^

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HGHTYPJRY TALES

THE PANTHEON FAIRYTALE ST FOLKLORE LIBRARY

I
 FPT $14.95

turns fanciful, humorous, poignant,

By but always unforgettable, Hans Christian

Andersen's
trating Insight into
fairy tales combine a pene-
human nature with a power-
fully unlimited Imagination. Whether he was
writing of barnyard animals or mythic princesses,
he succeeded in creating some of the world's
grandest and most-loved literature.
Now, eighty of Andersen's greatest tales join

the Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library in a

sparkling, contemporary translation by the de-
voted Andersen scholar R.P. Keigwin. In contrast
to many earlier editions, Kelgwin's faithful render-
ing preserves the power of the original in all
its nuances and shadings. Throughout his life,

Andersen wrote for both children and adults,

and the generous selection in this new edition
offers untold pleasures for young listeners and
for readers of all ages.

Included are such well-known and memorable

stories as "The Ugly Duckling," "The Emperor's
New Clothes," "The Princess and the Pea," "The
Little Match Girl," "Thumbelina," "The Little

Mermaid," and many others. But even lifelong

Andersen lovers may discover some surprises.
There are tales of satire, such as "The Gardener
and the Squire"; of mysticism, such as "The
Story of a Mother"; of prophetic vision, such as
"In a Thousand Years Time"; as well as reveal-
"The Shadow^'
ing self-portraits like

[Continued on back flap]

 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2011

http://www.archive.org/details/eightyfairytalesOOande
 HANS *
CHRISTIAN
ANDERSEN
EIGHTY FAIRY TALES
 Translated by R. P. Keigwin
Introduction by Elias Bredsdorff
Illustrations by Vilhelm Pedersen and Lorenz Fr0lich
 ^
^^

* HANS *
CHRISTIAN
ANDERSEN
EIGHTY FAIRY TALES

^
^^^
r f ( I /n/imiiiiiM iiMiiiminmn nmii 1 1 1 ii ii i r 1 1 1 ir 1 1 1 1 n 1 1 r/rr r r

Pantheon Books, New York

 Copyright © 1976 by Skandinavisk Bogforlag,
Flensteds Forlag
Introduction Copyright © 1982 by Elias Bredsdorff

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by
Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New
York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
Canada Limited, Toronto.
Originally published in Denmark
by Skandinavisk Bogforlag.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Anderson, H.C. (Hans Christian), 1805-1875.

Eighty fairy tales.

(Pantheon fairy tale and folklore library)

Reprint. Originally published: 80 fairy tales.

Odense [Denmark]: Skandinavisk Bogforlag, cl976.

Summary: Includes the well-known tales as well as less
familiar ones such as "The Gardener and the Squire," "The
Story of a Mother," "In a Thousand Years Time," and "The
Shadow."

1. — Denmark. [1. Fairy tales. 2. Short sto-

Fairy tales
ries] Keigwin, R. P (Richard Prescott), 1883-
I. .11.

Pedersen, Vilhelm, 1820-1859, ill. III. Fr^lich, Lorenz,

1820- 1908, ill. IV. Title. V. Tide: 80 fairy tales. VI. Series.
PT8116.E5 1982 839.8'136[Fic] 82-47882
ISBN: 0-394-52523-X AACR2

Display design by Naomi Osnos

Manufactured in the United States of America

First American Edition
 Contents

Introduction 5 The Emperor's New Glothes 64

A Good Temper 189 The Fir Tree 128
Auntie 448 The Flax 232
Auntie Toothache 401 The Flea and the Professor 411
Dad's Always Right 364 The Flying Trunk 73
Everything in Its The Gardener
Right Place 311 and the Squire 461
Five Peas from One Pod 263 The Garden of Eden 211
Heartbreak 236 The Girl Who Trod
Holger the Dane 287 on the Loaf 353
lb and Little Christina 267 The Goblin at the Grocer's 239
In a Thousand Years' Time 243 The Happy Family 223
It's Absolutely True! 203 The High Jumpers 173
Little Glaus and Big Glaus 17 The Hill of the Elves 371
Little Ida's Flowers 29 The Last Dream
Old Johanna's Tale 471 of the Old Oak Tree 330
»She Was No Good« 246 The Litde Match-Seller 121
Simple Simon 124 The Little Mermaid 46
»Something« 319 The Money-Pig 260
Something to Write About 438 The Most Incredible Thing 455
Soup from a Sausage-Stick 422 The Naughty Boy 369
The Angel 156 The Nightingale 95
The Beetle 415 The Old House 291
The Bell 282 The Princess and the Pea 27
The Botde-Neck 252 The Puppet Showman 434
The Bronze Pig 161 The Rags 453
The Buckwheat 159 The Red Shoes 116
The Butterfly 362 »There's a Difference« 299
TheGripple 393 The Shadow 193
The Darning Needle 170 The Shepherdess and
The Drop of Water 227 the Ghimney-Sweep 135
The Shirt Collar 229 The Toad 441
The Silver Shilling 383 The Top and the Ball 104
The Snail and the The Travelling Companion 140
Rose Tree 326 The Ugly Duckling 107
The Snow Man 377 The Wicked Prince 339
The Sprinters 335 The Wild Swans 175
The Staunch Tin Soldier 69 The Wind Tells the Story of
The Storks 277 Valdemar Daa and His
The Story of a Mother 206 Daughters 343
The Story of the Year 302 Thumbelina 36
The Swineherd 90 Twelve by the Mail-Coach 389
The Teapot 387 What the Thisde Found Out 467
The Tinder-Box 11 Willie Winkie 78
 Introduction

Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales and stories have had their impor-
tant place in world literature since the middle of the nineteenth century
and have been translated into well over a hundred languages. The first
four tales were published in Denmark in 1835, and the first English trans-
lations appeared in 1846. Within a short time, Andersen had become a
household word both in Britain and in the United States. In 1875, on the
occasion of his seventieth birthday, the London Daily News, a paper
founded by Dickens, paid homage to Andersen:

It has been given to Hans Andersen to fashion beings, it may almost be

said, of a new kind, to breathe life into the toys of childhood, and the
forms of antique superstition. The tin soldier, the ugly duckling, the
mermaid, the little match girl, are no less real and living in their way
than Othello, or Mr. Pickwick, or Helen of Troy. It seems a very humble field
in which to work, this of nursery legend and childish fancy. Yet the Dan-
ish poet alone, of all who have laboured in it, has succeeded in recover-
ing, and reproducing, the kind of imagination which constructed the
old fairy tales.

Hans ChristianAndersen was more a creative writer than a collector of

folk tales. It somewhat misleading to bracket him, as is often done, with
is

the German brothers Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, or with Asbj^rnsen and
Moe, the two Norwegian collectors of traditional folk tales. Nevertheless, a
few of Andersen's tales, especially among the early ones, were based on
traditional Danish folk tales he had heard as a child. Two months before
the publication of his first four tales Andersen wrote to a friend: "I have set
down a few of the fairy tales I myself used to enjoy as a child and which I
believe aren't well known. I have written them exactly as I would have told
them to a child."
This group includes "The Tinderbox," "Little Glaus and Big Glaus," "The
Travelling Companion," "The Wild Swans," "The Swineherd" (all of them
published in 1835-1838), and two later ones, "Simple Simon" (1855), with
the subtide "A Nursery Tale Retold," and "Dad's Always Right" (1861)
(which begins: "Now listen! I'm going to tell you a story I heard when I was
a boy...").There are also elements of folk tales in "The Princess and the
Pea" and in "The Garden of Eden." Three of the tales have literary sources:
"The Naughty Boy" (based on a poem by Anacreon), "The Emperor's New
Glothes" (based on a fourteenth-century Spanish story), and the narrative
frame of "The Flying Trunk" (taken, with a few modifications and a com-
plete change of style, from a French eighteenth-century work). As for the
rest, the remaining 144 tales (out of a total of 156) are entirely Andersen's

own invention, though this does not mean, of course, that he did not use
themes or features from other sources.
Andersen entitled his tales Eventyr og Historier, thus making a deliberate
distinction between Eventyr, fairy tales containing a supernatural element,
and Historier, stories which lack that element. Thus "The Little Mermaid" is
a fairy tale, "The Emperor's New Clothes" a story. But the dividing line is
not always so clear, nor is Andersen always consistent. For instance, in spite
of its title, "The Story of a Mother" is not so much a story as a fairy tale.
Andersen first used the term Historier in 1852; until then he had consist-
ently used the term Eventyr. In his autobiography, he explains that he had
gradually come regard the word Historier as a truer description of his
to
tales in their fullrange and nature: "Popular language puts the simple tale
and the most daring imaginative description together under this common
designation; the nursery tale, the fable and the narrative are referred to by
the child as well as by the peasant, among all common or garden people, by
the short term: stories."
Throughout, Andersen's style was unique, and far removed from that
of the traditional folk or fairy tale.

Since Andersen was writing primarily for children, he took great pains
not to use words they might have difficulty in understanding, and he
showed great ingenuity in paraphrasing complicated words and ideas. In
"The High Jumpers" he speaks of "the man who writes the almanac,"
meaning a professor of astronomy. He writes "a student who was studying
to become a parson" instead of a "student of theology." If he does use a
word children may not know, he takes care to explain it: thus, he says about
one of his characters that "he went in for conjuring and learnt to talk with
his stomach, which is called being a ventriloquist."
Few writersemployed truisms to such deliberately humorous effect as
Andersen. Witness the opening lines of "The Nightingale": "You know of
course that in China the emperor is a Chinese and his subjects are Chinese
too."
Another of Andersen's was that of conveying abstract
special talents
ideas through a tangible reality. In"The Tinder Box," after the soldier has
lifted the third dog down on to the floor and seen the chest full of gold
coins, the amount of money is explained in terms which are fully compre-
hensible to a child: "There was enough for him to buy the whole of Copen-
hagen, all the sugar-pigs that the cake-women sell, and all the tin soldiers
and rocking-horses in the world."
Expressions like "everybody" and "the whole world" seemed too abstract
to Andersen, so that he often added something more tangible to them. For
their jumping competition the three high jumpers "invited the whole
world, and anyone else who liked, to come and watch the sport." What
could convey a better impression of open admittance? Perhaps the best
example is the reward the Snow Queen promises Kay if he is able to com-
bine the letters correctly: not only does she promise him his freedom but
also "the whole world and a pair of new skates." The genius of Andersen's
conception is clear, for that expression is imbued with both humour and a
deep understanding of children's minds.
Some of Andersen's best tales are understood at two levels, by the child
and by the grown-up person. Andersen himself once explained that his
tales "were told for children, but the grown-up person should be allowed
to listen as well." This is certainly true of such masterpieces as "The Little
Mermaid," "The Emperor's New Clothes," "The Nightingale" and "The
Snow Queen." But there are other tales which might actually appeal more
to adults than to children. "The Story of a Mother," "The Bell," and "The
Shadow" are all examples of this sort of story, for the true philosophy of
these tales is beyond the comprehension of most children. In particular,
"The Shadow" is an extremely sophisticated story open to many different
interpretations; it could have been written by Kafka.
Andersen himself was a man of deep and apparently irreconcilable con-
trasts, and the same contrasts are to be found in his fairy tales and stories.

"The Bell" and "The Shadow," for instance, have themes which, at first
glance, seem quite similar, and yet they express two very different philoso-
phies. "The Bell" is an optimistic story about the triumph of goodness and
the victory of genius. In contrast, "The Shadow" tells a pessimistic story in
which the learned man, a dedicated scholar and lover of truth and beauty,
is beheaded, while his Shadow, the parasite, steals his fame and is

rewarded by marrying the princess.

In a much-quoted comment concerning his tales, Andersen said: "They
lay in my thoughts like a seed-corn, requiring only a flowing stream, a ray
of sunshine, a drop of wormwood, for them to spring forth and burst into
bloom." The autobiographical element is obvious in many of the tales. It is
not difficult to see Andersen as the ugly duckling, or as Mr. Larsen in "The
Gardener and the Squire," yet he frequently appears in other tales in many
different disguises. He is the soldier in "The Tinder Box"; he is the sensi-
tive princess who can feel one pea through twenty mattresses and twenty
featherbeds; he is the student in "Little Ida's Flowers"; he is the little mer-
maid, the outsider who came from the depths and was never really
accepted in the new world into which he moved; he is the little boy in "The
Emperor's New Clothes" who could see that the emperor had nothing on;
he is the poet in "The Naughty Boy"; and I could cite many more exam-
ples. As a Danish critic once said, Andersen wrote more self-portraits than
Rembrandt ever painted.
Andersen put not only himself but also his friends and enemies into his
tales, and scholars can point to many personal elements in them. But for

the large majority of readers all over the world, children as well as adults,
who read his tales with little or no knowledge of the author's life and
background, most of this information is irrelevant. One can enjoy his fairy
tales and stories without any background knowledge whatsoever. If this
 -

were not so, Andersen would never have been translated into most living
languages, and even in Denmark he would have been largely forgotten by
now.
Some of Andersen's tales were written in a matter of hours, or in the
course of a few evenings; others took much longer. In 1844, writing to a
friend about "The Snow Queen," he noted that "it came out dancing over
the paper." He began writing this tale, one of his longest fairy tales, on
December 5, 1844, and it was published in book form (together with "The
Fir Tree") on December 21. The whole process of writing, setting up type,
printing, binding, and publishing was done in the course of sixteen days.
On the other hand, "The Marsh King's Daughter," another long fairy
tale, was rewritten six or seven times before Andersen was certain that he

could not improve upon it.

Andersen is not easy to translate, and many of the early English transla-
tions of Andersen are shockingly bad. Yet many of them are still being
reprinted today (though often without any mention of the translator's
name), partly because age has made them sacrosanct, and partly because
publishers do not have to pay royalties on them. Some of the early transla-
tors did not know Danish at all and translated from mediocre German
versions. Others, who were able to boast on the title-page that their version
was "translated from the original Danish," had such limited knowledge of
the language that their translations reflect the most appalling mistakes.
In 1949 I treated some of these translations, which were then still being
reprinted, in an English journal under the heading "How a Genius Is Mur-
dered." As a result of the publicity surrounding that article, I was
approached by a Danish publishing firm in Andersen's native town of
Odense which wanted to commission a new translation of some eighty of
Andersen's tales. They asked me if I knew of a qualified translator who
might be willing to undertake such a task. I immediately asked my old
friend R.P. Keigwin if he would be willing to do it. Keigwin possessed both
an extensive knowledge of Danish and a very fine sense of style. In 1935,
he had been responsible for an excellent translation of the first four tales
by Andersen, published in the centenary of their first publication in Den-
mark. Keigwin understood the difficulty of the task: Andersen's language
is full of colloquialisms, special Danish idioms, untranslatable puns and an

intimacy between writer and reader which is strengthened by the frequent

use of certain Danish adverbs that defy translation. In his preface to the
1935 volume, Keigwin wrote of Andersen:

He sprinkled his narrative with every kind of conversational touch

openings, to catch the listener's attention at a swoop; fre-
crisp, lively
quent asides or parentheses; little bits of Copenhagen slang; much
grammatical licence; and, above all, a free use of particles- those nods
and nudges of speech, with which Danish (like Greek) is so richly
endowed. So completely did Andersen maintain the conversational tone
 -

in his Tales that you are quite shocked when you occasionally come across
some really literary turn.

Not all of Andersen's 156 fairy tales and stories are masterpieces, and
R.R Keigwin's translation includes a little over half their total number. Per-
sonally, I think that his is the best available version of Andersen's tales,
taking into consideration both the quality of the translation and the choice
of tales and stories.

"The True Wizard of the North" was the term that E.V. Lucas, the
Hans Christian Andersen than
English critic, said he would rather apply to
to Walter Scott, "because whereas Scott took men and women as he found
them, [Andersen], with a touch of his wand, rendered inhuman things
furniture, toys, flowers, poultry- instinct with humanity." Robert Lynd,
another British literary critic, wrote about Andersen: "He can make the
inhabitants of one's mantelpiece capable of epic adventures and has a
greater sense of possibilities in a pair of tongs or a door-knocker than most
of us have in men and women."
There has been a tendency in both Britain and the United States to
regard Andersen as being only a writer for the nursery, with the implica-
tion that he cannot be taken seriously as a literary figure. Or, as the Aus-
trian writer Egon Friedell once put it: "The great public had adopted the
same Andersen as a certain Prussian lieutenant of the guard
attitude to
did to Julius Caesar when he said that he could not possibly have been a
greatman since he had only written for the lower Latin forms. Similarly,
sinceAndersen is so great an author that even children can understand
him, the grown-ups have concluded that he cannot possibly have any-
thing to offer them."
Let me conclude by quoting Andersen's own definition of the literary
genre in which he was, and still is, the unsurpassed master:

In the whole realm of poetry no domain is so boundless as that of the

fairy tale. It reaches from the blood-drenched graves of antiquity to the
pious legends of a child's picture-book; it takes in the poetry of the peo-
ple and the poetry of the artist. To me it represents all poetry, and he
who masters it must be able to put into it tragedy, comedy, naive simplic-
ity, and humour; at his service are the lyrical note, the childlike narrative

and the language of describing nature. In the folk tale it is always Sim-
.. .

ple Simon who is victorious in the end.... Thus also the innocence of
poetry, overlooked and jeered at by the other brothers, will reach far-
thest in the end.
Elias Bredsdorff
 «

^:a.

The Tinder-Box

L, left, right! Left, right!... Down the country road came a soldier
marching. Left, right! Left, right!... He had his knapsack on his back and
a sword at his side, for he had been at the war, and now he was on his way
home. But then he met an old witch on the road. Oh! she was ugly-her
lower lip hung right down on her chest. »Good evening, soldier,« she
said, »what a nice sword you've got, and what a big knapsack! You're a
proper soldier! Now I'll show you how to get as much money as you
want!« »Thank you very much, old dame!« said the soldier.
»Do you see that big tree over there?« said the witch, pointing to a tree
near by. »It's quite hollow inside. Now, you must climb right up it, and
then you'll see a hole; slip through this, and you'll come deep down into
the tree. I will tie a rope round your waist, so that I can haul you up
again, as soon as you give me a shout.
»But what am I to do down in the tree?« asked the soldier.
»Fetch money !« answered the witch. »For, mind you, when you get
down to the bottom of the tree, you will find yourself in a large passage.
It's quite light there, because hundreds of lamps are burning there. Next,
you will see three doors; you can open them all right, for the key's in the
lock. If you go into the first room, you will see in the middle of the floor a
big chest, with a dog sitting on it which has got eyes as big as tea-cups;
but never you mind about that! I'll give you my blue-check apron, and
you can spread it out on the floor. Then go along quickly and lift off the

11
 « «

dog and put it on my apron; open the lid of the chest and take just as

many pennies as you Hke. They are all copper, but if you would rather
have silver, then you must go into the next room. There sits a dog v^ith
eyes as large as mill-w^heels, but never you mind about that! Put the dog
down on my apron, and help yourself to the money! And yet, if it's gold
you want, you can get that too-as much as ever you can carry-if only you
go into the third room. But this time the dog which is sitting on the
money-chest has two eyes each one as big as the Round Tower ...Some-
thing like a dog, I can tell you! But never you mind a bit about that! Just
put the dog down on my apron, and then it won't do you any harm, and
you can take as much gold out of the chest as you like.«
»That doesn't sound at all bad,« said the soldier. »But tell me, old
witch, what am I to give you? Because I expect you'll be wanting your
share !«
»No,« said the witch, »Not a single penny will I take. You've simply
got to bringme an old tinder-box that my grandmother forgot when she
was last down there.
»Oh, come on, then! let me get that rope round my middle! « said the
soldier.
»Here it is«, said the witch, »and here's my blue-check apron.
Then the soldier crawled up the tree, let himself down, plump!
through the hole, and now he was standing, as the witch had said, down
in the great passage where the hundreds of lamps were burning.
Then he unlocked the first door. Ugh! there sat the dog with eyes as big
as tea-cups and glared at him.
»You are a nice chap, you are!« said the soldier. He put it down on the
witch's apron and took just as many copper pennies as he could stuff into
his pocket. Then he shut the chest, put the dog up again and went into
the second room. Bless my soul! there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-
wheels.
»You shouldn't stare at me so!« said the soldier; »You'll strain your
eyes.« And then he put the dog down on the witch's apron; but when he
saw such piles of silver in the chest, he threw away all the coppers he had
got and filled up his pocket and his knapsack with nothing but silver.
And now he went into the third room!. ..Oh, but it was horrible! The dog
in there had actually got two great eyes as big as the Round Tower, and
they were going round and round in its head like wheels!
»Good evening! « said the soldier; and he touched his cap, because
never in his life had he seen such a dog. But after he had looked at it for a
bit, he thought to himself, »Enough of that!« and went and lifted the dog

down on to the floor and opened the chest - why, goodness gracious,
what a lot of gold there was! There was enough for him to buy the whole
of Copenhagen, all the sugar-pigs that the cake-women sell, and the tin-
soldiers and whips and rocking-horses in the world. Yes, yes, plenty of
money in there - my word, there was!

12
 So at once the soldier emptied out all the silver coins from his pockets
and his knapsack and put in gold instead; yes, and he filled up everything
v^ith gold, his pockets, his knapsack, his cap and even his boots, so that
he could hardly v^alk. Now he had got some money! He put the dog back
on the chest, slammed the door, and then shouted up through the tree,
»Hi, mother, haul me up again, will you?«
»Have you got the tinder-box?« asked the witch.
»Oh no! that's true, I had clean forgotten it,« said the soldier; and he
went straight back and fetched it. The witch hauled him up out of the
tree, and there he was again, standing on the road with his pockets, boots,

cap and knapsack bulging with money.

»What are you going to do with this tinderbox?« asked the soldier.
»That's no business of yours!« answered the witch. »You've got your
money; now just give me my tinder-box !«
»Rubbish!« said the soldier. »Tell me at once what you want to do with
it - or I'll have out my sword and cut your head off.«

»No,« said the witch.

So he cut off her head... There she lay!
But the soldier tied up all his money in her apron and made a bundle
of it, to go on his back. He put the tinder-box in his pocket and went
straight on into the town.
It was a fine town, and he put up at the finest inn. He ordered the very

best rooms and the food he was most fond of; for, now that he had all that
money, he was a rich man. The servant who had to clean his boots
thought, well, this was a funny old pair of boots for such a rich gentle-
man to have; but he hadn't yet bought any new ones. The next day he
went out and got some good boots and some really smart clothes. And
now the soldier had become quite a fashionable gentleman, and they told
him all about the sights of their town, and about their King, and what a
pretty Princess his daughter was.
»Where is she to be seen?« asked the soldier.
»She just isn't to be seen,« they all answered. »She lives in a big copper
castle with lots of walls and towers all round it. No one but the King is
allowed to go to her there, because a fortune-teller once said that she is to
marry a common soldier, and the King doesn't like that at all.«
»My word! I should like to see her,« thought the soldier; but of course
he couldn't possibly get leave to.
And now he lived a merry life.
He was always going to the theatre, or driving in the Park; and he gave
away lots of money to the poor. That was very nice of him; you see, he
remembered so well from the old days how awful it was to be absolutely
penniless. But now he was rich and well-dressed, and so he made lots of
friends who all said what a fine fellow he was - a real gentleman - and
the soldier liked that very much. But as he was spending money every day
and never getting any back, at last he had only got twopence left; and so

13
he had to move from
the fine rooms he had been Uving in and go and hve
poky attic right under the roof. He had to clean his own boots
in a little
and mend them with a darning-needle, and none of his friends ever came
to see him, for there were such a lot of stairs to climb.
Oneevening, when it was quite dark and he couldn't even buy himself
a candle, he suddenly remembered that there was a little bit of candle left
in the tinder-box that he had got for the old witch out of the hollow tree.
He got out the tinder-box and the bit of candle; but just as he was striking
a light and the sparks flew up from the flint, the door sprang open, and the
dog he had seen down in the tree with eyes as big as tea-cups stood before
him and said »What are my lord's commands?*
»This must be a queer sort of tinder-box, if I
»I say!« said the soldier.
can get whatever I want like that.« »Bring me some money, « he said to
the dog; then flick! and away it went, and flick! here it was back again,
with a large bagful of pennies in its mouth.
And now the soldier realised what a splendid tinder-box it was. One
stroke brought before him the dog which sat on the chest with the copper
money; two strokes, the dog with the silver; and three strokes, the dog
with the gold. The soldier lost no time in changing back into the fine
rooms and the smart clothes, and of course all his friends remembered
him again at once and were tremendously fond of him.
And then one day he thought to himself »There's something queer
about this, that no one's allowed to see the Princess. She's supposed to be
so very lovely, according to all these people; but what's the good of that,
if she has to sit the whole time inside the copper castle, the one that has

all those towers? Can't I possibly manage to see her somehow? Now then,

where's my tinder-box?« So he struck a light and flick! there stood the

dog with the eyes as big as tea-cups.
»Of course I know it's the middle of the night«, said the soldier, »but
all the same I would like to see the Princess, that I would! Just for half a
jiffy!«
The dog was out had time
of the door in a flash and, before the soldier
to think about it, was the dog again with the Princess lying asleep
there
on his back; and she looked so lovely that anyone could see she was a real
princess; and the soldier simply couldn't resist, he had to kiss her he —
was a soldier all over.
Then the dog scuttled back again with the Princess, but in the morn-
ing, when the King and Queen were at breakfast, the Princess said she
had had such a curious dream in the night, about a dog and a soldier. She
had ridden on the dog's back, and the soldier had kissed her.
»That's a pretty tale, if you like!« said the Queen.
And so one of the old ladies-in-waiting was told to sit up the following
night by the Princess's bed and see if it was really a dream or not.
The soldier did so long for another look at the pretty Princess; and so
up came the dog by night and took her and dashed off at full speed. But

14
the old lady-in-waiting put on her overboots and ran just as fast after
them, and when she saw them disappear into a big house she thought to
herself, »Now I know where it is,« and chalked up a big cross on the door.
Then she went home to bed, and the dog came back too with the Princess.
But when it saw a cross had been chalked on the door where the soldier
was living dog also took a bit of chalk and put a cross on every door
, the
in the town. That was a clever idea, because now, you see, the lady-in-
waiting couldn't find the right door, as there were crosses on the whole
lot of them.
Early in the morning the King and Queen, the old lady-in-waiting and
all the Court officials sallied forth in order to see where it was the Prin-
cess had been.
»Here's the house!« said the King, when he saw the first door with a
cross on it.

»No, it's there, darling!« said the Queen, catching sight of the second
door with a cross on it.
»But here's another - and there's another!« they all kept saying.
Whichever way they turned, there were crosses on the doors. So then they
soon realized that it was no good searching any longer.
But the Queen, you know, was a very clever woman, who could do
more than just drive out in a coach. She took her great golden scissors
and cut up a large piece of silk and sewed the pieces together into a pretty
little bag, which she filled with the finest buckwheat flour. She fastened

the little bag to the Princess's back, and then she snipped a little hole in
the bag, so as to sprinkle the flour wherever the Princess went. At
night, up came the dog once more, took the Princess on his back and ran
off with her to the soldier, who loved her so dearly and did so wish he
were a prince and could marry her.
The dog never noticed how the flour kept leaking out all the way from
the castle to the soldiers's window, where it ran up the wall with the
Princess. The next morning it was quite plain to the King and Queen
where their daughter had been going; so they took the soldier and put
him in prison.
There he sat. Ugh! how dark and dreary his cell was! And, beside, they
kept saying to him »To-morrow you're going to be hanged!« That didn't
sound at all cheerful, and the worst of it was he had left his tinder-box at
the inn. In the morning, through the iron bars of his window, he little

watched people hurrying out of the town to see him hanged. He heard
the drums and saw the soldiers marching past. Everyone was afoot.
Among them was a cobbler's boy in leather apron and slippers; he was
trotting along so fast that one of his slippers came off and flew right
against the wall where the soldier sat peeping out between the iron bars.
»I say! you young cobbler, you don't need to hurry like that,« the
soldier said to him, »They can't begin without me. But look here - if you
will kindly run along to where I've been living and fetch me my tinder-

15
box; you shall have twopence foi your trouble; but mind you get a move
on!« The cobbler's boy was very glad to earn twopence, so he sprinted off
for the tinder-box, brought it to the soldier, and - well, now listen to
what happened!
Outside the town a high gallows had been built, and round about it
stood the soldiers and thousands and thousands of people.The King and
Queen sat on a beautiful throne opposite the judge and all his council-
lors.
Already the soldier had climbed the ladder; but just as they were going
to put the rope round his neck he reminded them that, before being
executed, a criminal always had the right to ask for one harmless favour.
He said he would so like to smoke a pipe of tobacco - after all, it would
be the last pipe he could smoke in this world.
Now, the King didn't like to say no to that; so the soldier took his tinder-
box and struck a light - one, two, three! - and there stood all three dogs:
the one with eyes as big as tea-cups, the one with eyes like mill-wheels,
and the one which had eyes as big as the Round Tower.
»Save me now from being hanged !« said the soldier; and then the dogs
flew at the judges and all the councillors, and seized some by their legs
and others by their noses, and tossed them so high into the air that when
they came down they were dashed to pieces.
»I won't be tossed! « said the King; but the biggest dog picked them
both up. King and Queen, and sent them hurtling after the others. Then
the soldiers got frightened, and the people all shouted out: »Soldier boy,
you shall be our King and have the pretty Princess. « And they put the
soldier into the King's coach, and all three dogs went dancing in front of
it and cried out »Hurrah!« And the boys whistled on their fingers, and

the soldiers presented arms. The Princess came out of the copper castle
and was made Queen, and how pleased she was! The wedding-feast lasted
for a week, and the dogs sat at table with everyone else and kept rolling
their great big eyes.
 «

Little Claus and

Big Claus

T,here were two men in one village, who both had the very same name;
they were both called Claus. One of them owned four horses, the other
only one; and, to tell them from each other, people called the man who
had four horses Big Claus, and the man who had only one horse Little
Claus. Now let us hear how these two got on; for this is a true story.
All through the week Little Claus had to plough for Big Claus and
lend him his one horse; in return, Big Claus gave him the help of all his
four horses, but only once a week, and that was on Sunday. My word!
How Little Claus did crack his whip over all five horses! They were as
good as his - for that one day. The sun shone so pleasantly, and the
church-bells were all ringing for church; the villagers went by in their
Sunday best, with their hymn-books under their arms, to hear the parson
preach, and when they looked at Little Claus ploughing with five horses,
he was so delighted that he cracked his whip once more and cried out:
»Gee up, all my horses !«
»You mustn't say that,« said Big Claus; »there's only one horse, you
know, which is yours. « But when some more people went past on their
way to church, Little Claus forgot that he wasn't to say that and cried out
again: »Gee up, all my horses!
»Look here, will you kindly give over?« said Big Claus. »The next time
you say that, I'll give your horse a clump on the head and kill him on the
spot; and that'll be good-bye to him.«
»I promise you I won't say it again, « said Little Claus. But when some
more people went by and they nodded good-morning to him, he was so
delighted and felt that it must look so smart for him to have five horses to

17
plough his field with, that he cracked his whip and cried out: »Gee up,
all my horses !«
»ril gee up your horses for you!« said Big Glaus, and he took the
mallet for the tetherpeg, and gave Little Claus's one horse such a clump
on the forehead that it fell down stone dead.
»Oh, dear! Now I haven't a horse at all,« said Little Glaus and began to
cry. By and by he flayed the dead horse and took the hide and gave it a
thorough drying in the wind. Then he stuck it in a bag, which he threw
over his shoulder, and went off to the next town to sell his horse-hide.
He had a long way to go, and it led through a big, gloomy wood.
Presently a terrible storm got up, and he quite lost his way. It was even-
ing before he could find it again, and he was much too far from the town
or from home to be able to reach either before night fell.
Glose to the road stood a large farmhouse; the windows had the shut-
ters up outside, but yet a gleam of light showed over the top of them. »I
daresay I can get leave to spend the night there,« thought Little Glaus
and went up and knocked at the door.
The farmer's wife came and opened it; but when she heard what he
wanted, she told him to be off, as her husband was not at home, and she
didn't take in strangers.
well, in that case I must find a bed out of doors,« said Little
»Oh,
Glaus,and the farmer's wife shut the door in his face.
Near by was a big haystack, and between this and the house a little shed
had been built, with a flat thatch roof to it.
»I can sleep up there,« said Little Glaus, catching sight of the roof;
»that will be a lovely bed, and I shouldn't think the stork will fly down
and bite my legs;« for a real live stork was standing up there on the roof,
where it had its nest.
Little Glaus now crawled up on to the shed, where he lay and wriggled
himself to get really comfortable. The wooden shutters didn't quite cover
the windows up at the top, and so he was able room.
to see right into the
There was a large table laid with wine and meat and oh! such a
roast
delicious-looking fish. The farmer's wife and the parish clerk were sit-
ting at table all by themselves; and she kept filling up his glass for him,
and he kept helping himself to the fish - he was very fond of fish.
»If only I could get a taste af that!« thought Little Glaus, craning out
his neck towards the window. Heavens! What a gorgeous cake he could
see in there! It was really a wonderful spread.
Then he heard someone riding along the road towards the house. It
was the farmer himself, coming home.
Now, although he was an excellent man, the farmer had the strange
failing that he never could bear the sight of a parish clerk; if he ever set
eyes on a clerk, he flew into an absolute rage. And that was just why this
clerk had called in to pass the time of day with the farmer's wife, when he
knew that her husband was away from home; and the good woman set

18
 «

before him all the nicest things to eat that she could find. And now, when
they heard the husband coming, they got so scared that the woman
begged the clerk to creep into a big empty chest which stood over in the
corner.So he climbed in, for he knew quite well that the poor man
couldn't bear the sight of a parish clerk. The woman quickly hid away all
the delicious food and wine inside her oven, because if her husband had
seen he would have been sure to ask what it all meant.
it

»Oh, dear!« sighed Little Claus up on the shed, when he saw all the
food disappearing.
»Is that somebody up there?« asked the farmer, peering up at Little
Claus. »What are you lying up there for? Much better come along o'me
into the house!
Little Claus then explained how he had lost his way and asked if he
might stop the night.
»Why, certainly,« said the farmer, »but first we must have a bit o'
something to eat.«
The farmer's wife gave them both a most friendly welcome, laid a long
tableand gave them a large bowl of porridge. The farmer was hungry,
and he ate with a good appetite; but Little Claus couldn't help thinking
about the lovely roast meat, the fish and the cake which he knew were
inside the oven.
Under he had placed his sack with the horse-hide
the table, at his feet,

in it; for we mustn't was the hide which he had brought away
forget, it

with him from home, in order to sell it in the town. He didn't care for the
porridge at all; and so he trod on his bag, and the dry hide inside it gave
out quite a loud squeak.
»Sh!« said Little Claus to his sack; but at the same time he trod on it
again, and it gave out a still louder squeak.
»Why, what ever have you got in that there bag?« asked the farmer.
»Oh, it's a wizard,« said Little Claus. »He says that we shouldn't be
eating porridge; he has conjured the whole oven full of meat and fish and
cake.«
»You don't say so!« said the farmer, and in a twinkling he opened the
oven and saw all the delicious food which his wife had hidden away,
though he thought himself that the wizard had conjured it there. His
wife didn't dare say a word; she put the food straight on the table, and
they both made a good meal off the fish and the meat and the cake.
Presently Little Claus trod on his bag once more and made the hide
squeak.
»W hat's
he say now?« asked the farmer.
»He answered Little Claus, »that he has also conjured us three
says,«
bottles of wine, and they're in the oven too.« So the wife had to bring out
the wine she had hidden, and the farmer drank and became quite merry;
he felt he'd give anything to own a wizard like the one Little Claus had
got in his bag.

19
 « « ««

»Can he also make the devil appear?« asked the farmer. »I should so
like to see him, now that I'm feeling so cheerful.
»Certainly,« said Little Claus, »my wizard can do whatever I like to ask
him - can't you, old man?« and at the same time he trod on the bag so
that squeaked. »Did you hear him? He says, yes, of course he can; but
it

the devil's so hideous that you'd better not see him.«

»Oh I'm not afraid. What d'you think he'll look like?«
»Well, you'll find he's the very image of a parish clerk.
»Ugh!« said the farmer, »that's hideous and no mistake! You know, I

can't bear the sight of parish clerks; but never mind, I know it's the devil
this time, so I reckon I'll put up with it for once. I'm full o' pluck just
now - but don't let him come too near!«
»Now I'll ask my wizard,« said Little Claus, treading on the bag and
turning his ear to it.
»W hat's he say?«
»He you may go up and open the chest which is standing over
says
there in the corner, and you'll see the devil squatting inside; but mind
you hold on to the lid, or he'll slip out.«
»Come and help me hold it, then!« said the farmer, going across to the
chest in which his wife had hidden the real clerk, who sat there trembling
with fear.

The
farmer raised the lid a little way and peeped in under it: »Ugh!« he
shrieked andjumped back from the chest. »Yes, I saw him right enough;
he looked the dead spit of our clerk - oh, it was horrible!
They had to have a drink after that, and they went on drinking far into
the night.
»You must sell me that wizard,« said the farmer. »Ask what you like for
him! I tell you what, I'll give you a whole bushel of money straight
away.«
»No,« said Claus. »I can't do that. Just think of the profit I can make
out of this wizard.
»Oh, but I'm fair crazy to have him,« said the farmer, and he begged
and pleaded till at last Little Claus said yes. »You've been very kind and
given me a good night's lodging, so it doesn't make much odds. You
shall have the wizard for a bushel of money, but full measure, mind you!«
»Right you are!« said the farmer. »But you must take that there chest
with you; I won't have it another hour in the place - he may be in there
yet, for all we can tell.«
Little Claus gave the farmer his sack with the dry hide in it, and got a
whole bushel of money, full measure, in exchange. What's more, the
farmer gave him a large barrow on which to wheel away the chest and the
money.
»Good-bye!« said Little Claus, and off he went trundling his money
and the great chest with the clerk still in it.
On the other side of the wood ran a deep river, where the current was so

20
strong that you could hardly swim against it. A big bridge had lately been
built across it, Glaus halted when he got to the middle and said
and Little
out aloud, so that the clerk in the chest could hear him: »Hang it all!
What ever am I to do with this stupid chest? It's so heavy, you'd think it
was full of stones. I'm sick and tired of wheeling it, so I'll just tip it into
the river. Then, if it sails home to me, very good; and if it doesn't - well,
it can't be helped.«
Then he took hold of the chest by one of the handles and tilted it a bit,

as though he meant to hurl it down into the water.

»Stop! Stop!« shouted the clerk from inside the chest. »Let me out! Oh
do let me out!«
»Good gracious !« said Little Glaus and pretended to be frightened.
»He's inside! I must push him
still into the river at once, and then he'll
drown !«
»No! No!« shouted the clerk. »ril give you a whole bushel of money, if

you'll let me out.«

21
 « «

»Ah, another story,« said Little Claus and opened the chest. The
that's
clerk quickly crept out,pushed the empty chest into the water and went
to his home, where Little Claus was given a whole bushel of money. He
had already got one out of the farmer, so there he was now with his
wheelbarrow chock-full of money.
»There! I got rather a good price for that horse! « he said to himself,
when he came home to his own room and turned out all the money in a
big heap on the floor. »Big Claus will be very annoyed when he hears
how become out of my one horse; but all the same I won't tell
rich I've
him away.«
straight
Presently he sent a boy along to Big Claus to borrow a bushel measure.
»I wonder what he wants that for?« thought Big Claus, and he smeared
the bottom with tar, so that a little of whatever was measured might stick
to it; and, sure enough, when the measure came back, there were three
new silver florins sticking to it.

»Hullo, what's this?« said Big Claus, and ran straight off to Little
Claus. »Where did you get all this money from?«
»Oh, that was for my horse- hide that I sold yesterday.
»That's a wonderful good price !« said Big Claus; and he ran home,
took an axe and gave all his four horses a clump on the forehead. Then he
stripped off the hides and trundled them away into the town.
»Hides! Hides! Who'll buy my hides?« he shouted through the streets.
All the shoemakers and tanners came running up and asking how
much he wanted for them.
»A bushel of money apiece !« said Big Claus.
»Are you mad?« they all asked him. »Do you suppose we keep money
in bushels?«
»Hides! Hides! Who'll buy my hides?« he shouted again; but to every-
one who asked him the price he answered: »A bushel of money.
»He's trying to make fools of us,« they all said; and then the shoemak-
ers took their straps and the tanners their leather aprons and began to
give Big Claus a good beating.
»Hides! Hides!« they mocked at him, »we'll give you a hide that'll
bleed like a pig! Out of the town with him!« they shouted; and Big Claus
had to bolt for his life - he'd never had such a drubbing.
»A11 right!« he said, when he got home. »Little Claus shall pay for this.
I'll beat his brains out.«
But at Little Claus's home his old grandmother had just died. It's true
she had always been very cross and unkind to him; still, he was very
much grieved and took the dead woman and laid her in his own warm
bed, to see if he couldn't bring her to life again. She was to lie there all
night, while he himself would sit over in the corner and sleep on a chair;
it wouldn't be the first time he had done that,

During the night, as he was sitting there, the door opened and Big
Claus came in with an axe. He knew quite well where Little Claus's bed

22
 «

was, so he went straight up to it, and, thinking the dead grandmother was
Little Claus, gave her a great clump on the forehead.
»There now!« he said. »you're not going to make a fool of me again;«
and he went back home.
»What a very wicked man!« said Little Claus to himself. »It's clear that
he meant to kill me. Anyhow, it's a good thing for the old dame that she
was dead already, otherwise he would have taken her life.«
And now he dressed up the old grandmother in her Sunday clothes,
borrowed a horse from his neighbour, harnessed it to the cart and set up
the old grandmother in the back seat, so that she couldn't fall out when
he drove faster, and away they bowled through the woods. By sunrise they
were outside a large inn, where Little Claus drew up and went inside to
get something to eat.
The landlord of the inn had plenty of money and was a very kind man
too; but he was hot-tempered, as if he were full of pepper and snuff.
»Good morning! « he said to Little Claus. »You're out early to-day in
your best clothes.
»Yes,« said Little Claus, »rm off to town with my old grandmother.
She's sitting out in the cart; can't get her to come in here. Will you take
her a large glass of honey-wine? But you must speak rather loud, for she's
a bit deaf.«
»Right you are!« said the landlord and poured out a large glass of
honey-wine, which he took out with him to the dead grandmother who
was propped up in the cart.
»Here's a glass of honey-wine from your grandson, lady,« said the
landlord. But the dead woman never said a word nor moved a muscle.
»Can't you hear?« cried the landlord at the top of his voice; »here's a
glass of honey- wine from your grandson !«
Once more he shouted it out, and yet again after that; but as she never
stirred, he lost his temper and threw the glass right into her face so that
the wine ran down over her nose and she toppled over backwards into the
cart; for she was only propped up and not fastened in.
»Hi! What's this?« cried Little Claus, rushing out and seizing the
landlord by the throat. »You've been and killed my grandmother! Just
look, there's a big hole in her forehead !«
»Oh, bad luck!« cried the landlord, wringing his
dear! That's a bit of
hands. »That all comes of my
hot temper. Dear, kind Little Claus, I'll
give you a whole bushel of money and bury your grandmother as if she
was my own, if only you'll not say a word. Otherwise they'll cut off my
head, and that is so disagreeable!«
So Little Claus got a whole bushel of money, and the landlord buried
his old grandmother as if she had been his own.
As soon as Little Claus got back home with all his money, he sent his
boy along to Big Claus to ask if he'd lend him a bushel measure.
»Hullo, what's this?« said Big Claus. »Didn't I kill him? I really must

23
 «

see about this myself. « And he went over to Little Claus with the mea-
sure.
»Why, where ever have you got all this money from?« he asked, and my
goodness! how he opened his eyes when he saw all the fresh money that
had come in.
»It was my grandmother you killed, not me,« said Little Claus. »It's
she I've just sold and got a bushel of money for.«
»That's a wonderful good price,« said Big Claus and hurried home,
took an axe and quickly killed his old grandmother. Then he placed her
in the cart, drove into the town where the doctor lived, and asked if he
wanted to buy a dead body.
»Whose is it and where did you get it?« asked the doctor.

»It's my old grandmother,« said Big Claus. »I killed her to get a bushel
of money.
»Good gracious!« said the doctor, »you don't know what you're saying.
Don't go babbling like that, or you may lose your head!« And then he
told him frankly what a dreadfully wicked thing he had done, and what a
had man he was, and that he ought to be punished. This made Big Claus
so frightened that he rushed straight out of the surgery into the cart,
whipped up the horses and made for home. But the doctor and the rest of
them thought he was mad, and so they left him to drive where he liked.
»You shall pay for this!« said Big Claus, once he was out on the high-
road. »Yes, you shall certainly pay for this. Little Claus!« And, as soon as
he got home, he took the biggest sack he could find, went along to Little
Claus and said: »You've been and fooled me again! First, I killed my
horses, and then my old grandmother. It was your fault both times, but
you shan't fool me any more!« And he caught hold of Little Claus by the
waist, thrust him into the sack, slung him over his shoulder and called
out to him: »Now I'm going to take you out and drown you!«
There was some distance to go before he came to the river, and Little
Claus was no light weight to carry. The road went past the church; and
the sound of the organ playing and the people singing was so beautiful
that Big Claus put down his sack, with Little Claus inside it, near by the
church-door and thought it would be nice to go in and listen to a hymn
first before he went any further. Little Claus couldn't possibly get out,

and everybody was in church; so in he went.

»Oh, dear! Oh, dear!« sighed Little Claus inside the sack. He wriggled
and wriggled, but he couldn't possibly manage to get the string unfas-
tened. Just then an old cattledrover came up. His hair was as white as
chalk, and he leaned on a big stick, as he drove a whole herd of cows and
bullocks in front of him; these ran up to the sack, in which Little Claus
was sitting, and overturned it.
»Oh, dear!« sighed Little Claus, »rm so young to go to heaven!«
»And poor me!« said the drover. »rm so old and I can't get there!«
»Open the sack!« called out Little Claus. »Crawl in here instead of me,
and you'll soon get to heaven !«
24
 « «

»Ah! anything for that,« said the drover, and he unfastened the
I'd give
sack for Little Claus, who jumped out at once.
»You'll mind the cattle, won't you?« said the old man, as he crawled
into the bag. Little Claus tied it up and went on his way with all the cows
and bullocks.
Soon after. Big Claus came out of church and put the sack over his
shoulder again. Sure enough, he noticed that it seemed lighter; for the
old drover wasn't more than half the weight of Little Claus. »How light
he's become! No it's because I listened to a hymn.« Then off he
doubt
went which was a deep one, and threw the sack with the old
to the river,
drover inside it right out into the stream and shouted after him, thinking
of course that it was Little Claus: »There now! You shan't fool me any
more!«
Then he turned homeward, but when he came to the cross-roads he met
Little Claus driving off with all his cattle.
»Hullo, what's this?« said Big Claus, »didn't I drown you?«
»Yes, you did,« said Little Claus. »You threw me into the river barely
half an hour ago.«
»But where did you get all those fine cattle from?« asked Big Claus.
»They're sea-cattle,« said Little Claus. »I must tell you the whole story;
and by the by, thank you so much for drowning me. I'm in luck's way
now; I'm really rich, I can tell you!...
»I was very frightened, as I lay inside the sack with the wind whistling
round my ears, when you threw me down off the bridge into the cold
water. I sank straight to the bottom, but I didn't hurt myself, because
down there grows the finest, softest grass. As I came down on this, the bag
at once opened, and the most lovely girl dressed in pure white, with a
green garland on her wet hair, took my hand and said: 'Is that you, Little
Claus? Here are a few cattle for you to go on with. About four miles
further up the road there's another drove of them, which I'll make you a
present of...
»Then could see that the river was a great high-road for the sea-
I

people. Downthere at the bottom they walked and drove straight out of
the sea, and then right away inland to where the river rises. It was de-
lightful down there - what with flowers and the freshest grass, and fishes
swimming about in the water and darting past my ears as birds do in the
air up here. What fine folk there were, and what cattle to be met with
along the hedges and ditches!
»But why have you come up to us again in such a hurry?« asked Big
Claus. »I wouldn't have done that, if it was so beautiful down there.
»Ah, but that's just where I've been rather cunning,« said Little Claus.
»You remember I told you what the sea-maiden said - that about four
miles further up the road (and by the road she means of course the river,
as she can't go anywhere else) there's another drove of cattle waiting for
me. Well, I know how the river keeps winding in and out; it would be a

25
 « « «

very roundabout way, you know. So, if you can do it, it's much shorter to
come up on land and drive straight across to the river again. You see, I
save almost half the distance that way and get to my sea-cattle more
quickly.
»Oh, what a lucky man you are!« said Big Claus. »Do you think I shall
get some sea-cattle too, if I go down to the bottom of the river?«
»I should just think you would!« said Little Claus; »but I can't carry
you as far as the river in the sack, you're too heavy. If you will go there
yourself and then crawl into the bag, I'll throw you into the water with
the greatest of pleasure.
»Thanks very much,« if I don't find any seacattle
said Big Claus, »but
when I get down there, you such a beating, I can tell you!«
I'll give
»Oh, no; don't be so cruel!« So they went off to the river. The cattle
were thirsty and, when they saw the water, they trotted off as fast as they
could so as to get down and have a drink.
»Look what a hurry they're in,« said Little Claus. »They're longing to
get down to the bottom again.
»Yes, but help me first,« said Big Claus, »or you'll get your beating!«
And then he crawled into the big sack, which had been lying across the
back of one of the herd. »Better put a stone in, or else I'm afraid I mayn't
sink,« said Big Claus.
»I expect you'll sink all right,« said Little Claus. Still, he put a big
stone in the sack, tied the string tight and then gave it a good push -
plomp! - there was Big Claus out in the river, and he sank straight to the
bottom.
»rm afraid he won't find his cattle,« said Little Claus - and drove off
home with what he had.

'0^>

-^^yf-
 )
m

The Princess and

the Pea

o
his
nee upon a time there was a Prince, who wanted to have a Princess of
own, but she must be a proper Princess. So he travelled all over the
world in order to find such a one, but every time there was something
wrong. There were plenty of Princesses, but he could never quite make
out if they were real Princesses; there was always something that wasn't
quite right. So he came back home and was very much upset, because he
did so long for a real Princess.
One evening a terrible storm blew up. There was lightning and thun-
der, the rain came pouring down - it was something dreadful! All at once
there was a knock at the city gate, and the old King went out to open it.
It was a Princess standing outside. But goodness! what a sight she was

with the rain and the weather! The water was running all down her hair
and her clothes, and in at the tip of her shoes and out again at the heel;
and yet she declared she was a real Princess.
»Well, we shall soon see about that!« thought the old Queen. She
didn't say anything, but she went into the bedroom, took off all the
bedclothes and placed a pea on the bottom of the bed; then she took
twenty mattresses and laid them on top of the pea, and then again twenty
of the softest featherbeds on top of the mattresses. That's where the Prin-
cess had to sleep for the night.
In the morning they asked her how she had slept. »Oh, dreadfully

27
badly !« said the Princess. »I hardly had a wink of sleep all night! Good-
ness knows what there was in the bed! I was lying on something so hard
that I'm simply black and blue all over. It's perfectly dreadful!«
So then of course they could see that she really was a Princess, because
she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty
feather-beds. Nobody but a real Princess could have such a tender skin as
that.
And so the Prince took her to wife, because now he knew that he had a
proper Princess. And the pea was sent to the museum, where it is still to
be seen, unless someone has taken it.
There, that's something like a story, isn't it?

.^^o. ^^/
 « « «

Little Ida's Flowers

H poor flowers are quite dead!« said

they were so pretty,
little Ida. »Yesterday evening
and now their leaves are all drooping. Why is it?« she
asked of the student who was sitting on the sofa. She was very fond of
him, because he knew the most lovely stories and could cut out such
amusing pictures - hearts with little dancing ladies inside them, flowers,
and great castles with doors that opened. He was a very jolly student.
»Why do the flowers look so unwell today?« she asked once more,
pointing to a whole nosegay that was quite withered.
»Ah! don't you know what's the matter with them?« said the student.
»The flowers were at a dance last night, that's why they're hanging their
heads.
»But flowers can't dance!« said little Ida.
»Can't they!« said the student. »When it's dark and we are all asleep,
they go hopping round quite gaily; almost every night in the year they
have a dance.
»Are children allowed to join in?«
»Certainly,« said the student, »tiny little daisies are allowed to, and
lilies-of-the- valley.
»Where do the loveliest flowers dance?« asked little Ida.
»You've often been out of town, haven't you, to look at all the beauti-
ful flowers in the garden of the great castle where the King lives in
summer? Then you must have seen the swans which swim up to you,
when you offer them bread-crumbs. There are wonderful dances out
there, I can tell you!«

29
 « « «

»I was out in that garden yesterday with my mother,« said Ida, »but the
leaves were all off the trees, and there wasn't a single flower left. Where
are they? I saw so many there last summer.
»They are inside the castle,« said the student. »You see, directly the
King and all his Court come back to town, the flowers at once run up
from the garden into the castle and make merry. You should just see
them! The two finest roses go and sit on the throne - they are King and
Queen. All the red cockscombs line up on both sides and bow - they are
gentlemen-in-waiting. Then come all the prettiest flowers, and there is a
grand ball. The blue violets are young naval cadets, and they dance with
the hyacinths and crocuses, whom they call Miss. The tulips and the
large yellow lilies are old dowagers, who keep an eye on the dancing and
see that everybody behaves.
»But look here,« asked little Ida, » isn't there anyone to scold the flow-
ers for dancing at the King's castle?«
»Nobody really knows what's going on,« said the student. »Sometimes,
it's true, the old castle-steward, who is on watch there, comes along at

night with his great bunch of keys but as soon as the flowers hear the keys
rattle, they don't make a sound, but hide behind the long curtains and

poke their heads out. 1 can smell flowers in here', says the old steward,
but he can't see them.«
»What fun!« said little Ida, clapping her hands. »But shouldn't I be
able to see the flowers either?«
»Oh, yes!« said the student. »You must just remember, next time you
go out there, to peep in at the windows. You'll be sure to see the flowers. I
did to-day. I saw a long yellow daffodil lolling on the sofa and pretend-
ing she was a maid-of -honour.
»Can the flowers in the Botanical Garden go out there too? Can they go
all that way?«

»Ra-ther!« said the student, »because they can fly, if they want to.
You've seen lots of pretty butterflies, haven't you? Red ones and white
ones and yellow ones - they almost look like flowers, don't they? They
were flowers once, but then they jumped off their stalks high into the air
and kept flapping their petals as if they were little wings, and away they
flew. And as they behaved nicely, they got leave to fly about by day as well
- they didn't have to go back and sit still on their stalks - and so at last
their petals grew into real wings. You've seen that, of course, yourself. All
the same, it's quite possible that the flowers at the Botanical Garden have
never been out to the King's castle and that they have no idea of the fun
that goes on there at night. Well, now I'm going to tell you something
which will quite astonish the Professor of Botany who lives close by -
you know him, don't you? When you go into his garden, you're to tell
one of the flowers that there's a grand ball out at the castle. This flower
will be sure to pass the news on to the others, and so they will all fly
away. Then, if the Professor walks out into his garden, there won't be a

30
 « «

single flower left and he won't have the slightest idea what has become of

them.«
»But how can the flowers tell the others about the ball? Flowers can't
talk, can they?«
»No, not exactly, « answered the student; »but they do it by signs.
Surely you've noticed them, when it's a bit windy - how the flowers keep
nodding and fluttering their green leaves; that means as much to them as
if they talked.
»Does the Professor understand their signs, then?« asked Ida.
»I should just think he does! Why, one morning he went into his
garden and saw a great stinging-nettle making signs with its leaves to a
lovely red carnation; it was saying, 'You are so attractive, and I am so
fond of you!' But the Professor can't bear that sort of thing, and he at
once rapped the stinging-nettle over its leaves - for they are its fingers -
but in doing this he stung himself and, ever since, he has always been
afraid to touch a stinging-nettle.
»What fun!« with a laugh.
said little Ida,

»Fancy head with such rubbish!« said the grumpy old

filling a child's
Councillor, who had come to pay a visit and was sitting on the sofa. He
never could bear the student and always got cross when he saw him
cutting out those comic figures which were so amusing - sometimes it
was a man hanging from a gibbet, with a heart in his hand because he
was a stealer of hearts, sometimes an old witch riding on a broomstick,
with her husband perched on the bridge of her nose. The Councillor
couldn't bear that sort of thing, and he always used to say just what he
said now: »What rubbish to put into a child's head! All stuff and non-
sense !«
But Ida was most amused at what the student had said about her
little

flowers, and she thought about it for a long time. The flowers drooped
their heads because they were tired out from dancing all night. No mis-
take about it, they were ill. So she took them along to her other play-
things, which stood on a nice little table where she kept all her treasures
in a drawer. Her doll, Sophie, lay sleeping in her little bed, but Ida said to
her: »You really must get up, Sophie, and be content with sleeping in the
drawer to-night. The poor flowers are ill, and so they must sleep in your
bed, then perhaps they will get well again. «She picked up the doll, which
looked cross and never said a word, because it was annoyed at having to
give up its bed.
them well up and told
Ida laid the flowers in the doll's bed, tucked
them to lie quite still while she made them some tea; then they would be
well enough to get up next morning. She pulled the curtains close round
the little bed, so that the sun shouldn't shine into their eyes.
what the student had
All that evening she couldn't stop thinking about
told her and, now
was time to go to bed herself, she had first to take
that it

a peep behind the curtains drawn across the window, where her mother's

31
beautiful flowers were standing. They were hyacinths and tulips, and she
whispered to them quite softly: »I know perfectly well where you're
going to-night!« But the flowers pretended they didn't understand a
word, and they never stirred a leaf;but little Ida knew perfectly well what
they were up to.
When she had got into bed, she lay for a long time thinking how jolly
it would be to see the beautiful flowers dancing out there at the King's

castle. »I wonder if my flowers really went too.« But then she fell asleep.
In the middle of the night she woke up again; she had been dreaming
about the flowers and the student whom the Councillor scolded because
he filled her head with rubbish. There wasn't a sound in the bedroom
where Ida lay, the night-light was quietly burning on the table, and her
father and mother were asleep.
»I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophie's bed,« she said to
herself; »I should like to know!« She sat up in bed and looked over at the
door which stood ajar. In there lay the flowers and all her playthings. She
listened carefully, and then it was just as though she heard a piano being
played in the next room, but quite softly and more beautifully than she
had ever heard before.
»That must be dancing in there!« she said. »Oh dear,
the flowers all
how I should them!« But she didn't dare get up for fear of
like to see
waking her father and mother. »If only they would come in here!« she
said. But the flowers never came, and the music went on playing so
beautifully that she couldn't stay where she was any longer, it was too
lovely. She crept out of her little bed and went softly across to the door
and peeped into the next room. Oh, it was really too amusing, what she
saw in there.
There was no night-light of any sort, but all the same it wasn't a bit
dark, for the moon was shining through the window on to the middle of
the floor - it was almost as clear as daylight. All the hyacinths and tulips
were standing on the floor in two long rows; there wasn't one left in the
window, where the pots stood empty. Down on the floor all the flowers
were dancing round so nicely together, actually doing the Grand Chain,
and holding each other by their long green leaves as they swung round.
But over at the piano sat a tall yellow lily, which little Ida was sure she
had seen last summer for she remembered the student saying: »Isn't it like
Miss Lena!« Everybody had laughed at him, but now Ida, too, thought
that the long yellow flower really was like Miss Lena. It had just the same
way of sitting at the piano, and of turning its sallow oval face first to one
side and then to the other, while it nodded time to the pretty music.
Nobody noticed little Ida.

Next she saw a big blue crocus jump on to the middle of the table,
where her playthings were lying, and go straight up to the doll's bed and
pull aside the curtains. There lay the sick flowers but they sat up at once
and nodded to the others that they would gladly come down and join in

32
the dancing. The old chimney-sweep, whose lower lip had broken off,
stood up and bowed to the dainty flowers, which didn't look in the least
ill, but jumped down among the others and enjoyed themselves like

anything.
Suddenly something seemed to fall down off the table. Ida saw that it
was the teaser she had been given for the carnival; it had jumped down,
because it felt it was really one of the flowers. It certainly looked fine with
its paper streamers, and at the top of it was a little wax doll, wearing just

such a wide awake hat as the Councillor went about in. The teaser, on its
three red wooden legs, hopped right in among the flowers and stamped
away like anything, for it was dancing the mazurka, and that's a dance
the other flowers couldn't manage, because they were too light to stamp
properly.
All at once the wax doll at the end of the teaser seemed to grow bigger
and whirled round above its own paper flowers and shouted at
taller; it

the top of its voice: »What rubbish to put into a child's head! All stuff
and nonsense !« The wax doll was the very image of the Councillor, all
sallow and grumpy, in his wide-awake hat, but the teaser's paper flowers
kept curling round his thin legs, and then he shrank together and became
a little shrimp of a wax doll again. It was such fun to watch, and little Ida
couldn't help laughing. The teaser went on dancing and the Councillor
had to dance as well. It made no difference whether he grew large and
lanky or remained the little yellow wax doll in the big black hat, he had
to keep on dancing - till at last the other flowers, and especially those
which had been lying in the doll's bed, begged him off, and the teaser
stopped. At the same moment there was a loud knocking inside the
drawer, where Ida's doll, Sophie, was lying among a lot of other play-
things. The chimney-sweep ran along to the edge of the table and, lying
full length on his stomach, he managed to work the drawer a little way
open. Sophie sat up and looked around her in utter astonishment. »Why,
there's a dance going on here!« she said. »Why didn't anyone tell me
about it?«
»Will you dance with me?« said the chimney-sweep.
»I should think so! You're a fine one to dance with!« - and she turned
her back on him. Then she sat down on the drawer, thinking that one of
the flowers would be sure to come and ask her for a dance; but nobody
came. She kept coughing - ahem! ahem! - it made no difference, not a
soul came up to her. So the chimney-sweep danced by himself, and he
didn't get on at all badly either.
And now, none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophie, she let herself
as
fall down, plump! on to the floor. It was a terrific thud. All the flowers

came running up and stood round her, asking if she had hurt herself.
They all behaved so nicely to her, especially the flowers who had been
lying in her bed; but she hadn't hurt herself in the slightest, and all Ida's
flowers said: »Thank you for the lovely bed« and made a great fuss of her

33
 '>Q<^'
C- .-^^^p^^mi

and took her along to the moonUght in the middle of the floor and
danced with her, while the other flowers made a ring round them. Sophie
was delighted, and told them they were quite welcome to keep her bed, as
she didn't a bit mind sleeping in the drawer.
But the flowers answered: »Thank youvery, very much, but we can't
we've only got till to-morrow. But please tell little Ida to
live very long;
bury us out in the garden where the canary was buried; then we shall
sprout up again next summer and be far prettier.«
»Oh, no! You mustn't die,« said Sophie, as she kissed the flowers. At
the same moment the drawing-room door opened, and a whole throng of
beautiful flowers came dancing in. Ida couldn't make out where they
came from, but of course they were all the flowers which had come in
from the King's castle. Two lovely roses, wearing little crowns of gold,
led the way; they were the King and Queen. Next came the most charm-
ing stocks and carnations, bowing in every direction. There was a band
playing, too - great poppies and peonies blowing away on pea-shells till
they were purple in the face, and harebells and little white snowdrops
tinkling along as if they had real bells. It was such funny music. After
that came a lot of other flowers, and they all danced together - the blue
violets and the red daisies, the ox-eyes and the lilies-of-the-valley. And it
was pretty to see how the flowers all kissed each other. At last they said
good-night to one another, and little Ida also crept away to bed, where
she dreamt of all she had seen.
When she got up next morning, she went straight along to the little
table, to see if the flowers were still there. She drew back the curtains of
the little bed - yes, there they all lay together; but they were quite with-
ered,much more than they were yesterday. Sophie was still in the drawer
where Ida had put her; she was looking very sleepy.
»Do you remember what you were to tell me?« asked little Ida; but
Sophie looked very stupid and didn't say a word.
»You're very naughty,« said Ida, »and yet they all danced with you«.

34
 «

Then she took a cardboard box, which had a pretty design of birds
little

on it, and taking dead flowers inside it. »There's

off the lid she placed the
a nice coffin for you,« she said, »and later on, when my Norwegian
cousins arrive, they will help me to bury you out in the garden, so that
you can sprout up again next summer and become still prettier.
The Norwegian cousins were two lively boys called Jonas and Adolph,
whose father had just given them new bows and arrows, and they
brought these with them to show to Ida. She told them, all about the poor
dead flowers, and they got leave to bury them. The two boys walked in
front with the bows over their shoulders, and little Ida followed with the
dead flowers in the pretty box. Out in the garden they dug a small grave.
Ida first kissed the flowers, and then she placed them, box and all, in the
earth; and, as they hadn't any guns or cannons, Adolph and Jonas fired a
salute over the grave with their bows and arrows.
 ^.'- ^- ^'Sy

Thumhelina

T. here was once a woman who did so want to have a wee child of her
own, but she had no idea where she was to get it from. So she went off to
an old witch and said to her, »I would so dearly like to have a little child,
Do please tell me where I can find one.«
»Oh, that!« said the witch, »Nothing easier. Take this barleycorn -
mind you, it's not the kind that grows out in the fields or that the fowls
are fed with. Put it in a flower-pot, and see what happens !«
»Thank you very much«, said the woman, giving the witch a shilling.
She went straight home and planted the barleycorn, and in no time there
came up a lovely great flower which looked just like a tulip, only the
petals were shut tight as though it were still in bud.
»It is a pretty flower,« said the woman, and she gave the lovely red and
yellow petals a kiss; but directly she kissed it, the flower burst open with a
pop. It was a real tulip - that was plain enough now - but, sitting on the
green pistil in the middle of the flower, was a tiny little girl. She was
delicately pretty and no taller than your thumb, so she was given the
name of Thumhelina.
A nicely varnished walnut-shell did for her cradle, blue violet petals for
her mattress, and a rose-leaf for her counterpane. That was where she
daytime she played about on the table, where the
slept at night; but in the
woman had put a plate with a wreath of flowers. These dipped their
stalks down into the water, in the middle of which floated a large tulip
petal where Thumhelina could sit and row herself from one side of the
plate to the other, using a couple of white horsehairs as oars. It was a
most charming sight. She could sing, too, in the sweetest little voice you
ever heard.

36
 One night, as she lay in her pretty bed, a hideous toad came hopping in
through a broken pane in the window. It was a great ugly slimy toad, and
it jumped straight down on to the table where Thumbelina was lying
asleep under her red rose-leaf.
»She would make a nice wife for my son,« thought the toad, and she
snatched up the walnut-shell in which Thumbelina was sleeping and
hopped off with her through the window into the garden.
There was a wide brook running through it, but the bank was swampy
and muddy, and here the toad lived with her son. Ugh! wasn't he ugly
and horrible - just like his mother! »Koax, koax, brekke-ke-kex« was all
he could say, when he saw the pretty little girl in the walnut-shell.
»Sh! Not so loud, or you'll wake her,« said the old toad. »She might yet
run away from us, for she's as light as swan's-down. Let's put her out in
the brook on one of those broad water-lilies. She's so small and light that
its leaf will be like an island for her. She can't escape from there, and in

the meantime we'll get the best room ready under the mud for you two to
live in.«
There were quite a lot of water-lilies growing on the water with their
broad green leaves which seem to be floating on the surface. The biggest
of them all happened to be the furthest away, but the old toad swam out
and placed the walnut-shell on it with Thumbelina still sleeping inside.
Early the next morning the poor little thing woke up and, when she
saw where she was, she began to cr>' bitterly, for the big green leaf had
water all round it and she couldn't possibly reach the bank.
The old toad stayed down in the mud and decorated her room with
rushes and yellow water-lilies, so as to make everything quite snug for
her new daughter-in-law. Then, she swam out with her son to the water-
lily where Thumbelina was standing, for they wanted to fetch that fine

walnut bed and put it up in the bridal-chamber before she came herself.
The old toad made a low curtsey to her in the water and said, »Here's my
son - he's to be your husband. You'll have a lovely home together down
in the mud.«
»Koax, koax, brekke-ke-kex!« was all that the son could say.
Then they took the pretty little bed and swam away with it. But
Thumbelina alone on the green leaf and cried, for she didn't want
sat all
to live with the horrible toad or to marry her ugly son. The little fishes,
swimming down there in the water, had caught sight of the toad and
heard what she said. So they poked their heads out of the water; they were
so anxious to have a look at the little girl. Directly they saw her, they
found her charming, and they couldn't bear to think that she must go
and live with the ugly toad. No, that must never happen! They all
swarmed together down in the water round the green stalk that held the
leaf she was standing on and gnawed it through with their teeth; where-
upon the leaf floated away with Thumbelina down the brook, far away
where the toad could never reach her.

37
 Thumbelina went sailing past all sorts of places, and the little birds
perched in the bushes saw her and trilled out, »What a pretty little lady!«
The leaf that carried her floated further and further on; and thus it was
that Thumbelina began her journey abroad.
A dainty little white butterfly kept on fluttering round and round her,
till at last it settled on the leaf, for it had taken a great liking to Thumbe-

lina; and she too was pleased, because the toad couldn't reach her now
and she was sailing through such a lovely part of the brook. The sun-
shine gleamed on the water like the finest gold. Then she took her sash
and tied one end of it round the butterfly, while the other end she made
fast to the leaf; and this at once gathered speed - and so did Thumbelina
because, you see, she was standing on the leaf. Just then a large cockchaf-
er came flying up and, catching sight of her, clutched her round her

38
slender waist and flew with her up into a tree. But the green leaf went
floating on and the butterfly with it, because it had been tied to the leaf
and couldn't manage to free itself.
Gracious, what a fright it gave poor Thumbelina, when the cockchafer
flew up into the tree with her! Still, what upset her even more was the
thought of the pretty white butterfly that she had tied to the leaf; for
unless it could manage to free itself, it would certainly starve to death.
But that didn't worry the cockchafer in the slightest. He settled beside her
on the largest green leaf in the tree, gave her some nectar from the blos-
soms and said how pretty she was, although she wasn't a bit like a cock-
chafer. Later on, all the other cockchafers living in the tree came to call
on her. They stared at Thumbelina, and the young lady cockchafers
shrugged their feelers - »Why, she's only got two legs,« they said. »What
a pitiable sight! « »She hasn't any feelers,« they went on. »She's so
pinched in at the waist - ugh! she might almost be a human. Isn't she
ugly!« exclaimed all the lady cockchafers. And yet Thumbelina was
really so pretty. And that's what the cockchafer thought who had carried
her off; but when all the others kept saying how ugly she was, then at
length he thought so too and would have nothing to do with her; she
could go where she liked. They flew with her down from the tree and sat
her on a daisy. There she cried and cried, because she was so ugly that the
cockchafers wouldn't have her; and all the time she was as beautiful as
can be - as exquisite as the loveliest rose-petal.
Right through the summer poor Thumbelina lived quite alone in that
enormous wood. She took blades of grass and plaited herself a bed, which
she hung under a large dock-leaf, so as to be out of the rain. She got her
food from the honey in the flowers, and her drink from the morning dew
on the leaves; and in this way summer and autumn went by. But now
came winter - the long, cold winter. All the birds that had sung to her so
beautifully now flew away; the trees and flowers withered; the great dock-
leaf she had been living under furled itself into nothing but a faded
yellow She felt the cold most terribly, for her clothes were by this
stalk.
time in and she herself was so tiny and delicate, poor Thumbeli-
tatters,
na, that she would surely be frozen to death. It began snowing, and every
snowflake that fell on her was like a whole shovelful being thrown on us,
for we are quite big and she was no taller than your thumb. So she
wrapped herself up in a dead leaf, but there was no warmth in that, and
she shivered with cold.
On the fringe of the wood where she had now come to was a large
cornfield; but the corn had long been harvested, and only the bare barren
stubble thrust up from the frozen earth. It was just like an entire forest for
her to walk through - oh, and she was shivering with cold! At length she
came to the field-mouse's door. It was a little hole down below the stub-
ble. There the field-mouse had a fine snug place to live in, with a whole
roomful of corn and a splendid kitchen and dining-room. Poor Thumbe-

39
 «

lina stood just inside the door like any other wretched beggar- girl and
asked for a little bit of barleycorn, for she hadn't had a scrap to eat for two
days.
»You poor mite!« said the field-mouse, for at heart she was a kind old
thing. »Come you in and have a bite with me in my warm room.«
As she once took a liking to Thumbelina she made a suggestion.
at
»You're quite welcome to stay with me for the winter,« she said, »as long
as you'll keep my rooms nice and tidy and also tell me stories, for I'm so
fond of stories. « And Thumbelina did what the kind old field-mouse
asked for and was extremely comfortable there.
»I dare say we shall have a visitor before long,« said the field-mouse.
»My neighbour generally pays me a call once a week. His house is even
snugger than mine, with goodsized rooms, and he wears such a lovely
black velvet coat. If only you could get him for a husband, you'd be
comfortably off. But his sight's very bad. You must tell him all the nicest
stories you know.«
Thumbelina took no notice of all this; she had no intention of marry-
ing the neighbour, for he was a mole. He came and called in his black
velvet coat. He was so rich and clever, according to the field-mouse, and
his home was twenty times the size of the field-mouse's. He was very
learned, but he couldn't bear sunshine and pretty flowers; he said all sorts
of nasty things about them, never having seen them. Thumbelina had to
sing, and she sang both »Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home« and »Ring-
a-ring-o'roses«; and the mole fell in love with her because of her pretty
voice, but he didn't say anything - he was much too cautious a man for
that.
He had lately dug a long passage for himself through the earth, lead-
ing from his house to Here the field-mouse and Thumbelina were
theirs.
invited to stroll whenever they cared to. But he told them not to be afraid

of the dead bird lying in the passage; it was a whole bird with beak and
feathers, that had evidently only just died as the winter began and was
now buried in the very spot where he had made his underground passage.
The mole took a bit of touchwood in his mouth - for in the dark that
shines just like fire - and went ahead to give them a light in the long
dark passage. When they came to where the dead bird was lying, the mole
tilted his broad snout up to the ceiling and thrust through the earth;
making a large hole through which the light could penetrate. In the
middle of the floor lay a dead swallow with its pretty wings folded close
in to its sides, and head and legs tucked in beneath its feathers. The poor
bird must have died of cold. Thumbelina felt so sorry for it; she was very
fond of all the little birds that had sung and twittered for her so sweetly
right through the summer. But the mole kicked at it with his stumpy
legs, saying, »That won't chirp any more! How wretched it must be to be
born a little bird! Thank goodness no child of mine ever will be. A bird
like that has of course nothing but its twitter and is bound to starve to
death when winter comes.

40
 « « «

»Just what I'd expect to hear from a sensible man Hke you,« said the
field-mouse.»What has a bird to show for all its twittering, when winter
comes? It must starve and freeze. But I suppose that's considered a great
thing.
Thumbelina didn't say a word, but when the other two turned their
back on the bird, she stooped down and, smoothing aside the feathers
that lay over its head, she kissed its closed eyes. »Who knows - this may
be the very one,« she thought, »that used to sing so beautifully to me last
summer.
The mole now filled in the hole where the daylight shone through and
saw the two ladies home. But that night Thumbelina simply couldn't
sleep; so she got up, and plaited a fine big blanket of hay, which she
carried down and spread all over the dead bird, and she took some soft
cotton-wool she had found in the field-mouse's room and tucked this in
at the sides, so that the bird might lie warm in the cold earth.
»Goodbye, you lovely little bird,« she said. »Goodbye, and thank you
for your beautiful singing last summer, when all the trees were green and
the sun was so bright and warm.« Then she laid her head up against the
bird's breast - but at the same moment she got such a fright, for she heard
a kind of thumping inside. It was the bird's heart. The bird wasn't dead;
it had been lying numb and unconscious and now, as it grew warm

again, it revived.
You see, in autumn the swallows all fly away to the warm countries,
but if one that lags behind it gets so cold that it falls down dead.
there's
There it lies, where it fell, and the cold snow covers it over.
Thumbelina was all of a tremble from the fright she had, for the bird
was of course an immense great creature beside her, who was no taller
than your thumb. However, she took courage and tucked the cottonwool
still more closely round the poor swallow and fetched a curled mint leaf

that she had been using herself for a counterpane and spread this over the
bird's head.
The following night she again stole down to the bird, and this time it
had quite revived; but it was so feeble that it could only open its eyes for a
short moment to look at Thumbelina, standing there with a bit of touch-
wood in her hand, for she had no other light.
»Thank you, my darling child,« said the sick swallow. »rm lovely and
warm now. I shall soon get back my strength and be able to fly again, out
in the warm sunshine.«
»Ah, but it's so cold out of doors,« she said. »It's snowing and freezing.
Stay in your warm bed; I'll look after you all right.
Then she brought the swallow some water, in the petal of a flower, and
the bird drank it and told her how it had torn one of its wings on a
bramble and therefore couldn't fly as fast as the other swallows when they
flew far, far away to the warm countries. At last it had fallen to the
ground, but it couldn't remember anything after that and had no idea
how it came to be where it was:
41
 The swallow now remained here allthrough the winter, and Thumbe-
lina took care of it and grew very fond of it. Neither the mole nor the
field-mouse heard anything at all about this; they had no liking for the
poor wretched swallow.
As soon as spring had arrived and the sun had begun to warm the
earth, the swallow said goodbye to Thumbelina, who opened up the hole
that the mole had made in the roof of the passage. The sun came shining
in so pleasantly, and the swallow asked if she would like to come too; she
could sit on its back, and they would fly far out into the green forest. But
Thumbelina knew that it would grieve the old field-mouse, if she left her
like that.
»No, I can't,« said Thumbelina. »Goodbye goodbye, you dear kind
girl,« said the swallow, as it flew into the open sunshine. Thumbelina
gazed after it with tears in her eyes, for she was so fond of the poor
swallow.
»Tweet-tweet!« sang the bird and flew off into the woods...
felt so sad. She was never allowed to go out into the warm
Thumbelina
sunshine. The corn that had been sown in the field above the field-
mouse's home was certainly very tall; so that it was like a dense wood for
the poor little girl, who after all was only an inch high.
»You will have to start making your wedding trousseau this summer,«
the field-mouse told her, because by now their neighbour, the tiresome
tedious mole in the black velvet coat, had proposed to her. »You'll need
to have both woollens and linen - something for every occasion - when
you're married to the mole.«
So Thumbelina had to spin from a distaff, and the field-mouse en-
gaged four spiders to spin and weave day and night. Every evening there
was a visit from the mole, who always kept on about how, when summer
was over, the sun wasn't nearly so warm, whereas now it scorched the
earth till it was as hard as a stone. Yes, and when the summer had ended
there was to be his wedding with Thumbelina. But she wasn't at all
pleased, for she found the mole such a terrible bore. Every morning, as
the sun rose, and every evening as it set, she stole out to the door, and
when the wind parted the ears of corn so that she could see the blue sky,
she thought how lovely and bright it was out there and did so wish she
could catch sight of the dear swallow once more; but the bird never came
again and had evidently flown far off into the beautiful green forest.
Now it was autumn, and Thumbelina had the whole of her trousseau
ready.
»Your wedding will be in four weeks' time,« the field-mouse told her.
But Thumbelina wept and said she wouldn't marry the tedious mole.
»Hoity-toity!« said the field-mouse. »Don't you be so pig-headed, or
I'll bite you with my white teeth. Why, he's a splendid husband for you.

