as engaged
to a swallow.
As often
as I fly up
into the air,
he puts his head out
of his nest,
and says,
‘Will you?’
In my heart I have said Yes
to him,
and
that is
almost the same
as an engagement;
but I’ll promise never
to forget you.”
“A deal
of good that
will do me,”
said the Top,
and they left off speaking
to each other.
Next day the Ball was taken out.
The Top saw it fly
like a bird
into the air
--so high
that it passed quite out
of sight.
It came back again;
but each time
that it touched the earth,
it sprang higher
than before.
This must have been either
from its longing
to mount higher,
like the swallow,
or
because it had the Spanish cork
in its body.
On the ninth time the little Ball did not return.
The boy sought
and sought,
but all
in vain,
for it was gone.
“I know very well
where she is,”
sighed the Top.
“She is
in the swallow’s nest,
celebrating her wedding.”
The more the Top thought
of this the more lovely the Ball became
to him;
that she
could not be his bride seemed
to make his love
for her the greater.
She had preferred another rather
than himself,
but he
could not forget her.
He twirled round
and round,
spinning
and humming,
but always thinking
of the Ball,
who grew more
and more beautiful the more he thought
of her.
And thus several years passed,
--it came
to be an old love,
--and now the Top was no longer young!
One day he was gilded all over;
never
in his life had he been half so handsome.
He was now a golden top,
and bravely he spun,
humming all the time.
But once he sprang too high
--and was gone!
They looked everywhere
for him,
--even
in the cellar,
--but he was nowhere
to be found.
Where was he?
He had jumped
into the dustbin,
and lay
among cabbage stalks,
sweepings,
dust,
and all sorts
of rubbish
that had fallen
from the gutter
in the roof.
“Alas!
my gay gilding
will soon be spoiled here.
What sort
of trumpery
can I have got among?”
And
then he peeped
at a long cabbage stalk
which lay much too near him,
and
at something strange
and round,
which appeared
like an apple,
but was not.
It was an old Ball
that must have lain
for years
in the gutter,
and been soaked through
and through
with water.
“Thank goodness!
at last I see an equal;
one
of my own sort,
with whom I
can talk,”
said the Ball,
looking earnestly
at the gilded Top.
“I am myself made
of real morocco,
sewed together
by a young lady’s hands,
and within my body is a Spanish cork;
though no one
would think it now.
I was very near marrying the swallow,
when
by a sad chance I fell
into the gutter
on the roof.
I have lain
there five years,
and I am now wet through
and through.
You may think
what a wearisome situation it has been
for a young lady
like me.”
The Top made no reply.
The more he thought
of his old love,
and the more he heard,
the more sure he became
that this was indeed she.
Then came the housemaid
to empty the dustbin.
“Hullo!”
she cried;
“why,
here’s the gilt Top.”
And so the Top was brought again
to the playroom,
to be used
and honored
as before,
while nothing was again heard
of the Ball.
And the Top never spoke again
of his old love
--the feeling must have passed away.
And it is not strange,
when the object
of it has lain five years
in a gutter,
and been drenched through
and through,
and
when one meets her again
in a dustbin.
[Illustration]
THE LEAPING MATCH
THE Flea,
the Grasshopper,
and the Frog once wanted
to see which
of them
could jump the highest.
They made a festival,
and invited the whole world
and every one else besides
who liked
to come
and see the grand sight.
Three famous jumpers they were,
as all
should say,
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 jumping,
and
for us
to offer no prize.”
The Flea was the first
to come forward.
He had most exquisite manners,
and bowed
to the company
on every side;
for he was
of noble blood,
and,
besides,
was accustomed
to the society
of man,
and that,
of course,
had been an advantage
to him.
Next came the Grasshopper.
He was not quite so elegantly formed
as the Flea,
but he knew perfectly well how
to conduct himself,
and he wore the green uniform
which belonged
to him
by right
of birth.
He said,
moreover,
that he came
of a very ancient Egyptian family,
and that
in the house
where he
then lived he was much thought of.
The fact was
that he had been just brought out
of the fields
and put
in a card-house three stories high,
and built
on purpose
for him,
with the colored sides inwards,
and doors
and windows cut out
of the Queen
of Hearts.
“And I sing so well,”
said he,
“that sixteen parlor-bred crickets,
who have chirped
from infancy
and yet got no one
to build them card-houses
to live in,
have fretted themselves thinner even
than before,
from sheer vexation
on hearing me.”
It was thus
that the Flea
and the Grasshopper made the most
of themselves,
each thinking himself quite an equal match
for the princess.
[Illustration:
He made a sideways jump
into the lap
of the princess.]
The Leapfrog said not a word;
but people said
that perhaps he thought the more;
and the housedog
who snuffed
at him
with his nose allowed
that he was
of good family.
The old councilor,
who had had three orders given him
in vain
for keeping quiet,
asserted
that the Leapfrog was a prophet,
for
that one
could see
on his back whether the coming winter was
to be severe
or mild,
which is more
than one
can see
on the back
of the man
who writes the almanac.
“I say nothing
for the present,”
exclaimed the King;
“yet I have my own opinion,
for I observe everything.”
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 all the fuss he had made.
The Grasshopper jumped only half
as high;
but he leaped
into the King’s face,
who was disgusted
by his rudeness.
The Leapfrog stood
for a long time,
as
if lost
in thought;
people began
to think he
would not jump
at all.
“I’m afraid he is ill!”
said the dog
and he went
to snuff
at him again;
when lo!
he suddenly made a sideways jump
into the lap
of the princess,
who sat close by
on a little golden stool.
“There is nothing higher
than my daughter,”
said the King;
“therefore
to bound
into her lap is the highest jump that
can be made.
Only one
of good understanding
would ever have thought
of that.
Thus the Frog has shown
that he has sense.
He has brains
in his head,
that he has.”
And so he won the princess.
“I jumped the highest,
for all that,”
said the Flea;
“but it’s all the same
to me.
The princess may have the stiff-legged,
slimy creature,
if she likes.
In this world merit seldom meets its reward.
Dullness
and heaviness win the day.
I am too light
and airy
for a stupid world.”
And so the Flea went
into foreign service.
The Grasshopper sat without
on a green bank
and reflected
on the world
and its ways;
and he too said,
“Yes,
dullness
and heaviness win the day;
a fine exterior is
what people care
for nowadays.”
And
then he began
to sing
in his own peculiar way
--and it is
from his song
that we have taken this little piece
of history,
which may very possibly be all untrue,
although it does stand printed here
in black
and white.
[Illustration]
THE HAPPY FAMILY
THE largest green leaf
in this country is certainly the burdock.
Put one
in front
of your waist,
and it is just
like an apron;
or lay it upon your head,
and it is almost
as good
as an umbrella,
it is so broad.
Burdock never grows singly;
where you find one plant
of the kind you may be sure
that others grow
in its immediate neighborhood.
How magnificent they look!
And all this magnificence is food
for snails
--the great white snails,
which grand people
in olden times used
to have dished up
as fricassees,
and
of which,
when they had eaten,
they
would say,
“H’m,
how nice!”
for they really fancied them delicious.
These snails lived
on burdock leaves,
and
that was
why burdock was planted.
Now
there was an old estate
where snails were no longer considered a delicacy.
The snails had therefore died out,
but the burdock still flourished.
In all the alleys and
in all the beds it had grown
and grown,
so
that it
could no longer be checked;
the place had become a perfect forest
of burdock.
Here
and
there stood an apple
or plum tree
to serve
as a kind
of token
that
there had been once a garden,
but everything,
from one end
of the garden
to the other,
was burdock,
and
beneath the shade
of the burdock lived the last two
of the ancient snails.
They did not know themselves
how old they were,
but they well remembered the time
when
there were a great many
of them,
that they had descended
from a family
that came
from foreign lands,
and
that this forest
in
which they lived had been planted
for them
and theirs.
They had never been beyond the limits
of the garden,
but they knew
that
there was something outside their forest,
called the castle,
and
that
there one was boiled,
and became black,
and was
then laid upon a silver dish
--though
what happened afterward they had never heard,
nor
could they exactly fancy
how it felt
to be cooked
and laid
on a silver dish.
It was,
no doubt,
a fine thing,
and exceedingly genteel.
Neither the cockchafer,
nor the toad,
nor the earthworm,
all
of whom they questioned
on the matter,
could give them the least information,
for none
of them had ever been cooked
and served upon silver dishes.
The old white snails were the grandest race
in the world;
of this they were well aware.
The forest had grown
for their sake,
and the castle
or manor house too had been built expressly that
in it they might be cooked
and served.
Leading now a very quiet
and happy life
and having no children,
they had adopted a little common snail,
and had brought it up
as their own child.
But the little thing
would not grow,
for he was only a common snail,
though his foster mother pretended
to see a great improvement
in him.
She begged the father,
since he
could not perceive it,
to feel the little snail’s shell,
and
to her great joy
and his own,
he found
that his wife was right.
One day it rained very hard.
“Listen!”
said the Father Snail;
“hear
what a drumming
there is
on the burdock leaves
--rum-dum-dum,
rum-dum-dum!”
“There are drops,
too,”
said the Mother Snail;
“they come trickling down the stalks.
We shall presently find it very wet here.
I’m glad we have such good houses,
and
that the youngster has his also.
There has really been more done
for us than
for any other creatures.
Every one must see
that we are superior beings.
We have houses
from our very birth,
and the burdock forest is planted
on our account.
I
should like
to know just
how far it reaches,
and
what
there is beyond.”
“There is nothing better than
what we have here,”
said the Father Snail.
“I wish
for nothing beyond.”
“And yet,”
said the mother,
“I
should like
to be taken
to the castle,
and boiled,
and laid
on a silver dish;
that has been the destiny
of all our ancestors,
and we may be sure it is something quite out
of the common way.”
“The castle has perhaps fallen
to ruin,”
said the Father Snail,
“or it may be overgrown
with burdock,
so
that its inmates are unable
to come out.
There is no hurry
about the matter.
You are always
in such a desperate hurry,
and the youngster
there begins
to take after you.
He’s been creeping up
that stem yonder these three days.
It makes me quite dizzy
to look
at him.”
“But
don’t scold him,”
said the mother.
“He creeps carefully.
We old people have nothing else
to live for,
and he
will be the joy
of our old age.
Have you thought
how we
can manage
to find a wife
for him?
Do you not think
that farther
into the forest
there may be others
of our own species?”
“I dare say
there may be black snails,”
said the old father,
“black snails,
without a house
at all;
and they are vulgar,
though they think so much
of themselves.
But we
can employ the black ants,
who run
about so much
--hurrying
to
and fro
as
if they had all the business
of the world
on their hands.
They
will certainly be able
to find a wife
for our young gentleman.”
“I know the fairest
of the fair,”
said one
of the ants;
“but I’m afraid it
would not do,
for she’s a queen.”
“She’s none the worse
for that,”
said both the old snails.
“Has she a house?”
“She has a palace,”
answered the ants;
“the most splendid ant castle,
with seven hundred galleries.”
“Thank you!”
said the Mother Snail.
“Our boy shall not go
to live
in an ant hill.
If you know
of nothing better,
we
will employ the white gnats,
who fly both
in rain
and sunshine
and know all the ins
and outs
of the whole burdock forest.”
“We have found a wife
for him,”
said the gnats.
“A hundred paces
from here
there sits,
on a gooseberry bush,
a little snail
with a house.
She is all alone
and is old enough
to marry.
It is only a hundred human steps
from here.”
“Then let her come
to him,”
said the old couple.
“He has a whole forest
of burdock,
while she has only a bush.”
So they went
and brought the little maiden snail.
It took eight days
to perform the journey,
but
that only showed her high breeding,
and
that she was
of good family.
And
then the wedding took place.
Six glow-worms gave all the light they could,
but
in all other respects it was a very quiet affair.
The old people
could not bear the fatigue
of frolic
or festivity.
The Mother Snail made a very touching little speech.
The father was too much overcome
to trust himself
to say anything.
They gave the young couple the entire burdock forest,
saying
what they had always said,
namely,
that it was the finest inheritance
in the world,
and that
if they led an upright
and honorable life,
and
if their family
should increase,
without doubt both themselves
and their children
would one day be taken
to the manor castle
and be boiled black
and served
as a fricassee
in a silver dish.
And after this the old couple crept
into their houses
and never came out again,
but fell asleep.
The young pair now ruled
in the forest
and had a numerous family.
But when,
as time went on,
none
of them were ever cooked
or served
on a silver dish,
they concluded
that the castle had fallen
to ruin
and
that the world
of human beings had died out;
and
as no one contradicted them,
they must have been right.
And the rain continued
to fall upon the burdock leaves solely
to entertain them
with its drumming,
and the sun shone
to light the forest
for their especial benefit,
and very happy they were
--they
and the whole snail family
--inexpressibly happy!
[Illustration]
THE GREENIES
A ROSE TREE stood
in the window.
But a little
while ago it had been green
and fresh,
and now it looked sickly
--it was
in poor health,
no doubt.
A whole regiment was quartered
on it
and was eating it up;
yet,
notwithstanding this seeming greediness,
the regiment was a very decent
and respectable one.
It wore bright-green uniforms.
I spoke
to one
of the “Greenies.”
He was
but three days old,
and yet he was already a grandfather.
What do you think he said?
It is all true
--he spoke
of himself and
of the rest
of the regiment.
Listen!
“We are the most wonderful creatures
in the world.
At a very early age we are engaged,
and immediately we have the wedding.
When the cold weather comes we lay our eggs,
but the little ones lie sunny
and warm.
The wisest
of the creatures,
the ant,
--we have the greatest respect
for him!
--understands us well.
He appreciates us,
you may be sure.
He does not eat us up
at once;
he takes our eggs,
lays them
in the family ant hill
on the ground floor
--lays them,
labeled
and numbered,
side
by side,
layer
on layer,
so
that each day a new one may creep out
of the egg.
Then he puts us
in a stable,
pinches our hind legs,
and milks us
till we die.
He has given us the prettiest
of names
--’little milch cow.’
“All creatures who,
like the ant,
are gifted
with common sense call us
by this pretty name.
It is only human beings
who do not.
They give us another name,
one
that we feel
to be a great affront
--great enough
to embitter our whole life.
Could you not write a protest
against it
for us?
Could you not rouse these human beings
to a sense
of the wrong they do us?
They look
at us so stupidly or,
at times,
with such envious eyes,
just
because we eat a rose leaf,
while they themselves eat every created thing
--whatever grows
and is green.
And oh,
they give us the most humiliating
of names!
I
will not
even mention it.
Ugh!
I feel it
to my very stomach.
I cannot
even pronounce it
--at least not
when I have my uniform on,
and
that I always wear.
“I was born
on a rose leaf.
I
and all the regiment live
on the rose tree.
We live off it,
in fact.
But
then it lives again
in us,
who belong
to the higher order
of created beings.
“The human beings do not
like us.
They pursue
and murder us
with soapsuds.
Oh,
it is a horrid drink!
I seem
to smell it
even now.
You cannot think
how dreadful it is
to be washed
when one was not made
to be washed.
Men!
you
who look
at us
with your severe,
soapsud eyes,
think a moment
what our place
in nature is:
we are born upon the roses,
we die
in roses
--our whole life is a rose poem.
Do not,
I beg you,
give us a name
which you yourselves think so despicable
--the name I cannot bear
to pronounce.
If you wish
to speak
of us,
call us
‘the ants’ milch cows
--the rose-tree regiment
--the little green things.’”
“And I,
the man,
stood looking
at the tree and
at the little Greenies
(whose name I shall not mention,
for I
should not like
to wound the feelings
of the citizens
of the rose tree),
a large family
with eggs
and young ones;
and I looked
at the soapsuds I was going
to wash them in,
for I too had come
with soap
and water
and murderous intentions.
But now I
will use it
for soap bubbles.
Look,
how beautiful!
Perhaps
there lies
in each a fairy tale,
and the bubble grows large
and radiant
and looks
as
if
there were a pearl lying inside it.
The bubble swayed
and swung.
It flew
to the door
and
then burst,
but the door opened wide,
and
there stood Dame Fairytale herself!
And now she
will tell you better
than I
can about
(I
will not say the name)
the little green things
of the rosebush.
“Plant lice!”
said Dame Fairytale.
One must call things
by their right names.
And
if one may not do so always,
one must
at least have the privilege
of doing so
in a fairy tale.
[Illustration]
OLE-LUK-OIE THE DREAM GOD
THERE is nobody
in the whole world
who knows so many stories
as Ole-Luk-Oie,
or
who
can relate them so nicely.
In the evening
while the children are seated
at the tea table or
in their little chairs,
very softly he comes up the stairs,
for he walks
in his socks.
He opens the doors without the slightest noise
and throws a small quantity
of very fine dust
in the little ones’ eyes
(just enough
to prevent them
from keeping them open),
and so they do not see him.
Then he creeps
behind them
and blows softly upon their necks
till their heads begin
to droop.
But Ole-Luk-Oie does not wish
to hurt them.
He is very fond
of children
and only wants them
to be quiet
that he may tell them pretty stories,
and he knows they never are quiet
until they are
in bed
and asleep.
Ole-Luk-Oie seats himself upon the bed
as soon
as they are asleep.
He is nicely dressed;
his coat is made
of silken stuff,
it is impossible
to say
of
what color,
for it changes
from green
to red
and
from red
to blue
as he turns
from side
to side.
Under each arm he carries an umbrella.
One
of them,
with pictures
on the inside,
he spreads
over good children,
and
then they dream the most charming stories.
But the other umbrella has no pictures,
and this he holds
over the naughty children,
so
that they sleep heavily
and wake
in the morning without having dreamed
at all.
Now we shall hear
how Ole-Luk-Oie came every night during a whole week
to a little boy named Hjalmar,
and
what it was
that he told him.
There were seven stories,
as
there are seven days
in the week.
MONDAY
“Now pay attention,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie
in the evening,
when Hjalmar was
in bed,
“and I
will decorate the room.”
Immediately all the flowers
in the flowerpots became large trees
with long branches reaching
to the ceiling
and stretching
along the walls,
so
that the whole room was
like a greenhouse.
All the branches were loaded
with flowers,
each flower
as beautiful and
as fragrant
as a rose,
and had any one tasted them he
would have found them sweeter even
than jam.
The fruit glittered
like gold,
and
there were cakes so full
of plums
that they were nearly bursting.
It was incomparably beautiful.
At the same time sounded dismal moans
from the table drawer
in
which lay Hjalmar’s schoolbooks.
“What
can
that be now?”
said Ole-Luk-Oie,
going
to the table
and pulling out the drawer.
It was a slate,
in such distress because
of a wrong figure
in a sum
that it had
almost broken itself
to pieces.
The pencil pulled
and tugged
at its string
as
if it were a little dog
that wanted
to help
but
could not.
And
then came a moan
from Hjalmar’s copy book.
Oh,
it was quite terrible
to hear!
On each leaf stood a row
of capital letters,
every one having a small letter
by its side.
This formed a copy.
