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