The Queen herself hasn't anything like his black velvet coat. His kitchen
and cellar are both of the best. You ought to thank Heaven he's yours.«

42
 «

The wedding-day arrived. The mole was already there to fetch

Thumbelina. She would have to live with him deep down under the
earth and never come out into the warm sunshine, for he didn't care for
that. The poor child was very sad at having to say goodbye to the beauti-
ful sun, which she had at least been allowed to look at from the doorway
when she was living with the field-mouse.
»Goodbye, bright sun!« she said and, stretching out her arms to it, she
also took a few steps out from the field-mouse's dwelling; for the harvest
was in, and nothing was left but the dry stubble. »Goodbye, goodbye,«
she said, throwing her tiny arms round a little red flower standing near.
»Remember me to the dear swallow, if you happen to see it.«
»Tweet-tweet!« she heard suddenly over her head. She looked up, and
there was the swallow just passing. How delighted it was to see Thumbe-
lina! She told the bird how she disliked having to marry the ugly mole
and to live deep down under the earth where the sun never shone. She
couldn't help crying at the thought.
»The cold winter will soon be here,« said the swallow. »rm going far
away to the warm countries. Will you come with me? You can sit on my
back. Just tie yourself on with your sash, and away we'll fly from the ugly
mole and his dingy house, far away across the mountains, to the warm
countries, where the sun shines more brightly than it does here and
there's always summer with its lovely flowers. Dear little Thumbelina, do
come with me - you who saved my life when I lay frozen stiff in that
dismal cellar.
»Yes, come with you,« said Thumbelina. She climbed on to the
I'll

bird's back, setting her feeton its outstretched wings and tying her sash
to one of the strongest feathers. Then the swallow flew high up into the
air, over lake and forest, high up over the great mountains of eternal

snow. Thumbelina shivered in the cold air, but then she snuggled in
under the bird's warm feathers, merely poking out her little head to look
at all the loveliness stretched out beneath her.
And at last they reached the warm countries. The sun was shining
theremuch more brightly than with us, and the sky looked twice as far
off.On walls and slopes grew the finest black and while grapes, in the
woods hung lemons and oranges; the air smelt sweetly of myrtle and
curled mint, and the most delightful children darted about on the roads
playing with large gay-coloured butterflies. But the swallow kept flying
on and on, and the country became more and more beautiful, till at last
they came upon an ancient palace of glittering white marble standing
among vivid green trees beside a blue lake. Vines went curling up round
the tall pillars, and right at the top were a number of swallow's nests.
One of these was the home of the swallow that had brought Thumbe-
lina on its back.
»Here's my house,« cried the swallow.
»But you see those beautiful flowers growing down here? You shall

43
now choose one of them yourself, and then I'll put you on it, and you can
make yourself as cosy as you like.«
»That will be lovely,« she said, clapping her little hands.
A marble column was lying there on the ground just as it
large white
had fallen and broken into three pieces, but in among these were growing
the most beautiful white flowers. The swallow flew down with Thumbe-
lina and placed her on one of the broad petals - but what a surprise she
got! There in the middle of the flower sat a little man as white and
transparent as if he had been made of glass. He wore the neatest little
gold crown on his head and the most exquisite wings on his shoulders;
he himself was no bigger than Thumbelina. He was the guardian spirit
of the flower. Each flower had just such a little man or woman living in
it, but this one was King of them all.

»Goodness, how handsome he is!« whispered Thumbelina to the swal-

low. The little monarch was very frightened of the swallow, which of
course seemed a gigantic bird beside one so small and delicate as himself;
but when he caught sight of Thumbelina he was enchanted, for she was
much little lady he had ever seen. So he took the gold crown
the prettiest
off his head and placed it on hers. At the same time he asked her what her
name was and whether she would be his wife; if so, she would become
Queen of all the flowers. Well, he would be a proper husband for her,
quite different from the son of the old toad and from the mole with the
black velvet coat. So she said yes to the handsome King, and from every
flower there appeared a lady or a gentleman that was the most dapper
little creature imaginable. Each one brought a present for Thumbelina,

but the best of them all was a pair of beautiful wings from a large white
fly. These were fastened to her back, so that she too could flit from flower

to flower. There was such rejoicing, and the swallow sat up above in its
nest and sang for them as well as it could, but the poor bird was really too
sad at heart, for it was very fond of Thumbelina and would have liked
never to be parted from her.

44
 »You shan't be called Thumbelina,« said the guardian spirit of the
flower to her. »It's an ugly name, and you are so pretty. We will call you
Maia.«
»Goodbye, goodbye, « said the swallow and flew away again from the
warm countries, far away back to Denmark. There it had a little nest
above the window where the man lives who can tell fairy tales, and there
it was that the swallow sang »Tweet-tweet!« to him... And that's where

the whole story comes from.

 The Little Mermaid

X ar out at sea the water's as blue as the petals of the loveliest cornflow-
er,and as dear as the purest glass; but it's very deep, deeper than any
anchor can reach. Many church steeples would have to be piled up one
above the other to reach from the bottom of the sea to the surface. Right
down there live the sea people.
Now
you mustn't for a moment suppose that it's a bare white sandy
bottom. Oh, no. The most wonderful trees and plants are growing down
there, with stalks and leaves that bend so easily that they stir at the very
slightest movement of the water, just as though they were alive. All the
fishes, big ones and little ones, slip in and out of the branches just like
birds in the air up here. Down in the deepest part of all is the sea King's
palace. Its walls are made of coral, and the long pointed windows of the
clearest amber; but the roof is made of cockle-shells that open and shut
with the current. It's a pretty sight, for in each shell is a dazzling pearl;
any single one of them would be a splendid ornament in a Queen's
crown.
The sea King down there had been a widower for some years, but his
old mother kept house for him. She was a clever woman, but proud of her
noble birth; that's why she went about with twelve oysters on her tail,
while the rest of the nobility had to put up with only six. But apart from
that, she was deserving of special praise, because she was so fond of the
little sea Princesses, her grandchildren. They were six pretty children, but

the -youngest was the loveliest of them all. Her skin was as clear and
delicate as a rose-leaf, her eyes were as blue as the deepest lake, but like
the others she had no feet; her body ended in a fish's tail.

46
 All the long day they could play down there in the palace, in the great
halls where living flowers grew out of the walls. The fishes would swim
in to them, just as with us the swallows fly in when we open the win-
dows; but the fishes swam right up to the little Princesses, fed out of their
hands, and let themselves be patted.
Outside the palace was a large garden with trees of deep blue and fiery
red; the fruit all shone like gold, and the flowers like a blazing fire with
stalks and leaves that were never still. The soil itself was the finest sand,
but blue like a sulphur flame. Over everything down there lay a strange
blue gleam; you really miglit have thought you were standing high up in
the air with nothing to see but sky above and below you, rather than that
you were at the bottom of the sea. When there was a dead calm you
caught a glimpse of the sun, which looked like a purple flower pouring
out all light from its cup.
Each of the small Princesses had her own little plot in the garden,
where she could dig and plant at will. One of them gave her flower-bed
the shape of a whale, another thought it nicer for hers to look like a little
mermaid; but the youngest made hers quite round like the sun, and
would only have flowers that shone red like it. She was a curious child,
silent and thoughtful; and when the other sisters decorated their gardens
with the most wonderful things they had got from sunken ships, she
would have nothing but the rose-red flowers that were like the sun high
above, and a beautiful marble statue. It was the statue of a handsome boy,
hewn from the clear white stone and come down to the bottom of the sea
from a wreck. Beside the statue she planted a rose-red weeping willow,
which grew splendidly and let its fresh foliage droop over the statue right
down to the blue sandy bottom. Here the shadow took on a violet tinge
and, like the branches, was never still; roots and treetop looked as though
they were playing at kissing each other.
Nothing pleased her more than to hear about the world of humans up
above the sea. The old grandmother had to tell her all she knew about
ships and towns, people and animals. One thing especially surprised her
with its beauty, and this was that the flowers had a smell - at the bottom
of the sea they hadn't any - and also that the woods were green and the
fishes you saw in among the branches could sing as clearly and prettily as
possible. It was the little birds that the grandmother called fishes; other-
wise, never having seen a bird, the small sea Princesses would never have
understood her.
»As soon as you are fifteen,« the grandmother told them, »you shall be
allowed to rise to the surface, and to sit in the moonlight on the rocks and
watch the great ships sailing past; you shall see woods and towns. « That
coming year one of the sisters was to have her fifteenth birthday, but the
rest of them - well, they were each one year younger than the other; so the
youngest of them had a whole five years to wait before she could rise up
from the bottom and see how things are with us. But each promised to

47
 .-
,
j^^^
I ;.,!

tell the others what she had seen and found most interesting on the first
day; for their grandmother didn't really tell them enough - there were so
many things they were longing to hear about.
None of them was so full of longing as the youngest: the very one who
had most time to wait and was so silent and thoughtful. Many a night she
stood at the open window and gazed up through the dark-blue water,
where the fishes frisked their tails and fins. She could see the moon and
the stars, though it's true their light was rather pale; and yet through the
water they looked much larger than they do to us, and if ever a kind of
black* cloud went gliding along below them, she knew it was either a
whale swimming above her or else a vessel with many passengers; these
certainly never imagined that a lovely little mermaid was standing be-
neath and stretching up her white hands towards the keel of their ship.
By now the eldest Princess was fifteen and allowed to go up to the
surface.
When she came back, she had a hundred things to tell; but the loveliest,

48
she said, was to lie in the moonhght on a sandbank in a calm sea and
there, close in to the shore, to look at the big town where the lights were
twinkling like a hundred stars; to listen to the sound of music and the
noise and clatter of carts and people; to see all the towers and spires on
the churches and hear the bells ringing. And just because she couldn't get
there, it was
above everything that she longed for.
this
Oh, how the youngest sister drank it all in! And, when later in the
evening she stood at the open window and gazed up through the dark-
blue water, she thought of the big town with all its noise and clatter, and
then she seemed to catch the sound of the churchbells ringing down to
her.
The following year, the second sister was allowed to go up through the
water and swim wherever she liked. She came to the surface just as the
sun was setting, and that was the sight she found most beautiful. The
whole sky had looked like gold, she said, and the clouds - well, she just
couldn't describe how beautiful they were as they sailed, all crimson and
violet, over her head. And yet, much
than they, a flock of wild
faster
swans flew like a long white veil across the water where the sun was
setting. She swam off in that direction, but the sun sank, and its rosy
light was swallowed up by sea and cloud.
The year after that, the third sister went up. She was the boldest of
them all, and she swam up a wide flowed into the sea. She saw
river that
delightful green slopes with grape-vines; manors and farms peeped out
among magnificent woods; she heard all the birds singing; and the sun
was so hot that she often had to dive under the water to cool her burning
face. In a small cove she came upon a swarm of little human children
splashing about quite naked in the water. She wanted to play with them,
but they ran away terrified, and a little black animal came up; it was a
dog. She had never seen a dog before. It barked at her so dreadfully that
she got frightened and made for the open sea. But never could she forget
the magnificent woods, the green slopes and the darling children, who
could swim on the water although they had no fishes' tails.
The fourth sister was not so bold. She kept far out in the wild waste of
ocean, and told them that was just what was so wonderful: you could see
for miles and miles around you, and the sky hung above like a big glass
bell. She had seen ships, but a long way off, looking like sea-gulls. The

jolly dolphins had been turning somersaults, and enormous whales had
spirted up water from their nostrils, so that they seemed to be surrounded
by a hundred fountains.
And now it was the turn of the fifth sister. Her birthday happened to
come in winter, and so she saw things that the others hadn't seen the first
time. The sea appeared quite green, and great icebergs were floating
about; they looked like pearls, she said, and yet were much larger than
the church-towers put up by human beings. They were to be seen in the
most fantastic shapes, and they glittered like diamonds. She had sat down

49
on one and all the ships gave it a wide berth as they sailed
of the biggest,
in terror past where she sat with her long hair streaming in the wind. But
late in the evening the sky became overcast with clouds; it lightened and
thundered, as the dark waves lifted the great blocks of ice right up, so that
they flashed in the fierce red lightning. All the ships took in sail, and
amidst the general horror and alarm, she sat calmly on her floating
iceberg and watched the blue lightning zigzag into the glittering sea.
The first time one of the sisters went up to the surface, she would
always be delighted to see so much that was new and beautiful; but
afterwards, when they were older and could go up as often as they liked, it
no longer interested them; they longed to be back again, and when a
month had passed they said that, after all, it was nicest down below - it
was such a comfort to be home.
Often of an evening the five sisters used to link arms and float up
together out of the water. They had lovely voices, more beautiful than
any human voice; and when a gale sprang up threatening shipwreck,
they would swim in front of the ships and sing tempting songs of how
delightful it was at the bottom of the sea. And they told the sailors not to
be afraid of coming down there, but the sailors couldn't make out the
words of their song; they thought it was the noise of the gale, nor did they
ever see any of the delights the mermaids promised, because when the
ship sank the crew were drowned, and only as dead men did they come to
the palace of the sea King.
When of an evening the sisters floated up through the sea like this, arm
in arm, their little sister stayed back all alone gazing after them. She
would have cried, only a mermaid hasn't any tears, and so she suffers all
the more.
»Oh, if only I were fifteen!« she said. »rm sure I shall love that world
up there and the people who live in it.«
And then at last she was fifteen.
»There, now you'll soon be off our hands, « said her grandmother, the
old Dowager Queen. »Come now, let me dress you up like your sisters;«
and she put a wreath of white lilies on her hair, but every petal of the
flowers was half a pearl. And the old lady made eight big oysters nip tight
on to the Princess's tail to show her high rank.
»Oo! that hurts,« mermaid.
said the little

»Yes,« said the grandmother, »one can't have beauty for nothing.«
How she would have liked to shake off all this finery and put away the
heavy wreath! The red flowers in her garden suited her much better, but
she didn't dare make any change. »Goodbye,« she said, and went up
through the water as light and clear as a bubble.
The sun had just set, as she put her head up out of the sea, but the
clouds had still a gleam of rose and gold; and up in the pale pink sky the
evening star shone clear and beautiful. The air was soft and fresh, and the
sea dead calm. A large three-masted ship was lying there, with only one

50
sail hoisted because not a breath of wind was stirring, and sailors were
lolling about in the rigging and on the yards. There was music and
singing, and as it grew dark hundreds of lanterns were lit that, with their
many different colours, looked as if the flags of all nations were flying in
the breeze.
The little mermaid swam right up to the porthole of the cabin and,
every time she rose with the swell of the wave, she could see through the
clear glass a crowd of splendidly dressed people; but the handsomest of
them was a young Prince with large dark eyes. He couldn't have been
all

much more than sixteen; it was his birthday, and that's why there was all
this set-out. As the young Prince came out on to the deck where sailors
were dancing, over a hundred rockets swished up into the sky - and broke
into a glitter like broad daylight. That frightened the little mermaid, and
she dived down under the water; but she quickly popped up her head
again, and look! it was just as if all the stars in heaven were falling down
on her. Never had she seen such fireworks. Great suns went spinning
around, gorgeous firefishes swerving into the blue air, and all this glitter
was mirrored in the clear still water. On board the ship herself it was so
light that you could make out every little rope, let alone the passengers.
Oh, how handsome the young Prince was; he shook hands with the
sailors, he laughed and smiled, while the music went floating out into
the loveliness of the night.
It grew late, but the little mermaid couldn't take her eyes off the ship

and the beautiful Prince. The coloured lanterns were put out, the rockets
no longer climbed into the sky, and the cannon were heard no more; but
deep down in the sea there was a mumbling and a rumbling. Meanwhile
the mermaid stayed on the water, rocking up and down so that she could
look into the cabin. But the ship now gathered speed; one after another
her sails were spread. The waves increased, heavy clouds blew up, and
lightning flashed in the distance. Yes, they were in for a terrible storm; so
the sailors took in their sails, as the great ship rocked and scudded
through the raging sea. The waves rose higher and higher like huge
black mountains, threatening to bring down the mast, but the ship dived
like a swan into the trough of the waves and then rode up again on their
towering crests. The little mermaid thought, why, it must be fun for a
ship to sail like that - but the crew didn't. The vessel creaked and cracked,
the stout planks crumpled up under the heavy pounding of the sea
against the ship, the mast snapped in the middle like a stick, and then the
ship gave a lurch to one side as the water came rushing into the hold. At
last the litde mermaid realized that they were in danger; she herself had to
look out for the beams and bits of wreckage that were drifting on the
water. One moment it was so pitch dark that she couldn't see a thing, but
then when the lightning came it was so bright that she could make out
everyone on board. It was now a case of each man for himself. The young
Prince was the one she was looking for and, as the ship broke up, she saw

51
him disappear into the depths of the sea. Just for one moment she felt
quite pleased, for now
he would come down to her; but then she remem-
bered that humans can't live under the water and that only as a dead man
could he come down to her father's palace. No, no, he mustn't die. So she
swam in among the drifting beams and planks, with no thought for the
danger of being crushed by them; she dived deep down and came right up
again among the waves, and at last she found the young Prince. He could
hardly swim any longer in the heavy sea; his arms and legs were begin-
ning to tire, the fine eyes were closed, he would certainly have drowned if
the little mermaid had not come. She held his head above water and then
let the waves carry her along with him.

By morning the gale had quite gone; not the smallest trace of the ship
was to be seen. The sun rose red and glowing out of the water and seemed
to bring life to the Prince's cheeks, but his eyes were still shut. The
mermaid kissed his fine high forehead and smoothed back his dripping
hair. He was marble statue down in her little garden; she kissed
like the
him again and wished that he might live.
Presently she saw the mainland in front of her, high blue mountains
with the white snow glittering on their peaks like nestling swans. Down
by the shore were lovely green woods and, in front of them, a church or a
convent - she wasn't sure which, but anyhow a building. Lemon and
orange trees were growing in the garden, and tall palm trees in front of
the gate. At this point the sea formed a little inlet, where the water was
quite smooth but very deep close in to the rock where the fine white sand
had silted up. She swam here with the handsome Prince and laid him on
the sand with his head carefully pillowed in the warm sunshine.
Now there was a sound of bells from the large white building, and a
number of young girls came through the garden. So the little mermaid
swam further out behind some large boulders that were sticking out of
the water and covered her hair and breast with seafoam, so that her face
wouldn't show; and then she watched to see who would come to the help
of the unfortunate Prince.
It wasn't long before a younggirl came along. She seemed quite fright-
ened, but only for a moment; then she fetched several others, and the
mermaid saw the Prince come round and smile at those about him; but
no smile came out to her, for of course he didn't know she had rescued
him. She felt so sad that, when he was taken away into the large building,
she dived down sorrowfully into the sea and went back to her father's
palace.
Silent and thoughtful as she had always been, she now became much
more so. Her sisters asked her what she had seen on her first visit to the
surface, but she wouldn't say.
Many morning and many an evening she rose up to where she had
a
left the Prince. She saw the fruit in the garden ripen and be gathered, she

saw the snow melt on the peaks, but she never saw the Prince, and so she

52
always turned back more despondent than ever. Her one comfort was to
sit in the Httle garden with her arms round the beautiful marble statue

which was so like the Prince. She never looked after her flowers, and they
grew into a sort of wilderness, out over the paths, and braided their long
stalks and leaves on to the branches of the trees, until the light was quite
shut out.
At last she could keep it to herself no longer, but told one of her sisters;
and immediately all the rest got to know, but nobody else - except a few
other mermaids who didn't breathe a word to any but their nearest
friends. One of these was able to say who the Prince was; she, too, had
seen the party that was held on board the ship, and knew where he came
from and whereabouts his kingdom was.
»Come on, little sister !« said the other Princesses. And with arms
round each other's shoulders they rose in one line out of the sea, just in
front of where the Prince's castle stood. It was built in a glistening stone
of pale yellow with great flights of marble steps; one of these led straight
into the sea. Splendid gilt domes curved above the roof, and between the
pillars that went right round the building were lifelike sculptures in
marble. Through the clear glass in the tall windows you could see into
the most magnificent rooms; these were hung with sumptuous silk cur-
tains and tapestries and their walls were covered with large paintings that
were a delight to the eye. In the middle of the biggest room was a huge
splashing fountain; its spray was flung high up to the glass dome in the
ceiling, through which the sun shone down on to the water and the
beautiful plants growing in the great pool.
Now she knew where he lived, and many an evening and many a night
she would come to the surface at that spot. She swam much closer to the
shore than any of the others had ever dared. She even went up the narrow
creek under the fine marble balcony that threw its long shadow across the
water. Here she would sit and gaze at the young Prince, who imagined he
was quite alone in the clear moonlight.
Often in the evening she saw him go out to the strains of music in his
splendid vessel that was dressed with flags. She peeped out from among
the green rushes and, when the wind caught her long silvery veil and
someone saw it, they fancied it was a swan spreading its wings.
On many nights, when the fishermen were at sea with their torches, she
heard them speaking so well of the young Prince, and that made her glad
she had saved his life when he drifted about half-dead on the waves; and
she thought of how closely his head had rested on her bosom and how
lovingly she had kissed him. But he knew nothing whatsoever about that,
never even dreamed she existed.
Fonder and fonder she became of human beings, more and lYiore she
longed for their company. Their world seemed to her to be so much
larger than her own. You see, they could fly across the ocean in ships,
climb the tall mountains high above the clouds; and the lands they

53
 «

owned stretched with woods and meadows further than her eyes could
see.There was so much she would have liked to know, but her sisters
couldn't answer all her questions, and so she asked the old grandmother,
for she knew all about the upper world - as she so aptly called the
countries above the sea.
»If people don't drown, « asked the little mermaid, »can they go on
living for ever? Don't they die, as we do down here in the sea?«
»Yes, yes,« said the old lady, »They, too, have to die; their lifetime is
even shorter than ours. We can live for three hundred years, but when our
life here comes to an end we merely turn into foam on the water; we

haven't even a grave down here among those we love. We've no immortal
soul; we shall never have another life. We're like the green rush - once it's
been cut it can't grow green again. But human beings have a soul which
lives for ever; still lives after the body is turned to dust. The soul goes
climbing up through the clear air, up till it reaches the shining stars. Just
as we rise up out of the sea and look at the countries of human beings, so
they rise up to beautiful unknown regions - ones we shall never see.«
»Why haven't we got an immortal soul?« the little mermaid asked
sadly. »I would give the whole three hundred years I have to live, to
become for one day a human being and then share in that heavenly
world.
»You mustn't go worrying about that,« said the grandmother. »We're
much happier and better off here than the people who live up there.«
»So then I'm doomed to die and float like foam on the sea, never to
hear the music of the waves or see the lovely flowers and the red sun. Isn't
there anything at all I can do to win an immortal soul?«
»No,« said the old lady. »Only if a human being loved you so much
that you were more to him than father and mother - if he clung to you
with all his heart and soul, and let the priest put his right hand in yours
as a promise to be faithful and true here and in all eternity - then his soul
would flow over into your body and you, too, would get a share in
human happiness. He would give you a soul and yet keep his own. But
that can never happen. The very thing that's so beautiful here in the sea,
your fish's tail, seems ugly to people on the earth; they know so little
about it that they have to have two clumsy supports called legs, in order
to look nice.«
That made the little mermaid sigh and look sadly at her fish's tail.
»We must be content,« said the old lady. »Let's dance and be gay for the
three hundred years we have to live - that's a good time, isn't it? - then
one can have one's fill of sleep in the grave all the more pleasantly
afterwards. To-night we're having a Court ball.«
That was something more magnificent than we ever see on the earth.
In the great ballroom walls and ceiling were made of thick but quite clear
glass. Several hundred enormous shells, rose-red and grass-green, were
ranged on either side, each with a blue-burning flame which lit up the

54
whole room and, shining out through the walls, lit up the sea outside as
well. Countless fishes, big and small, could be seen swimming towards
the glass walls; the scales on some of them shone purple-red, and on
others like silver and gold ... Through the middle of the ballroom flowed
a wide running stream, on which mermen and mermaids danced to their
own beautiful singing. No human beings have voices so lovely. The little
mermaid sang the most sweetly of them all, and they clapped their hands
for her, and for a moment there was joy in her heart, for she knew that she
had the most beautiful voice on earth or sea. But then her thoughts soon
returned to the world above her; she couldn't forget the handsome Prince
and her sorrow at not possessing, like him, an immortal soul. So she
crept out of her father's palace and, while all in there was song and
merriment, she sat grieving in her little garden. Suddenly she caught the
sound of a horn echoing down through the water, and she thought, »Ah,
there he is, sailing up above - he whom I love more than father or
mother, he who is always in my thoughts and in whose hands I would
gladly place the happiness of my life. I will dare anything to win him
and an immortal soul. While my sisters are dancing there in my father's
palace, I will go to the sea witch; I've always been dreadfully afraid of
her, but perhaps she can help me and tell me what to do.«
So the little mermaid left her garden and set off for the place where the
witch lived, on the far side of the roaring whirlpools. She had never been
that way before. There were no flowers growing, no sea grass, nothing
but the bare grey sandy bottom stretching right up to the whirlpools,
where the water went swirling round like roaring mill-wheels and pulled
everything it could clutch down with it to the depths. She had to pass
through the middle of these battering eddies in order to get to the sea
witch's domain; and here for a long stretch there was no other way than
over hot bubbling mud - the witch called it her swamp. Her house lay
behind it in the middle of an extraordinary wood. All the trees and
bushes were polyps, half animals and half plants. They looked like
hundred-headed snakes growing out of the earth; all the branches were
long slimy arms with supple worm-like fingers, and joint by joint from
the root up to the very tip they were continuously on the move. They
wound themselves tight round everything they could clutch hold of in
the sea, and they never let go. The little mermaid was terribly scared as
she paused at the edge of the wood. Her heart was throbbing with fear;
she nearly turned back. But then she remembered the Prince and the
human soul, and that gave her courage. She wound her long flowing hair
tightly round her head, so that the polyps shouldn't have that to clutch
her by, she folded both her hands across her breast and darted off just as a
fish darts through the water, in among the hideous polyps which reached
out for her with their supple arms and fingers. She noticed how each of
them had something they had caught, held fast by a hundred little arms
like hoops of iron. White skeletons of folk who had been lost at sea and

55
 « «

had sunk to the bottom looked out from the arms of the polyps. Ship's
rudders and chests were gripped tight, skeletons of land animals, and -
most horrible of all - a small mermaid whom they had caught and throt-
tled.

Now she came to a large slimy open space in the wood where big fat
water-snakes were frisking about and showing their hideous whitish-
yellow bellies. In the middle was a house built of the bones of human
folk who had been wrecked. There sat the sea witch letting a toad feed out
of her mouth, just as we might let a little canary come and peck sugar.
She called the horrible fat water-snakes her little chicks and allowed them
to sprawl about her great spongy bosom.
»I know well enough what you're after,« said the sea witch. »How
stupid of you! Still, you shall have your way, and it'll bring you into
misfortune, my lovely Princess. You want to get rid of your fish's tail and
in its place have a couple of stumps to walk on like a human being, so
that the young Prince can fall in love with you and you can win him and
an immortal soul« - and with that the witch gave such a loud repulsive
laugh that the toad and the snakes fell to the ground and remained
sprawling there. »You've just come at the right time,« said the witch.
»Tomorrow, once the sun's up, I couldn't help you for another year. I
shall make you a drink, and before sunrise you must swim to land, sit
down on the shore and drink it up. Then your tail will divide in two and
shrink into what humans call 'pretty legs'. But it'll hurt; it'll be like a
sharp sword going through you. Everyone who sees you will say you are
the loveliest human child they have ever seen. You will keep your grace-
ful movements - no dancer can glide so lightly - but every step you take
will feel as if you were treading on a sharp knife, enough to make your
feet bleed. Are you ready to bear all that? If you are, I'll help you.«
»Yes,« said the little mermaid, and her voice trembled; but she thought
of her Prince and the prize of an immortal soul.
»Still, don't forget this,« said the witch: »once you've got human
shape, you can never become a mermaid again. You can never go down
through the water to your sisters and to your father's palace; and if you
don't win the Prince's love, so that he forgets father and mother for you
and always has you in his thoughts and lets the priest join your hands
together to be man and wife, then you won't get an immortal soul. The
first morning after the Prince marries someone else, your heart must

break and you become foam on the water.

»rm ready, « said the little mermaid, pale as death.
»Then there's me to be paid,« said the witch, »and you're not getting
my help for nothing. You have the loveliest voice of all down here at the
bottom of the sea. With that voice, no doubt, you think to enchant him;
but that voice you shall hand over to me. I demand the best that you have
for me to make a rich drink. You see, I have to give you my own blood, in
order that the drink may be as sharp as a two-edged sword.

56
 «

»But if you take my voice,« said the little mermaid, »what shall I have
left?«
»Your lovely form,« said the w^itch, »your graceful movements, and
your speaking eyes. With those you can so easily enchant a human
heart... Well, where's your spunk? Put out your little tongue andlet me

cut it payment; then you shall be given the potent mixture.

off in
»Go little mermaid, and the witch put the kettle on
on, then,« said the
for brew^ing the magic drink. »Cleanliness before everything,« she said, as
she scoured out the kettle with a bundle of snakes she had knotted togeth-
er. Next, she scratched her breast and let her black blood drip down into

the kettle; the steam took on the weirdest shapes, terrifying to look at.
The witch kept popping fresh things into the kettle, and when it boiled
up properly it sounded like a crocodile in tears. At last the brew was
ready; it looked like the clearest water.
»There you are!« said the witch and cut off the little mermaid's tongue;
she was now dumb and could neither sing nor speak.
»If the polyps should catch hold of you, as you go back through the
wood,« said the witch, »throw but a single drop of this drink on them,
and their arms and fingers will burst into a thousand pieces. « But the little
mermaid had no need to do that. The polyps shrank from her in terror
when they saw the dazzling drink that shone in her hand like a glittering
star. So she quickly came through the wood, the swamp and the roaring

whirlpools.
She could see her father's palace; the lights were out in the great ball-
room. They were all certain to be asleep in there by this time; but she
didn't anyhow dare to look for them, now that she was dtimb and was
going to leave them for ever. She felt as if her heart must break for grief.
She stole into the garden, picked one flower from each of her sisters'
flower-beds, blew a thousand finger kisses towards the palace, and rose
then through the dark-blue sea.
The sun was not yet up, as she sighted the Prince's castle and climbed
the magnificent marble steps. The moon was shining wonderfully clear.
The little mermaid drank the sharp burning potion, and it was as if a
two-edged sword pierced through her delicate body -she fainted and lay
as though dead. Then the sun, streaming over the sea, woke her up, and
she felt a sharp pain. But there in front of her stood the handsome young
Prince. He stared at her with his coal-black eyes, so that she cast down her
own - and saw that her fish's tail had gone and she had the sweetest little

white legs that any young could wish for; but she was quite naked
girl
and so she wrapped herself in her long flowing hair. The Prince asked
who she was and how she had come there, and she could only look back
at him so gently and yet so sadly out of her deep-blue eyes; for of course
she couldn't speak. Then he took her by the hand and led her into the
castle. Every step she took, as the witch had foretold, was as though she
were treading on sharp knives and pricking gimlets; but she gladly put

57
up with that. By the side of the Prince she went along as Hghtly as a
bubble; and he and all of them marvelled at the charm of her graceful
movements.
Costly dresses were given her of silk and muslin; she was the most
beautiful in all the castle. But shewas dumb; she could neither sing nor
speak. Lovely slave-girls in gold and silk came out and danced before the
Prince and his royal parents; one of them sang more beautifully than all
the rest, and the Prince clapped his hands and smiled at her. This sad-
dened the little mermaid, for she knew that she herself had sung far more
beautifully. And she thought, »Oh, if only he knew that I gave my voice
away for ever, in order to be with him!«
Next, the slave-girls danced a graceful gliding dance to the most de-
lightful music; and then the little mermaid raised her pretty white arms,

58
 and then glided across the floor, dancing
lingered on the tips of her toes
asno one had danced before. She looked more and more lovely with every
movement, and her eyes spoke more deeply to the heart than the slave-
girls' singing.
Everyone and especially the Prince, wrho called her his
w^as enchanted,
little foundling. Stillon dancing, although every time her foot
she w^ent
touched the ground it felt as though she was treading on sharp knives.
The Prince said that she must never leave him, and she was allowed to
sleep on a velvet cushion outside his door.
He had boys' clothes made for her, so that she could go riding with
him on horseback. They rode through the sweet-smelling woods, where
the green boughs grazed her shoulders and the little birds sang among the
cool foliage. She went climbing with the Prince up high mountains and,
although her delicate feet bled so that others could see it, she only
laughed and went on and on with him, until they could see the clouds
sailing below them like a flock of birds migrating to other lands.
Back at the Prince's castle, when at night the others were asleep, she
would go out on to the broad marble steps and cool her tingling feet in
the cold sea- water; and then she would think of those down there in the
depths of the sea.
One night her sisters rose up arm in arm singing so mournfully as they
swam on the water. She made signs to them, and they recognized her and
told her how unhappy she had made them all. After that, they used to
visit her every night; and once, in the far distance, she saw her old grand-
mother who hadn't been above the water for many years, and also the sea
King wearing his crown. They both stretched out their hands towards
her, but they didn't venture in so near to the shore as the five sisters.
Day by day she became dearer to the Prince. He loved her as one loves a
dear good child, but he didn't dream of making her his Queen; and yet
she had to become his wife, or else she would never win an immortal
soul, but on his wedding morning would be turned to foam on the sea.
»Do you like me best of all?« the little mermaid's eyes seemed to say,
when he took her in his arms and kissed her lovely brow.
»Yes,« said the prince, »You're the dearest of all, because you have the

kindest heart. You are the most devoted to me, and you remind me of a
young once saw but shall probably never see again. I was sailing in
girl I

a ship that was wrecked; the waves drove me ashore near a sacred temple
where a number of young girls were serving. The youngest, who found
me on the beach and saved my life - I only saw her twice. She was the
only one I could ever love in this world, but you are so like her that you
almost take the place of her image in my heart. She belongs to the holy
temple, so that fortune has been kind in sending you to me. We will never
part.«
»Ah, little does he know that it was I who saved his life,« thought the
mermaid; »that I carried him across the sea to the temple in the wood;

59
that I waited in the foam and watched if anyone would come. I saw the
pretty girl he loves better than me« - and the mermaid sighed deeply, for
she didn't know how to cry. »The girl belongs to the sacred temple, he
says; she'll never come out into the world, and they'll never meet again. I
am with him. I see him every day. I will take care of him, love him, give
up my life to him.«
But now was getting married they said - married to the
the Prince
pretty daughter of the neighbouring King, and that was why he was
fitting out such a splendid ship. The Prince was going off to take a look
at his neighbour's kingdom - that was how they put it, meaning that it
was really to take a look at his neighbour's daughter. A large suite was to
go with him, but the little mermaid shook her head and laughed. She
knew the Prince's thoughts far better than all the others. »I shall have to
go,« he said to her. »I shall have to visit the pretty Princess, as my parents
are so insistent. But force me back here as my wife, that they
to bring her
will never do. I can't love her. She's not like the beautiful girl in the
temple, as you are. If I ever had to find a bride, I would rather have you,
my dear mute foundling with the speaking eyes,« and he kissed her red
mouth, played with her long hair and laid his head against her heart, so
that it dreamed of human happiness and an immortal soul.
»You've no fear of the sea, have you, my dumb child?« he asked, as they
stood on board the splendid ship that was to take him to the neighbour-
ing kingdom. And he told her of stormy gales and dead calms, of strange
fishes at the bottom of the ocean, and all that the diver had seen there;
and she smiled at his tales, for she knew better than anyone else about the
bottom of the sea.
At night, when there was an unclouded moon and all were asleep but
the helmsman at his wheel, she sat by the ship's rail and stared down
through the clear water; and she seemed to see her father's palace, with
her old grandmother standing on the top of it in her silver crown and
gazing up through the swift current at the keel of the vessel. Then her
sisters came up on to the water and looked at her with eyes full of sorrow,
wringing their white hands. She beckoned to them and smiled and would
have liked to tell them that all was going well and happily with her; but
the cabin-boy came up at that moment, and the sisters dived down, so
that the boy felt satisfied that the white something he had seen was foam
on the water.
Next morning the ship sailed into the harbour of the neighbouring
King's magnificent capital. The church-bells all rang out; and trumpets
were blown from the tall battlements, while the soldiers saluted with
gleaming bayonets and flying colours. Every day there was a fete. Balls
and parties were given one after another, but nothing had yet been seen of
the Princess; it was said that she was being educated abroad in a sacred
temple, where she had lessons in all the royal virtues. At last she arrived.
The little mermaid was eager for a glimpse of her beauty, and she had

60
to admit that she had never -seen anyone more charming to look at. Her
complexion was so clear and delicate, and behind the long dark lashes
smiled a pair of trusting deep-blue eyes.
you!« cried the Prince. »You who rescued me, when I was lying
»It's
half-dead on the shore. « And he clasped his blushing bride in his arms.
»Oh, I'm too, too happy,« he said to the little mermaid. »My dearest wish
- more than I ever dared to hope for - has been granted me. My happi-
ness will give you pleasure, because you're fonder of me than any of the
others. « Then the little mermaid kissed his hand, and already she felt as if
her heart was breaking. The morrow of his wedding would mean death
to her and change her to foam on the sea.
All the church-bells were ringing, as the heralds rode round the streets
to proclaim the betrothal. On every altar sweet oil was burning in rich
lamps of silver. The priests swung their censers, and bride and bride-
groom joined hands and received the blessing of the bishop. Dressed in
silk and gold, the little mermaid stood holding the bride's train; but her
ears never heard the festive music, her eyes never saw the holy rites; she
was thinking of her last night on earth, of all she had lost in this world.
That same evening, bride and bridegroom went on board the ship; the
cannon thundered, the flags were all flying, and amidships they had put
up a royal tent of gold and purple, strewn with luxurious cushions; here
the wedded couple were to sleep that calm cool night.
The sails filled with the breeze and the ship glided lightly and smooth-
ly over the clear water.
As darkness fell, coloured lanterns were lit, and the crew danced merri-
ly on the deck. The little mermaid could not help thinking of the first
time she came up out of the sea and gazed on just such a scene of joy and
splendour. And now she joined in the dance, swerving and swooping as
lightly as a swallow that avoids pursuit; and shouts of admiration greeted
her on every side. Never had she danced so brilliantly. It was as if sharp
knives were wounding her delicate feet, but she never felt it; more painful
was the wound in her heart. She knew that this was the last evening she
would see the Prince for whom she had turned her back on kindred and
home, given up her beautiful voice, and every day suffered hours of
agony without his suspecting a thing. This was the last night she would
breathe the same air as he, gaze on the deep sea and the star-blue sky. An
endless night, without thoughts, without dreams, awaited her who had
no soul and could never win one... All was joy and merriment on board
until long past midnight. She laughed and danced with the thought of
death in her heart. The Prince kissed his lovely bride, and she toyed with
his dark hair, and arm in arm they went to rest in the magnificent tent.
The ship was now hushed and still; only the helmsman was there at his
wheel. And the little mermaid leaned with her white arms on the rail and
looked eastward for a sign of the pink dawn. The first ray of the sun, she
knew, would kill her. Suddenly she saw her sisters rising out of the sea.

61
They were pale, like her; no more was their beautiful long hair fluttering
in the wind - it had been cut off.
»We have given it to the witch, so that she might help us to save you
from dying when to-night is over. She has given us a knife - look, here it
is - do you see how sharp it is? Before sunrise you must stab it into the

Prince's heart. Then, when his warm blood splashes over your feet, they
will grow together into a fish's tail, and you will become a mermaid once
more; you will be able to come down to us in the water and live out your
three hundred years before being changed into the dead salt foam of the
sea. Make haste! Either he or you must die before the sun rises. Our old
grandmother has been sorrowing till her white hair has fallen away, as
ours fell before the witch's scissors. Kill the Prince and come back to us!
But make haste - look at that red gleam in the sky. In a few minutes the
sun will rise, and then you must die.« And with a strange deep sigh they
sank beneath the waves.
The little mermaid drew aside the purple curtain of the tent, and she
saw the lovely bride sleeping with her head on the Prince's breast. She
stopped and kissed his handsome brow, looked at the sky where the pink
dawn glowed brighter and brighter, looked at the sharp knife in her
hand, and again fixed her eyes on the Prince, who murmured in his
dreams the name of his bride - she alone was in his thoughts. The knife
quivered in the mermaid's hand - but then she flung it far out into the
waves; they glimmered red where it fell, and what looked like drops of
blood came oozing out of the water. With a last glance at the Prince from
eyes half-dimmed in death she hurled herself from the ship into the sea
and felt her body dissolving into foam.
And now the sun came rising from the sea. Its rays fell gentle and warm
on the death chilled foam, and the little mermaid had no feeling of death.
She saw the bright sun and, hovering above her, hundreds of lovely
creatures - she could see right through them, see the white sails of the
ship and the pink clouds in the sky. And their voice was the voice of
melody, yet so spiritual that no human ear could hear it, just a. no
earthly eye could see them. They had no wings, but their own lightness
bore them up as they floated through the air. The little mermaid saw that
she had a body like theirs, raising itself freer andfrom the foam.
freer
»To whom am I coming?« she asked, and her voice sounded like that of
the other beings, more spiritual than any earthly music can record.
»To the daughters of the air,« answered the others. »A mermaid has no
immortal soul and can never have one unless she wins the love of a
mortal. Eternity, for her, depends on a power outside her. Neither have
the daughters of the air an everlasting soul, but by good deeds they can
shape one for themselves. We shall fly to the hot countries, where the
stifling air of pestilence means death to mankind; we shall bring them
cool breezes. We shall scatter the fragrance of flowers through the air and
send them comfort and healing. When for three hundred years we have

62
 « «

striven to do the good we can, then we shall win an immortal soul and
have a share in mankind's eternal happiness. You, poor little mermaid,
have striven for that with all your heart; you have suffered and endured,
and have raised yourself into the world of the spirits of the air. Now, by
three hundred years of good deeds, you too can shape for yourself an
immortal soul.«
And the little mermaid raised her crystal arms towards God's sun, and
for the first time she knew the feeling of tears.
On board the ship there was bustle and life once more. She saw the
Prince with his pretty bride looking about for her; sorrowfully they
stared at the heaving foam, as if they knew she had thrown herself into
the waves. Unseen, she kissed the forehead of the bride, gave a smile to
the Prince, and then with the other children of the air she climbed to a
rose-red cloud that was sailing to the sky.
»So we shall float for thee hundred years, till at last we come into the
heavenly kingdom.
»And we may reach it even sooner, « whispered one. »Unseen we float
intohuman homes where there are children and, for every day we find a
good child who makes father and mother happy and earns their love,
God shortens our time of trial. The child never knows when we fly
through the room and, if that makes us smile with joy, then a year is*

taken away from the three hundred. But if we see a child who is naughty
or spiteful, then we have to weep tears of sorrow, and every tear adds one
more day to our time of trial.
 «

Ia4

The Emperor's New

Clothes

lllany years ago there an Emperor who was so tremendously fond

lived
of fine new clothes that he spent all his money on being elegantly
dressed. He took no interest in his army or the theatre or in driving
through the country, unless it was to show off his new clothes. He had
different clothes for every hour of the day and, just as you might say of a
King that he was in the council-chamber, so it was always said of the
Emperor: »He's in his wardrobe.
There was plenty of fun going on in the city where the Emperor lived.
Strangers were continually arriving, and one day there came two swin-
dlers. They made out they were weavers and could weave the very finest
stuffs imaginable. Not only were colours and design unusually attractive,
but the clothes made from their material had the peculiarity of being
invisible to anyone who wasn't fit for his post or who was hopelessly
stupid.
»I say! They must be wonderful clothes, « thought the Emperor. »If I
had some, I could find out which of my statesmen were unfit for their
posts and also be able to tell the clever ones from the stupid. Yes, I must
have some of that stuff woven for me at once.« And he paid down a large
sum of money to the swindlers straight away, so as to enable them to start
work.
And they did; they put up a couple of looms and pretended to be

64
working, though there was absolutely nothing in the loom. They coolly
demanded the most delicate silk and the finest gold thread, which they
promptly stowed away in their own bags; and then they went on working
far into the night at their empty looms.
»Well, now, I wonder how they are getting on with the work,« said the
Emperor to himself. But there was one point that really made him feel
rather anxious, namely, that a man who was stupid or quite unfit for his
post would never be able to see what was woven. Not that he need have
any fears for himself - he was quite confident about that - but all the
same it might be better to send someone else first, to find out how things
were going. Everyone in the city had heaird of the mysterious power
possessed by the material, and they were all eager to discover how incap-
able or stupid his neighbour was.
»ril send my honest old Prime Minister to the weavers',« thought the
Emperor. »He's the best one to see what the stuff looks like, for he has
plenty of sense and nobody fills his post better than he does.«
So off went the honest old Premier to the workshop where the two
swindlers sat busy at their empty looms. »Lor' bless my soul,« thought
the Minister with eyes starting out of his head. »Why, I can't see any-
thing!« But he was careful not to say so.
The two swindlers begged him to take a closer look - didn't he find the
colours and design most attractive? They then pointed to the empty loom
but, although the poor old Minister opened his eyes wider and wider, he
couldn't see a thing; for there wasn't a thing to see. »Good Lord!« he
thought, »Is it possible that I'm stupid? I never suspected that, and not a
soul must hear of it. Can it be that I'm unfit for my post? No, it will never
do for me to say that I can't see the material.«
»Well, what do you think of it?« asked the one who pretended to be
weaving.
»Oh, it's charming! Quite exquisite!« said the old Minister, looking
through his spectacles. »What a pattern and what colouring! I shall cer-
tainly tell the Emperor how pleased I am with it.«
»Ah, we're glad to hear that,« said the swindlers, and they then gave
details of the colours and the peculiar design.The old Minister listened
carefully, so as to be able to repeat all this when he came back to the
Emperor which he duly did.
-
The now demanded more money, more silk and more gold
swindlers
thread, for these would be required for weaving. They put it all into their
own pockets - not a thread came into the loom - while they went on
working the empty frames as before.
By and by, the Emperor sent another honest official to see how the
weaving was getting on and whether the stuff wouldn't soon be ready.
The same thing happened to him as to the Minister: he looked and
looked but, as nothing was there but the empty looms, he couldn't see
anything.

65
 »There, isn't it a handsome piece!« said the swindlers, as they pointed
out the beauty of the design which wasn't there at all.
»I know I'm not stupid,« thought the man, »so it must be my fine
position I'm not fit for. Some people might think that rather funny, but I
must take good care they don't get to hear of it.« And then he praised the
material which he couldn't see and assured them of his delight in its
charming shades and its beautiful design. »Yes, it's quite exquisite,« he
said to the Emperor, when he got back.
The splendid material became the talk of the town. And now the
Emperor himself said he must see it while it was still in the loom. Quite a
throng of select people, including the two honest old officials who had
been there already, went with him to where both the crafty swindlers were
now weaving for all they were worth without the vestige of a thread.
»Look, isn't it magnificent!« said the two honest officials. »If Your
Majesty will but glance - what a pattern, what colouring! « And they
pointed to the empty loom, feeling certain that the others could see the
material.
»What's thi3?« thought the Emperor. »I can't see anything - this is
appalling! Am I stupid? Am I not fit to be Emperor? This is the most
terrible thing that could happen to me... Oh, it's quite wonderful, « he
said to them; »it has our most gracious approval. « And he gave a satisfied
nod, as he looked at the empty loom; he wasn't going to say that he
couldn't see anything. All the courtiers who had come with him looked
and looked, but they made no more of it than the rest had done. Sdll, they
all said just what the Emperor said - »Oh, it's quite wonderful !« - and

they advised him to have some clothes made from this splendid new
material and to wear them for the first time in the grand procession that
was shortly taking place. »Magnificent!« »Delightful!« »Superb!« were
the comments that ran from mouth to mouth; everyone was so intensely
pleased with it. On each of the swindlers the Emperor bestowed a knight-
hood, with a badge to wear in his button-hole, and the title of Imperial
Weaver.
On the eve of the procession the swindlers sat up all night with some-
thing like twenty lighted candles. People could see how busy they were
finishing off the Emperor's new clothes. They pretended to take the stuff
off the loom, they clipped away at the air with huge scissors, they worked
at their needles without thread, and last they announced: »There! The
Emperor's clothes are ready !«
Then the Emperor, with his most distinguished gentlemen-in- waiting,
went in person to the weavers, who each put out his arm just as if he were
holding something and said: »Here are the Breeches! Here is the Robe!
Here is the Mantle !« And so on. »They are all as light as gossamer; you
can hardly feel you have anything on - that's just the beauty of them.«
»Yes, indeed,« answered the gentlemen-in-waiting. But they couldn't
see a thing, for there wasn't a thing to see.

66
 « «

»Now will Your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off

your clothes?« said the swindlers. »Then we can fit you with the new
ones, there in front of the big glass.
So the Emperor took off the clothes he was wearing, and the swindlers
pretended to hand him each of the new garments they were supposed to
have made, and they took him at the waist as if they were fastening
something on... it was the train, and the Emperor turned and twisted in
front of the looking-glass.
»Goodness! How What a wonderful fit!«
well they suit your Majesty!
they all exclaimed. »What a cut! What What sumptuous robes!«
colours!
The Master of Ceremonies came in with an announcement. »The can-
opy to be carried above Your Majesty in the procession is waiting out-
side.
»A11 right, I'm ready, « said the Emperor. »Aren't they a nice fit!« And
he turned round once more had to make
in front of the glass, for he really
them think he was gazing at his fine clothes.
The chamberlains who were to carry the train groped about on the
floor as if they were picking the train up; and, as they walked, they held
out their hands, not daring to let it be thought that they couldn't see
anything.
There marched the Emperor in the procession under the beautiful
canopy, and everybody in the streets and at the windows said: »Goodness!
The Emperor's new clothes are the finest he has ever had. What a won-
derful train! What a perfect fit!« No one would let it be thought that he
couldn't see anything, because that would have meant he wasn't fit for
his job, or that he was very stupid. Never had the Emperor's clothes been
such a success.

67
 »But he hasn't got anything on!« said a Uttle child. »Goodness gra-
cious, do you hear what the Httle innocent says?« cried the father; and the
child's remark was whispered from one to the other.
»He hasn't got anything on! There's a little child saying he hasn't got
anything on!«
»Well, but he hasn't got anything on!« the people all shouted at last.
And the Emperor felt most uncomfortable, for it seemed to him that the
people were right. But somehow he thought to himself: »I must go
through with it now, procession and all.« And he drew himself up still
more proudly, while his chamberlains walked after him carrying the
train that wasn't there.

/
 The Staunch Tin
Soldier

T. here were once twenty- five tin soldiers, all brothers, for they all came
from one old tin spoon. »Shoulder arms! Eyes front!« - that's how they
were, and they wore splendid red tunics with blue trousers. The very first
thing they ever heard, when the lid was taken off the box in which they
were lying, was - »tin soldiers! « It was a little boy who shouted this and
clapped his hands. He had been given them for his birthday, and now he
was putting them up on the table.
Each soldier was the image of the other, except for one who was a
little bit different. He had only one leg, because he was the last to be made

and there wasn't enough tin to go round. Still, there he stood, as firmly
on his one leg as the others on their two; and, as it happened, he's the
soldier this story is all about.
There were a lot of other toys on the table where the tin soldiers had
been put up, but the one you noticed first was a beautiful paper castle;
through its tiny windows you could see right into the rooms. In front of
it were some small trees standing round a little mirror, which was sup-

posed to represent a lake, with wax swans reflected in it as they swam.

Everything was very pretty, and yet the prettiest of all was a little lady
who was standing at the open door of the castle. She, too, was cut out of
paper, but she was wearing a skirt of the clearest muslin and a narrow
blue ribbon draped over her shoulder like a scarf, with a glittering
spangle in the middle as big as the whole of her face. The little lady was

69
holding out both her arms; you see, she was a dancer and, besides, she
had kicked one of her legs so high in the air that the tin soldier couldn't
make out where it was and imagined she only had one leg, like himself.
»That's the wife for me!« he thought to himself. »But she's so grand;
she lives in a castle. I've only got a box, and there are twenty-five of us to
that; it's no place for her. All the same, I must see if I can't get to know
her.« Then he lay down at full length behind a snuff-box that was on the
table. From here he could keep his eyes on the elegant little lady, who
continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance.
Later in the evening, all the other tin soldiers went back into their box,
and the people in the house went to bed. The toys now began to play
games - visiting, fighting, dancing. The tin soldiers rattled in their box,
because they wanted to join in, but they couldn't get the lid off. The
nutcrackers turned somersaults, and the slate pencil had some fun on the
slate. There was such a noise that the canary woke up and began to join
in with some twittering in verse. The only two who didn't budge were the
tin soldier and the little dancer. She stood perfectly upright on tiptoe
with both arms stretched out, while he was just as staunch on his one leg;
his eyes never left her for a moment.
Suddenly the clock struck twelve and - clack! flew the lid from the
snuff-box, but do you suppose there was snuff in it? No, there was a little
black goblin - it was a kind of Jack-in-the-box.
»Tin soldier!« cried the goblin. »Will you please keep your eyes to
yourself!« But the tin soldier pretended not to hear.
»A11 right - you wait till tomorrow! « said the goblin.
And when tomorrow came and the children got up, the tin soldier was
put away by the window; and, whether it was the goblin or the draught
that did it, all at once the window flew open and the soldier fell out head
first from the third storey. It was a terrible fall. There was his leg going

straight up in the air, and he was left standing on his helmet with his
bayonet stuck in between the paving-stones.
The maidservant and the little boy came down directly to look for him;
but although they very nearly trod on him, they never saw him. If only
the tin soldier had called out »Here I am!« they would have found him
easily enough; but he didn't think it would be right to shout out, as he
was in uniform.
Presently it began raining, more and more heavily, until it was a
regular downpour. When it was over, two street-boys came by. »Gosh,
look at that!« said one of them. »There's a tin soldier. Let's send him for a
sail.« So they made a boat out of a newspaper, put the tin soldier aboard,
and away he sailed down the gutter with the two boys running alongside
and clapping their hands. Bless my soul, how the waves did rock in the
gutter, and what a strong current there was! Well, after all, it had been a
real soaker. The paper boat bobbed up and down, and now and then it
w4iiiled round so fast that the tin soldier became quite dizzy. But he kept

70
staunch and never moved a muscle; he looked straight ahead, and still
shouldered arms.
All at once the boat drifted in under a broad culvert; it was as dark as if
he were in his box.
»I wonder where I'm coming to now«, he thought. »ril swear it's all
the fault of that goblin. If only the little lady were here in the boat, it
could be twice as dark for all I'd care!«
Just then a great water-rat appeared, who lived under the culvert.
»Where's your passport?« asked the rat. »Now then, show me your pass-
port!*
But the word and clutched his gun more tightly
tin soldier never said a
than ever. The it. Ugh! How it ground
boat rushed on, and the rat after
its teeth and shouted out to sticks and straws: »Stop him! Stop him! He

hasn't paid the toll! He hasn't shown his passport!«

But the current grew stronger and stronger; the tin soldier could al-
ready see daylight ahead where the culvert ended. But he could also hear a
roaring sound that might well bring dismay to the bravest man. Just
think of it - where the culvert ended, the gutter plunged straight out into
a large canal. It was as dangerous for him as it would be for us to sail
down a big waterfall.
By now he had come so near that there was no stopping. The boat
dashed out, the poor tin soldier held himself as stiffly as he could; no one
should say that he had moved an eyelid. The boat spun round three or
four times and filled right up with water, until it was bound to sink. The
dn soldier was now up to his neck; the boat sank deeper and deeper; the
paper grew more and more sodden. At last the water closed over the
soldier's head... He thought of the pretty little dancer whom he would
never see again, and the old song rang in his ears:
»On, on, brave warrior!
On, where death awaits thee!«
At this moment, the paper went to pieces, and the tin soldier fell right
through - but was instantly swallowed by a large fish. Oh, and how dark
it was inside! Even worse than it was in the culvert, and so terribly

cramped, too. But the tin soldier was still staunch, still shouldering arms,
as he lay at full length.
The fish darted about, making the most terrifying twists and turns.
Then at last it lay quite still; a lightning flash went through it, there was
broad daylight, and someone called out: »A tin soldier!« The fish had
been caught, taken to market and sold, and here it was in the kitchen,
where the maid cut it open with a big knife. She picked up the soldier by
the waist with her two fingers and carried him into the parlour, where
everyone wanted to see this extraordinary man who had been travelling
about inside a fish. But the tin soldier thought nothing of it. They set
him up on the table, and there - well, what wonderful things can hap-
pen! The tin soldier found himself in the very same room as he had been

71
in before. There they were - the same children, the same toys on the table,
the same beautiful castle with the pretty little dancer who still stood on
one leg and kept the other one high in the air - she, too, had been
staunch. This touched the tin soldier, who could have wept tears of tin,
only that would hardly have done! He looked at her, and she looked at
him, but neither of them spoke.
Suddenly one of the small boys took and threw the soldier straight into
the stove. He had no reason for doing this; of course, the Jack-in-the-box
was behind it all.
The tin soldier stood in a complete glow; the heat that he felt was
tremendous, but whether it came from the actual fire or from love, he had
no idea. All his bright colours were gone, but no one could tell if this had
happened on his voyage or was the result of grief. He looked at the little
lady, she looked at him, and he could feel that he was melting, but he still
stood staunchly with arms at the shoulder. Then a door opened, the
draught caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the stove
to the tin soldier, flared up in a flame and was gone. The tin soldier was
melted down to a lump and, when the maid cleared out the ashes next
morning, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart; but all that was
left of the dancer was her spangle, and that was burnt as black as coal.
 The Flying Trunk

X here was once upon a time a merchant, who was so rich that he could
pave the whole street, and most of a little alley, as well, with silver
money. But he didn't do that, because he knew another way of using his
money. If he paid out a penny, it brought him in a florin; that's the kind
of merchant he was... And then he died.
All this money now came to his son, and he led a merry life. He went
out dancing every night, made paper kites from banknotes and played
ducks and drakes on the lake with gold pieces instead of pebbles. Money
would soon go that way, and it did. At last he'd only got fourpence left,
and nothing to wear but a pair of slippers and an old dressing-gown.
His friends had nothing more to do with him now, as of course they
couldn't be seen in the street with him; but one of them, who was good-
natured, sent him an old trunk, saying, »Pack up!« Yes, that was all very
well, but he hadn't got anything to pack, so he got into the trunk himself.
It was a comic sort of trunk. As soon as you pressed the lock, the trunk

could fly. And fly it did. It zoomed away with' him, up through the
chimney, high above the clouds, further and further into the distance.
The bottom kept creaking, and he was terrified that it might give way -
dear me, that would have been a nice bit of acrobatics! And at last he
came to the land of the Turks. He hid the trunk away under some dried
leaves in a wood and walked off into the town. It was all right his doing
that, for of course all the Turks went about in dressing-gown and slip-
pers the same as he did. Then he met a nurse with a baby. »I say, you
Turknanny,« he began, »what's this great castle here, close to the town,
with the high windows?«

73
 « « «

»That's where the King's daughter Hves,« she answered. »It's been
foretold her that she'll have an unhappy love-affair, and so no one's
allowed to visit her without the King and Queen being there.
»Thank you,« said the merchant's son; and he went back to the wood,
got into his trunk, and flew up on to the castle roof, where he crawled in
through the window to the Princess.
She was lying on the sofa, asleep. She was so pretty that the merchant's
son felt he must kiss her. This woke her up, and she was very frightened,
until he told her he was the Turkish God who had come down to her
from the sky. She liked that very much.
Then they sat beside each other, and he told her stories about her eyes.
They were the loveliest dark lakes, he said, where her thoughts went
swimming like mermaids. And he told her stories about her forehead; it
was a snowy mountain with the most wonderful rooms and pictures
inside it. And he told her about the stork, which brings the dear little
babies. Yes, yes, they were lovely stories that he told her. And then he
proposed to the Princess, and she at once said yes.
»But you must come here on Saturday,« she said. »The King and
Queen are coming to tea with me then. They will be so proud of my
marrying the Turkish God; only be sure you have a really fine story to
tell them, because my father and mother do so enjoy that. My mother

likes a story to be goody-goody and correct, but my father likes it to be

funny, so that he can laugh.
»A11 right,« he said. »I shan't bring any other wedding present, but
simply a story. « Then they said goodbye; but the Princess gave him a
sword which was decorated with gold coins - and he had plenty of use for
those.
So off he flew and bought himself a new dressing-gown; and then he
sat in the wood and began to think out a good story. It had to be ready by
Saturday and, after all, that's not so easy.
At last he was ready, and Saturday arrived.
The King, the Queen and all the Court were waiting at tea-time with
the Princess. They received him most charmingly.
»Now will you tell us a story?« said the Queen. »One that goes deep
and has a moral.
»Yes, but one that'll make us laugh, mind you!« said the King.
»Very well,« said the merchant's son and began his story. So now we
must listen very carefully.
Once upon a time there was a bundle of matches; they were tremen-
dously proud of their high birth. Their family tree - that's to say, the tall
fir-tree that each little matchstick came from - had been a huge old tree in
the wood. And now the matches lay on the shelf between a tinder-box and
an old iron cook-pot, and they told the other two about the time when
they were young. »Ah, yes,« they said. »In those days, with the velvet
moss at our feet, we really were on velvet. Every morning and evening we

74
 « « «

had diamond tea; that was the dew. And all day we had sunshine - if

there was any sunshine - and all the little birds had to tell us stories. We
could see, too, how well off we were, because the broad-leaved trees, they
only wore clothes in summer, whereas our family could afford green
clothes all the year round. But then the woodcutters arrived; that was the
great upheaval, and our family was all split up. Our founder and head
was given a place as mainmast on board a splendid ship that could sail
round the world if she liked; the other branches went to other places and,
as for us, we've got the task of lighting up for the common herd; that's
how we gentlefolk come to be in the kitchen.
»Well, things have gone differently with me,« said the cook-pot which
stood alongside the matches. »Right from the time I first came out into
the world, I've been scrubbed and boiled again and again. I've got an eye
for the practical and, strictly speaking, I'm No. 1 in this house. My great
delight, at a time like after dinner, is to sit clean and tidy on the shelf and
have a nice chat with my friends. But except for the water-bucket, who
now and then goes down into the yard, we spend all our time indoors.
Our one newsbringer is the market basket, but that goes in for a lot of
wild talk about the government and the people. Why, the other day there
was an elderly jug so flabbergasted by what the basket said that it fell
down and broke in pieces. It's an out-and-out radical, that basket, mark
my words !«
»How you do chatter! « said the tinderbox; and the steel let fly at the
flint, so thatgave out sparks. »Come on, let's have a cheerful evening!
it

»Yes, let's discuss who belongs to the best family,« said the matches.
»No, I don't like talking about myself,« said the earthenware jar. »Let's,
have a social evening. I'll begin. I'll tell you about the sort of thing that
we've all been through; then you can really enter into it, and that makes
it so enjoyable. On the shores of the Baltic, where the Danish Beech-trees
-«
»That's a splendid way to begin«, said all the plates. »Just the kind of
story we like!«
»Well, that's where I was brought up, in a quiet family. The furniture
was polished, the floor washed, and we had clean curtains every fort-
night.
»Itdoes sound interesting the way you tell it,«said the broom. »One can
hear at once that it's a lady telling the story; there's such a refined note
running through it all.«
»That's just how I and it gave a little hop of
feel,« said the bucket,
sheer delight, and that meant »splash!« on the floor. Then the cook-pot
went on with its story, and the end was every bit as good as the begin-
ning.
The plates all rattled with joy, and the broom took some green parsley
out of the bin and crowned the cook-pot with it, knowing this would
annoy the others and »if I crown her to-day,« she thought, »then she'll
crown me to-morrow.«
75
 «

»NowI'm going to dance,« said the tongs and dance she did - my
word, what a high kick! The old chintz on the chair in the corner fairly
split himself looking at it. »Now may I be crowned?« asked the tongs,
and crowned she was.
»After all, they're the merest riff-raff, « thought the matches.
The tea-urn was then supposed to give a song, but it had a cold, it said;
it could only sing when it was on the boil. It was really just being rather
superior; it never would sing except when standing on the table, in there
with the master and mistress.
Over in the window lay an old quill pen that the maid generally wrote
with. There was nothing remarkable about it except that it had been
dipped much too far into the inkpot, but this made it very stuck-up. »If
the tea-urn doesn't want to sing,« said the quill pen, »then it needn't. In a
cage hanging outside is a nightingale - she can sing. It's true she's never
had any lessons, but we won't find fault with that this evening.«
»I consider it quite out of place,« said the tea-kettle, who was the
regular kitchen-singer and half-sister to the tea-urn, »that a foreign bird
like that should be allowed to sing here. Is it patriotic? I leave it to the
market basket to decide.«
»rm
disappointed, that's all,« said the market basket. »You've no idea
how disappointed I am. Is this a suitable way to spend the evening?
Instead of turning the house upside down, wouldn't it be better to put it
straight? Then each one would find his proper place, and I should be
cock of the walk. Very different to the way things are going now.«
»That's it, let's kick up a shindy !« they all exclaimed. Just then the
door opened. It was the maid. They all stood still; no one uttered a
syllable. But there wasn't a pot among them that didn't know perfectly
well how much it could do and how elegant it was. »Yes,« they thought,
»if we'd wanted, we could easily have turned it into quite a gay evening.«
The maid took the matches and struck a light with them - my good-
ness, how they spluttered and blazed! »Now,« thought the matches, »now
everyone can see that we are the ones. This is where we shine, where we
sparkle! « - and then they burnt right out.
»That was a lovely tale,« said the Queen. »I quite felt myself in the
kitchen together with the matches. Yes, thou shaft certainly marry our
daughter.
»Ra-ther!« said the King, »thou shalt marry our daughter on Monday.«
They said »thou« to him now because, you see, he was to be one of the
family.
The wedding was all fixed and, the evening before, the whole town was
up. Cakes and buns were thrown to be scrambled for by the crowd.
lit

The street boys stood on tiptoe and shouted hurrah and whistled on their
fingers.There were great goings on.
suppose I'd better take a hand as well,« thought the merchant's son;
»I
and so he bought rockets and whizzbangs and every sort of firework you

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 «

could think of, put them in his trunk and then flew up into the air with
them.
Rootsch! How they went off! How they pooffed and popped! The
Turks almost jumped out of their skins, and their slippers flew about
their ears. Never before had they seen such a vision in the sky. They knew
now that it really was the Turkish God who was to marry the Princess.
Directly the merchant's son landed in the wood again with his trunk,
he thought, »I may walk into the town and hear how people have
as well
taken it.« It was natural enough that he should want to find that out.
Heavens, the way people talked! Every single person he asked gave his
own version, but one and all were enchanted.
»I saw the Turkish God himself,« said one. »He had eyes like shining
stars, and his beard was like a foaming torrent.«
»He flew off in a mantle of fire,« said another. »I saw the loveliest little
cherubs peeping out from the folds.
Yes, they were pretty things he listened to; and tomorrow was his
wedding day.
He now went back to the wood to get into his trunk - but where was it?
The trunk was burnt right up. The fireworks had left a spark which set
fire to the trunk, and this was now in ashes. No more could he fly, no

more could he go to his bride.

All day she stood on the roof and waited. She's waiting still - while he
goes trudging round the world, telling stories. But they're not so jolly as
the one he told about the matches.
 Willie Winkie*)
(Ole Lukoje)

N.obody in the world knows so many stories as Willie Winkie... And he

knows how to tell them, too - no doubt about that!
Late in the evening when children are sitting nice and quietly at a table
or on their stools, that's when Willie Winkie comes along. He comes ever
so softly up the stairs, for he goes in his stocking-feet, and he very gently
opens the door. Then fft! he squirts sweet milk into the children's eyes -
only the tiniest drop, yet always enough to stop them keeping their eyes
open - and so they don't see him. He steals up just behind them and
gently blows down their necks, and then their heads grow heavy. It's all
right - it doesn't hurt them, because Willie Winkie is really most kind to
children; all he wants is to see them quieten down, and for that it's best to
get them to bed. They must be quite still before he can tell them stories.
When at last the children are asleep, Willie Winkie sits down on the
bed. He's nicely dressed, and his coat's made of some sort of silk - though
it's hard to say what colour it is, for as he turns about it's all shot with

green and red and blue. Under each arm he carries an umbrella. One
umbrella, with pictures on it, he holds over the good children, so that
they have the loveliest dreams all night; and the other umbrella, without
anything on it, he holds over the naughty children, so that they sleep like
logs and when they wake in the morning haven't dreamt a thing.
Now you shall hear how Willie Winkie came every night for a whole
* The Mother Goose thyme beginning:
»Wee WiHie Winkie runs through the town, — « is ahnost as well-known to Danish child-
ren as our own, and »Willie Winkie« is translated and explained to them as Ole Lukoje'.

78
week to a little boy called Hjalmar, and the stories he told him. There are
seven stories altogether, for there are seven days in the week.

Monday
»Now look here!« said Willie Winkie one evening, when he had got
Hjalmar to bed. »First, I'm going to smarten things up« - and straight
away all the flowers in the flower-pots became large trees stretching their
long branches up under the ceiling and along the walls, until the whole
room was turned into a lovely bower, and all the branches were full of
blossom; every flower was prettier than a rose, with a delicious smell,
and, if you cared to taste it, was sweeter than jam. The fruit all glistened
like gold, and there were buns that were bursting with currants - you
never saw anything like it! But all at once there began a most dreadful
hullabaloo over in the drawer where Hjalmar kept his school-books.
»What's up now?« said Willie Winkie, as he went over to the table and
opened the drawer. It was the slate that was in such distress, because a
wrong figure had got into the sum so that it wouldn't come right. The
pencil frisked and gambolled at the end of its string like a little dog; it
wanted to help the sum, but didn't know how to.
Next, there was a howling set up from inside Hjalmar's copybook - it
was simply ghastly to listen tol Running down every page were all the
capital letters, each with a small letter beside it, a complete row of them
the whole way down. They acted as a copy, and beside them were also
some letters which imagined that they looked like the copy ones; Hjal-
mar had written these, and they straggled about almost as if they had
tumbled over the ruled line they were supposed to stand on.
»Look here, this is how you ought to hold yourselves,« said the copy.
»Look - sloping a bit like this, with a free swinging stroke.«
»Ah, we should so like to,« said Hjalmar's letters, »but we can't; we're
feeling so bad.«
»Then you must have a dose of medicine!« said Willie Winkie.

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 «

»Oh, no!« they screamed - and at once stood up as straight as you

could wish for.
»There! That's enough story-telling for the present,« said Willie Win-
kie. »Now I must put them through their drill - left, right - left, right!
And he drilled the letters until they stood up as firm and straight as any
copy ones. But after Willie Winkie had gone and Hjalmar looked at
them the next morning, they were just as miserable-looking as before.

Tuesday

Directly Hjalmar was in bed, Willie Winkie touched all the furniture in
the room with his little magic squirt, and they immediately began to
chatter. They all chattered about themselves, except the spittoon, which
stood in silent annoyance that the others could be so conceited as to talk
and think only of themselves and never have a thought for the one who,
after all, stood so modestly in the corner and let himself be spat upon.
Over the chest of drawers hung a large painting in a gilt frame. It
showed a landscape with tall venerable trees, flowers growing in the
meadow, and a great broad stream curving round behind a wood, past
many a castle, far out into the open sea.
Willie Winkie touched the painting with his magic squirt, and the
birds in it at once began to sing. The branches stirred in the trees, and the
clouds scudded along; you could see their shadow drifting over the fields.
Willie Winkie took little Hjalmar and lifted him up to the picture-
frame, and Hjalmar put his feet into the picture, right into the tall grass;
there he stood, with the sun shining down on him through the branches
of the trees. He ran down to the water and got into a little boat that was
lying there. It was painted red and white, and its sails shone like silver.
Six swans, all with gold crowns down over their necks and a glittering
blue star on their heads, towed the boat past the green woods, where the
trees were telling tales about robbers and witches, and the flowers had
stories of the dear little elves and of all they had heard from the butter-
flies.

80
 The with scales like gold and silver, swam after the
loveliest fishes,
boat, leaping up now and then
so that there was an answering splash in
the water; and the birds flew behind in two long rows, red birds and blue
birds, big ones and little ones. The gnats kept dancing round and the
cockchafer repeated his »boom! boom!« - they all wanted to go with
Hjalmar, and each of them had a story to tell.
Yes, it was a wonderful sail they went for. At one moment the woods
were quite thick and dark, and then suddenly they were like a beautiful
garden with flowers and sunshine, and there appeared great castles of
glass and marble with princesses on the balconies who were all little girls
that Hjalmar knew well and had played with. They reached out their
hands, and earb one was holding the nicest sugar-pig any sweet-shop
could sell. Hjalmar caught hold of one end of a sugar-pig as he sailed
past, and the princess held on tight to the other, so they each got a piece;
she got the smallest and Hjalmar much the biggest. Little princes, with
gold swords carried at the salute, were on guard at every castle, and they
showered him with toffee and tin soldiers; they were proper princesi
Sometimes Hjalmar was sailing through forests, and sometimes through
what seemed to be immense halls or through the middle of a town. In this
way he came to the home of the nurse who had looked after him when he
was quite small. She had been so very fond of him, and now she nodded
and waved her hand, singing the pretty verses she had made up herself
and sent to Hjalmar.
Of you, dear Hjalmar, I often think
and how as a babe I kissed you
on forehead and mouth and cheek so pink -
my darling, how much I've missed you!
Your earliest words I heard you crow,
but soon from your side was driven.
God grant you his blessing here below,
sweet messenger sent from heaven!
And all the birds joined in her song; the flowers danced on their stalks,
and the old trees nodded, just as if Willie Winkie were telling them
stories too.

Wednesday

Goodness how the rain was coming down outsidel Hjalmar could hear
I

it in his sleep, and when Willie Winkie opened a window, the water came

right up to the sill. There was a complete lake outside, but a splendid -
looking ship lay alongside the house.
»Hjalmar, my boy, will you come for a sail?« asked Willie Winkie.
»Then you'll be able to go off to foreign parts to-night and be back again
in the morning.«

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 «

And all of Hjalmar found himself standing in his Sunday

a sudden
best on board and the weather at once became fine. She
the splendid ship,
sailed through the streets, cruised round the church and finally came out
into open sea.* On and on they sailed, until the land was quite out of
sight; and they came upon a flock of storks, who were also leaving home
and were bound for the warm countries. They were flying one behind the
other and had already flown a very long way. One of the storks was so
tired that his wings could hardly bear him up any longer; he was the very
last in the. row, and he soon got a long way behind. Finally he sank with
outspread wings lower and lower; he gave a few more beats with his
wings, but that was no good; and then his feet touched the ship's rigging,
he glided down the sail and plomp! there he was on the deck.
Then the ship's boy picked him up and put him in the hen-coop
among hens, ducks and turkeys. The poor stork looked so sorry for
himself amongst them.
»What a creature !« said all the hens.
And the turkey-cock puffed himself out as big as he could and asked
who he was, and the ducks waddled backwards and nudged each other -
»Quick, get quacking!
Then the stork told about the warmth of Africa, and the pyramids, and
the ostrich that ran like a wild horse through the desert; but the ducks
never understood what he was saying and so they nudged each other
again - »We all agree, don't we, that he's a stupid?«
»As stupid as can be!« said the turkey-cock with a gobble- gobble. At
that the stork kept silent and thought about his beloved Africa.
»Those are nice lanky legs you have,« said the turkey. »How much a
yard?«
»Quack, quack, quack!« chuckled the ducks. But the stork pretended
not to hear.
»You may as well join in the laugh, « said the turkey to him; »it was
very neatly put. Or was
perhaps too low for him? Heighho! He's a bit
it

one-eyed; we must look to ourselves, if we want to have some fun.« And

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 « «

they clucked away, and the ducks kept quack-quack-quacking - it was

terrible how funnythey seemed to think it was.
But Hjalmar went over to the hen-coop, opened the door and called to
the stork, who then hopped out on to the deck. He had now had a good
rest and seemed to give Hjalmar a nod, in order to thank him. The next
moment he spread out his wings and flew off to the warm countries. But
the hens went on clucking and the ducks went on quacking, while the
turkey-cock became quite red in the face.
»To-morrow we shall make soup of you!« said Hjalmar - and then he
woke up. There he was, lying in his little bed. It really was an astonish-
ing voyage Willie Winkie had arranged for him that night.