Under these were other letters,
which Hjalmar had written;
they fancied they looked
like the copy,
but they were mistaken,
for they were leaning
on one side
as
if they intended
to fall
over the pencil lines.
“See,
this is the way you
should hold yourselves,”
said the copy.
“Look here,
you
should slope thus,
with a graceful curve.”
“Oh,
we are very willing
to do so,”
said Hjalmar’s letters,
“but we cannot,
we are so wretchedly made.”
“You must be scratched out,
then,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie.
“Oh,
no!”
they cried,
and
then they stood up so gracefully
that it was quite a pleasure
to look
at them.
“Now we must give up our stories,
and exercise these letters,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie.
“One,
two
--one,
two--” So he drilled them
till they stood up gracefully
and looked
as beautiful
as a copy
could look.
But after Ole-Luk-Oie was gone,
and Hjalmar looked
at them
in the morning,
they were
as wretched
and awkward
as ever.
TUESDAY
As soon
as Hjalmar was
in bed Ole-Luk-Oie touched
with his little magic wand all the furniture
in the room,
which immediately began
to chatter.
And each article talked only
of itself.
Over the chest
of drawers hung a large picture
in a gilt frame,
representing a landscape,
with fine old trees,
flowers
in the grass,
and a broad stream
which flowed
through the wood past several castles far out
into the wild ocean.
Ole-Luk-Oie touched the picture
with his magic wand,
and immediately the birds began
to sing,
the branches
of the trees rustled,
and the clouds moved
across the sky,
casting their shadows
on the landscape
beneath them.
Then Ole-Luk-Oie lifted little Hjalmar up
to the frame
and placed his feet
in the picture,
on the high grass,
and
there he stood
with the sun shining down upon him
through the branches
of the trees.
He ran
to the water
and seated himself
in a little boat
which lay there,
and
which was painted red
and white.
The sails glittered
like silver,
and six swans,
each
with a golden circlet round its neck
and a bright,
blue star
on its forehead,
drew the boat past the green wood,
where the trees talked
of robbers
and witches,
and the flowers
of beautiful little elves
and fairies whose histories the butterflies had related
to them.
Brilliant fish
with scales
like silver
and gold swam after the boat,
sometimes making a spring
and splashing the water round them;
while birds,
red
and blue,
small
and great,
flew after him
in two long lines.
The gnats danced round them,
and the cockchafers cried “Buzz,
buzz.”
They all wanted
to follow Hjalmar,
and all had some story
to tell him.
It was a most delightful sail.
[Illustration:
On the balconies stood princesses.]
Sometimes the forests were thick
and dark,
sometimes
like a beautiful garden gay
with sunshine
and flowers;
he passed great palaces
of glass and
of marble,
and
on the balconies stood princesses,
whose faces were those
of little girls whom Hjalmar knew well
and had often played with.
One
of the little girls held out her hand,
in
which was a heart made
of sugar,
more beautiful
than any confectioner ever sold.
As Hjalmar sailed
by he caught hold
of one side
of the sugar heart
and held it fast,
and the princess held fast too,
so
that it broke
in two pieces.
Hjalmar had one piece
and the princess the other,
but Hjalmar’s was the larger.
At each castle stood little princes acting
as sentinels.
They presented arms
and had golden swords
and made it rain plums
and tin soldiers,
so
that they must have been real princes.
Hjalmar continued
to sail,
sometimes
through woods,
sometimes
as it were
through large halls,
and then
by large cities.
At last he came
to the town
where his nurse lived,
who had carried him
in her arms
when he was a very little boy
and had always been kind
to him.
She nodded
and beckoned
to him
and
then sang the little verses she had herself composed
and sent
to him:
How many,
many hours I think
on thee,
My own dear Hjalmar,
still my pride
and joy!
How have I hung delighted
over thee,
Kissing thy rosy cheeks,
my darling boy!
Thy first low accents it was mine
to hear,
To-day my farewell words
to thee shall fly.
Oh,
may the Lord thy shield be ever near
and fit thee
for a mansion
in the sky!
And all the birds sang the same tune,
the flowers danced
on their stems,
and the old trees nodded
as
if Ole-Luk-Oie had been telling them stories,
as well.
WEDNESDAY
How the rain did pour down!
Hjalmar
could hear it
in his sleep,
and
when Ole-Luk-Oie opened the window the water flowed quite up
to the window sill.
It had the appearance
of a large lake outside,
and a beautiful ship lay close
to the house.
“Wilt thou sail
with me to-night,
little Hjalmar?”
said Ole-Luk-Oie.
“Then we shall see foreign countries,
and thou shalt return here
in the morning.”
All
in a moment
there stood Hjalmar,
in his best clothes,
on the deck
of the noble ship,
and immediately the weather became fine.
They sailed
through the streets,
round
by the church,
while
on every side rolled the wide,
great sea.
They sailed
till the land disappeared,
and
then they saw a flock
of storks
who had left their own country
and were traveling
to warmer climates.
The storks flew one
behind another
and had already been a long,
long time
on the wing.
One
of them seemed so tired
that his wings
could scarcely carry him.
He was soon left very far behind.
At length he sank lower
and lower,
with outstretched wings,
flapping them
in vain,
till his feet touched the rigging
of the ship,
and he slid
from the sails
to the deck
and stood
before them.
Then a sailor boy caught him
and put him
in the henhouse
with the fowls,
the ducks,
and the turkeys,
while the poor stork stood quite bewildered
among them.
“Just look
at
that fellow,”
said the chickens.
Then the turkey cock puffed himself out
as large
as he could
and inquired
who he was,
and the ducks waddled backwards,
crying,
“Quack,
quack!”
The stork told them all
about warm Africa
--of the pyramids and
of the ostrich,
which,
like a wild horse,
runs
across the desert.
But the ducks did not understand
what he said,
and quacked amongst themselves,
“We are all
of the same opinion;
namely,
that he is stupid.”
“Yes,
to be sure,
he is stupid,”
said the turkey cock,
and gobbled.
Then the stork remained quite silent
and thought
of his home
in Africa.
“Those are handsome thin legs
of yours,”
said the turkey cock.
“What do they cost a yard?”
“Quack,
quack,
quack,”
grinned the ducks;
but the stork pretended not
to hear.
“You may
as well laugh,”
said the turkey,
“for
that remark was rather witty,
but perhaps it was
above you.
Ah,
ah,
is he not clever?
He
will be a great amusement
to us
while he remains here.”
And
then he gobbled,
and the ducks quacked:
“Gobble,
gobble”;
“Quack,
quack!”
What a terrible uproar they made
while they were having such fun
among themselves!
Then Hjalmar went
to the henhouse and,
opening the door,
called
to the stork.
He hopped out
on the deck.
He had rested himself now,
and he looked happy
and seemed
as
if he nodded
to Hjalmar
as if
to thank him.
Then he spread his wings
and flew away
to warmer countries,
while the hens clucked,
the ducks quacked,
and the turkey cock’s head turned quite scarlet.
“To-morrow you shall be made
into soup,”
said Hjalmar
to the fowls;
and
then he awoke
and found himself lying
in his little bed.
It was a wonderful journey
which Ole-Luk-Oie had made him take this night.
THURSDAY
“What do you think I have here?”
said the Dream Man.
“Do not be frightened,
and you shall see a little mouse.”
And
then he held out his hand,
in
which lay a lovely little creature.
“It has come
to invite you
to a wedding.
Two little mice are going
to be married to-night.
They live
under the floor
of your mother’s storeroom,
and
that must be a fine dwelling place.”
“But
how
can I get
through the little mouse-hole
in the floor?”
asked the little boy.
“Leave me
to manage that,”
said the Dream Man.
“I
will soon make you small enough.”
And
then he touched the boy
with his magic wand,
upon
which he became smaller
and smaller until
at last he was no longer
than a little finger.
“Now you
can borrow the dress
of your tin soldier.
I think it
will just fit you.
It looks well
to wear a uniform
when you go
into company.”
“Yes,
certainly,”
said the boy,
and
in a moment he was dressed
as neatly
as the neatest
of all tin soldiers.
“Will you be so good as
to seat yourself
in your mamma’s thimble,”
said the little mouse,
“that I may have the pleasure
of drawing you
to the wedding?”
“Will you really take so much trouble,
young lady?”
said he.
And so
in this way he rode
to the mouse’s wedding.
First they went
under the floor,
and
then
through a long passage
which was scarcely high enough
to allow the thimble
to drive under,
and the whole passage was lit up
with the light
of rotten wood.
“Does it not smell delicious?”
asked the mouse,
as she drew him along.
“The wall
and the floor have been smeared
with bacon rind;
nothing
could be nicer.”
Very soon they arrived
at the bridal hall.
On the right stood all the little lady mice,
whispering
and giggling
as
if they were making game
of each other.
To the left were the gentlemen mice,
stroking their whiskers
with their forepaws.
And
in the center
of the hall
could be seen the bridal pair,
standing side
by side
in a hollow cheese rind
and kissing each other
while all eyes were upon them.
More
and more friends kept coming,
till the mice were
in danger
of treading each other
to death;
for the bridal pair now stood
in the doorway,
and none
could pass
in
or out.
The room had been rubbed over
with bacon rind
like the passage,
which was all the refreshment offered
to the guests.
But
for dessert a pea was passed around,
on
which a mouse had bitten the first letters
of the names
of the betrothed pair.
This was something quite uncommon.
All the mice said it was a very beautiful wedding,
and
that they had been very agreeably entertained.
After this Hjalmar returned home.
He had certainly been
in grand society,
but he had been obliged
to creep
under a room and
to make himself small enough
to wear the uniform
of a tin soldier.
FRIDAY
“It is incredible
how many old people
there are
who
would be glad
to have me
at night,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie,
“especially those
who have done something wrong.
“‘Good old Ole,’
say they
to me,
‘we cannot close our eyes,
and we lie awake the whole night
and see all our evil deeds sitting
on our beds
like little imps
and sprinkling us
with scalding water.
Will you come
and drive them away,
that we may have a good night’s rest?’
and
then they sigh so deeply
and say:
‘We
would gladly pay you
for it.
Good night,
Ole-Luk,
the money lies
in the window.’
But I never do anything
for gold.”
“What shall we do to-night?”
asked Hjalmar.
“I do not know whether you
would care
to go
to another wedding,”
replied Ole-Luk-Oie,
“although it is quite a different affair
from the one we saw last night.
Your sister’s large doll,
that is dressed
like a man
and is called Herman,
intends
to marry the doll Bertha.
It is also the dolls’ birthday,
and they
will receive many presents.”
“Yes,
I know
that already,”
said Hjalmar;
“my sister always allows her dolls
to keep their birthdays or
to have a wedding
when they require new clothes.
That has happened already a hundred times,
I am quite sure.”
“Yes,
so it may;
but to-night is the hundred-and-first wedding,
and
when
that has taken place it must be the last;
therefore this is
to be extremely beautiful.
Only look.”
Hjalmar looked
at the table,
and
there stood the little cardboard dolls’ house,
with lights
in all the windows,
and drawn up
before it were the tin soldiers,
presenting arms.
The bridal pair were seated
on the floor,
leaning
against the leg
of the table,
looking very thoughtful
and
with good reason.
Then Ole-Luk-Oie,
dressed up
in grandmother’s black gown,
married them.
As soon
as the ceremony was concluded all the furniture
in the room joined
in singing a beautiful song
which had been composed
by the lead pencil,
and
which went
to the melody
of a military tattoo:
“Waft,
gentle breeze,
our kind farewell
to the tiny house
where the bride folks dwell.
With their skin
of kid leather fitting so well,
They are straight
and upright
as a tailor’s ell.
Hurrah!
hurrah!
for beau
and belle.
Let echo repeat our kind farewell.”
And now came the presents;
but the bridal pair had nothing
to eat,
for love was
to be their food.
“Shall we go
to a country house,
or travel?”
asked the bridegroom.
They consulted the swallow,
who had traveled so far,
and the old hen
in the yard,
who had brought up five broods
of chickens.
And the swallow talked
to them
of warm countries
where the grapes hang
in large clusters
on the vines
and the air is soft
and mild,
and
about the mountains glowing
with colors more beautiful
than we
can think of.
“But they have no red cabbage such
as we have,”
said the hen.
“I was once
in the country
with my chickens
for a whole summer.
There was a large sand pit
in
which we
could walk about
and scratch
as we liked.
Then we got
into a garden
in
which grew red cabbage.
Oh,
how nice it was!
I cannot think
of anything more delicious.”
“But one cabbage stalk is exactly
like another,”
said the swallow;
“and here we often have bad weather.”
“Yes,
but we are accustomed
to it,”
said the hen.
“But it is so cold here,
and freezes sometimes.”
“Cold weather is good
for cabbages,”
said the hen;
“besides,
we do have it warm here sometimes.
Four years ago we had a summer
that lasted more
than five weeks,
and it was so hot one
could scarcely breathe.
And then
in this country we have no poisonous animals,
and we are free
from robbers.
He must be a blockhead,
who does not consider our country the finest
of all lands.
He ought not
to be allowed
to live here.”
And
then the hen wept very much
and said:
“I have also traveled.
I once went twelve miles
in a coop,
and it was not pleasant traveling
at all.”
“The hen is a sensible woman,”
said the doll Bertha.
“I
don’t care
for traveling
over mountains,
just
to go up
and come down again.
No,
let us go
to the sand pit
in front
of the gate
and
then take a walk
in the cabbage garden.”
And so they settled it.
[Illustration:
Look
at these ...
Chinese people ...]
SATURDAY
“Am I
to hear any more stories?”
asked little Hjalmar,
as soon
as Ole-Luk-Oie had sent him
to sleep.
“We shall have no time this evening,”
said he,
spreading out his prettiest umbrella
over the child.
“Look
at these Chinese people.”
And
then the whole umbrella appeared
like a large china bowl,
with blue trees
and pointed bridges upon
which stood little Chinamen nodding their heads.
“We must make all the world beautiful
for to-morrow morning,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie,
“for it
will be a holiday;
it is Sunday.
I must now go
to the church steeple
and see
if the little sprites
who live
there have polished the bells so
that they may sound sweetly;
then I must go
into the fields
and see
if the wind has blown the dust
from the grass
and the leaves;
and the most difficult task
of all
which I have
to do is
to take down all the stars
and brighten them up.
I have
to number them first
before I put them
in my apron,
and also
to number the places
from
which I take them,
so
that they may go back
into the right holes,
or else they
would not remain
and we
should have a number
of falling stars,
for they
would all tumble down one after another.”
“Hark ye,
Mr. Luk-Oie!”
said an old portrait
which hung
on the wall
of Hjalmar’s bedroom.
“Do you know me?
I am Hjalmar’s great-grandfather.
I thank you
for telling the boy stories,
but you must not confuse his ideas.
The stars cannot be taken down
from the sky
and polished;
they are spheres
like our earth,
which is a good thing
for them.”
“Thank you,
old great-grandfather,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie.
“I thank you.
You may be the head
of the family,
as no doubt you are,
and very old,
but I am older still.
I am an ancient heathen.
The old Romans
and Greeks named me the Dream God.
I have visited the noblest houses,
--yes,
and I continue
to do so,
--still I know how
to conduct myself both
to high
and low,
and now you may tell the stories yourself”;
and so Ole-Luk-Oie walked off,
taking his umbrellas
with him.
“Well,
well,
one is never
to give an opinion,
I suppose,”
grumbled the portrait.
And it woke Hjalmar.
SUNDAY
“Good evening,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie.
Hjalmar nodded,
and
then sprang out
of bed
and turned his great-grandfather’s portrait
to the wall so
that it might not interrupt them
as it had done yesterday.
“Now,”
said he,
“you must tell me some stories
about five green peas
that lived
in one pod,
or
of the chickseed
that courted the chickweed,
or
of the Darning-needle
who acted so proudly
because she fancied herself an embroidery needle.”
“You may have too much
of a good thing,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie.
“You know
that I
like best
to show you something,
so I
will show you my brother.
He is also called Ole-Luk-Oie,
but he never visits any one
but once,
and
when he does come he takes him away
on his horse
and tells him stories
as they ride along.
“He knows only two stories.
One
of these is so wonderfully beautiful
that no one
in the world
can imagine anything
at all
like it,
but the other it
would be impossible
to describe.”
Then Ole-Luk-Oie lifted Hjalmar up
to the window.
“There,
now you
can see my brother,
the other Ole-Luk-Oie;
he is also called Death.
You see he is not so bad
as they represent him
in picture books.
There he is a skeleton,
but here his coat is embroidered
with silver,
and he wears the splendid uniform
of a hussar,
and a mantle
of black velvet flies
behind him
over the horse.
Look,
how he gallops along.”
Hjalmar saw that
as this Ole-Luk-Oie rode
on he lifted up old
and young
and carried them away
on his horse.
Some he seated
in front
of him
and some behind,
but always inquired first,
“How stands the record book?”
“Good,”
they all answered.
“Yes,
but let me see
for myself,”
he replied,
and they were obliged
to give him the books.
Then all those
who had “Very good”
or “Exceedingly good” came
in front
of the horse
and heard the beautiful story,
while those
who had “Middling”
or “Fairly good”
in their books were obliged
to sit behind.
They cried
and wanted
to jump down
from the horse,
but they
could not get free,
for they seemed fastened
to the seat.
“Why,
Death is a most splendid Luk-Oie,”
said Hjalmar.
“I am not
in the least afraid
of him.”
“You need have no fear
of him,”
said Ole-Luk-Oie;
“but take care
and keep a good conduct book.”
“Now I call
that very instructive,”
murmured the great-grandfather’s portrait.
“It is useful sometimes
to express an opinion.”
So he was quite satisfied.
These are some
of the doings
and sayings
of Ole-Luk-Oie.
I hope he may visit you himself this evening
and relate some more.
[Illustration]
THE MONEY BOX
IN a nursery
where a number
of toys lay scattered about,
a money box stood
on the top
of a very high wardrobe.
It was made
of clay
in the shape
of a pig
and had been bought
of the potter.
In the back
of the pig was a slit,
and this slit had been enlarged
with a knife so
that dollars,
or
even crown pieces,
might slip through
--and indeed
there were two
in the box,
besides a number
of pence.
The money-pig was stuffed so full
that it
could no longer rattle,
which is the highest state
of perfectness
to
which a money-pig
can attain.
There he stood upon the cupboard,
high
and lofty,
looking down upon everything else
in the room.
He knew very well
that he had enough inside himself
to buy up all the other toys,
and this gave him a very good opinion
of his own value.
The rest thought
of this fact also,
although they did not express it,
there were so many other things
to talk about.
A large doll,
still handsome
(though rather old,
for her neck had been mended)
lay inside one
of the drawers,
which was partly open.
She called out
to the others,
“Let us have a game
at being men
and women;
that is something worth playing at.”
Upon this
there was a great uproar;
even the engravings
which hung
in frames
on the wall turned round
in their excitement
and showed
that they had a wrong side
to them,
although they had not the least intention
of exposing themselves
in this way or
of objecting
to the game.
It was late
at night,
but
as the moon shone
through the windows,
they had light
at a cheap rate.
And
as the game was now
to begin,
all were invited
to take part
in it,
even the children’s wagon,
which certainly belonged
among the coarser playthings.
“Each has its own value,”
said the wagon;
“we cannot all be noblemen;
there must be some
to do the work.”
The money-pig was the only one
who received a written invitation.
He stood so high
that they were afraid he
would not accept a verbal message.
But
in his reply he said
if he had
to take a part he must enjoy the sport
from his own home;
they were
to arrange
for him
to do so.
And so they did.
The little toy theater was therefore put up
in such a way
that the money-pig
could look directly
into it.
Some wanted
to begin
with a comedy
and afterwards
to have a tea party
and a discussion
for mental improvement,
but they began
with the latter first.
The rocking-horse spoke
of training
and races;
the wagon,
of railways
and steam power
--for these subjects belonged
to each
of their professions,
and it was right they
should talk
of them.
The clock talked politics
--”Tick,
tick.”
He professed
to know
what was the time
of the day,
but
there was a whisper
that he did not go correctly.
The bamboo cane stood by,
looking stiff
and proud
(he was vain
of his brass ferrule
and silver top),
and
on the sofa lay two worked cushions,
pretty
but stupid.
When the play
at the little theater began,
the rest sat
and looked on;
they were requested
to applaud
and stamp,
or crack,
whenever they felt gratified
with
what they saw.
The riding whip said he never cracked
for old people,
only
for the young
--those
who were not yet married.
“I crack
for everybody,”
said the nutcracker.
“Yes,
and a fine noise you make,”
thought the audience
as the play went on.
It was not worth much,
but it was very well played,
and all the actors turned their painted sides
to the audience,
for they were made
to be seen only
on one side.
The acting was wonderful,
excepting
that sometimes the actors came out beyond the lamps,
because the wires were a little too long.
The doll whose neck had been mended was so excited
that the place
in her neck burst,
and the money-pig declared he must do something
for one
of the players
as they had all pleased him so much.
So he made up his mind
to mention one
of them
in his will
as the one
to be buried
with him
in the family vault,
whenever
that event
should happen.
They enjoyed the comedy so much
that they gave up all thoughts
of the tea party
and only carried out their idea
of intellectual amusement,
which they called playing
at men
and women.
And
there was nothing wrong
about it,
for it was only play.
All the
while each one thought most
of himself or
of
what the money-pig
could be thinking.
The money-pig’s thoughts were on
(as he supposed)
a very far-distant time
--of making his will,
and
of his burial,
and
of
when it might all come
to pass.
Certainly sooner
than he expected;
for all
at once down he came
from the top
of the press,
fell
on the floor,
and was broken
to pieces.
Then all the pennies hopped
and danced about
in the most amusing manner.
The little ones twirled round
like tops,
and the large ones rolled away
as far
as they could,
especially the one great silver crown piece,
who had often wanted
to go out
into the world.
And he had his wish
as well
as all the rest
of the money.
The pieces
of the money-pig were thrown
into the dustbin,
and the next day
there stood a new money-pig
on the cupboard,
but it had not a farthing inside it yet,
and therefore,
like the old one,
could not rattle.
This was the beginning
with him,
and
with us it shall be the end
of our story.
[Illustration]
ELDER-TREE MOTHER
THERE was once a little boy
who had taken cold
by going out
and getting his feet wet.
No one
could think
how he had managed
to do so,
for the weather was quite dry.
His mother undressed him
and put him
to bed,
and
then she brought
in the teapot
to make him a good cup
of elder tea,
which is so warming.
At the same time the friendly old man
who lived all alone
at the top
of the house came
in
at the door.
He had neither wife nor child,
but he was very fond
of children
and knew so many fairy tales
and stories
that it was a pleasure
to hear him talk.
“Now,
if you drink your tea,”
said the mother,
“very likely you
will have a story
in the meantime.”
[Illustration:
“But
how did the little fellow get his feet wet?”
asked he ....]
“Yes,
if I
could think
of a new one
to tell,”
said the old man.
“But
how did the little fellow get his feet wet?”
asked he.
“Ah,”
said the mother,
“that is
what we cannot make out.”
“Will you tell me a story?”
asked the boy.
“Yes,
if you
can tell me exactly
how deep the gutter is
in the little street through
which you go
to school.”
“Just halfway up
to my knee,”
said the boy,
promptly;
“that is,
if I stand
in the deepest part.”
“It is easy
to see
how we got our feet wet,”
said the old man.
“Well,
now I suppose I ought
to tell a story,
but really I
don’t know any more.”
“You
can make up one,
I know,”
said the boy.
“Mother says
that you
can turn everything you look
at
into a story,
and everything,
even,
that you touch.”
“Ah,
but those tales
and stories are worth nothing.
The real ones come
of themselves;
they knock
at my forehead
and say,
‘Here we are!’”
“Won’t
there be a knock soon?”
asked the boy.
And his mother laughed
as she put elder flowers
in the teapot
and poured boiling water
over them.
“Oh,
do tell me a story.”
“Yes,
if a story comes
of itself,
but tales
and stories are very grand;
they only come
when it pleases them.
Stop,”
he cried all
at once,
“here we have it;
look!
there is a story
in the teapot now.”
The little boy looked
at the teapot
and saw the lid raise itself gradually
and long branches stretch out,
even
from the spout,
in all directions
till they became larger
and larger,
and
there appeared a great elder tree covered
with flowers white
and fresh.
It spread itself even
to the bed
and pushed the curtains aside,
and oh,
how fragrant the blossoms were!
In the midst
of the tree sat a pleasant-looking old woman
in a very strange dress.
The dress was green,
like the leaves
of the elder tree,
and was decorated
with large white elder blossoms.
It was not easy
to tell whether the border was made
of some kind
of stuff or
of real flowers.
“What is
that woman’s name?”
asked the boy.
“The Romans
and Greeks called her a dryad,”
said the old man,
“but we do not understand
that name;
we have a better one
for her
in the quarter
of the town
where the sailors live.
They call her Elder-flower Mother,
and you must pay attention
to her now,
and listen
while you look
at the beautiful tree.
“Just such a large,
blooming tree
as this stands outside
in the corner
of a poor little yard,
and
under this tree,
one bright sunny afternoon,
sat two old people,
a sailor
and his wife.
They had great-grandchildren,
and
would soon celebrate the golden wedding,
which is the fiftieth anniversary
of the wedding day
in many countries,
and the Elder Mother sat
in the tree
and looked
as pleased
as she does now.
“‘I know
when the golden wedding is
to be,’
said she,
but they did not hear her;
they were talking
of olden times.
‘Do you remember,’
said the old sailor,
‘when we were quite little
and used
to run about
and play
in the very same yard
where we are now sitting,
and
how we planted little twigs
in one corner
and made a garden?’
“‘Yes,’
said the old woman,
‘I remember it quite well;
and
how we watered the twigs,
and one
of them was a sprig
of elder
that took root
and put forth green shoots,
until
in time it became the great tree under
which we old people are now seated.’
“‘To be sure,’
he replied,
‘and
in
that corner yonder stands the water butt
in
which I used
to swim my boat
that I had cut out all myself;
and it sailed well too.
But since
then I have learned a very different kind
of sailing.’
“‘Yes,
but before
that we went
to school,’
said she,
‘and
then we were prepared
for confirmation.
How we both cried
on
that day!
But
in the afternoon we went hand
in hand up
to the round tower
and saw the view
over Copenhagen
and
across the water;
then we went
to Fredericksburg,
where the king
and queen were sailing
in their beautiful boat
on the canals.’
“‘But I had
to sail
on a very different voyage elsewhere
and be away
from home
for years
on long voyages,’
said the old sailor.
“‘Ah yes,
and I used
to cry
about you,’
said she,
‘for I thought you must be lying drowned
at the bottom
of the sea,
with the waves sweeping
over you.
And many a time have I got up
in the night
to see
if the weathercock had turned;
it turned often enough,
but you came not.
How well I remember one day the rain was pouring down
from the skies,
and the man came
to the house
where I was
in service
to take away the dust.
I went down
to him
with the dust box
and stood
for a moment
at the door,
--what shocking weather it was!
--and
while I stood
there the postman came up
and brought me a letter
from you.
“‘How
that letter had traveled about!
I tore it open
and read it.
I laughed
and wept
at the same time,
I was so happy.
It said
that you were
in warm countries
where the coffee berries grew,
and
what a beautiful country it was,
and described many other wonderful things.
And so I stood reading
by the dustbin,
with the rain pouring down,
when all
at once somebody came
and clasped me round the waist.’
“‘Yes,
and you gave him such a box
on the ears
that they tingled,’
said the old man.
“‘I did not know
that it was you,’
she replied;
‘but you had arrived
as quickly
as your letter,
and you looked so handsome,
and,
indeed,
so you are still.
You had a large yellow silk handkerchief
in your pocket
and a shiny hat
on your head.
You looked quite fine.
And all the time
what weather it was,
and
how dismal the street looked!’
“‘And
then do you remember,’
said he,
‘when we were married,
and our first boy came,
and
then Marie,
and Niels,
and Peter,
and Hans Christian?’
“‘Indeed I do,’
she replied;
‘and they are all grown up respectable men
and women,
whom every one likes.’
“‘And now their children have little ones,’
said the old sailor.
‘There are great-grandchildren
for us,
strong
and healthy too.
Was it not
about this time
of year
that we were married?’
“‘Yes,
and to-day is the golden-wedding day,’
said Elder-tree Mother,
popping her head out just
between the two old people;
and they thought it was a neighbor nodding
to them.
Then they looked
at each other
and clasped their hands together.
Presently came their children
and grand*-children,
who knew very well
that it was the golden-wedding day.
They had already wished them joy
on
that very morning,
but the old people had forgotten it,
although they remembered so well all
that had happened many years before.
And the elder tree smelled sweet,
and the setting sun shone upon the faces
of the old people
till they looked quite ruddy.
And the youngest
of their grandchildren danced round them joyfully,
and said they were going
to have a feast
in the evening,
and
there were
to be hot potatoes.
Then the Elder Mother nodded
in the tree
and cried
‘Hurrah!’
with all the rest.”
“But
that is not a story,”
said the little boy
who had been listening.
“Not
till you understand it,”
said the old man.
“But let us ask the Elder Mother
to explain it.”
“It was not exactly a story,”
said the Elder Mother,
“but the story is coming now,
and it is a true one.
For out
of truth the most wonderful stories grow,
just
as my beautiful elder bush has sprung out
of the teapot.”
And
then she took the little boy out
of bed
and laid him
on her bosom,
and the blooming branches
of elder closed
over them so
that they sat,
as it were,
in a leafy bower,
and the bower flew
with them
through the air
in the most delightful manner.
Then the Elder Mother all
at once changed
to a beautiful young maiden,
but her dress was still
of the same green stuff,
ornamented
with a border
of white elder blossoms such
as the Elder Mother had worn.
In her bosom she wore a real elder flower,
and a wreath
of the same was entwined
in her golden ringlets.
Her large blue eyes were very beautiful
to look at.
She was
of the same age
as the boy,
and they kissed each other
and felt very happy.
They left the arbor together,
hand
in hand,
and found themselves
in a beautiful flower garden
which belonged
to their home.
On the green lawn their father’s stick was tied up.
There was life
in this stick
for the little ones,
for no sooner did they place themselves upon it
than the white knob changed
into a pretty neighing head
with a black,
flowing mane,
and four long,
slender legs sprung forth.
The creature was strong
and spirited,
and galloped
with them round the grassplot.
“Hurrah!
now we
will ride many miles away,”
said the boy;
“we’ll ride
to the nobleman’s estate,
where we went last year.”
Then they rode round the grassplot again,
and the little maiden,
who,
we know,
was Elder-tree Mother,
kept crying out:
“Now we are
in the country.
Do you see the farmhouse,
with a great baking oven standing out
from the wall
by the road-side
like a gigantic egg?
There is an elder spreading its branches
over it,
and a cock is marching about
and scratching
for the chickens.
See
how he struts!
“Now we are near the church.
There it stands
on the hill,
shaded
by the great oak trees,
one
of
which is half dead.
See,
here we are
at the blacksmith’s forge.
How the fire burns!
And the half-clad men are striking the hot iron
with the hammer,
so
that the sparks fly about.
Now then,
away
to the nobleman’s beautiful estate!”
And the boy saw all
that the little girl spoke
of
as she sat
behind him
on the stick,
for it passed
before him
although they were only galloping round the grassplot.
Then they played together
in a side walk
and raked up the earth
to make a little garden.
Then she took elder flowers out
of her hair
and planted them,
and they grew just
like those
which he had heard the old people talking about,
and
which they had planted
in their young days.
They walked
about hand
in hand too,
just
as the old people had done
when they were children,
but they did not go up the round tower nor
to Fredericksburg garden.
No;
but the little girl seized the boy round the waist,
and they rode all
over the whole country
(sometimes it was spring,
then summer;
then autumn
and winter followed),
while thousands
of images were presented
to the boy’s eyes
and heart,
and the little girl constantly sang
to him,
“You must never forget all this.”
And
through their whole flight the elder tree sent forth the sweetest fragrance.
They passed roses
and fresh beech trees,
but the perfume
of the elder tree was stronger
than all,
for its flowers hung round the little maiden’s heart,
against
which the boy so often leaned his head during their flight.
“It is beautiful here
in the spring,”
said the maiden,
as they stood
in a grove
of beech trees covered
with fresh green leaves,
while
at their feet the sweet-scented thyme
and blushing anemone lay spread amid the green grass
in delicate bloom.
“O
that it were always spring
in the fragrant beech groves!”
“Here it is delightful
in summer,”
said the maiden,
as they passed old knights’ castles telling
of days gone
by
and saw the high walls
and pointed gables mirrored
in the rivers beneath,
where swans were sailing about
and peeping
into the cool green avenues.
In the fields the corn waved
to
and fro
like the sea.
Red
and yellow flowers grew amongst the ruins,
and the hedges were covered
with wild hops
and blooming convolvulus.
In the evening the moon rose round
and full,
and the haystacks
in the meadows filled the air
with their sweet scent.
These were scenes never
to be forgotten.
“It is lovely here also
in autumn,”
said the little maiden,
and
then the scene changed again.
The sky appeared higher
and more beautifully blue,
while the forest glowed
with colors
of red,
green,
and gold.
The hounds were off
to the chase,
and large flocks
of wild birds flew screaming
over the Huns’ graves,
where the blackberry bushes twined round the old ruins.
The dark blue sea was dotted
with white sails,
and
in the barns sat old women,
maidens,
and children picking hops
into a large tub.
The young ones sang songs,
and the old ones told fairy tales
of wizards
and witches.
There
could be nothing more pleasant
than all this.
“Again,”
said the maiden,
“it is beautiful here
in winter.”
Then
in a moment all the trees were covered
with hoarfrost,
so
that they looked
like white coral.
The snow crackled
beneath the feet
as
if every one had
on new boots,
and one shooting star after another fell
from the sky.
In warm rooms
there
could be seen the Christmas trees,
decked out
with presents
and lighted up amid festivities
and joy.
In the country farmhouses
could be heard the sound
of a violin,
and
there were games
for apples,
so
that
even the poorest child
could say,
“It is beautiful
in winter.”
And beautiful indeed were all the scenes
which the maiden showed
to the little boy,
and always
around them floated the fragrance
of the elder blossom,
and ever
above them waved the red flag
with the white cross,
under
which the old seaman had sailed.
The boy
--who had become a youth,
and
who had gone
as a sailor out
into the wide world
and sailed
to warm countries
where the coffee grew,
and
to whom the little girl had given an elder blossom
from her bosom
for a keepsake,
when she took leave
of him
--placed the flower
in his hymn book;
and
when he opened it
in foreign lands he always turned
to the spot
where this flower
of remembrance lay,
and the more he looked
at it the fresher it appeared.
He could,
as it were,
breathe the homelike fragrance
of the woods,
and see the little girl looking
at him
from
between the petals
of the flower
with her clear blue eyes,
and hear her whispering,
“It is beautiful here
at home
in spring
and summer,
in autumn and
in winter,”
while hundreds
of these home scenes passed
through his memory.
Many years had passed,
and he was now an old man,
seated
with his old wife
under an elder tree
in full blossom.
They were holding each other’s hands,
just
as the great-grandfather
and grandmother had done,
and spoke,
as they did,
of olden times and
of the golden wedding.
The little maiden
with the blue eyes
and
with the elder blossoms
in her hair sat
in the tree
and nodded
to them
and said,
“To-day is the golden wedding.”
[Illustration:
As she placed them
on the heads
of the old people,
each flower became a golden crown.]
And
then she took two flowers out
of her wreath
and kissed them,
and they shone first
like silver
and then
like gold,
and
as she placed them
on the heads
of the old people,
each flower became a golden crown.
And
there they sat
like a king
and queen
under the sweet-scented tree,
which still looked
like an elder bush.
Then he related
to his old wife the story
of the Elder-tree Mother,
just
as he had heard it told
when he was a little boy,
and they both fancied it very much
like their own story,
especially
in parts
which they liked the best.
“Well,
and so it is,”
said the little maiden
in the tree.
“Some call me Elder Mother,
others a dryad,
but my real name is Memory.
It is I
who sit
in the tree
as it grows
and grows,
and I
can think
of the past
and relate many things.
Let me see
if you have still preserved the flower.”
Then the old man opened his hymn book,
and
there lay the elder flower,
as fresh
as
if it had only just been placed there,
and Memory nodded.
And the two old people
with the golden crowns
on their heads sat
in the red glow
of the evening sunlight
and closed their eyes,
and
--and
--the story was ended.
The little boy lay
in his bed
and did not quite know whether he had been dreaming
or listening
to a story.
The teapot stood
on the table,
but no elder bush grew out
of it,
and the old man
who had really told the tale was
on the threshold
and just going out
at the door.
“How beautiful it was,”
said the little boy.
“Mother,
I have been
to warm countries.”
“I
can quite believe it,”
said his mother.
“When any one drinks two full cups
of elder-flower tea,
he may well get
into warm countries”;
and
then she covered him up,
that he
should not take cold.
“You have slept well
while I have been disputing
with the old man as
to whether it was a real story
or a fairy legend.”
“And
where is the Elder-tree Mother?”
asked the boy.
“She is
in the teapot,”
said the mother,
“and
there she may stay.”
[Illustration]
THE SNOW QUEEN
STORY THE FIRST
WHICH DESCRIBES A LOOKING-GLASS
and ITS BROKEN FRAGMENTS
YOU must attend
to the beginning
of this story,
for
when we get
to the end we shall know more
than we now do
about a very wicked hobgoblin;
he was one
of the most mischievous
of all sprites,
for he was a real demon.
One day
when he was
in a merry mood he made a looking-glass
which had the power
of making everything good
or beautiful
that was reflected
in it shrink almost
to nothing,
while everything
that was worthless
and bad was magnified so as
to look ten times worse
than it really was.