Thursday

»What do you think I've got here?« said Willie Winkie. »Now don't get
frightened; I'm going to show you a mouse« - and there was the
little

dainty little creature in Willie.Winkie's hand as he held it out to him. »It

has come,« he said, »to invite you to a wedding. There are two little mice
here to-night who are entering into matrimony. They live down under
the floor of your mother's larder; it ought to be a charming affair.
»But how am I to get through the tiny mousehole in the floor?« asked
Hjalmar.
»Leave that to me,« said Willie Winkie; »I know how to make you
small enough.« and he touched Hjalmar with his magic squirt, so that he
at once became smaller and smaller and at last was no bigger than your
finger. »Now we can borrow the tin soldier's clothes; I think they'll fit
you, and it looks so smart to be wearing uniform at a party.
»Ra-ther!« said Hjalmar, and the next moment there he was dressed as
the most dapper- looking tin soldier.
»If you'll kindly take a seat in your mother's thimble,« said the little
mouse, »ril do myself the honour of pulling you along.«
»Good gracious! Miss Mouse,« said Hjalmar, »to think of me giving
you all that trouble!« And off they drove to the mousewedding.
First, they made their way in under the floor by a long passage that was

83
justhigh enough, and no more, for them to be able to drive along in a
thimble, and the whole passage was lit up by touchwood.
»Doesn't it smell nice!« said the mouse that was pulling him. »The
whole passage has been rubbed with bacon-rind; there's nothing to touch
it!«
Now they entered the wedding-chamber. To the right stood all the
little she-mice, twittering and tittering as if they were making fun of each
other; to the left stood all the he-mice, stroking their whiskers with their
paws. But out in the middle of the floor were the bridal pair, standing in
a scooped-out cheese and kissing each other like anything in front of
everybody. Well, after all, they were engaged and were going to be mar-
ried almost at once.
More and more guests kept arriving, and the mice looked like tram-
pling each other to death. The bride and bridegroom had stationed them-
selves in the middle of the doorway, so there was no getting either out or
in. The whole room, like the passage, had been rubbed with bacon-rind,
which was all the refreshment there was; but for dessert there was pro-
duced a pea in which a mouse belonging to the family had nibbled the
name of the bridal pair - or rather, the first letter. That was considered
something altogether out of the ordinary.
All the mice agreed that it was a lovely wedding and that they had
talked with such interesting people.
Finally, Hjalmar drove home again. He had certainly been in very
smart society; on the other hand, he had to put up with no end of a
shrinking, to make himself small enough to get into a tin soldier's uni-
form.

Friday

»You'd never believe how many elderly people would like to get hold of
me,« said Willie Winkie. »Especially the ones who've done something

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 « «

they shouldn't. 'Dear, kind Winkie,' they say to me, 'We can't shut our
eyes at night, and so we lie awake and see deeds sitting on the
our evil
edge of the bed like hideous little goblins and squirting us with hot
water. Do come and chase them away, so that we can get a good sleepi'
And then they add with a deep sigh, 'We're only too glad to pay. Good-
night, Winkie - the money's in the window.' But I don't do it for
money,« said Willie Winkie.
»Now, what are we going to have to-night?« asked Hjalmar.
»Well, I don't know if you'd care to go to another wedding - quite a
different sort to yesterday's I may say. Your sister's big doll - the one that
looks like a man and is called Herman - is to marry the doll Bertha; and,
as it's Bertha's birthday, there will be a lot of presents.*
»Yes, I know what that means! « said Hjalmar.»Whenever the dolls
want new clothes, my sister lets them have a birthday or a wedding. That
must have happened a hundred times.
»Well, but to-night's wedding is the 101st time, and when Number 101
is over there won't be any more. That's why it's going to be so brilliant.

Just look!«
And Hjalmar looked across at the table. There stood the little card-
board house with lights in the windows, and all the tin soldiers were
presenting arms outside. The bride and bridegroom were seated on the
floor, leaning up against the leg of the table and looking very thoughtful,
as indeed they might well do. But Willie Winkie draped himself in Gran-
nie's black petticoat and married them! When the wedding was over, all
the furniture in the room joined in singing the following beautiful song,
which had been written by the pencil and went to the tune of the devil's
tattoo: -
Our song shall greet like wind and weather these two that the priest
has tied together; so poker- stiff they stand in tether, each of them made of
chamois leather!
Hurrah for bride and groom together!
Hurrah for them both in wind and weather!
Next came the wedding presents; they had said they would rather not
have any eatables, as their love was enough for them to live on.
»Which do you think?« said the bridegroom to his bride. »Shall we go
and stay in the country, or shall we travel abroad?« They asked advice of
the swallow, who was a great traveller, and of the old hen, who had
hatched five broods of chicks. The swallow described the lovely warm
countries, where the grapes hang in big heavy bunches and the air is so
soft, and the colour on the hills is something quite unknown to us here.

»Still, they haven't got our garden cabbage!« said the hen. »I once
spent the summer with all my chicks in the country; there was a gravel
pit we could go and scratch in, and then we had the use of a garden where
there were cabbages - such a green, they were! I can't imagine anything
lovelier.

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 « « «

»But one cabbage-stalk looks just like another,« said the swallow.
»And then again, the weather here is so often bad.«
»Oh, well, we're used to that,« replied the hen.
»But it's so cold. It freezes.
»That just suits the cabbages,« said the hen. »Besides, we get warm
weather too, sometimes. Don't you remember, only four years ago, we
had a summer that lasted five weeks! It was so hot here that you could
hardly breathe ... And then we all those poisonous creatures
don't get
they have abroad; and we from brigands. Anyone who doesn't
are free
think our country is the best of all is a scoundrel; he doesn't really deserve
to live here« - and tears came into the hen's eyes. »rve done a bit of
travelling myself,« she added. »rve ridden over 50 miles in a coop.
There's no fun at all in travel.
»Yes, the hen's a sensible woman, « said the doll Bertha. »I don't want
to go mountaineering either. It only means that first you go up and -

then you go down. No, let's move out to the gravel pit and go for a walk
in the cabbage patch.
And that's how they left it.

Saturday

»Any stories for me to-night?« asked little Hjalmar, as soon as Willie

Winkie had got him to bed.
»We haven't time for that this evening,« said Winkie, as he opened
above him the umbrella with the prettiest pictures on. »Take a peep at
those Chinese!« - and the whole umbrella looked like a great Chinese
bowl with blue trees and bridges with pointed arches, where there were
little Chinese who stood nodding their heads.

»We must have everything trim and tidy for tomorrow,« said Winkie.
»You see, it's a holy day; it's Sunday. I must go up the church- tower and

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see if the little church-elves are cleaning the bells, so that they ring out
nicely. must get along to the fields and see if the breezes are blowing the
I

dust off the grass and the leaves. And then - what is really my hardest task
- I must have all the stars down and give them a thorough polish. I take
them into my apron; but, first, each one of them has to be numbered, and
the holes they fit into up there must also be numbered, so that they can
find their right places again; otherwise, they wouldn't fit tight and we
should get too many shooting stars, as they dropped out one after the
other.
»I say, look here, Mr. Winkie,« said an old portrait hanging on the
wall of Hjalmar's bedroom. »rm Hjalmar's great-grandfather. Thank
you for telling the boy these stories, but you mustn't muddle him with
wrong ideas. The stars can't polished. A star is a
be taken down and
globe, the same as the earth beauty of it.«
is; that's just the
»Thanks very much, old great-grandfather! « said Willie Winkie,
»Thanks very much! You're of course the head of the family - the Grand
Old Man - but I'm older than you are. I'm an ancient heathen - the
Romans and Greeks call me the Dream God. I visit the very best houses,
continually, and I know how to get on with all sorts, both young and old.
Now you can tell a story of your own.« And Willie Winkie picked up his
umbrella and away he went.
»Dear, dear!« said the old portrait. »One mayn't even express one's
opinion nowadays.
And at that moment Hjalmar woke up.

Sunday

»Good evening,« said Willie Winkie, and Hjalmar nodded; but then he
jumped up and turned his great-grandfather's portrait with its face to the

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 « «

wall, so that it shouldn't butt into the conversation as it did the day
before.
»Please tell me some stories: the one about the five peas that lived in a
pod, and the one about the cock-a-doodle-doo that made love to the hen-
a-doodle-doo, and the one about the darning-needle who was so stuck-up
that she fancied she was a sewing-needle!
»Ah, but one can have too much of a good thing,« said Willie Winkie.
»rd rather show you something. I tell you what, I'll show you my broth-
er. He never comes to anyone more than once and, when he comes, he

takes them up on his horse and tells them stories. He only knows two:
one is so utterly beautiful that no one on earth can imagine it, and the
other is so ghastly and terrible - well, it's impossible to describe it.«
Then Willie Winkie lifted little Hjalmar up to the window and said,
»Look, there's my brother. He's also called Death. You see, he's nothing
like so horrid to look at as he is in pictures, where he's nothing but a
skeleton. No, he has silver lace on his tunic - it's a splendid hussar
uniform with a black velvet cloak flying behind him over his horse. Look
how he gallops along!
And Hjalmar saw how this other Winkie rode away, taking both
young and old up on Some he placed in front of him, others
his horse.
behind; but he always asked them first, »What does it say in your report?«
»Good,« they all answered. »Ah, but let me see it myself, « he said. Then
they had to show him the report, and all the ones who had »very good« or
»excellent« came to the front seat on the horse and were told the beautiful
story. But those who had »moderate« or »poor« had to sit behind and
hear the terrible story; they trembled and wept and tried to jump off the
horse, but they couldn't do that because they had immediately grown fast
on to it.
 »But Death is a most wonderful Willie Winkie,« said Hjalmar. »rm
not a bit afraid of him.«
»No, and you needn't be,« said Willie Winkie. »Mind you get a good
report, that's all.«
»Most instructive!« muttered the great-grandfather's portrait. »It does
some good, after all, to express one's opinion. « And he was quite content-
ed.
There! That's the story of Willie Winkie. Now this evening he can tell

you some more himself.

 The Swineherd

a. ice upon a time there was a prince who hadn't much money, but he
had a kingdom; and though this was quite small, it was large enough to
marry on, and marry he would.
Still, it was really rather bold of him to say straight out to the Emper-

or's daughter: »Will you have me?« But sure enough he did, for his name
was famous everywhere, and there were hundreds of princesses who
would only too gladly have taken him. But do you think she did? Well,
now just listen. Growing on the grave of the Prince's father was a rose-
tree - oh, such a lovely rose-tree. It only flowered every five years, and
even then had but one solitary bloom. But this rose smelt so sweet that it
made you forget all your cares and troubles. And the Prince also had a
nightingale that could sing just as if it had all the loveliest tunes hidden
away in its little throat. The Princess should have both the rose and the
nightingale, he said; and so they were placed in big silver caskets and sent
to her.
The Emperor had them brought before him in the great hall, where the
Princess was playing »visitors« with her maids-of honour. They never
did anything else and, when she saw the big caskets with the presents
inside, she clapped her hands with glee.
»I do hope it's a pussy-cat,« she said... But then out came the lovely
rose.
»Oh, isn't it pretty !« cried all the maids-of-honour.
»It's more than pretty, « said the Emperor, »It's handsome.«

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 « «

But when the Princess touched it she nearly burst into tears. »Oh,
Papa, what a shame!« she cried. »It's not artificial, it's real!«
»Come, let's first see what's in the other casket before we get annoyed,«
suggested the Emperor. And then out came the nightingale. Its singing
was so lovely that for the moment there wasn't a thing that could be said
against it.

»Superbe! Charmant!« exclaimed the maids-of -honour, for they all

talked French, the one worse than the other. »How the bird reminds me
of Her late Majesty's musical box! « said an old courtier. »Dear me, yes!
Exactly the same tone, the same expression !«
»So it is,« said the Emperor; and he cried like a child.
»A11 the same, I can't believe that it's real,« said the Princess.
»Yes, it is; it's a real live bird,« said the ones who had brought it.
»A11 right, then let it fly away,« said the Princess, and she wouldn't
hear of the Prince being allowed to come.
But he wasn't going to be put off like that. He smeared his face with
brown and black, pulled his cap down over his eyes and knocked at the
door. »Gc)od morning, Emperor!« he said. »I wonder if you've got a job
for me here at the Gas tie.
»Ah, well,« said the Emperor, » there are so many who come and ask
that. But now, let me see - yes, I want some one to mind the pigs. We've
such a lot of pigs.«
And so the Prince was appointed Imperial Swineherd. He was given a
miserable little room down by the pig-sties, and there he had to live. But
all day he sat working, and by the evening he had made a lovely little pot
with bells round it and, as soon as the pot boiled, these tinkled charming-
ly; they played the old tune of -

»Ah, my dear Augustine,

Our dreams are all done, done, done!«
But the cunningest arrangement of all was that, if you held your finger
in the steam from the pot, you could at once smell what was being cooked
on every fire in the town. Well, of course, that was something quite
different from a rose.
Presently the Princess came strolling along with all her court-ladies,
and when she heard the music she stopped, looking so delighted; for she,
too, could play »Ah, my dear Augustine« - it was the only tune she knew,
and she played it with one finger.
»Why, that's my tune!« she said. »This pigman must be a man of taste.
Look here, go in and ask him how much he wants for the instrument.
So one of the court-ladies had to run in and see him; but she put on her
clogs first.

»How much do you want for that pot?« she asked.

»I want ten kisses from the Princess, « answered the pigman.
»Goodness gracious! « said the maid-of-honour.
»That's the price; I can't take less,« said the pigman.

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 «

»Well, what does he say?« asked the Princess.

»I really can't repeat it,« said the maid-of-honour. »It's too dreadful.
»Well, then whisper it« - and the maid-of-honour whispered it.
»Oh, how rude he is!« said the Princess and walked off at once. But
when she had gone a way, the bells began to tinkle so charmingly -
little

»Ah, my dear Augustine,

our dreams are all done, done done!«
»Come,« said the Princess, »ask him if he will take ten kisses from my
ladies-in-waiting.«
»No, thank you,« said the pigman. »Ten kisses from the Princess, or I

stick to my pot!«
»How horribly annoying!« said the Princess. »Well, then, you ladies'll
have to stand in front of me, so that no one can see.«
The court-ladies went and stood in front of her, spreading out their
dresses; and then thepigman had his ten kisses and she got her pot.

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Goodness! What fun they had! Day and night the pot was kept on the
boil.There wasn't a kitchen in the town where they didn't know what
was being cooked, whether it was the Mayor's or the shoemaker's. The
maids-of-honour danced about, clapping their hands with glee.
»We know who's going to have soup and pancakes, and we know
who's going to have chops and jelly. It's so interesting.«
»Most interesting,« observed the high Stewardess.
»Yes, but not a word to anyone, mind you; for I'm the Emperor's
daughter.
»0, dear, no!« they all replied. »We shouldn't dream of it.«
The swineherd - that is to say, the Prince, but you see, they didn't know
but what he was a regular pigman - couldn't let the day go by without
making something. The next thing he made was a rattle. When you
swung it round, it played all the waltzes and jigs and polkas that anybody
had ever heard of.
»Now that really is superbe,« said the Princess, as she was passing.
»rve never heard anything lovelier. Look here, go in and ask him what
he wants for that instrument. But, mind, no kisses!«
»He wants a hundred kisses from the Princess,« said the lady-in-
waiting who had been in to ask.
»The fellow must be mad,« said the Princess and began to walk off. But
when she had gone a little way, she stopped. »Art must be encouraged,«
she said; »after all, I'm the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he shall have
and my ladies-in-waiting will give him the rest.«
ten kisses like yesterday,
»Oh, but we couldn't bear to do that,« said the ladies.
»Nonsense!« said the Princess. »If I can kiss him, so can you. Remem-
ber, I give you wages and board« - and once more the maid-of-honour
had to go in and see the pigman.
»A hundred kisses from the Princess, « he said, »or we stay as we are.«
»Stand in front! « she cried. And so all the court-ladies placed them-
selves in front, and the kissing began.
»What on earth are they all up to over there by the sties! « said the
Emperor, who had just stepped out on to his balcony. He rubbed his eyes
and put on his spectacles. »Why, it's the ladies-in-waiting, up to some
game or other. Perhaps I'd better go and have a look« - and he gave a
hitch to the back of his slippers, for he had trodden them down at the
heel.
Phew! What a hurry he was in!
As soon as he came down into the courtyard, he crept along very
quietly. And the maids-of-honour were so busy counting the kisses, for it

had he mustn't have too many kisses, nor yet too few -
to be fair do's -
that they never noticed the Emperor, who now drew himself up on tiptoe.
»What's all this!« he said, when he saw them kissing; and he slogged
them over the head with his slipper, just as the young pigman was
having his eighty -sixth kiss. »Out you get!« said the Emperor, for he was

93
furious, and both Princess and swineheard were turned out of his king-
dom.
Look, there she sat crying, while the swineherd scolded and the rain
came down in torrents.
»Poor me!« said the Princess. »If only I had accepted the handsome
Prince! Oh, I am so unhappy!«
The swineherd went behind a tree, wiped off the black and brown from
his face, threw away his old clothes and now stepped forward in princely
robes that were so magnificent that the Princess couldn't help making a
curtsey.
»My dear, I've come to despise you,« he said. »An honest prince you
rejected. The rose and the nightingale were not to your taste.
But the
swineherd - you could kiss him for the sake of a musical box. Now you
can have what you asked for!«
And with that he went into his kingsom, shut the door and bolted it;
but she could stand outside if she cared to and sing -
»Ah, my dear Augustine,
Our dreams are all done, done, done!«
 _--«l'-»W^X.> •'

The Nightingale

Aou know of course that in China the Emperor is a Chinese and his
subjects are Chinese too. The story I'm going to tell you happened many
years ago, but that's just why you had better hear it now before it's forgot-
ten.
The Emperor's palace was the finest palace in the world, made entirely
of delicate porcelain. It was all so precious and fragile that you had to be
tremendously careful how you touched anything. The garden was full of
the rarest flowers, and the loveliest of these had little silver bells tied to
them which tinkled so that no one should go by without noticing them.
Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was most carefully thought out,
and it stretched so far that even the gardener had no idea where it ended.
If you kept on walking, you found yourself in a glorious wood with tall

trees and deep lakes. The wood went right down to the sea, which was
blue and deep; big ships could sail right in under the branches of the
trees. Here lived a nightingale that sang so beautifully that even the poor

fisherman, who had so much else to see to, would stop and listen, when
he was taking his nets in at night and suddenly heard the nightingale.
»My word! that's lovely!« he said; but then he had to get on with his work
and forgot about the bird. Yet when she sang again the following night
and the fisherman was out there with his nets, »My word!« he repeated,
»that is lovely!«
From every country in the world travellers came and marvelled at the
Emperor's great city, his palace and his garden; but as soon as they heard

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 « «

the nightingale, everyone said the same

»Oh, but that's the best of all!«
-
And when they got home from had many tales to tell,
their travels, they
and clever people wrote books about the city and the palace and the
garden, yet they never forgot the nightingale; she was given the place of
honour. And the poets wrote the most lovely poems, all about the nigh-
tingale in the wood there beside the deep sea.
These books went all over the world, and so in course of time some of
them reached the Emperor. There he sat in his golden chair, reading and
reading; and now and then he nodded his head, for he was pleased to
come across such splendid descriptions of the city and the palace and the
garden. »But the nightingale is really the best of all,« said the book he
was reading.
»What's this?« thought the Emperor. »The nightingale? Why, I've
never heard of her! Is there such a bird in my Empire and, what's more, in
my own garden? Nobody's ever told me that - one has to read about it in a
book!« And, with that, he summoned his gentleman-in-waiting, who
was so grand that, whenever anyone of lower rank than himself ventured
to speak to him or to ask a question, he only answered »P!« - and that
means nothing at all.
»It says here that we have a most remarkable bird called a nightingale,*
said the Emperor. »They declare that there's nothing like her in all my
Empire. Why have I never been told of this before?«
»It's the first I've ever heard of her,« repeated the gentleman-in-
waiting. »She's never been presented at Court.
»I command her to be brought here this evening to sing to me,« said
the Emperor. »The whole world knows what I possess - and I know
nothing!«
»It's the first I've ever heard of her,« repeated the gentleman-in-
waiting. »I shall look for her, and I shall find her.«
Find her? But where? The gentleman-in-waiting ran upstairs and
downstairs, through rooms and passages, but none of the people he met
had ever heard of the nightingale. So the gentleman-in-waiting hurried
once more to the Emperor and said it was obviously a story invented by
those who write books. »Your Majesty mustn't believe everything you
read. Most of it's just made up - what they call black art.«
»But the book I read it in,« said the Emperor, »was sent me by the high
and mighty Emperor of Japan, so it can't be untrue. I will hear the nigh-
tingale. She's to come and sing to-night, under my royal patronage; and
if she fails to appear, then every courtier shall be punched in the stomach

directly after supper.

»Tsing-pe!« said the gentleman-in- waiting and ran up and down all
the stairs again, through all therooms and passages; half the Court ran
with him, for they didn't a bit like the idea of being punched in the
stomach. They kept asking after this extraordinary nightingale that every-
body knew about except the people at Court.

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 « « «

At last they came across a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said »Oh,
golly - the nightingale? know her well. My, how she can sing! Every
I

evening I'm allowed to take home a few scraps from the table for my poor
sick mother who lives down by the shore; and on my way back I often
wood, and then I hear the nightingale singing. It brings
take a rest in the
tears to my my mother were kissing me.«
eyes, just as if
»Little kitchen-maid,« said the gentleman-in-waiting, »you shall have
a regular situation in the kitchen and be allowed to watch the Emperor
eating his dinner, only you'll take us to the nightingale. You see, she's
if

to give a command
performance this evening before the Emperor.
So then they all set out for the wood where the nightingale used to
sing; half the Court joined in the quest. As they were going along, a cow
began to moo. »Ah, there she is!« said the courtiers. »What remarkable
strength in such a small creature! Yes, it's certainly not the first time
we've heard her.«
»No, but that's a cow mooing,« said the little kitchen-maid. »We've
still got a long way to go.«

Then some frogs started croaking in the pond. »Delightful!« said the
Emperor's chaplain. »Now I can hear her: just like little church-bells.«
»No, those are frogs,« said the little kitchen-maid. »But I expect we
shall soon hear her now.« And then the nightingale began to sing.
»There she is!« said the little girl. »Listen, listen! There she is, up
there« - and she pointed to a little grey bird up in the branches.
»Is it possible?« said the gentleman-in-waiting. »Why, I never pictured
her like that. How ordinary she looks! I expect she's off colour through
having so many distinguished visitors.
»Little nightingale,* called out the small kitchen-maid quite boldly,
»our gracious Emperor would like you to sing to him.«
»With the greatest of pleasure, « said the nightingale, and at once began
to sing most deliciously.
»Just like glass bells, « observed the gentleman-in-waiting. »And look
at the way her little throat keeps working. I can't make out why we've
never heard her before. She'll make a great hit at Court.«
»Shall I sing oncemore to the Emperor?« asked the nightingale, for she
thought the Emperor was there.
»My excellent little nightingale,« replied the gentleman-in- waiting, »it
is my very pleasant duty to summon you to a concert this evening at the
palace, where you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delight-
ful singing.
»It sounds best out in the open,« said the nightingale. Still, she went
along readily enough on hearing it was the Emperor's wish.
At the palace everything had been polished up, until the china walls
and floors glittered in the light of thousands and thousands of gold
lamps. The loveliest flowers, hung ready for tinkling, were arranged in
the corridors; and there was such a draught from the scurrying to and fro

97
that their bells were all set ringing and you couldn't hear a word that was
spoken.
In the middle of the great hall in which the Emperor sat was a golden
perch for the nightingale. The entire Court was present; and the little
kitchen-maid was allowed to stand behind the door, as she now ranked as
a regular palace kitchen-maid. Everyone was dressed in their finest
clothes, and they all looked at the little grey bird as the Emperor nodded
to her to begin.
And the nightingale sang so beautifully that tears came into the Em-
peror's eyes and trickled right down his cheeks; and then the nightin-
gale's singing became even lovelier - it went straight to his heart. And the
Emperor was so pleased that he said the nightingale should have his gold
slipper to wear round her neck; but the nightingale said no thank you,
she had been rewarded enough already. »l\e seen tears in the Emperor's
eyes; that's my richest reward. There's a strange power in an Emperor's
tears. Heaven knows, they are reward enough !« And then the nightingale
let them hear her lovely voice again.

»Who ever saw such airs and graces! « said the ladies around; and they
went and filled their mouths with water so as to gurgle when anyone
spoke to them; yes, they thought they could be nightingales too. Even
the lackeys and ladies' maids expressed their approval; and that's saying a
good deal for they are the most difficult of all to satisfy. There's no doubt
whatever, the nightingale made a great hit.
She was now to remain at Court and have her own cage, with leave to
go out for two walks in the daytime and one at night. She was given
twelve attendants, who each held on tightly to a silk ribbon fastened
round her leg. There was absolutely no fun in a walk like that.
The whole city was talking of this remarkable bird, and, when two
people met, one of them merely said »night« and the other »gale«, and
after that they sighed and quite understood each other. What's more,
eleven grocer's children were named after her, but not one of them had a
note in its head...
One day a large parcel arrived for the Emperor, with the word »Night-
ingale« written on the outside.
»I expect this is a new book about our famous bird,« said the Emperor.
But wasn't a book at all; it was a little gadget lying in a box - an
it

artificial nightingale that was supposed to look like the live one but was
covered all over with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. You only had to
wind it up, and it could sing one of the songs that the real nightingale
sang; and all the while its tail went up and down, glittering with silver
and gold. Round its neck was a little ribbon, on which was written:
»The Emperor of Japan's nightingale is poor beside the Emperor of
China's.«
»How delightful !« they all said; and the one who brought the artificial
bird was at once given the title of Chief Imperial Nightingale Bringer.

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 «

»Now they must both sing at once,« suggested somebody. »What a duet
that will be!«
So the two birds had to sing together;but it wasn't a success, because
the real nightingale sang in her own way, whereas the artificial bird went
by clockwork. »It can't be blamed for that«, said the Master of the Emper-
or's Music. »It keeps perfect time and follows my own methods exactly.
After that, the artificial bird had to sing by itself. It was just as popular as
the real one, and of course it was also much prettier to look at, glittering
there like a cluster of brooches and bracelets.
Over and over again it sang its one and only song - thirty- three times
without tiring - and the listeners would have liked to hear it all once
more, but the Emperor thought that now it was time for the real nightin-
gale to do some singing ... But where ever was she? No one had noticed
her fly out of the open window, away to her own green woods.
»Bless my soul, what's the meaning of this?« said the Emperor; and all
the courtiers were highly indignant and said what an ungrateful creature
the nightingale was. »Still, we've got the better one,« they added; and
then the artificial bird was obliged to sing once more. That was the thirty-
fourth time they were hearing the same song; but they didn't quite know
it even yet, for it was so difficult. And the Master of Music gave the bird

extraordinary praise; in fact, he declared that it was better than the real
nightingale, not merely because of its outward appearance and all the
wonderful diamonds, but also for the work inside.
»You see, ladies and gentlemen and, above all. Your Imperial Majesty,
with the real nightingale there's no telling what's going to happen. But
with the artificial bird everything is fixed beforehand. Such-and-such
will be heard and no other.One can account for it all: one can open it up
and show the human mind at work, the position of the cylinders, how
they go round, and the way in which one thing follows from anotherI«
Everyone said that they quite agreed, and the Master of Music got
permission to show the bird to the public on the following Sunday.
»They must also hear it sing,« said the Emperor. And hear it they did.
They were as delighted as if they had drunk themselves merry on tea -
and that's so like the Chinese! They all said »Oh!« and held up one finger
- the finger we call »lick-pot« - and nodded their heads. But the poor
fisherman who had heard the real nightingale said: »It don't sound so
bad - quite like the bird - and yet there's something kind o' missing.«
The real nightingale was sent into exile - banished from land and
realm. The artificial bird had its place on a silk cushion close to the
Emperor's bed; all the presents it had been given, gold and precious
stones, lay round about, and it was promoted to be Chief Imperial Bed-
side Minstrel of the First Classon the Left; for the Emperor considered
the sideon which the heart lies to be the more distinguished, and even an
Emperor has his heart on the left. The Master of Music wrote a book in
twenty-five volumes about the mechanical bird; it was very long and

99
 most difficult Chinese words, and everyone pretended
learned, full of the
they had read and understood it, or else of course they would have been
it

thought stupid and got punched in the stomach.

Well, this went on for a whole year, until the Emperor, his Court and
all the other Chinese knew by heart every little gurgle in the throat of the
artificial songbird; but for that very reason they came to like it all the
better. They could join in the singing themselves, and they did. The
street-boys sang »zee-zee-zee, kloo-kloo-klook!« and the Emperor sang it,

too! It really was tremendous fun.

But one evening, just as the artificial bird was in full song and the
Emperor lay listening in bed, something went »snap!« inside the bird.
Then there was a »whirrrr«; the wheels all went whizzing round. ..and the
music stopped.
The Emperor jumped quickly out of bed and sent for the doctor, but
what could he do? Then they brought along the watchmaker, and after a
great deal of talk and poking about he got the bird to work after a
fashion; but he said that it mustn't be used too often, as the bearings were
almost worn out and it was impossible to get fresh parts that would fit in
properly with the music. This was a sad disappointment. Once a year
only was the artificial bird allowed to sing, and even that was something
of a strain; but on these occasions the Master of Music made a little
speech full of difficult words, saying that the bird was just as good as ever
- and so of course it was just as good as ever.
Five years had now gone by and presently
the whole country was filled
with sorrow, for really in their hearts they were all fond of their Emperor;
but now he was ill and not likely to live, it was said. A new Emperor had
already been chosen, and people stood out in the street and asked the
gentleman-in- waiting how their Emperor was. »P!« he replied and shook
his head.
Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his magnificent great bed. The
whole Court believed him to be dead, and each of them hastened to pay
their respects to the new Emperor. The valets ran out to gossip about it,

and the palace housemaids had a large tea-party. Everywhere, in all the
rooms and corridors, heavy cloth had been laid down in order to deaden
the sound of footsteps; the whole palace was as still as still could be.
But the Emperor wasn't dead yet. Stiff and pale he lay. in the magnifi-
cent bed with its long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels; through an
open window high up on the wall the moon was shining down on the
Emperor and the artificial bird.
The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something
was sitting on his chest. He opened his eyes, and then he saw it was Death
that sat on his chest and had put on his gold crown and was holding the
Emperor's gold sword in one hand and his splendid banner in the other.
All round the bed, from the folds in the great velvet curtains, strange faces
were peering, some of them hideous, others wonderfully gentle and kind.

100
They were the Emperor's good and evil deeds, gazing down on him now
thatDeath was sitting on his heart.
»Do you remember that?« they whispered, one after the other. »Do you
remember that?« And they told him so much that the sweat stood out on
his forehead.
»I never realized that,« said the Emperor. »Music, music! Sound the
great Chinese drum,« he cried, »to save me from hearing what they sayl«
But still they went on, and Death kept nodding like a Chinese at every
word they whispered.
»Music! music!« shrieked the Emperor. »You wonderful little golden
bird, sing,I implore you, sing! I've given you gold and precious stones,

I've hung my own gold slipper round your neck - sing, I implore you,
sing!«
But the bird was silent; there was no one to wind it up, and it couldn't

101
sing without that. But Death went on staring at the Emperor with his
great hollow and everything was so still, so terribly still.
eyes,
All at once, close to the window, came a burst of most beautiful sing^
ing. It was the little live nightingale, perched in a tree outside. She had
heard of her Emperor's distress and had therefore come to sing him
consolation and hope; and, as she sang, the shapes grew fainter and
fainter, the blood in the Emperor's weak limbs ran faster and faster, and
Death himself listened and said, »Go on, little nightingale, go on!«
»Yes, if you'll give me the fine gold sword ... if you'll give me the
splendid banner... if you'll give me the Emperor's crown!«
And Death gave up each treasure for a song, and still the nightingale
went on singing. She sang of the quiet churchyard where the white roses
bloom, where the elder-tree smells so sweet, and where the fresh grass is
watered with the tears of those who are left behind. Then Death began to
long for his garden and floated like a cold white mist out of the window.
»Thank you, thank you!« said the Emperor. »You heavenly little bird,
now I know who you are! I banished you from land and realm - and yet
you have sung those evil visions away from my bed, you have lifted Death
from my heart. How can I ever repay you?«
»You have done already,« said the nightingale. »The first time I sang I
brought tears to your eyes - I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels
that rejoice a singer's heart ... But sleep now and get well and strong
again! I will sing to you.«
And the nightingale sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep -
such a peaceful refreshing sleep. When
he awoke, restored once more to
health, the sun was shining in through the windows. None of his ser-
vants had come back yet, for they thought he was dead; but the nightin-
gale was still singing outside.

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 «

»You must never leave me again, « said the Emperor. »You shall only
sing w^hen you w^ant to, and the artificial bird - I shall break it into a
thousand pieces.
»No, don't do that,« said the nightingale. »It's done what it could;
don't part with it yet. I can't make my home in the palace, but let me
come when I feel that I want to; then I'll sit of an evening on this branch
by the window, and my singing can make you both gay and thoughtful. I
shall sing of those that are happy, and of those thai suffer; I shall sing of
the good and the evil that are here lurking about you. Your little song-
bird must fly round to distant homes - to the poor fisherman and the
humble peasant - to those who are far from you and your Court. I love
your heart better than your crown ... and yet there's a breath of something
holy about the crown... I shall come, I shall sing to you; yet there's one
thing you must promise me.«
»Whatever you ask!« answered the Emperor, standing there in the
imperial robes that he had himself put on and holding the heavy gold
sword to his heart.
»One thing only I ask of you. Let no one know that you have a little
bird who tells you everything; that will be best.« And then the nightin-
gale flew away.
The servants came in to look after their dead Emperor. Yes, there they
stood, and the Emperor said, »Good morning!«
 The Top and the Ball

A top and a ball were in a drawer together with some other toys, and
then one day the top said to the ball: »Look here, we live together in the
same drawer - shall we become engaged?« But the ball, who was made of
morocco leather and fancied herself quite as much as any smart young
lady, wouldn't even answer such a ridiculous question.
Next day the little boy whom the toys belonged to came and painted
the top red and yellow all over and hammered a brass nail into the middle
of it. The top was really a fine sight, as it went spinning round and
round.
»Look at me!« said the top to the ball »What do you say now? Don't
you think after all we might be engaged? We go so splendidly together:
you bounce and I dance. There couldn't be a happier couple than us
two.«
»Oh, you think that, do you?« answered the ball. »You don't seem to
realize that my father and mother were morocco slippers and that I have a
cork inside me.«
»Ah, but I'm made of mahogany,« said the top. »Why, the mayor
turned me himself on his own lathe, and he was so pleased about it.«
»Am I really expected to believe that?« asked the ball.
»May I never be whipped again, if I'm not telling you the truth!«
answered the top.
»You give a very fine account of yourself,« said the ball. »But I really
must say no. You see, I'm what you might call half-engaged to a swallow.

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 «

Every time I go up in the air, he pops his head out of the nest and says:
»Will you? Will you?« I've already said to myself that I will, and that's as
good as a half-engagement. But I promise never to forget you.«
»A lot of good that'll be!« replied the top; and they said no more to
each other.
Next day the ball was taken out into the garden. The top watched how
she flew high up into the air, just like a bird, until she went clean out of
sight. But she came back again each time and, whether from longing or
because she had a cork inside her, this was always followed by a high
bounce as soon as she touched the ground. The ninth time the ball went
up, she never came back; the little boy looked and looked, but she had
vanished.
»Ah, I could him where she is,« said the top with a sigh. »She's in
tell

the swallow's nest and has married the swallow.

The more the top thought it all over, the more he lost his heart to the
ball. The mere fact that he couldn't have her made him love her more
than ever; the strange thing was that she should have accepted anyone
else.

And the top went on dancing and spinning round, but all the time he
was thinking about the ball, who grew more and more beautiful in his
imagination. In this way several years went by, till gradually it became
nothing more than an old love-affair...
But, although the top was no longer young, suddenly one day he found
himself painted all over with gold. Never had he looked so handsome; he
was now a gold top, and he whirled and whirled until he hummed.
Gosh! It was something like! Then all at once he jumped too high - and
disappeared. They looked and looked, even down in the basement, but he
was not to be found.
Wherever had he got to?
He had jumped into the dustbin among all sorts of cabbage-stalks,
sweepings and rubbish that had come down from the gutter on the roof.
»Here's a nice place for me to come »My gold paint
to!« said the top.
will soon go off and - did such riff-raff as I've got around
you ever see
me!« And then he peeped sideways at a long skinny-looking cabbage-
stalk and a curious round object that looked like an old apple... But it
wasn't an apple at all, it was an old ball that had been lying up in the
gutter on the roof for several years and become quite sodden.
»Thank goodness, here's someone at last of one's own class that one
can talk with a glance at the gilded top, »Actually I'm
to,« said the ball,
made of morocco leather, stitched by gentlewomen, and I've got a cork
inside me, but nobody would ever think so to look at me. I was just going
to marry a swallow, when I landed up in the gutter; and there I've been
for five years growing more and more sodden. That's a long time, believe
me, for a young lady.«
But the top didn't say a word. His thoughts went back to his old

105
sweetheart, and the longer he listened the more certain he became that
this was her.
Presently the maidservant came to clear out the dustbin. »Well, I never!
Here's the gold top!« she said. Back in the house the top came in for lots
of attention, but nothing was said about the ball, and the top never spoke
again of his old love. Love is, of course, bound to fade away, when your
sweetheart has spent five years growing sodden in a gutter; you can't be
expected to know her again, if you meet her in a dustbin.
 The Ugly Duckling

»3aiimmertime! How lovely it was out in the country, with the wheat
standing yellow, the oats green, and the hay all stacked down in the
grassy meadows! And therewent the stork on his long red legs, chattering
away in Egyptian, for hehad learnt that language from his mother. The
fields and meadows had large woods all around, and in the middle of the
woods there were deep lakes.
Yes, it certainly was lovely out in the country. Bathed in sunshine
stood an old manor-house with a deep moat round it, and growing out of
the wall down by the water were huge dock-leaves; the biggest of them
were so tall that little children could stand upright underneath. The
place was as tangled and twisty as the densest forest, and here it was that a
duck was sitting on her nest. It was time for her to hatch out her little
ducklings, but it was such a long job that she was beginning to lose
patience. She hardly ever had a visitor; the other ducks thought more of
swimming about in the moat than of coming and sitting under a dock-
leaf just for the sake of a quack with her.
At last the eggs cracked open one after the other - »peep! peep!« - and
all the yolks had come to life and were sticking out their heads.

»Quack, quack!« said the mother duck, and then the little ones scuttled
out as quickly as they could, prying all round under the green leaves; and
she let them do this as much as they liked, because green is so good for the
eyes.

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 «

»Oh, how big the world is!« said the duckhngs. And they certainly had
much more room now than when they were lying in the egg.
»Do you suppose this is the whole world!« said their mother. »Why, it
goes a long way past the other side of the garden, right into the parson's
field; but I've never been as far as that. Well, you're all out now, I hope« -

and she got up from her nest - »no, not all; the largest egg is still here.
How ever long will it be? I can't bother about it much more.« And she
went on sitting again.
»Well, how's it going?« asked an old duck who came to pay a call.
»There's just this one egg that's taking such a time,« said the sitting
duck. »It simply won't break. But just look at the others - the loveliest
ducklings I've ever seen. They all take after their father - the wretch! Why
doesn't he come and see me?«
»Let's have a look at the egg which won't crack,« said the old duck.
»ril bet it's a turkey's egg. That's how I was bamboozled once. The little
ones gave me no end of trouble, for they were afraid of the water - fancy
that! - I just couldn't get them to go in. I quacked and clacked, but it was
no good. Let's have a look at the egg... Ay, that's a turkey's egg, depend
upon it! Let it be and teach the others to swim.«
»I think I'll sit just a little while yet,« said the duck. »rve been sitting
so long that it won't hurt to sit a little longer.«
»Please yourself! « said the old duck, and away she waddled.
At last the big egg cracked. There was a »peep! peep!« from the young
one as he tumbled out, looking so large and ugly. The duck glanced at
him and said: »My! what a huge great duckling that is! None of the others
look a bit like that. Still, it's never a turkey-chick, I'll be bound ... Well,
we shall soon find out. He shall go into the water, if I have to kick him in
myself!
The next day the weather was gloriously fine, with sun shining on all
the green dock- leaves. The mother duck with her whole family came
down to the moat. Splash! into the water she jumped. »Quack, quack!«
she said, and one after another the ducklings plomped in after her. The
water closed over their heads, but they were up again in a moment and
floated along so beautifully. Their legs worked of their own accord, and
now thewhole lot were in the water - even the ugly grey duckling joined
in the swimming.
»It's no turkey, that's certain«, said the duck. »Look how beautifully he
uses his legs and how straight he holds himself. He's my own little one
all right, and he's quite handsome, when you really come to look at him.
quack, quack! Now, come along with me and let me show you the world
and introduce you all to the barnyard, but mind and keep close to me, so
that nobody steps on you; and keep a sharp look-out for the cat.«
Then they made their way into the duckyard. There was a fearful noise
going on, for there were two families fighting for an eel's head, and af-
ter all it was the cat that got it.

108
 «

»You see! That's the way of the world,« said the mother duck and
licked her bill, for she toohad fancied the eel's head. »Now then, where
are your legs?« she said, slippy and make a nice bow to the old
»Look
duck over there. She's the most genteel of all these; she has Spanish
blood, that's why she's so plump. And do you see that crimson rag she
wears on one leg? It's extremely fine; it's the highest distinction any duck
can win. It's as good as saying that there is no thought of getting rid of
her; man and beast are to take notice! Look alive, and don't turn your
toes in! A well-bred duckling turns its toes out, like father and mother ...
That's it. Now make a bow and say 'quack' !«
They all obeyed; but the other ducks round about looked at them and
said out loud: »There! Now
we've got to have that rabble as well - as if
there weren't enough of us already! Ugh! What a sight that duckling is!
We can't possibly put up with him« - and one duck immediately flew at
him and bit him in the neck.
»Leave him alone,« said the mother. »He's doing no one any harm.«
»Yes, but he's so gawky and peculiar, « said the one that had pecked
him, »so he'll have to be squashed.«
»What pretty children you have, my dear!« said the old duck with the
rag on her leg. »A11 of them but one, who doesn't seem right. I only wish
you could make him all over again.
»No question of that, my lady,« said the ducklings' mother. »He's not
pretty, but he's so good-tempered and he can swim just as well as the
others - I daresay even a bit better. I fancy his looks will improve as he

grows up, or maybe in time he'll grow down a little. He lay too long in
the egg - that's why he isn't quite the right shape.« And then she plucked
his neck for him and smoothed out his feathers. »Anyhow, he's a drake,
and so it doesn't matter so much,« she added. »I feel sure he'll turn out
pretty strong and be able to manage all right«.
»The other ducklings are charming,« said the old duck. »Make your-
selves at home, my dears, and if you should find such a thing as an eel's
head you may bring it to me.«
And so they made themselves at home.
But the poor duckling who was the last out of the egg and looked so
ugly got pecked and jostled and teased by ducks and hens alike. »The
great gawk!« they all clucked. And the turkey, who was bom with spurs
and therefore thought himself an emperor, puffed up his feathers like a
ship under full sail and went straight at him, and then he gobble-gobbled
till he was quite red in the face. The poor duckling didn't know where to

turn; he was terribly upset over being so ugly and the laughing-stock of
the whole barnyard.
That's how it was the first day, and afterwards things grew worse and
worse. The poor duckling got chivied about by all of them; even his own
brothers and sisters treated him badly, and they kept saying: »If only the
cat would get you, you ridiculous great guy!« And the mother herself

109
wished he were far away. The ducks nipped him, the hens pecked him,
and the maid who had to feed the pouUry let fly at him with her foot.
After that, he ran away and fluttered over the hedge, and the little birds
in the bushes grew frightened and flew into the air. »That's because I'm
so ugly,« thought the duckling and closed his eyes - and yet managed to
get away. Eventually he came out to the great marsh where the wild-
ducks lived and lay there all night, utterly tired and dispirited.
In the morning the wild-ducks flew up and looked at their new com-
panion. »What ever are you?« they asked, and the duckling turned in
every direction and bowed as well as he could.
»What a scarecrow you are!« said the wild-ducks, »but that won't
matter to us, as long as you don't marry into our family. « Poor thing! He
wasn't dreaming of getting married; all he wanted was to be allowed to
stay quietly among the rushes and drink a little marsh-water. After he
had been there for two whole days, two wild-geese came along - or rather
two wild-ganders, for they were both males. It was not long since they
were hatched; that's why they were so perky.
»Look here, my lad!« they began. »You are so ugly that we quite like
you. Will you come and migrate? Not far off, in another
in with us
marsh, are nice young wild-geese, none of them married, who
some very
can quack beautifully. Here's a chance for you to make a hit, ugly as you
are.«
»Bang! bang!« suddenly echoed above them, and both the ganders fell
down dead in the rushes, and the water became red with blood. »Bang!
bang!« sounded once more, and flocks of wild-geese flew up from the
rushes, so that immediately fresh shots rang out. A big shoot was on. The
party lay ready all round the marsh; some even sat up in the trees on the
branches that stretched right out over the rushes. Clouds of blue smoke
drifted in among the dark trees and hung far over the water. Splashing
through the mud came the gun-dogs, bending back reeds and rushes this
way and that. It was terrifying for the poor duckling, who was just
turning his head round to bury it under his wing when he suddenly
found close beside him a fearsome great dog with lolling tongue and
grim, glittering eyes. It lowered its muzzle right down to the duckling,
bared its sharp teeth and - splash! it went off again without touching
him.
The duckling gave a sigh of relief. »Thank goodness, I'm so ugly that
even the dog doesn't fancy the taste of me.« And he lay there quite still,
while the shot pattered on the reeds and crack after crack was heard from
the guns.
It was late in the day before everything was quiet again, but the poor

duckling didn't dare to get up yet;, he waited several hours longer before
he took a look round and then made off from the marsh as fast as he
could go. Over field and meadow he scuttled, but there was such a wind
that he found it difficult to get along.

110
 Towards evening he came up to a poor little farm-cottage; it was so
broken-down that it hardly knew which way to fall, and so it remained
standing. The wind whizzed so fiercely round the duckling that he had to
sit on his tail so as not to be blown over. The wind grew worse and worse.

Then he noticed that the door had come off one of its hinges and hung so
much on the slant that he could slip into the house through the crack.
And that's just what he did.
There was an old woman living here with her cat and her hen. The cat,
whom she called Sonny, could arch its back and purr; it could even give
out sparks, if you stroked its fur the wrong way. The hen had such short
little legs that it was called Chickabiddy Shortlegs; it was a very good

layer, and the woman loved it like her own child.

Next morning they at once noticed the strange duckling, and the cat
started to purr and the hen to cluck. »Why, what's up?« said the woman,

HI
 «

looking round. But her sight wasn't very good, and she took the duckling
for a fatduck that had lost its way. »My! What a find! « she said. »I shall
be able to have duck's eggs - as long as it isn't a drake! We must give it a
trial.

And so was taken on trial for three weeks; but there was no
the duckling
sign of an egg. Now,
the cat was master in the house and the hen was
mistress, and they always used to say »We and the world,« because they
fancied that they made up half the world - what's more, much the superi-
or half of it. The duckling thought there might be two opinions about
that, but the hen wouldn't hear of it.
»Can you lay eggs?« she asked.
»No.«
»Well, then, hold your tongue, will you!«
And the cat asked: »Can you arch your back or purr or give out
sparks?«
»No.«
»Well, then, your opinion's not wanted, when sensible people are talk-
ing.«
And the duckling sat in the corner, quite out of spirits. Then suddenly
he remembered the fresh air and the sunshine, and he got such a curious
longing to swim in the water that - he couldn't help it - he had to tell the
hen.
» What's the matter with you?« she asked. »You haven't anything to do -
that's why you get these fancies. They'd soon go, if only you'd lay eggs or
else purr.«
»But it's so lovely to swim in the water«, said the duckling; »so lovely
to duck your head in it and dive down to the bottom.«
»Most enjoyable, I'm sure,« said the hen.
»You must have gone crazy. Ask the cat about it - I've never met any
one as clever as he is - ask him if he's fond of swimming or diving! I say
nothing of myself. Ask our old mistress, the wisest woman in the world!
Do you suppose that she's keen on swimming and diving?«
»You don't understand me,« said the duckling.
»Well, if we should like to know who would.
don't understand you, I

Surely you'll never try and make out you

are wiser than the cat and the
mistress - not to mention myself. Don't be silly, child! Give thanks to
your Maker for all the kindness you have met with. Haven't you come to
a nice warm room, where you have company that can teach you some-
thing? But you're just a stupid, and there's no fun in having you here.
You may take my word for it - if I say unpleasant things to you, it's all
for your good; that's just how you can tell which are your real friends.
Only see that you lay eggs and learn how to purr or give out sparks!«
»I think I'll go out into the wide world,« said the duckling.
»Yes, do,« said the hen.
And so the duckling went off. He swam in the water; he dived down;

112
but none of them would have anything to do with him because of his
ugliness.
Autumn now set in. The leaves in the wood turned yellow and brown,
the wind them and whirled them about, while the sky above had a
seized
frosty look. The clouds hung heavy with hail and snow, and the raven
who perched on the fence kept squawking »owl ow!« - he felt so cold.
The very thought of it gave you the shivers. Yes, the poor duckling was
certainly having a bad time.
One evening, when there was a lovely sunset, a whole flock of large
handsome birds appeared out of the bushes. The duckling had never seen
such beaudful birds, all glittering white with long graceful necks. They
were swans. They gave the most extraordinary cry, spread out their mag-
nificent long wings and flew from this cold country away to warmer
lands and open lakes.
They mounted high, high up into the air, and the ugly little duckling
felt so strange as he watched them. He turned round and round in the
water like a wheel and craned his neck in their direction, letting out a cry
so shrill and strange that it quite scared even himself. Ah he could never
I

forget those beautiful, fortunate birds; and directly they were lost to sight
he dived right down to the bottom and, when he came up again, he was
almost beside himself. He had no idea what the birds were called, nor
where they were flying to, and yet they were dearer to him than any he
had ever known; he didn't envy them in the least - how could he ever
dream of such loveliness for himself? He would be quite satisfied, if only
the ducks would just put up with him, poor gawky-looking creature!
What a cold winter it was! The duckling had to keep swimming about
in the water to prevent it freezing right up. But every night, the pool he
was swimming in grew smaller and smaller; then the ice froze so hard
that you could hear it creaking. The duckling had to keep his feet mov-
ing all the time to prevent the water from closing up. At last he grew faint
with exhaustion and lay quite still and finally froze fast in the ice.
Early next morning he was seen by a peasant who went out and broke
the ice with his wooden clog and carried the duckling home to his wife.
And there they revived him.
The children wanted to play with him, but the duckling was afraid
they meant mischief and fluttered in panic right up into the milkbowl, so
that the milk slopped over into the room. The woman screamed out and
clapped her hands in the air, and then he flew into the butter- tub, and
from there down into the flour-bin, and out of it again. Dear, dear, he did
look an object! The woman screamed at him and hit at him with the
tongs, and the children tumbled over each other trying to catch him -
how they laughed and shouted!... It was a good thing the door was open;
the duckling darted out into the bushes and sank down, dazed, in the
new-fallen snow.
But it would be far too dismal to describe all the want and misery the

113
 >v7

duckling had to go through during that hard winter ... He was sheltering
among the reeds on the marsh, when the sun began to get warm again
and the larks to sing; beautiful spring had arrived.
Then all at once he tried his wings; the whirr of them was louder than
before, and they carried him swiftly away. Almost before he realized it, he
found himself in a big garden with apple-trees in blossom and sweet-
smelling lilac that dangled from long green boughs right over the wind-
ing stream. Oh, it was so lovely here in all the freshness of spring! And
straight ahead, out of the thicket, came three beautiful white swans, ruf-
fling their feathers and floating so lightly on the water. The duckling
recognized the splendid creatures and was overcome with a strange feel-
ing of melancholy.
»I will fly across to them, those royal birds! They will peck me to death
for daring, ugly as I am, to go near them. Never mind! Better to be killed
by them than be nipped by the ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the
girl who minds the poultry, and suffer hardship in winter.« And he flew
out on to the water and swam towards the beautiful swans. As they
caught sight of him, they darted with ruffled feathers to rqeet him. »Yes,
kill me, kill me!« cried the poor creature and bowed his head to the water
awaiting death. But what did he see there in the clear stream? It was a
reflection of himself that he saw in front of him, but no longer a clumsy
greyish bird, ugly and unattractive - no, he was himself a swan!
It doesn't matter about being born in a duckyard, as long as you are

hatched from a swan's egg.

He felt positively glad at having gone through so much hardship and
want; it helped him to appreciate all the happiness and beauty that were
there to welcome him ... And the three great swans swam round and
round and stroked him with their beaks.
Some little children came into the garden and threw bread and grain
into the water, and the smallest one called out: »There's a new swan!«

114
 «

and the other children joined in with shouts of dehght: »Yes, there's a
new swan!« And they clapped their hands and danced about and ran to
fetch father and mother. Bits of bread and cake were thrown into the
water, and everyone said. »The new one is the prettiest - so young and
handsome! « And the old swans bowed before him.
This made him feel quite shy, and he tucked his head away under his
wing - he himself hardly knew why. He was too> too happy, but not a bit
proud, for a good heart is never proud. He thought ot how he had been
despised and persecuted, and now he heard everybody saying that he was
the loveliest of all lovely birds. And the lilacs bowed their branches to
him right down to the water, and the sunshine felt so warm and kindly.
Then he ruffled his feathers, raised his slender neck and rejoiced from his
heart: »I never dreamed of so much happiness, when I was the ugly
duckling.
 «

The Red Shoes

T
that in
here was once a little girl, very delicate and pretty,
summer she always had to go barefooted and in winter she had
and yet so poor

to wear big wooden clogs which chafed her insteps most horribly, until
they were quite red.
In the middle of the village lived a shoemaker's widow, who had some
and out of these she did her best to sew a little pair
strips of old red cloth,
of shoes. They were rather clumsy-looking shoes, but the old widow
meant well; they were for the little girl, whose name was Karen. As it
happened, she got the red shoes and put them on for the first time on the
very day that her mother was buried. Of course they weren't exactly the
right shoes for a funeral, but they were the only ones she had; and so she
wore them on her bare feet, as she followed the humble straw coffin.
Just then a large old-looking carriage drove up with a large old-
looking lady inside it. She caught sight of the little girl and felt sorry for
her. So she said to the parson: »Look here, if you let me have the little

girl, I'll take care of her.«

Karen thought was all because of the red shoes, but the old lady
this
said they were hideous and had them burnt; Karen herself was given nice
new clothes and was taught to read and sew. People said how pretty she
was, but the looking-glass said to her: »You are more than pretty, you are
lovely.
On one occasion the Queen was passing through
the country with her
little daughter, who was a Princess.
People flocked around the castle, and
Karen was there too; and the little Princess showed herself at one of the
windows. She was wearing a beautiful white dress; no train nor golden

116
crown, but lovely red morocco shoes - far, far prettier than the ones the
shoemaker's widow had made for little Karen. No, there was really no-
thing in the world like red shoes.
But now Karen was old enough to be confirmed. She was given new
clothes, and she was also to have new shoes. The best shoemaker in town
took the measurement of her feet in his own private room, where there
were big glass cabinets with elegant shoes and shiny boots. They made a
brave shoe, but the old lady's sight was far from good, and so it gave her
no pleasure. Among the shoes was a red pair just like the ones the Prin-
cess had been wearing - oh, they were pretty! The shoemaker explained
that they had been made for an earl's daughter but didn't quite fit. »That
must be patent leather from the way they shine,« said the old lady.
»Yes, don't they shine!« said Karen; and as they were a good fit, the
shoes were bought. But the old lady didn't realize that they were red, for
she would never have allowed Karen to go to Confirmation in red shoes.
And yet that's just what happened.
Everybody stared at her feet and, as she walked up the aisle to the
chancel, she felt that even the old pictures over the tombs, those portraits
of the clergy and their wives in stiff ruffs and long black garments, were
fastening their eyes on It was these that filled her thoughts,
the red shoes.
when hand on her head and spoke of holy baptism, of
the priest laid his
the covenant with God, and of her duty now to become a fully-fledged
Christian. And the organ played so solemnly, and the children sang so
beautifully, and the old choirmaster sang, too; but Karen thought of
nothing but her red shoes.
By the afternoon, sure enough, the old lady had heard from everybody
about the shoes being red, and she said how shocking it was; they were
quite out of place and in future, when Karen went to church, she must
always wear black shoes, however old they were.
Next Sunday there was Communion, and Karen looked at the black
shoes, and she looked at the red ones... And then she looked at the red
ones again - and put the red ones on.
It was a beautiful sunny day. Karen and the old lady took the path

through the cornfield, where it was a bit dusty. At the churchdoor stood
an old soldier with a crutch and a funny long beard which was more red
than white - in fact, it really was red. He made a deep bow to the old lady
and asked if he might dust her shoes. And when Karen also put out her
foot, »MyI what lovely dancingshoes!« said the soldier. »Stay on tight
when you dancel« and he gave the soles a tap with his hand.
The old lady gave the soldier something for himself and went with
Karen into the church. The whole congregation stared at Karen's red
shoes, and so did all the portraits; and when Karen knelt before the altar
and put the gold chalice to her lips, she thought of nothing but the red
shoes - it seemed as if they were floating in front of her. She forgot to sing
the hymns, and she forgot to say the prayers.

117
 Presently everyone came out of church, and the old lady stepped into
her carriage. As Karen raised her foot to get in after her, the old soldier,
who was standing close by, said: »My! what lovely dancing-shoes! « Karen
couldn't she had to dance a few steps and, once she had started,
resist -
her feet went on dancing just as though the shoes had some power over
them. She danced round the corner of the church - she couldn't stop; the
coachman had to run after her and pick her up and carry her back into
the carriage. But still her feet went on dancing and gave the kind old lady
some dreadful kicks. At last they got the shoes off, and her legs kept still.
When they came home, the shoes were put away in a cupboard, but
Karen still kept taking a peep at them. By and by the old lady fell ill; it
was said she would never get better. She had to be nursed and cared for,
and nobody was more suited for this than Karen. But a big ball was being
given in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the old lady, who
after all couldn't live long, and she looked at the red shoes. She couldn't
see there would be any harm. She put on the red shoes, she had a perfect
right to do that ... But then she went to the ball and began to dance.
But when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes went dancing off to
the left; and when she wanted to go up the room, the shoes went dancing
down the room - down the stairs through the street and out by the town-
gate. Dance she did and dance she must, away into the dark forest.
Up among the trees she saw something shining. It looked like a face,
and so she thought it was the moon; but it was the old soldier with the
red beard, sitting and nodding and saying: »My! what lovely dancing-
shoes 1«
This made her frightened, and she tried to kick off the red shoes, but
they still stuck on tight. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had

grown fast to her feet, and so dance she did and dance she must, over field
and furrow, in rain and sun, by night and day; but the night-time was the
worst.
She danced into the open churchyard, but the dead there didn't dance;
they had something better to do. She wanted to sit down by the poor
man's grave, where the bitter tansy grew; but peace and quiet were not for
her and, when she danced towards the open church-door, she found an
angel there in long white robes and with wings reaching from his
shoulders to the ground. His face was stern and solemn, and in his hand
he held a sword with broad shining blade.
»Dance you shall,« said the angel, »dance in your red shoes until you
are cold and pale, until your skin shrivels up like a skeleton's! Dance you
shall from door to door, and at all the houses where the children are vain
and proud you shall knock till they hear you and are frightened. You shall
dance, you shall dance... !«
»Mercy! Mercy!« cried Karen. But she never heard the angel's answer,
for the shoes whirled her away through the gate and the field, along
highway and byway, dancing, dancing, all the time.

118
 One morning she danced past a door she knew well. From inside came
the sound hymn; then out came a coffin all covered with flowers. She
of a
realized then that the old lady was dead, and she felt that now she was
deserted by everyone, as well as cursed by the angel of God.
Dance she did and dance she must, dance on in the dark night ... The
shoes whirled her away over thorns and stubble, until she was scratched
and bleeding. She danced across the heath up to a lonely little house. She
knew that the executioner lived here, and she rapped the vy^indow-pane
with her knuckles and said: »Please come out! I can't come in, because
I'm dancing.«
»Do you mean to say you don't know who I am? I cut off wicked
people's heads - my goodness, how my
axe is quiveringl«
»Please don't cut off my head!« said Karen, »for then I can't show that
I'm sorry for my sins. Cut off my feet with the red shoes.«
Then she confessed all her sins, and the executioner cut off her feet
with the red shoes. But the shoes went dancing with the little feet across
the fields into the depths of the forest. And he made her wooden feet and
crutches; he taught her a hymn - the Psalm for Sinners - and she kissed
the hand that had wielded the axe and went her way across the heath.
»Surely by now I must have done penance for the red shoes,« she said.
»ril go to church and let everyone see me.« And she did; she went quickly
towards the church-door but, when she reached it, there were the red
shoes dancing in front of her, and she grew frightened and turned back.
All the next week she was miserable and did nothing but cry, but when
Sunday came round she said to herself: »Dear me, I really feel I've been
through enough. Surely I'm just as good as many of those that sit so
perkily there in church. « And she plucked up her courage and started off,
but she got no further than the gate, when she saw the red shoes dancing
in front of her, and she grew frightened and turned back and repented
deeply of her sins.
Next she made her way parsonage and asked to be taken in there
to the
as a servant; she would work and do her very best. She never gave
so hard
a thought to the wages, only that she might have a roof over her head and
be with kind people.
The parson's wife felt sorry for her and took her into her service and
found her hard-working and sensible. In the evenings Karen sat and
listened in silence, while the parson read aloud from the Bible. All the
little ones were very fond of her but, when there was talk of dress and

finery and of being as pretty as a picture, she would shake her head.
The following Sunday they all went to church, and they asked her to
go with them; but with tears in her eyes she looked sadly at her crutches
and, when the others went off to hear the word of God, she went alone to
her tiny room, where there was just enough space for a bed and a chair,
and here she sat devoutly reading her prayerbook. As she did so, the wind
brought the sound of the organ to her from the church, and her eyes filled

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with tears as she lifted up her face, exclaiming: »Help me,O God«I
Then the sun came out so and straight in front of her stood
brightly,
the same angel in white robes that she had seen that night at the church-
door. But instead of the sharp sword he was holding a beaudful green
bough that was covered with roses; and he touched the ceiling with it so
that it arched itself higher, and where he touched it there shone a golden
star. And he touched the walls so that they grew wider; and she saw the

organ which was still playing, she saw the old pictures of the clergy and
their wives, and the congregation sitting in the carved pews and singing
from their hymn-books... You see, the church itself had come to the poor
girl in her narrow little room - or was it she who had come to the church?
She was sitting in the pew with all the others from the parsonage and,
when they had finished the hymn and looked up from their books, they
nodded to her and said: »It was right you should come, Karen.« »It was
God's mercy « she answered.
I

And the organ pealed forth and the young voices of the choir sounded
so soft and pure. The bright warm sunshine streamed in through the
church -window to the place where Karen was sitting. Her heart was so
full of sunshine and peace and joy that at last it broke, and her soul flew
on the sunbeams to heaven, where there was no one to ask about the red
shoes.
 The Little Match-Seller

It was terribly cold. Snow was falling and soon it would be quite dark;
for it was the last day in the year - New Year's Eve. Along the street, in

that same cold and dark, went a poor little girl in bare feet - well, yes, it's
true, she had slippers on when she left home; but what was the good of
that? They were great big slippers which her mother used to wear, so you
can imagine the size of them; and they both came off when the little girl
scurried across the road just as two carts went whizzing by at a fearful
rate. One slipper was not to be found, and a boy ran off with the other,
saying it would do for a cradle one day when he had children of his own.
So there was the little girl walking along in her bare feet that were
simply blue with cold. In an old apron she was carrying a whole lot of
matches, and she had one bunch of them in her hand. She hadn't sold
anything all day, and no one had given her a single penny. Poor mite, she
looked so downcast as she trudged along hungry and shivering. The
snowflakes settled on her long flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls
over her shoulder; but you may be sure she wasn't thinking about her
looks. Lights were shining in every window, and out into the street came
the lovely smell of roast goose. You see, it was New Year's Eve; that's
what she was thinking about.
Over in a little corner between two houses - one of them jutted out
rather more into the street than the other - there she crouched and hud-
dled with her legs tucked under her; but she only got colder and colder.
She didn't dare to go home, for she hadn't sold a match nor earned a
single p)enny. Her father would beat her, and besides it was so cold at
home. They had only the bare roof over their heads and the wind whis-
tled through that although the worst cracks had been stopped up with
rags and straw. Her hands were really quite numb with cold. Ah, but a

121
little match - that would be If only she dared pull one out of
a comfort.
the bunch, just one, strike on the wall and warm her fingers! She
it

pulled one out ... ritch!... how it spirted and blazed! Such a clear warm
flame, like a little candle, as she put her hand round it - yes, and what a
curious light it was! The little girl fancied she was sitting in front of a big
iron stove with shiny brass knobs and brass facings, with such a warm
friendly fire burning., why, whatever was that? She was just stretching
out her toes, so as to warm them too, when - out went the flame, and the
stove vanished. There she sat with a little stub of burnt-out match in her
hand.
She struck another one. It burned up so brightly, and where the gleam
fell on the wall this became transparent like gauze. She could see right
into the room, where the table was laid with a glittering white cloth and
with delicate china; and there, steaming deliciously, was the roast goose
stuffed with prunes and apples. Then, what was even finer, the goose
jumped off the dish and waddled along the floor with the carving knife
and fork in its back. Right up to the poor little girl it came... but then the
match went out, and nothing could be seen but the massive cold wall.
She lighted another match. Now she was sitting under the loveliest
Christmas tree; it was even bigger and prettier than the one she had seen
through the glass-door at the rich merchant's at Christmas. Hundreds of
candles were burning on the green branches, and gay-coloured prints,
like the ones they hang in the shop-windows, looked down at her. The
little girl reached up both her hands ... then the match went out; all the

Christmas candles rose higher and higher, until now she could see they
were the shining stars. One of them rushed down the sky with a long fiery
streak.
»That's somebody dying,« said the little girl, for her dead Grannie,
who was the only one who had been kind to her, had told her that a
falling starshows that a soul is going up to God.
She struck yet another match on the wall. It gave a glow all around,
and there in the midst of it stood her old grandmother, looking so very

122
bright and gentle and loving. »Oh, Grannie«, cried the little giri, »do
take me with you! I know you'll disappear as soon as the match goes out
- just as the warm stove did, and the lovely roast goose, and the wonder-
ful great Christmas-tree«. And she quickly struck the rest of the matches
in the bunch, for she did so want to keep her Grannie there. And the
matches flared up so gloriously that it became brighter than broad day-
light. Never had Grannie looked so tall and beautiful. She took the little
girl into her arms, and together they flew in joy and splendour, up, up, to
where there was no cold, no hunger, no fear. They were with God.
But in the cold early morning huddled between the two houses, sat the
little girl with rosy cheeks and a smile on her lips, frozen to death on the

last night of the old year. The New Year dawned on the little dead body
leaning there with the matches, one lot of them nearly all used up. »She
was trying to get warm,« people said. Nobody knew what lovely things
she had seen and in what glory she had gone with her old Grannie to the
happiness of the New Year.
 Simple Simon
(a nursery tale retold)

l\^iray in the country, in an old manorhouse, an old squire. He

lived
had two sons who were so is they were too
clever that - well, the fact
clever by half. They made up their minds to go and propose to the King's
daughter; and they had a perfect right to do this, because she had an-
nounced that she would marry the man who she thought was best able to
speak up for himself.
The two sons now spent a week in preparation. A week was all they
were allowed; but it was quite long enough, for they had had a good
education, and that is such a help. One of them knew the whole Latin
dictionary off by heart, and also the local newspaper for the last three
years, both backwards and forwards. The other son had learnt up all the
by-laws of the city companies and the things every alderman is supposed
to know; he thought this would help him to talk politics with the Prin-
cess; and, besides, he knew how to embroider braces, he was so very clever
with his fingers.
»I shall win the Princess!« cried both of them; and so their father gave
them each a beautiful horse. The brother who had learnt off the dictiona-
ry and the newspapers got a coal-black horse; and the one who knew
all about aldermen and could do embroidery got a milk-white horse; and
then they smeared the corners of their mouths with cod-liver oil, so that
the words would come out pat. All the servants were down in the court-
yard to see them mount their horses, when just at that moment up came
the third brother; for there were three of them, though nobody ever took

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 « «

count of the third, because he wasn't a scholar like the other two. They
called him Simple Simon.
»Where are you two off to in that get up?« he asked.
»We're going to Court, to talk our way into favour with the Princess.
Haven't you heard the proclamation that's been read out all over the
country?« And then they told him all about it.
»Gosh! I mustn't miss this!« said Simple Simon. But his brothers
laughed at him and rode away.
»Dad, let me have a horse! « cried Simple Simon. »I do so feel like
getting married. If she'll have me, she'll have me; and if she won't then ,

ril marry her all the same.«

»What nonsense!« said the father. »rve no horse for you. Why, you
never open your mouth. But look at your brothers - they are splendid
fellows.«
»If I can't have a horse,« said the boy, »then I'll ride the billy-goat. It's
my own, and it'll carry me
know.« Then he got astride the
all right, I

billy-goat, dug his heels into its sides and dashed off down the road.
Phew! What a rate they went! »Look out! Here we come!« yelled Simple
Simon, and his cries went echoing after him.
But his brothers rode on ahead in complete silence. They never said a
word, because they had to turn over in their minds all the clever remarks
they were going to make. It had to be most cunningly worked out, I can
tell you.
»Tally-ho!« shouted Simple Simon, »here we are! Look what I found
on the road,« and he showed them a dead crow he had picked up.
»You simpleton !« they said. »What are you going to do with that?«
»I shall give it to the Princess.
»Yes, do!« they answered, laughing as they rode on.
»Tally-ho! Here we are! Now look what I've found. You don't find that
on the road every day.«
The brothers turned round again to see what it was. »You simpleton!«
they said. that's an old clog with the vamp missing. Is the Princess
»Why,
to have that as well?«
»Yes, of course,« said Simple Simon; and his brothers only laughed at
him and rode on till they were a long way ahead.
»Tally-ho! Here we are!« shouted Simon. »My word! This is getting
better and better. Tally-ho! This
grand!« is

»What have you found this time?« asked the brothers.

»Oh, it's too good for anything,* said Simple Simon. »Won't she be
pleased, the Princess !«
»Ugh!« said the brothers. »Why, it's mud straight out of the ditch.
»Yes, that's just what Simple Simon, »and the very finest
it is,« said
sort, too; it slips right through your fingers. « And he filled his pocket
with the mud.
But his two brothers rode on as hard as they could go, and the result

125
was that they drew up at the city gate a whole hour ahead of him and
found the suitors being given numbers in the order of their arrival. They
were made to stand in rows, six in each file, and so close together that
they couldn't move their arms. This was just as well, for otherwise they
might have stabbed each other in the back, just because one was in front
of the other.
The rest of the inhabitants all crowded round the castle, right up
against the windows, so as to watch the Princess receiving her suitors; but
as soon as ever one of them came into her presence, he was completely
tongue-tied. »No good!« the Princess kept saying. »Skedaddle!«
Now it was the turn of the brother who knew the dictionary by heart.
But he had clean forgotten it while he was standing in the queue; and the
floor creaked under him, and the ceiling was all covered with mirrors,
so that he saw himself standing on his head. At the window stood three
clerks and an alderman, who all wrote down every word that was spoken,
so that it could go straight into the newspaper and be sold for a penny at
the street-corner. It was dreadful; and what's more, they had made up
such a fire that the stove was red-hot.
»It's very warm in here,« said the suitor.
»That's because my father's roasting cockerels to-day ,« said the Prin-
cess.
»0-o-oh!« was all he could say, as he stood there. He hadn't expected a
remark like that, and he was hoping to say something witty. »0-o-oh!«
»No good!« said the Princess. »Skedaddle!« - and away he had to go.
After that the second brother came in.
»It's dreadfully hot in here,« he said.
»Yes, we're roasting cockerels for dinner,« said the Princess.

126
 »I b-beg your - b-beg your - « he stuttered; and the clerks all wrote
down »I b-beg your - b-beg your - «
»No good!« said the Princess. »Skedaddle!«
Now it was Simple Simon's turn. He came trotting in on the billygoat,
right into the palace-room. »Why, it's as hot as blazes in here!« he said.
»That's because I'm roasting cockerels,« said the Princess.
»Oh, I say, that's lucky, « said Simple Simon. »So I suppose I can have
a crow roasted, can't I!«
»Of course you can, quiteeasily,« said the Princess; »but have you got
anything to roast it in, for I've neither pot nor pan.«
»But I have,« said Simon. »Here's a cooker with a tin handle!« Andhe
produced the old clog and popped the crow straight into it.
»It will make quite a meal,« said the Princess. »But what shall we do for
gravy?«
»rve got that in my pocket,« said Simon. »rve enough and to spare.«
And he tipped a little mud out of his pocket.
»I do like that!« said the Princess. »You know how to answer; you can
speak up for yourself, and you're the one I'm going
marry! But do you
to
realize that every word we've been saying has been written down and will
be in the papers to-morrow? Look there by the window - three clerks and
an old alderman; and the alderman is the worst, because he doesn't
understand a thing.« Of course she said this just to frighten him. And the
clerks all guffawed and made a great blot of ink on the floor.
»So these are the gentry?« said Simon. »Well, here's one for the alder-
man!« And he turned out his pocket and let him have the mud full in the
face.
»Well done!« cried the Princess. »I could never have done that, but I'll
soon learn. « So in the end Simple Simon became King with a wife of his
own and a crown and a throne. And all this comes straight out of the
alderman's newspaper; so it may not be perfectly true!
 «

The Fir Tree

o wood was a fir tree, such a pretty Httle fir tree. It had a good
ut in the
place to grow in and all the air and sunshine it wanted, while all around
it were numbers of bigger comrades, both firs and pines. But the little fir

tree was in such a passionate hurry to grow. It paid no heed to the

warmth of the sun or the sweetness of the air, and it took no notice of the
village children who went chattering along when they were out after
strawberries or raspberries; sometimes they came there with a whole
jugful or had got strawberries threaded on a straw, and then they sat
down by the »Oh, what a dear little tree!« That was
little tree and said,
not at all wanted to hear.
the kind of thing the tree
The next year it had shot up a good deal, and the year after that its
girth had grown even bigger; for, with a fir tree, you can always tell how
old by the number of rings it has.
it is

»Oh, only I were a tall tree like the others, « sighed the little fir.
if

»Then I'd be able to spread out my branches all round me and see out
over the wide world with my top. The birds would come and nest in my
branches and, whenever it was windy, I'd be able to nod just as grandly as
the others.
It took no pleasure in the sunshine or the birds or the pink clouds that,

morning and evening, went sailing overhead.

When winter came and the snow lay sparkling white all around, then a
hare would often come bounding along and jump right over the little
tree - oh, how annoying that was! ... But two winters passed and by the
third winter the tree had grown so tall that the hare had to run round it.
Yes, grow, grow, become tall and old - that was much the finest thing in
the world, thought the tree.

128
 «

In the autumn the woodcutters always came and felled some of the
tallest trees. That used to happen every year; and the young fir, which was
now quite a sizable trembled at the sight, for the splendid great trees
tree,

would crack and crash ground; their branches were lopped off, and
to the
they looked all naked and spindly - they were hardly recognisable - and
then they were loaded on to waggons and carted away by horses out of the
wood.
Where were What was in store for them?
they off to?
In the spring, when the swallow and the stork arrived, the tree asked
them, »Do you know where they've gone - where they've been taken to?
Have you seen anything of them?«
The swallows knew nothing, but the stork looked thoughtful and
replied with a nod, »Yes, I believe I know. I came across a lot of new
ships, as I flew here from Egypt; they had splendid masts - I daresay it

was them - I could smell the fir, and they asked to be remembered to you.
Oh, how straight they stand !«
»How do wish that / were big enough to fly across the sea! And, as a
I

matter of what sort of a thing is this sea? What does it look like?«
fact,

»That would take far too long to explain, « said the stork and went his
way.
»Rejoice in your youth, « said the sunbeams; »rejoice in your lusty
growth, and in the young life that is in you.« And the wind kissed the
tree, and the dew wept tears over it, but this meant nothing to the fir tree.