The most lovely landscapes appeared
like boiled spinach,
and all the people became hideous
and looked
as
if they stood
on their heads
and had no bodies.
Their countenances were so distorted
that no one
could recognize them,
and
even one freckle
on the face appeared
to spread
over the whole
of the nose
and mouth.
The demon said this was very amusing.
When a good
or holy thought passed
through the mind
of any one a wrinkle was seen
in the mirror,
and then
how the demon laughed
at his cunning invention.
All
who went
to the demon’s school
--for he kept a school
--talked everywhere
of the wonders they had seen,
and declared
that people
could now,
for the first time,
see
what the world
and its inhabitants were really like.
They carried the glass
about everywhere,
till
at last
there was not a land nor a people
who had not been looked
at
through this distorted mirror.
They wanted even
to fly
with it up
to heaven
to see the angels,
but the higher they flew the more slippery the glass became,
and they
could scarcely hold it.
At last it slipped
from their hands,
fell
to the earth,
and was broken
into millions
of pieces.
But now the looking-glass caused more unhappiness
than ever,
for some
of the fragments were not so large
as a grain
of sand,
and they flew
about the world
into every country.
And
when one
of these tiny atoms flew
into a person’s eye it stuck there,
unknown
to himself,
and from
that moment he viewed everything the wrong way,
and
could see only the worst side
of
what he looked at,
for
even the smallest fragment retained the same power
which had belonged
to the whole mirror.
Some few persons
even got a splinter
of the looking-glass
in their hearts,
and this was terrible,
for their hearts became cold
and hard
like a lump
of ice.
A few
of the pieces were so large
that they
could be used
as windowpanes;
it
would have been a sad thing indeed
to look
at our friends
through them.
Other pieces were made
into spectacles,
and this was dreadful,
for those
who wore them
could see nothing either rightly
or justly.
At all this the wicked demon laughed
till his sides shook,
to see the mischief he had done.
There are still a number
of these little fragments
of glass floating about
in the air,
and now you shall hear
what happened
with one
of them.
SECOND STORY
A LITTLE BOY
and A LITTLE GIRL
In a large town full
of houses
and people
there is not room
for everybody
to have
even a little garden.
Most people are obliged
to content themselves
with a few flowers
in flowerpots.
In one
of these large towns lived two poor children
who had a garden somewhat larger
and better
than a few flowerpots.
They were not brother
and sister,
but they loved each other almost
as much
as
if they had been.
Their parents lived opposite each other
in two garrets
where the roofs
of neighboring houses nearly joined each other,
and the water pipe ran
between them.
In each roof was a little window,
so
that any one
could step
across the gutter
from one window
to the other.
The parents
of each
of these children had a large wooden box
in
which they cultivated kitchen vegetables
for their own use,
and
in each box was a little rosebush
which grew luxuriantly.
After a
while the parents decided
to place these two boxes
across the water pipe,
so
that they reached
from one window
to the other
and looked
like two banks
of flowers.
Sweet peas drooped
over the boxes,
and the rosebushes shot forth long branches,
which were trained
about the windows
and clustered together almost
like a triumphal arch
of leaves
and flowers.
The boxes were very high,
and the children knew they must not climb upon them without permission;
but they often had leave
to step out
and sit upon their little stools
under the rosebushes
or play quietly together.
In winter all this pleasure came
to an end,
for the windows were sometimes quite frozen over.
But they
would warm copper pennies
on the stove
and hold the warm pennies
against the frozen pane;
then
there
would soon be a little round hole through
which they
could peep,
and the soft,
bright eyes
of the little boy
and girl
would sparkle
through the hole
at each window
as they looked
at each other.
Their names were Kay
and Gerda.
In summer they
could be together
with one jump
from the window,
but
in winter they had
to go up
and down the long staircase
and out
through the snow
before they
could meet.
“See!
there are the white bees swarming,”
said Kay’s old grandmother one day
when it was snowing.
“Have they a queen bee?”
asked the little boy,
for he knew
that the real bees always had a queen.
“To be sure they have,”
said the grandmother.
“She is flying there
where the swarm is thickest.
She is the largest
of them all
and never remains
on the earth,
but flies up
to the dark clouds.
Often
at midnight she flies
through the streets
of the town
and breathes
with her frosty breath upon the windows;
then the ice freezes
on the panes
into wonderful forms
that look
like flowers
and castles.”
“Yes,
I have seen them,”
said both the children;
and they knew it must be true.
“Can the Snow Queen come
in here?”
asked the little girl.
“Only let her come,”
said the boy.
“I’ll put her
on the warm stove,
and
then she’ll melt.”
The grandmother smoothed his hair
and told him more stories.
That same evening
when little Kay was
at home,
half undressed,
he climbed upon a chair
by the window
and peeped out
through the little round hole.
A few flakes
of snow were falling,
and one
of them,
rather larger
than the rest,
alighted
on the edge
of one
of the flower boxes.
Strange
to say,
this snowflake grew larger
and larger till
at last it took the form
of a woman dressed
in garments
of white gauze,
which looked
like millions
of starry snowflakes linked together.
She was fair
and beautiful,
but made
of ice
--glittering,
dazzling ice.
Still,
she was alive,
and her eyes sparkled
like bright stars,
though
there was neither peace nor rest
in them.
She nodded
toward the window
and waved her hand.
The little boy was frightened
and sprang
from the chair,
and
at the same moment it seemed
as
if a large bird flew
by the window.
On the following day
there was a clear frost,
and very soon came the spring.
The sun shone;
the young green leaves burst forth;
the swallows built their nests;
windows were opened,
and the children sat once more
in the garden
on the roof,
high
above all the other rooms.
[Illustration:
The children sat once more
in the garden
on the roof ....]
How beautifully the roses blossomed this summer!
The little girl had learned a hymn
in
which roses were spoken of.
She thought
of their own roses,
and she sang the hymn
to the little boy,
and he sang,
too:
“Roses bloom
and fade away;
The Christ-child shall abide alway.
Blessed are we his face
to see
and ever little children be.”
Then the little ones held each other
by the hand,
and kissed the roses,
and looked
at the bright sunshine,
and spoke
to it
as
if the Christ-child were really there.
Those were glorious summer days.
How beautiful
and fresh it was out
among the rosebushes,
which seemed
as
if they
would never leave off blooming.
One day Kay
and Gerda sat looking
at a book
of pictures
of animals
and birds.
Just then,
as the clock
in the church tower struck twelve,
Kay said,
“Oh,
something has struck my heart!”
and soon after,
“There is certainly something
in my eye.”
The little girl put her arm round his neck
and looked
into his eye,
but she
could see nothing.
“I believe it is gone,”
he said.
But it was not gone;
it was one
of those bits
of the looking-glass,
--that magic mirror
of
which we have spoken,
--the ugly glass
which made everything great
and good appear small
and ugly,
while all
that was wicked
and bad became more visible,
and every little fault
could be plainly seen.
Poor little Kay had also received a small splinter
in his heart,
which very quickly turned
to a lump
of ice.
He felt no more pain,
but the glass was
there still.
“Why do you cry?”
said he
at last.
“It makes you look ugly.
There is nothing the matter
with me now.
Oh,
fie!”
he cried suddenly;
“that rose is worm-eaten,
and this one is quite crooked.
After all,
they are ugly roses,
just
like the box
in
which they stand.”
And
then he kicked the boxes
with his foot
and pulled off the two roses.
“Why,
Kay,
what are you doing?”
cried the little girl;
and then
when he saw
how grieved she was he tore off another rose
and jumped
through his own window,
away
from sweet little Gerda.
When afterward she brought out the picture book he said,
“It is only fit
for babies
in long clothes,”
and
when grandmother told stories he
would interrupt her
with “but”;
or sometimes
when he
could manage it he
would get
behind her chair,
put
on a pair
of spectacles,
and imitate her very cleverly
to make the people laugh.
By and
by he began
to mimic the speech
and gait
of persons
in the street.
All
that was peculiar
or disagreeable
in a person he
would imitate directly,
and people said,
“That boy
will be very clever;
he has a remarkable genius.”
But it was the piece
of glass
in his eye
and the coldness
in his heart
that made him act
like this.
He would
even tease little Gerda,
who loved him
with all her heart.
His games too were quite different;
they were not so childlike.
One winter’s day,
when it snowed,
he brought out a burning glass,
then,
holding out the skirt
of his blue coat,
let the snowflakes fall upon it.
“Look
in this glass,
Gerda,”
said he,
and she saw
how every flake
of snow was magnified
and looked
like a beautiful flower
or a glittering star.
“Is it not clever,”
said Kay,
“and much more interesting
than looking
at real flowers?
There is not a single fault
in it.
The snowflakes are quite perfect
till they begin
to melt.”
Soon after,
Kay made his appearance
in large,
thick gloves
and
with his sledge
at his back.
He called upstairs
to Gerda,
“I’ve got leave
to go
into the great square,
where the other boys play
and ride.”
And away he went.
In the great square the boldest
among the boys
would often tie their sledges
to the wagons
of the country people
and so get a ride.
This was capital.
But
while they were all amusing themselves,
and Kay
with them,
a great sledge came by;
it was painted white,
and
in it sat some one wrapped
in a rough white fur
and wearing a white cap.
The sledge drove twice round the square,
and Kay fastened his own little sledge
to it,
so that
when it went away he went
with it.
It went faster
and faster right
through the next street,
and the person
who drove turned round
and nodded pleasantly
to Kay
as
if they were well acquainted
with each other;
but whenever Kay wished
to loosen his little sledge the driver turned
and nodded
as if
to signify
that he was
to stay,
so Kay sat still,
and they drove out
through the town gate.
Then the snow began
to fall so heavily
that the little boy
could not see a hand’s breadth
before him,
but still they drove on.
He suddenly loosened the cord so
that the large sledge might go
on without him,
but it was
of no use;
his little carriage held fast,
and away they went
like the wind.
Then he called out loudly,
but nobody heard him,
while the snow beat upon him,
and the sledge flew onward.
Every now
and
then it gave a jump,
as
if they were going
over hedges
and ditches.
The boy was frightened
and tried
to say a prayer,
but he
could remember nothing
but the multiplication table.
The snowflakes became larger
and larger,
till they appeared
like great white birds.
All
at once they sprang
on one side,
the great sledge stopped,
and the person
who had driven it rose up.
The fur
and the cap,
which were made entirely
of snow,
fell off,
and he saw a lady,
tall
and white;
it was the Snow Queen.
“We have driven well,”
said she;
“but
why do you tremble so?
Here,
creep
into my warm fur.”
Then she seated him beside her
in the sledge,
and
as she wrapped the fur
about him,
he felt
as
if he were sinking
into a snowdrift.
“Are you still cold?”
she asked,
as she kissed him
on the forehead.
The kiss was colder
than ice;
it went quite through
to his heart,
which was
almost a lump
of ice already.
He felt
as
if he were going
to die,
but only
for a moment
--he soon seemed quite well
and did not notice the cold all
around him.
“My sledge!
Don’t forget my sledge,”
was his first thought,
and
then he looked
and saw
that it was bound fast
to one
of the white birds
which flew
behind him.
The Snow Queen kissed little Kay again,
and
by this time he had forgotten little Gerda,
his grandmother,
and all
at home.
“Now you must have no more kisses,”
she said,
“or I
should kiss you
to death.”
Kay looked
at her.
She was so beautiful,
he
could not imagine a more lovely face;
she did not now seem
to be made
of ice
as
when he had seen her
through his window
and she had nodded
to him.
In his eyes she was perfect,
and he did not feel
at all afraid.
He told her he
could do mental arithmetic
as far
as fractions,
and
that he knew the number
of square miles
and the number
of inhabitants
in the country.
She smiled,
and it occurred
to him
that she thought he did not yet know so very much.
He looked
around the vast expanse
as she flew higher
and higher
with him upon a black cloud,
while the storm blew
and howled
as
if it were singing songs
of olden time.
They flew
over woods
and lakes,
over sea
and land;
below them roared the wild wind;
wolves howled,
and the snow crackled;
over them flew the black,
screaming crows,
and
above all shone the moon,
clear
and bright
--and so Kay passed
through the long,
long winter’s night,
and
by day he slept
at the feet
of the Snow Queen.
THIRD STORY
THE ENCHANTED FLOWER GARDEN
But
how fared little Gerda
in Kay’s absence?
What had become
of him no one knew,
nor
could any one give the slightest information,
excepting the boys,
who said
that he had tied his sledge
to another very large one,
which had driven
through the street
and out
at the town gate.
No one knew
where it went.
Many tears were shed
for him,
and little Gerda wept bitterly
for a long time.
She said she knew he must be dead,
that he was drowned
in the river
which flowed close
by the school.
The long winter days were very dreary.
But
at last spring came
with warm sunshine.
“Kay is dead
and gone,”
said little Gerda.
“I
don’t believe it,”
said the sunshine.
“He is dead
and gone,”
she said
to the sparrows.
“We
don’t believe it,”
they replied,
and
at last little Gerda began
to doubt it herself.
“I
will put
on my new red shoes,”
she said one morning,
“those
that Kay has never seen,
and
then I
will go down
to the river
and ask
for him.”
It was quite early
when she kissed her old grandmother,
who was still asleep;
then she put
on her red shoes
and went,
quite alone,
out
of the town gate,
toward the river.
“Is it true
that you have taken my little playmate away
from me?”
she said
to the river.
“I
will give you my red shoes
if you
will give him back
to me.”
And it seemed
as
if the waves nodded
to her
in a strange manner.
Then she took off her red shoes,
which she liked better
than anything else,
and threw them both
into the river,
but they fell near the bank,
and the little waves carried them back
to land just
as
if the river
would not take
from her
what she loved best,
because it
could not give her back little Kay.
But she thought the shoes had not been thrown out far enough.
Then she crept
into a boat
that lay
among the reeds,
and threw the shoes again
from the farther end
of the boat
into the water;
but it was not fastened,
and her movement sent it gliding away
from the land.
When she saw this she hastened
to reach the end
of the boat,
but
before she
could do so it was more
than a yard
from the bank
and drifting away faster
than ever.
Little Gerda was very much frightened.
She began
to cry,
but no one heard her except the sparrows,
and they
could not carry her
to land,
but they flew along
by the shore
and sang
as if
to comfort her:
“Here we are!
Here we are!”
The boat floated
with the stream,
and little Gerda sat quite still
with only her stockings
on her feet;
the red shoes floated after her,
but she
could not reach them
because the boat kept so much
in advance.
[Illustration:
There came a very old woman out
of the house]
The banks
on either side
of the river were very pretty.
There were beautiful flowers,
old trees,
sloping fields
in
which cows
and sheep were grazing,
but not a human being
to be seen.
“Perhaps the river
will carry me
to little Kay,”
thought Gerda,
and
then she became more cheerful,
and raised her head
and looked
at the beautiful green banks;
and so the boat sailed
on
for hours.
At length she came
to a large cherry orchard,
in
which stood a small house
with strange red
and blue windows.
It had also a thatched roof,
and outside were two wooden soldiers
that presented arms
to her
as she sailed past.
Gerda called out
to them,
for she thought they were alive;
but
of course they did not answer,
and
as the boat drifted nearer
to the shore she saw
what they really were.
Then Gerda called still louder,
and
there came a very old woman out
of the house,
leaning
on a crutch.
She wore a large hat
to shade her
from the sun,
and
on it were painted all sorts
of pretty flowers.
“You poor little child,”
said the old woman,
“how did you manage
to come this long,
long distance
into the wide world
on such a rapid,
rolling stream?”
And
then the old woman walked
into the water,
seized the boat
with her crutch,
drew it
to land,
and lifted little Gerda out.
And Gerda was glad
to feel herself again
on dry ground,
although she was rather afraid
of the strange old woman.
“Come
and tell me
who you are,”
said she,
“and
how you came here.”
Then Gerda told her everything,
while the old woman shook her head
and said,
“Hem-hem”;
and
when Gerda had finished she asked the old woman
if she had not seen little Kay.
She told her he had not passed
that way,
but he very likely
would come.
She told Gerda not
to be sorrowful,
but
to taste the cherries
and look
at the flowers;
they were better
than any picture book,
for each
of them
could tell a story.
Then she took Gerda
by the hand,
and led her
into the little house,
and closed the door.
The windows were very high,
and
as the panes were red,
blue,
and yellow,
the daylight shone
through them
in all sorts
of singular colors.
On the table stood some beautiful cherries,
and Gerda had permission
to eat
as many
as she would.
While she was eating them the old woman combed out her long flaxen ringlets
with a golden comb,
and the glossy curls hung down
on each side
of the little round,
pleasant face,
which looked fresh
and blooming
as a rose.
“I have long been wishing
for a dear little maiden
like you,”
said the old woman,
“and now you must stay
with me
and see
how happily we shall live together.”
And
while she went
on combing little Gerda’s hair the child thought less
and less
about her adopted brother Kay,
for the old woman was an enchantress,
although she was not a wicked witch;
she conjured only a little
for her own amusement,
and,
now,
because she wanted
to keep Gerda.
Therefore she went
into the garden
and stretched out her crutch
toward all the rose trees,
beautiful though they were,
and they immediately sank
into the dark earth,
so
that no one
could tell
where they had once stood.
The old woman was afraid that
if little Gerda saw roses,
she
would think
of those
at home
and
then remember little Kay
and run away.
Then she took Gerda
into the flower garden.
How fragrant
and beautiful it was!
Every flower
that
could be thought of,
for every season
of the year,
was here
in full bloom;
no picture book
could have more beautiful colors.
Gerda jumped
for joy,
and played
till the sun went down
behind the tall cherry trees;
then she slept
in an elegant bed,
with red silk pillows embroidered
with colored violets,
and she dreamed
as pleasantly
as a queen
on her wedding day.
The next day,
and
for many days after,
Gerda played
with the flowers
in the warm sunshine.
She knew every flower,
and yet,
although
there were so many
of them,
it seemed
as
if one were missing,
but
what it was she
could not tell.
One day,
however,
as she sat looking
at the old woman’s hat
with the painted flowers
on it,
she saw
that the prettiest
of them all was a rose.
The old woman had forgotten
to take it
from her hat
when she made all the roses sink
into the earth.
But it is difficult
to keep the thoughts together
in everything,
and one little mistake upsets all our arrangements.
“What!
are
there no roses here?”
cried Gerda,
and she ran out
into the garden
and examined all the beds,
and searched
and searched.
There was not one
to be found.
Then she sat down
and wept,
and her tears fell just
on the place
where one
of the rose trees had sunk down.
The warm tears moistened the earth,
and the rose tree sprouted up
at once,
as blooming
as
when it had sunk;
and Gerda embraced it,
and kissed the roses,
and thought
of the beautiful roses
at home,
and,
with them,
of little Kay.
“Oh,
how I have been detained!”
said the little maiden.
“I wanted
to seek
for little Kay.
Do you know
where he is?”
she asked the roses;
“do you think he is dead?”
And the roses answered:
“No,
he is not dead.
We have been
in the ground,
where all the dead lie,
but Kay is not there.”
“Thank you,”
said little Gerda,
and
then she went
to the other flowers
and looked
into their little cups
and asked,
“Do you know
where little Kay is?”
But each flower
as it stood
in the sunshine dreamed only
of its own little fairy tale
or history.
Not one knew anything
of Kay.
Gerda heard many stories
from the flowers,
as she asked them one after another
about him.
And
then she ran
to the other end
of the garden.
The door was fastened,
but she pressed
against the rusty latch,
and it gave way.
The door sprang open,
and little Gerda ran out
with bare feet
into the wide world.
She looked back three times,
but no one seemed
to be following her.
At last she
could run no longer,
so she sat down
to rest
on a great stone,
and
when she looked
around she saw
that the summer was over
and autumn very far advanced.
She had known nothing
of this
in the beautiful garden
where the sun shone
and the flowers grew all the year round.
“Oh,
how I have wasted my time!”
said little Gerda.
“It is autumn;
I must not rest any longer,”
and she rose
to go on.
But her little feet were wounded
and sore,
and everything
around her looked cold
and bleak.
The long willow leaves were quite yellow,
the dewdrops fell
like water,
leaf after leaf dropped
from the trees;
the sloe thorn alone still bore fruit,
but the sloes were sour
and set the teeth
on edge.
Oh,
how dark
and weary the whole world appeared!
FOURTH STORY
THE PRINCE
and PRINCESS
Gerda was obliged
to rest again,
and just opposite the place
where she sat she saw a great crow come hopping
toward her
across the snow.
He stood looking
at her
for some time,
and
then he wagged his head
and said,
“Caw,
caw,
good day,
good day.”
He pronounced the words
as plainly
as he could,
because he meant
to be kind
to the little girl,
and
then he asked her
where she was going all alone
in the wide world.
The word “alone” Gerda understood very well
and felt
how much it expressed.
So she told the crow the whole story
of her life
and adventures
and asked him
if he had seen little Kay.
The crow nodded his head very gravely
and said,
“Perhaps I have
--it may be.”
“No!
Do you really think you have?”
cried little Gerda,
and she kissed the crow
and hugged him almost
to death,
with joy.
“Gently,
gently,”
said the crow.
“I believe I know.
I think it may be little Kay;
but he has certainly forgotten you
by this time,
for the princess.”
“Does he live
with a princess?”
asked Gerda.
“Yes,
listen,”
replied the crow;
“but it is so difficult
to speak your language.
If you understand the crows’ language,
then I
can explain it better.
Do you?”
“No,
I have never learned it,”
said Gerda,
“but my grandmother understands it,
and used
to speak it
to me.
I wish I had learned it.”
“It does not matter,”
answered the crow.
“I
will explain
as well
as I can,
although it
will be very badly done”;
and he told her
what he had heard.
“In this kingdom
where we now are,”
said he,
“there lives a princess
who is so wonderfully clever
that she has read all the newspapers
in the world
--and forgotten them too,
although she is so clever.
“A short time ago,
as she was sitting
on her throne,
which people say is not such an agreeable seat
as is often supposed,
she began
to sing a song
which commences
with these words:
Why
should I not be married?
‘Why not,
indeed?’
said she,
and so she determined
to marry
if she
could find a husband
who knew what
to say
when he was spoken to,
and not one
who
could only look grand,
for
that was so tiresome.
She assembled all her court ladies
at the beat
of the drum,
and
when they heard
of her intentions they were very much pleased.
“‘We are so glad
to hear
of it,’
said they.
‘We were talking
about it ourselves the other day.’
“You may believe
that every word I tell you is true,”
said the crow,
“for I have a tame sweetheart
who hops freely
about the palace,
and she told me all this.”
Of course his sweetheart was a crow,
for “birds
of a feather flock together,”
and one crow always chooses another crow.
“Newspapers were published immediately
with a border
of hearts
and the initials
of the princess
among them.
They gave notice
that every young man
who was handsome was free
to visit the castle
and speak
with the princess,
and those
who
could reply loud enough
to be heard
when spoken
to were
to make themselves quite
at home
at the palace,
and the one
who spoke best
would be chosen
as a husband
for the princess.
“Yes,
yes,
you may believe me.
It is all
as true
as I sit here,”
said the crow.
“The people came
in crowds.
There was a great deal
of crushing
and running about,
but no one succeeded either
on the first
or the second day.
They
could all speak very well
while they were outside
in the streets,
but
when they entered the palace gates
and saw the guards
in silver uniforms
and the footmen
in their golden livery
on the staircase
and the great halls lighted up,
they became quite confused.
And
when they stood
before the throne
on
which the princess sat they
could do nothing
but repeat the last words she had said,
and she had no particular wish
to hear her own words
over again.
It was just
as
if they had all taken something
to make them sleepy
while they were
in the palace,
for they did not recover themselves nor speak
till they got back again
into the street.
There was a long procession
of them,
reaching
from the town gate
to the palace.
“I went myself
to see them,”
said the crow.
“They were hungry
and thirsty,
for
at the palace they did not
even get a glass
of water.
Some
of the wisest had taken a few slices
of bread
and butter
with them,
but they did not share it
with their neighbors;
they thought
if the others went
in
to the princess looking hungry,
there
would be a better chance
for themselves.”
“But Kay!
tell me
about little Kay!”
said Gerda.
“Was he
among the crowd?”
“Stop a bit;
we are just coming
to him.
It was
on the third day
that
there came marching cheerfully along
to the palace a little personage without horses
or carriage,
his eyes sparkling
like yours.
He had beautiful long hair,
but his clothes were very poor.”
“That was Kay,”
said Gerda,
joyfully.
“Oh,
then I have found him!”
and she clapped her hands.
“He had a little knapsack
on his back,”
added the crow.
“No,
it must have been his sledge,”
said Gerda,
“for he went away
with it.”
“It may have been so,”
said the crow;
“I did not look
at it very closely.
But I know
from my tame sweetheart
that he passed
through the palace gates,
saw the guards
in their silver uniform
and the servants
in their liveries
of gold
on the stairs,
but was not
in the least embarrassed.
“‘It must be very tiresome
to stand
on the stairs,’
he said.
‘I prefer
to go in.’
“The rooms were blazing
with light;
councilors
and ambassadors walked about
with bare feet,
carrying golden vessels;
it was enough
to make any one feel serious.
His boots creaked loudly
as he walked,
and yet he was not
at all uneasy.”
“It must be Kay,”
said Gerda;
“I know he had new boots on.
I heard them creak
in grandmother’s room.”
“They really did creak,”
said the crow,
“yet he went boldly up
to the princess herself,
who was sitting
on a pearl
as large
as a spinning wheel.
And all the ladies
of the court were present
with their maids
and all the cavaliers
with their servants,
and each
of the maids had another maid
to wait upon her,
and the cavaliers’ servants had their own servants
as well
as each a page.
They all stood
in circles round the princess,
and the nearer they stood
to the door the prouder they looked.
The servants’ pages,
who always wore slippers,
could
hardly be looked at,
they held themselves up so proudly
by the door.”
“It must be quite awful,”
said little Gerda;
“but did Kay win the princess?”
“If I had not been a crow,”
said he,
“I
would have married her myself,
although I am engaged.
He spoke
as well
as I do
when I speak the crows’ language.
I heard this
from my tame sweetheart.
He was quite free
and agreeable
and said he had not come
to woo the princess,
but
to hear her wisdom.
And he was
as pleased
with her
as she was
with him.”
“Oh,
certainly
that was Kay,”
said Gerda;
“he was so clever;
he
could work mental arithmetic
and fractions.
Oh,
will you take me
to the palace?”
“It is very easy
to ask that,”
replied the crow,
“but
how are we
to manage it?
However,
I
will speak
about it
to my tame sweetheart
and ask her advice,
for,
I must tell you,
it
will be very difficult
to gain permission
for a little girl
like you
to enter the palace.”
“Oh,
yes,
but I shall gain permission easily,”
said Gerda,
“for
when Kay hears
that I am here he
will come out
and fetch me
in immediately.”
“Wait
for me here
by the palings,”
said the crow,
wagging his head
as he flew away.
It was late
in the evening
before the crow returned.
“Caw,
caw!”
he said;
“she sends you greeting,
and here is a little roll
which she took
from the kitchen
for you.
There is plenty
of bread there,
and she thinks you must be hungry.
It is not possible
for you
to enter the palace
by the front entrance.
The guards
in silver uniform
and the servants
in gold livery
would not allow it.
But do not cry;
we
will manage
to get you in.
My sweetheart knows a little back staircase
that leads
to the sleeping apartments,
and she knows where
to find the key.”
Then they went
into the garden,
through the great avenue,
where the leaves were falling one after another,
and they
could see the lights
in the palace being put out
in the same manner.
And the crow led little Gerda
to a back door
which stood ajar.
Oh!
how her heart beat
with anxiety
and longing;
it was
as
if she were going
to do something wrong,
and yet she only wanted
to know
where little Kay was.
“It must be he,”
she thought,
“with those clear eyes
and
that long hair.”
She
could fancy she saw him smiling
at her
as he used
to
at home
when they sat
among the roses.
He
would certainly be glad
to see her,
and
to hear
what a long distance she had come
for his sake,
and
to know
how sorry they had all been
at home
because he did not come back.
Oh,
what joy
and yet
what fear she felt!
They were now
on the stairs,
and
in a small closet
at the top a lamp was burning.
In the middle
of the floor stood the tame crow,
turning her head
from side
to side
and gazing
at Gerda,
who curtsied
as her grandmother had taught her
to do.
“My betrothed has spoken so very highly
of you,
my little lady,”
said the tame crow.
“Your story is very touching.
If you
will take the lamp,
I
will walk
before you.
We
will go straight
along this way;
then we shall meet no one.”
“I feel
as
if somebody were
behind us,”
said Gerda,
as something rushed
by her
like a shadow
on the wall;
and
then it seemed
to her
that horses
with flying manes
and thin legs,
hunters,
ladies
and gentlemen
on horseback,
glided
by her
like shadows.
“They are only dreams,”
said the crow;
“they are coming
to carry the thoughts
of the great people out hunting.
All the better,
for
if their thoughts are out hunting,
we shall be able
to look
at them
in their beds more safely.
I hope that
when you rise
to honor
and favor you
will show a grateful heart.”
“You may be quite sure
of that,”
said the crow
from the forest.
They now came
into the first hall,
the walls
of
which were hung
with rose-colored satin embroidered
with artificial flowers.
Here the dreams again flitted
by them,
but so quickly
that Gerda
could not distinguish the royal persons.
Each hall appeared more splendid
than the last.
It was enough
to bewilder one.
At length they reached a bedroom.
The ceiling was
like a great palm tree,
with glass leaves
of the most costly crystal,
and
over the center
of the floor two beds,
each resembling a lily,
hung
from a stem
of gold.
One,
in
which the princess lay,
was white;
the other was red.
And
in this Gerda had
to seek
for little Kay.
She pushed one
of the red leaves aside
and saw a little brown neck.
Oh,
that must be Kay!
She called his name loudly
and held the lamp
over him.
The dreams rushed back
into the room
on horseback.
He woke
and turned his head round
--it was not little Kay!
The prince was only
like him;
still he was young
and pretty.
Out
of her white-lily bed peeped the princess,
and asked
what was the matter.
Little Gerda wept
and told her story,
and all
that the crows had done
to help her.
“You poor child,”
said the prince
and princess;
then they praised the crows,
and said they were not angry
with them
for
what they had done,
but
that it must not happen again,
and
that this time they
should be rewarded.
“Would you like
to have your freedom?”
asked the princess,
“or
would you prefer
to be raised
to the position
of court crows,
with all
that is left
in the kitchen
for yourselves?”
Then both the crows bowed
and begged
to have a fixed appointment;
for they thought
of their old age,
and it
would be so comfortable,
they said,
to feel
that they had made provision
for it.
[Illustration:
The prince
and princess themselves helped her
into the coach.]
And
then the prince got out
of his bed
and gave it up
to Gerda
--he
could not do more
--and she lay down.
She folded her little hands
and thought,
“How good everybody is
to me,
both men
and animals”;
then she closed her eyes
and fell
into a sweet sleep.
All the dreams came flying back again
to her,
looking
like angels now,
and one
of them drew a little sledge,
on
which sat Kay,
who nodded
to her.
But all this was only a dream.
It vanished
as soon
as she awoke.
The following day she was dressed
from head
to foot
in silk
and velvet
and invited
to stay
at the palace
for a few days
and enjoy herself;
but she only begged
for a pair
of boots
and a little carriage
and a horse
to draw it,
so
that she might go out
into the wide world
to seek
for Kay.
And she obtained not only boots
but a muff,
and was neatly dressed;
and
when she was ready
to go,
there
at the door she found a coach made
of pure gold
with the coat
of arms
of the prince
and princess shining upon it
like a star,
and the coachman,
footman,
and outriders all wearing golden crowns upon their heads.
The prince
and princess themselves helped her
into the coach
and wished her success.
The forest crow,
who was now married,
accompanied her
for the first three miles;
he sat
by Gerda’s side,
as he
could not bear riding backwards.
The tame crow stood
in the doorway flapping her wings.
She
could not go
with them,
because she had been suffering
from headache ever
since the new appointment,
no doubt
from overeating.
The coach was well stored
with sweet cakes,
and
under the seat were fruit
and gingerbread nuts.
“Farewell,
farewell,”
cried the prince
and princess,
and little Gerda wept,
and the crow wept;
and then,
after a few miles,
the crow also said farewell,
and this parting was
even more sad.
However he flew
to a tree
and stood flapping his black wings
as long
as he
could see the coach,
which glittered
like a sunbeam.
FIFTH STORY
THE LITTLE ROBBER GIRL
The coach drove
on
through a thick forest,
where it lighted up the way
like a torch
and dazzled the eyes
of some robbers,
who
could not bear
to let it pass them unmolested.
“It is gold!
it is gold!”
cried they,
rushing forward
and seizing the horses.
Then they struck dead the little jockeys,
the coachman,
and the footman,
and pulled little Gerda out
of the carriage.
“She is plump
and pretty.
She has been fed
with the kernels
of nuts,”
said the old robber woman,
who had a long beard,
and eyebrows
that hung
over her eyes.
“She is
as good
as a fatted lamb;
how nice she
will taste!”
and
as she said this she drew forth a shining knife,
that glittered horribly.
“Oh!”
screamed the old woman
at the same moment,
for her own daughter,
who held her back,
had bitten her
in the ear.
“You naughty girl,”
said the mother,
and now she had not time
to kill Gerda.
“She shall play
with me,”
said the little robber girl.
“She shall give me her muff
and her pretty dress,
and sleep
with me
in my bed.”
And
then she bit her mother again,
and all the robbers laughed.
“I
will have a ride
in the coach,”
said the little robber girl,
and she
would have her own way,
for she was self-willed
and obstinate.
She
and Gerda seated themselves
in the coach
and drove away
over stumps
and stones,
into the depths
of the forest.
The little robber girl was
about the same size
as Gerda,
but stronger;
she had broader shoulders
and a darker skin;
her eyes were quite black,
and she had a mournful look.
She clasped little Gerda round the waist
and said:
“They shall not kill you
as long
as you
don’t make me vexed
with you.
I suppose you are a princess.”
“No,”
said Gerda;
and
then she told her all her history and
how fond she was
of little Kay.
The robber girl looked earnestly
at her,
nodded her head slightly,
and said,
“They shan’t kill you even
if I do get angry
with you,
for I
will do it myself.”
And
then she wiped Gerda’s eyes
and put her own hands
into the beautiful muff,
which was so soft
and warm.
The coach stopped
in the courtyard
of a robber’s castle,
the walls
of
which were full
of cracks
from top
to bottom.
Ravens
and crows flew
in
and out
of the holes
and crevices,
while great bulldogs,
each
of
which looked
as
if it
could swallow a man,
were jumping about;
but they were not allowed
to bark.
In the large old smoky hall a bright fire was burning
on the stone floor.
There was no chimney,
so the smoke went up
to the ceiling
and found a way out
for itself.
Soup was boiling
in a large cauldron,
and hares
and rabbits were roasting
on the spit.
“You shall sleep
with me
and all my little animals to-night,”
said the robber girl after they had had something
to eat
and drink.
So she took Gerda
to a corner
of the hall
where some straw
and carpets were laid down.
Above them,
on laths
and perches,
were more
than a hundred pigeons
that all seemed
to be asleep,
although they moved slightly
when the two little girls came near them.
“These all belong
to me,”
said the robber girl,
and she seized the nearest
to her,
held it
by the feet,
and shook it
till it flapped its wings.
“Kiss it,”
cried she,
flapping it
in Gerda’s face.
“There sit the wood pigeons,”
continued she,
pointing
to a number
of laths
and a cage
which had been fixed
into the walls,
near one
of the openings.
“Both rascals
would fly away directly,
if they were not closely locked up.
And here is my old sweetheart
‘Ba,’”
and she dragged out a reindeer
by the horn;
he wore a bright copper ring round his neck
and was tethered
to the spot.
“We are obliged
to hold him tight too,
else he
would run away
from us also.
I tickle his neck every evening
with my sharp knife,
which frightens him very much.”
And the robber girl drew a long knife
from a chink
in the wall
and let it slide gently
over the reindeer’s neck.
The poor animal began
to kick,
and the little robber girl laughed
and pulled down Gerda
into bed
with her.
“Will you have
that knife
with you
while you are asleep?”
asked Gerda,
looking
at it
in great fright.
“I always sleep
with the knife
by me,”
said the robber girl.
“No one knows
what may happen.
But now tell me again all
about little Kay,
and
why you went out
into the world.”
Then Gerda repeated her story
over again,
while the wood pigeons
in the cage
over her cooed,
and the other pigeons slept.
The little robber girl put one arm
across Gerda’s neck,
and held the knife
in the other,
and was soon fast asleep
and snoring.
But Gerda
could not close her eyes
at all;
she knew not whether she was
to live or
to die.
The robbers sat round the fire,
singing
and drinking.
It was a terrible sight
for a little girl
to witness.
Then the wood pigeons said:
“Coo,
coo,
we have seen little Kay.
A white fowl carried his sledge,
and he sat
in the carriage
of the Snow Queen,
which drove
through the wood
while we were lying
in our nest.
She blew upon us,
and all the young ones died,
excepting us two.
Coo,
coo.”
“What are you saying up there?”
cried Gerda.
“Where was the Snow Queen going?
Do you know anything
about it?”
“She was most likely traveling
to Lapland,
where
there is always snow
and ice.
Ask the reindeer
that is fastened up there
with a rope.”
“Yes,
there is always snow
and ice,”
said the reindeer,
“and it is a glorious place;
you
can leap
and run
about freely
on the sparkling icy plains.
The Snow Queen has her summer tent there,
but her strong castle is
at the North Pole,
on an island called Spitzbergen.”