As Christmas drew near, quite young trees were cut down, trees that
often were nothing like so big or so old as our fir tree, which knew no
peace and was always longing to get away. These young trees - and they
were just the very handsomest ones - always kept their branches; they
were laid on waggons and carted away by horses out of the wood.
» Where are they off to?« asked the fir tree. »They are no bigger than I
am; there was even one that was much smaller. Why did they all keep
their branches? Where are they going?«
»We know, we know!« twittered the sparrows. »We've been peeping in
at the windows down in the town; we know where they're going. All the
glory and splendour you can imagine awaits them. We looked in through
the window-panes and saw how the trees were planted in the middle of a
cosy room and decorated with the loveliest things: gilded apples, honey
cakes, toys and hundreds of candles.
»And then?« asked the fir tree, quivering in every branch. »And then?
What happens then?«
»Well, we didn't see any more. But it was magnificent.«
»I wonder if it will be my fate to go that dazzling road,« cried the tree in
delight. »It's even better than crossing the ocean. How I'm longing for
Christmas! I'm now just as tall and spreading as the others who were
taken away last year. Oh, if only I were already on the waggon - if only I
were in the cosy room amidst all that glory and splendour! And then? yes,

129
theremust be something still better, still more beautiful in store for me -
orwhy should they decorate me like that? - something much greater, and
much more splendid. But what? Oh, the' labouring and longing I go
through! I don't know myself what's the matter with me.«
»Rejoice in me,« said the air and the sunlight; »rejoice in your lusty
youth out here in the open.«
But the fir tree did nothing of the kind. It went on growing and grow-
ing; there it was, winter and summer, always green - dark green. People
who saw it remarked, »That's a pretty tree«; and at Christmas time it was
the first to be felled. The axe cut deep through pit and marrow, and the
tree fell to the earth with a sigh, faint with pain, with no more thoughts
of any happines; it was so sad at parting from its home, from the place
where it had grown up. For it knew that never again would it see those
dear old friends, the little bushes and flowers that grew around - yes, and
perhaps not even the birds. There was nothing pleasant about such a
parting.
The tree didn't come to itself till it was being unloaded in the yard with
the other trees and it heard a man say, »That one's a beauty - that's the
one we'll have«
Now came two lackeys in full fig and carried the fir tree into a splendid
great room. There were portraits all round on the walls, and by the big
tile fireplace stood huge Chinese vases with lions on their lids. There
were rocking-chairs, silk-covered sofas, large tables piled with picture-
books and toys worth hundreds of pounds - at least, so said the children.
And the fir tree was propped up in a great firkin barrel filled with sand,
though no one could see it was a barrel because it was draped round with
green baize and was standing on a gay-coloured carpet. How the tree
trembled! Whatever was going to happen? Servants and young ladies
alike were soon busy decorating it. On the branches they hung the little
nets that had been cut out of coloured paper, each net being filled with
sweets; gilded apples and walnuts hung down as if they were growing
there, and over a hundred red, blue and white candles were fastened to the
branches. Dolls that looked just like living people - such as the tree had
never seen before- hovered among the greenery, while right up at the very
top they had put a great star of gold tinsel; it was magnificent - you never
saw anything like it.
»Tonight«, they all said, »tonight it's going to sparkle - you see!«
»Oh, if only tonight were here!« thought the tree. »If only the candles
were already lighted! What happens then, I wonder? Do trees come from
the wood to look at me? Will the sparrows fly to the window-panes? Shall
I take root here and keep my decorations winter and summer?«

Well, well, - a nice lot the fir tree knew! But it had got barkache from
sheer longing, and barkache is just as bad for a tree as headache is for the
rest of us.

130
 «

At last the candles were lighted - what a blaze, what magnificence! It

made the tree tremble in every branch, until one of the candles set fire to
the greenery - didn't that smart!
»Oh dear!« cried the and quickly put out the fire. It was
young ladies
so afraid of losing any of and it felt quite dazed by all that
its finery,
magnificence ... Then suddenly both folding doors flew open, and a flock
of children came tearing in, as if they were going to upset the whole tree.
The older people followed soberly behind; the little ones stood quite
silent - but only for a moment - then they made the air ring with their
shouts of delight. They danced -round the tree, and one present after
another was pulled off it.
»Whatever are they doing?« thought the tree. »What's going to hap-
pen?« The candles burned right down to their branches and, as they did
so, they were put out, and the children were allowed to plunder the tree.
They rushed in at it, till it creaked in every branch; if it hadn't been
fastened to the ceiling by the top and the gold star, it would have tumbled
right over.
The children danced round with their splendid toys, and nobody
looked at the tree except the old nurse, who went peering among the
branches - though this was only to see if there wasn't some fig or apple
that had been overlooked.
»A story - tell us a story !« cried the children, dragging a little fat man
over towards the tree. He sat down right under it, »for then we are in the
greenwood, « he said, »and it will be so good for the tree to listen with
you. But I'll only tell one story. Would you like the one about Hickory-
Dickory or the one about Humpty-Dumpty, who fell downstairs and yet
came to the throne and married the Princess?«
»Hickory-Dickory«, cried some; »Humpty-Dumpty,« cried others.
There was such yelling and shouting; only the fir tree was quite silent
and thought »Shan't I be in it as well? Isn't there anything for me to do?«
But of course, it had been done just what it had to do.
in it -
The little fat man them the story of Humpty-Dumpty, who fell
told
downstairs and yet came to the throne and married the Princess. And the
children clapped their hands and called out, »Tell us another story! One
more!« They wanted to have Hickory -Dickory as well, but they only got
the one about Humpty-Dumpty. The fir tree stood there in silent
thought: never had the birds out in the wood told a story like that.
»Humpty-Dumpty fell downstairs and yet married the Princess - well,
well, that's how they go on in the great world!« thought the fir tree, and
felt it must all be true, because the story-teller was such a nice man. »Well,

who knows? Maybe I too shall fall downstairs and marry a Princess.
And it looked forward to being decked out again next day with candles
and toys, tinsel and fruit.
»I shan't tremble tomorrov,« it thought. »I mean to enjoy my magnifi-

131
 full. Tomorrow I shall again hear the story about Hurrnjty-
cence to the
Dumpty and perhaps the one about Hickory -Dickory as well.« And the
tree stood the whole night in silent thought.
The next morning in came manservant and maid.
»Now all the doings will begin again, « thought the tree. Instead, they
hauled it out of the room, up the stairs and into the attic, where they
stowed it away in a dark corner out of the daylight. »What's the meaning
of this?« wondered the tree. »What is there for me to do here? What am I
to listen to?« And it leaned up against the wall and stood there thinking
and thinking ... It had plenty of time for that, because days and nights
went by. No one came up there and when at last somebody did come it
was to put some big boxes away in the corner; the tree was completely
hidden - you might have thought it was utterly forgotten.
»It's winter by now outside,« thought the tree. »The ground will be
hard and covered with snow, people wouldn't be able to plant me; so I
expect I shall have to shelter here till the spring. How considerate! How

kind people are! ... If only it weren't so dark and so terribly lonely in
here! Not even a little hare ... It was so jolly out in the wood, when the
snow was lying and the hare went bounding past; yes, even when it
jumped right over me, though I didn't like it at the time. Up here it's too
lonely for words.«
»Pee-pee!« squeaked a little mouse just then, creeping out on the floor;
and another one followed it. They sniffed at the fir tree and slipped in
and out of its branches. »It's horribly cold,« said the little mice, »though
this is actually a splendid place to be in, don't you think, old fir tree?«
»rm not a bit old,« answered the fir tree. »There are lots of people who
are much older than I am.«
»Where do you hail from?« asked the mice, »and what do you know?«
(They were being dreadfully inquisitive). »Do tell us about the loveliest
place on earth. Have you ever been therePHave you been in the larder,
where there are cheeses on the shelves and hams hanging from the ceiling
- where you can dance on tallow candles and you go in thin and come
out fat?«
»No. I don't know the larder,« said the tree, »but I know the wood,
where the sun shines and the birds sing«; and then it told all about the
days when it was young. The little mice had never heard anything like it
before, and they listened closely and said, »Why, what a lot you've seen!
How happy you must have been!«
»I?« said the fir tree and pondered over what it had just been saying,
»yes, they were really very pleasant times. « But then it went on to tell
them about Christmas Eve, when it had been tricked out with cakes and
candles.
»Ooh!« said the little mice, »you have been a happy old fir tree.«
»rm not a bit old,« repeated the tree; »rve only this winter come from
the wood. I'm just in my prime; my growth is only being checked for a
while.«

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 »What lovely stories you tell!« said the little mice; and they came back
the following night with four more little mice who wanted to hear the
tree tell stories, and the more it told the better it remembered everything
itself, thinking, »Those were really rather jolly times. But they may come
again, they may come Humpty-Dumpty fell downstairs and yet
again.
won the Princess; perhaps I too may win a Princess. « And then the fir tree
suddenly remembered such a sweet little birch tree growing out in the
wood; that, for the fir free, would be a real beautiful Princess.
»Who is Humpty-Dumpty?« asked the little mice. Then the fir tree told
them the whole could remember every word; and the little
fairy tale; it

mice were ready to jump up to the top of the tree for sheer enjoyment.
The night after, many more mice turned up and, on the Sunday, even two
rats. But these declared that the tale was not at all amusing, which disap-

pointed the little mice because now they didn't think so much of it either.
»Is that the only story you know?« asked the rats.
»Only that one,« replied the tree. »I heard it on the happiest evening of
my life, but I never realised then how happy I was.«
»It's a fearfully dull story. Don't you know any about pork and tallow
candles? One about the larder?«
»No,« said the tree.
»Well, then, thank you for nothing« ansv^red the rats and went home
again.
In the end, the little mice kept away as well, and the tree said with a

sigh, »It really was rather nice with them sitting round me, those eager
little mice, listening to what I told them. Now that's over too ... though I

shall remember to enjoy myself, when I'm taken out once more.«
But when would that happen? Well, it happened one morning when
people came up and rummaged about the attic. The boxes were being
moved, and the tree was dragged out. They certainly dumped it rather
hard on to the floor, but one of the men at once pulled it along towards
the stairs where there was daylight.
»Life's beginning again for me!« thought the tree. It could feel the
fresh air, the first sunbeams - and now it was out in the courtyard.
Everything happened so quickly that the tree quite forgot to look at itself,
there was so much to see all around. The yard gave on to a garden where
everything was in bloom. The roses smelt so sweet and fresh as they hung
over the little trellis, the lime trees were blossoming, and the swallows
—
flew around saying, »Kvirra virra-veet, my husband's arrived!« But it
wasn't the fir tree they were thinking of.
»This is the life for me!« it cried out joyfully, spreading out its

branches. Alas! they were all withered and yellow, and the tree lay in a
corner among weeds and nettles. The gold-paper star was still in its place
at the top and glittered away in the bright sunshine.
Playing in the courtyard itself were a few of the merry children who at
Christmas time had danced round the tree and were so pleased with it.
One of the smallest ran up and tore off the gold star.
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 »Look what I've found still there on that nasty old Christmas tree!« he
said, trampling on the branches so that they crackled under his boots.
And the tree looked at the fresh beauty of the flowers in the garden, and
then at itself, and it wished it had stayed in that dark corner up in the
attic. It thought of the fresh days of its youth in the wood, of that merry

Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had listened with such delight
to the story of Humpty-Dumpty.
»A11 over!« said the poor tree, »if only I had been happy while I could!
All over!«
And the man came and chopped up the tree into small pieces, till there
was quite a heap. It made a fine blaze under the big copper; and the tree
groaned so loudly that every groan was like a little shot going off. This
made the children who were playing run in and sit down before the fire;
and as they looked into it they shouted »bang!« - but at every pop (which
was a deep groan) the tree thought of a summer's day in the wood, or of a
winter's night out there when the stars were shining; it thought of Christ-
mas Eve and of Humpty-Dumpty, the only fairy tale it had ever heard
and was able to tell ... And by this time the tree was burnt right up.
The boys were playing in the yard, and the smallest of them had on his
chest the gold star which had crowned the tree on its happiest evening.
That was all over now, and it was all over with the tree, and so it is with
the story. That's what happens at last to every story - all over, all over!
 Ill
U f .
•'7, >,

The Shepherdess and the Chimney -Sweep

H .ave you ever seen a real old-fashioned cupboard, its wood quite black
with age and carved all over with twirls and twisting foliage? There was
one just like that in a certain sitting-room. It had been left by a great-
grandmother and was carved from top to bottom with roses and tulips
and the quaintest flourishes, and in among were little stags poking out
their heads that were covered with antlers. But, carved on the middle of
the cupboard, was the complete figure of a man; he really did look comic.
And his grin was comic, too - you couldn't call it a laugh - and he had
billygoat legs, little horns on his forehead and a long beard. The children
who lived there always called him »Major-and-Minor-General-
Company-Sergeant Billygoatlegs, because it was a difficult name to say,
and there aren't many who get that rank. What a job it must have been to
carve him out! Well, anyhow, there he was; and all the time he kept
looking at the table under the looking-glass, for there stood a lovely little
china shepherdess. She had gilt shoes, a frock that was charmingly
caught up with a red rose, and a gold hat and shepherd's crook; she was
delicious. Close beside her was a little chimney-sweep, as black as coal,
though he too was made of china. He was just as trim and tidy as anyone
else, for he really only pretended to be a chimney-sweep; the man who

made him could just as well have made him a Prince, for that matter.
There he stood, looking so smart with his ladder and with cheeks as
pink and white as a girl's. That was really a mistake; better if he'd been
just a little bit sooty. He was standing quite close to the shepherdess; they
had both been placed where they were and, because of that, they had

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 «

become engaged. They certainly suited each other: they were both young,
both made of the same china, and both equally brittle.
Near them, three times their size, was another figure - an old China-
man who could nod. He too was made of porcelain, and he said he was
the little shepherdess's grandfather, though he couldn't prove it. Sdll, he
claimed to be her guardian; and so, when Major-and-Minor-General-
Company-Sergeant Billygoatlegs had asked for the hand of the little
shepherdess, the old Chinaman nodded his consent.
»There's a husband for you,« he said; »a husband I'm almost sure is
made of mahogany. He will make you Mrs. Major-and-Minor-General-
Company-Sergeant Billygoatlegs. That cupboard of his is full of silver,
to say nothing of what he has stowed away secretly.
»I won't go into that dark cupboard,« said the little shepherdess. »rve
heard that he's got eleven porcelain wives in there already.«
»Then you can be the twelfth, « said the Chinaman. »Tonight, as soon
as ever the old cupboard starts creaking, you two shall be married - as
sure as I'm a Chinese.«And thenwith another nod he went off to sleep.
But the litde shepherdess was in tears and looked at her darling sweet-
heart, the porcelain chimney-sweep. »rve something to ask you,« she
said. »Will you come with me out into the wide world? We can't possibly
stay here.«
»ril do whatever you like,« said the chimney-sweep. »Let's go at once;
I feel I can earn enough at my job to support you.«
sure
»How I wish we were safely down from this table!« she said. »I shan't
be happy till we're out in the wide world.«
He did his best to console her, and he showed her how to put her little
foot on the carved ledges and the gilded tracery that went winding round
the leg of the table; and he also used his ladder to help her, and there they
were at last on the floor. But when they looked across at the old cup-
board, there was such a to-do. All the carved stags were poking out their
heads and pricking up their antlers and twisting their necks. Major-and-
Minor-General-Company-Sergeant Billygoatlegs jumped right up and
shouted across to the old Chinaman, »Look! They're running away,
they're running away!«
That gave them a bit of a scare, and they quickly popped into the
drawer under the window-seat. They found three or four packs of cards in
there, one of them complete, and a little toy- theatre that had been put
together after a fashion. They were doing a play, and all the Queens -
hearts and diamonds, clubs and spades - sat in the front row fanning
themselves with their tulips, while behind them stood all the Knaves
showing that they had heads both top and bottom, as they do on cards.
The play was about a couple who weren't allowed to get married, and it
made the shepherdess cry, because that was her story all over again.
»I can't bear it,« she said. »I must get out of this drawer.« But when
they reached the floor and looked up at the table, the old Cinaman had

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 «

woken up; his whole body was swaying to and fro, for, you see, the lower
part ofhim was all one piece.
»Here comes the old Chinaman!« shrieked the little shepherdess, and
she was in such a way that she sank down on her porcelain knees.
»rve got an idea,« said the chimney-sweep. »Let's crawl down into the
big pot-pourri jar over there in the corner; we can lie there on roses and
lavender and throw salt in his eyes when he comes.
»That wouldn't be any good,« she said. »Besides, I know the old China-
man and the pot-pourri jar used to be engaged; and there's always a
little tenderness left over, once people have been like that to each other.

No, there's nothing for it but to go out into the wide world.«
»Are you really as brave as that - to come out with me into the wide
world?« asked the chimney-sweep. »Do you realize how huge it is, and
that we can never come back here again?«
»I do,« she answered.
Then the chimney-sweep looked her full in the face and said, »My way
lies through the chimney. Are you really as brave as that - to crawl with
me through the stove, past firebricks and flue, till we come out into the
chimney? Once we're there, I know what I'm doing. We shall climb so
high that they can't get at us, and right at the very top there's a hole
leading out into the wide vorld.«
And he led her up to the door of the stove.
»It does look black, « she said; but she went with him all the same, past
firebricks and flue, and where it was pitch-dark.
»Now we're in the chimney, « he said, »and, look, there is the loveliest
star shining overhead !«
Yes, it was a real star in the sky, shining straight down to them, just as
though it wanted to show them the way. And they crawled and crept - it
was a horrible climb - up and up. But he kept lifting and helping and
holding her, pointing out the best places for her to put her little china
feet. And at last they got right up to the top of the chimney and sat down
on the edge, were tired out, and no wonder.
for they
There was the sky with all its stars over-head, and the town with all its
roofs below them. They could see round in every direction, far out into
the world. The poor shepherdess had never imagined it was like that;
she laid her little head on the chimney-sweep's shoulder and cried and
cried till the gold ran from her sash.
»This is too much!« she said. »I can't bear it - the world's far too big. If
only I were back on the little table under the looking-glass! I shall never
be happy until I'm there again. I've come with you into the wide world;
now I want you to take me home again, if you love me at all.«
The chimney-sweep tried every argument. He reminded her of the old
Chinaman and of Major-and-Minor-General-Company-Sergeant Billy-
goatlegs; but she sobbed so bitterly and kept kissing her little chimney-
sweep, so that at last he had to give way to her, wrong as it was.

137
 ^^vA-^-

Then with great difficulty they crawled down the chimney again, crept
through the flue and the firebricks - it wasn't at all nice - and there they
stood in the dark stove, lurking behind the door so as to find out what
was going on in the room. There wasn't a sound. They peeped out ..

goodnesss gracious! there in the middle of the floor lay the old China-
man. In trying to run after them he had fallen off the table and was lying
there smashed into three fragments. The whole of his back had come off
in a single piece, and his head had bowled away into a corner. Major-
and-Minor-General-Company-Sergeant Billygoatlegs stood where he had
always stood, in deep thought.
»How dreadful !« cried the litle shepherdess. »01d Grandpa's broken,
and it's all our fault. I shall never get over it.« And she wrung her tiny
hands.
»He can still be riveted,« said the chimney-sweep. »He can quite well
Now, don't get
be riveted. so worked up. When they've glued his back for
him and given him a nice rivet in the neck, he'll be as good as new again
and able to say all sorts of nasty things to us.«
»Do you think so?« she said - and then they clambered up on to the
table where they had been standing before.
»Well, here we are back where we started,« said the chimney-sweep.
»We might have saved ourselves all that trouble.«
»I do wish we had old Grandpa safely riveted,« said the shepherdess.
»Do you think it'll be very expensive?*
He was mended all right. The family had his back glued, and he was
given a nice rivet in the neck. He was as good as new - but he couldn't
nod.
vYou have become high and mighty since you got broken,« said Major-
and-Minor-General-Company-Sergeant Billygoatlegs. »Yet I can't see
that it's anything to be so proud of. Well- am I to have her, or am I not?«

138
 It was touching how the chimney-sweep and the Httle shepher-
to see
dess looked at the old Chinaman; they were so afraid he might nod. But
he couldn't do that, and he didn't like to have to explain to a stranger
that he had a rivet in his neck for good and all. So the porcelain couple
stayed together; and they blessed Grandfather's rivet and went on loving
each other until at last they got broken.
 The Travelling Companion

JL oor John was very sad, for his father was terribly ill and was going to
die. There wasn't anyone there in the little room except those two. The
lamp on the table was burning low, and it was quite late in the evening.
»You've been a good son, John,« said the sick father; »God will be sure
to help you on in the world. « And with a solemn, kindly look at his son
he drew a deep breath and died; you might have thought he was asleep.
John burst into tears. Now he was left without a soul in the world -
neither father, mother, sister nor brother. Poor John! He knelt down by
the bed and, with many salt tears, kissed his dead father's hand, till at last
his eyes closed and he fell asleep with his head against the hard bedpost.
As he slept he had a curious dream, in which he saw the sun and moon
bowing before him; and he saw his father alive and well again and heard
him laugh just as he always used to laugh when he was really pleased. A
beautiful girl, with a gold crown on her fine flowing hair, held out her
hand to John, and his father said, »Look what a bride you have won! She
is the loveliest in the world. « Then he woke up, and all this beauty had

vanished. His father lay dead and cold in his bed; not a soul was with
them. Poor John!
The following week the dead man was buried. John walked directly
behind the coffin; he had seen the last of the kind father who had been so
fond of him. He heard them throw earth on the coffin ... now he could
see the last corner of it ... but with the next spadetui of earth that too had
gone. Then he felt as if his heart would break, so great was his grief.
Round about him they were singing a hymn, a very beautiful hymn, and
the tears came into John's eyes. It did him good to cry and soothed his

140
sorrow. The sun shone deliciously on the green trees, as if to tell him,
»You mustn't be so sad, John; look at the lovely blue sky. Your father is
up there now, praying the good God that all may go well with you.«
»I will always be good,« said John, »then I shall go and join my father
in heaven. What joy it will be to see each other again - what a lot I shall
have to tell him! And he too will have so much to show me and will
explain to me all the beautiful things up there just as he used to do on
earth. How happy we shall be!«
John imagined it all so clearly that it made him smile through the tears
that were still running down his cheeks. The little birds sat up in the
chestnut trees twittering their pleasure - »tweet, tweet!« - in spite of their
being at a funeral; but then they knew that the dead man was now in
heaven, and had wings that were much larger and prettier than theirs,
and was happy now because he had been a good man here on earth. This
was what the birds were so pleased about. John noticed how they left the
green trees and flew far away into the world, and it made him long to fly
away with them. But first he sawed a big wooden cross to put over his
father's grave, and when he carried it there in the evening he found the
grave strewn with sand and flowers; this had been done by other people
out of affection for his dear dead father.
Early next morning John packed up his little bundle, and in his belt he
stowed away the whole of his inheritance, amounting to five pounds and
some odd silver; with this he meant to wander out into the world. But
first he made his way to the churchyard up to his father's grave. There he

said the Lord's Prayer, adding »Goodbye, father dear! I promise to be a

good man, so you may safely pray the good God that all may go well with
me.«
As John went through the fields, the flowers all looked so fresh and
lovely in the warm sunshine, and they nodded in the breeze as if to say,
»Welcome here in the open - isn't it delightful?« But John turned his
head for a last look at the old church where he was christened as a baby
and where he had been to church every Sunday with his father and sung
hymns. Then, high up in one of the openings of the tower, he caught
sight of the church goblin standing there in his little red pointed cap.
With bent arm he was shading his face to prevent the sun from dazzling
him. John waved goodbye to him and the little goblin waved back with
his red cap, laid his hand on his heart and blew him many kisses, to show
how he wished him good luck and a happy journey.
Thinking of all the beauty that awaited him in the wonderful great
world, John trudged on and on, further than he had ever been before,
through streets he had never seen and among people he had never met; he
was far away now, surrounded by strangers.
The first night he had to make his bed on a haystack in the field; there
was nowhere else to sleep. Still, he found it perfectly comfortable - a king
couldn't have fared better. The field, the brook, the haystack and the blue

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 «

sky overhead - all these made up a perfectly lovely bedroom. The green
grass sprinkled with little and white flowers was the carpet, the elder-
red
bushes and the wild roses were like bunches of flowers, while for wash-
basin he had the whole brook to himself with its clear fresh water where
the rushes courtesied to him - good evening (they said) and good morn-
ing! The moon was a huge nightlight, set high under the blue ceiling,
with no danger of it setting light to the curtains. John could sleep quite
peacefully, and he did too - didn't wake up again till the sun had risen
and all the little birds round about were singing, »Good morning! Good
morning! Are you still in bed?«
The bells were ringing for church; it was Sunday, and people were
going to hear the parson preach. John went with them, sang a hymn and
listened to Gods's word. He felt just as if he were in his own church,
where he had been christened and had sung hymns with his father.
Out in the churchyard were a great many graves, with the grass grow-
ing very long on some of them. This made John think of his father's
grave which would also get to look like these, now that he was unable to
weed it and keep it tidy. So he got down and plucked away the grass, set
up the wooden crosses that had fallen down, and took the wreaths that
the wind had blown away from the graves and put them back in their
place thinking, »Perhaps someone will do the same for my father's grave,
now that I can't do it my self.
Outside the gate of the churchyard stood an old beggar leaning on his
crutch. John gave him the silver coins that he had and walked on, pleased
and happy, into the wide world.
Towards evening a terrible storm blew up. John hastened to find
shelter, but it very soon became pitch dark. At last he managed to reach a
small church standing all by itself at the top of a slope. Fortunately the
door was ajar, and he slipped indside, meaning to stay here till the storm
was over.
»ril sit down here in a corner,« he said. »rm tired out and can do with
a bit of a rest.« So he sat down and with folded hands said his prayers,
and before he knew it he was asleep and dreaming, while the lightning
and thunder went on outside.
When he awoke, it was the middle of the night; but the storm had
passed over, and the moon was shining in on him through the windows.
In the middle of the church stood an open coffin with a dead man in it,
waiting to be buried. John wasn't a bit afraid, for he had a good con-
science and he knew that the dead can do no harm to anyone; it is the
wicked living who do harm. Just such a wicked living pair were standing
close to the dead man who had been placed here in the church before
burial; they meant to do harm to him - not to leave him lying in his
coffin, but to throw him outside the church door, poor dead man.
»Why do you want to do that?« asked John. »It's a wicked shame. For
Christ's sake, let him sleep.«

142
 »Rubbish!« said the two villains. »He has cheated us. He owed us
money which he couldn't pay; and now he's gone and died, so we shan't
get a penny. That's why we mean to have our revenge; he shall lie like a
dog outside the church door.«
»rve not got more than five pounds,« said John. »That's the whole of
my inheritance, but you are welcome to it all if you will honestly promise
me to leave this poor dead man in peace. I shall manage to get along
without the money. I'm lusty of limb, and God will never desert me.«
»Very well,« said the ugly ruffians, »If that's how it is - if you will
settle his debt, why, no, we won't hurt him, we promise you.« And then
with a loud coarse laugh at his simplicity, they took the money that John
paid them and went their way. But John set the dead body to rights again
in the coffin, crossed its hands and said goodbye, and after that went on
contentedly through the big wood.
All around, wherever the moonlight could pierce the trees, he saw
charming little elves frisking merrily about, quite unconcerned, knowing
as they did that he was a good innocent creature; it is only bad people
who are not allowed a peep at the elves. Some of them weren't any bigger
than your finger and had their long yellow hair caught up with combs of
gold. They were swinging in couples on the big dewdrops that lay on the
leaves and now and then a dewdrop would roll off, so that
the tall grass;
they tumbled down among the long blades of grass amid shouts of laugh-
ter from the other tiny creatures. It was enormous fun. Some of them
sang, and John once recognized numbers of pretty songs he had learnt
at
as a little boy. From one hedge to another big mottled spiders in silver
crowns were busy spinning long suspensionbridges and palaces that,
with the delicate dew on them, looked like glittering glass in the clear
moonlight. All this went on till the moment of sunrise. The little elves
then crept into the buds of flowers, and the wind bore upon their bridges
and palaces till they were swept away into the air like great cobwebs.
John had just come out of the wood when he heard a deep voice behind
him: »Hi, there, my friend, where are you off to?«
»Out into the wide world,« said John. »rve no father or mother. I'm a
lad without a penny to bless me; but God will help me, I feel sure.«
»Out into the wide world - that's what / want to do, « said the stranger.
»Shall we two join up?«
»A11 right,« said John, and so they went off together. They soon be-
came great friends, for they were good-hearted fellows both of them. But
John couldn't help noticing that the stranger was far more knowledge-
able than he was; he had been almost all over the world, and he had
something to say on every imaginable subject.
The sun was already high when they sat down under a big tree to eat
their breakfast. At that moment an old woman came along - oh, she was
ever so old, bent quite double, leaning on a crutch, and on her back she
carried a bundle of firewood she had gathered in the wood. Her apron

143
was pinned up and, sticking out of it, John saw three large faggots of
bracken and willow twigs. As she came up to them, her foot slipped, and
she fell down with a loud scream. Poor old thing, she had broken her leg.
John at once suggested she should be carried to her home, but the
stranger opened his knapsack and, taking out a jar, he said that here was
an ointment that could heal her leg straight away, so that she could walk
home by herself just as though she had never broken her leg. But in
return for this she must give him the three faggots she had in her apron,
»That's a high price you're asking,« said the old woman with a queer
sort ofnod. She didn't at all want to part with her faggots, but on the
other hand it wasn't very nice to be left there with a broken leg. So she
gave him the faggots, and directly he rubbed the leg with the ointment,
sure enough, the old crone was able to get up and to walk far better than
before. Yes, the ointment could do all that - but then it wasn't the kind
that you buy at the chemist's.
»What do you mean to do with these faggots?« John now asked his
travelling companion.
»They are three handsome bouquets, « he said. »rve taken a fancy to
them - I'm a rum sort of cove, you know.«
After that, they walked on a good way.
»I say! There's a thunderstorm coming up.« said John, pointing
ahead; »look how black those clouds are.«
»Those aren't clouds, « said the Travelling Companion, »those are
mountains-glorious great mountains, where you can come up into the
pure air high above the clouds. It's splendid there, I can tell you. By
tomorrow we ought to be as far as that out in the world.«
It was further off than it looked; they took a whole day before they got

to the mountains, where the dark woods grew right up against the sky
and there were rocks as big as a town. It was certainly going to be a stiff
climb before they got right across, so John and the Travelling Compan-
ion turned into an inn to have a good rest and collect strength for the
journey next day.
Down in the big taproom of the inn a great many people had come
together, for there was a man with a puppet-show. He had just set up his
little theatre, and people were sitting round to watch the play. Right in

front was a fat old butcher who had taken the very best seat, and beside
him sat his great bulldog - ugh, how fierce it looked! - and was all eyes,
like everyone else.

Presently the play began. was a fine play, with a king and a queen
It

sitting on the with gold crowns on their heads and long

loveliest throne
trains to their robes, for they could well afford them. The most charming
wooden puppets with glass eyes and big moustaches stood at every door,
opening and shutting them to let fresh air into the room. It really was a
delightful play and not in the least sad; but just as the queen stood up
and crossed the floor, then - heaven knows what was the bulldog's idea,

144
 -

but as the fat butcher hadn't got hold of it, it made a leap right on to the
stage and seized the queen by her slender waist so that it went»crackl«lt
was simply ghastly.
The poor fellow who was doing the whole performance was terrified
and very much upset about his queen, who was the prettiest puppet he
owned; and now this disgusting bulldog had bitten off her head. But
when they had all gone away, the stranger said - the man, that is, who
had come with John - that, never mind, he could put her right; and he
pulled out his jar and smeared the puppet with the same ointment he had
used for healing the old woman when she broke her leg. As soon as the
ointment was rubbed in, the puppet at once became whole again - in
fact, she could even move all her limbs of her own accord. There was no

need to pull the string; the puppet was like a living person, except for not
being able to talk. The proprietor of the little puppet-show was utterly
delighted: no more need for him to hold on to the puppet, now that she
could dance by herself. None of the others could do that.
Later on when it was night and all the inn-people had gone to bed,
someone was heard sighing so deeply and continuously that they all got
up to see who it could be. The man who had done the play went down
to his little theatre, as it was from there that the sighing came. All the
wooden puppets were lying higgledy-piggledy, king, guards and all, and
these it was who were sighing so piteously and staring with great glass
eyes; for they did so long for some ointment like the Queen's, so that they
too could manage to move of their own accord. The queen went right
down on her knees and held up her beautiful gold crown, imploring:
»Take this, take this, if only my husband and my Court may be rubbed
with your ointment !« At that, the poor proprietor of the theatre and all
the puppets couldn't help bursting into tears, for he felt so sorry for
them. He at once promised the Travelling Companion to pay over to him
all the takings of his play next evening, if only he would rub the oint-

ment on four or five of his best puppets. But the Travelling Companion
said that all he asked for was the great sword which the other was wear-
ing; and when he was given it he rubbed six of the puppets, who imme-
diately began to dance. And they did it so charmingly that all the maids
the real live girls who were looking on - proceeded to join in. The coach-
man danced with the cook, the waiter with the chambermaid; and all the
guests danced too, and the shovel and the poker, though these two fell
over directly they began to hop ... Yes, it was a very merry night!
Next morning John and his Travelling Companion took leave of them
all and made their way up the mountains and through the vast pine

forests. They climbed so high that at last the church towers far below
them looked like little red berries down among all that green, and they
could see tremendous distances, miles and miles away, where they had
never been in their lives. Never before had John seen so much of the
earth's beauty all at once. The sun shone warmly from the clear blue sky,

145
and he heard the huntsmen blowing their horns in among the hills. It
was all so beautiful that tears of joy came into his eyes and he couldn't
help exclaiming, »0 dear kind God, I could kiss you for being so good to
us all and giving us so much beauty in the world.«
The Travelling Companion, too, stood with hands clasped, looking
out over town and forest in the warm sunshine. At that momenta strange-
ly beautiful sound could be heard above them, and looking up they saw a
large white swan hovering in the air. It was very lovely, and it sang as
they had never heard a bird sing before. But it grew weaker and weaker,
till with bowed head it slowly sank at their feet, where it lay dead, the

lovely creature.
»Two such splendid wings,« said the Travelling Companion »wings
as white and large as these, are worth money. I'll take them with me.
Now do you see why I got myself a sword« - and with a single stroke he
cut off both wings from the dead swan, for he meant to keep them.
They now travelled on for miles and miles across the mountains, till at
last they saw in front of them a large city with more than a hundred
towers glittering like silver in the sunshine. In the middle of the town
was a magnificent marble palace with red-gold roofs, where the King
lived.
John and his Travelling Companion decided not to go straight into
the city, but put up an inn outside, where they could make themselves
at
tidy; for they wanted to look their best when they went through the
streets. The inn-keeper told them that the King was an excellent man
who never did harm to a soul, but that his daughter - goodness gracious!
there was a bad Princess if you like! Beautiful enough - oh, yes, no one
could be as pretty and charming as her; but what good was that? She was
a bad wicked witch, through whom numbers of handsome princes had
lost their lives. Anyone - be he prince or beggar, it made no odds -
anyone could pay court to her. All he had to do was to guess three things
she asked him. If he could do that she would marry him and he would
become King over the whole land when her father died. But if he failed to
guess the three things, then she had him hanged or beheaded. Yes, the
beautiful Princess was as bad and wicked as that. Her father, the old
King, was very sad about it all; but he couldn't forbid her to be so wicked,
because he had once said that he would never have anything whatever to
do with her suitors; she could do just as she liked. Whenever a prince
came with the idea of guessing so as to win her, he always guessed wrong
and was therefore hanged or beheaded. And yet they had warned him
beforehand; he needn't have wooed the Princess at all. The old King was
so upset by all this sorrow and misery that he spent one whole day every
year on his knees praying, with all his soldiers, that the Princess might
turn over a new leaf; but she hadn't the slightest intention of doing that.
The old dames who went in for brandy coloured it deep black before they
drank it - that was their way of mourning - and more could hardly be
expected of them.

146
 »What a hateful Princess!« said John. »She really ought to be whipped,
it would do her good. If I were the old King, I'd thrash her till she bled
like a pig.«
At that moment they heard sounds of cheering outside. The Princess
was passing, and she was really so lovely that everyone forgot how
wicked she was - that's why they cheered. She was attended by twelve
charming young women, all in white silk, carrying yellow tulips and
riding on coal-black horses. The Princess herself had a snow-white horse
decked with diamonds and rubies; her habit was of pure gold, and the
whip in her hand shone like a sunbeam. The gold crown on her head
seemed to be set with little stars from the sky above, and her cloak was
made of hundreds of pretty butterfly wings. And yet she herself was f2ir
more beautiful than anything she wore.
When John caught sight of her, the blood in his face flushed crimson,
and he could scarcely utter a word; for the Princess looked exactly like

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 «

the beautiful girl in the gold crown whom he had dreamt about the night
his father died. He thought her so pretty that he couldn't help falling in
love with her. Of wasn't true (he told himself) that she could be
course, it

a wicked witch who had

people hanged or beheaded if they couldn't
guess what she asked them. »Well, anybody may propose to her, even the
humblest beggar, so up to the palace I mean to go. I just can't stay away.«
Everyone warned him against doing that; he would certainly meet the
same fate as all the others. The Travelling Companion also advised him
not to go, but John felt sure it would be all right. He brushed his shoes
and his clothes, washed face and hands, combed his fine yellow hair, and
then walked all by himself into the town and up to the palace.
»Come in!« cried the old King, as John knocked at the door. John
opened it, and the old King came out to meet him in his dressing-gown
and embroidered slippers. He was wearing his gold crown, while he held
the sceptre in one hand and the gold orb in the other. »Just a moment!«
he exclaimed, and he popped the orb under his left arm so as to be able to
shake hands with John. But directly he heard that John was a suitor, he
began to cry so hard that he dropped both sceptre and orb on the floor
and had to wipe away his tears with his dressing-gown ... Poor old King!
»No, no, don't do it!« said the King. »You'll only come to a bad end,
like the rest of them. Just come and look for yourself« - and he took John
out into the Princess's pleasure garden, which was a ghastly sight. Dang-
ling from every tree were three or four princes who had proposed to the
Princess but made wrong guesses to what she asked them. Their bones
rattled at every gust of wind, so that the little birds were much too fright-
ened ever to come into the garden! The flowers were all tied up to human
bones, and the flower-pots were filled with grinning skulls. A fine garden
it was for a Princess!
»There you are!« said the old King. »You'll meet the same fate as all
these others; you'd much better keep away. You're making me very un-
happy; I take it so much to heart.
John kissed the good King's hand and told him all would be well,
because he was so in love with the beautiful Princess.
Just then the Princess herself with all her ladies came riding into the
courtyard of the palace, so they went out and said good-day to her. She
was most charming as she held out her John, and he fell more in
hand to
love with her than be the bad wicked witch
ever - she couldn't possibly
people all made her out to be ... They went upstairs, and die young pages
served them with jam-tarts and ginger-nuts, but the old King was so
upset he couldn't eat a thing, and anyhow the gingernuts were too hard
for him.
It was now settled that John should come to the palace again the next

morning, when the judges and the whole council would be assembled to
hear how he got through the business of guessing. If he did well, then he
would still have to come twice more, though there was never anyone yet

148
who had guessed right the first time; they all had to be put to death.
John wasn't a bit anxious about how he would get on. He was in high
feather, with thoughts only for the lovely Princess. He was confident that
the good God would help him when the time came, but in what way he
had no idea and refused to worry about. He went dancing down the road
on his way back to the inn where the Travelling Companion was waiting
for him.
John couldn't say enough in praise of the Princess, how charming she
had been to him and how beautiful she was. He was already longing for
the next day to come, when he was to go to the palace and try his luck at
the guessing.
But the Travelling Companion shook his head and was full of misgiv-
ing. »rm so fond of you,« he said; »we might have stayed together for a
long time yet, and now I have got to lose you already. You poor dear
John, I really feel more like crying; but I won't spoil your happiness on
what may well be our last evening together. Let's be cheerful, let's be
merry. Plenty of chance for me to shed tears tomorrow when you're
gone.«
Everybody in the town had at once heard of the arrival of a fresh suitor
for the hand of the Princess, and there was general sorrow. The play-
house was closed, the women who sold sweets tied black crape on to their
sugarpigs. King and clergy were praying in church; all were in great
distress, because they knew that John could not get on any better than the
rest of the suitors had done.
Late in the evening the Travelling Companion lifted him very gently
off his chair and laid him on the bed. Then when it was pitch dark, he
took the two big wings he had cut off the swan and fastened them on to
his shoulders. The largest of the faggots he had got from the old woman
who broke her he stuck into his pocket; then, he opened the
leg, this
window and flew straight across the city to the palace, where he sat down
in a corner under the window leading into the Princess's bedroom.
The whole town was quiet and still; then the clock struck a quarter to
twelve. The window opened, and the Princess, in a big white cloak and
with long black wings, flew out across the city till she came to a high
mountain. But the Travelling Companion, making himself invisible so
that she could see absolutely nothing of him, flew after her and switched
her with his faggot till she was positively bleeding wherever he struck.
Phew! how they rushed through the air. The wind filled her cloak so that
it spread out all round like a great sail, and the moon shone right

through it.
»Goodness, how it's hailing! « cried the Princess, every time he
switched her - and it served her right. At last she reached the mountain
and knocked to be let in. There was a roll like tunder, as the mountain
opened, and the Princess went in along with the Travelling Companion;
but she didn't notice him, because he was invisible. They passed through

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a long wide corridor where the walls glistened strangely; there were
hundreds and hundreds of glowing spiders that ran up and down the
wall and shone like fire. And now they entered a great hall built of gold
and silver; red and blue flowers as large as sunflowers gleamed from the
walls, but the flowers couldn't be picked because their stalks were hor-
rible poisonous snakes and the petals were flames that darted out of their
mouths. The ceiling was entirely covered with shining glow-worms and
sky-blue bats that flapped their wings in the most extraordinary way. In
the middle of the floor was a throne supported by four horse skeletons
with a harness of red fire-spiders. The throne itself was of milkwhite
glass and the seat-cushions were little black mice who bit each other's
tails. Above it was a canopy of pink cobweb picked out with the sweetest

little green flies that gleamed like precious stones.

On the throne sat an old ogre, with a crown on his ugly head and a
sceptre in his hand. He kissed the Princess on her forehead and got her to
sit beside him on his gorgeous throne and after that the music began.

Great black grasshoppers played on Jews'-harps, and the owl - for want
of a drum - beat his own stomach. It was a funny concert. Little black
goblins, with will-o-the-wisps in their caps, danced about the hall. The
Travelling Companion, invisible to everyone, had taken his stand imme-
diately behind the throne, where he could hear and see everything. The
courtiers, who now in their turn came in, were very handsome and
distinguished-looking, but anyone with eyes in his head soon saw
through it all. They were nothing but broomhandles with cabbage-heads
to them, that the ogre had bewitched into life and given embroidered
robes. Well, it didn't anyhow make any difference; they were only used
for show.
After there had been some dancing the Princess told the ogre that she
had got a fresh suitor, and so she wanted to know what she should be
thinking about when the time came for her to question him on his arrival
next day at the palace.
»Oh, well«, said the ogre, »ril tell you what. You must choose some-
thing very simple, because he'll never think of that. Think of one of your
shoes - he'll never guess that. Then have his head chopped off; but don't
forget, when you come here again tomorrow, to bring me his eyes, for I
want to eat them.«
The Princess made a deep curtsey and promised not to forget the eyes.
The ogre now opened his mountain and she flew back home. But the
Travelling Companion went with her and lashed her so hard with the
faggot that she moaned bitterly at the violence of the hailstorm and made
all possible haste to get back again through the window into her be-
droom. Meanwhile, the Travelling Companion flew back to the inn
where John was still asleep, took off his wings, and he too lay down on
the bed; for he was tired out, and no wonder.
Early next morning John awoke and the Travelling Companion got

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 «

up too and had had a most curious dream about

said that last night he
the Princess and her shoe; and he told John that, because of this, he really
must ask whether it wasn't her shoe she was thinking about. For, you see,
this was what the Travelling Companion had overheard from the ogre in
the mountain - though he didn't mean to say anything to John about
that, but only to tell him to ask whether it wasn't her shoe she had been
thinking about.
»One thing's just as good as another for me to ask,« said John. »It may
be that what you dreamt is perfectly right, for I still hold to my belief that
God will help me. All the same, I'd better say goodbye to you because, if I
guess wrong, I shall never see you again.
Then they kissed each other, and John went into the city and up to the
palace. The whole hall was crammed with people. The judges sat in their
armchairs with eiderdown quilts to pillow their heads, for they had a
great deal to think about. The old King stood drying his eyes with a
white handkerchief. Now the Princess walked in, looking much prettier
even than yesterday, with friendly greetings to everyone; but to John she
gave her hand and said, »Good morning, my dear!«
And now came the moment for John to guess what she had been
thinking about. Goodness, what a kind look she gave him! But directly
she heard him utter the one word »shoe«, she turned as white as a sheet
and trembled all over; but what was the good of that - he had guessed
right!
Bless my soul, how pleased the old King was! He turned a somersault -
you never saw such a beauty! - and everybody clapped both for him and
for John, because he had guessed right at the first time of asking.
The Travelling Companion, too, was delighted when he heard how
well it had all gone off; but John folded his hands in thanks to the good
God who no doubt would help him again the other two times. Already
the next day he would have to make a second guess.
That evening passed just as it did the day before. Once John was
asleep, the Travelling Companion flew after the Princess out to the
mountain and flogged her even harder than last time, for he had now
brought two faggots. Nobody saw him, and he could hear everything.
The Princess was going to think about her glove, and he passed this on to
John as if he had heard it in a dream. So of course John guessed right
again, and there was tremendous joy at the palace. The whole Court
turned somersaults, just as they had seen the King do the first time -
though the Princess lay sulking on the sofa and wouldn't open her
mouth. All now depended on whether John could guess right the third
time. If he did, then of course he would marry the lovely Princess and
would succeed to the throne when the old King died. If he guessed wrong,
he would lose his life and the ogre would gobble up his beautiful blue
eyes.
The night before, John went early to bed, said his prayers and was soon

151
sleeping peacefully. But the Travelling Companion fastened the wings
on his back, buckled the sword to his side and, taking all three faggots
with him, flew off to the palace.
The night was pitch dark, and there was such a gale that it blew the
tiles off the houses, while the trees in the garden with the dangling

skeletons were swaying like rushes in the wind. The lightning flashed
continuously, and the thunder rolled as if in a single peal that went on
all night. Suddenly the window opened, and the Princess flew out. She

was as pale as death, though she only laughed at the fearful weather
which she thought wasn't wild enough. Her white cloak billowed in the
wind like the great sail of a ship, but the Travelling Companion gave her
such a whipping with his three faggots that her blood dripped down to
the earth and at last she could scarcely fly any further. However, she got
to the mountain in the end.
»What hail, and what a storm!« she exclaimed. »rve never known such
weather.«
»Yes, one can have too much of a good thing,« said the ogre. Then she
told him how John had gone and guessed right a second time; if he did
this tomorrow, he would have won and she could never come to the
mountain again, never be able to practise her magic arts any more. She
was utterly downcast at the thought.
»This time he shan't guess,« said the ogre »Trust me to find something
he has never thought of - or he must be a greater magician than I am. But
now let us be merry !« And he took the Princess by both hands and went
dancing round together with all the little goblins and will-o'-the-wisps
in the room. The red spiders hopped just as merrily up and down the
wall; you might have thought that the fire-blossoms were sending out
sparks. The owl beat his drum, the crickets chirped and the dusky grass-
hoppers played their Jews'-harps. There was such a ball!
But now they had been dancing long enough, and it was time for the
Princess to be going home, or else she might be missed at the palace. The
ogre said he thought he would go with her, so that at any rate they might
much longer together.
be that
Then away they flew through the dreadful gale, and the Travelling
Companion wore out his three faggots on their backs; never had the ogre
been out in such a hailstorm. Outside the palace he said goodbye to the
Princess, at the same time whispering to her, »Think of my head!« But
the Travelling Companion overheard him and, at the very moment the
Princess was slipping through the window into her bedroom and the
ogre was turning for home, he caught him by his long black beard and,
before the ogre knew what was happening, he whipped out the sword
and sliced off his loathsome ogre-head at the shoulders. He threw the
body into the sea to the fishes, but the head he merely dipped in the water
and then tied it up in his silk handkerchief; he took it back with him to
the inn and after that lay down to sleep.

152
 Next morning he gave John the handkerchief, but told him not to
undo it until the Princess asked what it was she had been thinking about.

There were so many people in the great hall at the palace that they
were squeezed up against each other like radishes tied in a bundle. The
Council were sitting in their chairs with the soft pillows, and the old
King was wearing new robes with his gold crown and sceptre freshly
polished. It made a most charming picture; but the Princess was deathly
pale and had on a jet-black dress, as though she were going to a funeral.
»What have I been thinking about?« she asked John; and immediately
he undid the handkerchief and was himself quite horrified when he saw
the hideous ogre-head. A shudder ran through the whole assembly, for it
was a ghastly sight. But the Princess sat like a stone image and couldn't
utter a word. At length she got up and gave John her hand, for of course
he had guessed right. She paid no heed to anyone, but with a deep sigh

153
 «

she said, »You are now my lord and master; we will have the wedding
tonight.
»Splendid!« cried the old King. »That's the way to do it!« The people
all cheered, the Guards' band paraded through the streets, the church
bells rang, and the women who sold sweets took the black crape off their
sugarpigs, for now they were all happy. Three oxen, roasted whole and
stuffed with ducks and chickens, were put in the middle of the market-
place; anyone could come and help himself. The most delicious wine
gushed from the fountains and, if you bought a twopenny twist from the
baker, you got half-a-dozen large buns thrown in - buns with currants in,
too.
At night the whole town was lit up, and the soldiers fired off cannon,
and the small boys fired off caps, and there was eating and drinking and
toasting and frolicking at the palace, where all the good-looking ladies
and gentlemen of fashion danced with each other, and from far away you
could hear them singing:
»Here is many a maiden fair -
how they long to twirl and sway!
Pipe and tabor wait them there ...
Pretty maiden, do not stay;
dance and stamp until you wear,
falderal, your shoes away!«
But the Princess, you know, was still a witch and not in the least in love
with John. The Travelling Companion had not forgotten this, and so he
gave John three feathers from the swan's wings and a little phial with
some drops in, telling him to have a large tub of water placed beside the
bridal bed. When the Princess was about to get into bed, he was to give
her a little push so that she fell into the water; there he was to duck her
three times after first throwing the feathers and the drops into it. This
would free her from the magic spell she was under, and she would love
him with all her heart.
John did everything the Travelling Companion had advised him. The
Princess gave a loud scream as he ducked her under the water and floun-
dered about in his hands in the form of a large jet-black swan with fiery
eyes. When she came to the surface a second time, the swan was white
except for a single black ring round her neck. John prayed earnestly to
God, and then he doused the bird a third time; instantly she was trans-
formed into the most lovely Princess. She was even lovelier than before
and thanked him with tears in her beautiful eyes for having broken the
spell that bound her.
The old King arrived next morning with all his Court, and congratula-
tions poured in all day. Last of all came Companion, with
the Travelling
his stick in his hand and his knapsack on his back. John kissed him
affectionately and told him he mustn't go away, but must stay with him
there, for he was the cause of all John's happiness. But the Travelling

154
Companion shook his head and said very gently and kindly, »No, my
time is up.have merely paid my debt. Do you remember the dead man
I

those ruffians wanted to harm? You gave them all you possessed, so that
he might have peace in his grave. I am that dead man.« The next moment
he was gone.
The w^edding lasted a whole month. John and the Princess loved each
other dearly, and the old King lived long and happily and allowed their
little ones to ride-a-cock-horse on his knee and play with his sceptre. And

John became King over the whole country.

 «

The Angel

y^ Whenever a good child dies, an angel of God comes down to earth,

takes the dead child in its arms, spreads out its great white wings, and
flies away over all the places the child has loved. It gathers, too, a whole
armful of flowers to be carried up to heaven, where they may bloom still
more beautifully than on earth.The good God presses all flowers to his
heart; but to the flower he loves best he gives a kiss, and then the flower
gets a voiceand can join in the glorious songs of praise.
There - that was all told by an angel of God as it carried a dead child
up to heaven, and the child listened as in a dream. They passed over the
places where the little one had played at home, and they went through
gardens full of beautiful flowers.
»Which ones do you think we should take with us and plant in hea-
ven?« asked the angel.
And they came to a lovely slender rose tree, but a wanton hand had
broken the stem, so that the branches, with all their half-opened buds,
hung drooping and withered around it.
»Poor little tree!« said the child. »Take that, then it can bloom when
we come up to God.«
So the angel took the rose tree and gave the child a kiss, and the little
one opened his eyes. They picked some of the fine showy flowers, but
they also took with them the despised marigold and the wild pansy.
»Now we've got flowers,« said the child and the angel nodded; but
they did not yet fly up to God. It was night, and everything was still.
They stayed in the city; they hovered about in one of the narrowest streets,
where there were great piles of straw, ashes and lumber of every kind; for

156
 « « «

people had been moving house. There were plates lying in fragments, bits
of plaster, old hats and rags - everything that w^as no longer fit to be seen.
And there among all this junk the angel pointed down to some bits of a
flower-pot and to a lump of earth that had fallen out of it and was being
held together by the roots of a large wildflower that was dead and done
with and had therefore been thrown out into the street.
»We must take that with us,« said the angel. »I will tell you why, as we
go along.
And as they flew on the angel explained. »Down there in that narrow
street,below in the basement, lived a poor sick boy. Ever since he was
quite small, he had always had to keep his bed, though when he was at
his best he managed to go on crutches up and down the little room once
or twice - that was the most he could do. For a few days in summertime
the sun shone for half an hour right into the front room of the basement,
and when the poor boy sat there in the warm sunshine and saw the red
blood through his delicate fingers as he held them up before his eyes,
then he felt that, yes, today he had been out-oi-doors.
»He only knew the woods in their lovely green at springtime by the
neighbour's son bringing him the first spray from the beech tree. This he
would hold over his head, dreaming he was there among the beeches
where the sun shone and the birds sang.
»One spring day the neighbour's son brought him wildf lowers, and
among these there happened to be one with a root to it; and so this was
planted in a flower-pot and placed in the window close to the bed. And
the flower was happily planted, for it flourished and sent out new shoots
and blossomed every year. It became a wonderful garden for the sick boy,
his one treasure on this earth. He watered it and tended it and saw that it
got every ray of sun, right up to the last ray that stole in through the low
window. And the flower itself spread into his dreams; for him it blos-
somed, scattered its perfume, and gladdened the eye; to the flower he
turned in death, when God called him.
»For a year now he has been in heaven; for a year the flower has stood
forgotten in the window and has withered, so that when they moved they
threw it out among the sweepings in the street. And that's the flower, the
poor dead flower, we have added to our nosegay, because that flower has
given more happiness than the grandest bloom in the Queen's garden.
»But where did you get to know all this?« asked the child that the angel
was carrying up to heaven.
»Why, you see,« answered the angel, »I was myself the little sick boy
who went on crutches. So of course I know my flower.
And the child opened his eyes wide and looked into the radiant face of
the angel; and at that moment they reached the joy and happiness of
God's heaven. God pressed the dead child to his heart, and the child was
given wings like the other angel and flew with him hand in hand. And
God pressed all the flowers to his heart, but the poor dead wildflower he

157
kissed, and was given a voice, so that it sang v^^ith all the angels hover-
it

ing around God

- some quite near, others in wide circles beyond, further
and further away in the infinite distance, but all equally happy. Yes,
great and small, they were all singing: the dear good child and the poor
wildflower from the scrap-heap, that had been lying withered among the
lumber of moving in the dark narrow street.
 The Buckwheat
A you go by a field of buckwheat after a thunderstorm, you will often
notice that the buckwheat has been scorched quite black. It's just as
though a flame had passed over it, and then the farmer says, »It's got that
from the lightning. « But how has it happened? I will tell you what the
sparrow told me, and the sparrow heard it from an old willow tree that
stood — and is still standing - by the side of a field of buckwheat. It's
quite a venerable great willow, but wrinkled and aged, with a crack down
the middle - and grass and brambles growing out of the crack! The tree
leans forward, and the branches hang right down to the ground like long
green hair.
In all the fields round about there was corn growing, rye and barley
and oats - yes, the lovely oats that has the appearance, when it's ripe, of a
whole string of little yellow canaries on a bough. The corn was a wonder-
ful sight; and the heavier the crop, the deeper it stooped in meek humil-
ity.

But there was also a field of buckwheat; it was just in front of the old
willow. The buckwheat didn't stoop, like the other corn; it held itself up
proudly and stiffly.

»I must be just as rich as the grain, « it said, »and I'm much better-
looking. My blossoms are beautiful, like apple-blossoms; it's quite a
pleasure to look upon me and mine. Do you know anyone finer, my dear
willow?«
The willow tree nodded his head as if to say, « You may be sure I do!«
But the buckwheat was simply bursting with pride and said, »The stupid
tree! He's so old that his stomach has grass growing on it.«

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 «

And now a terrible storm blew up. All the flowers in the field folded
their leaves or bent their delicate heads while the storm passed over them.
But the buckwheat stood up straight in its pride.
»Stoop down like us!« cried the flowers.
»No need whatever for me to!« answered the buckwheat.
»Stoop down like us!« cried the corn. »Here comes the angel of the
storm in full flight. He has wings that reach from the clouds right down
to the earth; he will strike straight over you, before you can cry for mer-
cy.
»Very well, but I refuse to stoop,« said the buckwheat.
»Shut up your blossoms and bend down your leaves !« said the old
willow. »Don't look up at the lightning, when the cloud bursts; even
mankind daren't do that, for in the lightning one may see into God's
heaven. But even man can be blinded by the sight of that; what ever
would happen to us plants, if we dared so much - we who are far inferior?«
»Far inferior?« said the buckwheat. »Well now, I'm going to look into
God's heaven «; and in arrogance and pride it did. The lightning was so
fierce that the whole earth seemed to be wrapped in flame.
When the storm had passed away, there in the pure still air stood
flowers and corn, all refreshed by the rain; but the buckwheat had been
scorched coal-black by the lightning. It was now a dead useless weed on
the field.
And and big drops of
the old willow stirred his branches in the wind,
water from his green leaves, just as though the tree were crying. And
fell

the sparrows asked, »What are you crying for? It's so lovely here. Look
how the sun is shining, how the clouds are sailing by. Can't you smell the
perfume of flowers and bushes? Why should you cry, dear willow?«
Then the willow tree told them about the buckwheat's pride and arro-
gance - and punishment, for that always follows. I, who tell the tale, I
heard it from the sparrows. It was they who told it me, one evening when
I begged them for a story.
 The Bronze Pig

in the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca, runs a
little cross-street called, I believe, Porta Rossa. There, in front of a kind of
vegetable m"arket, stands the quaint figure of a pig cunningly w^rought in
bronze. Clear fresh water ripples from the mouth of the animal, which
has now become blackish green with age. Only the snout is shiny, as if it

had been smoothed and polished - as indeed it has been, by the hundreds
of children and beggars who take hold of it with their hands and put
their mouths to the pig's mouth to drink. It's a perfect picture to see the
shapely beast being hugged by some handsome half-naked boy, as he
puts his young lips to its snout. Anyone who comes to Florence can easily
discover the spot; he has only to ask the first beggar he sees for the bronze
pig, and he'll find it at once.
It was a late winter's evening. There was snow lying on the hills, but

there was a moon; and moonlight in Italy gives as much light as a

gloomy winter's day with us in the North; in fact, it's better, because the
air is brisk and cheerful, whereas in the North the cold leaden grey
overhead weighs us down to the ground - that cold damp ground that
shall one day weigh down on our coffins.
Over in the garden of the Grand Duke's palace, under a roof of pines,
where thousands of roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been
sitting all day - a boy who might have stood for a picture of Italy herself,
smiling and fair and yet suffering. He was hungry and thirsty. No one
had given him a thing; and when it grew dark and the garden had to be
shut, the attendant drove him out. For a long time he stayed dreaming on
watching the stars twinkle in the water be-
the bridge across the Arno,
tween him and the splendid marble bridge, Delia Trinita.

161
 He made his way to the bronze pig, half knelt down, and threw his
arms round its neck. Then he put his young .lips to the glossy snout and
drank great gulps of the cool water. Near by were some lettuce leaves on
the ground, and a few chestnuts; these did for his supper. There wasn't a
soul in the street - he was all by himself - so he climbed on to the back of
the bronze pig, leaned forward till his curly head was resting against the
pig's and, before he knew what was happening, he was fast asleep.
It was midnight. The bronze pig stirred and the boy heard it say quite

distinctly. »Now then, my lad, hold on tight, I'm going to trot!« And
away it trotted with the boy on its back; it was no end of a ride... First,
they came to the Piazza del Granduca, where the bronze horse with the
figure of the Grand Duke astride it neighed loudly; the various colours in
the coat-of-arms on the old town hall shone like transparent pictures;
Michael Angelo's David was brandishing his sling. There was a strange
life going on. The bronze groups showing Perseus and the rape of the

Sabines were only too lifelike, as they stood there; a cry of panic from the
women echoed across the great empty square.
At the Uffizi palace, in the arcade where the noble families meet for the
Lent carnival, the bronze pig halted.
»Hold tight,« said the animal, »Hold tight! Now we're going up the
steps.« The little boy never said a word - half trembling, half thrilled.
They entered a long gallery that he knew well; he had been there
before. The walls were covered with gorgeous paintings; here stood sta-
tues and busts, each as perfectly lighted as if it were daytime. But finest of
all was when the door to one of the rooms at the side swung open ... No,
the boy had not forgotten how wonderful this was; but, that night,
everything was seen in its fairest lustre.

Here was the nude statue of a beautiful woman, as lovely as only nature
or the greatest master of his art could shape her. She was moving her
graceful limbs, dolphins leapt at her feet, immortality shone from her
eyes. The world calls her the Venus de Medici. All round her was a glitter
of marble figures, for which the life of the spirit had passed into the
stone: nude statues of fine-looking men, one of them sharpening his
sword - the Grinder, he was called - and another group composed of the
Wrestling Gladiators. The sword was being sharpened, the wrestlers were
grappling, for the goddess of beauty.
The boy was quite dazzled by all this magnificence. The walls were
aglow with colour, and everything he saw was life and movement. There
were two Venuses to be seen - these pictured the wordly Venus, full-
bosomed and ardent, as Titian had clasped her to his heart. It was re-
markable to see them. The two women were beautiful. They stretched
their lovely unveiled limbs on the soft cushions; their bosoms heaved and
their heads moved, so that their rich locks hung down over the curving
shoulders, while their dark eyes spoke out the glowing thoughts within.

162
Yet of all these pictures not one dared to come right out of its frame. The
goddess of beauty herself, the gladiators and the grinder, stayed in their
places, rapt at the radiant glory of the Madonna, Jesus and St. John. The
holy pictures were pictures no longer; they were the Holy Ones them-
selves.
What splendour and beauty from room to room! And the boy saw it all,
for the bronze pig went step by step through the whole magnificent
pageant. One marvel ousted the other from his mind; a single picture
only fixed itself firmly in his thoughts, and that one chiefly because of
the happy-looking children to be seen there; once, in the daytime, the boy
had nodded to them.
No doubt, many people pass by this picture without thinking, and yet
there's a wealth of poetry in it. It shows Christ going down to the under-
world; but it's not the damned that are seen around him - no, it's the
heathen. The Florentine, Angiolo Bronzino, did this painting. Most
beautiful is the certainty in the children's faces that they are going to
heaven; two ones are already embracing, and one small child is
little

stretching out his to another below him and pointing to himself as

hand
if to say, »rm going to heaven !« All the older folk are standing uncertain,

hoping or bending humbly in prayer before the Lord Jesus.

The boy looked at this picture longer than at any other; the bronze pig
stood still before it. A gentle sigh was heard. Did it come from the picture
or from the creature's breast? The boy waved his hand to the smiling
children ... and then the pig trotted off with him, away through the open
entrance.
»Thank you - God
bless you - you lovely pig!« said the little boy,
patting its back aswent bumpety-bump down the steps with him.
it

»Same to you, my boy!« said the bronze pig. »rve helped you and
you've helped me, because only with an innocent child on my back can I
collect enough strength to run. And, look, I may even venture into the
light coming from the lamp in front of the image of the Virgin. I can take
you wherever you like, except inside the church. But from outside, when
you are with me, I can see in through the open door. Don't get off my
back! If you do that, I shall lie as dead as you see me lying by daytime in
the Porta Rossa.«
»I won't leave you, my dear piggy, « said the boy; and away they went
tearing through the streets of Florence out to the square before the church
of the Holy Cross. The great double-door flew open, and the candles on
the altar shone through the church out on to the deserted square.
A curious radiance came from a monument in the left aisle; hundreds
of stars that were never formed a kind of halo around it. Above the
still

grave was a fine coat-of-arms - a red ladder on a blue field - that seemed
to glow like fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument is quite
simple, but the red ladder on a blue field is a device full of meaning; it

163
might have belonged to Art itself, whose path leads on and up a glowing
ladder - to heaven. All the prophets of the mind are taken up into heaven
as the prophet Elijah was.
In the right aisle of the church every figure on the rich tombs seemed to
have come to life. Here stood Michael Angelo, there Dante with the laurel
wreath on his brow, Alfieri, Machiavelli; here, side by side, repose these
famous men who are the pride of Italy. It's a glorious church, far finer
than Florence's marble cathedral, though not so large.
There seemed to be a movement in the marble clothing of the statues;
these mighty figures seemed to hold their heads still higher, as they
looked through the darkness, amid music and singing, up towards the
glittering colours of the altar, where surpliced choirboys swung their
golden censers, and the heavy fumes of incense came pouring from the
church into the open square.
The little boy stretched out his hand towards all this glitter - and at
that moment the bronze pig bolted from the spot. The boy had to hold on
very tight; the wind whizzed past his ears. He heard the church door creak
on its hinges as it closed, but all at once he seemed to lose consciousness;
he an icy chill - and opened his eyes.
felt

It was morning. He found himself half slipping off the back of the
bronze pig, which was standing where it always stood in the Porta Rossa.
The boy was filled with fear at the thought of the woman he called
mother, who had sent him out yesterday and told him to get money. He
had none - and he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he put his arms
round the neck of the bronze pig, kissed its snout and then, with a last
nod to it, wandered off into one of the narrowest streets which was only
just wide enough for a donkey and its load. A great iron-studded door
was standing ajar; he went in here and climbed a stone staircase with
dirty walls and a greasy rope for banisters, till he came to an open bal-
cony hung with rags. From here a stairway led down into the courtyard,
which had a well with strong wires that could be drawn up to every floor
of the house; the water-buckets swung there side by side, while the pulley
squeaked and a bucket would sway about in the air until the water
slopped over into the yard. Another dilapidated flight of steps led up
again. Two sailors - Russians they were - came lurching cheerily down
and nearly knocked the poor boy over; they were just coming from their
nightly bout of drinking, and with them was a woman, no longer
young, yet vigorous, with thick dark hair. »How much have you brought
back?« she asked the boy.
»Don't be angry !« he pleaded. »I didn't get anything - nothing at all.«
And he caught hold of his mother's dress, as if to kiss it. They went into
their room. I will not describe it - beyond saying that there was one of
those handled jars there for holding fire; they call it a 'marito'. She
picked this up and warmed her fingers, and then jabbing the boy with
her elbow she said, »Nonsense, of course you've got some money !«

164
 The child was crying. She out at him with her foot, cind he wept
let

aloud. »Will you stop it, break your squalling head for you!« And
or I'll

she brandished the fire-pot she had in her hand, while the boy dived to
the ground with a scream of terror. Then a neighbour stepped in at the
door; she, too, had her 'marito' with her. »Felicita! What ever are you
doing to the child?«
»The child'smine,« answered Felicita. »I can murder him if I want to -
and you too, Gianina!« And she swung her fire-pot. The other put up her
own to parry the blow, and the two pots clashed together, so that the
fragments, embers and ashes went flying all over the room ... But the boy,
in a flash, was out of the door, across the yard, and clean away from the
house. The poor child ran and ran, till at last he was quite out of breath.
He halted at the church of the Holy Cross, whose great doors had opened
for him last night, and went in. The whole church was lighted up. He
knelt down at the first tomb on the right - it was Michael Angelo's - and
presently he sobbed out aloud. People came and went; mass was being
said, and no one took any notice of him. Only an elderly citizen paused
and looked at him - and then went away like the others.
Hunger and thirst tormented the boy, till he felt quite faint and ill. He
crept into a corner between the wall and the marble monument and went
to sleep. It was getting on towards evening when he was woken by some-
one giving him a nudge; he started up, and there was the same elderly
citizen standing in front of him.
»Are you ill? Where do you live? Have you been here all day?« - these
were some of the many questions the boy had to answer. The old man
took him along to a small house in one of the side-streets near by; it was a

165
 «

glover's workshop. They stepped inside and found the man's wife busily
sewing. A little white poodle, clipped so short that the pink skin could be

seen, hopped on to the table and jumped up at the little boy. »Innocent
souls make friends at once,« said the woman and patted both dog and
boy. The kindly pair gave him something to eat and drink, and they said
he might stay the night with them - tomorrow old Giuseppe would
speak to his mother. He was given a simple little bed, though for him,
who so often had to sleep on a hard stone floor, it was a royal couch. He
slept soundly and dreamt of the glorious pictures and the bronze pig.
Next morning old Giuseppe went out, and the poor child wasn't at all
pleased, because he felt that this going out meant that he would be taken
back to his mother; that made him cry, and he kissed the lively little dog,
and the woman gave them both a friendly nod.
And what was the news that old Giuseppe brought back? He had a lot
to tell his wife, and she nodded and stroked the boy's cheek. »He's a very
nice child,« she said. »What a splendid glover he'll make, like you! And
his fingers - they're so supple and artistic. Madonna clearly meant him to
be a glover.
So the boy stayed there in the house, and the wife herself taught him to
sew. He ate well, he slept well, he grew playful, and he began teasing
Bellisima, as the little poodle was called. When he did that, the wife
shook her fist and scolded him angrily, which touched the boy's heart,
and he went and sat thoughtfully in his little room. This faced on to the
street and was used for drying skins; the windows had stout iron bars in
front. He couldn't sleep; he had the bronze pig on his mind, and sudden-
ly he heard outside, »Pit-pat, pit-pat!« Yes, that must be the pig! He ran
to the window, but there was nothing to be seen; it had already gone by.
»Help the gentleman to carry his paintbox,« said the glover's wife next
morning to the boy, as the young painter from next door came toiling
along himself with this and a large roll of canvas. The boy took the box
and followed the painter. They made their way to the picture gallery and
went up the same steps that he knew so well from the night when he rode
on the bronze pig. He remenbered the statues and pictures, the lovely
marble Venus, and the ones that stood living in colour; and once more he
saw the Mother of God, Jesus and St. John.
Now they halted before Bronzino's painting in which Christ is going
down to the underworld and the children around him are smiling in
their sweet confidence of heaven. The poor boy smiled, too; for here was
his heaven ...
»Well, now go home!« the painter said to him, when he had already
been standing there so long that the man had put up his easel.
»May I see you paint?« said the boy. »May I see how you get the picture
over on to this white sheet?«
»rm not going to paint yet,« answered the man. He took out his
crayon; there was a quick movement of his hand, while he measured the

166
great picture with his eye; then, ahhough it was only a thin line that you
saw, yet there stood the figure of Christ poised as in the painted picture.
»But now be off, and the boy wandered
will you!« said the painter;
silently home, seated himself up on the and learnt to sew gloves.
table -
Yet all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery, and this caused
him to prick his fingers and do his work clumsily. But there was no more
teasing of Bellissima. When evening came and the streetdoor happened to
be open, he slipped outside. It was cold, but starlight and beautifully
clear. He wandered off through the quietened streets and was soon stand-
ing in front of the bronze pig which he stooped and kissed on its shiny
snout. Then, sitting on its back, »You dear piggy«, he said, »How I have
longed for you! We must go for a ride tonight.«
The bronze pig never stirred, and the spring water went on gushing
from its mouth. As the boy sat there astride the pig, he felt a tug at his
clothes. He looked down, and there was Bellissima, little naked close-
cropped Bellissima. The dog had slipped out of the house and gone
along with him without his noticing. Bellissima started barking as if to
say, »Don't you see I've come - what are you sitting there for?« A fiery
dragon could hardly have frightened the boy more than the little dog in a
place like this. Bellissima out in the street and 'undressed' (as the old
mother put it) - whatever would come of it? The dog never went out in
winter without a little sheepskin coat, which had been specially made for
her. It could be fastened round her neck to a red collar with bells and a
bow to it and also tied under her body. The dog looked almost like a little
fawn when she was allowed to go trotting out with her mistress in win-
tertime. And now Bellissima had come along, without her coat - what
would come of it? All the boy's fancies had disappeared; however, he
kissed the bronze pig and picked up Bellissima in his arms and, as the
dog was shivering with cold, he ran along as fast as he could.
»What's that you're running off with?« cried two policemen he came
across. Bellissima barked at them.»Where did you steal that pretty dog?«
they asked, and took her away from him.
»Oh, give her back!« wailed the boy.
»If you didn't steal her, then you can tell them at home that the dog
may be fetched from the police station.« And they told him where this
was and went off with Bellissima.
What a terrible thing to happen! The boy didn't know whether to
jump go home and confess everything; they'd be sure
into the river or to
to kill him, he »But I'm quite ready to be killed. Then I shall die and
felt.

go to heaven. « And he werit home - chiefly, in order to be killed.

The door was shut, and he couldn't reach the knocker. There was no
one about in the street, but he found a loose stone and with that he
banged at the door. »Who is it?« came a cry from inside.
»It's me!« he answered. »Bellissima's lost. Open the door and kill me!«
There was a fearful to-do, especially from the mistress, about the poor

167
 «

poodle. Her eyes went straight to the wall, where the dog's coat was
supposed to hang ... and there it was.

»Bellissima at the police station !« she bawled out. »You wicked child!
How did you tempt her out? She'll die of cold, poor delicate creature,
among those rough policemen.
Father had to go off at once... and the woman kept wailing, while the
boy was in tears. Everybody in the house rushed in, the painter among
them; he took the boy on his knee and questioned him thoroughly. Bit by
bit he got the whole story out of him - about the bronze pig and the picture
gallery. It wasn't easy to make it all out; but the painter consoled the boy
and spoke up for him to the woman, though she wasn't pacified till the
old man came in with Bellissima, who had been with the policemen.
Then there was joy all round, and the painter patted the poor lad's
shoulder and gave him a handful of pictures.
Oh, they were splendid things - such comical heads - but, best of all,
there was a lifelike drawing of the bronze pig itself. Nothing could be
finer! A few strokes, and there it was on paper with the house and all
sketched in at the back.
»Goodness! To
be able to draw and paint - why, you could bring the
whole world your own home!«
to
The first moment he had to himself the following day, the boy seized a
pencil and on the back ot one of the pictures he tried to copy the drawing
of the bronze pig - and he managed it. A bit crooked perhaps, rather up
and down, one leg thick and another thin; still, you could make it out,
and the boy himself was delighted with it. The only thing was - he
couldn't help noticing - that the pencil wouldn't go quite as straight as it

should; but the next day there was another drawing of the bronze pig be-
side the first, and that was a hundred times better. The third one he drew
was so good that everybody could see what it was.
But the glove-making made slow progress, and so did the errands in
town; for he had now learnt from the bronze pig that any picture can be
put on paper, and the city of Florence is a complete album of pictures -
all you have to do is to turn over the pages. In the Piazza della Trinita

there is a slender column and at the top of it stands the goddess of Justice,
blindfold, and holding her scales. She was soon put on paper, and it
was the glover's small boy who had put her there. The collection of
pictures got bigger and bigger, but so far there was no living thing in any
of them. Then one day Bellissima came frisking around him. »Stand
still!« he cried out to her, »then you'll make a lovely picture and be put in

with my other ones.« But Bellissima wouldn't stand still, so she had to be
tied up. She was tied up by her head and tail; but she barked and
wriggled, and the string had to be tightened. Then the mistress came in.
»You wicked boy! My poor little dog!« was all she could splutter; and
she pushed the boy away, yes, kicked him with her foot, and turned him
out of the house - the wicked child, the ungrateful wretch! And tearfully
she kissed her little half-strangled Bellissima.