“O Kay,
little Kay!”
sighed Gerda.
“Lie still,”
said the robber girl,
“or you shall feel my knife.”
In the morning Gerda told her all
that the wood pigeons had said,
and the little robber girl looked quite serious,
and nodded her head
and said:
“That is all talk,
that is all talk.
Do you know
where Lapland is?”
she asked the reindeer.
“Who
should know better
than I do?”
said the animal,
while his eyes sparkled.
“I was born
and brought up there
and used
to run
about the snow-covered plains.”
“Now listen,”
said the robber girl;
“all our men are gone away;
only mother is here,
and here she
will stay;
but
at noon she always drinks out
of a great bottle,
and afterwards sleeps
for a little while;
and
then I’ll do something
for you.”
She jumped out
of bed,
clasped her mother round the neck,
and pulled her
by the beard,
crying,
“My own little nanny goat,
good morning!”
And her mother pinched her nose
till it was quite red;
yet she did it all
for love.
When the mother had gone
to sleep the little robber maiden went
to the reindeer
and said:
“I should
like very much
to tickle your neck a few times more
with my knife,
for it makes you look so funny,
but never mind
--I
will untie your cord
and set you free,
so
that you may run away
to Lapland;
but you must make good use
of your legs
and carry this little maiden
to the castle
of the Snow Queen,
where her playfellow is.
You have heard
what she told me,
for she spoke loud enough,
and you were listening.”
The reindeer jumped
for joy,
and the little robber girl lifted Gerda
on his back
and had the forethought
to tie her
on
and even
to give her her own little cushion
to sit upon.
“Here are your fur boots
for you,”
said she,
“for it
will be very cold;
but I must keep the muff,
it is so pretty.
However,
you shall not be frozen
for the want
of it;
here are my mother’s large warm mittens;
they
will reach up
to your elbows.
Let me put them on.
There,
now your hands look just
like my mother’s.”
But Gerda wept
for joy.
“I
don’t like
to see you fret,”
said the little robber girl.
“You ought
to look quite happy now.
And here are two loaves
and a ham,
so
that you need not starve.”
These were fastened upon the reindeer,
and
then the little robber maiden opened the door,
coaxed
in all the great dogs,
cut the string
with
which the reindeer was fastened,
with her sharp knife,
and said,
“Now run,
but mind you take good care
of the little girl.”
And Gerda stretched out her hand,
with the great mitten
on it,
toward the little robber girl
and said “Farewell,”
and away flew the reindeer
over stumps
and stones,
through the great forest,
over marshes
and plains,
as quickly
as he could.
The wolves howled
and the ravens screamed,
while up
in the sky quivered red lights
like flames
of fire.
“There are my old northern lights,”
said the reindeer;
“see
how they flash!”
And he ran
on day
and night still faster
and faster,
but the loaves
and the ham were all eaten
by the time they reached Lapland.
SIXTH STORY
THE LAPLAND WOMAN
and THE FINLAND WOMAN
They stopped
at a little hut;
it was very mean looking.
The roof sloped nearly down
to the ground,
and the door was so low
that the family had
to creep
in
on their hands
and knees
when they went
in
and out.
There was no one
at home
but an old Lapland woman
who was dressing fish
by the light
of a train-oil lamp.
The reindeer told her all
about Gerda’s story after having first told his own,
which seemed
to him the most important.
But Gerda was so pinched
with the cold
that she
could not speak.
“Oh,
you poor things,”
said the Lapland woman,
“you have a long way
to go yet.
You must travel more
than a hundred miles farther,
to Finland.
The Snow Queen lives
there now,
and she burns Bengal lights every evening.
I
will write a few words
on a dried stockfish,
for I have no paper,
and you
can take it
from me
to the Finland woman
who lives there.
She
can give you better information
than I can.”
So
when Gerda was warmed
and had taken something
to eat
and drink,
the woman wrote a few words
on the dried fish
and told Gerda
to take great care
of it.
Then she tied her again
on the back
of the reindeer,
and he sprang high
into the air
and set off
at full speed.
Flash,
flash,
went the beautiful blue northern lights the whole night long.
And
at length they reached Finland
and knocked
at the chimney
of the Finland woman’s hut,
for it had no door
above the ground.
They crept in,
but it was so terribly hot inside
that the woman wore scarcely any clothes.
She was small
and very dirty looking.
She loosened little Gerda’s dress
and took off the fur boots
and the mittens,
or Gerda
would have been unable
to bear the heat;
and
then she placed a piece
of ice
on the reindeer’s head
and read
what was written
on the dried fish.
After she had read it three times she knew it
by heart,
so she popped the fish
into the soup saucepan,
as she knew it was good
to eat,
and she never wasted anything.
The reindeer told his own story first
and
then little Gerda’s,
and the Finlander twinkled
with her clever eyes,
but said nothing.
“You are so clever,”
said the reindeer;
“I know you
can tie all the winds
of the world
with a piece
of twine.
If a sailor unties one knot,
he has a fair wind;
when he unties the second,
it blows hard;
but
if the third
and fourth are loosened,
then comes a storm which
will root up whole forests.
Cannot you give this little maiden something which
will make her
as strong
as twelve men,
to overcome the Snow Queen?”
“The power
of twelve men!”
said the Finland woman.
“That
would be
of very little use.”
But she went
to a shelf
and took down
and unrolled a large skin
on
which were inscribed wonderful characters,
and she read
till the perspiration ran down
from her forehead.
But the reindeer begged so hard
for little Gerda,
and Gerda looked
at the Finland woman
with such tender,
tearful eyes,
that her own eyes began
to twinkle again.
She drew the reindeer
into a corner
and whispered
to him
while she laid a fresh piece
of ice
on his head:
“Little Kay is really
with the Snow Queen,
but he finds everything
there so much
to his taste
and his liking
that he believes it is the finest place
in the world;
and this is
because he has a piece
of broken glass
in his heart
and a little splinter
of glass
in his eye.
These must be taken out,
or he
will never be a human being again,
and the Snow Queen
will retain her power
over him.”
“But
can you not give little Gerda something
to help her
to conquer this power?”
“I
can give her no greater power
than she has already,”
said the woman;
“don’t you see
how strong
that is?
how men
and animals are obliged
to serve her,
and
how well she has gotten
through the world,
barefooted
as she is?
She cannot receive any power
from me greater
than she now has,
which consists
in her own purity
and innocence
of heart.
If she cannot herself obtain access
to the Snow Queen
and remove the glass fragments
from little Kay,
we
can do nothing
to help her.
Two miles
from here the Snow Queen’s garden begins.
You
can carry the little girl so far,
and set her down
by the large bush
which stands
in the snow,
covered
with red berries.
Do not stay gossiping,
but come back here
as quickly
as you can.”
Then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda upon the reindeer,
and he ran away
with her
as quickly
as he could.
“Oh,
I have forgotten my boots
and my mittens,”
cried little Gerda,
as soon
as she felt the cutting cold;
but the reindeer dared not stop,
so he ran
on
till he reached the bush
with the red berries.
Here he set Gerda down,
and he kissed her,
and the great bright tears trickled
over the animal’s cheeks;
then he left her
and ran back
as fast
as he could.
There stood poor Gerda,
without shoes,
without gloves,
in the midst
of cold,
dreary,
ice-bound Finland.
She ran forward
as quickly
as she could,
when a whole regiment
of snowflakes came round her.
They did not,
however,
fall
from the sky,
which was quite clear
and glittered
with the northern lights.
The snowflakes ran
along the ground,
and the nearer they came
to her the larger they appeared.
Gerda remembered
how large
and beautiful they looked
through the burning glass.
But these were really larger
and much more terrible,
for they were alive
and were the guards
of the Snow Queen
and had the strangest shapes.
Some were
like great porcupines,
others
like twisted serpents
with their heads stretching out,
and some few were
like little fat bears
with their hair bristled;
but all were dazzlingly white,
and all were living snowflakes.
Little Gerda repeated the Lord’s Prayer,
and the cold was so great
that she
could see her own breath come out
of her mouth
like steam,
as she uttered the words.
The steam appeared
to increase
as she continued her prayer,
till it took the shape
of little angels,
who grew larger the moment they touched the earth.
They all wore helmets
on their heads
and carried spears
and shields.
Their number continued
to increase more
and more,
and
by the time Gerda had finished her prayers a whole legion stood round her.
They thrust their spears
into the terrible snowflakes so
that they shivered
into a hundred pieces,
and little Gerda
could go forward
with courage
and safety.
The angels stroked her hands
and feet,
so
that she felt the cold less
as she hastened
on
to the Snow Queen’s castle.
But now we must see
what Kay is doing.
In truth he thought not
of little Gerda,
and least
of all
that she
could be standing
at the front
of the palace.
SEVENTH STORY
OF THE PALACE
of THE SNOW QUEEN
and
what HAPPENED THERE
at LAST
The walls
of the palace were formed
of drifted snow,
and the windows
and doors
of cutting winds.
There were more
than a hundred rooms
in it,
all
as
if they had been formed
of snow blown together.
The largest
of them extended
for several miles.
They were all lighted up
by the vivid light
of the aurora,
and were so large
and empty,
so icy cold
and glittering!
There were no amusements here;
not
even a little bear’s ball,
when the storm might have been the music,
and the bears
could have danced
on their hind legs
and shown their good manners.
There were no pleasant games
of snapdragon,
or touch,
nor
even a gossip
over the tea table
for the young-lady foxes.
Empty,
vast,
and cold were the halls
of the Snow Queen.
The flickering flames
of the northern lights
could be plainly seen,
whether they rose high
or low
in the heavens,
from every part
of the castle.
In the midst
of this empty,
endless hall
of snow was a frozen lake,
broken
on its surface
into a thousand forms;
each piece resembled another,
because each was
in itself perfect
as a work
of art,
and
in the center
of this lake sat the Snow Queen
when she was
at home.
She called the lake “The Mirror
of Reason,”
and said
that it was the best,
and indeed the only one,
in the world.
[Illustration:
In the center
of the lake sat the Snow Queen]
Little Kay was quite blue
with cold,
--indeed,
almost black,
--but he did not feel it;
for the Snow Queen had kissed away the icy shiverings,
and his heart was already a lump
of ice.
He dragged some sharp,
flat pieces
of ice
to
and fro
and placed them together
in all kinds
of positions,
as
if he wished
to make something out
of them
--just
as we try
to form various figures
with little tablets
of wood,
which we call a “Chinese puzzle.”
Kay’s figures were very artistic;
it was the icy game
of reason
at
which he played,
and
in his eyes the figures were very remarkable and
of the highest importance;
this opinion was owing
to the splinter
of glass still sticking
in his eye.
He composed many complete figures,
forming different words,
but
there was one word he never
could manage
to form,
although he wished it very much.
It was the word “Eternity.”
The Snow Queen had said
to him,
“When you
can find out this,
you shall be your own master,
and I
will give you the whole world
and a new pair
of skates.”
But he
could not accomplish it.
“Now I must hasten away
to warmer countries,”
said the Snow Queen.
“I
will go
and look
into the black craters
of the tops
of the burning mountains,
Etna
and Vesuvius,
as they are called.
I shall make them look white,
which
will be good
for them
and
for the lemons
and the grapes.”
And away flew the Snow Queen,
leaving little Kay quite alone
in the great hall
which was so many miles
in length.
He sat
and looked
at his pieces
of ice
and was thinking so deeply
and sat so still
that any one might have supposed he was frozen.
Just
at this moment it happened
that little Gerda came
through the great door
of the castle.
Cutting winds were raging
around her,
but she offered up a prayer,
and the winds sank down
as
if they were going
to sleep.
On she went
till she came
to the large,
empty hall
and caught sight
of Kay.
She knew him directly;
she flew
to him
and threw her arms
around his neck
and held him fast
while she exclaimed,
“Kay,
dear little Kay,
I have found you
at last!”
But he sat quite still,
stiff
and cold.
Then little Gerda wept hot tears,
which fell
on his breast,
and penetrated
into his heart,
and thawed the lump
of ice,
and washed away the little piece
of glass
which had stuck there.
Then he looked
at her,
and she sang:
“Roses bloom
and fade away,
But we the Christ-child see alway.”
Then Kay burst
into tears.
He wept so
that the splinter
of glass swam out
of his eye.
Then he recognized Gerda
and said joyfully,
“Gerda,
dear little Gerda,
where have you been all this time,
and
where have I been?”
And he looked all
around him
and said,
“How cold it is,
and
how large
and empty it all looks,”
and he clung
to Gerda,
and she laughed
and wept
for joy.
It was so pleasing
to see them
that
even the pieces
of ice danced,
and
when they were tired
and went
to lie down they formed themselves
into the letters
of the word
which the Snow Queen had said he must find out
before he
could be his own master
and have the whole world
and a pair
of new skates.
Gerda kissed his cheeks,
and they became blooming;
and she kissed his eyes
till they shone
like her own;
she kissed his hands
and feet,
and he became quite healthy
and cheerful.
The Snow Queen might come home now
when she pleased,
for
there stood his certainty
of freedom,
in the word she wanted,
written
in shining letters
of ice.
Then they took each other
by the hand
and went forth
from the great palace
of ice.
They spoke
of the grandmother and
of the roses
on the roof,
and
as they went
on the winds were
at rest,
and the sun burst forth.
When they arrived
at the bush
with red berries,
there stood the reindeer waiting
for them,
and he had brought another young reindeer
with him,
whose udders were full,
and the children drank her warm milk
and kissed her
on the mouth.
They carried Kay
and Gerda first
to the Finland woman,
where they warmed themselves thoroughly
in the hot room
and had directions
about their journey home.
Next they went
to the Lapland woman,
who had made some new clothes
for them
and put their sleighs
in order.
Both the reindeer ran
by their side
and followed them
as far
as the boundaries
of the country,
where the first green leaves were budding.
And here they took leave
of the two reindeer
and the Lapland woman,
and all said farewell.
Then birds began
to twitter,
and the forest too was full
of green young leaves,
and out
of it came a beautiful horse,
which Gerda remembered,
for it was one
which had drawn the golden coach.
A young girl was riding upon it,
with a shining red cap
on her head
and pistols
in her belt.
It was the little robber maiden,
who had got tired
of staying
at home;
she was going first
to the north,
and
if
that did not suit her,
she meant
to try some other part
of the world.
She knew Gerda directly,
and Gerda remembered her;
it was a joyful meeting.
“You are a fine fellow
to go gadding about
in this way,”
said she
to little Kay.
“I
should like
to know whether you deserve
that any one
should go
to the end
of the world
to find you.”
But Gerda patted her cheeks
and asked after the prince
and princess.
“They are gone
to foreign countries,”
said the robber girl.
“And the crow?”
asked Gerda.
“Oh,
the crow is dead,”
she replied.
“His tame sweetheart is now a widow
and wears a bit
of black worsted round her leg.
She mourns very pitifully,
but it is all stuff.
But now tell me
how you managed
to get him back.”
Then Gerda
and Kay told her all
about it.
“Snip,
snap,
snurre!
it’s all right
at last,”
said the robber girl.
She took both their hands
and promised that
if ever she
should pass
through the town,
she
would call
and pay them a visit.
And
then she rode away
into the wide world.
But Gerda
and Kay went hand
in hand
toward home,
and
as they advanced,
spring appeared more lovely
with its green verdure
and its beautiful flowers.
Very soon they recognized the large town
where they lived,
and the tall steeples
of the churches
in
which the sweet bells were ringing a merry peal,
as they entered it
and found their way
to their grandmother’s door.
They went upstairs
into the little room,
where all looked just
as it used
to do.
The old clock was going “Tick,
tick,”
and the hands pointed
to the time
of day,
but
as they passed
through the door
into the room they perceived
that they were both grown up
and become a man
and woman.
The roses out
on the roof were
in full bloom
and peeped
in
at the window,
and
there stood the little chairs
on
which they had sat
when children,
and Kay
and Gerda seated themselves each
on their own chair
and held each other
by the hand,
while the cold,
empty grandeur
of the Snow Queen’s palace vanished
from their memories
like a painful dream.
The grandmother sat
in God’s bright sunshine,
and she read aloud
from the Bible,
“Except ye become
as little children,
ye shall
in no wise enter
into the kingdom
of God.”
And Kay
and Gerda looked
into each other’s eyes
and all
at once understood the words
of the old song:
Roses bloom
and fade away,
But we the Christ-child see alway.
And they both sat there,
grown up,
yet children
at heart,
and it was summer
--warm,
beautiful summer.
[Illustration]
THE ROSES
and THE SPARROWS
IT really appeared
as
if something very important were going
on
by the duck pond,
but this was not the case.
A few minutes before,
all the ducks had been resting
on the water
or standing
on their heads
--for
that they
can do
--and
then they all swam
in a bustle
to the shore.
The traces
of their feet
could be seen
on the wet earth,
and far
and wide
could be heard their quacking.
The water,
so lately clear
and bright
as a mirror,
was
in quite a commotion.
But a moment before,
every tree
and bush near the old farmhouse
--and
even the house itself
with the holes
in the roof
and the swallows’ nests and,
above all,
the beautiful rosebush covered
with roses
--had been clearly reflected
in the water.
The rosebush
on the wall hung
over the water,
which resembled a picture only
that everything appeared upside down,
but
when the water was set
in motion all vanished,
and the picture disappeared.
Two feathers,
dropped
by the fluttering ducks,
floated
to
and fro
on the water.
All
at once they took a start
as
if the wind were coming,
but it did not come,
so they were obliged
to lie still,
as the water became again quiet and
at rest.
The roses
could once more behold their own reflections.
They were very beautiful,
but they knew it not,
for no one had told them.
The sun shone
between the delicate leaves,
and the sweet fragrance spread itself,
carrying happiness everywhere.
“How beautiful is our existence!”
said one
of the roses.
“I feel
as
if I
should like
to kiss the sun,
it is so bright
and warm.
I
should like
to kiss the roses too,
our images
in the water,
and the pretty birds there
in their nests.
There are some birds too
in the nest
above us;
they stretch out their heads
and cry
‘Tweet,
tweet,’
very faintly.
They have no feathers yet,
such
as their father
and mother have.
Both
above us
and below us we have good neighbors.
How beautiful is our life!”
The young birds above
and the young ones below were the same;
they were sparrows,
and their nest was reflected
in the water.
Their parents were sparrows also,
and they had taken possession
of an empty swallow’s nest
of the year before,
occupying it now
as
if it were their own.
“Are those ducks’ children
that are swimming about?
asked the young sparrows,
as they spied the feathers
on the water.
“If you must ask questions,
pray ask sensible ones,”
said the mother.
“Can you not see
that these are feathers,
the living stuff
for clothes,
which I wear
and
which you
will wear soon,
only ours are much finer?
I
should like,
however,
to have them up here
in the nest,
they
would make it so warm.
I am rather curious
to know
why the ducks were so alarmed just now.
It
could not be
from fear
of us,
certainly,
though I did say
‘tweet’ rather loudly.
The thick-headed roses really ought
to know,
but they are very ignorant;
they only look
at one another
and smell.
I am heartily tired
of such neighbors.”
“Listen
to the sweet little birds
above us,”
said the roses;
“they are trying
to sing.
They cannot manage it yet,
but it
will be done
in time.
What a pleasure it
will be,
and
how nice
to have such lively neighbors!”
Suddenly two horses came prancing along
to drink
at the water.
A peasant boy rode
on one
of them;
he had a broad-brimmed black hat on,
but had taken off the most
of his clothes,
that he might ride
into the deepest part
of the pond;
he whistled
like a bird,
and
while passing the rosebush he plucked a rose
and placed it
in his hat
and
then rode
on thinking himself very fine.
The other roses looked
at their sister
and asked each other
where she
could be going,
but they did not know.
“I
should like
for once
to go out
into the world,”
said one,
“although it is very lovely here
in our home
of green leaves.
The sun shines warmly
by day,
and
in the night we
can see
that heaven is more beautiful still,
as it sparkles
through the holes
in the sky.”
She meant the stars,
for she knew no better.
“We make the house very lively,”
said the mother sparrow,
“and people say
that a swallow’s nest brings luck,
therefore they are pleased
to see us;
but as
to our neighbors,
a rosebush
on the wall produces damp.
It
will most likely be removed,
and perhaps corn
will grow here instead
of it.
Roses are good
for nothing but
to be looked
at
and smelt,
or perhaps one may chance
to be stuck
in a hat.
I have heard
from my mother
that they fall off every year.
The farmer’s wife preserves them
by laying them
in salt,
and
then they receive a French name
which I neither
can nor
will pronounce;
then they are sprinkled
on the fire
to produce a pleasant smell.
Such you see is their life.
They are only formed
to please the eye
and the nose.
Now you know all
about them.”
As the evening approached,
the gnats played about
in the warm air
beneath the rosy clouds,
and the nightingale came
and sang
to the roses
that _the beautiful_ was
like sunshine
to the world,
and
that _the beautiful_ lives forever.
The roses thought
that the nightingale was singing
of herself,
which any one indeed
could easily suppose;
they never imagined
that her song
could refer
to them.
But it was a joy
to them,
and they wondered
to themselves whether all the little sparrows
in the nest
would become nightingales.
“We understood
that bird’s song very well,”
said the young sparrows,
“but one word was not clear.
What is _the beautiful_?”
“Oh,
nothing
of any consequence,”
replied the mother sparrow.
“It is something relating
to appearances
over yonder
at the nobleman’s house.
The pigeons have a house
of their own,
and every day they have corn
and peas spread
for them.
I have dined there
with them sometimes,
and so shall you
by
and by,
for I believe the old maxim
--’Tell me
what company you keep,
and I
will tell you
what you are.’
Well,
over
at the noble house
there are two birds
with green throats
and crests
on their heads.
They
can spread out their tails
like large wheels,
and they reflect so many beautiful colors
that it dazzles the eyes
to look
at them.
These birds are called peacocks,
and they belong
to _the beautiful_;
but
if only a few
of their feathers were plucked off,
they
would not appear better
than we do.
I
would myself have plucked some out had they not been so large.”
“I
will pluck them,”
squeaked the youngest sparrow,
who had
as yet no feathers
of his own.
In the cottage dwelt two young married people,
who loved each other very much
and were industrious
and active so
that everything looked neat
and pretty
around them.
Early
on Sunday mornings the young wife came out,
gathered a handful
of the most beautiful roses,
and put them
in a glass
of water,
which she placed
on a side table.
“I see now
that it is Sunday,”
said the husband,
as he kissed his little wife.
Then they sat down
and read
in their hymn books,
holding each other’s hands,
while the sun shone down upon the young couple
and upon the fresh roses
in the glass.
“This sight is really too wearisome,”
said the mother sparrow,
who
from her nest
could look
into the room;
and she flew away.
The same thing occurred the next Sunday;
and indeed every Sunday fresh roses were gathered
and placed
in a glass,
but the rose tree continued
to bloom
in all its beauty.
After a
while the young sparrows were fledged
and wanted
to fly,
but the mother
would not allow it,
and so they were obliged
to remain
in the nest
for the present,
while she flew away alone.
It so happened
that some boys had fastened a snare made
of horsehair
to the branch
of a tree,
and
before she was aware,
her leg became entangled
in the horsehair so tightly
as almost
to cut it through.
What pain
and terror she felt!
The boys ran up quickly
and seized her,
not
in a very gentle manner.
“It is only a sparrow,”
they said.
However they did not let her fly,
but took her home
with them,
and every time she cried they tapped her
on the beak.
In the farmyard they met an old man
who knew how
to make soap
for shaving
and washing,
in cakes or
in balls.
When he saw the sparrow
which the boys had brought home
and
which they said they did not know what
to do with,
he said,
“Shall we make it beautiful?”
A cold shudder passed
over the sparrow
when she heard this.
The old man
then took a shell containing a quantity
of glittering gold leaf
from a box full
of beautiful colors
and told the youngsters
to fetch the white
of an egg,
with
which he besmeared the sparrow all over
and
then laid the gold leaf upon it,
so
that the mother sparrow was now gilded
from head
to tail.
She thought not
of her appearance,
but trembled
in every limb.
Then the soap maker tore a little piece out
of the red lining
of his jacket,
cut notches
in it,
so
that it looked
like a cock’scomb,
and stuck it
on the bird’s head.
“Now you shall see gold-jacket fly,”
said the old man,
and he released the sparrow,
which flew away
in deadly terror
with the sunlight shining upon her.
How she did glitter!
All the sparrows,
and
even a crow,
who is a knowing old boy,
were startled
at the sight,
yet they all followed it
to discover
what foreign bird it
could be.
Driven
by anguish
and terror,
she flew homeward
almost ready
to sink
to the earth
for want
of strength.
The flock
of birds
that were following increased
and some
even tried
to peck her.
“Look
at him!
look
at him!”
they all cried.
“Look
at him!
look
at him!”
cried the young ones
as their mother approached the nest,
for they did not know her.
“That must be a young peacock,
for he glitters
in all colors.
It quite hurts one’s eyes
to look
at him,
as mother told us;
‘tweet,’
this is _the beautiful_.”
And
then they pecked the bird
with their little beaks so
that she was quite unable
to get
into the nest
and was too much exhausted even
to say “tweet,”
much less “I am your mother.”
So the other birds fell upon the sparrow
and pulled out feather after feather
till she sank bleeding
into the rosebush.
“You poor creature,”
said the roses,
“be
at rest.
We
will hide you;
lean your little head
against us.”
The sparrow spread out her wings once more,
then drew them
in close
about her
and lay dead
among the roses,
her fresh
and lovely neighbors.
* * * * *
“Tweet,”
sounded
from the nest;
“where
can our mother be staying?
It is quite unaccountable.
Can this be a trick
of hers
to show us
that we are now
to take care
of ourselves?
She has left us the house
as an inheritance,
but
as it cannot belong
to us all
when we have families,
who is
to have it?”
“It
won’t do
for you all
to stay
with me
when I increase my household
with a wife
and children,”
remarked the youngest.
“I shall have more wives
and children
than you,”
said the second.
“But I am the eldest,”
cried a third.
Then they all became angry,
beat each other
with their wings,
pecked
with their beaks,
till one after another bounced out
of the nest.
There they lay
in a rage,
holding their heads
on one side
and twinkling the eye
that looked upward.
This was their way
of looking sulky.
They
could all fly a little,
and
by practice they soon learned
to do so much better.
At length they agreed upon a sign
by
which they might be able
to recognize each other
in case they
should meet
in the world after they had separated.
This sign was
to be the cry
of “tweet,
tweet,”
and a scratching
on the ground three times
with the left foot.
The youngster
who was left behind
in the nest spread himself out
as broad
as ever he could;
he was the householder now.
But his glory did not last long,
for during
that night red flames
of fire burst
through the windows
of the cottage,
seized the thatched roof,
and blazed up frightfully.
The whole house was burned,
and the sparrow perished
with it,
while the young couple fortunately escaped
with their lives.
When the sun rose again,
and all nature looked refreshed
as after a quiet sleep,
nothing remained
of the cottage
but a few blackened,
charred beams leaning
against the chimney,
that now was the only master
of the place.
Thick smoke still rose
from the ruins,
but outside
on the wall the rosebush remained unhurt,
blooming
and fresh
as ever,
while each flower
and each spray was mirrored
in the clear water beneath.
“How beautifully the roses are blooming
on the walls
of
that ruined cottage,”
said a passer-by.
“A more lovely picture
could scarcely be imagined.
I must have it.”
And the speaker took out
of his pocket a little book full
of white leaves
of paper
(for he was an artist),
and
with a pencil he made a sketch
of the smoking ruins,
the blackened rafters,
and the chimney
that overhung them
and
which seemed more
and more
to totter;
and quite
in the foreground stood the large,
blooming rosebush,
which added beauty
to the picture;
indeed,
it was
for the sake
of the roses
that the sketch had been made.
Later
in the day two
of the sparrows
who had been born
there came by.
“Where is the house?”
they asked.
“Where is the nest?
Tweet,
tweet;
all is burned down,
and our strong brother
with it.
That is all he got
by keeping the nest.
The roses have escaped famously;
they look
as well
as ever,
with their rosy cheeks;
they do not trouble themselves
about their neighbors’ misfortunes.
I
won’t speak
to them.
And really,
in my opinion,
the place looks very ugly”;
so they flew away.
On a fine,
bright,
sunny day
in autumn,
so bright
that any one might have supposed it was still the middle
of summer,
a number
of pigeons were hopping about
in the nicely kept courtyard
of the nobleman’s house,
in front
of the great steps.
Some were black,
others white,
and some
of various colors,
and their plumage glittered
in the sunshine.
An old mother pigeon said
to her young ones,
“Place yourselves
in groups!
place yourselves
in groups!
it has a much better appearance.”
“What are those little gray creatures
which are running
about
behind us?”
asked an old pigeon
with red
and green round her eyes.
“Little gray ones,
little gray ones,”
she cried.
“They are sparrows
--good little creatures enough.
We have always had the character
of being very good-natured,
so we allow them
to pick up some corn
with us;
they do not interrupt our conversation,
and they draw back their left foot so prettily.”
Sure enough,
so they did,
three times each,
and
with the left foot too,
and said “tweet,”
by
which we recognize them
as the sparrows
that were brought up
in the nest
on the house
that was burned down.
“The food here is very good,”
said the sparrows;
while the pigeons strutted round each other,
puffed out their throats,
and formed their own opinions
on
what they observed.
“Do you see the pouter pigeon?”
asked one pigeon
of another.
“Do you see
how he swallows the peas?
He takes too much
and always chooses the best
of everything.
Coo-oo,
coo-oo.
How the ugly,
spiteful creature erects his crest.”
And all their eyes sparkled
with malice.
“Place yourselves
in groups,
place yourselves
in groups.
Little gray coats,
little gray coats.
Coo-oo,
coo-oo.”
So they went on,
and it
will be the same a thousand years hence.
The sparrows feasted bravely
and listened attentively;
they
even stood
in ranks
like the pigeons,
but it did not suit them.
So having satisfied their hunger,
they left the pigeons passing their own opinions upon them
to each other
and slipped
through the garden railings.
The door
of a room
in the house,
leading
into the garden,
stood open,
and one
of them,
feeling brave after his good dinner,
hopped upon the threshold crying,
“Tweet,
I
can venture so far.”
“Tweet,”
said another,
“I
can venture that,
and a great deal more,”
and
into the room he hopped.
The first followed,
and,
seeing no one there,
the third became courageous
and flew right
across the room,
saying:
“Venture everything,
or do not venture
at all.
This is a wonderful place
--a man’s nest,
I suppose;
and look!
what
can this be?”
Just
in front
of the sparrows stood the ruins
of the burned cottage;
roses were blooming
over it,
and their reflection appeared
in the water beneath,
and the black,
charred beams rested
against the tottering chimney.
How
could it be?
How came the cottage
and the roses
in a room
in the nobleman’s house?
And
then the sparrows tried
to fly
over the roses
and the chimney,
but they only struck themselves
against a flat wall.
It was a picture
--a large,
beautiful picture
which the artist had painted
from the little sketch he had made.
“Tweet,”
said the sparrows,
“it is really nothing,
after all;
it only looks
like reality.
Tweet,
I suppose
that is _the beautiful_.
Can you understand it?
I cannot.”
Then some persons entered the room
and the sparrows flew away.
Days
and years passed.
The pigeons had often “coo-oo-d”
--we must not say quarreled,
though perhaps they did,
the naughty things!
The sparrows had suffered
from cold
in the winter
and lived gloriously
in summer.
They were all betrothed,
or married,
or whatever you like
to call it.
They had little ones,
and each considered its own brood the wisest
and the prettiest.
One flew
in this direction
and another
in that,
and
when they met they recognized each other
by saying “tweet”
and three times drawing back the left foot.
The eldest remained single;
she had no nest nor young ones.
Her great wish was
to see a large town,
so she flew
to Copenhagen.
Close
by the castle,
and
by the canal,
in
which swam many ships laden
with apples
and pottery,
there was
to be seen a great house.
The windows were broader below than
at the top,
and
when the sparrows peeped
through they saw a room
that looked
to them
like a tulip
with beautiful colors
of every shade.
Within the tulip were white figures
of human beings,
made
of marble
--some few
of plaster,
but this is the same thing
to a sparrow.
Upon the roof stood a metal chariot
and horses,
and the goddess
of victory,
also
of metal,
was seated
in the chariot driving the horses.
It was Thorwaldsen’s museum.
“How it shines
and glitters,”
said the maiden sparrow.
“This must be _the beautiful_,
--tweet,
--only this is larger
than a peacock.”
She remembered
what her mother had told them
in her childhood,
that the peacock was one
of the greatest examples
of _the beautiful_.
She flew down
into the courtyard,
where everything also was very grand.
The walls were painted
to represent palm branches,
and
in the midst
of the court stood a large,
blooming rose tree,
spreading its young,
sweet,
rose-covered branches
over a grave.
Thither the maiden sparrow flew,
for she saw many others
of her own kind.
“Tweet,”
said she,
drawing back her foot three times.
She had,
during the years
that had passed,
often made the usual greeting
to the sparrows she met,
but without receiving any acknowledgment;
for friends
who are once separated do not meet every day.
This manner
of greeting was become a habit
to her,
and to-day two old sparrows
and a young one returned the greeting.
“Tweet,”
they replied
and drew back the left foot three times.
They were two old sparrows out
of the nest,
and a young one belonging
to the family.
“Ah,
good day;
how do you do?
To think
of our meeting here!
This is a very grand place,
but
there is not much
to eat;
this is _the beautiful_.
Tweet!”
A great many people now came out
of the side rooms,
in
which the marble statues stood,
and approached the grave
where rested the remains
of the great master
who carved them.
As they stood round Thorwaldsen’s grave,
each face had a reflected glory,
and some few gathered up the fallen rose leaves
to preserve them.
They had all come
from afar;
one
from mighty England,
others
from Germany
and France.
One very handsome lady plucked a rose
and concealed it
in her bosom.
Then the sparrows thought
that the roses ruled
in this place,
and
that the whole house had been built
for them
--which seemed really too much honor;
but
as all the people showed their love
for the roses,
the sparrows thought they
would not remain behindhand
in paying their respects.
“Tweet,”
they said,
and swept the ground
with their tails,
and glanced
with one eye
at the roses.
They had not looked
at them very long,
however,
before they felt convinced
that they were old acquaintances,
and so they actually were.
The artist
who had sketched the rosebush
and the ruins
of the cottage had since
then received permission
to transplant the bush
and had given it
to the architect,
for more beautiful roses had never been seen.
The architect had planted it
on the grave
of Thorwaldsen,
where it continued
to bloom,
the image
of _the beautiful_,
scattering its fragrant,
rosy leaves
to be gathered
and carried away
into distant lands
in memory
of the spot
on
which they fell.
“Have you obtained a situation
in town?”
then asked the sparrows
of the roses.
The roses nodded.
They recognized their little brown neighbors
and were rejoiced
to see them again.
“It is very delightful,”
said the roses,
“to live here and
to blossom,
to meet old friends,
and
to see cheerful faces every day.
It is
as
if each day were a holiday.”
“Tweet,”
said the sparrows
to each other.
“Yes,
these really are our old neighbors.
We remember their origin near the pond.
Tweet!
how they have risen,
to be sure.
Some people seem
to get
on
while they are asleep.
Ah!
there’s a withered leaf.
I
can see it quite plainly.”
And they pecked
at the leaf
till it fell,
but the rosebush continued fresher
and greener
than ever.
The roses bloomed
in the sunshine
on Thorwaldsen’s grave
and thus became linked
with his immortal name.
[Illustration]
THE OLD HOUSE
A VERY old house once stood
in a street
with several others
that were quite new
and clean.
One
could read the date
of its erection,
which had been carved
on one
of the beams
and surrounded
by scrolls formed
of tulips
and hop tendrils;
by this date it
could be seen
that the old house was nearly three hundred years old.
Entire verses too were written
over the windows
in old-fashioned letters,
and grotesque faces,
curiously carved,
grinned
at you
from
under the cornices.
One story projected a long way
over the other,
and
under the roof ran a leaden gutter
with a dragon’s head
at the end.
The rain was intended
to pour out
at the dragon’s mouth,
but it ran out
of his body instead,
for
there was a hole
in the gutter.
All the other houses
in the street were new
and well built,
with large windowpanes
and smooth walls.
Any one might see they had nothing
to do
with the old house.
Perhaps they thought:
“How long
will
that heap
of rubbish remain here,
to be a disgrace
to the whole street?
The parapet projects so far forward
that no one
can see out
of our windows
what is going on
in
that direction.
The stairs are
as broad
as the staircase
of a castle and
as steep
as
if they led
to a church tower.
The iron railing looks
like the gate
of a cemetery,
and
there are brass knobs upon it.
It is really too ridiculous.”
Opposite
to the old house were more nice new houses,
which had just the same opinion
as their neighbors.
At the window
of one
of them sat a little boy
with fresh,
rosy cheeks
and clear,
sparkling eyes,
who was very fond
of the old house
in sunshine or
in moonlight.
He
would sit
and look
at the wall,
from
which the plaster had
in some places fallen off,
and fancy all sorts
of scenes
which had been
in former times
--how the street must have looked
when the houses had all gable roofs,
open staircases,
and gutters
with dragons
at the spout.
He could
even see soldiers walking about
with halberds.
Certainly it was a very good house
to look
at
for amusement.
An old man lived
in it
who wore knee breeches,
a coat
with large brass buttons,
and a wig
which any one
could see was a real one.
Every morning
there came an old man
to clean the rooms and
to wait upon him,
otherwise the old man
in the knee breeches
would have been quite alone
in the house.
Sometimes he came
to one
of the windows
and looked out;
then the little boy nodded
to him,
and the old man nodded back again,
till they became acquainted,
and were friends,
although they had never spoken
to each other;
but
that was
of no consequence.