168
 Just at that moment the young painter came up the stairs - and this is
where the story takes a turn ...
In the year 1834 there was an exhibition at the Academy of Art in
Florence. Two paintings that were hung side by side attracted a great
many spectators. The smaller painting showed a merry little boy, who sat
drawing. His model was a small white curiously cropped poodle, but the
creature wouldn't stand still and was therefore tied up, head and tail, with
string. It was all so true to life that it was bound to appeal to everybody.
The painter was said to be a young Florentine, who had been found in
the street as a child and brought up by an old glover. He had taught
himself to draw, and his talent had been discovered by a now famous
painter just as the boy was on the point of being turned out of the house
because he had tied up his mistress's darling - the little poodle - and used
it for a model.
The glover's boy had become a splendid painter, as was shown by this
picture and, even more, by the larger one that hung beside it. In this there
was only one figure - a handsome ragged boy, asleep in the street, lean-
ing up against the bronze pig in the Porta Rossa. Everyone who saw the
painting knew the spot. The child's arm was resting on the pig's head. As
the boy slept, the lamp before the image of the Madonna threw a warm,
telling lighton the lovely pale features of the child. It was a wonderful
painting. had a large gilt frame, at the corner of which hung a laurel
It

wreath; but twined among the green leaves was a black ribbon, with a
long piece of crape drooping down from it.
The young artist had just died.

t r --^:-:V--
-•^-
 The Darning Needle

T,here was once a darning needle who was really so fine that she
fancied she was a sewing needle.
»Now, do mind what you're about,« said the darning needle to the
fingers who
picked her up. »Don't drop me! If I fall on the floor, I might
never be found again, I'm so fine.«
»Oh, come, come!«said the fingers. »Not as fine as that« - and squeezed
her round the waist.
»Look, here I come with my retinue,« said the darning needle, trailing
a long thread after her; but it hadn't any knot. The fingers guided the
needle straight to the cook's slipper; the leather upper was split and had
now got to be repaired. »Work like this - what a come-down !« said the
darning needle. »I shall never get through. I shall break, I shall break« -
and break she did. »There, I told you so,« said the darning needle. »rm
too fine.«
Now she was no good at all, thought the same, they
fingers; but, all the
couldn't let go of her. The cook dropped some
sealing-wax on her and
stuck her in the front of the scarf round her neck. »Look, now I'm a
brooch, « said the darning needle. »I was certain I should make my way in
time. One who is something will always go far.« And she laughed inside
her, for you can never tell from the outside whether a darning needle is
laughing. There she sat, as proudly as if she were driving in her carriage
and looking all about her.

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 « «

»May I venture to inquire whether you are made of gold?« she asked a
pin sitting next to her. »I admire your looks - with a head of your own,
too, though it's rather small. You must try and make it grow, for we can't
all be waxed on one end.« With that, the darning needle drew herself up

so proudly that she fell off the scarf into the wash-tub, just as the cook
was rinsing it out.
»Now we're off on our travels,« said the darning needle. »I only hope I

don't get lost.« But she did.

»rm too fine for this world,« she said as she sat in the gutter. »Still, my
conscience is and that's always a comfort. And the darning needle
clear,
held herself straight and kept up her spirits.
All sorts of things went floating over her - sticks, straws, bits of news-
paper. »Look at the way they go sailing along,« said the darning needle.
»Little do they realize what is at the bottom of it all: I am at the bottom -
here I sit! Look, there goes a stick that thinks of nothing in the world
...

but a 'stick',and that's what he is. There goes a straw - see how he twists
and turns! Don't think so much about yourself, or you'll bump into the
kerb ... There goes a bit of newspaper - the news in it is all forgotten, and
yet it still spreads itself... I stay patient and quiet. I know what I am, and I
shan't change.
One day there was something near by shining so beautifully that the
darning needle thought it was a diamond; but it proved to be a bit of
broken bottle, and as it was so bright the darning needle spoke to it and
introduced herself as a brooch. » You 're a diamond, aren't you?« »Well,
yes - something of the sort,« was the answer. And so they each thought
the other to be worth a great deal, and they chatted together about how
stuck-up everybody was.
»You see, I have lived in a box belonging to a young lady,« said the
darning needle; »and that young lady was a cook. She had five fingers on
each hand, but I never knew anything like the conceit of those five
fingers. They had nothing to do but to hold me - to take me out of the
box and put me back again.
»Did they glitter at all?« asked the bit of broken bottle.
»Glitter!« replied the darning needle. »No, they swaggered! They were
five brothers, all fingers by birth. They stood up straight beside each
other, though their heights were all different. First, at the end of the row,
came Tom Thumb, who was short and fat; his place being outside the
others, he had only one joint in his back and could only bow once, but he
used to explain that if ever he were cut off a man's hand that man would
never be taken for war service. Next came Lick-Pot, who found his way
into sweet and sour alike, pointed at the sun and moon, and was the one
who pressed on the pen when they wrote. Longs hank looked over the
others' heads. Goldbrand wore a gold ring round his middle, and little
Peer Playboy did nothing at all and was proud of it. It was all swagger,
nothing but swagger; and that's why I went into the wash-tub,«

171
 «

»And here we sit and glitter,« said the bit of glass. Just then a lot more
water came down the gutter, till it overflowed and carried the bit of glass
away with it.
»There, now he
has had a step up,« said the darning needle. »ril stay
where I am
I'm too fine to move - but that's something I'm proud of; it
-
deserves respect.« So she sat there stiffly and thought her own thoughts.
»rm so fine that, really, I might almost have been born of a sunbeam. I
believe, too, that the sun regularly looks for me under the water. Oh, I'm
so fine that my own mother can't discover me; if I had my old eye, which
broke, I really believe I should cry - though of course I couldn't do that;
one doesn't cry.«
One day some street boys were fishing about in the gutter, where they
came across old nails, ha'pennies and things of that sort. It was a messy
occupation, but it was just what they enjoyed.
»Ow!« cried one of them - he had pricked himself on the darning
needle. »I say, what a beast of a thing!
»rm not a beast, or a thing; I'm a young lady,« said the darning needle.
But nobody heard her. The sealing-wax had come off, and she had
turned black. But black is so slimming, and so she fancied herself finer
than ever.
»Here comes an eggshell on the water,« cried the boys; and then they
stuck the darning needle into the shell.
»A white background - and me in black!« said the darning needle.
»How becoming! Well, now they can see me ... I do hope I shan't be
seasick, for then I should break.« Well, she wasn't seasick, and she didn't
break.
»A steel stomach is just the thing to prevent seasickness and also a
reminder that one's a above the common herd. I've quite recovered.
bit
The finer you are, the more you can put up with.«
»Crunch!« went the eggshell, as a cart ran over it. »Ooh! what a
squeeze!« said the darning needle. »Now I am seasick - I'm breaking!«
But she didn't break, in spite of being run over by the cart. She was lying
at full length - and there she may as well stay.
 The High Jumpers

of
Xhe flea, the grasshopper and the skipjack* once wanted to see which
them could jump the highest. So they invited the whole world, and
anyone else who liked, to come and watch the sport. They were three
first-class jumpers; you could see that as they came into the roorti togeth-
er.

»Now, the one that jumps highest shall have my daughter,« said the
King; »for it seems so shabby that these gentlemen should have nothing
to jump for.«
The first to makehis bow was the flea. He really had perfect manners,
with greetings for everyone; he had of course gentle blood in his veins and
was accustomed to mix only with mankind, and that does make such a
difference.
Next came the grasshopper, who it's true was a good deal stouter than
the fleaand yet by no means lacking in polish; he was wearing his native
green uniform. This gentleman, moreover, said that he came of a very
old family in Egypt and that here at home he was held in high esteem; he
had been brought straight from the fields and put into a house of cards,
three storeys high, built of nothing but court-cards with their picture
sides facing inwards, and with doors and windows that were cut out of
the waist of the Queen of Hearts. »I can sing so well,« he told them, »that
sixteen native crickets, who've been chirping ever since they were small
and yet never been given a house of cards, have become so nettled at
hearing me that they've grown even thinner than they were to begin
with.«
In this way each one of them, both the flea and the grasshopper, gave a

* A skipjack is a toy made from the merrythought of a goose or duck.With the aid of an elas-
tic fastened to one end of a peg which is stuck into a lump of cobbler's wax fixed under
the wish-bone, it can be made to leap into the air.

173
full account of himself and why he felt that he had every right to marry a
princess.
The skipjack said nothing, but it was reckoned that he thought the
more; and the Court dog had only to sniff at him to be able to answer for
the skipjack's coming of a good family. The old alderman, who had been
decorated three times for holding his tongue, declared that he was certain
the skipjack was endowed with second sight: you could tell from his back
whether it was going to be a mild or a hard winter, and that's a thing you
can't even tell from the back of the man who writes the almanac.
»Well, for the moment I shan't say a thing,« said the old King. »ril just
bide my time, as it were, and keep my thoughts to myself.«
Now the jumping had to begin. The flea jumped so high that no one
could see him, and so they protested that he hadn't jumped at all, and
that was a mean trick.
The grasshopper only jumped half as high, but he jumped straight
into the King's face, and the King said it was disgusting.
The skipjack stood still for some time hesitating, till at last people
began to think that he couldn't jump at all.
»I hope he isn't unwell, « said the Court dog, and it took another sniff
at him ... flip! went the skipjack with a little sidelong jump right into the
Princess's lap as she sat on her low gold stool.
Then the King declared, »The highest jump is the jump up to my
daughter - that's a very subtle thing to do. But a good headpiece is
wanted for an idea like that, and the skipjack has shown that he has a
good headpiece. He has strength of mind.«
And so he won the Princess.
»A11 the same, I jumped the highest, « said the flea. »What does it

matter, though? Let her take that goose-fellow by all means, with his peg
and his cobbler's wax. Anyhow, my jump was the highest. The trouble is
that in this world it's size that counts, to make sure of being seen.«
And, with that, the flea went abroad on foreign service, where he is said
to have been killed.
The grasshopper went and sat in a ditch, pondering on the way of the
world, and he too remarked, »Yes, size is the thing, size is the thing! « And
then he sang his own mournful little song, and that's where this story
comes from. But even though it's been printed, it's not absolutely certain
that it's true.

-^^<:7^o
 The Wild Swans

X^ar, far away, where the swans fly to when we are having winter, Hved a
King who had eleven sons and one daughter, Elise. The eleven brothers -
they were Princes - went to school with stars on their breasts and swords
at their sides. They wrote on gold slates with diamond pencils, and they
were just as good at learning their lessons off by heart as at reading them
from the book; you could tell at once they were Princes. Their sister Elise
sat on a little plate-glass stool with a picture-book that had cost half the
kingdom. Yes, those children had all they wanted, but that wasn't to go
on for ever.
Their father, who reigned over the whole country, married a wicked
Queen who was not at all nice to the poor children - they noticed it the
very first day. There was a great set-out for the wedding all over the
Castle, and so the children were left to play »visitors«. But instead of
them getting their usual fill of cakes and roast apples, the Queen only
gave them sand in a teacup and told them they could just pretend it was
something.
A week later she sent the little sister, Elise, out into the country to be
boarded with some farm-people, and it wasn't long before she put so
many ideas into the King's head about the poor Princes that he ended by
never giving them a thought.
»Fly out into the world and look after yourselves,« said the wicked
Queen. »Fly in the form of big birds without voices.« But all the same she
couldn't harm them as much as she would have liked to; they were turned

175
into eleven beautiful wild swans. With a strange cry they flew out of the
castle windows away over the park and the woods.
It was still early morning when they passed the spot where their sister

Elise lay sleeping in the farm-house. They hovered above her roof, twist-
ed their long necks and beat their wings; but no one heard them or saw
them. They had to fly off again, high up into the clouds, far out into the
wide world. At last they came to a big dark wood that stretched right
down to the shore.
Poor little Elise was left in the farm-house to play with a green leaf; she
had nothing else to play with. She pricked a hole in the leaf and peeped
up at the sun through it and this made her think she could see the
bright eyes of her brothers, and whenever the warm rays of the sun shone
on her cheeks it reminded her of all their kisses.
One day passed just like another. When the wind blew through the big
rose bushes in front of the house, it whispered to the roses, »Can anyone
be prettier than you?« And the roses nodded their heads - »Yes, Elise is.«
And when the old wife sat on Sundays at the door reading her hymn-
book, the wind used to turn over the pages and say to the book, »Can
anyone be more devout than you?« »Yes, Elise is,« answered the hymn-
book. And that was perfectly true, what the roses and the hymn-book
said.
When she was fifteen, she had to go back home; and when the Queen
saw how pretty she was, it made her angry and full of hatred. She would
have liked to turn her into a wild swan like her brothers, but she didn't
dare to straight away because the King wanted to see his daughter.
Early in the morning the Queen went to the bathroom, which was
built of marble and decked out with soft cushions and the most beautiful
rugs; and she took three toads, kissed them, and said to the first one, »Sit
on Elise' s head when she gets into the bath, so that she becomes as lazy as
you.« To the second one the Queen said, »Sit on her forehead, so that she
may become as ugly as you and her father won't know her.« »And you,«
she whispered to the third toad, »keep close to her heart and give her
wicked thoughts to torture her.« Then she put the toads into the clear
water, which at once turned a greenish colour, and she called Elise,
undressed her and made her go into the water. As she plunged in, one
toad hopped into her hair, another on to her forehead, and the third on to
her breast; but Elise didn't seem to notice anything. Directly she stood
up, there were three poppies floating on the water. If the creatures hadn't
been poisonous and kissed by the witch, they would have been turned
into red roses; though, mind you, they did change into flowers, just from
resting on her head and at her heart. She was too innocent and good for
witchcraft to have any power over her.
When the wicked Queen saw this, she rubbed walnut-juice into her till
she was quite dark-brown; she smeared her pretty face with a nasty smelly
ointment, and let her beautiful hair get all matted. You would never have
known it was the pretty Elise.
176
 So when her
father saw her, he was horrified and said that this wasn't
Nor could anyone else recognize her; no one could but the
his daughter.
watch-dog and the swallows, and they were small fry whose opinion
went for nothing.
Poor Elise cried, and her thoughts turned to her eleven brothers who
had all disappeared. Sadly she crept out of the Castle and walked all day
across field and fen till she came to the big wood. She had no idea where
to make for, but she felt so glum and missed her brothers terribly. They,
too, no doubt, like herself, were roving about somewhere; she would look
for them and find them.
She had not been long in the wood when night fell. She had wandered
far away from any road or path; and now she lay down on the soft moss,
said her evening prayer, and rested her head on a tree-stump. The air was
very soft and still, and all around in the grass and on the moss were ever
so many glow-worms shining like green fire. When she gently touched
one of the boughs with her hand, the gleaming insects fell about her like
shooting stars.
All night she dreamt about her brothers; they were playing together as
children again, wridng on gold slates with diamond pencils, and looking
at the lovely picture-book that had cost half a kingdom - though on the
slate they no longer wrote simply noughts and crosses. No, they wrote
down the bold deeds they had accomplished, all they had been through
and had seen. And in the picturebook everything was alive; the birds
sang, people came out of the book and talked to Elise and her brothers.
But when she turned the page they at once jumped in again so as not to
,

make amuddle of the pictures.

When she woke up, the sun was already high; in fact, she couldn't
really see because the tall trees spread out their branches so thickly
it

overhead - though the golden sunbeams played through them like flut-
tering gauze. There was a fresh smell of greenery, and the birds almost
came and perched on her shoulders. She heard the plashing of water;
there were a number of large springs that all flowed into a pond with a
fine sandy bottom to it. And although there were thick bushes growing
round it, there was one place where the stags had rooted out a great
opening; and here Elise made her way down to the water, which was so
clear that if the wind hadn't stirred the boughs and bushes she might
have thought they were painted on the bottom of the pond - so sharply
was every leaf reflected there, whether it had the sun shining through it
or hung completely in the shade.
The moment she saw the reflection of her own face she was horrified, it
was so brown and hideous; but when she dipped her hand in the water
and rubbed eyes and forehead, the white skin shone out again. After that,
she took off her clothes and waded out into the fresh water; nowhere in
the world could there have been found a lovelier royal child than she was.
When she was dressed again and had plaited her long hair, she went to

177
the bubbling spring, drank from her cupped hands, and then wandered
further on into the wood without
knowing where she was going.
really
She thought of her brothers, and of the good God who would certainly
not forget her; it was he who made the wild apples grow food for the
hungry, he who now showed her just such a tree, its branches weighed
down with fruit. Here she ate her dinner, put props under the branches,
and then walked on into the darkest portion of the wood. There all was
so still that she could hear her own footsteps, hear every little withered
leaf that was crumpled in her path. Not a bird was
to be seen, not a ray of
sun could pierce the dense foliage of the trees; the tall trunks stood so
near to each other that, when she looked ahead, it was as though she were
shut in by a whole lattice-work of timber, set close together. Oh, here was
loneliness as she had never known it before.
The
night grew very dark; not a single little glow-worm gave out its
light from the moss. Sadly she lay down to sleep. Then it seemed to her
that the branches overhead were parted and that God looked down on her
with gentle eyes and that little angels were peeping out over his head and
under his arms. When she woke up in the morning, she wasn't sure
whether she had dreamt it or whether it really happened.
She had only gone a short way when she met an old woman with
berries in her basket; the old woman gave her a few. Elise asked if she
hadn't seen eleven princes riding through the wood. »No,« said the old
woman, »but yesterday I saw eleven swans with gold crowns on their
heads swimming down the river near here.« And she took Elise a little
further till they reached a slope. At the foot of this wound a stream; the
trees on its banks stretched their long leafy boughs across to each other,
and where their natural growth was not enough for them to meet, there
they had wrenched their roots out of the earth and leaned across the water
with their branches intertwined.
Elise said good-bye to the old woman and walked along the river till she
came where it flowed out by the great open shore. The whole glorious

ocean lay there before the young girl's eyes; but not a sail nor a boat of
any kind was to be seen - how ever was she to get any further? She looked
at the countless pebbles lying thereon the beach, all of them roundirom
the grinding of water. Glass, iron, stones - everything that was washed
up had been shaped by the water, although this was
than her far softer
delicate hand. »It never tires of rolling, and can smooth
in this way it

down what is hard. I will be just as tireless. Thank you for your lesson,
you clear rolling waves. One day - my heart tells me - you will carry me
to my dear brothers.«
On washed-up seaweed lay eleven white swan-feathers, which she
the
collected into a bunch. They had drops of water on them - whether from
dew or from tears, one could not say. It was lonely on the shore, but she
didn't mind that, for the sea was continually changing. Yes, in a few
hours it might change more than the freshwater lakes did in a whole year.

178
 •-^>i

^-^""
^C^!?,

If a large black cloud appeared, it was as though the sea would say, »I,
too, can look dark and threatening*; and then the wind got up and the
waves showed the white of their eyes. But if the clouds shone pink and
the wind was lulled, then the sea was like a rose-leaf; sometimes it was
green, sometimes white. Yet, however quietly it rested, there was always a
gentle movement along the shore; softly the water rose and fell, like the
breast of a sleeping child.
As the sun was about to set, Elise saw eleven wild swans with gold
crowns on their heads flying towards the land; they hovered in the air,
one behind the other, looking like a long white ribbon. Elise clambered
up the slope and hid behind a bush, while the swans came and settled
near her flapping their great white wings.
Directly the sun had sunk below the horizon, the swans' feathers sud-
denly fell away from them, and there stood eleven handsome princes,
Elise's brothers. She uttered a loud cry; for although they had changed a

179
lot, she knew it was them - felt that it must be them, sprang into their

arms and called them by their names. And they were overjoyed when they
saw and recognized their little sister, who had grown so tall and beauti-
ful. They laughed and cried, and between them soon came to understand

how wicked their stepmother had been to them all.

»As long as the sun's m
the sky,« said the eldest, »we brothers fly as
wild swans; but when the sun goes down, we get back our human shape.
So we always have to be careful at sunset to have ground under our feet;
for, you see, if we were then flying up in the clouds we should, as human
beings, crash to our death down below. We don't live here. There's a
country beyond the sea that's just as beautiful as this, but it's a long way
there; we have to cross the great ocean, and there's no island on our way
where we might pass the night - nothing but a lonely little rock sticking
up in the middle of it all, just big enough for us to rest on side by side. If
the sea gets up, then the spray dashes high above us; but, all the same, we
thank God for that little rock. There we can pass the night in our human
shape, or else we could never visit our dear mother country; for we need
two of the longest days of the year for our flight. Only once a year are we
allowed to visit our own home; eleven days are all we may stay, flying
over this great wood, from which we can see the castle where we were
born and where our father lives and can also see the high tower of the
church where Mother is buried ... Here we feel a kinship with trees and
bushes; here the wild horses gallop over the plain as we saw them in our
childhood; here the carcoal-bumer sings the old songs we danced to as
children; here is the land of our fathers, the place we feel drawn to, and
here we have found you, our darling sister. For two days longer we may
stay here, but then we must fly away across the sea to a glorious country,
and yet it is not our own. How can we take you with us? We have neither
ship nor boat.«
»If only I could set you free!« she exclaimed. And they talked together
nearly all night, with only two or three hours' sleep.
Elise was woken up by the sound of swans' wings whirring overhead.
Her brothers were again transformed and were flying round in large
end they disappeared altogether - though one of them, the
circles; in the
youngest, stayed behind. The swan laid its head in her lap, and she
stroked white wings; they kept with each other all day. Towards
its

evening the others came back and, as the sun went down, there they stood
in human form.
»Tomorrow we fly away and dare not come back for a whole year, but
we couldn't possibly leave you like this. Have you the courage to come
with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood; then
surely, between us, our wings must be strong enough to fly with you
across the sea.«
»Yes, take me with you,« said Elise.
They spent the whole of that night making a net from the supple bark

180
of the willow and the sturdy rushes, till it was really strong. Elise lay
down on this and, as soon as the sun appeared and the brothers were
changed into wild swans, they seized the net in their beaks and flew up
high into the clouds with their dear sister, who was still asleep. The rays
of the sun fell straight on her face, and so one of the swans flew above her
head to shade her with its outstretched wings.
They were a long way from land when Elise woke up. She thought she
was still dreaming, so strange did it seem to her to be carried through the
air, high up over the sea. Beside her was a bough full of delicious ripe

berries and a bunch of tasty roots, which the youngest of her brothers had
gathered and put there for her. She gave him a grateful smile, for she
knew that he was the one flying just above her head and shading her with
his outstretched wings.
They were so high up that the first ship they saw below them looked
like a white seagull floating on the water. Behind them was a great cloud
- a huge mountain of a cloud - and against this Elise could see the
shadow of herself and of the eleven swans, looking enormous as they flew
there. Never before had she seen such a splendid picture; but as the sun
rose higher and the cloud was left further behind them, the shadowy
picture disappeared.
All day long the swans went whizzing through the air like arrows, and
yet not so fast as before because now they had their sister to carry. A storm
got up, and night was approaching. Elise was terrified to see the sun
going down, and still there was no sign of the lonely rock in the ocean.
She fancied the swans were quickening the beat of their wings. Oh, dear!
It was her fault that they were not getting on fast enough. The moment

the sun had set, they would be turned into human beings, crash into the
sea and be drowned. Then she prayed to God from the bottom of her
heart; but still she could see nothing of the rock. Black clouds came up,
violent squalls heralded a gale; the clouds loomed in one threatening
billowing mass like lead, as they surged along, with flash after flash of
lightning.
Now the sun had sunk edge of the ocean, and Elise's heart
to the very
trembled. Then, all at once, the swans darted downwards - so quickly
that she thought she was falling but the next moment they were gliding
-
smoothly again. The sun was half below the horizon. Then for the first
time she caught sight of the little rock underneath her; it looked no
bigger than a seal sticking up its head out of the water. The sun was
sinking fast; now it was as small as a star. And then her foot touched solid
ground, the sun went out like the last spark of a bit of burning paper, and
there were her brothers standing arm in arm around her - though there
was only just room for them and for her and no more. The sea dashed
against the rock and drenched them like a shower of rain; the sky was one
continual glimmer of flame with peal after peal of rolling thunder; but
the brothers and their sister held each other's hands and sang a hymn,

181
which they found was a comfort and gave them courage.
The air at dawn was pure and still. As soon as the sun rose, the swans
flew off with Elise from the islet. There was still a strong sea running;
and, as they gained height, the white foam on the dark-green sea looked
to them like millions of swans swimming on the water.
When the sun got up higher, Elise saw in front of her, half floating in
the air, a mountainous country with masses of ice glittering on the rocky
slopes and in the middle of it all a palace that seemed to stretch for miles,
with rows and rows of bold colonnades one above another, while down
below were woods of waving palm trees and gorgeous flowers as large as
mill-wheels. She asked whether that was the country they were making
for, but the swans shook their heads, for what she saw was the lovely

ever changing cloud-palace of the fairy Morgana; they would never dare
to take a mortal in there. Elise stared across at it; then mountains, woods
and palace all melted away and in their place were a score of stately
churches, all just like each other, with high towers and pointed windows.
She fancied she heard the sound of an organ, but it was the sea she could
hear. By this time she was quite close to the churches, and then they were
changed into an entire fleet sailing along beneath her. She looked down...
and it was nothing but a sea-mist scudding across the water. Yes, it was
an everchanging scene that was spread before her; and at last she sighted
the real country she was bound for. The beautiful blue mountains rose in
front of her. Long before the sun went down, she was sitting on the
mountain side before a large cave that was overgrown with delicate green
creepers; they looked like embroidered curtains.
»Now let's seewhat you dream about here tonight,« said the youngest
brother, as he showed her where she was to sleep.
»If only I could dream how to set you all free!« she answered. And her
mind could think of nothing else, and she prayed most earnestly to God
to help her; yes, even in her sleep she went on praying. And it seemed to
her that she flew high up through the air to Morgana's cloud-palace and
that the fairy came to welcome her, looking so beautiful and dazzling -
and yet so like the old woman who gave her berries in the wood and told
her about the swans with the gold crowns on their heads.
»Your brothers can be set free,« said the fairy. »But have you enough
courage and endurance? It's true the sea is softer than your delicate
hands, and yet it can alter the shape of hard stones. But the sea doesn't
feel the pain your fingers will feel; it has no heart, and will not suffer the

fear and agony you must endure. Do you see this stinging nettle I've got
in my hand? There are lots of this kind growing round the cave where
you sleep. Only these nettles and the ones that come up on the graves in
the churchyard are any use - remember that. They are the ones you must
gather, though they will blister your skin. Crush the nettles with your
feet, and you will be able to get flax. With this you must weave and hem

eleven shirts of mail with long sleeves. Throw these over the eleven wild

182
 2-:-^^^ V"--- -^'•^.
•
V*^ '^^^^- ^^--"^ N^v ; ^. -^^, y }

swans, and the spell will be broken. But one thing you must bear well in
mind - that from the moment you start work, and all the time till it's
finished, even if it takes years, you must never speak. The first word you
utter will stab your brothers to the heart like a murderous dagger. Their
lives will depend on your tongue. Whatever you do, remember this!«
So saying she touched Elise's hand with the nettle; it burnt like fire and
wok^her up. There was broad daylight, and close to where she had been
sleeping lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream. She knelt
down in thanks to God, and then she went out of the cave to begin her
work ... With her delicate hands she took hold of the horrid nettles,
which seared her like fire and burnt great blisters on her hands and arms.
But she would readily put up with this, if only she could set her dear
brothers free. She crushed every nettle with her bare feet, and then wove
the green flax with it.
After sunset her brothers came to her and were dismayed to find her so
silent. They thought it was some fresh piece of witchcraft of the wicked
stepmother's; but when they saw Elise's hands, they realized what she was

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doing for their sake, and the youngest brother burst out crying; and
wherever his tears fell her pain stopped and the burning blisters disap-
peared.
She spent the whole night working, could not rest till she had
for she
freed her beloved brothers. All the next day, while the swans were gone
off, she sat there by herself, and yet never had the time flown so quickly.
One shirt of mail was done already, and she was just beginning on the
second.
Suddenly a hunting horn rang out among the hills. Elise grew very
frightened. Nearer and nearer came the sound; she could hear the baying
of hounds. In terror she made for the cave, tied into a bundle the nettles
she had gathered and hackled, and sat down on it.

Just then a big hound came bounding out of the bushes, and then
another, and yet another. They kept barking loudly and running to and
fro. In a very short time the whole hunt was there outside the cave;

handsomest of them all was the King of the land. He came forward to
Elise; never had he seen a more beautiful girl.
»How came you here, you lovely child?« he asked. Elise shook her
head, for she didn't dare to speak; the deliverance - the very lives of her
brothers were at stake. And she hid her hands under her apron, so that the
King shouldn't see how she had to suffer.
»Come with me,« he»This is no place for you. If you are as good
said.
as you are beautiful, I you in silk and velvet, put a gold crown
will dress
on your head, and you shall make your home in my richest palace« - and
then he lifted her on to his horse. She cried and wrung her hands, but the
King said, »I want you to be happy, that's all. One day you will thank
me.« Then away he rode through the mountains, holding her in front of
him on his horse, and the hunt came galloping after.
As the sun went down, there lay the magnificent capital with its
churches and domes ahead of them; and the King took her into his
palace, where great fountains were playing in the lofty marble halls and
where walls and ceiling were gay with splendid paintings. But she had
no eyes for any of this - hers were filled with tears and sorrow. She
resigned herself to letting the women dress her in royal clothes, plait
pearls in her hair and draw elegant gloves over her blistered fingers.
As she stood there in all that splendour, her beauty was so dazzling that
the courtiers bowed still deeper before her, and the King chose her to be
his bride - although the Archbishop shook his head and whispered that
this pretty creature from the woods was a witch, he felt certain, who had
blinded their eyes and turned the King's head.
But the King wouldn't hear of it. He ordered the music to play, the
rarest dishes to be brought in, and the loveliest girls to dance for her; she
was taken, too, through sweet-scented gardens into the grandest rooms.
But still no smile played about her lips or from her eyes; sorrow, it
seemed, was all she could ever be heir to. And now the King showed the

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way to a little room near by, where she was to sleep. It was decked out
with costly green hangings, so that it looked very like the cave that she
came from. On the floor lay the bundle of flax she had spun from the
nettles, and from the ceiling hung the shirt of mail she had already
finished. One of the huntsmen had brought all this along with him as a
curiosity.
»Here you can dream that you're back in your old home,« said the
King. »Here is the work you were busy with. Now, with all your splen-

dour around you, it may amuse you to call those days to mind.«
When Elise saw these things that were so dear to her heart, a smile
played about her lips and the blood came back to her cheeks at the
thought of being able to save her brothers. She kissed the King's hand,
and he pressed her to his heart and had the church bells rung to an-
nounce the wedding. The lovely dumb girl from the woods was to be
Queen of the land.
But then the Archbishop whispered wicked words into the King's ear -
though they didn't reach his heart, for the wedding was to take place.
The Archbishop himself had to set the crown on her head, and out of
sheer spite he pressed the narrow circlet down over her forehead, so that it
hurt her; and yet a heavier ring lay round her heart - sorrow for her
brothers - and she never noticed the bodily pain. Her mouth was dumb,
for a single word would have meant the death of her brothers; but in her
eyes there lay a deep affection for the noble handsome King who did
everything to make her happy. Every day she grew more and more fond of
him. If only she dared confide in him - tell him of her suffering! But no,
dumb she must remain, dumb to the end of her task. And so she used to
slip away from him at night, make her way into the little private room
that was fitted out like the cave, and there she wove one shirt after anoth-
er; but just as she was beginning on the seventh, she ran out of flax.

She knew that the right nettles were growing in the churchyard, but
she must gather them herself. How was she to get there?
»Oh, what is the pain in my fingers compared with this agony in my
heart!« she thought. »I must risk it. God will not forget me.« Then, as
fearful of heart as though she were on some wicked errand, she stole
down into the garden in the dear moonlight, went through the long
avenues out into the empty streets till she came to the churchyard. There
she saw, sitting on one of the largest gravestones, a group of frightful-
looking witches called Lamias. They were taking off their rags as if they
meant to bathe, and then they clawed with their long skinny fingers in
the newmade graves, dragged out the corpses and ate their flesh. Elise had
to pass close by them, and they fastened their horrible eyes on her; but she
said a prayer, gathered the stinging nettles and carried them back to the
palace.
Only one person had seen her - the Archbishop. He was still up, while
the others were asleep; so, after all, he was right in what he suspected -

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everything was not as it should be with the Queen. She was a witch, and

that was how she had taken in the King and all his people.
When the King came to confession, he told him what he had seen and
what he feared; and as the cruel words came from his lips, the carved
images of the saints shook their heads as if to say, »It isn't true; Elise is
innocent!« But the Archbishop explained it in quite another way and
made out that the saints were witnessing against her and that they shook
their heads at her being so wicked. At that, two great tears ran down the
King's cheeks, and his heart misgave him as he went back home. At night
he pretended to be asleep, though he got no peaceful slumber, for he
noticed how Elise used to steal out of bed, doing this regularly every
night; and each time he went quietly after her and saw her disappear into
her little private room.
Day by day his looks grew darker. Elise noticed this but couldn't make
out why it was. It frightened her; and how heavy was her heart when she
thought of her brothers! Her salt tears ran down on the royal purple
velvet and lay there like sparkling diamonds, and everyone who saw the
rich splendour of her robes wished they were Queen. Meanwhile Elise
had all but ended her task; only one more shirt was to be made. But now
there was no flax left, and not a single nettle. So once again - only this
time would be the last - she must go and gather a few handfuls in the
churchyard. She was terrified at the thought of this lonely journey and of
the horrible Lamias, but her will was as firm as her trust in God.
Off she went, but the King and the Archbishop followed after. They
saw her disappear through the iron gates into the churchyard and, as they
came up to it, there were the Lamias sitting on the gravestone just as
Elise had seen them. The King turned away, for he fancied he saw her
among them - her whose head that very evening had rested against his
heart.
»Let the people judge her,« he said. And the people condemned her to
be burnt at the stake. She was led away from the splendid royal halls to a
dark damp cell, where the wind whistled in through the barred window.
In place of velvet and silk they gave her the bundle of nettles she had
gathered; she could lay her head on that. The coarse itching shirts of mail
she had woven would do for a blanket to cover her ... But they couldn't
have given her anything more precious. She set to work again, with a
prayer to her God. The street boys outside sang jeering songs about her;
not a soul had a kind word to comfort her.
Then, towards evening, close to the grating, she heard the whir of a
swan's wings. It was the youngest of the brothers who had found his
sister. She sobbed aloud with joy although she knew that the coming

night might well be the last she had to live. Still, for all that, her task was
nearly done and her brothers were with her.
The Archbishop came in to be with her during her last hour - he had
promised the King to do that - but Elise shook her head and made signs

186
for him to go. That night she must finish her task, or else everything
would have been wasted - all the pain, the tears and the sleepless nights.
The Archbishop went off saying the cruellest things about her; but poor
Elise knew she was innocent and went on with her work.
Little mice scampered about the floor, dragging the nettles to her feet
to give somehelp, and a thrush perched on a window bar and sang all
night as cheerfully as he could, to keep up her spirits.
It was still only twilight; the sun would not rise for another hour. And

there stood the eleven brothers at the palace gate, demanding to be taken
to the King. But this couldn't be done (was the answer they got) for it was
still night, the King was asleep and mustn't be disturbed. They begged,

they threatened, the guard was turned out, and finally the King himself
appeared and asked what it was all about. But at that moment the sun
rose, and there were no brothers to be seen - though away over the place
flew eleven white swans.
And now the whole populace came pouring out of the city gate, eager
to see the witch burnt. A poor broken-down horse pulled the cart in
which she sat. She had been given a smock made of coarse sacking; her
beautiful long hair hung loose about her shapely head, her cheeks were
pale as death, and her lips moved slightly as her fingers kept weaving the
green flax. Even on the road to her death she would not give up the work
she had begun. The ten shirts of mail lay at her feet; and now she was
doing the eleventh, while the mob jeered at her.
»Look at the witch - the way she's mumbling! No hymn-book for her,
no, it's her loathsome black magic she has got there. Take it away from
her, tear it into a thousand pieces!«
And they all crowded in on her to tear up what she had made. But
eleven white swans came flying down and perched around her on the
cart, flapping their great wings till the crowd gave way in panic.
»A sign from heaven! She must be innocent!« many of them whispered,
though they didn't dare to say it aloud.
The executioner then seized her by the hand - but she quickly threw
the eleven shirts over the swans and, lo and behold, there stood eleven
handsome princes! But the youngest had a swan's wing instead of one
arm, for his shirt had a sleeve missing, which she hadn't had time to
finish.
»Now I may speak,« she said. »I am innocent.«
And the people, seeing what had happened, bowed down to her as to a
saint;but Elise herself, after all the strain and fear and suffering she had
been through, sank back lifeless into the arms of her brothers.
»Yes, innocent she is,« cried the eldest brother. And then he told them
all thathad happened; and, while he was speaking, a perfume as of a
million roses spread around, because every faggot from the stake had
taken root and put out branches, and a high sweetsmelling hedge stood
there with crimson roses. Right at the top was a sing^le flower of the

187
purest white, glittering like a star. This the King broke off and laid on
Elise's breast, and she awoke with peace and happiness in her heart.
And the church bells all rang out of their own accord, and huge flocks
came flying in. The bridal procession back
of birds to the palace - no
King had ever seen the like of it before.

d r-

;^o^
 A Good Temper

X^rom my father Ihave inherited the best possible thing - a good tem-
per. And who was my father? Well, but that has nothing to do with
temper. He was lively and vigorous and plump; his person, outwardly
and inwardly, was at complete variance with his profession. And what
was his profession, his place in society? Well, if it were to be written
down and printed right at the beginning of a book, then it's likely that a
good many people, when they read it, would put the book aside and say
»It strikes me as horrible; that kind of thing doesn't appeal to me at all.«
And yet my father was neither horsebutcher nor hangman - on the con-
trary, his job often placed him ahead of the very worthiest men in the
town and he was there quite properly, quite in his own right. He had to
go first - before the bishop, before princes of the blood - yes, always in
the foremost place, for he drove a hearse!
There, now it's out. And I must say that, when you saw my father
sitting up there on the box of death's omnibus, wearing the long trailing
black cloak, with the crape- bordered three-cornered hat on his head, and
when too you saw his face looking for all the world like a sketch one
draws of the sun round and laughing, then all thought of sorrow and the
grave became impossible. His face seemed to say: »It makes no odds; it'll
be much better than we imagine.«
So, you see, it's from him that I get my good temper and the habit of
regular visits to the churchyard; and these can be very enjoyable, as long

189
as you go there in a good temper. Well, and then there's another thing: I

take in the local paper, just as he used to do.

I'm not so young as I was - have no wife, children or library - but, as I
I

said, I take in the local paper and find that sufficient. It's the best paper
for me, and so it was for my father. It's extremely useful and contains all a
man requires to know: for instance, who is preaching in the churches,
and who is preaching in the latest books; where to find a house, servants,
clothes and food; who is selling off, and who is going off himself. And
then you come across so much charity, and so much innocent verse that
couldn't offend anyone; matrimonial advertisements; appointments kept
and unkept ... all is simple and natural. One can perfectly well live
happily - and get buried - by taking in the local paper. And in that way
you will have such a lovely lot of paper by the end of your life that you
will have a nice soft bed to lie on, unless you prefer wood shavings.
The local paper and the churchyard have always been my two most
stimulating forms of exercise, my two happiest hunting-grounds for a
good temper.
Now, anyone can dip into the local paper; but come with me to the
churchyard. Let us go there, when the sun is shining and the trees are
green; let us walk between the graves. Each of these is like a closed book
with the back uppermost; you can read the title telling us what the book
contains (and yet telling us nothing), though / know - know it from my
father and from my own observation. I have it in my grave-book, and
that's a book I have made for my own profit and enjoyment. They are all
in there, and a certain number of others as well And now here we are at
...

the churchyard.
Behind this white-painted railing, where there once was a rose-tree -
it'sgone now, but a sprig of evergreen from the next grave reaches its
green fingers across to it in order to make a bit of show - there lies a most
unhappy man; and yet, when he was alive, he was what is called well off,
with an easy competency and something to spare, but he took everything
- well, art, at any rate - much too seriously. An evening spent at the

theatre in the hope of whole-hearted enjoyment, would be completely

ruined for him if the stage mechanic rnerely put too strong a light on
each cheek of the moon, or if the flies hung in front of the wings instead
of behind, or if a palm tree was shown growing on the island of Amager,
a cactus in the Tyrol, or beech trees in the far north of Norway. What
does it matter? Who bothers about such things? After all, it's only play-
acting, and it's meant to give pleasure ... Then he used to find that the
audience applauded too much - or applauded too little. »This wood's too
damp,« he used to say, »it'll never catch light this evening. « And then he
would look round to see what sort of people were laughing at the wrong
time, in places where they shouldn't and that annoyed him. He couldn't
endure it, and it made him unhappy; and now he's in his grave.
Here lies a very fortunate man - that is to say, a very distinguished man

190
 «

of high birth, and it was lucky for him that he was, for otherwise he
would never have come to anything. But nature orders all these things so
wisely that it's pleasure to think about it. His coat was embroidered
back and front, and he took his place in a drawing-room just like some
rare pearl -embroidered bell-pull which always has a good stout cord
behind it to do the job. He, too, had a good stout cord behind him, a
deputy who did the job and still does it behind just such an embroidered
bell-pull. Yes, you see, everything is so wisely ordered that it's easy
enough to be good-tempered.
Here lies - dear me, it's really very sad - here lies a man who for
sixty-seven years had beemnaking up his mind to say something smart.
His one object in life was to get hold of a witty idea, and finally he really
did - he felt positive of that - and he was so delighted that he died of it,
died of delight at having thought of it. But nobody was the better, for
nobody heard what it was. I can well imagine that this witty idea won't
leave him a moment's peace in the grave, for suppose it was something
witty that had to be said at lunchtime to be really effective, and that as a
good ghost he can only (according to common belief) issue forth at
midnight, then his smart sally will come at the wrong time; nobody will
laugh, and he can take his witty idea back with him into the grave. A sad,
sad grave, to be sure.
Here lies a dame who was terribly stingy. When she was alive, she used
to get up in the night and mew, so that the neighbours should think she
kept a cat. Yes, she was as stingy as that!
Here lies a young lady of good
family. At a party she always would
sing, her contribution being an Italian song that began: »I have no voice
to tell thee ...« which was the truest thing she ever said.
Here is a damsel of another kind. When the heart's canary begins to
twitter, the ears of commonsense are stopped. The fair damsel - there she
stood in her halo of matrimony. It's an everyday story, but that's a nice
way of putting it. Let the dead rest!
Here lies a widow woman, who had melody in her mouth and gall in
her heart. She went prowling round among neighbouring families in
search of their faults, just as in olden days Nosey Parker's Weekly used to
go round looking for a street-lamp that wasn't alight.
Here is a family vault. All the members of this family seemed to be
united in the belief that, if everybody (newspapers and all) said »it was
such-and-such« and yet their little son came home from school and said
»this is how I heard it«, then his way was the only right way, because he
was one of the family. And it's a fact that, if the family cock happened to
crow at midnight, then of course it must be morning, even though the
watchman and all the town clocks declared it to be midnight.
The great Goethe ends his Faust by saying that it »may be continued.
So, too, may our ramble about this churchyard. I often come out here. If
some friend of mine, or even one who is not a friend, makes things too

191
difficult for me, come here and hunt out a grassy spot and dedicate it to
I

the man or woman I want to get buried; and then I bury them at once -

they lie there dead and powerless, until they return as new and better
people. I write an account of their life and ways as seen by me, into my
grave-book. That's how everybody ought to go about it - not get annoyed
when someone treats them too badly, but bury him straight away. Keep
cheerful and stick to the local paper for this is written by the people -

though often inspired by someone else.

When the time comes for me and my life's history to go to the binders,
then put this inscription on my grave: »A good temper. « There's my story
in a nutshell.
 The Shadow

Jn the hot countries, my word! how the sun scorches you. People be-
come quite brown, Hke mahogany, and in the very hottest countries they
get burnt into negroes. But now we are only going to hear about a
learned man who had come straight from a cold climate to a hot one,
where he seemed to think he could trot about just as if he were at home.
Well, he soon broke himself of that habit. During the day-time he and all
sensible people had to stay in their houses with doors and shutters closed.
It looked as though the whole house was asleep or nobody at home. To

make things worse, the narrow street with the tall houses where he was
staying had been built in such a way that from morning till evening it lay
in the full blaze of the sun - it was really more than one could stand. The
learned man from the cold country - a young, clever man - he felt as if he
were in a sweltering oven; it told on him so much that he got quite thin.
Even his shadow began to shrink, for the sun affected that as well, and it
grew much less than it was at home. These two didn't properly revive
until the sun had gone down.
It was really a most amusing sight. As soon as the lamp was brought

into the room the shadow stretched itself all along the wall, right up to
the ceiling; it was obliged to stretch in order to get its strength back. The
learned man went out on to the balcony to have his stretch and,, as the
stars came out in the clear delicious air, he felt he was coming to life
again. On all the balconies in the street - and in the hot countries every
window has a balcony - people were coming out, for you must have air,
even if you are used to being mahogany. Both above, and below, it grew
quite lively. Shoemakers, tailors and all moved out into the street; tables

193
 «

and chairs were brought out, and candles Ht - hundreds of them. One
gave a speech, and another a song; people strolled about, carriages rolled
by, donkeys went tinkling past - ting-a-ling-a-ling - from the bells they
were wearing. There were funerals and hymn-singing, street-boys letting
off crackers, and bell-ringing from the churches - yes, there was plenty
going on down there in the street. Only in the house directly opposite
the house of the learned stranger was there no sign or sound of life. And
yet someone must be living there because there were flowers on the bal-
cony, growing so beautifully in the hot sun, and they couldn't do that
without being watered; so someone must be watering them - there must
be people in the house. Besides, towards evening the door over there was
opened, but the interior was dark - at any rate, in the front room -
though from further inside came the sound of music. The learned stran-
ger thought the music wonderful; but this may have been merely his
imagination, because except for the sun itself, he found everything won-
down there in
derful the hot countries. His landlord said that he didn't
know who had taken the house opposite; nobody was ever to be seen and,
as for the music, he found it too tiresome for anything. »It's just as
though someone were sitting and practising a piece he couldn't get on
with - always the same piece. 'I will get it right!' he keeps saying; but he
won't, however long he practises.
One night the stranger woke up; he was sleeping with his balcony door
open. The curtain in front of it was blown a little to one side, and a
curious blaze of light seemed to come from the opposite neighbour's
balcony. All the flowers shone like flames in the loveliest colours, and
there amidst the flowers stood a graceful slender girl; she too seemed to
glitter, and the sight of her quite dazzled his eyes. But then he opened

them very wide indeed and he had only just woken up. He leapt from his
bed, crept behind the curtain ... but the girl was gone, the glitter was
gone, and the flowers had lost their shining splendour, though they
stood up as straight as ever. The door was ajar, and from a far corner of
the room came the sound of music so soft and enchanting that it could
easily make you give way to romantic thoughts. It was, though, a sort of
magic - who ever could be living there? Where was the proper way in?
The whole ground floor was given up to shops; people couldn't possibly
keep on running in and out of these.
The stranger was sitting one evening out on his balcony with a light
burning in the room behind him; and so, quite naturally, his shadow
appeared over on his neighbour's wall. Yes, there it was, immediately
opposite among the flowers on the balcony; and when the stranger
moved, then the shadow moved, which is a way that shadows have.
»I believe my shadow is the only living thing to be seen over there,«
said the learned man. »Look how nicely it sits among the flowers. The
door is standing half-open - what a chance for the shadow to pop inside,
have a look round and then come and tell me what it has seen! Now then,

194
 «

make yourself useful !« he said in fun. »Kindly step inside ... Well, aren't
you going?« And he gave the shadow a nod, and the shadow nodded
back. »That's right, go along - but mind you come back.« The stranger
stood up, and the shadow over on the neighbour's balcony did the same.
And the stranger turned round, and so did the shadow. Anyone watching
carefully could have seen quite well that the shadow went in at the half-
open balcony door at the very moment that the stranger went into his
room and dropped the long curtain behind him.
Next morning the learned man went out to drink his coffee and read
the papers. »Hullo!« he exclaimed, as he walked out into the sunshine,
»Why, Where's my shadow? Then it really did go off last night and never
came back. What a fearful nuisance!
He was very annoyed, not so much because the shadow had disap-
peared, but because he knew there was a story, well-known to everybody
at home in the cold countries, about a man without a shadow; and if he
went back now and told them his own story, they would be sure to say
that he was just an imitator, and that was the last thing he wanted. So he
made up his mind to say nothing about it, and that was very sensible of
him.
When evening came, he went out on to his He had
balcony once more.
the light put in just the right place behind him, knowing
shadow that a
always likes to have its master as a screen; but he couldn't get it to come
out. He -made himself long, he made himself short - there was no sha-
dow, not a sign of it. He coughed, »Ahem! Ahem!« but that was no good.
It was very annoying but after all everything grows so fast in the hot

countries, and a week later he noticed to his great delight that he had got
a new shadow growing out from his feet whenever he walked in the sun;
the roots must still have been there. In another three weeks he found
himself with quite a respectable shadow which, as he made his way home
to the northern countries, grew more and more on the journey till at last
it was twice as big and heavy as he wanted. So the learned man went

home and wrote books about what is true and good and beautiful in the
world; and days and years went by - yes, many years.
Then one evening he was sitting in his room, and there came a gentle
knock at the door. »Come in,« he called out; but no one entered. So he
went and opened the door, and there in front of him was a - well, really
such an astonishingly thin person that he made him feel quite uncomfor-
table. However, the visitor was very smartly dressed - he was no doubt a
man of some distinction.
»Whom have I the honour of addressing?« asked the learned man.
»Yes, I thought you wouldn't recognize me, « said the distinguished
-looking stranger. »rve now such a body of my own that I've positive-
ly and clothes too. You never expected to see me as prosperous
got flesh -

you? Don't you know your old shadow? No, of course you
as this, did
never thought I should turn up again. One way and another I am now

195
 « «

extremely well off; if I want to purchase my freedom, I can do it.« And

he rattled a great bunch of valuable seals that were hanging from his
watch, and ran his hand along the thick gold chain he was wearing
round his neck. Phew! The way his fingers all sparkled with diamond
rings - all perfectly genuine too!
»Upon my soul, you take my breath away,« said the learned man.
»What on earth does it all mean?«
»Well, it is rather out of the ordinary, « said the Shadow. »But then, you
see, you yourself are not ordinary either; and I, ever since I was a little
toddler, have trod in your footsteps - you know that well enough. As
soon as you felt I was able to make my own way in the world, off I went
alone. I've done extremely well for myself; and yet I was seized with a
kind of longing to see you just once again before you die - for die you
must, one day. I also felt I'd like to revisit this part of the world; for you
know, one's always so fond of the country one comes from. I realize that
you've got hold of a new shadow - do I owe you, or it, anything? If so,
please tell me.«
»Well, I never! Is it really you?« cried the learned man. »Now, that is

extraordinary! I never imagined one's old shadow could turn up again as

a human being.«
»Tell me what I owe you,« said the Shadow. »I don't like the idea of
being in any sort of debt to you.«
»How can you speak like that?« said the learned man. »What's this
debt you're babbling about? You owe me nothing. I am utterly delighted
at your good fortune. Sit down, old friend, and do let me hear how it all
happened and what you saw at our neighbour's across the street, down
there in the middle of the hot countries.
»Very well, I'll tell you,« said the Shadow, sitting down. »But, in that
case, promise me that, wherever you may meet me here in this town, you
will never tell anyone that I have been your shadow. I'm thinking of
getting married, for I have ample means to support a family.
»Don't let that worry you,« said the learned man. »I shan't tell a soul
who you really are. There's my hand on it. I promise you; and a man's as
good as his word.«
»And so is a shadow,« said the Shadow, expressing it the only way
possible.
It when you come to think of it, quite astonishing how much of a
was,
human being the Shadow had become. He was dressed all in black, made
of the finest broadcloth, with patent leather boots and a hat that folded
up into a matter of crown and brim - to say nothing of the seals, gold
chain and diamond rings already mentioned. Yes, there's no doubt about
it,the Shadow was got up very smartly, and this it was that made him
such a perfect man.
»Well, now you shall hear the whole story, « said the Shadow, stamp-
ing his patent leather boots down on the sleeve of the learned man's new

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shadow which lay there at his feet Hke a poodle. He may have done this
out of pride, or possibly because he hoped to make it stick to his own feet.
The shadow that was lying there kept perfectly still, not wishing to miss
anything; above all, it wanted to find out how one could break away like
that and earn the right to be one's own master.
»Whom do you think I found living over there in the neighbour's
house?« said the Shadow. »The fairest of the fair - Poetry! I was there for
three weeks, and it meant as much as living for three thousand years and
reading all that man has imagined and written down. Believe me, that is
so. I have seen everything and I know every thing.«
»Poetry!« cried the learned man. »Yes, yes, in the large towns she often
lives like a hermit. Poetry! Yes, I caught a glimpse of her for one short
second, but my eyes were full of sleep. She stood on the balcony, glitter-
ing as the Northern Lights glitter. Go on, my good fellow; go on! You
were on the balcony, you went in at the door, and then - ?«
»Then I found myself in the antechamber,« said the Shadow. »The
room you have always been looking across at is the antechamber. There
was no lamp or candle there, but only a sort of twilight. You could see a
long row of different-sized rooms, so brightly lit that I should have been
quite blinded if I had gone right into Poetry's inner room. But I was
careful, I took my time - as indeed one should.«
»Yes, you slowcoach, but what did you see after that?« asked the
learned man.
»I saw everything, and you shall hear all about it; but - mind you, I'm
not being in any way stuck up - but, now that I'm independent and so
well-informed, to say nothing of my good standing and excellent connec-
tions, I should be much obliged if you would address me with rather
more respect.
»Oh, I beg your pardon, « replied the learned man. »It's sheer force of
habit that I can't get rid of. You and I will bear
are perfectly right, sir,

this in mind. But now please tell me about all that you saw.«
»Yes, all,« said the Shadow; »for I saw everything and I know every-
thing.«
»What did the inner rooms look man. »Was it
like?« asked the learned
like being in the green forest? Or
some holy church? Were the halls
in
like the starlit sky when one is standing on the mountain heights?«
»Everything was there,« said the Shadow. »But I didn't go right inside;
I stayed in the twilight of that front room, and it was an especially good

place to be, for I saw everything and I know everything. I have been in the
antechamber of the court of Poetry .«
»Yes, but what did you see, sir? Were all the gods of antiquity striding
through those great halls? Were the heroes of old doing battle there? Were
the darling children at play, and did they tell you their dreams?«
»I was there, I repeat, and you must understand that I saw everything
there was to see. Had you come across, you would not have become a

197
man; but I did. And I also learnt to know my innermost nature, as I

received it at birth, my relationship to Poetry. No, when I was with you, I

never gave it a thought; but at sunrise and at sunset, you remember, I

always grew remarkably large - in the moonlight I stood out almost
plainer than yourself. In those days I didn't understand my own nature;
in the antechamber it dawned upon me - I was a man ... When I came
away, I was changed, ripened, but by then you had left the hot countries.
As a man, I was ashamed to go about as I did; I was in need of boots,
clothes, all that human varnish by which man can be recognized. I took
refuge - I can safely tell you this, because you won't put it in a book - I
took refuge under the skirt of a woman selling cakes and hid there; the
woman had no notion how much she was concealing. Not until night-
ume did I venture out. I ran about the streets in the moonlight. I
stretched myself right up the wall - that tickles your back so delightfully.
Up and down I ran, peeping in at the highest windows, into rooms on
the ground floor and rooms under the roof. I peeped where no one else
can peep and saw what no others saw - what nobody should see! When
all's said and done, it's a low-down world we live in. I would never be a

man, if it weren't generally considered to be worth while. I saw the most

inconceivable things happening among women, men, parents and their
own dear darling children. I saw,« added the Shadow, »what none are
supposed to know, but what all are dying to know - trouble in the house
next door ... If I had a newspaper, it would have had plenty of readers!
But I used to write direct to the person in question, and there was panic
wherever I went. They were terribly afraid of me - and, oh! so fond of me.
The professors made me a professor, the tailors gave me new clothes; I

was well provided for. The master mint made me coins, and the
of the
women said I was handsome. And that's how I became the man I am.
Well, now I'll say goodbye. Here's my card. I live on the sunny side of the
street and am always at home in rainy weather. « And the Shadow took
his leave.
»How extraordinary !« said the learned man.
Time passed^ and the Shadow turned up again.
»How are things going?« he asked.
»Ah, well,« sighed the learned man, »I write about the true and the
good and the beautiful, but no one bothers his head about that sort of
thing. It makes me quite desperate, for it means so much to me.«
»It wouldn't worry me,« said the Shadow. »rm getting fat - which is
just what one should try to be. I'm afraid you don't understand the world,
and you're getting ill. You should travel. I'm going abroad this summer;
won't you come with me? I should so like a travelling companion. Come
with me, as my shadow! It will be a great pleasure to have you with me,
and I'll pay your expenses.
»Surely that's going a bit far,« said the learned man.
»It depends how you take it,« said the Shadow. »It'll do you a world of

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good to travel. If you will be my shadow, you shall have everything on

the trip for nothing.«
»That really is the limit!« said the learned man.
»Well, that's what we have come to nowadays, and there's no going
back on it,« and with that the Shadow went away.
Things went badly for the learned man. He was dogged by care and
sorrow, and his ideas about the true and the good and the beautiful were
to most people about as attractive as roses to a cow. He ended by falling
quite ill.

»Why, to look at, you're no more than a shadow, « they told him; and
this made him shudder, for it set him thinking.
»You must go and take the waters somewhere,« said the Shadow, who
came to see him one day. »That's the only thing. You shall come with me
for the sake of old times. I'll pay your expenses, and you can write an
account of our travels and kind of keep me amused on the journey. I want
to go to a watering-place; my beard isn't growing as it should - that too is
an ailment - and one can't do without a beard. Now, be sensible and say
you'll come; and of course we'll travel as friends.
And away they went. But now the Shadow was master, and the master
shadow; always together, driving, riding, walking; side by side, or one in
front and one behind, according to the position of the sun. The Shadow
always knew how to hold on to the master's place, whereas the learned
man never gave the matter a thought; he was extremely good-natured,
gentle and friendly. One day he said to the Shadow: »Seeing that we now
travel together as equals like this and that we also grew up from child-
hood together, oughtn't we to pledge ourselves in a toast of friendship? It
would be so much more sociable.
Shadow, who was now the real master. »It all
»I dare say,« said the
sounds very frank, and I'm sure that you mean well; I too mean well and
will be just as frank. As a learned man, you know of course how queer
nature is. Some people can't bear the feel of grey paper; it upsets them.
Others go all you scrape a nail against a pane of glass. That's
goosey if

just how I feel when you talk to me in the familiar tone of an equal. It's
as though I were being thrust back into my first humble position with
you. Of course, it's not pride - it's only what I feel. So, although I can't
allow you to be familiar with me, I am quite willing to meet you half-
way and myself to be familiar with you.«
And, from then on the Shadow treated his former master as an inferior.
»It really is a bit steep, « thought the learned man,»that I have to call
him 'Sir', while he can call me what he likes.« Still, he had to put up with
it.

came to a watering-place, where there were many

In due course they
visitorsand among them a beautiful princess, who suffered from the com-
plaint of over-sharp sight, and this was most disturbing.
She noticed at once that the newcomer was utterly different from all the

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 « «

others. »They say he's here to make his beard grow, but I know the real
reason: he can't throw a shadow.
Her curiosity was aroused, and so she lost no time in having a stroll
and a talk with the foreign gentleman. Being a princess, she didn't need
to stand on ceremony, and so she said straight out, »Your trouble is that
you can't throw a shadow.
»Your Royal Highness must be very much better,« said the Shadow. »I
know that the complaint you suffer from is that you see far too clearly,
but it must have gone - you are cured. The fact is, I have a most unusual
shadow. Haven't you noticed the person who is always with me? Other
people have an ordinary shadow, but I am no lover of the ordinary. A
gentleman gives his lackey for a livery finer cloth than he uses himself;
and that's why I have had my shadow tricked out as a human being. Yes,
look, I've even given him a shadow. It was very expensive, but I like
having something that nobody else has got.«
»Heavens!« thought the Princess. »Have I really been cured? This spa
is the finest in existence. Water nowadays has astonishing properties. But

I won't go away; the place is beginning to amuse me. I like this foreigner

immensely. I do hope his beard won't grow, because then he would be off
at once.«
In the great ballroom that evening the Princess danced with the Sha-
dow. She was light enough, but he was still lighter; never had she known
a partner like that. She told him the country she came from; he knew it
and had been there while she was away; he had peeped in at the windows
on every floor and seen all sorts of things through them, so that he was
able to answer the Princess and let fall little hints that quite astonished
her. He must be the wisest man in the world, she thought, so great was
her respect for what he knew. Then they danced together again, and she
fell in love - which to the Shadow was obvious enough, for she could

very nearly see right through him. And after that they had another dance,
and she was on the point of telling him - but she kept her head. She
remembered her country and her kingdom and all the people she had to
rule over. »He's a wise man,« she told herself; »that's a good thing. And
he dances beautifully; that's also good. But I wonder how deep his know-
ledge goes; that is just as important. He must be thoroughly tested. « So
she gradually began to put to him the most difficult questions, which she
herself couldn't have answered; and a curious look came into the Sha-
dow's face.
»You can't answer that!« cried the Princess.
»I learnt that in the nursery « said the Shadow. »I believe even my
shadow over there by the door can answer that.«
»Your shadow!« said the Princess. »That would be very remarkable.«
»Well, I won't say for certain that he can,« said the Shadow, »but I
should imagine so. He has now been with me so many years, listening to
me all the time - I should imagine he can. But may I draw your Royal

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 « « «

Highness's attention to one thing: he takes such pride in passing for a

human being that, to get him into the right mood (which he has to be, if
he is to answer well), he must be treated exactly the same as a human
being.
do like that,« said the Princess.
»I
So then she went up to the learned man by the door and chatted with
him about the sun and the moon and about people, both inside and out,
and his answers were wonderfully shrewd and sound.
»What a man this must be, when his mere shadow is as wise as that!«
she thought. »And what a blessing it would be for my people and king-
dom, if I chose him as a husband! I'll do it.«
And they soon came to an understanding, the Princess and the Sha-
dow. But no one must hear of it until she was back in her own kingdom.
»No one, not even my shadow,« said the Shadow; and he had his own
reasons for saying that. At last they reached the country over which the
Princess ruled, when she was at home.
»Listen, my friend,« said the Shadow to the learned man. »rve now
become as happy and powerful as a man can be. Now I should like to do
something special for you. You are to live continually with me at the
Castle, drive out with me in the royal carriage and have ten thousand
pounds a year. But you must let everybody call you 'Shadow'; you
mustn't ever say you have been a man; and once a year, when I sit in the
sun on the balcony to show myself to the people, you must lie at my feet
in the way that a shadow does. Let me tell you - I am marrying the
Princess; the wedding is to take place this evening.«
»Goodness gracious!« said the learned man, »what could be worse than
that? No, I won't, I won't do it. We'd be swindling the whole country.
Princess and all. I'll tell them everything - that I am the man and you are
the shadow, and that you are only dressed up.«
»Nobody will believe you,« said the Shadow. »Be sensible, or I'll call
the guard.
»rm going straight to the Princess,« said the learned man. »But I'm
going said the Shadow, »and you're going to prison. « And go he
first, «

did, for the sentries obeyed the one they knew the Princess wanted to
marry.
»You are trembling,« said the Princess, as the Shadow came up to her.
»Has anything happened? You mustn't get ill to-night, just when we are
to have our wedding.«
have been through the most horrible experience possible,* said the
»I
Shadow. »Just fancy - of course, a poor shadow-brain like that can't
stand much - fancy! my shadow has gone mad. He thinks that he's a man
and that I - just imagine - am his shadow !«
»How terrible!« exclaimed the Princess. »He's safely shut up, I hope?«
»Yes, yes. I'm afraid he'll never recover.
»Poor shadow! « said the Princess. »How unfortunate for him! It would

201
be a real kindness to relieve him of the scrap of life that is left him. And
now I come to think it over properly, I believe that's what has got to be
done put him quietly out of the way.«
-
»It does seem hard,« said the Shadow, »for he was a faithful servant.«
And he produced a kind of sigh.
»You have a noble character,« said the Princess.
At night the whole town was illuminated. Guns went off - boom!
Soldiers presented arms. It was no end of a wedding. The Princess and
the Shadow came out on to the balcony to show themselves and to get one
more round of cheering - hooray!
The learned man heard nothing of all this, for he had already been put
to death.
 It's Absolutely True!

I .t's a terrible affair!« said a hen - speaking, too, in quite another part of
the town from where it all happened. »It's a terrible affair about that
chicken-house. I good thing there are so
daren't sleep alone tonight. It's a
many of us roosting together.« And then she told them her story, which
made the other hens' feathers stand on end and even set the cock's comb
drooping. It's absolutely true!
But let's begin at the beginning. It was in a chicken-house at the other
end of the town. The sun went down, and the hens flew up. One of them
was a white short-legged bird, who regularly laid her eggs and was alto-
gether a most respectable hen. When she got to her perch she preened
herself with her beak, and a little feather came out and went fluttering
down. »So much for that one!« she said. »The more I preen, the lovelier I
shall grow, no doubt! « Of course it was only said in fun, because she was
the fun-maker among the hens, though in other ways (as you've just
heard) most respectable. After that, she went off to sleep.
All about was quite dark; hen sat with hen, but the one next to her was
still awake. She had heard, and had not heard - as you must often do in

this world, if you are to live in peace and quiet. And yet she couldn't help
saying to the hen perched on the other side of her, »Did you hear that? I
give no names, but there is a hen who means to pluck out her feathers for
the sake of her looks. If I were a cock, I'd simply despise her.«

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 «

Now directly above the hens sat the owl, with her owl husband and her
owl children. They had sharp ears in that family; they could hear every
word their hen neighbour said; and they rolled their eyes, and the owl
mother fanned herself with her wings. »Don't take any notice - but of
course you heard what she said, didn't you? I heard it with my own ears,
and they're going to hear a lot before they drop off. One of the hens has so
far forgotten what is fit and proper for a hen that she's calmly plucking
out all her feathers in full view of the cock.«
»Prenez garde aux enfants!« said the father owl. »Not in the children's
hearing!
»But I must tell the owl over the way; she's so highly respected in our
set.« And away flew the mother.
»Tu-whit,tu-who!« they both hooted, and it carried right down to the
doves in the dovecot across the yard. »Have you heard, have you heard?
To-who! There's a hen that's plucked out all her feathers for the sake of
the cock. She'll freeze to death, if she isn't dead already, tu-who!«

»Where, ooh, where?« cooed the doves.

»In the yard opposite. I as good as saw it with my own eyes. Really the
story's almost too improper to repeat; but it's absolutely true.«
»Tr-rue, tr-rue, every wor-rd!« said the doves; and they cooed down to
their hen-run, »There's a hen, some say there are two, who have plucked
out all their feathers so as to look different from the others and to attract
the attention of the cock. It's a risky thing to do; suppose they catch cold
and die of fever ... Yes, they're dead - two of them.«
Then the cock joined in: »Wake up, wake up!« he crowed, and flew up
on to the wooden fence. His eyes were still sleepy, but he crowed away all
the same; »Three hens have died of love for a cock; they had plucked out
all their feathers. It'sa horrible story - I don't want it - pass it on!« »Pass
iton!« squeaked the bats; and the hens clucked and the cocks crowed,
»Pass it on, pass it on!« And so the story flew from one hen-house to
another, till at last it came back to the place where it had really started.

204
 «

»There are five hens« - that's how it ran - »who have all plucked out
their feathers to show^ them had got thinnest for love of the cock.
which of
Then they pecked at each other till the blood came and they all fell down
dead, to the shame and disgrace of their family and the serious loss of
their owner.
The hen that had one loose little feather didn't of course
lost the
recognize her own was a respectable hen, she said, »How
story and, as she
I despise those hens! - though there are plenty more just like them.

That's not the kind of thing to be hushed up, and I shall do my best to get
the story into the papers, so that it may go all over the country. It'll serve
those hens right, and their family too.«
And into the papers it came - all there in print - and it's absolutely
true: »One little feather can easily become five hensl«
 The Story of a Mother

A mother was
grief because she
by the bed of her Httle child, and she was in great
sitting
was afraid it was going to die. The child was terribly
pale, the little eyes had closed, and its breathing was very soft and low -
though now and then it gave a deep breath like a sigh, and the mother
looked still more sadly at the poor little soul.
Then there was a knock at the door, and a poor old man came in
wrapped in a kind of large horse-cloth. You see, that keeps you warm,
and he needed it badly, because it was the middle of winter and every-
thing out-of-doors was covered with ice and snow, and there was a biting
wind.
And as the old man was
trembling with cold and the little child had
gone moment, the mother went and put a small mug of
off to sleep for a
beer on the stove to warm it up for him. The old man sat there gently
rocking, and the mother sat down on a chair close beside him. Her sick
child was breathing heavily as she looked at it, and she took its hand.
»You don't think I shall lose him, do you?« she said. »Surely God
won't take him away from me.«
And the old man - it was Death himself - he nodded so strangely that it
could just as well have meant yes as no. And the mother looked down in
her lap and the tears ran down her cheeks Her head became so heavy -
...

for three days and nights she hadn't closed her eyes - that now she fell
asleep, though only for an instant; then she started up trembling with
cold. »What's happened?« she said, looking in every direcdon. But the

206
old man was gone, and her little child was gone, he had taken it with
him; and over in the corner the old clock whirred and whirred, the great
leaden bob fell, bump! on to the floor, and the clock stopped. But the
poor mother rushed out of the house calling for her child.
There, out in the snow, sat a woman in long black clothes, who said,
»Death has been in your room; I saw him hurry away with your little
child. He goes faster than the wind, and he never brings back what he has
taken away.«
»Only tell me which way he went,« said the mother. »Tell me the way,
and I shall find him.«
»I know the way,« said the woman in black; »but, first, before I tell
you, you must sing me all the songs you have sung to your child. I know
them well, and I love them. I am Night, and I saw your tears as you sang
them.«
»I will sing them all, all,« said the mother; »but don't stop me from
catching him up - from finding my child.«
But Night sat still and said nothing. Then the mother wrung her
hands and sang and cried; and there were many songs, but even more
tears. After that. Night said to her, »Go to the right, into that dark forest
of firs; that is the path I saw Death take with your little child.« Deep
inside the forest she came to where the paths crossed, and she did not
know which one to take. A bramble bush was growing there, which had
neither leaf nor blossom for it was mid-winter and the twigs were all
frosted over. »Did you see Death go past with my little child?« »Yes, I
did,« replied the bramble, »but I won't tell you which way he went unless
you will first warm me at your breast. I'm freezing to death; I shall soon
be nothing but ice.«
And the mother pressed the bramble so tightly to her bosom, to make it
really warm, that the thorns pierced her flesh and she shed great drops of
blood. But the bramble shot out fresh green leaves and blossoms in the
cold winter's night - such was the warmth from a sorrowing mother's
heart. Then the bramble bush told her the right way to go.
Next she came to a big lake, where there was neither ship nor boat to
carry her across. The lake was not frozen enough to bear her, nor was it
thawed or shallow enough for her to wade through; and yet cross it she
must, if she would find her child. So she lay down to try and drink up the
lake, and nobody on earth could do that, though the grief -stricken moth-
er was hoping all the same for a miracle.
»No, that will never do,« said the lake. »Let us two see if we can't come
to an agreement. I collect pearls, and your eyes are the two clearest I have
ever seen. If you will weep them out for me, I will carry you across to the
great green house where Death lives and looks after flowers and trees;
each of them is a human life.«
»Oh, I will give anything to come to my child,« said the mother,
already worn out with weeping. And she wept still more, and her eyes

207
sank to the bottom of the lake and became two precious pearls. But the
lake lifted her up as if she was in a swing, and she felt herself whirled
across to the further shore where there was an extraordinary house with a
frontage that ran for miles and miles. You couldn't tell whether it was a
mountain with woods and caves, or whether it was a regular building -
though the poor mother couldn't see it because, you remember, she had
wept her eyes out.
»Where shall I find Death, who went off with my little child?« she
asked.
»He hasn't come yet,« said the old woman who looked after the graves
and the huge greenhouse of Death. »But how did you find your way here,
and who helped you?«
»God has helped me,« she said. »He is merciful, and you will be merci-
ful too. Where shall I find my little child?«
»Well, but I don't know it,« said the woman, »and you of course can't
see. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night; Death will soon be here
to transplant You know, every human being has his tree of life or
them.
his flower, each one according to his nature; they look just like other
plants, but they have hearts that beat. A child's heart can also beat. Bear
that in mind; perhaps you will be able to recognize your own child's
heart-beat. But what will you give me for telling you what to do next?«
»I have nothing left to give,« answered the poor mother. »But I will go
to theends of the earth for you.«
»That's no good to me,« said the woman. »But you can give me your
long black hair. You know yourself how lovely it is, and I like it very
much. You have my white hair instead; it's better than nothing.*
shall
»If that's all you ask for,« she said, »then I'll gladly let you have it.«
And she gave her beautiful black hair and received the old woman's
snow-white hair in exchange.
And then they went into Death's huge greenhouse, where flowers and
trees grew strangely together. There stood delicate hyacinths under bell-
glass, and big lusty peonies. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh,
others rather sickly, with water-snakes sprawling over them and black
crayfish nipping their stalks. There stood lovely palm-trees, oaks and
sycamores; and there, too, was parsley and flowering thyme. Every tree
and flower had a name of its own; each was a human life that was still be-
ing lived, in China, in Greenland, all over the world. There were big
trees in small pots, cramped sc terribly that they were ready to
burst their pots; and often, too, there was a common little flower growing
in rich soil, nursed and cared for, with moss round it. But the sorrowing
mother bent down over all the tiniest plants and listened to the human
heart-beats inside them till, among millions of them, she recognized that
of her own child.
»There it is!« she cried and stretched out her hands over a little blue
crocus that stood there weakly and drooping.

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 «

»Don't touch it!« said the old woman. »But stand here, and when
Death comes - I am expecting him any moment now - don't let him pull
up you just threaten to do that to the other flowers, and this
the plant; no,
will frighten him, for he must answer to God for them. None may be
pulled up without God's permission.
Suddenly there was a rush of ice-cold air through the place, and the
blind mother could tell that Death had come.
»How were you able to find your way?« asked Death. »How could you
get here more quickly than I did?«
»I am a mother,« she said.
And Death stretched out his long fingers towards the delicate little
flower. But she kept her hands tightly round it - tightly and yet anxious-
ly for fear she might touch one of its petals. Then Death breathed on her
hands, and she felt that this was colder than the icecold wind, and her
hands dropped limply away.
»You see, you can do nothing against me,« said Death. »But God can,«
she answered. »I only do what God wills,« said Death. »I am his gardener.
I take all his flowers and trees and plant them out in the great garden of

Paradise in the unknown land - though how they will grow there and
what it is like there, I may not tell you.«
»Give me back my child! « pleaded the mother in tears. Suddenly she
clutched two beautiful flowers near by, one in each hand, and cried out to
Death: »ril pull up all your flowers, for I'm desperate.«
»Don't you touch them!« said Death. »You say you are so unhappy,
and now you are ready to make another mother equally unhappy.«
» Another mother !« cried the poor woman and immediately let go of
both flowers.
»There, you can have your eyes back,« said Death. »I fished them up
out of the lake; they were shining so brightly. I didn't know they were
yours. Take them back, they are now clearer than ever. Then look down
into the deep well over there, and I will tell you the names of the two
flowers you wanted to pull up. You will see their whole future, their
whole human existence, you will see what you were just going to disturb
and destroy.«
She looked down into the well; and it was a joy to see how one flower
became a blessing to the world - to see how much pleasure and happiness
was spread around. And she saw the life of the other, full of sorrow and
want and fear and wretchedness.
»Both are the will of God,« said Death.
»Which of them is the flower of misery and which the flower of hap-
piness?« she asked. »I may not tell you that,« replied Death, »but this
you shall hear: one of those two flowers belonged to your own child - it
was your own child's destiny you saw, your own child's future.«
Then the mother shrieked in terror: »Which of them was my child?
Tell me that. Save the little innocent, save my child from all that wretched-

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ness! Rather take him away, take him into God's kingdom! Forget about
my tears -my pleading - all that I have said and done!«
»I don't understand you,« said Death. »Do you want your child back or
shall I carry him you know not where?
The mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees and prayed to God:
»Don't listen to me when I pray contrary to thy will - thou knowest best.
Don't listen to me!« And she buried her head in her lap.
And Death went away with her child into the unknown land.

r^v-ii^^^^.^^
 The Garden of Eden

T,here was once a King's son. Nobody had so many fine books as he
had. Hecould read for himself about all that had ever happened in the
world and see it set out in beautiful pictures. He could learn, too, about
peoples and countries; and yet where the Garden of Eden was to be found,
there wasn't a word about that; and, as it happened, this was the very
thing he was always wondering.
When he was still quite small but was going to begin school, his
grandmother had told him that every flower in the Garden of Eden was a
lovely cake and their stamens full of the most delicious wine. One flower
would have history on it, another geography or your tables. You only
had to eat cake to know your home-work; and the more you ate, the more
history, geography and tables you got to know.
He believed it all at the time; but as he grew bigger, learnt more and
became so much cleverer, he realized that there must be very different
delights in the Garden of Eden.
»Why, why, did Eve pick from the Tree of Knowledge? Why did Adam
eat of the forbidden fruit? If it had been me, it would never have hap-
pened - and sin would never have come into the world.«
That is what he said at the time, and he still said it when he was
The Garden of Eden quite filled his thoughts.
seventeen.
One day he went into the woods. He went all alone, for there was
nothing he liked better. Night was falling, and the clouds came up so
that it rained as if the whole sky were a sluice that had opened its flood-

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 « «

gates. It was as dark as it would be at night in the deepest well. At one

moment he slipped in the wet grass, at another he tripped up on the bare
stones that jutted out from the rocky ground. Everything was dripping
wet; the poor Prince hadn't a dry stitch left on him. He was obliged to
crawl across large blocks of stone where the water was oozing out of the
overgrown moss. He was very nearly fainting when all at once he heard a
strange roaring sound, and he saw in front of him a large lighted cave.
Blazing in the middle of it was a fire big enough to roast a deer, and that's
justwhat was happening. A magnificent stag, antlers and all, was slowly
turning on a spit between two felled branches of fir. An oldish-looking
woman, tall and burly, as though she were a man dressed up, sat by the
fire throwing on one bit of fuel after another.
»Come along,« she said, »come right up to the fire and dry your
clothes.
»There's a fearful draught in here,« said the Prince, as he sat down on
the floor.
»It'll be still worse when my sons come back,« answered the woman.