The little boy one day heard his parents say,
“The old man is very well off,
but he must be terribly lonely.”
So the next Sunday morning the little boy wrapped something
in a paper,
and took it
to the door
of the old house,
and said
to the attendant
who waited upon the old man:
“Will you please
to give this
from me
to the gentleman
who lives here?
I have two tin soldiers,
and this is one
of them,
and he shall have it,
because I know he is terribly lonely.”
The old attendant nodded
and looked very much pleased,
and
then he carried the tin soldier
into the house.
Afterwards he was sent over
to ask the little boy
if he
would not like
to pay a visit himself.
His parents gave him permission,
and so it was
that he gained admission
to the old house.
The brass knobs
on the railings shone more brightly
than ever,
as
if they had been polished
on account
of his visit;
and
on the doors were carved trumpeters standing
in tulips,
and it seemed
as
if they were blowing
with all their might,
their cheeks were so puffed out:
“Tanta-ra-ra,
the little boy is coming.
Tanta-ra-ra,
the little boy is coming.”
Then the door opened.
All round the hall hung old portraits
of knights
in armor
and ladies
in silk gowns;
and the armor rattled,
and the silk dresses rustled.
Then came a staircase
which went up a long way,
and
then came down a little way
and led
to a balcony
which was
in a very ruinous state.
There were large holes
and long cracks,
out
of
which grew grass
and leaves;
indeed the whole balcony,
the courtyard,
and the walls were so overgrown
with green
that they looked
like a garden.
In the balcony stood flowerpots
on
which were heads having asses’ ears,
but the flowers
in them grew just
as they pleased.
In one pot,
pinks were growing all
over the sides,
--at least the green leaves were,
--shooting forth stalk
and stem
and saying
as plainly
as they
could speak,
“The air has fanned me,
the sun has kissed me,
and I am promised a little flower
for next Sunday
--really
for next Sunday!”
Then they entered a room
in
which the walls were covered
with leather,
and the leather had golden flowers stamped upon it.
“Gilding wears out
with time
and bad weather,
But leather endures;
there’s nothing
like leather,”
said the walls.
Chairs handsomely carved,
with elbows
on each side
and
with very high backs,
stood
in the room;
and
as they creaked they seemed
to say:
“Sit down.
Oh dear!
how I am creaking;
I shall certainly have the gout
like the old cupboard.
Gout
in my back,
ugh!”
And
then the little boy entered the room
where the old man sat.
“Thank you
for the tin soldier,
my little friend,”
said the old man,
“and thank you also
for coming
to see me.”
“Thanks,
thanks”
--or “Creak,
creak”
--said all the furniture.
There was so much furniture
that the pieces stood
in each other’s way
to get a sight
of the little boy.
On the wall near the center
of the room hung the picture
of a beautiful lady,
young
and gay,
dressed
in the fashion
of the olden times,
with powdered hair
and a full,
stiff skirt.
She said neither “thanks” nor “creak,”
but she looked down upon the little boy
with her mild eyes,
and he said
to the old man,
“Where did you get
that picture?”
“From the shop opposite,”
he replied.
“Many portraits hang there.
No one seems
to know any
of them or
to trouble himself
about them.
The persons they represent have been dead
and buried long since.
But I knew this lady many years ago,
and she has been dead nearly half a century.”
[Illustration:
“Thank you
for the tin soldier,
my little friend,”
said the old man ....]
Under a glass
beneath the picture hung a nosegay
of withered flowers,
which were,
no doubt,
half a century old too,
at least they appeared so.
And the pendulum
of the old clock went
to
and fro,
and the hands turned round,
and
as time passed
on everything
in the room grew older,
but no one seemed
to notice it.
“They say
at home,”
said the little boy,
“that you are very lonely.”
“Oh,”
replied the old man,
“I have pleasant thoughts
of all
that is past recalled
by memory,
and now you too are come
to visit me,
and
that is very pleasant.”
Then he took
from the bookcase a book full
of pictures representing long processions
of wonderful coaches such
as are never seen
at the present time,
soldiers
like the knave
of clubs,
and citizens
with waving banners.
The tailors had a flag
with a pair
of scissors supported
by two lions,
and
on the shoemakers’ flag
there were not boots
but an eagle
with two heads,
for the shoemakers must have everything arranged so
that they
can say,
“This is a pair.”
What a picture book it was!
And
then the old man went
into another room
to fetch apples
and nuts.
It was very pleasant,
certainly,
to be
in
that old house.
“I cannot endure it,”
said the tin soldier,
who stood
on a shelf;
“it is so lonely
and dull here.
I have been accustomed
to live
in a family,
and I cannot get used
to this life.
I cannot bear it.
The whole day is long enough,
but the evening is longer.
It is not here
as it was
in your house opposite,
when your father
and mother talked so cheerfully together,
while you
and all the dear children made such a delightful noise.
Do you think he gets any kisses?
Do you think he ever has friendly looks
or a Christmas tree?
He
will have nothing now
but the grave.
Oh!
I cannot bear it.”
“You must not look
on the sorrowful side so much,”
said the little boy.
“I think everything
in this house is beautiful,
and all the old,
pleasant thoughts come back here
to pay visits.”
“Ah,
but I never see any,
and I
don’t know them,”
said the tin soldier;
“and I cannot bear it.”
“You must bear it,”
said the little boy.
Then the old man came back
with a pleasant face,
and brought
with him beautiful preserved fruits
as well
as apples
and nuts,
and the little boy thought no more
of the tin soldier.
How happy
and delighted the little boy was!
And after he returned home,
and
while days
and weeks passed,
a great deal
of nodding took place
from one house
to the other,
and
then the little boy went
to pay another visit.
The carved trumpeters blew:
“Tanta-ra-ra,
there is the little boy.
Tanta-ra-ra.”
The swords
and armor
on the old knights’ pictures rattled,
the silk dresses rustled,
the leather repeated its rhyme,
and the old chairs
that had the gout
in their backs cried “Creak”;
it was all exactly
like the first time,
for
in
that house one day
and one hour were just
like another.
“I cannot bear it any longer,”
said the tin soldier;
“I have wept tears
of tin,
it is so melancholy here.
Let me go
to the wars
and lose an arm
or a leg;
that
would be some change.
I cannot bear it.
Now I know
what it is
to have visits
from one’s old recollections
and all they bring
with them.
I have had visits
from mine,
and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant.
I was very nearly jumping
from the shelf.
I saw you all
in your house opposite,
as
if you were really present.
“It was Sunday morning,
and you children stood round the table,
singing the hymn
that you sing every morning.
You were standing quietly
with your hands folded,
and your father
and mother were looking just
as serious,
when the door opened,
and your little sister Maria,
who is not two years old,
was brought
into the room.
You know she always dances
when she hears music
and singing
of any sort,
so she began
to dance immediately,
although she ought not
to have done so;
but she
could not get
into the right time
because the tune was so slow,
so she stood first
on one foot
and then
on the other
and bent her head very low,
but it
would not suit the music.
You all stood looking grave,
although it was very difficult
to do so,
but I laughed so
to myself
that I fell down
from the table
and got a bruise,
which is still there.
I know it was not right
to laugh.
So all this,
and everything else
that I have seen,
keeps running
in my head,
and these must be the old recollections
that bring so many thoughts
with them.
Tell me whether you still sing
on Sundays,
and tell me
about your little sister Maria,
and
how my old comrade is,
the other tin soldier.
Ah,
really he must be very happy.
I cannot endure this life.”
“You are given away,”
said the little boy;
“you must stay.
Don’t you see that?”
Then the old man came
in
with a box containing many curious things
to show him.
Rouge-pots,
scent-boxes,
and old cards so large
and so richly gilded
that none are ever seen
like them
in these days.
And
there were smaller boxes
to look at,
and the piano was opened,
and inside the lid were painted landscapes.
But
when the old man played,
the piano sounded quite out
of tune.
Then he looked
at the picture he had bought
at the broker’s,
and his eyes sparkled brightly
as he nodded
at it
and said,
“Ah,
she
could sing
that tune.”
“I
will go
to the wars!
I
will go
to the wars!”
cried the tin soldier
as loud
as he could,
and threw himself down
on the floor.
Where
could he have fallen?
The old man searched,
and the little boy searched,
but he was gone
and
could not be found.
“I shall find him again,”
said the old man.
But he did not find him;
the tin soldier had fallen
through a crack
between the boards
and lay
there now as
in an open grave.
The day went by,
and the little boy returned home;
the week passed,
and many more weeks.
It was winter,
and the windows were quite frozen,
so
that the little boy was obliged
to breathe
on the panes
and rub a hole
to peep through
at the old house.
Snowdrifts were lying
in all the scrolls and
on the inscriptions,
and the steps were covered
with snow
as
if no one were
at home.
And indeed nobody was
at home,
for the old man was dead.
In the evening the old man was
to be taken
to the country
to be buried there
in his own grave;
so they carried him away.
No one followed him,
for all his friends were dead,
and the little boy kissed his hand
to his old friend
as he saw him borne away.
A few days after,
there was an auction
at the old house,
and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the pictures
of old knights
and ladies,
the flowerpots
with the long ears,
the old chairs,
and the cupboards.
Some were taken one way,
some another.
_Her_ portrait,
which had been bought
at the picture dealer’s,
went back again
to his shop,
and
there it remained,
for no one seemed
to know her or
to care
for the old picture.
In the spring they began
to pull the house itself down;
people called it complete rubbish.
From the street
could be seen the room
in
which the walls were covered
with leather,
ragged
and torn,
and the green
in the balcony hung straggling
over the beams;
they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready
to fall,
and
at last it was cleared away altogether.
“What a good riddance,”
said the neighbors’ houses.
Afterward a fine new house was built,
farther back
from the road.
It had lofty windows
and smooth walls,
but
in front,
on the spot
where the old house really stood,
a little garden was planted,
and wild vines grew up
over the neighboring walls.
In front
of the garden were large iron railings
and a great gate
which looked very stately.
People used
to stop
and peep
through the railings.
The sparrows assembled
in dozens upon the wild vines
and chattered all together
as loud
as they could,
but not
about the old house.
None
of them
could remember it,
for many years had passed by;
so many,
indeed,
that the little boy was now a man,
and a really good man too,
and his parents were very proud
of him.
He had just married
and had come
with his young wife
to reside
in the new house
with the garden
in front
of it,
and now he stood there
by her side
while she planted a field flower
that she thought very pretty.
She was planting it herself
with her little hands
and pressing down the earth
with her fingers.
“Oh,
dear,
what was that?”
she exclaimed
as something pricked her.
Out
of the soft earth something was sticking up.
It was
--only think!
--it was really the tin soldier,
the very same
which had been lost up
in the old man’s room
and had been hidden
among old wood
and rubbish
for a long time
till it sank
into the earth,
where it must have been
for many years.
And the young wife wiped the soldier,
first
with a green leaf
and then
with her fine pocket handkerchief,
that smelt
of a beautiful perfume.
And the tin soldier felt
as
if he were recovering
from a fainting fit.
“Let me see him,”
said the young man,
and
then he smiled
and shook his head
and said,
“It
can scarcely be the same,
but it reminds me
of something
that happened
to one
of my tin soldiers
when I was a little boy.”
And
then he told his wife
about the old house
and the old man and
of the tin soldier
which he had sent across
because he thought the old man was lonely.
And he related the story so clearly
that tears came
into the eyes
of the young wife
for the old house
and the old man.
“It is very likely
that this is really the same soldier,”
said she,
“and I
will take care
of him
and always remember
what you have told me;
but some day you must show me the old man’s grave.”
“I
don’t know
where it is,”
he replied;
“no one knows.
All his friends are dead.
No one took care
of him
or tended his grave,
and I was only a little boy.”
“Oh,
how dreadfully lonely he must have been,”
said she.
“Yes,
terribly lonely,”
cried the tin soldier;
“still it is delightful not
to be forgotten.”
“Delightful indeed!”
cried a voice quite near
to them.
No one
but the tin soldier saw
that it came
from a rag
of the leather
which hung
in tatters.
It had lost all its gilding
and looked
like wet earth,
but it had an opinion,
and it spoke it thus:
“Gilding wears out
with time
and bad weather,
But leather endures;
there’s nothing
like leather.”
But the tin soldier did not believe any such thing.
[Illustration]
THE CONCEITED APPLE BRANCH
IT WAS the month
of May.
The wind still blew cold,
but
from bush
and tree,
field
and flower,
came the welcome sound,
“Spring is come.”
Wild flowers
in profusion covered the hedges.
Under the little apple tree Spring seemed busy,
and he told his tale
from one
of the branches,
which hung fresh
and blooming
and covered
with delicate pink blossoms
that were just ready
to open.
The branch well knew
how beautiful it was;
this knowledge exists
as much
in the leaf as
in the blood.
I was therefore not surprised
when a nobleman’s carriage,
in
which sat the young countess,
stopped
in the road just by.
The apple branch,
she said,
was a most lovely object,
an emblem
of spring
in its most charming aspect.
The branch was broken off
for her,
and she held it
in her delicate hand
and sheltered it
with her silk parasol.
Then they drove
to the castle,
in
which were lofty halls
and splendid drawing-rooms.
Pure white curtains fluttered
before the open windows,
and beautiful flowers stood
in transparent vases.
In one
of them,
which looked
as
if it had been cut out
of newly fallen snow,
the apple branch was placed
among some fresh light twigs
of beech.
It was a charming sight.
And the branch became proud,
which was very much
like human nature.
People
of every description entered the room,
and according
to their position
in society so dared they
to express their admiration.
Some few said nothing,
others expressed too much,
and the apple branch very soon got
to understand
that
there was
as much difference
in the characters
of human beings as
in those
of plants
and flowers.
Some are all
for pomp
and parade,
others have a great deal
to do
to maintain their own importance,
while the rest might be spared without much loss
to society.
So thought the apple branch
as he stood
before the open window,
from
which he
could see out
over gardens
and fields,
where
there were flowers
and plants enough
for him
to think
and reflect upon
--some rich
and beautiful,
some poor
and humble indeed.
“Poor despised herbs,”
said the apple branch;
“there is really a difference
between them
and such
as I am.
How unhappy they must be
if they
can feel
as those
in my position do!
There is a difference indeed,
and so
there ought
to be,
or we
should all be equals.”
And the apple branch looked
with a sort
of pity upon them,
especially
on a certain little flower
that is found
in fields and
in ditches.
No one bound these flowers together
in a nosegay,
they were too common,
--they were
even known
to grow
between the paving stones,
shooting up everywhere
like bad weeds,
--and they bore the very ugly name
of “dog flowers,”
or “dandelions.”
“Poor despised plants,”
said the apple bough,
“it is not your fault
that you are so ugly
and
that you have such an ugly name,
but it is
with plants
as
with men
--there must be a difference.”
“A difference!”
cried the sunbeam
as he kissed the blooming apple branch
and
then kissed the yellow dandelion out
in the fields.
All were brothers,
and the sunbeam kissed them
--the poor flowers
as well
as the rich.
The apple bough had never thought
of the boundless love
of God
which extends
over all the works
of creation,
over everything
which lives
and moves
and has its being
in Him.
He had never thought
of the good
and beautiful
which are so often hidden,
but
can never remain forgotten
by Him,
not only
among the lower creation,
but also
among men.
The sunbeam,
the ray
of light,
knew better.
“You do not see very far nor very clearly,”
he said
to the apple branch.
“Which is the despised plant you so specially pity?”
“The dandelion,”
he replied.
“No one ever places it
in a nosegay;
it is trodden
under foot,
there are so many
of them;
and
when they run
to seed they have flowers
like wool,
which fly away
in little pieces
over the roads
and cling
to the dresses
of the people;
they are only weeds
--but
of course
there must be weeds.
Oh,
I am really very thankful
that I was not made
like one
of these flowers.”
There came presently
across the fields a whole group
of children,
the youngest
of whom was so small
that he had
to be carried
by the others;
and
when he was seated
on the grass,
among the yellow flowers,
he laughed aloud
with joy,
kicked out his little legs,
rolled about,
plucked the yellow flowers
and kissed them
in childlike innocence.
The elder children broke off the flowers
with long stems,
bent the stalks one round the other
to form links,
and made first a chain
for the neck,
then one
to go
across the shoulders
and hang down
to the waist,
and
at last a wreath
to wear
about the head;
so
that they looked quite splendid
in their garlands
of green stems
and golden flowers.
But the eldest
among them gathered carefully the faded flowers,
on the stem
of
which were grouped together the seeds,
in the form
of a white,
feathery coronal.
These loose,
airy wool-flowers are very beautiful,
and look
like fine,
snowy feathers
or down.
The children held them
to their mouths
and tried
to blow away the whole coronal
with one puff
of the breath.
They had been told
by their grandmothers
that whoever did so
would be sure
to have new clothes
before the end
of the year.
The despised flower was
by this raised
to the position
of a prophet,
or foreteller
of events.
“Do you see,”
said the sunbeam,
“do you see the beauty
of these flowers?
Do you see their powers
of giving pleasure?”
“Yes,
to children,”
said the apple bough.
By and
by an old woman came
into the field and,
with a blunt knife without a handle,
began
to dig round the roots
of some
of the dandelion plants
and pull them up.
With some she intended
to make tea
for herself,
but the rest she was going
to sell
to the chemist
and obtain money.
“But beauty is
of higher value
than all this,”
said the apple-tree branch;
“only the chosen ones
can be admitted
into the realms
of the beautiful.
There is a difference
between plants,
just
as
there is a difference
between men.”
Then the sunbeam spoke
of the boundless love
of God
as seen
in creation
and
over all
that lives,
and
of the equal distribution
of His gifts,
both
in time and
in eternity.
“That is your opinion,”
said the apple bough.
Then some people came
into the room
and
among them the young countess
--the lady
who had placed the apple bough
in the transparent vase,
so pleasantly
beneath the rays
of sunlight.
She carried
in her hand something
that seemed
like a flower.
The object was hidden
by two
or three great leaves
which covered it
like a shield so
that no draft
or gust
of wind
could injure it,
and it was carried more carefully
than the apple branch had ever been.
Very cautiously the large leaves were removed,
and
there appeared the feathery seed crown
of the despised yellow dandelion.
This was
what the lady had so carefully plucked
and carried home so safely covered,
so
that not one
of the delicate feathery arrows
of
which its mistlike shape was so lightly formed
should flutter away.
She now drew it forth quite uninjured
and wondered
at its beautiful form,
its airy lightness
and singular construction so soon
to be blown away
by the wind.
“See,”
she exclaimed,
“how wonderfully God has made this little flower.
I
will paint it
in a picture
with the apple branch.
Every one admires the beauty
of the apple bough,
but this humble flower has been endowed
by Heaven
with another kind
of loveliness,
and
although they differ
in appearance both are children
of the realms
of beauty.”
Then the sunbeam kissed both the lowly flower
and the blooming apple branch,
upon whose leaves appeared a rosy blush.