»This is the Cave of the Winds you have come to. My sons are the Earth's
four Winds. Do you follow me?«
»Where are your sons?« asked the Prince.
»Well, you know, foolish questions are often hard to answer,« said the
woman. »My sons are out on their own, playing tennis with the clouds in
the great hall up there« - and she pointed up above her head.
»Oh, I see,« said the Prince. »The fact is, your sharp way of talking
isn't a bit like the gentle way of the women I usually meet.«
»Well, I expect they have nothing else to do. I have to be sharp, if I'm
to keep my boys in order. Still, I can manage it, headstrong as they are.
Do you hanging on the wall? My sons are just as
see those four sacks
afraid of you were of the switch behind the mirror. You see, I can
them as
double the boys up, and then into the bag they go - and no nonsense
about it. There they stay and don't come trapesing out until I think fit.
But, look, there is one of them.«
It was the North Wind who brought an icy chill with him; great

hailstones pattered on the floor and snowflakes drifted around. He was

wearing bearskin trousers and jacket, a sealskin hood came well down
over his ears, long icicles hung from his beard, and there were hailstones
rolling down one after another from his coat-collar.
»Don't go straight up to the fire,« said the Prince. »Your face and
hands might easily get frost-bitten. <^
»Frost!« said the North Wind with a loud guffaw. »Frost! Nothing I
like better! What sort of a spindle-shanks are you, anyway? What brings
you into the Cave of the Winds?«
»He's my guest,« said the old woman, »and if you're not satisfied with
that explanation, you can come into the sack ... There! now you know
what to expect.

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 «

That was the way to treat him, and the North Wind now told them
where he came from and where he had been for nearly a month past. »I
come from the Polar Sea,« he said; »rve been on Behring Island with the
Russian walrus hunters. I sat sleeping at the helm, as they sailed away
from the North Cape. Now and then I woke up for a while and found the
stormy petrel flying round my legs. He's a comic bird. He gives one smart
flap with his wings and then keeps them outstretched and motionless,
and that gives him all the speed he wants.
»Yes, but don't make such a long story of it!« said the mother of the
Winds. »And so then you came to Behring Island?«
»It's a wonderful place. There's a dancing-floor as flat as a plate, with
moss and half-thawed snow, sharp stones and skeletons of walruses and
polar bears, looking as they lay there like giants' arms and legs, all
mouldy and green. You'd think the sun had never shone on them. I
breathed a bit on the fog so as to get a glimpse of the hut. It was a house
built from the wreckage and covered with walrus-skins, the fleshy side
outwards, red and green all over. On the roof a live polar bear sat growl-
ing. I went down to the shore to have a look at the bird's-nests and at the
unfledged young ones gaping and screaming. I blew down into their
thousand throats and taught them to shut their mouths. Lower down the
walruses were tumbling about like living entrails or enormous maggots
with pig's heads and teeth a yard long.«
»You describe it all very well, my son« said the mother. »It makes my
mouth water to listen to you.«
»Af ter that came the fishing. The harpoon was plunged in the heart of
the walrus, so that the steaming blood spirted up like a fountain over the
ice. Then I too had my own little game to think about. I started to blow

and made my sailing ships, the tall rock-like icebergs, nip and crush the
boats - phew! How the people whimpered and shrieked, but I shrieked
louder. The dead whale carcases, the chests and the tackle all had to be
dumped on the ice. I shook snowflakes over them and let them drift south
with their catch in their trapped vessels, to taste salt water. They'll never
come back to Behring Island.«
»Then you've done harm,« said the mother of the Winds.
»Others could tell of the good I have done,« he replied. »But here
comes my brother from the West. He's my favourite brother, with a tang
of the sea and a wonderful freshness about him.«
»Is that the little Zephyr?« asked the Prince.
»Yes, that's Zephyr right enough, « said the old woman. »But he's not
so little, after all. In the old days he was a good-looking boy, but that's all
past and gone now.«
He looked like a savage, but he was wearing a sort of padded helmet to
protect his head. In his hand he held a mahogany club cut from the
mahogany woods of America. He couldn't do with less than that.
»Where have you been?« his mother asked.

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 « «

»In the forest wildernesses,* he said, »where the thorny creepers make a
fence between every tree, where the water snake lies in the grassy swamp,
and mankind seems unnecessary.
»What did you do there?«
»I looked at the deep river, I saw how it plunged down from the rocks
and turned to spray, flying up to the clouds to carry the rainbow. I saw
the wild buffalo swimming in the river, though the stream forced him
along with it and he drifted with a flock of wild duck that flew into the
air as they reached the rapids. The buffalo had to go down them; I
enjoyed that, and I started such a gale that old, old trees went sailing and
were dashed to smithereens.
»And didn't you do anything else?« asked his mother.
»I turned somersaults on the prairie, I patted the wild horses and shook
down coconuts. Bless you, yes - I've plenty to tell, though one shouldn't
say all that one knows. Of course, you know that perfecdy well, old lady«
- and he gave his mother such a hearty kiss that she nearly toppled over
backwards. He really was a boisterous lad.
Next came the South Wind wearing a turban and a flying Bedouin
cloak. »It's mighty cold in here,« he said, throwing logs on the fire. »Easy
to tell that the North Wind got home first.«
»It's hot enough in here to roast a polar-bear,« said the North Wind.
»You're a polar bear yourself,« answered the South Wind.
»Do you two want to go into the sack?« threatened the old woman. »Sit
down on that stone and tell us where you've been.«
»In Africa, mother,« he replied. »I was out lion-hunting with the
Hottentots in the land of the Kaffirs. What grass there is, growing there
on the plain, green as an olive! The gnu antelope was prancing about,
and the ostrich ran races with me though I'm quicker on my pins, mind
you. I found my way to the desert with its yellow sand that looks like the
bottom of the sea. I came across a caravan. They killed their last camel to
get water to drink but they didn't get much. There was a scorching sun
overhead, and a blistering sand underfoot. There was no limit to the far-
flung desert. I romped about in the fine loose sand and whirled it up into
great pillars - it was no end of a go! You should have seen how forlorn
the dromedary stood, and the way the merchant drew his caftan over his
head. He flung himself down before me as if before Allah, his God. Now
they are buried, with a pyramid of sand heaped above them all. One day,
when I blow it away, the sun will bleach their bones, and travellers will
be able to see that man was here in days gone by; otherwise they could
never believe it in the desert.«
»So you've only done harm,« said the mother. »Into the sack with
youI« and, before the South Wind knew what was happening, she had
him by the waist and into the sack. He rolled over on the floor, but she
squatted on top and so then he had to lie still.
»That's a lively lot of boys you have,« said the Prince.

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 « «

»Yes, you may well call them that,« she replied, »and I know how to
manage them. Here we have the fourth.
It was the East Wind; he was dressed like a Chinese.

»Oh, so that's where you come from,« said the mother. »I thought you
were in the Garden of Eden.«
»I don't fly to it till tomorrow,« said the East Wind. »It will be just a
hundred years tomorrow since I was there. I've just come from China,
where I danced round the Porcelain Tower and made all the bells ring.
Down in the street the officials were being flogged; bamboo canes were
being broken across their shoulders. And they were men of high rank,
too, from the first to the ninth class. They kept crying out, 'Thank you
very much, my fatherly benefactor'; but they didn't mean it. And I set the
bells ringing and sang, tsing, tsang, tsu.«
»You are always up to mischief, « said the old mother. »It's a good
thing you are going to the Garden of Eden tomorrow; that always tends
to improve you. Drink deep from the fountain of wisdom, and bring a
little bottle home, full, for me.«

»Right - I will,« said the East Wind. »But why have you put my
brother from the South into the sack? Let him out! I want him to tell me
about the Phoenix bird. The Princess in the Garden of Eden always
wants to hear about that bird, when I pay her a visit every hundred years.
Do be a nice kind mother and open the sack, and you shall have two
pocketfuls of fresh green tea straight from the spot where I picked it.«
»Well, well, for the sake of the tea and because you're my pet child, I'll
open the sack.« As she did South Wind crawled out, but he looked
so, the
rather sheepish that the foreign Prince should have seen it.
»Here's a palm leaf for you to give the Princess,« said the South Wind.
»This leaf was given me by the old Phoenix bird, the only one left in the
world. With his beak he has scratched on it the account of his whole life,
the hundred years he has been living. Now she can read it for herself. I
saw how the Phoenix bird himself set fire to his nest and sat till he was
burnt right up, like a Hindu's wife. How the dry twigs did crackle ... and
the smoke and the perfume there was! Finally, everything went up in
flames; the old Phoenix bird turned to ashes, while his egg lay red-hot in
the fire - and then burst open with a loud bang and the young one flew
out. Now he is Regent over all the birds and the only Phoenix bird left
on earth. He has bitten a hole in the palm leaf I gave you; that's his way
of sending greetings to the Princess.
»Now let's have something to mother of the Winds. And
eat,« said the
with that, they all sat downhave some of the roasted stag; and the
to
Prince sat beside the East Wind, and in that way they soon became great
friends.
»I say,« said the Prince, »just tell me, will you - who, exactly, is this
Princess there's so much talk about? And where is Garden of Eden?«
the
»Ho, ho!« said the East Wind, »if that's where you want to go, why,

215
then come and fly with me tomorrow. But, all the same, I feel bound to
tell you no mortal man has been there since the time of Adam and
that
Eve. Of course, you know all about them from your Bible.«
»Yes, yes,« said the Prince.
»That time they were driven out from the Garden of Eden, it sank
down into the earth, though it kept its warm sunshine, its soft air and all
its glorious beauty. There lies the home of the Queen of the Fairies; there

too, is the Island of the Blest, where death never comes and it's so wonder-
ful to be. Get on my back tomorrow, and I'll take you with me. I'm pretty
sure it can be managed. But you mustn't chatter any more now; I want to
go to sleep.« And after that they all of them went to sleep.
Early next morning the Prince woke up and was a good deal puzzled to
find that he was already high above the clouds. He was sitting on the
back of the East Wind, who certainly had a firm hold on him. They were
so high in the air that woods and fields, rivers and lakes, looked to be
there on a large coloured map.
»Good morning!« said the East Wind. »You might just as well sleep on
a little longer, for there isn't much to look at on the flat country below us.
Unless you want to count the churches! They stand out like specks of
chalk on the green board down there. « They were fields and meadows
that he called the green board.
»It was rude of me not to say goodbye to your mother and your broth-
ers,« said the Prince.
»You can't be blamed when you're asleep,« said the East Wind and
flewon than ever. You could hear it in the forest tree- tops, as they
faster
passed over them, rustling all the leaves and branches; you could hear it
on the sea and on the lakes, for, wherever they flew, the waves dashed
higher and the big ships curtsied low in the water like floating swans.
Towards evening, as it grew dark, the large towns were a cheerful sight
with the lights burning down there in one place and another. It was just
as it is when you set light to a bit of paper and see numbers of little sparks
like so many children coming out of school. And the Prince clapped his
hands, but the East Wind told him to stop that and hold on tight or he
might easily fall down and get caught on a church steeple.
The eagle from the dark woods flew nimbly enough, but the East Wind
was nimbler still. The Cossack on his little horse coursed away over the
plains, but the Prince's coursing was of another kind.
»There, now you can see the Himalayas,* said the East Wind; »they are
the highest mountains in Asia. We should soon come to the Garden of
Eden now.« Then they turned more south, and presently there was a
perfume of flowers and spices. Figs and pomegranates were growing
wild, and the vine too grew wild with blue and purple grapes. Here both
alighted and stretched themselves in the soft grass where the flowers
nodded to the Wind as if to say, »Welcome back!«
»Is this the Garden of Eden?« asked the Prince.

216
 Wind. »But we shall soon be there
»Bless you, no!« replied the East
now. Do you and the big cave where the
see that wall of rock over there
grape-vines are hanging like huge green curtains? We've got to go in
through there. Wrap your cloak round you, because here we have the
scorching sun while a single pace off it is icy cold. A bird brushing past
the cave has one wing out here in hot summer and the other inside there
in cold winter.«
»So this is the way to the Garden
Eden?« asked the Prince.
of
Now they entered the cave. Phew! How
icy cold it was - but it didn't
last long. The East Wind spread out his wings, and they shone like the
brightest fire. Goodness! What caves these were! The great blocks of stone
from which the water dripped down hung above them in the strangest
shapes. At one moment the caves were so narrow that they had to creep
on all fours, at another as lofty and wide as in the open air. They looked
like mortuary chapels with silent organ pipes and banners of stone.

217
 »We seem path of death to the Garden of Eden,« said
to be taking the
the Prince. But the East Wind
never answered a word. He merely pointed
ahead, where the loveHest blue light was shining straight at them. The
stone blocks overhead turned more and more to a mist, which finally
showed as clearly as a white cloud in the moonlight. Now they found
themselves in a wonderful soft air, as though breathed from roses in the
valley.
And there, too, flowed a with fishes like
river, clear as the air itself,
silver and gold. Purple shooting out blue sparks at every wriggle,
eels,

were frisking down there in the water; and the broad leaves of the water-
lily had the colours of the rainbow, while the flower itself burned with an

orange flame, fed by the water like a lamp kept alight by the oil. A solid
bridge of marble - yet as cunningly devised as though it were worked in
filigree and glass bugles - led across the water to the Island of the Blest,
where the Garden of Eden lay blossoming.
The East Wind took the Prince in his arms and carried him across.
There he heard flowers and foliage singing the loveliest songs from his
childhood, but in swelling tones more beautiful than any human voice
can sing them.
Were those palm trees or gigantic water plants growing there? Never
had the Prince seen trees so tall and full of sap. There in long festoons
hung the most astonishing creepers, such as are only to be found in gold
and colour on the margins of old missals or twining about the initial
letters. There was the strangest assembly of birds, flowers and twisting

tendrils. In the grass close by stood a flock of peacocks spreading out

their gorgeous tails. Yes, surely that's what they were ... but no, when the
Prince touched them he found that they weren't animals but plants; they
were huge dock leaves, that shone here with all the splendour of a pea-
cock's tail. Lions and tigers, nimble as cats, went bounding through the
greenwood with its scents of olive-blossom, and they were tame lions and
tame tigers. Wild wood-pigeons, gleaming like the finest pearls, flapped
their wings against the lion's mane, while antelopes, usually so timid,
stood nodding their heads, as though they too would like to join in the
frolic.

Now came Garden of Eden Her dress shone like the

the Fairy of the .

sun, and her was as gentle and kind as a happy mother's whose child
face
has made her glad. She was young and pretty, and with her were beauti-
ful girls, each with a glittering star in her hair.
The East Wind handed her the leaf with the Phoenix bird's writing on
it, and the Fairy's eyes sparkled with joy. She took the Prince by the hand

and led him into her castle, where the colour of the walls was like the
petal of the finest tulip when held up against the sun. The ceiling, too,
was one enormous radiant flower, and the more you looked up at it the
deeper its cup seemed to be. The Prince stepped to the window and
glanced through one of its panes. There he saw the Tree of Knowledge

218
 «

with the serpent, and Adam and Eve standing close by. »Haven't they
been driven out?« he asked; and with a smile the Fairy explained to him
that time, like that, had burned its picture upon every pane, not in the
customary way - no, there was life in it, leaves were stirring on the trees,
people came and went, just as things do in a reflection. Then he glanced
through another pane, and there he saw Jacob's dream, with the ladder
going right up to heaven and the angels hovering up and down on their
great wings. Yes, all that had ever happened in the world lived and
moved in those panes; time alone could have burned such cunning pic-
tures into the glass.
The Fairy smiled and led him into a geat lofty hall. Here the walls
seemed to be made of transparent pictures, with each face more beautiful
than the other. There were millions of them, whose happy laughter and
singing flowed together into a single melody. The ones highest up were
so tiny that they looked smaller than the smallest rosebud when it's a
mere speck in a drawing. And there in the middle of the hall stood a big
tree with hanging branches heavy with fruit. Golden apples, large and
small, hung like oranges among the green leaves. This was the Tree of
Knowledge, of whose fruit Adam and Eve had eaten. From every leaf
there dripped a glittering red dewdrop; it was as though the tree wept
tears of blood.
»Now letus get into the boat,« said the Fairy. »There we will enjoy
some refreshment out on the rolling wave. The boat swings at her moor-
ings, while every country in the world will pass before us.« And it was
astonishing to see how the whole coast moved. First came the towering
snow -clad Alps with clouds and dark fir trees; the horn sounded deep and
wistful, and the shepherd was yodelling in the valley. Then the banana
trees bent their long drooping branches over the boat; coal-black swans
swam on the water, and the strangest animals and flowers were to be seen
on the shore: it was Australia, the fifth continent of the world, that glided
past with its Blue Mountains in the distance. They heard the priests
chanting, and they watched the savages dancing to tomtoms and trum-
pets of bone. The Pyramids of Egypt jutting up into the clouds, over-
turned pillars and sphinxes half buried in the sand, went sailing by. The
Northern Lights flared over the glaciers of the north - a display of fire-
works that none could equal. The Prince was enchanted; and he natural-
ly saw a hundred times more than we have just described. »May I stay
here for good?« he asked.
»That depends on yourself, « replied the Fairy. »As long as you don't,
like Adam, allow yourself to be tempted to do what is forbidden, you may
certainly remain.
»I shall not touch the apples on the Tree of Knowledge,* said the
Prince. »After all, there are thousands of fruits here as fine as they are.«
»Test yourself, and if you are not strong enough, then go with the East
Wind who brought you; he is just flying back and won't come here again

219
for a hundred years. That's a time that in this place you will find goes by
like a hundred hours, though it's a long enough time for temptation and
sin. Every evening, as I leave you I must cry out to vou. Come v^ith me!
I must beckon to you w^ith my hand, but stay w^here you are. Don't come,

because if you do your longing will increase at every step; you will come
to the hall where the Tree of Knowledge grows; I shall be asleep under its
drooping fragrant branches; I must smile as you bend over me, but if you
kiss my mouth Eden will sink deep into the earth and be lost to you for
ever. The keen wind of the desert will whistle around you, the cold rain
will drip from your hair. Sorrow and tribulation will be your lot.«
»ril stay here,« said the Prince; and the East Wind kissed his forehead
and said, »Be strong, and we shall meet again here in a hundred years.
Goodbye! Goodbye!« - and the East Wind spread out his great wings.
They flashed like summer lightning at harvest-time or the Northern
Lights in the depth of winter. »Goodbye! Goodbye !« was echoed from
flowers and trees. Storks and pelicans flew in a line like fluttering rib-
bons and kept him company to the boundary of the Garden.
»Now our dances will begin,« said the Fairy. »At the end, when I dance
with you, as the sun goes down you will see me beckon to you; you will
hear me cry out, Come with me! But don't do it. I must repeat that every
evening for a hundred years. Every time that moment is past, you will
gain more strength, till at last you never give it a thought. Tonight is the
first time - now I have warned you.«

And the Fairy led him into a great hall of transparent white lilies; the
yellow filaments of every flower made a little gold harp, which gave out
the sound of strings and flute. The loveliest girls, slender and graceful,
clad in billowy gauze that revealed the beauty of their limbs, swayed in
the dance and sang of the sweets of living and how that they would never
die and Garden of Eden would bloom for ever.
the
And the sun went down, and the whole sky became a sheet of gold,
which gave the lilies a tinge of the loveliest rose. And the Prince drank of
the foaming wine handed him by the girls, and he felt a happiness he had
never known before. He saw how the far end of the hall opened ... There
stood the Tree of Knowledge in a shining splendour that dazzled his eyes.
The singing that came from it was soft and beautiful like the voice of his
mother, and it was as though she sang to him, »My child, my darling
child!«
Then the Fairy beckoned and called to him so tenderly, »Come with
me! Come with me!« that he rushed over to her and quite forgot his
promise - forgot it the very first evening - as she beckoned and smiled.
The perfume, the fragrant perfume all around, grew stronger, the melody
of the harps far lovelier; and the millions of smiling heads in the hall,
where the Tree was growing, seemed to nod and sing, »Man should know
everything. Man is the lord of the earth. « And they were no longer tears of
blood that fell from the leaves of the Tree of Knowledge - they were stars,

220
red and sparkling, it seemed to him. »Come with me! Come with me!«
echoed the quivering notes, and at every step the Prince's cheeks burned
hotter, his blood ran faster. »I must!« he said. »There's no sin in that -
cannot possibly be. Why not follow beauty and joy? I only want to see her
asleep. It will be none the worse, as long as I don't kiss her; and I shan't
do that. I am strong, with a firm will.«
And the Fairy threw off her glittering robe, bent back the branches, and
a moment later was hidden among them. »Not yet have I sinned« said the
Prince, »nor will I« - and he drew aside the branches. There she lay,
already asleep, beautiful as only the Fairy in the Garden of Eden can be.
She smiled in her dreams, and as he bent over her he saw the tears
trembling between her eyelashes.
»Is it for me you weep?« he whispered. »0 loveliest of women, do not
weep! Now at last I have learnt to know the happiness of Eden. It streams
through my blood, through my thoughts; in my mortal limbs I can feel
angelic power and immortal life. Doom me to eternal night - one mo-
ment like this is wealth enough. « He kissed the tear from her eye, his
mouth touched hers...
Then there came a crash of thunder louder and more terrible than had
ever been heard. Everything fell in ruin: the beautiful Fairy, the blossom-
ing Eden, sank, sank down deep - the Prince saw it sink into black night,
until it gleamed far away like a shining star. The chill of death ran
through his limbs; he closed his eyes and lay long as if dead.
A cold rain fell on his face, a keen wind blew about his head, as his
senses came back to him. »What have I done?« he sighed. »I have sinned
like Adam - sinned so that Paradise has sunk deep down below. « And as
he opened his eyes, he saw the star once more in the far distance, the star
that shone like the sunken Paradise. It was the morning star in the sky.

221
 «

He rose up
- and found himself in the great forest near to the Cave of
the Winds, and the mother of the Winds was sitting beside him. She
looked angry and lifted up her arm.
»The very first evening!« she said. »I thought as much. Well, if you
were my boy, you should go straight into the sack.«
»He shall go there in time,« said Death, who was a sturdy old man
carrying a scythe and with great black wings. »He shall be laid in a
coffin, but not now. I'll just make a note of him and let him rove the
world a little longer and atone for his sins and grow better; I shall come
one day. Just when he least expects, I shall have him into the black cof-
fin, put it on my head and fly up towards the star. There, too, the Garden
of Eden is in flower, and if he is kind and good he shall be allowed to go
in; but if his thoughts are evil and his heart still full of sin, he will sink
with the coffin deeper than Eden sank, and I shall only fetch him back
every thousand years, either to sink deeper still or to remain on the star
- that glittering star up there.
 The Happy Family

Th.he biggest green leaf in this country, depend upon it, is a burdock
leaf. Hold it in front of your tummy, and it would do for an apron; put in
over your head in the rain, and it's almost as good as an umbrella - it's a
tremendous size. A burdock never growls by itself; w^here there's one growl-
ing, there are lots more. It's a lovely sight, and all that loveliness is food

for snails. The big white snails that fine folk in the old days used to have
stewed into a fricassee, muttering »Yum, yum, how delicious!« as they ate
it - for they really did love the taste of it - these snails lived on burdock
leaves, and that's how the burdocks came to be sown.
Well, there was an old manor-house where they had given up eating
snails; thesehad quite died out, but the burdocks hadn't died out. They
grew and grew all over the paths and flower-beds, till they were quite out
of hand; there was an absolute forest of burdocks. Here and there stood an
apple tree or a plum tree; otherwise you'd never have guessed it was a
garden. The whole place was covered with burdocks - and in the middle
of them lived the last two snails, both extremely old.
They didn't themselves know how old they were, but they could well
remember that there had once been many more of them; that they be-
longed to a family coming from foreign parts, and that it was for them
and theirs that the whole forest had been planted. They had never been
outside it, though they realized that something else existed in the world
called The Manor, where you got boiled and then turned black and were
laid out on a silver dish; but what happened after that nobody knew.
They couldn't anyhow imagine what it felt like to be boiled and to lie on
a silver dish, but it must be delightful and very much the correct thing.

223
 « «

Neither the cockchafer nor the toad nor the earthworm, when ques-
tioned, could reply; none of them had ever been boiled or laid on a silver
dish.
The old white snails were the finest folk imaginable - they knew that.
The forest existed entirely for them, and the Manor existed for them to be
boiled and laid on a silver dish.
They were now living quite happily all by themselves, and as they had
no children they had adopted a little common snail that they brought up
as their own. But the little creature wouldn't grow, being just a common
snail. And yet the old folk, especially Mother - Mother Snail - fancied she
could see that he was getting on; and she asked Father Snail, supposing
he couldn't see this, to feel the little shell; and he felt it and came to the
conclusion that Mother was right.
Then one day there was a heavy shower of rain. »Listen to the rub-a-
dub-a-dub on the burdock leaves!« said Father Snail.
»Yes, and some of the drops are coming through,« answered Mother
Snail. »Why, they're running right down the stalk. My, what a drenching
we shall get! Fm so glad of our good houses and of our little one's too. I
really think more has been done for us than for any others. Anyone can
see that we are the cream of creation. We have houses from birth, and the
burdock forest was sown for our benefit. I should like to know how far it
goes and what there is outside it.«
»There's nothing outside it,« said Father Snail. »Nowhere can there be
a better home than ours, and I have nothing more to wish for.«
»Oh, but I have,« said Mother Snail. »I should like to go to the Manor
and be boiled and laid on a silver dish. That's what happened to all our
ancestors; Fm sure there must be something extra special about it.«
»The Manor-house may have fallen into ruins by now,« said Father
Snail, »or be overgrown with burdocks, so that the people can't get out.
Anyhow, there's no need for haste; you're always in such a fearful hurry,
and our little one is beginning to take after you. Why, he's actually been
crawling up that stalk for three days; it makes me dizzy to look at him.«
»Now then, no scolding! « said Mother Snail. »He crawls along so
coolly, Fm sure he will be a great joy to us; and after all what else have we
old folk to live for? But have you thought about this - where we are to
find a wife for him? Don't you think that somewhere deep in the burdock
forest there might be someone of our sort?«
»Well, Fve no doubt there are plenty of blacks snails, « said the old
father, »black ones without a house of their own; but that would be such
a come-down, and they do think such a lot of themselves. No, but we
might commission the ants to see to it. They go trotting to and fro as if
they had something to do; surely they would know of a wife for our little
snail.
»Yes, of course, we know the most beautiful one you could think of,«
cried the ants, »though there might be difficulties, as she's a queen.

224
 »That wouldn't matter,« said the old snail. »But has she a house of her
own?«
»She has a palace,« replied the ants, »the most beautiful ant palace
with seven hundred corridors.«
»Thank you!« said Mother Snail. »Our son's not going into an ant-
hill. If that's the best you can do we'll commission the white gnats

instead; they fly all over the place, rain or shine, and they know the
burdock forest inside and out.«
»We've got a wife for him,« cried the gnats. »A hundred yards off,
perched on a gooseberry bush, is a little snail with a house of her own.
She lives all by herself and is quite old enough to get married. It's only a
hundred yards away.«
»A11 right,« said Father Snail. »But let her come to him. He's got a
burdock forest, and she's only got a bush.«
So the gnats went and fetched the little lady snail. It took her a week to
arrive, but of course that was the great thing about it - she was clearly one
of the right sort.
Then came the wedding. Six glow-worms did their best with lighting;
otherwise, the whole thing went off quietly, for the two old snails didn't
care for feasting and jollification. But Mother Snail made a charming
speech - Father was too overcome to manage that - and then they handed
over the whole of the burdock forest to the young couple and repeated
what they'had always said - that it was the best place in the world and, if
they lived honest upright lives and multiplied, they and their children
would one day go the manor-house and be boiled black and laid on a
silver dish.

225
 When the speech was over, the old snails crawled into their houses and
never came out again; they went to sleep. The two young ones took
charge of the forest and raised a large offspring. But they were never
boiled or laid on a silver dish, so they came to the conclusion that the
Manor must have fallen into ruins and that everybody in the world had
died out; and as no one contradicted them, it must have been true. The
rain beat down for them on the burdock leaves - rub-a-dub-a-dub - and
the sun shone for them to give colour to the burdock forest, and they were
very happy! The whole family were happy - yes, they really were.
 The Drop of Water

I suppose you know what a magnifying glass is - a sort of round eye-

glass thatmakes everything a hundred times bigger than it is? If you take
it and hold it in front of you and look at a drop of water out of the pond,

you can see any number of strange-looking creatures that you would
otherwise never see in the water; yet, sure enough, there they are. It looks
rather like a plateful of shrimps hopping about among each other; and
they are so ferocious that they tear off each other's arms and legs, buttocks
and thighs - though, in spite of that, they are quite pleased and cheerful
in their own way.
Now was once an old man whom everybody called Creepy-
there
Crawly, because that was his name. He always would have the best of
everything and, if other means failed, then he got what he wanted by
magic.
Well, one day he sat holding his magnifying glass in front of him and
looking at a drop of water that came from a puddle in the ditch. Good-
ness, what a lot of creeping and crawling there was! Hundreds of little
creatures were all hopping around and tugging at each other and eating
each other.
»Really it's quite repulsive,« said old Creepy -Crawly. »Can'i they be
made to live in peace and quiet and to mind their own business?« And he
puzzled and puzzled, but it all came to nothing, and so he was forced to
use magic. »I must colour them to make them stand out more clearly, « he
said; and he poured the merest drop of red wine into the drop of water.

227
But it was witch's blood, the very finest kind at twopence a drop. Then
all those weird little creatures turned pink all over; they might have been
a whole townful of naked savages.
»What have you got there?« asked another old magician who hadn't
got a name - and that was just what made him so distinguished.
»Well, if you can guess what it is,« said Creepy-Crawly, »ril make you
a present of it. But it isn't easy to find out, if you don't know.«
And the magician who hadn't got a name took a peep through the
magnifying glass. It looked exactly like a whole town where everybody
was running about without anything on. It was horrible; but still more
horrible was the sight of people pushing and elbowing each other, wrest-
ling and wrangling, snapping and snarling. Those at the bottom should
be on top, and those at the top should be down at the bottom. »Look
there! His leg is longer than mine. Pooh! Away with it! And here's a chap
with a little pimple behind his ear; a harmless little pimple, but it hurts
him, and it shall hurt him still more.« And they slashed at it and pulled
him about, and then they ate him for the sake of the little pimple. Anoth-
er was sitting there as still as any maiden might, wanting nothing but
peace and quiet; but the maiden had to come forward and be pulled and
tugged, till finally they ate her right up!

»That's extremely funny, « said the magician.

»Yes, but what do you make of it all?« asked Creepy-Crawly. »Have
you any idea what it is?«
»It's plain enough,« said the other. »It must be Copenhagen or some
other big city, for they're all alike. A big city, anyway.«
»It's ditch- water, « said Creepy -Crawly.
 « « «

The Shirt Collar

-Lhere was once a swell gentleman whose entire kit consisted of a

bootjack and a comb - though he had the neatest shirt collar you ever
saw, and it's about this collar that our story is to be.
The was now old enough to think of getting married, and it so
collar
happened wash he came across a garter.
that in the
»My word!« said the collar. »Never have I seen anyone so slender and
refined, so delicate and pretty. May I ask your name?«
»No, I won't tell you,« replied the garter.
»Where do you live?« asked the collar.
But the garter was very shy and thought it was an odd question to have
to answer.
»I should think you are a girdle,« continued the collar, »a sort of
understrap. Yes, I can see you are both useful and ornamental, my dear.«

» You're not to speak to me,« said the garter. »I can't see that I have
given you the slightest excuse.
»Oh, yes, you have. When anyone's as pretty as you,« said the collar,
»that's excuse enough.
»Don't come so near,« said the garter. »You look so very masculine.
»Well,I am, I'm no end of a swell, « said the collar; »rve got a bootjack

and a comb« - which of course wasn't true, for they belonged to his
master. He was just showing off.

»Don't come so near; I'rn not used to it,« said the garter.
»Little prude!« snorted the collar and was taken out of the wash-tub,
starched, hung over a chair in the sun and then laid along the ironing-
board, where he was given a hot iron.
»Madam,« said the collar,« »dear widow lady, I'm getting so hot, I
shall soon be quite another person; I'm losing all my creases. Ughl
You're burning a hole in me - oh, will you marry me?«

229
 »You rag!« said the iron, going disdainfully over the collar; for she
fancied she was a steam-engine meant to draw trucks on the railway.
»You rag!« she repeated.
The collar was a bit frayed at the edges, and so the big scissors came
along them. »My!« said the collar, »you must be a leader of the
to trim
ballet. How you can do the splits! I've never seen anything so charming;
nobody can touch you at it.«
»I know,« said the scissors.
»You deserve to be a countess, « said the collar. »A11 1 have is an elegant
master, a bootjack and a comb. If only I had an earldom !«
»Can the creature be proposing to me?« said the scissors, highly indig-
nant. And she gave him such a violent jag that he had to be thrown away.
»I shall have to propose to the comb, that's all,« said the collar. »It's
remarkable how you still have all your teeth, my dear. Have you never
thought of marrying?«
»Why, yes,« answered the comb. »Surely you've heard that I'm engaged
to the bootjack?«
»Engaged,« sighed the collar. Now there was no one left to propose to,
and so he came to despise the whole idea.
A long time passed, till at length the collar found himself in a bag at
the paper-mill; there was a large party of
rags, the fashionables in one
group and the common herd in another - just as it should be. They all
had a great deal to say, but nobody so much as the collar; he was a terrible
one to brag.
»When I think of all the love-affairs I've had!« he said. »I never got a
moment's peace. was no end of a swell in those days, very stiff and
I

starchy, with a bootjack and a comb that I never used. You should have
seen me then - seen me all ready for a party. Never shall I forget my first

love; she was a girdle - so refined and delicate and pretty - she threw
herself into a wash-tub for my sake ... And then there was a widow lady,
who was glowing with passion, but I kept her waiting till she turned
black. There was the premiere danseuse from the ballet; she gave me the
gash I've still got - she wanted to eat me! My own comb was gone on me,

230
 « 1

and she lost all her teeth from being crossed in love. Yes, I've been
through a lot of that sort of thing, but I am sorriest of all for the garter -
beg her pardon - the girdle, w^ho jumped into the wash-tub. I have so
much on my conscience; it's high time I changed into w^hite paper.
And that's what happened. All the rags were turned into white paper;
but the collar became this very bit of white paper we have before us, on
which the story has been printed. It was all because he boasted so terribly
afterwards of what had never actually occurred. And this is worth bearing
in mind, so that we don't behave like that; for, after all, we never can be
quite certain that we too mayn't find ourselves one day in the rag-bag and
be turned into white paper and have the whole story of our life printed on
us, even the most private happenings, so that we ourselves have to run
around blabbing it out, like the collar.
 The Flax

JLhe flax was in full bloom. It had the loveliest blue flowers, as soft as
the wings on a moth, and even more delicate. The sun shone down on the
flax and the rain-cloud watered it; and this was just as good for the flax as
it is for little children to be washed and then have a kiss from mother.

They are much nicer after that, aren't they? And so, too, was the flax.
»They say that I hold myself remarkably well,« said the flax, »and that
I'm growing lovely and long - they'll get a fine piece of linen from me.
My word, how lucky I am! I must be the very luckiest of the lot. I'm so
well off - I shall go far. How the sun does cheer me up, and how I do
enjoy the freshness of the rain! Yes, I'm wonderfully lucky. I'm the very
luckiest of them all.«
»Well, well,« said the hedge-stakes. »You don't know the world, but we
do. We've got knots in us.« And they creaked out miserably:
»Snip, snap, snorum,
basselorum,
the song is over.«
»No, it isn't!« said the flax. »The sun will shine tomorrow; the rain is
so refreshing. I can hear myself growing; I can feel that I'm flowering.
Yes, I'm the luckiest of them all.«
But one day people came and seized the flax by its top and plucked it
up, root and all - it did hurt. Then it was laid in water as though it was to
be drowned, and after that it was put over the fire as if it was to be cooked.
It was terrible.

282
 »One can't always be on velvet, « said the flax; »things have to be tried
out before you can know them.«
All the same things were as bad as could be. The flax was bruised and
broken, scutched and hackled, and goodness knows what else besides. It
was put on the spinning-wheel, where it whirred and purred - it was
impossible to collect your thoughts.
»rve been amazingly lucky, « thought the flax in the midst of its pain.
»One must be thankful for the good one has enjoyed. Thankful, ay,
thankful« - and it was still saying this when it came on the loom - and
then it was turned into a splendid great piece of linen. The whole flax,
every single bit that was growing on it, was turned into the one piece.
»Oh, but this is quite wonderful - I could never have believed it. Yes,
yes, fortune is certainly on my side. A lot they knew about it, those hedge-
stakes, with their
»Snip, snap snorum,
basselorum!«
The song is by no means over. Why, it's only just beginning. How
wonderful! True, I've had a hard time, but I've got something to show for
it: I'm the luckiest of them all. I'm so strong and so smooth, so white and

so tall. It's something very different to just being a plant, even if one has a
flower. As a plant, there's no one to look after you, and you only get
watered when it rains. Now I have someone to wait on me. The maid
turns me round every morning, and the water-jug gives me a shower-bath
every evening. Why, even the parson's wife has made a speech about me,
saying I was the best bit of linen in the parish. I cannot be better off than
I am.«
And now the linen was brought into the house and came under the
scissors.What clipping and cutting and pricking with needles - my
word, there was! was no fun at all. But the linen was made into twelve
It

pairs of - things which are seldom mentioned, but must be worn by

everyone; yes, a whole dozen of them.
»There now, look at that! At last I've come to something. So that's
what I was marked out for. Oh, dear, it's too wonderful. Now I'll be some
use in the world, and that's as it should be, that's enjoyment of the right
kind. We've been turned into twelve garments; and yet we are all one and
the same, we are a dozen. What marvellous luck!«
Years passed - and at last they could hold together no longer.
»Some day there's got to be an end,« said each of them. »I should like to
have held out a little longer, but it's no good asking the impossible.« And
then they were torn into rags and remnants; they imagined they were
clean done with, for they were combed and crushed and boiled and good-
ness knows what - and there they were, turned into the most delicate
white paper!
»Why, this is a surprise - a most delightful surprise,* said the paper.
»Now I'm finer than ever, now I shall be written on. There's no end to

233
 «

what they can write. It really is astonishing luck.« And the most delight-
ful stories were written on it, people read, good stories of the
stories that
right kind that made men wiser and better. The wor^s given to the paper
were a blessing to many.
»This is more than ever I dreamed of, when I was a little blue flower in
the field. How could I imagine that I should one day bring joy and
knowledge to mankind. I still can't understand it. And yet, look! it has
actually come to pass. Heaven knows I myself have done nothing but
what in a small way I was forced to do in order to exist. And yet I am
borne on like this from one joy and honour to another. Every time I think
»the song is over,« it simply passes on to something much higher and
better. I'm sure to be sent travelling now, sent right round the world, so
that all mankind may read me. That's the most likely thing to happen.
Previously, I had blue flowers; now, in place of those flowers, I have the
most wonderful thoughts. I am the luckiest of all!«
But the paper didn't go travelling. It was sent to the printer; and all
that was written on it was set up in type for a book;, in fact, for hundreds
and hundreds of books, because in that way many more people could get
benefit and joy from it than if the single paper it was written on had gone
chasing round the world and got worn out by the time it was half-way.
»Yes,« thought the paper with writing on it. »This, after all, is much
the nicest way - one that never occurred to me. I shall stay at home and be
respected like an old grandfather. It was on me that they wrote, into me
that the words flowed straight from the pen. I stay here, while the books
go chasing around. Now there is a real chance to get something done.
Oh, how pleased, how lucky I am!«
The paper was then tied up in a bundle and laid on a shelf. »Repose is
sweet, when your work is done,« said the paper. »It's very right that we
should take ourselves in hand, and think seriously about what is in us.
It's only now that I really understand what is in me. 'Know thyself - that

is the real step forward. What will happen next, I wonder? A going

forward of some kind - always going forward!

One day all the paper was put in the fireplace to be burnt, for it
mustn't be sold to the grocer for wrapping up butter and sifted sugar.
And all the children in the house stood round to see it flare up; they
wanted to see the ashes give out all those red sparks that seemed to turn
away and go out, one after another, so quickly; those are the children
running out of school, and the last spark of all is the schoolmaster.
Sometimes you think he must have gone already; but there he comes, a
bit after all the others.
All the paper lay in a bundle, on the fire. Ooh! how it went flaring up!
»Ooh!« it sighed, and the next moment it was a sheet of flame. It blazed
higher into the air than ever the flax had been able to lift its little blue
flower, and shone brighter than ever the white linen had been able to

234
 on it turned quite red in an instant, and all
shine; all the letters written
the words and thoughts went up in a blaze.
»Now I'm going right up into the sun,« was the cry from the flame;
and it was as though a thousand voices all said it at once, and the flame
shot up through the chimney right out at the top ... And, more delicate
even than the flame, quite invisible to the human eye, there hovered tiny
little beings, just as many as there had been blossoms on the flax. They

were even lighter than the flame from which they had come, and when it
went out and all that was left of the paper was the dusky ash, they danced
away over it once more and wherever they touched it you could see their
footprints; they were the red sparks: »The children ran out of school, and
last of all came the schoolmaster«. It was great fun to look at, and the
children of the house stood singing over the dead ashes -
»Snip, snap, snorum,
basselorum,
the song is over.«
But the little invisible beings each of them said: »No, no, the song is
never over. That's what is so lovely about the whole thing. I know this,
and that's why I'm the luckiest of them all.«
But the children couldn't follow that, nor even hear it, and they were
not meant to either; for children mustn't know everything.
 Heartbreak

X
first
he story we are bringing in here
part might just as well be
is

left out;
really a story in
the only thing
two parts. The
makes a good
is, it

foundation - and that's such a help.

We were staying at a manor-house in the country, and it chanced that
the master and mistress went away for the day. While they were gone,
there came a good woman from the neighbouring market- town. She had
brought her pug-dog with her, and she had come, she said, in the hope of
getting some shares taken in her tannery. She had brought her prospectus
with her, and we advised her to put it in an envelope and to write on the
outside the address of the owner of the house: »Inspector-General Sir - -«
and so on.
She took our advice, picked up a pen and then paused, asking us to
repeat the address slowly. This we did, and she began writing; but in the
middle of spelling out »Inspector-General« she got stuck and, with a
sigh, remarked, »I am but a woman. « She had put her pug-dog down on
the floor while she wrote, and now he began growling. After all, he had
gone with her for enjoyment and for the sake of his health, and in a case
like this they had no business to put him on the floor. He was a snub-
nosed, podgy little pug.
»He won't bite,« said his mistress. »he has got no teeth. He's just like
one of the family, very faithful and very grumpy - though he has been
teased into that by my grandchildren, who play at 'weddings' and insist
on his being a bridesmaid; poor old chap, he finds that so exhausting.«

236
 Then she handed in her prospectus and picked up the pug again ...

Well, there's the first part of the story, which might just as well have been
left out.
The pug died - that's Part II.

It was about a week later. We drove to the market-town and put up at

the inn. Our windows faced the back, where the yard was divided in two
by a wooden fence. On one side hung skins and hides, both raw and
tanned; here was wherewithal for a tannery, and it belonged to the
all the

widow. The pug-dog had died that morning and been buried here in the
yard. The widow's grandchildren - that's to say, the tanner-widow's, for
the pug had not been married -were patting the grave firm; and it was a
splendid grave, which must have been a pleasure to lie in.
The grave was edged round with broken bits of pottery and strewn
with sand; at the head they had placed half a beer-bottle, with the neck
upwards; and there was nothing allegorical about that.
The children danced round the grave, and the eldest boy, a shrewd
little fellow of seven, suggested there should be a special exhibition of the

pug's grave for all those living in their street. The charge for admission
should be a trouser-button - that was something every boy would have
and could also pay for the little girls with. The proposal was carried
unanimously.
So all the children from their street, and from the back-lane as well,
came along and paid their buttons. There were lots of them who had to
get on with only one brace that afternoon; never mind, they had seen the
pug-dog's grave, and it was well worth the expense.
But outside the tan-yard, right against the gate, was a little ragged girl,
standing so gracefully there, with the prettiest curls and delightfully clear
blue eyes. She didn't say a word, and she didn't cry, but every time the
gate opened she looked as far in as she could. She hadn't a button - she
knew that - and s6 she was left standing sadly outside, standing there till

237
the others had all had and had gone away. Then at
their look at the grave
last she sat down, held her little brown hands
before her face and burst
into tears; she alone had not seen the dog's grave. That was heartbreak, as
bitter for her as it may sometimes be for one who is grown up.
We saw it all from above; and, seen from above, this was like so many
of the troubles of all of us - why, yes, we can smile at them ... There is the
story, and anyone who doesn't understand it had better take shares in the
widow's tannery.
 The Goblin
at the Grocer's

T,here was once a student, a proper student, who lived in the attic and
didn't own and there was a grocer, a proper grocer, who Hved on
a thing;
the ground floor and owned the whole house. It was the grocer that the
little goblin kept in with, for here every Christmas Eve he was given a

bowl of cream with a big lump of butter in - the grocer could manage
that; and the little goblin stayed in the shop, and that explains a good
deal.
One evening the student came into the shop by the back-door to buy
some candles and cheese; he hadn't anyone to send, and so he came
himself. He got what he required, paid for it and received a »good even-
ing« nod from the grocer and his wife. She was a woman who could do
much more than nod - she had a regular gift of the gab - and the student
nodded back and then stood there lost in reading from the sheet of news-
paper that the cheese had been wrapped up in. It was a page torn out of
an old book that never ought to have been torn up like that - an old book
full of poetry.
»There is some more of that book,« §aid the grocer. »I gave an old
woman some coffee beans for it. I'll let you have the rest of it for six-
pence.*

239
 «

»Thank you,« said the student. »Let me have it instead of the cheese. I
can eat plain bread and butter. It would be a shame for the whole book to
be torn to bits. You are a splendid man and a practical man, but you have
no more idea of poetry than that tub.«
That was a rude thing to say, especially at the expense of the tub; but
the grocer laughed, and the student laughed - after all, it was only said as
a kind of joke. But the little goblin was annoyed that anyone should dare
to speak like that to a grocer who was his landlord and sold such excel-
lent butter.
At nightfall, when the shop was shut and everyone but the student had
gone to bed, the little goblin went in and took away the goodwife's
»gab«, which she didn't need while she was asleep, and wherever he gave
it to any piece of furniture in the room downstairs this acquired speech

and language; it could express its thoughts and feelings quite as well as
the goodwife herself. But only one at a time could have it, and that was a
blessing, otherwise they would all have been talking at once.
And the little goblin passed the gift of the gab to the tub where the old
newspapers were kept. »Is it really true,« he asked, »that you don't know
what poetry is?«
»Of course I do,« said the tub. »It's the kind of thing that's to be found
at the foot of a newspaper column and that people cut out. I rather think
I have more of it in me than the student has; and yet I'm only a humble

tub beside the grocer.

And then this gift of the gab was passed on to the coffee-mill - goodness,
what a clatter! - and after that to the till and the buttercask. They all
thought the same as the tub, and what the majority are agreed upon must
be respected.
»Now for the student! « - and the little goblin crept softly up the
backstairs to the attic where the student's room was. There was a light
inside, and the little goblin peeped through the keyhole and saw the
student reading the tattered book from the shop. But how bright it was in
there! Out of the book shone a clear beam that turned into a treetrunk
and then into a huge tree which rose high up and spread its branches
right out over the student. The leaves were all so fresh and green, and
every blossom was the head of a lovely girl, some with dark flashing eyes,
others with eyes of the clearest blue. Every fruit was a shining star, and
marvellous was the beauty of the songs it sang.
Never had the little goblin imagined - let alone seen or felt - such
splendour. And so he stayed standing on tiptoe, peeping and peeping,
until the light in the attic died down. No doubt, the student blew out his
lamp and got into bed; but, all the same, the little goblin didn't go away,
for the sound of the singing was still so soft and lovely, a perfect lullaby
for the student as he lay down to rest.
»It's astonishing here,« said the little goblin to himself, »I never ex-
pected this. I think I will stay with the student. « And he pondered ...

240
and pondered sensibly ... and then he sighed: »But the student hasn't any
cream or butter. « So he went - yes, he went down again to the grocer's
and it was a good thing he did, because the tub had nearly used up the
goodwife's gibble-gabble in declaring on one side all it had to say, and
now it was just about to roll over and do the same on .the other side, when
the little goblin came and fetched the »gab« back for the grocer's wife.
Still, the whole shop, from the till to the firewood, took their cue ever

after from the tub; and so completely did it win their respect and confi-
dence that, when the grocer afterwards read out theatre and art criticisms
from his newspaper, they all thought that these came from the tub.
But now the little goblin could no longer sit quietly listening to all
that wisdom and understanding downstairs. No, as soon as ever a light
glimmered from the room in the attic, its beams were like powerful cables
dragging him up there; and he had to be off and take a peep through the
keyhole. There a sense of grandeur surged around him, such as we feel by
the rolling sea when God passes over it in the gale, and he burst into
tears. He had no idea himself why he wept, but somehow the tears that he
shed were tears of happiness. How wonderful it must be to sit with the
student under that tree! But that could never be - he was glad to stand at
the keyhole. He was still here on the chilly landing when the autumn
wind blew down from the trap-door in the ceiling, so cold, so cold. Yet
the little fellow did not feel this until the light went out in the room
under the roof, and the songs died away before the wind. Then - oh! how
he shivered, and he crept down again to his snug corner, where it was so
wonderfully cosy ... Later on came the Christmas bowl of cream with a
big lump of butter - yes, yes, now the grocer was the one!
But in the middle of the night the little goblin was woken up by a

241
fearful hubbub outside, where people were thumping on the shutters.
The watchman was blowing his whistle; there was a big outbreak of fire;
the whole street seemed to be ablaze. Was. it this house on fire or the
neighbour's? Where was it? How terrible! The grocer's wife got so flur-
ried that she took off her gold ear-rings and put them in her pocket, so as at
any rate to save something. The grocer dashed after his bonds, and the
maid after the silk mantilla she had managed to buy for herself. Each
one wanted to save his most precious belonging, and so did the little
goblin. He was up the stairs at a bound and into the room of the student,
who was standing quite calmly at the open window looking out at the
fire over at the opposite neighbour's. The little goblin snatched up the
wonderful book from the table, popped it into his red cap and held on to
it with both hands. The dearest treasure of the house was saved! Then

away he bolted, out on to the roof, right up on to the chimney, where he

sat lit up by the burning house over the way and with both hands clutch-
ing his red cap that held the treasure. Now he knew where his heart lay
and whom he really belonged to. But as the fire was just then put out and
he could think calmly - well, then: »ril divide myself between them,« he
said. »I can't give up the grocer altogether, because of the cream and the
butter.«
That was quite like a human being. We, too, have to go to the grocer
for thecream and the butter.
 In a Thousand Years'
Time
(written in 1853)

I t's a fact - a thousand years from now people will cross the ocean

through the air on wings of steam! America's young settlers will visit old
Europe. They will come over to see our monuments and our vanishing
cities, just as we in our day go touring among the crumbling splendours

of Southern Asia. A thousand years from now they will come.

The Thames, the Danube, the Rhine will still be rolling on; Mont
Blanc still standing with snowy cap; the Aurora Borealis still glittering
over the countries of the North. But age upon age will be dust, rows of
momentary potentates forgotten, like those who already slumber in the
funeral mound where the prosperous corn -merchant, on whose land it
lies, has made himself a seat for gazing out over his waving cornfields.

»To Europe! « is the cry from the young sons of America. »To the land
of our fathers, the wonderful land of memories and dreams - Europe!«
The airship comes. It is crowded with passengers, for the crossing is
quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic cable under the ocean has
already telegraphed how many the air caravan is bringing. Now Europe

243
is in sight - it is the coast of Ireland - but the passengers are still asleep;
they are not to be woken up till they are over England.There they will set
foot on European land of Shakespeare, as it is called by men of
soil in the
intellect; the land of machinery, it is called by others. There is
politics, of
a stop here for a whole day, so generous of its time is this busy generation
toward great England and Scotland.
On goes the journey through the Channel Tunnel to France, the coun-
try of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Moliere's name crops up; the scholars
speak of a classical and romantic school of distant antiquity; heroes,
poets and scientists are acclaimed of whom our age knows nothing, but
who will yet be born in that crater of Europe called Paris.
The air-steamer flies over the country from which Columbus set out,
where Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang his dramas in surging
verse. Beautiful dark-eyed women still live in the flowering valleys, and
the Cid and the Alhambra are celebrated in ancient song.
Through the air, again, across the sea to Italy, where ancient eternal
Rome once stood; it has been wiped out! The Campagna is a wilderness,
and of St. Peter's only a solitary bit of wall is to be seen, and there are
doubts whether even this can be genuine.
Then to Greece, so as to sleep a night at the sumptuous hotel on the
top of Olympus and show that they have been there. Their next goal will
be the Bosporus to get a few hour's rest and to see the place where
Byzantium stood. Poor fishermen now spread their nets where legend
tells of the garden of the harem in the days of the Turks.
Remains Danube, cities our age never
of great cities by the swirling
knew, will be passed in their flight, although here and there in places
rich in memories yet to be created - which time will bring forth - here

244
and there the air-caravan willcome down and then take off once more.
Down there lies Germany once encircled by a dense network of rail-
ways and canals - the country where Luther spoke and Goethe sang,
where Mozart in his day held the sceptre of music. Great names will have
won lustre in science and art, names unknown to us now. One day spent
in Germany, and another in the North to see the native lands of Orsted
and Linnaeus and to see Norway, home of the old-time heroes and the
young Norwegians. Iceland is taken on the journey back; Geyser boils no
longer, Hecla is extinct; but, as an everlasting monument to the sagas,
that rocky island still stands firm in the foaming sea.
»There's a lot to look at in Europe,« says one young American, »and
we've done it in a week. Yes, it's quite possible, as the great traveller (he
mentions a name of that era) has shown in his famous book How to see
Europe in a week.«
 «

'She Was No Good'

T,he mayor was standing at his open window. There he was in his
shirt-sleeves, with a breast-pin in his shirt-frill, and he had just given
himself a wonderfully clean shave, though he had managed to cut him-
self slightly; however, he had stuck a bit of newspaper over the place.
»Hullo, young 'un!« he called out.
The »young 'un« was none other than the washerwoman's son, who
happened to be passing and respectfully took off his cap; the peak of this
had been bent so as to go easily into the boy's pocket. There, in his shab-
by but clean, neatly-mended clothes and his heavy clogs, the boy stood as
respectfully as if he were in the presence of the King himself.
»You're a good lad,« said the mayor, »with good manners. I suppose
your mother's rinsing clothes, down by the river and you've got to take
her that stuff you have in your pocket. It's dreadful about your mother.
How much have you got?«
»A pint,« answered the boy in a low, timid voice.
»And she had just the same this morning, eh?« the man went on.
»No, it was yesterday, « said the boy.
»Two pints make a quart. She's no good. It's so sad with that class of
people. Tell your mother she ought to be ashamed of herself. And mind
you don't become a drunkard - though I expect you will ... Poor child! ....
Run along.
And the boy went. He still kept his cap in his hand, and the wind blew

246
through his yellow hair until it stood up in long tufts. He turned out of
the street into the lane that led down where his mother was
to the river,
standing out in the water at her washing bench and beating the heavy
linen with her washing-bat. There was a current running, for the sluices
were open; the sheets were caught by the millstream and looked like
carrying the bench away; yes, the washerwoman had to hold on tight.
»I was nearly done for,« she said. »It's a good thing you've come, for
my strength was beginning to fail me, and I needed some help. It's cold
in this water; I've been standing here for six hours. Got something for
me?«
The boy produced the bottle, and the mother put it to her lips and took
a good pull.
»Ah, that's what I wanted - how it warms me up! It's as good as a hot
meal, and it doesn't cost so much. Take a drink, my son - you look so
pale, you must be shivering in those thin things; after all, it is autumn.
Huh! the water's cold. I hope I'm not going to be ill. But no, that shan't
happen. Let me have a drop more - and you, too, but only a sip; you
mustn't get into the way of it, my poor penniless child.«
Then she climbed on to the little jetty where the boy stood, and stepped
ashore. The water was dripping from the rush-matting she had wrapped
round her middle and was oozing from her skirt.
»I toil and slave till the blood's ready to spurt out of my finger-nails;
but it makes no odds, as long as I can bring you up respectably, my boy.«
Just then a rather older woman came up, a poor-looking creature, lame
in one leg and with a great big lock of false hair hanging over one eye
which was meant to be hidden by the curl, but it only made her blind eye
more noticeable. She was a friend of the washerwoman's; »Lame Maren
with the curl« the neighbours called her.
»Poor thing! How you do toil and slave out in that cold water! You
must be dying for a drop of something to warm you, and yet people make
such a fuss about the little nip you take.« And, with that, the washer-
woman was given the whole story of what the mayor said to her boy; for
Maren had overheard it all, and she was vexed that he should speak like
that to a child about its own mother and about the little nip she allowed
herself, especially when his Worship was just giving an elaborate dinner
with lashings of wine - »tasty wines and strong wines, rather more than's
good for many of 'em, but they don't call that drinking! They're all right,
but you're no good!«
»So he's been talking to you, child,« said the washerwoman, and her
lips trembled as she spoke. »You have a mother who's no good! Well,
maybe he's right, but he shouldn't say so to her child. Still, I've had to
put up with a lot from that house.«
»You were in service, weren't you, at their house when the mayor's
father and mother were alive? But that's a long time ago. Bushels of salt
have been eaten since then, so we may well be thirsty. « And Maren

247
 «

laughed. »There's a big dinner this evening at the mayor's; it ought to

have been put off, but it v^as too late - the food had all been cooked. I
heard about it from the footman. A letter arrived an hour ago to say that
the younger brother in Copenhagen is dead.«
»Dead!« exclaimed the v^asherw^oman, turning deathly pale.
»Come, come!« said the other. »Do you take it so much to heart? Well,
of course you knew him from being in service at their house.
»Is he dead? He was the best, the kindest, of men. God doesn't get many
like him« - and the tears ran down her cheeks ... »Good gracious! How
my head swims! All because I drank off that bottle - it was too much for
me. Oh, I do feel ill.« And she steadied herself against the fence.
»Goodness, you are poorly, my dear,« said Maren. »But we shall see, it
may pass off ... Why, you're downright ill - I'd better get you back
home.«
»But there's my washing -«
»ril see after that. Now take my arm. The boy can stay here and mind
the things for the present; then I'll come and wash the rest - there isn't
much to do now.«
And the washerwoman's feet tottered under her.
»rve been standing too long in the water. I've had neither bite nor sup
since early morning. I feel feverish all over. O merciful God, help me
home! My poor child!« And she burst into tears.
The boy cried too, and soon he was sitting alone on the river-bank
beside the wet linen. The two women slowly went up the lane - the
washerwoman still tottering - round into the street, past the mayor's
house, and just outside it she collapsed on the pavement. A crowd collect-
ed.
Lame Maren rushed into the house for help. The mayor and his guests
peeped out of the windows.
»It's the washerwoman,« he said. »She's had a drop too much; she's no
good. It's a pity for that goodlooking boy of hers. I quite like the child,
but the mother's no good.«
After a while she was brought round again and helped back to her
humble dwelling, where she was put to bed. Honest Maren set to and
mixed her a mugful of warm beer with butter and sugar - no medicine
like it, according to Maren - and then off she went to the river and did
some feeble but wellmeant rinsing; she really only, drew the wet linen
ashore and laid it in a basket.
In the evening she sat with thewasherwoman in her humble room. She
had managed to get the patient a few potatoes and a fine fat piece of ham
from the mayor's cook, but this only made a good supper for Maren and
the boy. The sick woman was contented with the smell, which she said
was so nourishing.
Then the boy went to bed - the same bed in which his mother lay - but

248
he slept crosswise at her feet, with an old piece of carpeting over him
made up of blue and red strips that had been sewn together.
And now the washerwoman felt a little better; the warm beer had
strengthened her, and the smell of the fine food had done her good.
»Thanks, kind soul that you are!« she said to Maren. »ril tell you the
whole story as soon as the boy's asleep. I believe he is already - what a
dear good child he looks, there with his eyes closed. He little knows what
his mother has been through. Heaven preserve him from thatl...
»I was in service with the mayor's parents - his father was a Councillor
- and it happened that their youngest son, who had just left school, came
home. In those days I was young and flighty - but respectable, I swear to
God,« said the washerwoman. »The young student was wonderfully gay
and cheerful; every drop of blood in him was honest and good; there
wasn't a better creature on earth. He was a son of the house, whereas I
was only a maid, but we became lovers - in all chastity and honour.
There's nothing wrong in a kiss between two that really love each other.
And he told his mother about it, for to him she was like a God on earth -
she was so wise and kind and lovable ... Before he went away, he placed
his gold ring on my finger; and as soon as he had left, my mistress called
me to her. She stood and spoke to me as solemnly, and yet as gently, as
the Lord himself might have done; she showed me clearly in spirit and in
truth the difference between him and me. 'At present he only sees how
pretty you are but prettiness will fade. You haven't had the education
that he has; you won't be equal in things of the mind; there is what
stands in the way. I respect the poor (she went on); with God they may
take a higher place than many that are rich; yet on earth we must be
careful to keep on the right track as we drive ahead, or else the carriage
will upset - and you two will upset. I know that a worthy man, an
artisan, Erik the glover has asked you to marry him; he is a widower
without children and is well off. Now think it over.'
Every word she spoke cut me to the quick; but my mistress was right in
what she said, though it wrung my heart and weighed me down. I kissed
her hand and wept bitter tears - even more so, when I came to my room
and flung myself on my bed. It was a sad night that followed; heaven
knows how I suffered and wrestled with myself! Then on the Sunday I
went to the Lord's table to pray for guidance. It was like an act of Provi-
dence: as I came out of church, I met Erik the glover. And now there was
no longer any doubt in my mind. We were suited to each other in posi-
tion and outlook; in fact, he was even well-to-do, and so I went straight
up to him, took his hand and said, 'Do you still feel the same about me?'
'Yes', he replied, 'now and always!' 'Will you marry a girl who honours
and respects you, but doesn't love you - though that might come?' 'It will
comel' he said, and at that we joined hands. I went back to my mistress. I
still carried at my breast the gold ring that her son had given me. I

249
couldn't put it on my when I went to
finger by day, but only every night
bed. I kissed the ring till my
were bleeding, and then I gave it to my
lips
mistress and told her our banns were to be published in church next
week, for me and the glover. Then my mistress took me in her arms and
kissed me. She didn't say I was 'no good', though I daresay I was better in
those days; but then I knew little as yet of the world and its hardships.
After that came the wedding at Candlemas; and the first year passed off
well. We had a journeyman and an apprentice, and you, Maren, looked
after us.«
»Ah, you were a wonderful mistress,« said Maren. »Never shall I forget
how kind you and your husband were.«
»Yes, it was during our good year that you were with us. We were still
without a child. The young student I saw nothing of ... Yes, I did see him
once, but he didn't see me. He came to his mother's funeral. I saw him
standing at the grave, so pale and sorrowful - but that was for his
mother. When later the father died, he was abroad and didn't come back,
nor has he ever been back since. He never got married, I know. I think he
became a lawyer. He forgot me completely and, if he had seen me, he
wouldn't have known me again - I look so ugly now. And a good thing,
too!«
She went on to speak of her heavy days of trial - how misfortune
seemed to come hurtling over them. They had five hundred dollars of
their own and, as there was a house in the street to be bought for two
hundred and it would pay to have it pulled down and build a new one,
they bought the house. Mason and carpenter got out an estimate showing
that it would cost over a thousand more. Erik had enough credit and got
a loan of money from Copenhagen; but the master of the ship that was to
bring it them lost his ship and the money as well.
»It was just then that I gave birth to my dear boy who is sleeping here
... His dad fell ill of a painful lingering disease; for nine months I had to

dress him and undress him. Our affairs went from bad to worse; we kept
on borrowing. Everything had to be sold, and then my husband died ...
I've toiled and slaved and striven for the sake of the child, washing steps,
washing linen coarse or fine; but I wasn't meant to be better off, such is
the will of God. Still, he'll soon give me my release, I expect, and provide
for the boy.«
Then she fell asleep.
As the morning wore on, she felt much better - strong enough, she
thought, to go back to her work. But she had no sooner gone out into the
cold water than she was seized with trembling and faintness. Convulsive-
ly she clutched out in front of her, took a step up and then fell. Her head
came down on dry land, but her feet were out in the river; her wooden
clogs which she had worn to stand in - each with a wisp of straw in it -
floated down the stream. Maren found her here, when she arrived with
coffee.

250
 At home a message had just come from the mayor that she was to come
to him at once, for he had something to tell her. It was too late. A barber
surgeon was sent for to bleed her; but the washerwoman was dead.
»She has drunk herself to death,« said the mayor.
With the letter that brought him news of his brother's death was a copy
of the will. This included a bequest of 600 dollars to the glover's widow
who at one time was in service with his parents. The money was to be
paid out to her and her child in larger or smaller sums, as might seem
best.
»There was some sort of foolish nonsense between her and my broth-
mayor. »It's a good thing she's out of the way. Now the boy
er,« said the
can have the lot. I'll put him with respectable people and he may turn
out a good workman« ... And heaven's blessing fell on these words.
The mayor sent for the boy, promised to look after him, and told him
what a good thing it was his mother was gone - she was no good.
They bore her to the churchyard, to the poor people's burial-ground.
Maren planted a little rose tree on the grave, and the boy stood beside it.
»My darling Mother!« he said with eyes full of tears. »Is it true about
her being 'no good'?«
»No, she u;a5 good!« said the old servant, looking upward. »rve known
it and more than ever since last night. I tell you, she was good -
for years,
and God in his heaven knows it too, however much the world may say,
'She was no good'.«
 The Bottle-Neck

Jn a crooked street, tucked away among several poor dwellings,

little

stood a narrow half-timbered house that was everywhere sagging and

tall

out of line. There were poor people living in it, and it looked poorest up
in the attic, where, hanging in the sunshine outside the little window,
was an old dented birdcage without even a proper drinking-glass; all it
had for the water was a bottle-neck, turned upside down, with a cork in
underneath. An old spinster was standing at the open window; she had
just trimmed the cage with chickweed, and a small linnet was hopping
from perch to perch, singing for all it was worth.
»Ay, it's all very well for you to sing«, said the bottle-neck - well, it
didn't say it quite as we should say it, for a bottle-neck can't talk; but it

thought like that inside itself; just as we sometimes talk to ourselves.

»Yes, it's all you that have sound limbs. You
very well for you to sing,
should try what it's lower part of you, like me, with no-
like to lose all the
thing left but neck and mouth, and that with a cork in it; you wouldn't
sing then! Still, I must say, it's nice to see someone enjoying himself. I've
got no reason to sing and, anyhow, I can't sing. I could once, when I was
a whole bottle and used to be rubbed with a cork; they called me a perfect
lark, a great larkl And then, when I was out in the woods with the furrier's
family and his daughter got engaged - yes, I remember it all as if it was
yesterday. I've had a lot of adventures, when I come to think of it. I've been
through fire and water, I've been down into the black earth, I've been
higher up than most; and now here I am hanging outside the birdcage in
air and sunshine. Perhaps you might care to hear my story, though I'm
not going to tell it aloud because I can't.«

And then the bottle-neck - talking to itself or thinking to itself - began

its story, which was certainly a remarkable one. And the little bird sang
itscheerful song, while down in the street people walked and drove, each
thinking about his own affairs - or about nothing at all. But the bottle-
neck was thinking hard.
It remembered the blazing furnace in the factory, where it had been

252
blown into existence. It still remembered how hot it had been, how it had
looked into the roaring kiln that it first came from and how it longed to
jump straight into it again - and yet how it gradually, as it cooled off, felt
quite satisfied to be where it was. It stood in a row with a whole regiment
of brothers and sisters, all from the same furnace; but some were blown
into champagne bottles, others into beer bottles - and that does make a
difference! It's true that later on, out in the world, a beer bottle may have
the most precious Lacrymae Christi inside it, while a champagne bottle
may be filled with blacking; still, the shape does show what one was born
to: noble is noble, even with blacking inside.

After a while all the bottles were packed up, our flask among them. It
never thought at that time of ending as a bottle-neck and of working up
to be a bird's drinking-glass, though that's quite a worthy walk of life -
one is something, at any rate. It didn't see daylight again until it was
unpacked with the other bottles in the wine-merchant's cellar and was
rinsed out for the first time; that was a funny sensation. There it lay,
empty and uncorked, feeling curiously dull; it missed something, but
didn't exactly know what it was it missed. Presently it was filled up with
a good vintage wine; it was corked and sealed and labelled »first quality«
on the outside. This was like getting »v.g.« in an examination, though
the wine really was good and the bottle was good. We are all of us lyric
poets when we are young. The bottle was full of songs and sounds of
things it knew nothing about - of the green sunny hills where the wine
grows, where the gay young girls and the merry young men join in song
and kiss - ah, how wonderful to be alive! All this singing went ringing
inside the bottle just at it does inside the young poets who, equally, often
know nothing about it.
One morning it was sold. The furrier's boy was to fetch a »bottle of the

best«, and was put into the picnic basket together with ham, cheese and
it

sausages; there was delicious butter and the finest bread - all packed but
the furrier's daughter herself. She was young and pretty, with laughing
brown eyes, and a smile on her lips that said just as much as her eyes. Her
hands were so delicate and white, and yet neck and throat were even
whiter; you could see at once that she must be one of the prettiest girls in
the town, and yet she was still not engaged.
The picnic basket rested on her lap, as the family drove out to the
woods. The neck of the bottle stuck out of the corners of the white
napkin; there was a red seal on the cork, and it looked straight into the
young girl's face. It also looked at the young sailor sitting beside her; they
had been friends from childhood. He was the son of a portrait-painter
and had lately taken his mate's certificate, passing with distinction, and
tomorrow he was to sail with his ship, far away to foreign countries.
There had been a lot of talk about this while the packing was going on
and, as she listened, there was little enough joy to be seen in the eyes or
lips of the furrier's pretty daughter.

253
 «

The young couple went strolling in the green wood, talking together.
What did they talk about? Well, the bottle couldn't hear, being still in the
basket. It was a wonderful long time before they took it out, but, when at
last they did, delightful things had happened, and their eyes were all
smiling; the furrier's daughter was smiling too, but she didn't say much
and her cheeks were blushing like two crimson roses.
Father took up the full bottle and the corkscrew ... Yes, it is strange,
this business of having your cork drawn for the first time. Never since
then had the bottle-neck been able to forget that solemn moment; it had
uttered a regular »pop!« as the cork flew, and then it gurgled as the wine
gushed into the glasses.
»Here's to the happy pair!« cried the father, and each glass was drunk
right up, and the young mate kissed his lovely bride.
»Health and happiness! « said the two old people. And the young man
filled up the glasses again. »To my safe return and our wedding in a
year's time!« he cried; and when their glasses were emptied, he picked up
the bottle, and, waving it above them, he said to it, »You have shared in
the finest day of my life; you shall never serve another!
He flung it away high in the air. The last thing the furrier's daughter
imagined was tjiat she would ever see it flying again; but she did. It now
dropped in among the dense reeds by the little lake in the wood. The
bottleneck could still remember so vividly how it lay there pondering. »I
gave them wine, and they give me water from a swamp - though I'm sure
they mean well.« The two lovers and the delighted old folk were out of
sight by now, but it heard them singing and celebrating for some time
longer. Then two village boys came along and peeped in among the
reeds; they saw the bottle and picked it up. So now it would be cared for.
At the house in the wood, where the two boys had their home, their
eldest brother, who was a seaman, had come yesterday to say goodbye, as
he was just leaving on a longish voyage. His mother stood there packing
one thing and another, which his father was to take into the town that
evening when he went to see his son once more before he sailed and to
give him a last greeting from them both. A small bottle of medicated
brandy had just been packed in, when here came the two boys with a
larger, stronger bottle they had found. This would hold more than the
small bottle, and the brandy was such splendid stuff for a weak digestion,
as it had St. John's wort juice in it. This time the bottle wasn't filled with
red wine as it had been before, but with a bitter drink; yet this too may
often be good - for the digestion. It was the new bottle, then, not the
small one, that was to go along with him ... and so here was our bottle
once more on its travels. It was brought on board for Peter Jensen, and
this turned out to be the very ship the young mate was sailing in, though
he never saw the bottle and wouldn't anyhow have recognized it or have
thought, »Why, that's the one out of which we drank to our engagement
and my return home«.

254
 It's true, was no longer any wine in it, but there was something
there
just as good; and whenever Peter Jensen got it out, his messmates always
called it »the chemist«; it dispensed good medicine - good, that is for the
digestion - and this lasted as long as there was a drop left. Those were
pleasant days, and the bottle used to sing when it was rubbed with the
cork, so that it got the name of the great lark, »Peter Jensen's Lark.«
A long time had passed, and the bottle now stood empty in a corner
when it happened - whether on the outward or homeward voyage, the
bottle didn't really know, for it hadn't been ashore - that a gale got up,
with great weltering seas, heavy and black, that lifted and flung the vessel
about. The mast snapped, a heavy sea stove in a plank, the pumps were
no longer working, the night was pitch-dark. The ship sank, but in the
last minute the young mate scribbled on a sheet of paper, »In God's name
- we are sinking!« He wrote the name of his girl, himself and his ship,
put the paper into an empty bottle that was handy, pushed the cork hard
in and hurled the bottle out into the raging sea. He had no idea it was the
very bottle from which a toast of hope and happiness had been drunk for
him and for her; now it was tossing on the wave with a last greeting and
with news of his death.
The ship went down, and the crew with her, but the bottle flew on like
a bird, for inside it was a heart, a lover's letter. And the sun rose, and the
sun set, looking to the bottle just as in its earliest days the red-hot furnace
had looked; it longed to fly into it again. It met with calms and more
gales, but it struck no rock and was swallowed by no shark. For over a
year it drifted about, now to the north, now to the south, as the currents
carried it. It was otherwise its own master - but you can get tired even of
that.
The paper with writing on it, the young mate's last farewell to his
sweetheart, would only cause sorrow, if it came into her hands; but where
were those hand that had gleamed so white as they spread out the cloth
on the fresh green grass in the woods that day of their betrothal? Where
was the furrier's daughter? Yes, where was her country, and what was the

255
country that now lay nearest? The bottle didn't know; it drifted and drifted
and was at last utterly tired of drifting - it was never intended for this -
and yet it went on drifting till at last it came to land, to a foreign land. It
couldn't make out a word of what was said; it was no lingo it had ever
heard before, and one misses a lot if one doesn't know the language.
The bottle was picked up and examined. The paper was seen inside it,
taken out and twisted and turned; but the people didn't understand the
writing on it. They realized of course that he bottle must have been
thrown overboard and that there was something about it on the paper,
but what this might be - that was a mystery. And the paper was put back
into the bottle, which was then stood away in a big cupboard in a big
room in a big house.
Whenever strangers came, was taken out and twisted and
the paper
turned, so that at last the writing,which was only in pencil, became more
and more difficult to read, and in the end you couldn't even tell that they
were letters. The bottle stood another year in the cupboard and was then
moved up into the attic, where it got covered with dust and cobwebs.
Here it fell to thinking of those better days, when it poured out red wine
in the cool woods, and when it went rocking on the waves and had a
secret to carry - a letter, a parting sigh.
And now for twenty years it up in the attic. It might have stood
stood
there longer, if had to be rebuilt. The roof was stripped
the house hadn't
off, and the bottle was seen and discussed, but it didn't understand the
language. You don't learn a language by standing in an attic, even for
twenty years. »If I had stayed downstairs«, it thought, »I expect I should
have learnt it.«

The bottle was now washed and rinsed - it was about time! It felt quite
clean and transparent and even young again in its old age, but the paper
it had been carrying was washed out completely - it had vanished.

This time the bottle was filled up with seeds; it had never come across
that kind of thing before. It was corked tight and well wrapped up, so
that it couldn't see either lamp or candle, let alone sun or moon; and
really one should be able to see something when travelling, thought the
bottle. Well, it didn't see a thing though it did what was most important
- it got away and came to the right place, where it was unpacked.
»What a lot of trouble those foreigners have taken with it!« said some-
one, »and after all I daresay it's broken«. But it was not broken. The
bottle understood every word they said; it was the same language it had
heard at the furnace and at the wine-merchant's and the woods and on
board ship - the one real good old language that it could understand.
The bottle had come home to its own country and was being welcomed
back. From sheer delight it had very nearly jumped out of the hands that
held it, and it scarcely noticed that the cork was drawn. The contents of
the bottle were shaken out, and it was itself put down in the cellar to be
shut away and forgotten. Still, there's no place like home, even in the

256
 never thought of wondering how long it had been there - it must
cellar. It
have been years, though it was quite comfortable. Then one day people
came down and fetched the bottles, our bottle with the rest.
Out in the garden there were great goings on. Flaming lamps hung in
festoons, and Chinese lanterns glowed like great transparent tulips. It
was such a lovely evening too, with still, clear weather and the stars
shining brightly; the moon was at the new - really you could see the
whole round moon like a blue-grey ball edged half-way round with gold.
It was a fine sight, for fine eyes.
Down walks there was also some lighting - well, at least
solitary
enough for anyone
to see their way. Bottles had been placed between the
hedges, with a candle in each; there, too, was our bottle that one day was
to end up as a bottle-neck, a bird's glass. It was delighted beyond measure
with all that it saw about it, for it found itself once more in the green-
wood, once more joining in gaiety and festival, listening to music and
song and to the murmur and buzz of a crowd, especially from that corner
of the garden where the lamps were ablaze and the Chinese lanterns
flaunting their colours. It's true that it was standing in an out-of-the-way
path, but it was just this which gave food for thought: here was the bottle
carrying its candle, standing at this spot for use and enjoyment, and
that's as it should be. At such a moment twenty years in an attic are
forgotten - and it is well to forget.
Close to the bottle passed a solitary couple arm in arm, just like that
other couple long ago in the wood, the young mate and the furrier's
daughter; the bottle felt as if it was living that all over again. Guests were
strolling in the garden, and there were others who came to look at them
and the decorations, and among these was an old spinster without rela-
tives, but not without friends. She was thinking just the same as the
bottle. She was thinking of the green wood and of a couple of young
lovers who had meant much to her; she had had a share in all that - a half
share. It had been her happiest hour, and that's something one never
forgets, however old a maid one becomes. But she didn't recognize the
bottle, and the bottle didn't recognize her; that's how we pass each other

257
by in the world ... till we meet again, as these two did, tor here they were
together in the same town.
The bottle was brought from the garden to the wine-merchant's and
once more filled with wine and sold to the aeronaut who was to go up in
his balloon the following Sunday. There was a great crowd of people to
see this, a military band, and all sorts of preparations. The bottle looked
on from a basket, where it lay next to a live rabbit which was very nervous
because it knew it was to be taken up with the balloon in order to come
down by parachute. The bottle knew nothing about up or down; it saw
how the balloon kept bellying out bigger and bigger, and when it
couldn't get any bigger it began to rise higher and higher and to get very
unsteady. Then the ropes that held it were cut, and away it floated with
aeronaut, basket, bottle and rabbit; the band played, and everyone shout-
ed, »Hurrah!«
»This is a rum way to travel - up in the air«, thought the bottle. »It's a
new kind of sailing. There's not much danger of a collision up here!«
Thousands of people followed the balloon with their eyes, and so did
the old spinster. She stood at her open attic window, where the cage was
hanging with the little linnet, which at that time had no water-glass, but
had to do with a cup. In the window itself stood a myrtle in a pot and this
had been moved a bit to one side, so as not to be knocked down as the old
spinster leaned out to look. She saw the aeronaut quite clearly in the
balloon, and how he dropped the rabbit by parachute, and after that
drank everybody's health, and then threw the bottle high into the air.
Never did she dream that this was the very bottle she had once seen flying
through the air for her and her friend that glorious day in the green
wood, when they were very young.
The bottle had no time for dreaming; it was all so unexpected to find
itself suddenly at the highest point of its career. Roofs and steeples lay far

below, people all looked so tiny.

And now it was falling, falling, and at a very different speed to the
rabbit's. The bottle turned somersaults in the air - it felt so young and
reckless. It was half-full of wine, though not for long. What a voyage!
The sun shone on the bottle, everyone kept their eyes on it, the balloon
was already vanishing in the distance, and in a moment the bottle had
vanished too. It fell on a roof and was broken; but the bits had such a lot
of way on that they couldn't stop, but went bouncing and rolling till they
came right down in the yard and lay there in still smaller pieces. Only the
neck of the bottle held out, and that was cut off as cleanly as if had been
done with a diamond.
»That'd do fine for a bird-glass,« said the man in the basement. But he
himself had neither bird nor cage, and it would be too much to expect
him to buy these just because he had found a bottle-neck that would do
for a bird-glass. The old spinster in the attic might like to have it; and so
the bottle-neck went up to her, had a cork put in it, and what before was

258
on top now came down below - as often happens when there are changes.
Then it was given some clean water and was hung in front of the cage of

the little bird that sang for all it was worth.

»Ay, it's all very well for you to sing«, was what the bottle-neck said;
and it really was remarkable to think, it had been in the balloon. That
was all that was known about it. Now it hung there as a bird's drinking-
glass and could listen to the rumbling and tumbling of the street below -
listen, too, to the old spinster talking in her room. She happened to have
a visitor, an old lady friend, and they were talking together, not about the
bottle-neck, but about the myrtle in the window.
»No, you certainly mustn't throw away two dollars on a bridal bou-
quet for your daughter*, said the old spinster. »You shall have a lovely
one from me, full of blooms. Do you see how beautifully the tree stands?
Well, you know, it's a cutting from the myrtle you gave me the day after I
got engaged - the tree I myself was to get my bridal bouquet from, when
the year was up; but that day never came. The eyes closed that were to
have brought me happiness and joy through life. Sweetly he sleeps, dear
soul, at the bottom of the sea ... The tree grew old, but I grew still older;
and, as the tree began to droop, I took the last new shoot and put it in the
ground, and now it has grown to ever such a big tree and is at last quite
fine enough for a wedding, to make a bridal bouquet for your daughter.*
There were tears in the old maid's eyes. She spoke about the friend of
her youth, of their betrothal in the wood. She thought of the toast they
had drunk, and she thought of the first kiss ... but she didn't say it aloud,
being an old maid now. She had so many memories, but she never
dreamed that just outside her window was yet another memory from
those days - the neck of the bottle that said »pop!« when the cork went
bursting off at the toast. But neither did the bottle-neck know her again,
as it wasn't listening to the story she was telling - partly because it only
thought of itself.
 The Money-Pig

T,here were such a playroom. On the top of

lot of toys in the children's
the wardrobe stood the money-box; it was made
of earthenware in the
shape of a pig, with a slit in its back, of course; and the slit had been
enlarged with a knife so that even half-crowns could go in - and two had
gone in, besides a good many coppers. The money-pig was crammed so
full that it couldn't rattle any longer, and a money-pig can't rise higher
than that. it was, up on the shelf, looking down on everything in
There
the room; knew well enough that with what it had got in its stomach it
it

could buy up the whole place. That's what we call having self -assurance.
The others thought so, too, though they didn't actually say so. The
chest-of-drawers had a drawer half-open, with a big doll sticking up that
was rather old and had a rivet in its neck; it peeped out and said, »Now
let's play 'men and women,' that's always rather fun.« And then there

was such a set-out; even the pictures turned their faces to the wall (for
they knew they had backs as well), but it wasn't because they minded.
It was the middle of the night; the moon .shone through the window

and gave free lighting to the room. Now the game was to begin; everyone
had been invited, even the pram, which really belonged to the rougher
toys. »Each one has his points,« said the pram. »We can't all be gentle-
folk. Someone must do the work, as the saying is.«

260
 The money-pig was the only one to receive a written invitation; they
were afraid he was too high up to be able to hear an invitation by word of
mouth. Nor did he answer whether he was coming; in fact he didn't
come. If he was to join in, it must be from his own place; they could
arrange that, and they did.
The little toy theatre was immediately put up in such a way that he
could see right into it. They meant to begin with a play, and after that
there was to be tea and discussion; but they began with this straight away.
The rocking-horse spoke about training and bloodstock, the pram about
railways and steampower - you see, in each case it was something in their
own line which they could talk about. The clock spoke on politic-tic-tics;
it knew what the time was, though they said it was never right. The

malacca cane stood up and swaggered about his ferrule and silver knob,
for he was tipped both top and bottom. On the sofa lay two embroidered
cushions, pretty and feather-brained. And now the play could begin.
They all sat and looked on and were requested to smack, crack and
rattle to show their enjoyment. However, the riding-whip said that he
never cracked for the elderly, but only for young people not yet engaged.
»I crack for everybody,« said the cracker. »Well, there's one place where
one has to be,« thought the spittoon - these were the kind of thoughts
that came to everyone as they watched the play. The piece wasn't up to
much, but it was well acted. All the players turned their painted side
towards the audience; they were only meant to be seen on one side, not on
the other. They all acted splendidly - right in front of the stage, as their
wires were too long, but that only made them easier to see. The riveted
doll was so thrilled that her rivet came out, and the money-pig was (in his

261
own way) so thrilled that he made up his mind to do something for one
of the players - to put him in his will as the one to have a public funeral
with him, when the time came.
They honestly enjoyed it all so much that they gave up the idea of tea
and went on with the discussion. That's what they called playing 'men
and women'; but there was no malice in it, for it was only play. And each
one thought of-himself and of what the money-pig might be thinking;
and the money-pig thought further ahead, for he was thinking of his will
and his funeral - and when could that be? It always comes before it's
expected ...
Crash! Down fell the money-pig from the wardrobe; there he lay on the
floor in bits and pieces, while the coins went dancing and hopping
around. The small ones rolled, the big ones bowled, especially one of the
half-crowns that was so eager to see the world. And see the world it did -
so did they all - while the broken bits of the money-pig found their way
to the dustbin. But the next day there on the wardrobe stood a new
earthenware money-pig. Not a penny was in it as yet, and so this one
couldn't rattle either; it was like the other in that. Anyhow, it had made a
beginning - and with that we will make an end.
 Five Peas from One Pod

T, here were five peas in a pod; they were green, and so they thought the
whole world must be green - and that was right enough. The pod grew
and the peas grew, fitting themselves into the available houseroom; they
were all in a row. The sun shone outside, warming the pod right
through, and the rain washed it clear. It was in a nice cosy spot, light by
day and dark by night, just as it should be, and the peas grew larger and
more and more thoughtful as they sat there, for of course they had to do
something.
»Have I got to stay here for ever?« they said in turn. »I only hope I

shan't get hard from sitting here so long. I've a sort of idea there is

something outside; it's just a feeling I have.«

Weeks passed. The peas turned yellow and the pod turned yellow.
»The whole world's turning yellow, « they said, and they had a perfect
right to say it.

it was broken off by somebody's

All at once they felt a tug at the pod;
hand and then found itself down in a coat-pocket among several other
full pods. »Now we shall soon be opened, « they said - and waited for it to
happen.
»I wonder which of us will get on best,« said the smallest pea. »Well,
anyhow, we'll soon know.«
»What is to be will be,« said the biggest one.

263
 »Pop!« The pod split open, and
peas came rolling out into the
all five
bright sunshine. They lay in a child's hand; a little
boy was clutching
them, and he said they were just the very peas for his pea-shooter; and
straight away one
of the peas was put into the shooter and fired off.
»Now I'm flying out into the wide world; catch me if you can!« - and
he was gone.
»I«, said the second, »I shall make straight for the sun; that's a proper
pod and will suit me down to the ground. « And away he went. »We'll
take it easy wherever we come,« said the other two; »but anyhow we'll go
rolling ahead !« And so they firsthad a roll on the floor before they came
into the peashooter, but they came there in the end. »We'll get on best!«
they cried.
»What is to be will be,« said the last pea and was shot into the air. He
flewup to the old board under the attic window, right bang into a crack
where there was some moss and soft earth, and the moss covered him up.
There he lay hidden, though not hidden from God.
»What is to be will be,« he repeated.
Inside, in the little attic, lived a poor woman who went out daily to
clean stoves - even to saw up firewood and do heavy was jobs, for she
strong and hardworking - but she was At home, in
still as poor as ever.
the little attic, lay her half grown-up only daughter, who was terribly
thin and delicate. For a whole year she had to keep her bed, unable (it
seemed) either to live or die.
»She'll go and join her little sister«, said the woman. »I had the two of
them, and it was hard enough for me to look after them both; but then
the Lord went shares with me and took one to himself. I should so like to
keep the one I have left, but it looks as if he doesn't want the children to
be parted and she must go up to her little sister.«
However, the sick girl stayed on. She lay patient and quiet all the long
day, while her mother was out earning some money.
It was springtime, and early one morning, just as the mother was

going off to work, the sun shone beautifully through the little window
on to the floor, and the sick girl glanced down at the lowest pane of glass.
»Why, whatever is that bit of green peeping out there by the window?
It keeps swaying in the wind.«

Her mother went and opened the window a little way. »Well, I neverl«
she said. »I do believe it's a little pea-plant that has pushed up with its
green leaves. How ever did it find its way into this crack? There, now
you've got a little garden to look at.«
So the sick-bed was moved nearer to the window, where the girl could
see thesprouting pea, and the mother went off to work ...
»Mother, I feel I'm getting better,« said the young girl in the evening.
»The sun has been shining in on me so warmly today. The little pea is
getting on so splendidly that I believe I shall get on splendidly, too, and
soon be up and out in the sun«.

264
 »I only hope you may,« said though she hadn't much faith
the mother,
in its happening; still, she found a the green shoot which
little stick for

had given her child such happy hopes of life and put it up to save the
shoot from being broken by the wind. She lashed a strong piece of string
to the windowsill and to the upper part of the windowframe, so that the
pea's tendril might have something to cling to as it climbed up; and, sure
enough, it did. You could see, from day to day, how it grew.
»Why, goodness me, it's going to flower!« said the woman one morn-
ing; and now she too began to hope and believe that her dear sick daugh-
ter would recover. It struck her that the child had lately been talking

more cheerfully; the last few mornings she had sat up in bed looking
with sparkling eyes at her little pea-garden of a single pea. The week
after, the invalid for the first time was up for over an hour. She sat
completely happy in the warm sunshine; outside the open window stood
a pink pea-flower in full bloom. The young girl bent her head and softly
kissed the delicate petals. That day was like a festival.
»It was God himself who planted it and made it thrive to bring hope
and joy to you, my darling child, and to me as well,« said the happy
mother and smiled at the flower as though it were an angel from heaven.
Well, and now what about the other peas? The one that flew out into
the wide world crying »Catch me if you can!« landed in the gutter on the
roof and finished up in a pigeon's crop, where he lay like Jonah in the
whale. The two lazy ones took the same line; they were also eaten up by
pigeons, so after all they made themselves useful. But the fourth pea - the
one that wanted to fly up into the sun - this one rolled into the streetgut-
ter and lay there for weeks on end in the dirty water, where he swelled up
like anything.

265
 »rm getting wonderfully fat,« said the pea. »I shall go on till I bursty
and I doubt if any pea can do better than that, or ever has done. I'm the
most remarkable of the five out of our pod.«
And the gutter agreed with him.
But the young girl at the attic window stood there with shining eyes
and the glow of health on her cheeks. And she folded her delicate hands
over the pea-blossom and gave thanks to God for it.
»My pea's the best,« said the gutter.
 lb and Little Christina

N.ot far from the river Guden, in the forest of Silkeborg, is a long hill
that looms up like a great rampart; it's known as »The Ridge«. At the
foot of this, to the west, there stood - and still stands - a small farm where
the soil is so poor that the sand glistens through the scanty crops of rye
and barley. It all happened a good many years ago now. The people who
lived there cultivated their little holding and also kept three sheep, one
pig and two oxen; in fact, they made quite a good living by just taking
things as they came. Why, yes, they could even have afforded to keep a
couple of horses; but like the rest of the farmers in those parts, they used
to say, »A horse eats itself up« - it eats as much as it earns. In the summer
Jeppe Jens cultivated his parcel of land, while in the winter he was a
good hand at making wooden shoes. And, besides, he had a man to help
him, who knew how to cut out clogs that were strong, light and well-
shaped. They also made spoons and ladles; and this brought in money.
No one could have said that the Jeppe Jenses were badly off.
Their only child, a little boy of seven called lb, used to sit and look on;
he would cut a stick - and sometimes he would cut his finger. But one
day he cut out two bits of wood so that they looked like little wooden
clogs; these, he said, were to be given to little Christina, the lighterman's
small daughter. She was as graceful and delicate as a child of gentle birth.
If her clothes had been cut as finely as she had been born and bred, no one

would have supposed that she came from a turf-house on Seis Heath.
That was where her father lived; he was a widower, who made a living by
carrying logs on his barge from the forest down to the eel-traps at Silke-
borg, and sometimes even further to Randers. He had no one to look after
the little girl, Christina, who was a year younger than lb, and so she was
nearly always with her father on the barge or else among the heather and
cranberry bushes. When he had to go as far as Randers, then it was that
little Christina went across to Jeppe Jens's.

267
 lb and little Christina got on very well together in every v^ay. They
grubbed and rummaged, they cravv^led and they ran; and one day the tw^o
of them ventured, quite by themselves, almost to the very top of the Ridge
and some distance into the forest, where they found some snipe's eggs;
that was a marvellous event.
lb had never yet been over to Seis Heath, never sailed on the barge
through the lakes along the river Guden, but now he was going to; he
had been invited by the lighterman, and on the previous evening he went
home with him.
Early next morning the two children sat on the top of the logs that
were piled up high on the barge and ate bread and raspberries. The
lighterman and his mate poled the barge ahead - they had the stream
with them - swiftly down the river, which joined up the lakes and seemed
itself to be shut in by woods and rushes; and yet there was always a way

through, however much the old trees leaned forward over the water and
the oaks stretched out their naked branches as if rolling up their sleeves to
show their rugged bare arms. Old alder trees, that the stream had loos-
ened from the bank, clung by their roots to the bottom and looked like
little wooded islands; water lilies rocked gently on the river. It was a

glorious trip for them ... And then they came at last to the eel-traps,
where the water went roaring over the weir; that was a great sight for lb
and Christina.
In those days there wasn't yet any factory or town in that district, only
the old farmyard, and they hadn't much livestock. The water roaring over
the weir and the cry of the wild duck were then the liveliest sounds to be
heard in Silkeborg ... When the logs were unloaded, Christina's father
bought himself a whole bunch of eels and a young slaughtered pig,
which were all put together in a basket in the stern of the barge. The
homeward voyage was now against the stream, but the wind was at their
backs and, when they hoisted sail, it was as good as having two horses to
tow them.
As soon as they had brought the barge so far upstream that it lay
alongside the forest where the mate would now only have a short way to
go home, he and Christina's father landed, at the same time telling the
children to keep quiet and mind what they did. However, they didn't do
this for long; they felt they must take a peep down in the basket where the
eels and the young pig were kept, and then they had to try the weight of
the pig and hold it in their hands; and, as both wanted to hold it, they
ended by letting it drop into the water, where it drifted away with the
stream. It was a terrible thing to happen.
lb jumped ashore and ran a little way, and then Christina came after
him. »Take me with you!« she cried; and very soon they were deep in the
thicket, out of sight of both barge and river. They ran a little further, and
then Christina fell down and cried, and lb picked her up.
»Keep close by me,« he said, »the house is over there« - but it wasn't.

268
They walked and walked, over dead leaves and withered fallen branches
that crackled under their At one moment they heard a piercing cry ...
feet.

They stood still and listened. Then came the scream of an eagle - it was a
horrible scream - they were utterly terrified. But ahead of them, in the
thick of the forest, they found the most delicious bilberries growing -
masses and masses of them. This was far too tempting for them not to
stay, and so they stayed and ate till their lips and cheeks were quite blue.
Again there was a cry.
»We shall get whipped because of the pig,« said Christina.
»Let's go back to our house,« said lb; »It's here in the wood«. So they
went on, till they came to a road; but this wasn't the way home. It was
getting dark, and they were The wonderful stillness all about
frightened.
them was broken by hideous screeching from the great homed owl and by
cries of birds that were strange to them. At last they got lost in a copse;

269
Christina began to cry, and so did lb; and after they had been crying some
time, they lay down on a pile of leaves and fell asleep.
The sun was already high when the two children woke up. They felt
cold; but, on a mound near by, the sun was shining down through the
trees - they would be able to warm themselves up there, and lb thought it
might even be possible to see his own home. But they were a long way off
from that, in quite a different part of the forest. They clambered up to the
top of the mound, which went sloping down to a clear transparent lake;
here they saw fish in shoals, lit up by the rays of the sun. They had never
expected to see this; and close by was a large bush full of nuts, seven to a
bunch sometimes. They picked them and cracked them and ate the deli-
cious kernels, which were just getting ripe and firm And then came
...

another surprise, a frightening one. Out of the thicket stepped a tall

oldish woman; her face was quite brown, her hair was shiny black, and
the white of her eyes flashed like a blackamoor's. She had a bundle on her
back and a knotted stick in her hand; she was a gipsy. The children didn't
at first understand what she said; but she pulled out three large nuts from
her pocket and told them that, tucked away inside each one of them, were
the most wonderful things; they were wishing-nuts.
lb took agood look at her. She seemed so friendly that he plucked up
courage and asked if he might have those nuts. The woman gave them to
him and picked herself a whole pocketful from the hazel bush. lb and
Christina gazed in astonishment at the three wishing-nuts.
»Is there one with a waggon and horses in it?« asked lb.

»There's a golden coach with golden horses,« said the woman.

»Then give me that one,« said little Christina, and lb gave it to her;
and the woman tied up the nut in the little girl's handkerchief.
»Has this one got inside it a pretty little scarf like the one Christina
wears?« asked lb.

»It has ten scarves, « said the woman, »and smart dresses, stockings and
hat.«
»Then I'd like that one, too,« said Christina, and lb let her have the
second nut as well. The third was a little black nut.
»You must have that one,« said Christina, »that's also a pretty one.«
»What's inside it?« asked lb.
»The best thing of all for you,« said the gipsy woman.
lb held the nut tight. The woman promised to put them on their right
way home; so along they went, but in exactly the opposite direction to
the one they ought to have gone - though the gipsy woman mustn't
therefore be accused of wanting to steal children.
In the tangled forest they came across a woodman who knew lb and
helped the two children to get back home, where people were in a state of
great alarm about them. They were both forgiven, though they really
deserved a good whipping - first, because they had dropped the pig into
the water, and then because they had run away.

270
 «

Christina went back to her home on the Heath, while lb remained in

the house in the wood. The first thing he did in the evening was to
little

take out the nut which contained »the best thing of all«. He put it
between the door and the door-frame, pushed the door to, the nut
cracked, but not a sign of kernel was to be seen; the shell was full of a
kind of snuff or earth-mould; it was what we should call worm-eaten.
»Yes, I thought as much,« said lb. »How could there, inside that little
nut, be room for 'the best thing of all? Christina won't get any fine
dresses or golden coach out of her two nuts either.
And winter came on, and then the New Year. SeveraLyears went by. lb
was now to be confirmed, and the parson lived a long way off. About that
time the lighterman called one day at the house of Ib's parents and told
them that little Christina was now to go out and earn her living, and that
it was a rare slice of luck for her to be going where she was - into service

271
with such worthy people. Just fancy, she was going to the rich innkeep-
er's,Herning way, out west. There she was to lend a hand to the man's
wife and after that, if she suited and was confirmed there, they would
keep her.
So lb and Christina had to say goodbye to one another. Sweethearts
they were called, and she showed him at parting that she still had the two
nuts he gave her when they ran away together in the forest and she told
him cupboard she treasured up the little wooden clogs which
that in her
as a boy he had made for her. And so they parted.
lb was confirmed; but he stayed at home with his mother, for he was
now a clever maker of wooden shoes and in summer he looked after the
little farm. He was all his mother had for this; Ib's father had died.

Only seldom did they hear anything of Christina, from a postman or

some eel-fisherman: she was doing well at the rich innkeeper's and, when
she had been confirmed, she wrote to her father and asked to be remem-
bered to lb and his mother. In the letter she spoke of six new chemises
and a beautiful dress that she had been given by her master and mistress.
This was certainly good news.
One fine day in the following spring lb and his mother heard a knock
on the door; there stood the lighterman with Christina. She had come
over to spend the day; there happened to be the chance of a lift as far as
Tem village and back again, so she seized it. She looked beautiful - a
regular young lady - and was very well dressed; her clothes were cut just
right for her. There she stood in her Sunday best, while lb was in his old
workaday clothes. He couldn't find a word to say. True, he took her
hand, held it tight, and felt tremendously happy; but he couldn't get his
tongue to work. Little Christina could; she talked and chattered, and she
kissed lb right on the mouth.
»Do you mean to say you didn't know me?« she asked; but even when
the two of them were alone and he stood still and held her hand, all he
could say was simply this: »You've become a kind o' fine lady, while I'm
so awkward and shabby ... Christina, how I have thought about you all
this time!«
And they walked arm in arm up on to the Ridge and looked across the
riverGuden away to Seis Heath with its great clumps of heather. lb said
nothing; and yet, when they parted, it was clear to him that Christina
must become his wife. After all, since they were little, they had been
called sweethearts; they were, he felt, an engaged couple, even though
neither of them had actually said so.
They had only a few more hours together before she must leave again
for Tem, from which early next morning she would be driven back to the
west. lb and her father went with her as far as Tem. There was a bright
moon and, when they arrived, lb was still holding Christina's hand, and
he couldn't let go of it; his eyes shone, but he said very little, though his

heart was in every word he uttered. »If you haven't grown too hard to

272
 «

please,« he said, »and can put up with Hving at Mother's with me as your
husband, then we two'll become man and wife some day ... but of course
we can wait awhile yet.«
»Yes, lb, let's see how it goes,« she said; and she pressed his hand, and
he kissed her lips. »I have faith in you, Ib,« said Christina, »and I think I
love you. But let me sleep on it.«
And with that they separated. lb told the lighterman that he and Chris-
tina were as good as engaged, and the lighterman felt that that was just
how he'd always imagined it. He went back to Ib's home and spent the
night there, and after that there was no more talk about the engagement.
A year went by. Two letters passed between lb and Christina - the
words »faithful unto death« were written where he signed his name. One
day the lighterman walked in at Ib's. He had heard from Christina, who
wished to be remembered to lb. As to the rest of what he had to say the
lighterman was a bit slow about that, but it came to this: Christina was
getting on well - only too well - for she was a pretty girl, respected and
liked. The innkeeper's son had been home for a holiday; he had a job in
some big concern in Copenhagen, in an office. He was very fond of
Christina, and she had taken a fancy to him; his parents made no objec-
tion. The only thing was, Christina had it very much at heart that lb was
still so devoted to her; and so she felt that she must put the thought of

happiness from her, said the lighterman.

At first lb didn't say a word, but turned as white as a sheet. Then with a
shake of his head, he declared, »Christina must not put away the thought
of her happiness.
»Won't you write her a line?« suggested the lighterman.
And lb did write, though he found it hard to put the words together
just as he wanted them, and he kept crossing out and tearing up; but the
next morning there was a letter ready for little Christina, and here it is:
»I have read the letter you wrote to your father and see that you are
getting on well in every way and may do even better. Ask your heart,
Christina, and think well over what you are letting yourself in for if you
marry me. What I have got is little enough. Don't think of me, or how it
affects me, think of your owai good. You are not tied to me by any
promise, and if you ever gave me one in your heart, I release you from it.
Wishing you all the happiness in the world, dear Christina - God will no
doubt bring me consolation.
Ever your loving friend
Ib.«
The was sent off, and Christina received it.
letter
About Martinmas her banns were published at the church on the heath
as well as in Copenhagen, where her bridegroom was living. With her
mistress she travelled across tohim there, because his various business
duties prevented him from coming so far as Jutland. Christina had ar-
ranged to meet her father in the village of Funder, which was the nearest

273
place for him to see her on her journey. There lb and Christina took leave
of each other. Some remark was made about this, but not a word came
from lb. So often nowadays he seemed to be lost in thought, said his old
mother. Yes, lost in thought - that was true, for he was often thinking of
the three nuts he got as a child from the gipsy woman - and gave two of
them to Christina - wishing-nuts they were. With hers (you remember)
one of them had a golden coach and horses inside, and the other one had
the loveliest clothes. That was just it! All this luxury would now come to
Christina over in Royal Copenhagen; she was getting her wish. For lb
there had been nothing but black mould. »The best thing of all« for him,
the gipsy had said - yes, and that wish had also been granted. The black
earth was the best thing for him. Now he understood properly what the
woman had meant; the black earth, the refuge of the grave - there, for
him, was the best thing of all.
And years went by - not many, but long, thought lb. The old couple at
the inn passed away, the one soon after the other; their whole fortune,
thousands of pounds, came to the son. Well, now Christina could cer-
tainly have the golden coach and her lovely clothes.
For two long years after that there was no letter from Christina and,
when at last her father got one, the letter was clearly not written by
anyone who was well-off or contented. Poor Christina! Neither she nor
her husband had known how to go quietly with all that money. »Light
come, light go« - there was no blessing in it, for they had never looked for
one.
The heather bloomed, and the heather faded. For many winters the
snow had drifted over Seis Heath and over the Ridge where lb had his
sheltered home. Then, in the sunshine of spring, as lb was out plough-
ing, he turned up (as he thought) a bit of flint-stone, which came up from
the ground like a great black shaving; and when he picked it up he saw
that it was a piece of metal and that where the plough had sliced into it, it
gleamed brightly. was a heavy great gold bangle from ancient times.
It

An old burial-mound had been levelled here and one of its valuable
ornaments discovered. lb showed it to the parson, who told him how fine
it was; and after that he took it to the local magistrate, who sent a report

to Copenhagen and advised lb to take his precious find along there him-
self.

»My man, you've found the best thing in the earth you could possibly
find,« said the magistrate.
»The best thing! « thought lb. »The best of all for me - and in the
earth! So the gipsy woman was right about me, after all, if that was the
best.«
And lb sailed with the smack from Aarhus to Royal Copenhagen. For
him who had only crossed the Guden, it was like a voyage to the other
side of the world. And lb arrived in Copenhagen.
The value of the gold he had found was paid out to him; it was a large

274
sum - six hundred dollars. There in the rambling by-streets of great
Copenhagen walked lb from the forest on Seis Heath.
On the very evening before he was to join the master of a ship return-
ing to Aarhus, he lost his way in the streets and took a very different
direction to the one he meant. He had come across Knippels Bridge to
Christianshavn instead of to the rampart at Vesterpbrt. He was steering
westward all right, but not to the place he was bound for. Not a soul was
to be seen in the street. Just then a little mite of a girl came out of a poor
shabby-looking house; lb spoke to her about the way he wanted and this
startled her; she looked up at him and burst into tears. He asked her what
was the matter; she answered something he didn't understand and, as
they were both directly under a lamp and the light from it shone straight
on her face, a queer feeling came over him; you see, it was the living
image of little Christina that he saw in front of him, just as he remem-
bered her from the time when they were children together.
And he went with the into the shabby house, up the narrow
little girl

worn stairs, till came to a tiny sloping garret under the roof. The air
they
in the room was heavy and close; no light was burning; over in the corner
someone could be heard sighing and breathing with difficulty. lb struck
a match. It was the child's mother who lay there on the squalid bed.
»Is there anything I can help you with?« asked lb. »The little one
fetched me, but I'm a stranger here myself. Isn't there a neighbour or
someone I can call?« and he raised the woman's head for her.
It was Christina from Seis Heath.

For years her name hadn't been mentioned at home in Jutland; it

would only have disturbed Ib's peace of mind. And the accounts one
heard - for rumour proved to be true - weren't any of them good: all that
money which her husband had inherited from his parents had made him
proud and extravagant; he had given up his regular job, had travelled for

275
sixmonths abroad, had come back and got into debt, and yet done no-
thing but loaf about. More and more the carriage began to tiU, and at last
it overturned. friends who had made merry at his table
The numerous
said of him what he got, for he had lived like a madman.
that he deserved
His dead body was found one morning in the canal that runs through the
Castle Park.
The mark of death was on Her youngest child, only a few
Christina.
weeks old - expected in prosperity,
born in wretchedness - was already in
its grave, and now Christina was so far gone that she lay deserted and

dying in a mean garret such as she might have put up with in her
younger days, on Seis Heath; but now that she was accustomed to better
things, she felt the misery of it. It was her elder child, also a little Christi-

na, who was sharing her poverty and hunger and had brought lb up to
her.
»rm afraid I'm going to die and leave the poor child all alone, « she
sighed. »What on earth is to become of her?« That was all she could
manage to get out.
lb struck another match and found a bit of candle, which brought
some light to the wretched room. And now he looked at the little girl and
thought of Christina in those far-off days. For Christina's sake he would
be kind to this child whom he did not know. The dying woman looked at
him, her eyes opened wider and wider ... Did she recognize him? He never
knew, never heard her speak another word.
It was in the forest by the River Guden near Seis Heath. The sky was

grey, the heather was no longer in flower, and westerly gales were whirl-
ing the yellow leaves from the forest out into the river and away over the
heath to where the lighterman's turfhouse stood, now inhabited by
strangers. But at the foot of the Ridge, well sheltered by tall trees, lay the
small farmhouse, whitewashed and painted. Indoors, a peat fire was
blazing in the stove; indoors, there was sunshine sparkling in a child's
eyes and the spring song of a skylark sounded in the prattle from a child's
smiling red lips. All was mirth and merriment, for little Christina was
there. She was sitting on Ib's knee; for her, lb was father and mother, too
- her own had vanished as a dream does for both child and grown-up. lb
sat in his snug, trim little house, a well-to-do man; but the little girl's
mother lay in a pauper's grave in Royal Copenhagen.
lb had money put by, they said; gold from the ground. And then, you
see, he also had little Christina.
 The Storks

a
the
the last house in a village was a stork's nest. There in the nest sat
mother stork with her four young ones all sticking out their little
black- beaked heads, for their beaks hadn't yet turned red. A bit further off
along the top of the roof stood the father stork, very stiff and straight; he
had one leg tucked up under him in order to keep him wide awake while
he was on guard. He stood so still you might have thought he was a
wooden statue. »I expect it looks fearfully smart for my wife to have a
sentry at her nest,« he thought to himself. »People won't of course know
that I'm her husband; no doubt, they imagine that I've had orders to
stand here. It must look extremely well.« And he continued to stand on
one leg.
Down in the street quite a crowd of children were playing, and when
they caught sight of the storks one of the cheekiest boys - and presently
the whole lot of them - began singing the old rhyme about the storks,
though they sang it in the words as he could remember them: -

»Storkie, Storkie he-bird,

fly back to your she-bird 1

She's lying snugly in her nest

with four such lanky young ones.
The first we'll hang him,

the second we'll bang him,

the third we'll burn him,
the fourth we'll turn him
topsy-topsy-turvy!«

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 « « «

»Just listen to what those boys are singing! « said the young storks. »They
say we're to be hanged and burnt.
»Don't bother your heads about that,« said the mother stork. »Simply
take no notice, then it'll be all right.«
But the boys went on singing and pointing up at the storks. Only one
boy - his name was Peter - said that it was a shame to poke fun at
animals and refused to join in. And the mother stork comforted her
young ones by saying, »Don't worry! Just look how calmly your father is
standing there - on one leg too.«
»We're so frightened, « answered the young ones and ducked their heads
deep down into the nest.
The next day, when the children again came out to play and saw the
storks, they started on their song:

»The first we'll hang him

the second we'll bang him ...«

»Shall we really be hanged and banged?« asked the little storks.

»No, of course not,« said the mother. »You are to learn how to fly. I
shall put you through it all right. Then we'll go out on to the meadow
and call on the frogs. They'll bow to us in the water and sing ko'ax,
ko'axl and then we'll eat them up. It'll be great fun.«
»And what then?« asked the young storks.
»There's a meeting of all the storks in the country, and after that the
autumn manoeuvres begin. You must be able to fly well by then - that's
most important - for those who can't are stabbed to death by the general's
beak. So take good care to learn all you can when drilling begins.
»Then we're going to be banged, all the same, as the boys said we
should. There they are - saying it again !«
»Listen to me and not to them,« said the mother stork. »Once the great
manoeuvres are over we shall fly off to the warm countries - far, far away
across mountain and forest. Egypt is where we fly to, with her three-
cornered stone houses that go tapering to a point until they're higher
than the clouds. They're called Pyramids and are older than any stork can
imagine. There's a river that overflows, so that the land all turns to mud.
We can walk about in mud and eat frogs.
»Ooh!« chorussed the young storks.
»Yes, it's too lovely,« she went on. »You do nothing but eat all day and,
while we are so very well off, in this country there isrt't a green leaf on the
trees; it's so cold here that the clouds freeze to bits and then flutter down
like little scraps of white paper.« It was snow she meant, only she didn't
know how to explain it more clearly.
»And will those rude boys freeze to bits, too?« asked the young storks.
»No, not to bits,though they get so cold that they nearly do and are
obliged to sit indoors twiddling their thumbs in a dingy room. You, on

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 «« « «

the other hand, can fly about in a foreign country where there are flowers
and warm sunshine.
By now some time had passed, and the young storks had grown so
much that they could stand up in the nest and see a long way round
them, and the father stork came flying every day with nice frogs, small
snakes and all the storky titbits he could lay his beak on. Oh, it was comic
to see the tricks he did for them! He would turn his head right back over
his tail, and he clacked his beak together as though it was a little rattle;
and then he used to tell them stories, which were all about the marsh.
»Now then,« said the mother stork one day, »it's time you learnt to
fly.« Then all four storklings had to come out on the top of the roof.
Goodness! How they wobbled about! How they balanced themselves
with their wings and were on the verge of tumbling over!
»Watch me, will you,« said the mother. »Here's the way to hold your
head, this is how to put out your legs - left, right, left, right! That's
what'll helpyou on in the world. « Then she flew a little way; and the
young ones did an awkward little jump and - down they came with a
wallop, for they were too heavy in the body.
»I don't want to fly,« said one young stork and crept back into the nest.
»I shan't bother about going to the warm countries.
»So you'd rather freeze to death here, would you, in the wintertime?
Shall the boys come, then, and hang you and toast you and roast you? All
right, I'll call them.«

»No, no,« said the young stork, hopping back on to the roof with the
others. By the third day they could manage a little proper flying and so ,

they fancied that the air was a thing they could sit and rest on. Well, they
tried this, but down they flopped - and had to get busy with their wings
again. The boys now came down the street singing their song:

»Storkie, Storkie he-bird!«

»Shall we fly down and peck out their eyes for them?« asked the young
ones.
»No, don't do that,« said the mother. »Just pay attention to me - that's
much more important. One, two, three! and away we fly to the right.
One, two, three! to the left now, round the chimney. There, that was
splendid. Your last flight was so graceful and correct that you shall all be
allowed to come with me to the marsh tomorrow. Several nice stork
families will be there with their children. Mind you let me see that mine
are the smartest, and that you can strut; that always looks well and makes
a good impression.
»But what about having our revenge on those rude boys?«
»Let them call out what they like. Remember you'll be flying up into
the clouds and going to the land of the Pyramids, while they'll have to
freeze, without so much as a green leaf or a sweet apple.

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 »But we'll have our revenge,« they whispered to one another; and then
they had to go on with their drill.
Of all the boys in the street none was worse about singing the
mocking-song than the boy who began it. He was quite a little fellow -
he can't have been more than six. The young storks quite believed he was
a hundred because, you see, he was so much bigger than their mother and
father; and what did they know about the age of children and grown-up
people? Vengeance should be wreaked in full, they felt, in the boy who
first began to mock them and who kept on at it. The young storks were

most annoyed and the bigger they grew the less they would put up with
it. At last their mother had to promise them that very well, they should

get their own back, but she wouldn't agree to anything till their last day
there in the country.
»We must wait, you know, and see how you get on in the great man-
oeuvres. you make a mess of it on that occasion, the general will run his
If

beak into you, and then of course the boys will have been right after all -
in a way, at any rate. So now let's see.«
»Very well, you shalU« said the young ones. And then they really got
dowTi to it; they practised every day for all they were worth, until their
flying was as easy and graceful as possible.
Now autumn came flocking together in readi-
arrived. All the storks
ness for flying away to the warm countries during our winter. What a
field-day it was! They had to go over town and forest simply to show how
well they could fly, for it was a long journey they had ahead of them. Our
young storks did their test so gracefully that they easily passed it, with a
credit in trogs and snakes. This was a first-class pass, and their frogs and
snakes they could eat; and they did, too.
»Now for our revenge !« they said.
»Certainly,« said the mother stork. »rve worked out a plan that'll be
the very thing. I know where the pond is in which all the human babies

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are lying until the stork comes to fetchthem away to their parents. The
little darlings are asleep dreaming more beautifully than they will ever
manage to dream later on. Every parent would like to have a baby like
that, and all children want a sister or a brother. Now we'll fly off to the
pond and fetch a baby for each of the children who haven't sung that
cruel song poking fun at the storks. No baby for the others !«
»But the one who began the singing - that naughty, nasty boy - what
shall we do with him?« cried the young storks.
»In the pond lies a little dead baby that has dreamt itself to death. We'll
take the boy that one, and he'll cry because we've brought him a dead
little brother. But the good boy - you haven't forgotten him, have you? -

the one who said it was a shame to poke fun at animals - we'll bring him
both a brother and a sister; and as that boy's name is Peter, you shall all
be called Peter, too.«
And everything happened as she said. The storks were all called Peter,
and they are still called Peter to this day.
 The Bell

l\ the close of day, in the narrow streets of the city, as the sun went
down and the clouds shone like gold up between the chimneys, one
person after another would often hear a strange sound like the ringing of
a church bell. But it was only heard for a moment, as there was such a
rumbling of carts and such a lot of shouting; that always disturbs a
listener. »There's the evening bell,« people said. »It's for sunset.«
Those who went outside the city, where the houses stood wider apart
with gardens and paddocks of their own, had a far finer view of the
evening sky and could hear the bell ring much louder. It was as though
the sound came from a church in the very depths of the silent, fragrant
wood; and people looked in that direction and became quite solemn ...
A long time now passed, and one would say to another, »I wonder if
there's a church out there in the wood? There's a strange beauty in the
sound of that bell; oughtn't we to make our way out there and go into it
all more carefully?« And the rich ones drove, and the poor ones walked,

but they all found the road to be curiously long. And when they came to a
big clump of willows that were growing on the fringe of the wood, they
sat down there and looked up into the long branches and fancied that
they were well out in the wilds. A pastry-cook from the city came out and
put up his tent, and then another pastry-cook turned up and hung a bell
immediately above his tent - a bell that was tarred over to resist rain, but
it had no clapper. Then, when the time came for people to go home

again, they said how romantic it had been; and that means a good deal,
quite apart from their having had tea. Three of them declared that they

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had made their way into the wood, right to the very end of it, and all the

time they could hear the mysterious bell, though seemed to them just as
it

if sound came from the city. One man

the wrote a whole poem about it
and sounded like a mother's voice to her dear good
said that the bell
child; no music was sweeter than the sound of the bell.
The ruler of the country was also told about it, and he promised that
whoever could really find out where the sound came from should have
the post of »Universal Bell-ringer«, even if it turned out not to be a bell.
Numbers of people now went to the wood in the hope of getting such a
good appointment, but there was only one who came home with any
kind of explanation. None of them had been far enough into the wood,
nor had this man either, but all the same he made out that the bell-sound
came from a very big owl in a hollow tree. It was a kind of owl of wisdom
that kept knocking its head against the tree; but whether the sound came
from the owl's head or from the hollow trunk he couldn't yet say with
any certainty. So he was appointed Universal Bell-ringer, and every year
he wrote a little essay on the owl, but no one was any wiser than before.
And now it happened to be Confirmation Sunday. The parson had
spoken with a fine sincerity. The Confirmation candidates had been
deeply moved; for them it was a day of great moment. From being chil-
dren they suddenly became grown-up; the soul of a child had now, as it
were, to pass over into a wiser person. It was beautifully sunny. The boys
and girls who had just been confirmed went out of the city, and from the
wood came the sound, strangely deep, of the big unknown bell. At once
they all felt a desire to go there - all but three of them. Of these, one had
to go home to try on her ball-dress, for it was this dress and this ball that
were the real reason she had been confirmed this time, otherwise she
wouldn't have come. The second was a poor boy who had borrowed his
Confirmation suit and his shoes from the landlord's son, and he had to
take them back by a certain time. The third said that he never went to
places he didn't know unless his parents went with him, and that having
always done as he was told he wanted to go on doing so, even after being
confirmed. And that's not a thing to jeer at - but that's just what they all
did.
them didn't go, but the others trotted off. The sun
Well, and so three of
shone, the birds sang, and the young people sang too, holding each
other's hands; for, you see, they were all still at school and in the sight of
heaven were simply boys and girls who had just been confirmed.
But after a while two of the smallest got tired, and so they both went
home again. Two little girls sat down and made wreaths; they gave up
too. And when the others got as far as the willow trees where the pastry-
cook had his tent, they said, »Well, here we are! There isn't really any
bell; it'sonly a sort of idea that people get into their heads.
At that moment from the depths of the wood came the sound of the
bell, so pure and so solemn that four or five made up their minds, after

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all, walk a little further into the wood. This grew so thick and so leafy
to
that was tremendously hard work to make headway. Woodruff and
it

anemones were almost too tall; flowering convolvulus and trailing bram-
bles hung in long festoons from tree to tree, where the nightingale sang
and the sunbeams played. Yes, it was all very beautiful, but it was no
place for young girls to walk; their dresses would have got torn to shreds.
There were large boulders overgrown with moss of various colours, and
fresh spring water came trickling out with strange tones that seemed to
say »klook-klook«!
»I wonderif that could be the bell,« said one of the boys, lying down to

listen.»This is worth going into careful ly.« So he stayed behind and let
the others go on.
They came to a hut built out of bark and branches with a large crab-
apple tree leaning over it as though to empty out the whole of its cornu-
copia on the rose-grown roof. The long branches followed the line of the
gable, and from this hung a little bell. Could that be the one they had
kept on hearing? Yes, they all agreed about that - except one, who said
that this bell was too small and delicate to be heard as far away as they
had heard it, and that these tones were very different from those that
could move the human heart so deeply. The one who spoke was a prince,
which made the others say, »A fellow like that always thinks he knows
better than other people.
So they him go on alone and, as he went his heart was more and
let

more with the loneliness of the wood. Yet he could still hear the
filled
little bell which the others were so pleased with; and now and then, when

the wind was coming from the direction of the pastry-cook's, he could
also hear how they were singing over their tea. But the deep notes of the
bell sounded louder still, and now it was just as if an organ were playing
an accompaniment; the sound came from the left, from the same side as
the heart.
Suddenly there was rustling in the bushes, and there before the prince
was a little boy in wooden clogs and a jacket so short that you couldn't
help seeing what long wrists he had. They both recognized each other;
the boy was the one who couldn't join the rest after Confirmation be-
cause he had to go and take back his suit and his shoes to the landlord's
son. He had done that, and now in his wooden clogs and old clothes he
had gone off alone; so loud and deep was the sound of the bell that he felt
he really must come out to the wood.
»Well, then, we may as well go along together, « said the prince. But
the poor boy in the clogs was very shy and pulled at his short sleeves,
saying that he was afraid he wouldn't be able to keep up with the other.
Besides, he thought that the bell ought to be looked for on the right, for
that was the direction for finding all that was great and glorious.
»Well, in that case we shan't see anything of each other,« said the
prince, nodding to the poor boy, who plunged into the darkest, densest

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part of the wood, where the thorns tore his humble clothes to shreds and
also his face, hands and feet until they were bleeding. The prince likewise
got some nasty scratches, but at least he had sunshine to brighten his
path; and he's the one we'll go along with now, for he was a bold lad.
»I will and must find the bell,« he said, »even if I have to go to the ends
of the earth.
Horrible- looking monkeys sat up in the trees, baring their teeth as they
grinned. »Shall we pelthim?« they chattered. »Shall we pelt him? He's
the son of a king.«
But he steadily made his way deeper and deeper into the wood, where
the most wonderful flowers were growing. There were star lilies with

blood-red filaments, pale-blue tulips that glittered in the wind, and apple
trees on which the apples looked exactly like great shining soap bubbles.
Just imagine how those trees must have sparkled in the sunlight! Border-
ing the lovely green meadows, where stag an4 doe were frisking on the
grass, stood magnificent oaks and beeches; and whenever one of the trees
had a split in its bark, grass and long creepers were growing out of it.
There were also long stretches of woodland with peaceful lakes on which
swans were swimming and flapping their wings. The prince often stood
still and listened, thinking that it might be from one of these deep lakes

that the sound of the bell came up to him; but then he noticed that, sure
enough, it wasn't there, but still further in the wood, that the sound of
the bell came from.
It was now sunset. The sky shone red as fire, and a deep hush came over
the woodland. The boy went down on his knees and sang his evening
hymn and said to himself, »I shall never find what I'm looking for. Now
the sun is setting and night, dark night, is coming on. Yet perhaps I may
have one more glance at the round red sun before it sinks below the
horizon. I'll climb up those rocks towering there as high as the tallest
trees.

And, catching hold of tendrils and roots, he clambered up the wet rocks
past writhing water snakes and toads that almost seemed to bark at him.

285
Yet he reached the top before the sun, seen from that height, had com-
pletely vanished.Oh, what magnificence! The sea, the glorius ocean,
tumbling its long waves on the shore, lay stretched out before him; and
the sun stood like a great shining altar in the distance, where sea and sky
met and everything was fused in glowing colours. The woodland sang
and the ocean sang and his heart sang too. Nature was a great holy
cathedral, in which trees and hovering clouds were its columns, flowers
and grass its altarcloth of woven velvet, and the vault of heaven its migh-
ty dome. Now the crimson colours faded as the sun went down; but
millions of stars were kindled, millions of diamond lamps were lit, and
the young prince spread out his arms towards the sky, towards the ocean
and wood - and suddenly from the path on the right, in his short sleeves
and wooden clogs, came the poor boy who had that day been confirmed.
He had got there just as quickly, by his own route. They ran to meet each
other, taking each other by the hand there in the great cathedral of nature
and poetry. And above them sounded the sacred invisible bell, while
blessed spirits hovered about it in joyful praise to God.
 Holger the Dane

Ij\ Denmark there's an old castle at Elsinore called Kronborg; it juts out
into the Sound, where every day the big ships sail past in hundreds,
English, Russian and Prussian. They fire a salute to the old castle with
their guns boom! - and the castle guns answer back - boom! That's the
-
guns' way of saying »Good morning« and »Many thanks«. In winter,
when the Sound is frozen hard right across to Sweden, no ships can sail
there; it's more like a great big road, where the Danish and Swedish flags
are flying and Danish and Swedish people say »Good morning« and
»Many thanks« each other, though not with guns. No, they do it with
to
a friendly shaking of hands, and they get white bread and biscuits from
each other; for other people's food tastes best. Still, the real gem of it all is
old Kronborg; and it's down below this that Holger the Dane sits in the
deep dark cellar to which nobody comes. He is clad in iron and steel, with
his head resting on his brawny arms; his long beard hangs down over the
marble table, into which it has grown fast. There he sits and dreams; but,
as he dreams, he sees everything that's going on up here in Denmark. On
Christmas Eve an angel of God comes and tells him that what he has
dreamt is quite true and that he may go to sleep again, as Denmark is not
yet in any real danger. But if ever she is, well, then old Holger the Dane
will stand up so that the table will split in two when he wrenches his
beard free. Out he will come and strike till his blows resound in every
country on earth.
An old grandfather sat telling all this about Holger the Dane to his
little grandson, and the boy knew that what granddad said was true. And

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 «

while the old man he was carving a large wooden

sat telling his tale,
figure which was supposed Holger the Dane and would be placed
to be
on the forepart of a ship; for the old grandfather was a woodcarver - or
rather, a man who cuts out figureheads after which every ship is to be
named. And here he had cut out Holger the Dane, who stood so straight
and proud with his long beard, holding his broadsword in one hand but
leaning on the coat-of-arms of Denmark with the other.
And the old grandfather told so many stories about remarkable Danish
men and women that at last his little grandson felt that now he knew
quite as much as Holger the Dane, who after all only dreamt about it;
and when the boy went to bed his thoughts were so full of it all that he
pressed his chin well down into the bedclothes and felt he had a beard
which had grown right into them.
But the old grandfather stayed sitting at his work and carved away at
the last part ofit, the Danish coat-of-arms. And now he had finished and,

as he looked at the whole thing and thought of all he had read and heard
and all he had told the boy that evening, he gave a nod and wiped his
spectacles and said as he put them on again., »No, I don't suppose Hol-
ger the Dane will come in my time, though the boy over in that bed may
possibly get to see him and be there when it comes to the pinch. « And the
old grandfather nodded again; the more he looked at his Holger the
Dane, the more certain he became that it was a good figure he had made.
Itfairly seemed to glow, and the armour shone like iron and steel; the
nine hearts in the Danish arms looked redder and redder, and the lions
capered in their golden crowns.
»It's the grandest coat-of-arms in the world,« cried the old man. »The
lions stand for strength, and the hearts for gentleness and love.« He
looked at the top lion and thought of King Canute, who made great
England subject Danish throne; he looked at the second lion and
to the
thought of Valdemar, who brought all Denmark together and subdued
the Wendish lands, and he looked at the third lion and thought of Mar-
garet, who united Denmark, Sweden and Norway. But as he looked at the
red hearts, they gleamed more brightly than ever; they turned into flames
that moved, and his thoughts followed each one of them.
The first flame led him into a dark narrow cell. There sat a prisoner, a
beautiful woman, Christian IV's daughter, Leonora Christina, and the
flame settled like a rose on her breast and blossomed together with the
heart of her who was the noblest and best of all Danish women.
»Yes,« said the old grandfather, »that's certainly a heart in Denmark's
coat-of-arms.
And his thoughts followed another flame, which led him out to sea
where the guns roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke; and the
flame pinned itself like a ribbon on Hvitfeldt's chest, as he blew himself
up with his ship to save the fleet.

And a third flame led him to the wretched huts of Greenland, to which

288
 «

the priest Hans Egede brought word and deed; the flame was a
love by
star on Danish
his breast, a heart in the coat-of-arms.
And the old grandfather's thoughts went on ahead of the flickering
flame, for they knew where the flame would go. In the peasant- woman's
humble parlour Frederick VI stood and chalked his name on the beam;
the flame quivered on his breast, quivered in his heart; in the peasant's
cottage his heart became a heart on Denmark's shield. And the old grand-
father wiped tears from his he had known and lived for King
eyes, for
Frederick with the silvery hair and honest blue eyes; he folded his hands
and looked silently in front of him. Then his son's wife came in and said
that it was getting late: now he must have a rest and, anyhow, supper was
laid.
»But, I say, that is lovely, what you've done, granddad,« she said. »Hol-
ger the Dane and the whole of our old coat-of-arms! Seems as I've seen
that face before.
»No, that you can't have done,« replied the old man. »But I've seen it,
and I've tried hard to carve it in wood the way I can remember it. It was
that time the English ships lay in the Roads, on our Danish 2nd of April,
when we showed we were true Danes. On board the Denmark, where I
was serving in Captain Bille's squadron, I had a man beside me - it was
just as if the cannon-balls were afraid of him! He kept singing old songs
in the jolliest way and fired and fought like a superman. I can still
remember his face - though where he came from, or where he went
afterwards, I never knew; nobody knew. I've often thought it may have
been Holger the Dane himself, who had swum down from Kronborg to
help us in danger's hour. Well, that was a notion I had, and there stands
his likeness. <<
The figure threw its great shadow all the way up the wall, even over
part of the ceiling;it looked as if it were really Holger the Dane himself

standing there behind it, for the shadow moved; but this might also have
been because the flame in the candle didn't burn steadily. And his son's
wife kissed the old grandfather and led him to the big armchair by the
table, and she and her husband who, you see, was the old man's son and
-
father of the littleboy who lay in bed - sat and ate their supper. And the
old grandfather spoke about the Danish lions and the Danish hearts,
about strength and gentleness; and very clearly he showed how there was
another kind of strength besides that of the sword: he pointed to a shelf
full of old books, among which were all Holberg's plays - plays that were
often read because they were so amusing and you really felt you knew all
the characters in them from bygone days.
»There, look - he knew how to carve, too,« said the old grandfather.
»He hacked away at the follies and oddities of people for all he was
worth. « And the old man nodded across to the looking-glass, where the
calendar with a picture of the Round Tower on it was put up, and said,
»Tycho Brahe was another who used the sword, not to hack at flesh and

289
bone, but to carve a dearer way up among all the stars in the sky ... And
then he, too, whose father s calling was the same as my own, he whom
we've seen ourselves with his white hair and broad shoulders, he whose
name is known in every country of the world - yes, he was a sculptor; I am
only a carver. You Holger the Dane can come in many shapes, so that
see,
the whole earth may hear of Denmark's strength. So let us drink the
health of Bertel Thorvaldsen!«
But the little boy in bed could plainly see old Kronborg castle and the
Sound, and the real Holger the Dane sitting far below with his beard
grown fast to the marble table and dreaming of all that went on overhead.
Holger the Dane was dreaming, too, of the humble little room where the
wood-carver sat; he heard everything that was said and nodded in his
sleep and said, »That's right, don't forget me, you Danish people! Bear
me in mind, and I'll come in the hour of need.«
Off Kronborg the sun was shining in broad daylight, and the wind
carried the notes of the huntsman's horn across from our nextdoor neigh-
bours in Sweden. The ships sailed past and fired their salute - boom,
boom! - and from Kronborg came the answer - boom, boom! But, how-
ever loud the firing, Holger the Dane never woke, because after all it was
only »Good morning« and »Many thanks«. There must be a different
kind of shooting to make him wake up; but he'll wake all right, for
there's stout stuff in Holger the Dane.
 «

The Old House

Standing in our used to be an old, old house; it was nearly

street there
three hundred years old ~ you could see that for yourself on the beam,
where the date had been cut beside tulips and twining hops. There were
whole verses, too, in old-fashioned spelling, and above every window a
leering face was carved on the beam. One storey jutted out a good way
above the other, and just under the roof was a lead gutter ending in a
gargoyle, the rainwater was supposed to run out of its jaws but, as there
was a hole in the gutter, it ran instead out of the gargoyle's stomach.
All the other houses in the street were so very new and neat- looking,
with large windowpanes and smooth walls; it was quite easy to see that
they would have nothing to do with the old house: they probably
thought, »how long is this monstrosity to stand here? It's a blot on the
street. Look at that bay-window sticking out so much that no one from

our windows can see what's going on in that direction. The front steps
are as broad as a castle's and as steep as a church tower's. The iron
banisters look just like the entrance to an ancient tomb, with brass knobs
and all. It's ridiculous.
There were also new, neat-looking houses on the opposite side of the
street, and they thought the same as the others; but at one of their win-

dows sat a little boy with fresh rosy cheeks and bright beaming eyes, who

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liked the old house much the best, whether by sunlight or moonlight. As
he looked across at the wall where the plaster had come off in places, he
felt he was discovering all sorts of quaint pictures on it. He could see just

what the street looked like before with bay-windows, pointed gables and
flights of steps. He could make out soldiers w.ith battle-axes, and gutters
that went writhing about like snakes and dragons ... That was a house
worth seeing if you like! And over there lived an old gentleman who wore
plush breeches and a coat with big brass buttons, and had a wig you
could see was a real wig. Every morning an old manservant came in to
tidy up for him and go errands; otherwise the old gentleman in the plush
breeches was quite alone in the old house. Now and again he came to the
window and looked out. Then the little boy nodded to him, and the old
gentleman nodded back; and in this way they got to know each other and
became friends, without either having spoken a word. But of course that
made no difference whatever.
The little boy heard his mother say to his father, »The old gentleman
over the way is very well off, but he's terribly lonely.
The Sunday after, the little boy took and wrapped something up in
paper and went downstairs; then, as the man who went errands came
past,he said to him, »Will you please take this over to the old gentleman
from me? I've got two tin soldiers, and this one's for him, as I know he's
so terribly lonely.
The old servant looked very pleased, gave the boy a nod and took the
tin soldier over to the old house. Later on, word came asking whether the
little to come across himself and pay a visit. His parents
boy would care
gave him leave, and so over to the old house he went.
The brass knobs on the handrails of the front steps shone much brigh-
ter than usual, almost as if they had been polished up specially for the

visit; and the carved trumpeters (for, carved on the door, there were
trumpeters standing among tulips) seemed to be blowing their trumpets
for all they were worth, till their cheeks looked chubbier than ever. Yes,
they blew, »TataranTAra! Little boy com-ing! TataranTAra!« ... and the
door opened. The hall was full of old portraits - knights in armour and
armour and the rustle of dresses. Then
ladies in silk dresses, the rattle of
there were some stairs - a long way up and a short way down - and you
found yourself on a balcony that was certainly rather rickety, with big
holes and long cracks, but with grass and leaves pushing up through all
of them; for the whole balcony out there - court and wall, too - was so
overgrown with green stuff that it looked like a garden; yet it was only a
balcony. Here stood old flowerpots made like faces with donkey's ears,

and the flowers in them were sprouting at their own sweet will. One of
the pots was crammed to the brim with carnations, or rather with their
green shoots which were saying quite plainly, »The air has stroked me,
the sun has kissed me and promised me a little flower on Sunday, a little
flower on Sunday.

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they came into a room where the walls were covered with pigskin
Then
leather and flowers printed on it in gilt.
»What's gilded may weather; there's nothing like leather,« said the
walls. He saw highbacked chairs, finely carved, with arms on both sides.
»Sit down, sit down!« they said. »Oh, how my joints do crack! I'm afraid
I'm getting rheumatics like the old cupboard. Rheumatics in the back -
ow!«
And then the little boy came into the room that had the bay-window,
where the old gentleman was sitting. »Thank you for the tin soldier, my
young friend, « he said. »And thanks for coming over to see me.«
»Thanks, thanks !« or »crack, crack! « came from all the bits of furniture;
there were such a lot of them that they almost fell over each other in
trying to see the little boy.
In the middle of the wall hung the picture of a beautiful lady, with
such a young and happy face, but dressed in the old-fashioned way with
powdered hair and stiff-looking skirts. No thanks or cracks came from
her, but she gazed with her gentle eyes at the little boy, who at once
asked the old gentleman, »Where did you get her?«
»Round at the second-hand shop,« said the old gentleman. »They've
always got lots of pictures of people that no one knows or bothers about,
because they are all in their graves. But I knew her once upon a time, and
now she's been dead and gone these fifty years.
Under the picture, behind glass, was a bunch of faded flowers; they
must also have been fifty years old, by the look of them. And the pendu-
lum on the big clock swung to and fro and the hands went round, and the
things in the room were all getting older and older, but they didn't notice
it.

»They say at home,« said the little boy »that you are so terribly lonely.
»Oh, well,« he replied, »old memories and all they can bring with
them come and visit me, and now you've come too ... I get along very
well.«
And then he took down from
its shelf a book full of pictures: pictures

of great long processions, the most wonderful coaches such as you never
see nowadays, soldiers like the knave of clubs, and medieval townsmen
with fluttering banners. On their banner the merchant tailors had scis-
sors, held by two lions; and on theirs the cordwainers had a two-headed
eagle instead of a boot, because shoemakers like to be able to say about
everything, »There you are - that's a pair« ... Yes, it was a glorious
picture-book.
Meanwhile, the old gentleman went into another room to fetch sweets
and apples and nuts; you really did have a splendid time over at the old
house.
»I can't bear it!« said the tin soldier, who was standing on the chest of
drawers. »It's so lonely and wretched here. If you're accustomed to family
life, it's impossible to settle down here. I can't bear it. The days are so

293
terribly long,and the evenings even longer. It's not a bit the same here as
itwas over at your house, where your father and mother talked so pleas-
antly and all you dear children kicked up such a heavenly din. Crums!
How lonely the old gentleman is! Do you think he ever gets a kiss? Do
you think he ever gets a kind look, or a Christmas tree? He'll never get a
thing - except a funeral ... I can't bear it!«
»Why do you make yourself so miserable?« said the little boy. »I find it

splendid here; and after all, think of the visits you have from the old
memories and all they can bring with them.«
»I daresay. But I don't see them and I don't know them,« said the tin
soldier. »I can't bear it.«
»But you must,« said the little boy.
Just then the old gentleman came back with a very jolly face, bringing
delicious sweets and apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more
about the tin soldier. Presently he went home as pleased as possible. Days
and weeks went by, and there was nodding over to the old house and
nodding back from the old house; and, finally, the little boy went across
there again.
And the carved trumpeters blew, »TataranTAra! Little boy com-ing!
TataranTAra!« From the old portraits came rattling of sword and ar-
mour, and rustling of silk dresses; the pigskin spoke from the walls, and
the old chairs had rheumatics in the back - ow! It was the first visit all
over again; for at the old house, one day or one hour was just like ano-
ther.
»rve been so miserable here that
»I can't bear it,« said the tin soldier.
I've cried tears of tin. No, off to the war and lose arms and
I'd rather go
legs; it would be a change, anyway. I can't bear it. Now I know what it is
to have visits from your old memories and whatever they can bring with
them. I've had visits from mine and, believe me, they're precious little
comfort, in the long run. At last I nearly threw myself off the chest of
drawers. I could see you all over in your house as clearly as if you'd been
here. There we were again that Sunday morning - you remember, don't
you? You children were all standing by the table singing the hymn that
you sing every rnorning. You stood there reverently with folded hands,
and your father and mother were loooking just as solemn, when suddenly
the door opened and your little sister Mary, who isn't yet two years old
and always begins dancing when she hears music or singing of any kind,
was brought into the room. Of course, she oughtn't to have been - and
there she was, beginning to dance, only she couldn't get hold of the
rhythm, because the hymn-notes were so drawn out. First, she stood on
one leg, bending her head right forward; and then she stood on the other
leg, bending her head right forward; but it wouldn't do. You all kept
straight faces; though it must have been pretty difficult; but I couldn't
help laughing to myself, and that's how I came to fall off the chest of
drawers and get a lump which is still there. Of course it was wrong of me

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 1

to laugh ... And now the whole of that goes buzzing round in my head,
and all the other things I've been through. I suppose these are the old
memories and whatever they can bring with them! ... Do tell me if you
still sing on Sundays? Tell me something about your little sister Mary.

And how's my old friend, the other tin soldier? Yes, he's the lucky one -
can't bear it.«
»You've been given away,« said the little boy. »You've got to stay here -
can't you see that?«
The old gentleman brought along a drawer containing lots of things to
look at: a »gloryhole« of treasures, a box of perfumes, old playing-cards

295
larger and more gilded than you'd ever see nowadays. And large drawers
were opened, and the piano was opened - it had a landscape painted
inside the lid - and it sounded so husky when the old gentleman played
it. And then he hummed a little song.

»Yes, she used to sing that,« he said with a nod to the portrait he had
bought at the second-hand shop; and the old gentleman's eyes shone
brightly.
want to fight! I want to fight !« yelled the soldier at the top of his
»I
voice, and took a flying leap on to the floor ...
Well, but what ever had become of him? The old gentleman searched,
and the little boy searched, but he had gone, gone for good. »Never mind,
I shall find him,« said the old gentleman; but he never did. There were

too many holes and chinks in the floor. The tin soldier had fallen
through one of them, and there he lay in an open grave.
So that day passed, and the little boy went home. The week passed, and
several more after it. The windows were frozen right over; the little boy
had to keep breathing on it to make a peep-hole for himself over to the
old house. There the snow had drifted over all the twiddles and lettering
on the front and lay deep over the whole flight of steps, as if nobody was
at home. And indeed nobody was at home, for the old gentleman was
dead.
In the evening a carriage stopped outside, and he was brought down to
it in his coffin; he was to be taken away and buried in the country. Now
they were driving off, but nobody followed him, for all his friends were
dead. The little boy blew a kiss to the coffin as it drove away.
Some days after there was a sale at the old house, and the little boy
could see from his window how they took away the old knights and the
old ladies, the flower-pots with long ears, the old chairs and the old
cupboards - some to one place, some to another. The lady's portrait
which had been found at the second-hand shop returned to the second-
hand shop and went on hanging there, as nobody knew her any more and
nobody wanted the old picture.
In the spring the house itself was pulled down, for it was a monstrosi-
ty, people said. From the street you could see right into the room with the

pigskin hangings, which were tattered and torn; and the greenstuff about
the balcony sprawled in wild confusion round the tottering beams ... And
then it was all cleared away.
»Good riddance !« said the neighbouring houses.
A fine new house was built there with large windows and smooth
white walls, but in front -really where the old house had stood - a small
garden was planted, and a wild vine grew against the neighbour's wall.
In front of the garden they put a big iron railing with an iron gate; it
looked so grand that people stopped and peeped in. Scores of sparrows
were there, clinging to the vine and chattering away like anything to each
other - though not about the old house, as they couldn't remember that.

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No, so many had gone by that the little boy had grown up to be a
years
man, and a fine man
too, whose parents were proud of him. He had just
got married, and he and his dear wife had moved into his house where the
garden was. He stood there beside her, while she planted a wild flower
she had come and found so lovely. She was planting it
across in the fields
with her own ow! what ever was that? She had pricked herself
fingers -
on something sharp that was sticking up out of the soft earth. It was -
just imagine! - ix was the tin soldier, the very one who got lost up at the
old gentleman's and went rumbling and tumbling among timber and
rubbish and had ended by lying for years in the ground.
The young wife gave the soldier a wipe, first, with a green leaf and
then with her delicate handkerchief - it had such an exquisite perfume;
to the tin soldier it was like waking up from a deep sleep.
»Let me have a look at him,« said the young man with a laugh but
then he shook his head. »No, it can't possibly be him, though he reminds
me of an episode I had with a tin soldier when I was a small boy.« And
then he told his wife about the old house and the old gentleman and the
tin soldier that he sent across to him because he was so terribly lonely. He
told the tale so exactly as it all happened that the young wife's eyes filled
with tears as she thought of the old house and the old gentleman.
»But it may quite well be the same tin soldier,« she said. »I shall keep
him and remember everything you've told me; but you must show me the
old gentleman's grave.
»Well, but I don't know where it is. Nobody knows; for, you see, all his
friends were dead. There was no one to look after it, and of course I was
only a small boy then.«

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 « «

»How terribly lonely he must have been!« she said. »Terribly lonely,
said the tin soldier. »But it's wonderful not to be forgotten.
»Wonderful!« cried something near by, though no one but the tin
soldier saw that it was a piece of the pigskin leather from the wall; it had
lost all its gilt and looked like a clod of damp earth. Still, it had a mind of
its own and was ready to speak it: »What's gilded may weather; there's

nothing like leather.«

But the tin soldier wasn't so sure about that.
 .33?^-^^

V
»T here's a Difference«

I It was in the month of May; the wind still blew cold. But spring had

come, said the bushes and trees and fields and meadows. The country was
full of blossom, even in the quickset hedge; and here was spring herself,
unfolding her tale. It was a little apple tree that spoke for her, with one
bough especially, so fresh and vigorous, loaded up with delicate pink
buds that were just going to open. The little tree knew well enough how
beautiful it was - for you can have it in the bud as well as in the blood -
and so it wasn't surprised when a smart-looking carriage drew up in
front of it and the young countess said that this apple bough was the
most graceful sight imaginable; it was an emblem of spring at her loveli-
est. And the bough was broken off, and the young countess held it in her

delicate fingers and shaded it with her silk parasol ... Then they drove on
to the castle with its lofty great rooms and elegant apartments. Sheer
white curtains fluttered at the open windows, and beautiful flowers stood
in clear sparkling vases; in one of these (it seemed to be carved out of new-
fallen snow) the apple bough was put among fresh bright-green spraysof
beech. It looked delicious.
The result was, the bough became very pleased with itself; and that was
of course just like a human being.
People of all sorts passed through the rooms and ventured, as far as
their standing allowed, to show their admiration; some didn't say a
thing, while others said far too much, so that the apple bough came to
realize that there's as much difference between people as between plants.
»Some are for show and some to provide food; there are also some that
aren't wanted at all,« thought the apple bough, and as it had been put

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close to the open window, with a view of both garden and fields, it had
plenty of flowers and plants to look at and think about. There they were,
rich and poor; some of them very poor indeed.
»Poor despised weeds !« said the apple bough. »There's a difference
here, with a vengeance. How unhappy they must feel - if that sort can
feel the same as we others can. Yes, there's a difference here, and a differ-

ence there must be, or we should all be equal.

And the apple bough looked down with a kind of pity on one sort of
flower, especially, that was to be seen all over the fields and ditches. No
one made a nosegay of these, they were much too common; you could
even find them among the cobbles, shooting up like the coarsest weed,
and then they had the horrible name of »the devil's milk pail.«*
»Poor despised plant!« said the apple bough. »You can't help being
what you are - being so common and having that ugly name. You see, it's
the same with plants as with people: there's got to be a difference.
»A difference, has there?« said the sunbeam, kissing the apple blossom,
but also kissing the yellow dandelion out on the field. All the sunbeam's
brothers kissed them, the poor flowers as well as the rich ones.
The apple bough had never given thought to God's boundless love for
everything that lives and moves on earth, never given thought to how
much that's beautiful and good may lie hidden But
yet not forgotten ...

that, too,was so like a human being.

The sunbeam, light's own ray, knew better, »You don't see very far,
and you don't see very clearly. Where's this despised weed you're so sorry
for?«
»It's the dandelion, « said the apple bough. »Never is it made into a
nosegay. It gets trodden underfoot; there are too many of them; and,
when they run to seed, it flies wool over the road and
like little fluffs of
sticks to people's clothing. Weeds what they are ... and yet there
- that's
must also be weeds. I'm only too thankful I'm not one of them, that's
all.«
Across the fields came a whole flock of children; the smallest of them
was so tiny that it had to be carried by the others. And when it was put
down on the grass among the yellow flowers, it chortled with glee, kicked
out its little legs, rolled over and over, then plucked only the yellow
flowers and in sweet simplicity gave them kisses. The rather bigger chil-
dren broke off the flowers from their hollow stalks, binding them all
together, link by link, until there was a whole chain; first, a chain for the
neck, then another for the shoulders, and another for the waist, and
another for the bosom, and another for the head. There was a grand array
of green links and chains; but the biggest children carefully took the
dandelions that had finished flowering - that is, they took the stalk with
its fluffy composite seed-crown, that light airy wool-blossom which is a

little masterpiece of its own, as if made of the most delicate feathers,

snowf lakes or swan's-down - they held this to their mouths so as to blow

* In English called 'dandelion'.
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 «

the whole thing away with one puff. The boy who could do that would
get a new suit of clothes before the year was over - so Granny said.
The despised flower was quite a prophet on this occasion.
»There!« said the sunbeam. »Do you see its beauty? Do you see its
|X)wer?«
»A11 very well for children, « said the apple bough.
Then an old woman came out on the field; and with her stumpy knife,
though it hadn't any handle, she dug round the root of the flower and
pulled it up. Some of the roots she would use to make coffee; other would
bring in money, as she was taking them to the chemist for his medicines.
»Still, beauty ranks higher,« said the apple bough. »Only the chosen
few can enter the realm of the beautiful. There's a difference between
plants, as there is between people.« And then the sunbeam spoke of God's
boundless love shown through everything that is created and has life and
of its equal distribution in time and eternity.
»Well, that's what you think,« said the apple bough.
Then some people came into the room and, with them, the young
countess who had found such a nice place for the apple bough in the
clear sparkling vase where the sunlight fell. She was carrying a flower or
something, hidden in three or four big leaves that were wrapped round it
like apaper cornet to prevent any draught or breath of air doing it harm;
and it was being carried more carefully than ever the delicate apple
bough had been. Very gently the big leaves were now taken away - and
there was the soft fluffy seed-crown of the despised yellow dandelion.
This was the flower she had picked so carefully and carried so tenderly, in
order that not one of the delicate plume-like darts that make up its misty
shape and sit so lightly should blow away. Entire and intact she held it,
and admired its lovely shape, its airy brilliance, its quite peculiar fabric,
its beauty at the very moment of vanishing before the wind.
»Just look how marvellously God has made it!« she said. »I want to
paint it alongside the apple blossom. That, of course, we all find so
infinitely lovely, but this humble flower has also in another way received
just as much from heaven; so different are they, and yet both children in
the realm of beauty.
And the sunbeam kissed the humble flower; it kissed, too, the blossom-
ing apple bough, whose petals appeared to blush.
 The Story of the Year

it was late in January, and there was a tremendous blizzard. The snow
went driving and swirling along highway and byway. The window-
panes were simply plastered with snow, and each time a heap of it
crumped down from the roof, people made a wild dash to avoid it. They
ran, they rushed, they flew into each other's arms and clutched tight for a
moment, just long enough to get a firm foothold. Horses and carriages
seemed to have been powdered all over. The footmen stood with their
backs to the horses, so as to ride with their backs to the wind. People on
foot kept steadily under the lee of a cart that could only get along slowly
in the deep snow; and when the gale at last went down and a narrow path
was swept along the front of the houses, people still kept stopping when
they met, for none of them cared to take the first step by treading out in
the deep snow so that the other might slip by. There they stood without
saying a word, till at last by a kind of tacit agreement each of them
sacrificed one leg and let it plunge into the piled-up snow.
Towards evening it turned to a dead calm. The sky looked as if it had
been swept clean and become further off and more transparent. The stars
seemed to be brand-new, and some of them very blue and bright - it was
freezing hard - the top layer of snow might very well get so firm that by
morning it would bear the sparrows. They were hopping about, up and
down, where the snow had been shovelled, but there was precious little
they could find to eat and they felt the cold terribly.
»Tweet!« said one of them to another. »Is this what they call the New
Year? Why, it's worse than the old one, so we might just as well have
gone on with that. I'm disappointed, and I've good reasons to be.«
»Yes, and to think that people have been running about with guns to

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 «

shoot the New Year in!« said a shivering little sparrow. »They battered
doors with pots and pans and were quite crazy with joy at the old year
having gone. I must say I was pleased, too, for I reckoned that now we
should have warmer weather. But not a bit of it! Why, it's freezing harder
than ever. These humans have got their calendar all wrong.
»They have indeed!« said a third sparrow, who was old and had gone
grey on top. »They've a thing nowadays they call the Almanack. I sup-
pose it's an invention of their own, and so everything's got to go by it; but
it doesn't. When spring arrives, the year begins; that's nature's way, and

that's what I go by.«

»But when will spring arrive?« asked the others.
»It'll come when the stork comes, but there's no knowing with him

when he'll arrive; and here in the town there isn't a soul who has any
idea. They're better informed out in the country. Shall we fly out there
and wait? We shall be nearer to spring, I feel sure, out in the country.«
»Ah, that may be all very well,« said one of them, who had been
twittering for some time without actually saying anything. »But here in
the town I enjoy certain advantages that I'm afraid I might miss out

there. Living in a house near by is a human family that's hit upon the
sensible idea of fastening against the wall three or four flower-pots with
the large opening turned inwards and the bottom facing outwards with a
hole cut in it large enough for me out. I and my husband
to fly in and
have got our nest there, and from young ones have flown
there all our
out. The human family have of course rigged up the whole thing just for
the fun of watching us, or else I don't suppose they'd have done it. They
scatter bread-crumbs - also for their own amusement - and that's how we
get our food. We are, in a manner of speaking, provided for ... And so I
think my husband and I will stay where we are. We're most disappointed
- but we'll stay.«
»And we're flying off to the country, to see if there's any sign of
spring. « And away they flew.
In the country it was still winter, no doubt about that: the frost was
several degrees sharper than in the town. A keen wind was blowing across
the snowbound The
farmer, wearing his great mittens, sat in his
fields.
sledge and slapped arms together to get the cold out of them; and,
his
with the whip lying across his knees, the raw-boned horses galloped until
they steamed. The snow crackled, and the sparrows hopped freezing in
the wheel tracks; »Tweet! When's the spring coming? What a time it's
taking !«
»What a time!« resounded across the fields from the highest bank all
covered with snow. It might have been an echo they heard, or might
it

well have been the voice of the funny-looking old man who sat on the top
of the snowdrift in spite of the weather. He was white all over, like a
peasant in a white homespun coat, with long white hair, white beard,
very pale, and with large bright eyes.

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 « «

»Who's that old fellow over there?« asked the sparrows.

»I can you,« answered an old raven perched on the gate-post, who
tell

was condescending enough to admit that we are all little birds in the
sight of heaven and therefore entered into conversation with the sparrows
and told them who the old fellow was. »He's Winter, the old man from
last year. He's not dead, as it says in the Almanack; no, he's a sort of
guardian to the little Prince Spring who's now on his way. Depend upon
it. Winter's the one that calls the tune. B'rrh! I'll bet you're freezing, you

little 'uns.«
»There, isn't that just what I said,« twittered the smallest sparrow.
»The Almanack is simply one of man's inventions. It isn't made to follow
nature. They should leave that to us, who're born cleverer.
And a week went by, and nearly another. The forest was black, the
frozen lake lay heavy and stiff like lead; the clouds - well, they were
hardly clouds, they were damp icy mists clinging to the countryside. The
great black crows flew about in silent flocks; everything seemed asleep ...

Then sunbeam went gliding over the lake, and the surface shone like
a
molten tin. The snow lying over the fields and slopes had lost some of its
though the white figure of Winter himself still sat there looking
glitter,

steadily southward; he never noticed that the blanket of snow seemed to

be sinking into the earth and that here and there a little grass-green patch
of ground was showing, which was soon swarming with sparrows.
»Cheep-cheep! Is this the spring?«
»Spring!« went the echo across field and meadow and through the
dark-brown woods, where the moss shone fresh and green on the trunks
of trees. And now through the air came flying from the south the first two
storks; each of them had a pretty little child on its back, a boy and a girl.
The children greeted the earth with a kiss; and wherever they set foot,
white flowers sprang up out of the snow. Hand in hand they went up to
the old ice-man. Winter, and snuggled right up to him in fresh greeting.
At the same moment all three were hidden from view, and the whole
countryside with them; everything was shrouded in a thick damp mist,
ever so dense and heavy. Presently a light breeze got up; and then the
wind came tearing along with tremendous gusts and drove the mist away,
and the sun shone warm. Winter himself had vanished, and Spring's
sweet children sat on the throne of the year.
»This is what I call New Year,« said the sparrows. »Now we'll surely
get back our rights, and something to make up for the hard winter.
Whichever way the two children turned green buds were shooting from
bush and tree, grass grew longer, cornfields a brighter and brighter green.
All around her the little girl kept scattering flowers; she had masses of
them in her lap, which appeared to be teeming with flowers and always
full of them, however busily she kept on scattering; in her eagerness she
shook a regular snow of blossom over the apple and peach trees, so that
they stood out in all their glory before ever they'd properly got their green
leaves.

304
 And she clapped her hands, and so did the boy, and then out came
birds - goodness knows where from - and they all twittered and sang,

»Spring has come!«

It was a lovely sight. And many an old granny came and stood outside
her door in the sunshine, gave herself a little shake, and looked at the

yellow flowers that were flaunting their colour all over the meadow just
as they did when she was young. The world was young again. »It's
wonderful out here today, « she said.
The woods were still a brownish green, with bud upon bud, though

the woodruff was out in all its freshness and fragrance. Violets were there
in abundance; so, too, were anemones, cowslips and oxlips - yes, there
was sap and strength in every blade of grass, making it quite a magnifi-
cent carpet to sit on; and there sat Spring's young couple, holding each
other's hands and singing and smiling and growing more and more.
A soft rain fell down upon them, but they took no notice; raindrops

305
and tears of joymingled together. Bride and bridegroom kissed each
other, and at that instant the wood sprang into leaf. When the sun rose,
all the woods were green.
Hand in hand the bridal pair wandered beneath the fresh leafy awning
that hung above their heads, where only sunbeams and shadows che-
quered the colour of the green. A cool fragrance and a maiden purity lay
in those delicate leaves. Runnel and brook went rippling between the
green velvety rushes over the dappled stones. »Plenty abounds«, all na-
ture proclaimed, »and will abound, for ever and ever.« And the cuckoo
calledand the lark twittered; it was glorious spring. Yet the willows had
woolly gloves over their blossoms; they were being tremendously cau-
tious, and that is so tiresome.
So days and weeks went by, and the heat became almost oppressive;
waves of warm air passed through the corn, which grew yellower every
day. On the forest lakes the North's white lotus spread out its huge green
leaves over the- surface of the water, and the fish would look for shade
underneath them. On the sheltered side of the wood, where the sun beat
down on the farmhouse wall and warmed the full-blown roses through
and through, while the cherry trees hung full of juicy black, nearly sun-
baked berries, there sat Summer's lovely wife whom we saw as a child and
as a bride. And she looked up at the gathering clouds as they billowed in
dark purple masses like mountains, piling up higher and higher. From
three sides they approached; lower and lower, like a sea reversed and
turned to stone, they came down towards the forest where everything, as
if by enchantment, was hushed to silence. Not a breath of air was stirring,

every bird was still; and, while all nature lay solemn and expectant,
people in carriages, on horse or on foot went hurrying down roads and
path to get to shelter.
Suddenly there was a flash, as if the sun were breaking out - a blind-
ing, blistering flash - and then all was dark again, as a crash went rolling
overhead. Rain came down in sheets; there was night - and day; stillness
- and uproar. The young reeds in the marsh swayed their brown plumes
like a billowy sea, the branches of the trees were hidden in mist, and then
once more came darkness and light, silence and uproar ... Grass and corn
lay beaten down flat, as though washed away never to rise again. All at
once the rain died down to a few drops, the sun came out, and on leaf and
blade the raindrops gleamed like pearls; birds began singing, fish leapt
up from the brook, midges danced; and out on a rock where the salt sea-
water had been whipped into foam, sat Summer himself, that sturdy man
with lusty limbs and dripping hair; there he was, cooled and streng-
thened by his bath, sitting in the warm sunshine. All around, nature too
was cooled and strengthened, everything grown vigorous, rich and beau-
tiful. It was summertime, warm delicious summertime.

Fresh and sweet was the smell that came from the rich fields of clover.
The bees went mumbling through the ruins of a court-house; the bram-

306
ble twined about the old altar slab that,washed by the rain, glistened in
the sunlight;and the queen bee flew there with her swarm and made wax
and honey. No one saw them but Summer and his sturdy spouse; it was
for them that the altar table was spread with nature's offerings.
And the evening sky glittered like gold - no church has a dome so rich;
and the moon shone between evening and morning glow. It was summer-
time.
And days and weeks went by. The bright scythes of the harvesters
gleamed in the cornfields. The branches of the apple tree bent low with
the weight of their red and yellow fruit; the hops smelt delicious, hang-
ing in great clusters; and under the hazel bushes, with their heavy
bunches of nuts, sat man and wife. Summer and his graver- looking
spouse, taking a rest.

»What abundance !« she cried. »Blessings on every side, everything

homely and good; and yet somehow I long for rest - quiet - or whatever
the word is ... Why, they're ploughing again already. Men are always
after more - and still more ... Look, there are the storks flocking up to
follow the plough at a distance; the bird of Egypt that brought us

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through the air. You remember, we two came as

don't you, that time
children up We
brought flowers with us, and lovely
here to the North?
sunshine, and green woods, but these have been roughly treated by the
wind and are turning brown and dark like the trees in the south - though
they don't, like them, bear golden fruit.
»Are they what you want to see?« said Summer. »Then feast your eyes
on this!« And at a wave of his hand the leaves of the forest turned red and
gold, and a blaze of colour spread right through the woods; rosebushes
were aflame with scarlet hips, elder trees heavy with dark-brown berries,
wild chestnuts fell ripe from their dark-green husks, and within the wood
was a second flowering of violets.
But the Queen of the Year became still more pale and quiet. »It blows
cold,« she said. »The nights are damp and misty. I long for the land of
my childhood.
And she saw the storks, one after the other, flying away and stretched
her hands out after them. She looked up at their nests, now empty; and in
one there sprouted the long-stalked cornflower and in another the yellow
mustard, as if the nest was only there as a fence and protection for them.
The sparrows, too, came up to the nest. »Tweet! Where have the family
gone off to? Perhaps they can't stand the cold winds and have gone
abroad ... Pleasant journey !«
The leaves in the forest turned more and more yellow, and one by one
they fell to the ground.The autumn gales came tearing in, for harvest-
time was nearly over. The Queen of the Year lay on a pile of yellow leaves
and turned tier gentle eyes towards a twinkling star, and her husband
stood beside her. The leaves were caught up in a whirling gust and, when
this died down, she was gone. Only a butterfly, the last of the year, was
left fluttering in the cold air.
After that came the wet mists, the icy blast, and the long dark nights.
The Monarch of the Year was standing with hair that, unknown to
himself, was as white as snow; he thought it was the snowflakes falling
from the clouds, for there was a thin layer of snow covering the green
fields.
And the church bells were ringing for Christmas.
»There go the birthday bells,« said the Monarch of the Year. »Soon the
new King and Queen will be born, and I, like her, shall have rest - rest in
that twinkling star.«
And there among the fresh green fir trees, where the snow lay, stood the
angel of Christmas and gave his blessing to the young trees that were to
go to his feast.
»Joy in the house and under the green branches !« said the year's old
monarch; a few weeks had aged him into a hoary patriarch. »My time for
rest is drawing near; the young couple, of the coming year will now
receive crov^ni and sceptre.
»And yet the power is yours,« said the angel of Christmas, »power - not

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rest: Let the snow lie out there and keep the young seed warm. Learn to
see homage paid to another, though still you're a prince; learn to be
forgotten, though still you're alive. Your hour of freedom will come,
when spring comes.
»When does spring come?« asked Winter.
»It comes when the stork comes.
And with his white locks and snowy beard old Winter sat, freezing and
bent, yet strong as the winter gale and the power of ice, high on a hil-
lock's snowdrift, gazing away to the south, just as the Winter before had
sat and gazed. There was creaking of ice and crunching of snow, skaters
went curving on the polished surface of the lakes, and ravens and crows
stood out sharply against the white background. Not a breath of wind
was stirring; and in the still air Winter clenched his fists, and the ice
became fathoms thick between shore and shore.
Then the sparrows came out from the town again and asked, »Who's
that old fellow over there?« And the raven was on his gate-post again - or
a son of his, it doesn't matter which - and he answered, »That's Winter,
the old man from last year. He's not dead, as they make out in the
Almanack; he's the guardian of the spring that will soon be here.«
»Soon be here!« said the sparrows. »Then we'll have good days and
better treatment. The old way was no good.«
And in silent thought Winter gave a nod to the black leafless forest,
where the delicate shape and curve of every tree showed clearly, and in
their winter slumber the icy mists sank slowly down from the clouds. The
Monarch was dreaming of the days of his youth and his manhood, and
by dawn the whole forest was beautiful with hoar-frost. It was Winter's
dream of Summer; and the sunshine sprinkled the hoar-frost down from
the branches.

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»When will spring be here?« asked the sparrows.

»Spring!« came like an echo from the slopes where the snow lay. And
the sun shone warmer and warmer, the snow melted, the birds twittered,
»Spring is coming !«
Then, flying high through the air, came the first stork; and the second
came with him. Each had a beautiful child on its back, as they coasted
down on to the open field; they kissed the earth, and they kissed the silent
old man. Then, like Moses on the mountain, he was borne away in a
cloud-mist and disappeared. The story of the year was over.
»Perfectly right !« said the sparrows. »And very pretty to look at, too;

but it's quite different from the Almanack, so it must be wrong.

 Everything in Its
Right Place

w. e must go back more than a hundred years.

Behind the wood beside a large lake was an old manor-house with a
deep moat round it full of reeds and bulrushes. Right up against the
bridge leading to the entrance-gates stood an old willow leaning out over
the reeds.
From the sunken road came the sound of horn and clattering hoofs,
which made the young goose-girl bustle to get her geese away from the
bridge before the hunt came galloping over. They rode up so quickly that
she had to jump in a hurry up on to one of the high coping-stones of the
bridge to avoid being ridden down. She was still half a child, slight and
delicate, with a charming expression in her face and two clear bright
eyes; but the squire took no notice of this. He came dashing along at top
speed, took his hunting crop by the other end and in brutal joke lunged
right at her chest with the butt end, so that she toppled over backwards.
»Every thing in its right place, « he bawled out. »Into the ditch with
you!« ... and then he burst into laughter - it was supposed to be so funny
- and the others laughed too. The whole party were yelling and bawling,
and the hounds all baying; it was a real case of -
»moneyed birds on the bust!«
Goodness knows how much money he still had in those days.
The poor goose-girl put her hand before her as she fell and caught hold

311
of one of the overhanging branches of the willow; with the help of this
she managed to keep herself clear of the mud, and as soon as the hunt had
all safely passed through the big gates she did her best to clamber up
again. But the branch broke off at the top, and the goosegirl would have
fallen heavily back into the reeds, if at that very moment a strong hand
hadn't seized her from above. It was a travelling pedlar, who had been
looking on from a short way off and now hurried to her rescue.
»Everything in its right place!« he said mimicking the squire, as he
dragged her up on to the bank. He tried putting the broken branch back
where it was when it snapped, but »in its right place« - that won't always
work. So he stuck the branch down in the moist earth: »grow if you can
and make a good flute for them up at the manor. « It would serve them
right (he said to himself) if the squire and his hunting friends were jolly
well made to run the gauntlet. And then he went into the manor-house,
though not into the private side - he was much too humble for that. No,
he went into the servants' hall, and the servants turned over his goods and
bargained with him. Meanwhile, from the festive board above them came
a hullabaloo that was supposed to be singing; it was the best they could
do. There were bursts of laughter and yelping of hounds, and a riot of
gorging and tippling; wine and old ale foamed in glass and tankard, and
the watch-dogs joined in the feasting. Now and then one of the animals
would be kissed by a young nobleman after its nose had first been wiped
with the long flap of its ear. The pedlar was called up with his wares, but
really only for them to make fun of him. The wine had gone to their
heads and the sense gone out. They poured ale into a stocking, so that he
might drink with them - come on, quick! Most ingenious, wasn't it.
More laughter. Whole herds of cattle, farms, farmers and all, were staked
on the throw of a single card and lost.

»Every thing in its right place !« cried the pedlar, once he was well away
again from Sodom and Gomorra, as he called it. »The open road - that's
the place for me; it was no place for me, up at the manor. « And the little
goose-girl nodded to him from the gate.
Days and w^eeks went by, and it turned out that the broken willow
branch that the pedlar had stuck in beside the ditch was still keeping
fresh and green - why, yes, it was even putting out new shoots. The little
goose-girl saw that it must have taken root, and she was immensely
pleased. It was her tree, she felt.
But, while this went forward, everything else at the manor fell badly
behind, for gambling and guzzling are shaky stilts to stand on.
Before half-a-dozen years had passed, the squire walked out of the
house as poor as a beggar; and the manor was bought by a wealthy
pedlar, who turned out to be the very man who had been mocked and
made a fool of and offered ale in a stocking. But honesty and enterprise,
they're bound to prosper, and now the pedlar was lord of the manor. But
that was the end of all card-playing there. »That kind of reading is no

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good to anyone, « he said, »and I'll tell you what it comes from; the first
time the Devil saw the Bible, he wanted to mimic it with a book that was
supposed to be like it, and so he invented cards.
The new squire took a wife, and who should she be but the little goose-
girl, who had always been gentle, good and kind; and in her new clothes
she looked as fine and handsome as if she had been born a great lady.
How did it all happen? Oh, well, that story would take too long, now
that we're so busy; anyhow it happened, and the most important is what
comes next.
Things went wonderfully well now at the manor; Mother looked after
it inside, and Father outside. Blessings were almost rained upon them,

for plenty comes where plenty is. The old house was done up and re-
painted, the moat was cleaned out and fruit-trees planted. It all looked
nice and friendly, and the floors were as smooth and bright as a bread-
trencher. On winter evenings the lady of the house sat with her maids in
the large hall, spinning wool and linen; and every Sunday evening there
was reading aloud from the Bible - what's more, by the Councillor

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himself; for he was made a Councillor, the pedlar was, though not until
he was quite an old man. The children grew up - yes, they had children
- and they were all well-educated, though of course they weren't all
equally clever; that's the same in every family.
But the willow branch outside the gates had grown into a splendid
tree, standing free and unlopped. »That's our family tree,« said the old

people, and the tree was to be honoured and respected, they told the
children, not forgetting the ones that weren't clever ...
And now a hundred years had gone by.
It was in our own day. The lake had now become a marsh, and the old
manor was more or less wiped out. There was an oblong pool of water
with some stone-edging beside it; that was all that was left of the deep
moat, and here stood a splendid old tree with stooping branches. It was
the family tree. There it stood, showing how fine a willow can be when
left to itself. It's true, the stem was split down the middle, right from the

root up to the crown, and the gales had twisted it a bit out of shape.
Nevertheless, it stood; and from every crack and cranny, into which soil
had been blown by wind and weather, there sprouted grass and flowers.
Especially near the top, where the large boughs branched off, there was a
positive little hanging garden of raspberries and chickweed; yes, even a
tiny mountain ash had taken root and stood so slender and delicate up
there in the middle of the old willow, which was mirrored in the black
water when the wind drove the duckweed out into a corner of the pool. A
narrow path across the fields led close by the tree.
High up the slope near the woods, with a beautiful view, stood the new
manor, large and imposing, with window-panes so clear that you might
easily think that there weren't any. The large flight of steps at the front-
door looked like an arbour of roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn
was such a lovely green that you might have thought every blade of grass
was attended to night and morning. Inside, the rooms were hung with
valuable paintings; and there too, covered with silk and velvet, were
chairs and sofas that could almost walk on their own legs, tables with
shining marble tops, and books with leather bindings and gilt edges ...
Yes, they must certainly be rich people who lived here. And they were too
- very distinguished - they were the baron and his family.

Place and people were just like each other. These also said, »Every-
thing in its right place«; and therefore all the pictures that had once been
the ornament and pride of the old manor were now hanging in the
passage leading to the servant's hall. Absolute rubbish, they called them,
especially two old portraits: the one showed a man in a pink coat and
wig, the other a lady with piled-up powdered hair and a red rose in her
hand, but both alike encircled with a wreath of willow sprigs. Both
pictures had a number of round holes in them; this was because the little
barons always would go and shoot their crossbows at the old couple.

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They were paintings of the Councillor and his wife, from whom the
whole family were descended.
»But they don't really belong to our family«, one of the little barons
would say. »He was a pedlar, and she was a chit of a girl who minded the
geese. They weren't like Mum and Dad.« The pictures were just rubbish,
and »everything in its right place, « they said; and so great-granny and
great-grandad found their way to the passage leading to the servants'
hall.
The parson's son was private tutor at the manor. He was out one day
with the little barons and their eldest sister, who had just lately been
confirmed, and their way led along the path down towards the old wil-
low tree. As they walked, she gathered a bunch of wild flowers - »every-
thing in its right place« - and they made one beautiful whole. At the
same time she followed every word that was said, and it pleased her to
hear the parson's son speaking about the power of nature and about the
great men and women of history. She had a fine healthy disposition,

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noble in mind and spirit, and a heart filled with love for everything
created by God.
Dow^n by the old w^illow tree they came to a halt. The youngest boy did
so want to have a flute cut off for him; he had had one before from other
willows, and so the parson's son broke off a branch.
»Oh, don't do that!« cried the young baroness; but already it was done.
»You see,« she said, »it's our famous old tree. I'm so fond of it. That's of
course why they laugh at me at home, though I don't mind. There's an
old story about this tree ...«
And then she told the whole tale of what we have just heard about the
tree, the old manor, and about the goose-girl and pedlar who met here and

afterwards became founders of the noble family to which the young

baroness belonged.
»They refused a title, the honest old souls^« she continued. »Their
motto was, 'Everything in its right place', and they felt it wasn't their
place to let themselces be given a title for money. It was their son, my
grandfather, who was made a baron. He's said to have been a great
scholar, highly thought of and popular with the princes and princesses,
invited to all their big parties. He's the one that the others at home think
most of, but I'm not sure myself; there's something about the first old
couple that draws my heart to them. It must have been so snug, so
patriarchal, in the old manor, where the mistress sat spinning with her
maids and the old master read aloud from the Bible.
»They must have been fine, sensible people, « said the parson's son;
and, with that, they plunged into talk about nobles and commoners and,
from the way that the parson's son talked about the position of the
nobility, you would hardly have thought that he belonged to the middle
class at all.
»It's a great thing,« he said, »to belong to a family that has distin-
guished itself, to have a sort of spur in your blood urging you on to do
good work. It's wonderful to inherit a name that's a card of admission to
the leading families. Nobility implies what is noble; it's the gold coin
that bears the stamp of its own value. It's the fashion of our time - and of
course many poets hold the same view - to regard everything done by the
upper classes as wrong and foolish, while among the poor the lower you
go down the more they shine. Well, that's not what I think, for that idea
is utterly and completely false. Among the upper classes you may come

across many moving little incidents. My mother has told me of one, and I
could instance several others. She was calling at a good house in town -
think my grandmother had nursed her ladyship as a child. My mother
was standing in the room with the aristocratic old husband, when he saw
down in the courtyard an old woman hobbling on crutches. She used to
come every Sunday and get a few shillings. »Ah, there's the poor old
dear,« said the husband. »She finds it so hard to get along.« And before

my mother grasped what was happening, he was out of the door and

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down had himself gone down to

the steps; he, His 70-year-old Excellency,
the poor woman, after the money she had
to save her the difficult climb
come for. That's of course only a trifling instance but, like the widow's
mite, it rings from the bottom of the heart, from the depth of human
nature. In that direction should the poet point, of that should he sing,
especially at the present time, forit will do good and make people kinder

and more tolerant. But when some bit of a man, just because of this blue
blood and a pedigree like an Arab horse, stands whinnying on his hind
legs in the street or complaining in the room that 'people from the street
have been in here' after a commoner has paid a call, then nobility has
begun to go rotten and is no more than a mask of the kind that Thespis
originated; a fellow like that is simply a laughing-stock and a target for
satire.
Such was the homily of the parson's son. Rather long perhaps, but at
any rate the flute was finished.
There was a big party on at the manor, with many guests from the
country and from the capital; ladies dressed with taste - and without
taste. The spacious rooms were crowded. Neighbouring parsons stood

respectfully clustered in a comer - it looked rather like a funeral. But it

was an entertainment, though it hadn't yet got started. There was to be a
great concert, and so the little baron had his willow-flute with him, but
he couldn't get a note out of it, and neither could his dad, so the flute was
no good. There was music and singing of the kind that gives most plea-
sure to the performers. Delightful, all the same.
»You, an expert?« said a lordling (a true son of his father) to
too, are
the parson's son. »Can you really play a flute that you've made yourself?
This is indeed genius to the fore - worthy to take the seat of honour. Bless
you! I keep well abreast of the times - one has to. Now I'm sure you'll
sweep us all off our feet with your little instrument*; and he handed him
the little flute that had been cut from the willow tree down by the pool.
Then at the top of his voice he announced that the tutor was going to
oblige them with a solo on the flute.
The idea was simply to make fun of him - that was quite clear - and so
the tutor had no wish to play; but they crowded round and pressed him,
till at last he took the flute and put it to his lips.

It was a queer sort of flute. It had a note as prolonged as the whistle

from a steam engine, only much more piercing. It sounded right over the
courtyard, garden and woods, miles out into the country; and with the
sound came a blast of wind roaring, »Everything in its right place« - and
away flew the baron, as if carried by the wind, out of the manor right
bang into the cowman's cottage; and the cowman flew up, not into the
drawing-room - he couldn't come there - no, but into the servant's hall
among the menservants in their smart livery. The haughty fellows were
half paralysed at the idea of such a humble creature daring to sit at table
with them.

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 «

But in the great hall the young baroness flew up to her rightful place at
the head of the table, while the parson's son had the seat beside her.
There they sat, the two of them, looking like a newly-married couple. An
aged count belonging to the oldest family in the country remained undis-
turbed in his place of honour; for the flute played fair, as was only right.
The witty nobleman, who was the cause of the flute-playing - the one
who was a true son of his father - flew head first in among the chickens,
and he wasn't the only one.
The flute was heard for miles around, and there were tales of strange
happenings. A wealthy merchant and his family, driving in a coach and
four, were blown clean out of the coach and couldn't even find a place in
the dickey. Two rich farmers, who in our time had grown too big for
their own cornfields, were blown down into the ditch. Yes, it was a
dangerous flute. Luckily it burst at the first note, and that was a good
thing, for then it went back into its pocket: »Everything in its right
place.
Not a word was said next day about what had happened, and that's
how we come to talk of »piping down«. Besides, everything was back
where it was before, except that the two old pictures of The Pedlar and
The Goose-girl were hanging in the great hall, where they had been
blown up on to the wall; and, as a genuine art-critic said they had been
painted by a master-hand, they were left there and restored; before that,
you see, there had been no way of telling their value. How could there be?
Now they hung in the place of honour. »Everything in its right place« -
and it comes there in the end. Eternity is long, longer than this story.

^>^
 ««

»Something«

I want to be something, « said the eldest of five brothers. »I want to be of

some use in the world. Never mind how humble my job is; as long as
what I do is well done, that'll be something. I'll make bricks - people
can't do without them - then at least I shall have done something.
»Something, yes, but far too little, « said the second brother. »Your
'something' will be as good as nothing - just a labourer's job - some-
thing a machine can do. No, no, much better be a builder; that would be
something - that's what I'll be. That's a real position; then you can join
the Masons' Guild, get the rights of a citizen, have your own banner and
keep your own inn. Yes, if all goes well, I can have men under me and be
called 'master' and my wife become 'mistress'. That'll be something.
»It's nothing at all,« said the third brother. »It doesn't belong to any of
the classes - and a town has lots of classes ranking far higher than a
'master'. You may be a good enough fellow, but as 'master' you're simply
one of the so-called lower classes ... No, I know something better than
that. I mean to be an architect, to enter the world of art and imagination,
to climb high in the realm of intellect. I suppose I shall have to begin
from the bottom - yes, to put it quite bluntly, I must begin as a carpen-
ter's apprentice; wear a cap, though I'm used to a top hat; run and fetch

beer and brandy for ordinary journeymen; put up with their familiarity,
and that is so aggravating. Still, I shall pretend to myself that the whole
thing is a masquerade - freedom with a mask on! Tomorrow (that's to
say, as soon as I've served my time) I shall go my own way; I shan't care a

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 « «

hang about the others. I shall go to the art-school, learn drawing, win the
title of architect. That's something! That's a great deal!
can become *my
I

Lord' and 'your Honour!', yes, and have a bit tacked on to my name both
in front and behind. I'll build and build, as the others did before me.
That's always something to bank on ... Well, there's my idea of 'some-
thing'«.
»But that 'something' doesn't appeal to me in the slightest,« said the
fourth brother. »rm not following in the wake of anyone. I'm not an
imitator; I mean to be a genius, cleverer than the whole lot of you put
together. I shall create a new style and put forward the plan for a build-
ing, suited to our country's climate and materials, to our nationality, to
the development of the present age - and then add an extra floor by my
own genius.
»But suppose the climate and materials aren't good enough, « said the
fifth brother, »that'll be a snag, for these two mean a great deal. National-
ity, too, can easily get so enlarged that it becomes an affectation. The

improvements of the present age may run away with you, as is often the
case with youth. It's obvious that none of you will ever really come to
anything, however much you think you will. Still, do as you like, I shan't
take after you. I'll stand aside and criticize what you do. There's always
something wrong in everything; I'll pick that out and run it down -
that'll be something!
And he did, and people said of the fith brother, »Yes, there's certainly
something in him. He's got brains, but he doesn't do anything. « Which
only showed that he was something.
Well, there's not much to that story, and yet it will go on till the end of
the world.
But is that all we are to hear about the five brothers? That wasn't
anything ... All right, keep listening: it's really no end of a story.
The eldest brother, who made bricks, noticed that, out of every brick as
soon as it was finished, there came rolling a little coin. Only a copper
coin, it's true; but a number of little copper coins, when put together,
turn into a bright half crown, and wherever you knock on the door with
that - at the baker's, the butcher's, the tailor's or the whole lot of them -
the door flies open and you get whatever you want. There, that's what
came from the bricks. Some of them, of course, went to pieces or broke in
two, but even these could be used.
Up on the dyke old Mother Margaret, poor woman, wanted so much to
run up a little cottage for herself. She was given all the broken bricks, and
a few whole ones as well; for the eldest brother had a good heart, even if
the only solid proof of this was in the bricks he made. The poor woman
put up the house herself. It was cramped for space, one window was
lopsided, the door too low, and the thatching might have been better
done; but there was good shelter and a distant view over the sea, as it
dashed in all its fury against the dyke. The salt spray would spatter the

320
whole house, still standing there, when he who had made the bricks was
dead and gone.
The second brother - well, by this time he could build differently, for,

after all, he was trained to it. Once had been handed

his test piece in, he
packed up his bag and trolled the journeyman's song:

My youthful feet shall never lag,

while foreign lands endear me,
with work to fill my money-bag
and buoyant soul to cheer me.
I've pledged the love I left behind:
not long I'll stay a-roamin'.
Hurrah! Good workers always find
a bower to build their home in.

And he did. When he got back to the town and became a 'master', he put
up house after house - a whole streetful of houses; and so well that it gave
the town quite a name, then the houses built him a little house that was
all for himself ... But how could the houses build? Very well, ask them;
they won't answer, but there are people who will, »Why,
and they'll say,
of course, this street built his house for him.« True, was small, with a
it

clay floor, but when he danced along it with his bride the floor soon got
shiny and polished, and from every brick in the wall grew a flower; this
was just as good as an expensive wall-paper. It was a delightful house,
and they were a happy young couple. The Mason's banner was flying
outside, and journeymen and apprentices gave him three cheers: Hurray 1

Hurray! Hurray! That was certainly something ... And then he died -
that was something, too.

321
 Next came the architect, the third brother, the one who had begun by
being a carpenter's apprentice, wearing a cap and running errands, but
then on leaving the art-school had risen to be a master-builder, 'my Lord'
and 'your Honour'. Yes, and even if the houses in the street did build a
house for the brother who was a mason, still the street was now named
after this one, and the finest house in the street became his. That was
something, and he was something - with a long title, too, before and after
his name. His children were called gentleman's children, and when he
died his widow was a gentleman's widow - that's something! His name
was still to be read at the street corner, still to be heard on people's lips -
as the name of a street. Yes, indeed, that's something!
Then came the genius, the fourth brother, who wanted to hit upon
something new and orginal with an extra floor to it; but this gave way,
and he fell down and broke his neck. Still, he had a lovely funeral with
banners and band, with flowers in the newspaper and along the cobbled
road; and there were three speeches made over his grave, each one longer
than the other; and this would have pleased him, because he was very
fond of being talked about. A monument was put over his grave, only one
storey, but still that's always something.
By time he was dead, same as the other three brothers; but the last
this
of them, the one who went in for criticism, outlived them all; and that
was just as it should be, because in that way he got in the last word - and
it was highly important for him to have the last word. Of course, he was

the brainy one, they said. And now his hour had come, too; he died and
arrived at the gate of heaven.They always arrive there in twos, and here
he stood with another soul that also wanted to go in - none other than
old Mother Margaret from the house on the dyke.
»I expect it's for the sake of the contrast that I and this miserable
creature have to arrive here together, « said the critic. »Well, my good
woman, and who may you be? Do you want to get in, too?« he asked.
And the old woman did her best to curtsey; she thought it was St. Peter
himself who was speaking. »rm a poor woman - got no family - old
Margaret from the house on the dyke.«
»I see. And what have you done down there, may I ask? Something, I
suppose ?«
»Something? No, sir, I can't say I have done nothing at all down in
that world - nothing as '11 open this 'ere gate for me. It'll be a real mercy,
if I'm allowed to go in through that door.«

»How did you come to leave that world?« he asked, merely for some-
thing to say, for he was tired of having to stand there waiting.
»How I come to leave? Well, I can't hardly say. You see, sir, I was weak
and poorly the last few years, and so I didn't feel I could bear to crawl out
of bed and go out into the frost and cold. It's been a hard winter, hasn't it?
But now I've got over it, I hope. We had a couple of day's dead calm,
though 'twas bitter cold - I dessay your Reverence remember. The ice was

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 ^^>>^^

frozen over as far out from the shore as you could see. Everybody in the
lovm was out on the and there
ice, was dancing and vc^hat I think they
calls skating, with a band playing and folks eating and drinking. The
sound of it all come right into my little room. It was just getting a bit
dark like, and the moon was up, though it wasn't yet shining full. From
my bed I could see through the window right out over the seashore; and
there, in the part where the sky and sea join, there come up a queer white
cloud. I laid there looking at it, looking at the black spot in the middle; it

grew bigger and bigger, and I knew what and used to

that meant. I'm old
the weather, but it's not often you'll see that sign. I recognized it, and it
give me a shock. Twice afore in my life I've seen the same thing coming,
and I knew with the spring tide there'd be a terrible gale, and then it'd be
all over with them poor people as was drinking and romping and rollick-
ing out there together. The whole town, young and old, was there. Who
was a-going to warn them, if none of 'em saw nor recognized what I did?
I was that frightened and yet more with my wits than I been for I don't

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know how long. I come out of bed and across to the window, but I hadn't

the strength to go no further. Still, I got the window open. I could see
people running and jumping about over there on the ice, see the gay-
looking flags, hear the boys cheering and the girls and young men sing-
ing; they was having no end of a time ... But higher and higher rose the
white cloud with the black bag in it. I called out at the top of my voice,
but nobody heard me; I was too far away. Soon the storm would burst,
the ice break, and everyone out there go through it without a chance of
being saved. My voice wouldn't carry that far, and I'd never have the
strength to reach 'em myself. If only I could bring 'em ashore somehow!
Then God give me the idea of setting fife to my bed. Better to let the
house bum down than for all them folks to die miserably. So I set it

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 «

alight, saw the red flames, and, managed to get out of the door; but
yes, I
there I laid - 'twas all I could do. The blaze come out after me and out of
the window, away over the roof. They saw it from where they was out on
and they all ran as fast as they could to try and save poor me, who
the ice,
they thought was burning to death inside; there wasn't a one who stayed
behind. heard 'em coming, but I also heard a kind of whizzing in the
I

air, and thenI heard the thunder rumble like there was big guns firing.

The spring tide heaved up the ice, and it broke all to pieces. But they
reached the dyke, where the sparks was flying all around me. I brought
'em all safely back; but I suppose I couldn't stand the cold and all that
shock, and so I've come up here to the gate of heaven. They tell me that's
even opened for a poor creature like me. O'course, I ain't no longer got a
house down there on the dyke; still, I know that don't give me the right to
come in here.«
Then the gate of heaven opened, and the angel took the old woman in.
She dropped a straw outside, one of the straws from her bedding which
she had set light to in order to save all those people on the ice; and the
straw had turned to pure gold, but a gold that grew and twined into the
loveliest tracing.
»There, that's what the old woman brought,« said the angel to the
critic. »Now show me what you've brought. I know, of course, that
you've not done anything - not so much as made a brick. If only you
could go back again and bring at least that much. I dare say it wouldn't
have been worth anything, if you had made it; still, made with a will,
that would always have been something. But you cannot go back, and I
can do nothing for you.«
Then the poor soul, the woman from the house on the dyke, pleaded
for himi. »His brother made and gave me all them bricks and pieces I used
for running up my little cottage. That meant a tremendous lot to poor
me. Well, now can't all them bits and pieces count as one brick for him?
That'd be an act of mercy, and he badly needs one now. This is the home
of mercy, ain't it?«
»Your brother, he that you called the least of you,« said the angel, »he
whose honest work seemed to you so inferior, now gives you his heavenly
mite. You shall not be turned away. You shall be allowed to stand out
here and meditate; and help forward the life you lived below. But you
try
shall not come in until by good work you have done something.
»I could have put that better,« thought the critic, but he didn't say so
aloud; and perhaps that was already something.
 « « «

The Snail and the

Rose Tree

R< .ound the garden ran a hedge of hazels, and on the other side of it
were fields and meadows with cows and sheep. But in the middle of the
garden stood a rose tree in full bloom; and under this was a snail, very
self-contained, for he contained himself.
»Wait!« said the snail. »My time will come. I shall do a bit more than
grow roses or bear nuts or give milk like cows and sheep.
»We expect a great deal from you,« said the rose tree. »May I ask when
it's to be?«
»I takemy time,« said the snail, »but your're always in such a hurry.
No, people like to be kept in suspense.
A year later the snail lay sunning himself in much the same spot under
the rose tree, which was putting out buds and blossoming roses, always
fresh, always new. And the snail crept half-way out, stretched out his
horns and drew them in again. »Everything looks the same as last year,«
he said. »Not the slightest progress. The rose tree keeps on with his roses,
but that's all that happens.
Summer passed, autumn was ending, and still the rose tree went on
having buds and blooms until the snow came. The weather turned wet
and blustering. The rose tree bent towards the earth, the snail crawled
into the ground.
Now a new season began; and the roses came out, and so did the snail.
»You're quite an old rose now,« said the snail. »You'll soon have to
think about going ... You've given the world all you had in you. How
much that was worth is a matter I haven't had time to consider. But it's

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 «

quite clear that you haven't done a thing for your inner development, or
you'd have had very different results to show. How do you account for
that? Why, you'll soon be nothing but a stick. Do you see what I'm
driving at?«
»You frighten me,« said the rose tree. »rve never given it a thought.
»No, you never were one to think, were you? Have you ever worked out
for yourself why you flowered and how the flowering came to pass - that
way and no other?«
»No,« said the rose tree, »I flowered in sheer joy, because I couldn't
help it. The sun was so warm, the air so refreshing. I drank in the pure
dew and the pouring rain; I breathed, I was alive. There came strength to
me from the earth below, strength too from above; I felt a happiness that
was always new, always deep, and so I had to be always blossoming. That
was my life; it was all I could do.«
»You've had a very easy life,« said the snail.
»Yes, I certainly have. Everything's been done for me,« said the rose
tree. »But you've been even luckier. You are one of those thoughtful,

highly gifted creatures who mean to astonish the world one day.«
»No, no, not a bit of it,« said the snail. »The world's nothing to me.
What have I to do with the world? I have as much as I can manage with
myself - and in myself!«

327
 »But shouldn't we all of us give the best we have to others - offer what
we can? only given roses; but you, who are yourself so gifted,
It's true, I've

what have you given to the world? What will you give?«
»What have I given - what shall I give? I spit at the world. What's the
good of it? It means nothing to me. Go on, grow your roses - that's all
you're good for. Let the hazels bear nuts, let the cows and the sheep give
milk; they've each got their public, and I've got mine, inside me. I with-
draw into myself, and there I stay. The world's nothing to me.« And with
that the snail went into his house and sealed it up.
»What a pity it is!« said the rose tree. »No creeping in for me, however
much I try to. I've always got to come out - come out into roses. Their
petals drop off and fly away in the wind. Still, I did see one of the roses
being put into the housewife's hymn-book; and one of my roses found a
place at a pretty girl's breast, and another was kissed with the greatest

328
delight by the lips of a child. That was a rare blessing - it did me good -

something remember all my life.«

to
And went on blooming in innocence; and the snail still
the rose tree
dozed in his house. The world was nothing to him.
And years went by.
The snail had become earth to earth, and the rose tree earth to earth;
the keepsake rose in the hymn-book had also vanished ... But in the
garden new rose trees were coming out, and new snails were growing up
that crept into their houses and spat - the world was nothing to them.
Shall we read the tale again from the beginning? It won't be any differ-
ent.
 «

The Last Dream of the

Old Oak Tree

(A Tale for Christmas)

u,p in the wood, top of the slope going down to the open shore,
at the
stood an old oak such a hoary old oak, just 365 years old - though a
tree,

long time like that was no more for the tree than so many days would be
for us. We are awake in the daytime and sleep at night, and that's when
we have our dreams; but the tree is quite different. The tree is awake
during three of the seasons, and it isn't till winter that it gets its sleep.
Winter is its time for sleeping, winter is its night after the long day that is
called spring, summer and autumn.
Many a warm summer's day had a day-fly danced round the top of the
tree - lived and hovered and felt happy - and if ever the little creature
rested for a moment contentment on one of the big cool oak-
in quiet
leaves, the tree would remark: »Poor little thing! Just a single day is the
whole of your life. How short that is! It's terribly sad.«
»Sad!« the day-fly would answer. »What makes you say that? Why,
everything's so wonderfully bright and warm and lovely, and I'm so
happy.
»But only for one day, and then it's all over and done with.<<
»Done with!« said the day-fly. »What's done with? Will you be done
with, too?«

330
 «

»No, I shall live for perhaps thousands of your days, and my day is
whole seasons long. That's something so long that you simply can't
reckon it out.«
»No, because I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my
days, but I have thousands of moments to be pleased and happy in. Does
all this world's loveliness come to an end, when you die?«

»No,« said the tree. »I expect it goes on longer - far, far longer - than I
can imagine.
»Well, in that case, you and I must have just the same, mustn't we, only
we reckon differently.«
And the day-fly danced and swerved in the air, revelled in the delicate
working of its wings and their velvety gauze, revelled in the warm air that
was filled with perfume from clover in the fields and from wild roses and
elder-blossom and honeysuckle that grew on the hedges, not to mention
sweet woodruff, cowslip and pennyroyal. So strong was the scent that it
made the day-fly feel quite tipsy. The day was long and beautiful, full of
joy and happy impressions; and then, as the sun was setting, the little fly
would feel pleasantly tired out with all that gaiety. Its wings could not
carry it any longer and, ever so gently, it glided down on to a soft swaying
blade of grass, nodded its head in the way that it does and fell happily
asleep. That was death.
»Poor little day-fly!« said the oak tree. »What a short life that was!«
And every summer day it happened again: the same dance, the same
talk, answers and passing away. It happened, one after another, to whole
generations of day-flies, and all of them were just as happy and cheerful.
The oak tree stood there awake all through its morning of spring, its
noonday of summer and its evening of autumn. Now its time for sleeping
- its night - was drawing near; winter would soon have come.

Already the gales were singing: »Good night, good-night! There goes a
leaf, there goes a leaf! We're plucking, we're plucking! Now then, go to

sleep. We'll sing you to sleep, we'll ruffle you to sleep, but that does the
old branches good, doesn't it? Makes them groan in sheer enjoyment!
Sleep well, sleep well! This will be your 365th 'night' - you're only a one-
year-old really, - sleep well! The clouds are sprinkling snow; there'll
soon be a regular sheet and a cosy blanket for your toes. Sweet sleep and
pleasant dream !«
And there was the oak tree, stripped of all its leaves, ready to go to bed
the whole long winter through and in it to dream many a dream, always
of some adventure just as in human dreams.
It, too, had once been small - yes, with an acorn for its cradle. After our

reckoning it was now over three hundred years old. It was the largest and
finest tree in the forest, its top towered above all the other trees and could
be sighted far out at sea, a landmark for ships; but it never gave a thought
to all the eyes that were on the look-out for it. High up in its green
summit the woodpigeons built their nests and the cuckoo kept calling;

331
and in autumn, when the leaves glowed like slabs of beaten copper, the
migrant birds came and rested there before they flew away across the sea.
But now winter had come, and the tree stood leafless; it was easy to see
how bent and rugged were its outstretched branches. Crows and jackdaws
came and settled there in turn and chattered of the hard times ahead and
how difficult it was to get food in winter.
It happened to be the holy time of Christmas and it was then that the

tree dreamt its loveliest dream. We really must hear that.

The tree had a clear impression that it was a season of festivity and
that, round about, it could hear all the church-bells ringing; and, more-
over, it was as soft and warm as on a lovely summer's day. The tree spread
out its mighty crown, so fresh and green; sunbeams played among leaves
and branches; the air was full of the fragrance of herbs and undergrowth.
Gay butterflies were playing »touch last«, and the day-flies were dancing
as though everything existed merely for them to dance and enjoy them-
selves. All that the tree had been through and seen around it for years past
went trailing by like a regular pageant. It saw old-time knights and their
ladies on horseback, with plumes in their hats and hawks at their wrists,
riding through the wood. It heard the sound of the huntsman's horn and
of hounds in full cry. It saw enemy troops with gleaming weapons and
glittering uniforms, with spears and halberds, pitch their tents and then
strike them; there were watch-fires blazing, and song and sleep beneath
the spreading branches of the tree. It saw lovers meeting in silent happi-
ness here in the moonlight, cutting the initial letter of their names in the
grey-green bark. Zither and ^^olian harp had once - so many years ago -
been hung in the branches of the oak by gay, wandering prentices; now
they were hanging there again and twanging there again so charmingly.
The wood-pigeons cooed as if to describe what the tree was feeling, and
the cuckoo called out how many summer days it had to live.
Then it seemed as if a fresh current of life went rippling right through
it down to the lowest roots and up to the topmost branches out into the

very leaves. The tree could feel itself spreading and spreading - feel, too,
at its roots that also down in the earth there was life and warmth. It felt
itself getting stronger, as it grew taller and taller. The trunk shot up

without a pause, more and more it grew, its crown spread jnore lustily,^
outward and upward and as the tree grew, so grew its vigour, its blissful
..

longing to come higher and higher, right up to the bright warm sun.
Already it had grown high up above the clouds that trailed away below
it like dusky troops of migrants or great snowy flocks of swans.

And every one of its leaves could see, as though it had eyes. The stars
became visible by day, great shining stars, that winked at one like human
eyes, so dear and gentle. They made it think of kind eyes that it had
known, children's eyes, lovers' eyes where they met under the tree.
It was a joyful, delicious moment. And yet in the midst of all this joy

the tree felt that it longed for all the other forest-trees down there, the

332
bushes and herbs and flowers, to be able to soar with it and to share its
gladness and splendour. The mighty oak, in all the glory of its dream,
was not completely happy until the others came with it, all of them, big
and little; and this feeling quivered through leaves and branches as deep-
ly and strongly as in a human breast.
The tree-top stirred as if looking for something that it missed. Then,
glancing back, it caught the scent of woodruff and, after that, the even
stronger scent of violets and honeysuckle. It fancied it could hear the
cuckoo answering back.
Yes, through the clouds peeped out the green summit of the wood.
Dowoi below it saw the other trees growing and rising up beside it.
Bushes and herbs shot high into the air; some tore themselves loose, root
and all, and flew more swiftly up. Swiftest of all was the birch. Like a
pale streak of lightning its slim trunk went hustling upward, and the
branches swayed like green gauze banners. The whole woodland scene,
even the brown-plumed reeds, went up with it, and the birds joined in
and sang, while there on its blade of grass that fluttered and flowed like a
long green silk ribbon sat the grasshopper fiddling on his shinbone with
his wing. »Boom!« went the cockchafers, »zoom!« went the bees, the birds
all raised their beaks and sang. From every side flowed joyful songs right

up to heaven.
»But the small red flower beside the brook, that must come, too,« said
the oak tree; »and the blue bell-flower, and the little daisy« - yes, the oak
wanted them all to come.
»Here we are, here we are!« came the echoing answer.
»But last summer's sweet woodruff - and the year before we had glori-
ous lilies-of-the-valley - and the wild apple tree, how lovely it looked! -
and all the beauty of the woods for years and years and years - if only it
had gone on living till now, then that too could have joined us.«
»Here we are, here we are!« came the echoing answer from yet higher
up, just as though they had flown on ahead.
»Oh, but it's all too wonderful to be true!« was the happy cry of the old
oak. »Why, I've got them all here, big and little - not one has been
forgotten. How ever can all this happiness be possible and imaginable?*
»Possible and imaginable in God's heaven, « came echoing back. And
the tree, while still it grew, felt that its roots were loosening in the earth.
»This is the best of all,« said the tree. »Now there is nothing to keep me
back. In light and splendour I can fly up to the Most High, and all those
dear ones with me. Big and little, all of them with me.«
»A11!«
That was the oak tree's dream and, while it was dreaming, a violent
gale swept over land and sea that holy Christmas Eve. The sea flung
heavy breakers on to the shore; the tree cracked, crashed and was torn up
by the roots just as it dreamed that its roots were loosening. Down it fell.
Its 365 years were now like a day for the day-fly.
 When the sun came out on Christmas morning, the gale had gone
down. The church-bells were ringing merrily; and from every chimney,
on even the smallest cottage roof, the smoke rose blue as from the altar at
a Druid's feast - the incense of gratitude. The sea turned calmer and
calmer, and on a large vessel out there, which had weathered the storm in
the night, every flag was being hoisted with a fine air of Christmas.
»The tree's gone!« cried the sailors. »The old oak - our landmark - it's
come down in last night's gale. Who can find us such another? No one!«
That was the funeral sermon, short but well-meant, that the tree was
given, as it lay stretched out upon the carpet of snow beside the beach;
and away over it from the ship came the sound of a hymn, a song of
Christmas joy and the saving of men's souls through Christ and the life
eternal:

Let hymn on hymn to heav'n succeed.

Now man has all that man can need,
great joy beyond comparing.
Alleluia! Alleluia!

So ran the ancient hymn, and everyone there in the ship was uplifted in
his own way by the hymn and its prayer, just as the old tree was uplifted
in its last, its loveliest dream on Christmas Eve.
 « « «

The Sprinters

Th here was a prize offered - in fact, two were offered, a big one and a
small one - for the greatest speed shown, not in a single race but really for
running all the year round.
»I got first prize,« said the hare. »There's bound to be fair play, if your
own family and friends are judging. All the same, for the snail to get
second prize - take that as almost a personal insult.
I

»Not at all,« maintained the gate-post, who had been present at the
prizegiving. »A number of respectable people declared that hard work
and determination must also be considered, and I too thought the same.
It's true, the snail took six months to get across the doorstep, but he broke

his leg in going so fast. He lived for nothing but his race, and he raced
with his house on his back ... All this is very creditable, and so he got
second prize.
»I really can't see why / was left out of it,« said the swallow. »I don't
believe there's anyone quicker at flying and swerving than I am, and just
think how I travel about -far, far, far!«
»Exactly. That's the worst of you,« said the gate-post. »You gad about
too much. You always have to be off somewhere, right out of the country,
as soon as it gets cold here. You've no love of the land you were born in.
There can be no question of you for a prize.
»Well, but suppose I stayed back in the marsh all the winter,« said the
swallow, »and slept the whole time away, should I then be considered for
a prize?«
»Get a certificate from the marsh- woman that you've slept half the
time in your mothercountry, and then you shall be considered.«»I really
deserved first prize, « said the snail, »not second. As a matter of fact, I
know the hare only sprinted from cowardice, every time he thought there

335
was danger about. On the other hand, my running was a wholetime job,
and it made me a cripple. If the first prize was to go to anyone, surely it
was me - though I'm not making a fuss; I'd scorn to do that.« All it did
was to spit.
»I am ready to pledge my word that every prize - or at any rate my vote
for it - was awarded on fair grounds, « said the old boundary-post, who
was a member of the judging committee. »I always proceed with method,
deliberation and care. On seven previous occasions I have been privileged
to take part in awarding the prize, but today is the first time I have got my
way. At each distribution I have gone on a definite plan. I have always
gone forward in the letters of the alphabet for the first prize, and back-
wards for the second. Now will you kindly notice that, going forward, the
8th letter from the beginning is H; there we have the Hare, so I voted for
the Hare to have first prize. And the 8th letter from the end is S, so I voted
for the Snail for second prize. Next time the letter I will get first prize, and
R second ... There must always be method in everything; you must have
something to keep to.«
»I should have voted for myself, you know, if I hadn't been one of the
judges, « said the donkey, who was also on the committee. »You have to
consider, not only the question of speed, but other qualities as well - a
thing you see, like the size of the load you're pulling, though
I wouldn't

have stressed that on nor the hare's shrewdness in escaping:

this occasion,
the clever way in which it dodges to one side in order to throw pursuers
off the track of its hiding-place. No, but there still remains one thing that
many people think highly of and should never be forgotten: it's what is
called 'the beautiful'. That's what I had an eye for in this case. I had an
eye for the hare's beautiful, well-developed ears; it's a pleasure to see how

336
 «

long they are. I felt I was looking at myself when I was small, and so I

voted for him.«

»Hush!« said the fly. »No,only want to say something. I
I won't talk; I

know there's more than one hare The other day I

that I've overtaken.
broke the hind legs of one of the youngest. I was sitting on the engine in
front of a railway train; I often do that, because in this way you get the
best idea of your own speed. A young hare was running a long way in
front of us; he had no idea that I was there. At last he had to swerve away,
but in doing that he had his hind legs broken in two by the engine
because I had settled there. The hare was left lying, while I dashed
further ahead. Surely that's the same as beating him? Sail, I don't want
the prize.
»Well, it seems to me,« thought the wild rose, only it didn't say so, for
it isn't its might have been a good thing if
nature to speak out, though it

it had. »It seems to me that the sunbeam ought to have got first prize -

and second prize too. It flies in a moment that enormous distance from
the sun down to us and comes with such strength that all nature wakes
up; and it has such beauty that we roses all blush and smell sweet because
of it. That's something that the honourable adjudicators never seem to
have noticed. If I was a sunbeam, I'd give each of them a good sunstroke -
though that would only make them mad, which they may become any-
how. No, I won't say a thing,« thought the wild rose. »I prefer peace in
the woods. It's wonderful to flower, to smell sweet, to be so refreshing,
and to live in legend and song. Still the sunbeam will outlast us all.«

337
 «

»What's the first prize?« asked the earth-worm, who had overslept and
only just turned up.
»Free entrance to a kitchen garden, « said the donkey. »I suggested the
prize. The hare was dead certain to win it; and so, as an active, thoughtful
member of the committee, I paid due regard to how useful it might be to
the winner. Well, now the hare's provided for. The snail's entitled to sit
on the stone wall and lick off the moss and bask in the sun and, more-
over, will in future be included as one of the chief judges in the sprint.
It's a good thing to have one expert on what the humans call a commit-

tee. I must say, I'm extremely hopeful of the future, now that we've made

such a good beginning.

 The Wicked Prince

(A legend)

x here was once a wicked, arrogant Prince, whose one thought was to
conquer every country in the world and strike terror with his name. On
he swept with fire and sword. His soldiers trampled down the corn in the
fields; they set farmhouses on fire, so that the red flames licked the leaves
from the trees and scorched the fruit as it hung from its charred blackened
branches. Many a poor mother hid with her naked nursling behind the
smoking wall; and the soldiers searched for her and, if they found her
with her baby, then their devilish game began - no evil spirits could have
acted more shamefully ... Yet the Prince felt that all this was exactly as it
should be. Every day his power increased; his name was dreaded by all,
and fortune followed him in everything he did. From the captured cities
he carried away gold and endless treasure; in his royal capital there were
heaped up riches without parallel anywhere else in the world. And now
he built magnificent palaces, churches and cloisters; and everyone who
saw all this splendour used to say, »What a mighty Prince!« None gave a
thought to the misery he had brought to other countries, none heard the
wailing and lamentation that rose up from the burnt-down cities.
The Prince looked at his gold, looked at his sumptuous buildings, and
thought, as the rest did, »What a mighty Prince! But I must have more,
much more. No power must be named equal to mine, let alone greater.«
And he went to war with all his neighbours and conquered them every
one. He had the defeated Kings chained with gold shackles to his chariot,
as he drove through the streets; and when he sat at table they had to lie at
his feet and at the feet of his courtiers and eat the scraps of bread that were
thrown to them.
The Prince now had his statue set up in the public squares and in the
royal palaces. He even wanted it to stand in the churches before the holy
altar; but the priests said, »Your Highness, you are great, but God is
greater. We dare not do it.«

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 »A11 right !« said the wicked Prince. »Then I'll conquer God as well.«
And in the prideand foolishness of his heart he caused a fantastic ship to
be built, in which he could sail through the air. It was as gaily coloured
as a peacock's tail and seemed to be studded with a thousand eyes; but
every eye was a gun-barrel. The Prince sat amidships. He had only to press
a spring to fire a thousand bullets, and there were the guns ready loaded
again as before. Hundreds of lusty eagles were harnessed to the bows of
the ship, and in this way he now flew up towards the sun. The earth lay
far below. At first it looked, with its mountains and forests, merely like a
ploughed-up field, where a green plot peeps out from the turf that has
been rolled back; next, it resembled a plain ordnance map, and soon it
was completely veiled in mist and clouds. Higher and higher up flew the
eagles. Then God sent out a single one of his countless angels, and the
wicked Prince fired a thousand bullets at him; but the bullets fell back
like hail from the angel's shining wings. A drop of blood, only one,
dripped down from the white feathers, and this drop fell on the ship
where the Prince was sitting. It burnt itself fast into the ship; it was as
heavy as a thousand hundredweight of lead and sent the ship crashing
headlong towards the earth. The powerful wings of the eagles were

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snapped in two; the wind whizzed about the Prince's head; and the clouds
all around, created no doubt from the cities he had burnt, massed them-
selves in threatening shapes like enormous crabs stretching their great
claws out after him, or like tumbling boulders, or fire-breathing dragons.
Half dead he lay in the ship, which at last was left hanging among the
stout branches of a wood.
»I will get the better of God!« cried the Prince. »rve sworn to do it; my
And for seven years he was building fantastic ships for
will shall prevail. «
sailing through the air. He had thunderbolts forged from the toughest
steel, for he meant to blast a way into the fortress of heaven. From all his

lands he collected huge armies; ranged man to man, they covered a circuit
of many miles. They went on board their fantastic ships and just as the
Prince was approaching his, God sent out a swarm of gnats, a single little
swarm of gnats that buzzed about the Prince and stung his face and
hands. In his fury he drew his sword, but the empty air was all he slashed;
he couldn't get at the gnats. Then he ordered precious carpets to be
brought; these were to be wrapped round him, so that no gnat could
penetrate with its sting. And they did as he commanded. But a single gnat
found its way into the innermost carpet, and it crept into the Prince's ear

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and stung him there. It burnt hke fire, the poison flew to his brain. He
wrenched himself free, flung off the carpets, tore his clothes to pieces and
danced naked in front of his coarse brutal soldiers, that now jeered at
their mad Prince who was bent on storming the gates of heaven and was
mastered in a moment by one little gnat.
 The Wind Tells the
Story of Valdemar Daa*
and His Daughters

Whhen the wind sweeps over the grass, it ruffles it Hke water; and when
itsweeps over the corn, it goes surging Hke the sea. That's the dance of
the wind. But Hsten to it teUing a story, singing it out so that it sounds
quite differently in the forest trees from what it does through the holes
and cracks and crevices of a wall. Look how the wind goes chasing the
clouds up Hark how the wind down here
there like a flock of sheep!
howls through the open watchman blowing his horn! That
gates, like a
curious whistling down the chimney and into the fireplace, it makes the
fire blaze and sparkle and shine all over the room, and how cosy and snug

it is to sit listening here. Come on! Let the wind tell us a story. It knows

more stories and fairy tales than the rest of us put together. Listen now to
the way it begins.
»Hu-woosh! Let's be off!« That's the burden of the song.
»By the shore of the Great Belt stands an old country-house with thick
red walls,« said the wind. »I know every brick in it; I saw it in the old days
when it was part of Marsk Stig's estate on the headland. It had to be
pulled down, but the bricks were put up again to make new walls for a
new house on another spot; this was Borreby Manor, which is still stand-
ing.
I have seen and known the noble lords and ladies, the successive fami-
lies, who have lived there; and now I'll tell you about Valdemar Daa and
his daughters.
Full high he carried his head, for he was of royal descent. He could do

* pronounced DAW

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 « «

more than just hunt a stag or drain a tankard. It will all come right, he
used to say.
His wife walked stiffly in gold brocade across her polished parquet
floor; the hangings were magnificent, the furniture costly and elaborately
carved. She had brought gold and silver ware to the house; what beer
there was in the cellar was German beer; fiery black horses neighed in the
stables. They were well off at Borreby Manor - in their prosperous days.
And there were children: three fine young ladies, Ida, Joanna and
Anna Dorothea - yes, I still remember their names.
They were rich people, society people, born in luxury and brought up
in it. Huwoosh! Let's be off!« sang the wind, and went on with its story.
»I never saw here, as in other old manors, the high-born mistress
sitting at the spinningwheel in the great hall with her maids. No, she
would play on the sounding lute, and sing to it - yet not always the old
Danish songs, but ballads in a foreign tongue. Here was life and hospi-
tality, distinguished visitors from far and near. The music clanged, the

glasses clinked, I couldn't drown the sound of them,« said the wind.
»Here was pride, with boasting and bragging; goodliness, but not godli-
ness.
then - it happened to be the evening of May Day,« said the wind.
And
»I was coming from the west; had seen ships founder and crash on the
west coast of Jutland; had raced over the moors and the wooded coastline,
away over the fields of Fyn; and now, panting and blowing, I crossed the
Great Belt.
There I lay down to rest on the coast of Zealand near to Borreby Manor,
where the woods were still standing with their splendid oaks.
The young farm-hands from the district came out and collected twigs
and brushwood, the biggest and driest they could find. These they took
into the town, piled in a heap and set fire to, and men and girls circled it
with song and dance.
»I lay still, « said the wind, »but softly I stirred one twig - the one that
had been put on the fire by the handsomest youth. His wood blazed up,
blazed highest; he was the chosen one to be given the name of honour, to
become the May King and to have first choice among the girls for his May
Queen. They had more fun and merry-making there in the town than
there was up at the rich manor of Borreby.

»Towards the manor, riding in a gilded coach drawn by six horses,

came the great lady and her three daughters, three such fine graceful
young blossoms: rose, lily and pale hyacinth. The mother herself was a
flaunting tulip; not a single greeting did she return to the whole flock, as
they stopped their play to cringe and curtsey before her. Her ladyship
gave the impression of a flower decidedly stiff in the stalk.
Rose, lily and pale hyacinth - yes, I saw them all three. Whose 'queen'

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 «

will they be one day, I wondered. Their 'king' will be some haughty
knight, maybe a prince. Huwoosh Let's be off! Let's be off!
And them off, and the country folk carried on with
the coach carried
their dancing. The coming of summer was feted in Borreby, in Tjereby
and all the villages around.
»But at night, as I got up again, « said the wind, »the noble lady of the
manor lay down, never to rise again; it befell her even as it befalls all
mankind; there's nothing new in
Valdemar Daa stood solemn and
that.
thoughtful a while. The proudest tree may bend and yet not break, he
said to himself. The daughters wept, and at the manor all of them wiped
their eyes; but the Lady Daa had gone her way - and I went mine. Hu-
woosh !« said the wind.

»I came again, Fyn and the waters

yes, often again, across the fields of
of the Belt, and settled by Borreby Strand, by the glorious oak wood.
There the osprey built its nest, and the wood-pigeons and the blue ravens
and even the black stork. It was early in the year; some of the birds had
eggs, and some already had young. My! How they fluttered and screamed
at the sound of the axe, blow upon blow! The oaks were to be felled.
Valdemar Daa meant to build a fine ship, a three-decker warship, that the
King would be sure to buy; that's why the wood - a landmark for sailors,
a home for the birds - must be felled. The shrike flew up in panic; its nest
was destroyed. The osprey and all the woodland birds were losing their
homes with nowhere to fly to, and they screamed in fear and anger. I

345
understood them so well. Crows and rooks squawked loudly in mockery,
'Awa'! Awa'! Far! Far!'
In the middle of the wood, amongst a crowd of workmen, stood Val-
demar Daa and his three daughters, laughing together at the frantic
screaming of the birds. But the youngest daughter, Anna Dorothea, piti-
ed them in her heart and, when they were also going to cut down a half-
dead tree on whose naked branches the black stork had built its nest with
the little young ones poking out their heads, she pleaded for it, pleaded
with tears in her eyes. So the tree with the black stork's nest was allowed
to stay; it wasn't much of a tree, anyhow.
There was hewing, there was sawing - and a three-decker was built.
The architect was a man of humble origin, but of excellent parts. Eyes
and forehead spoke of how clever he was, and Valdemar Daa enjoyed
listening to him; so did little Ida, the eldest daughter, now fifteen. And as
he built a ship for the father, he built a castle in the air for himself in
which he and little Ida sat as man and wife; and this might have hap-
pened, too, if his castle had been made of bricks and mortar with moat
and rampart, garden and wood. But with all his cleverness the architect
hadn't any money, and what can a sparrow do among hawks? Hu-woosh!
I flew off and he flew off, for he didn't dare to stay. And little Ida got

over it, because she had to.«

»The black horses neighed away in the stables; good they were to look
at, and looked at they were. The admiral was sent straight from the King

to see over the new man-of-war and go into the question of her sale. He
spoke in great admiration of the fiery horses. I heard it all distinctly,«
said the wind. »I went with the gentlemen through the open door and
scattered straw like bars of gold before their feet. Valdemar Daa wanted
gold, the admiral wanted the black horses; that was why he praised them
so much. But the point was missed, and so the ship wasn't sold either.
There she lay gleaming on the shore, covered in with planks, a Noah's
Ark that never took the water. Hu-woosh! Let's be off! Let's be off! What
a pity!«
»In wintertime,* said the wind, »when the fields were covered with
snow and the Belt was full of drift-ice that I pressed up against the coast,
then ravens and crows came in large flocks, each one blacker than the
other. They perched on the lifeless, deserted, lonely ship on the shore and
croaked in hoarse cries of the vanished wood and the many fine bird's-
nests that had been laid waste and of the old and young ones that were
now homeless - all this for the sake of that rubbishy great vessel, the
proud ship that would never go to sea.
I whirled up a blizzard, and the snow piled like heavy seas around and

over the ship. I let her hear my voice - hear what a gale has to say. I did
what I could, I'm sure, to teach her navigation. Hu-woosh! Let's be off!
Let's be off!

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 And winter whirled along; winter, and then summer, they whirled
along - and still whirl, as I whirl, as the snow drifts, and the appleblos-
som drifts,and the leaves fall. Let's be off, off, off And mankind with us!
But the daughters were still young, and Ida a rose as lovely to look at as
when the architect used to see her. Often I would take hold of her long
brown hair as she stood by the apple tree in the garden so lost in thought
that she never noticed I was sprinkling blossoms on her flowing hair,
while she gazed at the red sun and the golden space of sky between the
dark shrubs and trees in the garden.
Her sister Joanna was like a lily, straight and elegant; full of airs and
graces and 'stiff in the stalk', like her mother. She liked walking in the
great hall, where the family portraits hung. The ladies were shown in
velvet and silk, with a tiny little hat embroidered with pearls on their
braided hair. They were fine- looking women. Their husbands were there
in steel or a valuable cloak lined with squirrel's fur and the blue ruff; they
wore the sword strapped to the thigh, not buckled at the hip. Where
would Joanna's portrait one day hang on the wall? And what would her
noble husband look like? Yes, those were her thoughts and the things she
muttered to herself; I heard them, as I rushed through the long gallery
into the hall and then turned back.
Anna Dorothea, the pale hyacinth, a child of only fourteen, was quiet
and thoughtful. There was a wistful look in her pale-blue eyes, though a
child's smile still hovered round her lips; I couldn't blow that away, and I
didn't want to either.
I used to meet her in the garden, the sunken lane and in the fields, as

she gathered herbs and flowers. She knew her father could use these for
the potions and drops that he knew how to distil. Valdemar Daa was
haughty and cocksure, but he was also skilled and experienced. That was
obvious enough and was the cause of some murmuring. Fire burnt in his
stove even in summertime; the door of his room was locked, and this
went on for days and nights together; but he said little about it. The
forces of nature must be mastered in silence; soon enough he meant to
discover how to make the best thing of all - the red gold.
That's why the chimney was always smoking, the reason for the roar-
ing and the flaming. And I was there, too,« said the wind. »'Give over!
Give over!' I sang down the chimney. 'It will all end in smoke, vapour
and ashes. You'll burn yourself up. Hu-woosh! Give over! Give over!'
But Valdemar Daa did not give over.
The splendid horses in the stables - what became of them? What be-
came of the gold and silver ware in cupboard and chest, the cows on field,
estate and farm? Yes, they could melt, melt in the crucible, and yet no
gold come.
It was empty in barn and pantry, in cellar and loft. Fewer servants, but

more mice. One window would crack, another break; no need for me to

347
go in by the door,« said the wind.»Where the chimney's smoking the
dinner's cooking. Yes, the chimney smoked, but it gobbled up all the
food - for the red gold.
blew through the manor gate like a watchman blowing his horn, but
I

there was no watchman, « said the wind. »I turned the weathercock on the
tower, and it grated like the snoring of the watchman; but there was no
watchman - only rats and mice. Poverty laid the table, poverty sat in the
wardrobe and the larder. The door came off its hinges, cracks and crevices
appeared, and in and out I went,« said the wind, »so I know what I'm
talking about.
Smoke and ashes, sorrow and sleepless nights turned his hair grey on
beard and forehead, his skin yellow and muddy-looking. His eyes peered
greedily after gold, the longed-for gold.
I puffed smoke and ashes into his face and beard; instead of gold came

debts. I sang through the broken panes and the gaping crevices, blew in

to where the daughters' clothes lay faded and shabby on their folding
beds, because now their clothes had to last. That song was never sung at
the cradle of these children. A lowly life became a life of misery. I was the
only one to sing out loud at the manor, « said the wind. »I snowed them
up; people say that keeps you warm. They had no firewood, and the
forest they might have fetched it from had been cut down. There was a
hard frost. I danced through loopholes and galleries, over gable and wall,
to keep myself nimble. They were lying in bed because of the cold,
Valdemar's noble daughters; their father huddled under his leather coun-
terpane. Not a thing to bite or bum - there's a lordly life for you! Hu-
woosh! Give over! But that's just what Sir Valdemar couldn't do.
'Spring follows winter', he said. 'Good times follow bad - though they
do keep you waiting, waiting ... Now my whole manor is mortgaged, the
eleventh hour has come, and gold will be here - at Easter!'
I heard him mumble into the spider's web, 'You clever little weaver,

you've taught me to keep going. Your web may be torn to pieces, you
start all over again and remake it entirely. Once more it's demolished -
and undismayed you set to work again from the beginning, from the
beginning. That's the way to do it - and it pays.'
It was Easter morning. The bells were ringing, and the sunshine was

playing in the sky. In a fever-heat he had sat up, boiling and cooling,
mixing and distilling. I heard him sigh like a soul in despair, I heard him
pray, I saw how he caught his breath. The lamp had gone out, but he
never noticed it. I blew on the embers and they shone into his ashen face,
giving it a tinge of colour; his eyes, shrunk into their deep sockets, now
grew larger and larger as though they would burst.
There, look at the alchemist's glass! There's a gleam inside it, a pure and
heavy glow. With quaking hand he raised it, with quivering tongue he
shouted. 'Gold! Gold!' and grew dizzy - I could have blown him over,«
said the wind; »but I only blew on the glowing coal and followed him in

348
through the door to where his daughters sat and shivered. His coat was
covered with ashes; they clung to his beard and his matted hair. He stood
up straight and hfted his precious treasure in the brittle glass. 'Gold!
Gold! Found at he shouted, held up the glass as it glittered in the
last!'

sunlight ... and it fell from his trembling hand to the floor and burst into
a thousand pieces. Burst, too, was the last bubble of his hoped prosperity.
Huwoosh! Let's be off! ... And away I flew from the alchemist's manor.
Late in the year, when the days are shortening and the mist comes with
its sponge to squeeze out drops of moisture on the red berries and the

leafless branches, I came back cheerfully with a breath of fresh air and
swept the sky clean and snapped off the rotten branches. That's not very
hard work, but it has to be done. There was also a clean sweep of a
different kind, at Valdemar Daa's inside Borreby Manor. His old enemy,
Ove Ramel of Basnaes, was there with a mortgage he had purchased on
the house and furniture. I drummed on the cracked panes, slammed the
ramshackle doors, whistled through the cracks and crevices - Hu-ee! Ove
Ramel must not be encouraged to stay there. Ida and Anna Dorothea
cried bitterly,Joanna stood erect and pale, biting her thumb until it bled
- but what was the good of that? Ove Ramel agreed to Valdemar Daa's
staying on at the manor as long as he lived, but he got no thanks for the
offer. I was listening, and I saw the homeless nobleman hold up his head
and toss it more proudly; and I loosed a squall against the house and the
old lime trees, so that the thickest branch snapped, though it wasn't

rotten. It lay in front of the gate like a broom, in case there was any
sweeping out to be done; and a sweeping out there was. I thought it
would come.
It was a stern day, a hard time to hold out; but their mood was stern,

their hearts were hard.

They had nothing they could call their own but the clothes they were
wearing. Well, yes, there was the alchemist's glass that had lately been
bought and filled with the wasted bits scraped up from the floor - the
treasure of so much promise that was not fulfilled. Valdemar Daa put it
away in his bosom, took his stick in his hand, and the one-time wealthy
squire walked with his three daughters out of Borreby Manor. I blew cold
on his burning cheeks, I stroked his grey beard and his long white hair, I

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 «

sang at full blast - hu-woosh! Let's be off! Let's be off! ... That was the
end of their wealth and splendour.
Ida and Anna Dorothea walked on either side of him. Joanna turned
round in the gateway. What was the point of that? There was no chance
of their luck turning. She looked at the red-bricked walls of what had
once been Marsk Stig's castle - was she thinking of his daughters?

'The eldest took the youngest 's hand,

and forth they fared to a distant land.'

Was she thinking of that old ballad? Well, here they were three, and their
father with them. They walked along the road where they had once
driven in their coach; they walked like beggars with their father to Smid-
strup Common, mud-and- wattle house which was let to them for
to the
ten pounds its bare walls and bare cupboards, was their
a year. This, with
new mansion. Crows and jackdaws flew above them, squawking as
though in mockery, 'Get awa'! Get awa'! Far! Far!' just as the birds did in
Borreby Wood, when the trees were being cut down.
Valdemar Daa and his daughters heard it of course; but I blew in their
ears - it was better for them not to listen.
So they moved into the mud-and-wattle cottage on Smidstrup Com-
mon ... and I tore away over marsh and meadow, through naked hedges
and leafless forest, to open waters and other lands, Hu-woosh! Let's be
off! Let's be off! - for years and years.

How did it go with Valdemar Daa? How did it go with his daughters?
The wind will tell us.
»The last I saw of them - yes, the very last - it was Anna Dorothea, the
pale hyacinth. By now she was old and bent; it was fifty years later. She
lived longest,and she knew the whole story.
Across the heath, by Viborg town, stood the Dean's handsome new
deanery with red bricks and stepped gables; a thick smoke was rising
from the chimney. His gentle wife sat with her pretty daughters in the
bay-window, looking out over the box hedge in the garden across the
brown heath. What was it they were looking for? They were looking for
the stork's nest out there on that tumble-down cottage. The roof - what
there was of it - was all moss and house-leek; it was the stork's nest that
did most of the roofing and gave the only help there was, for the stork
himself kept it in repair.
That's a better house to look at than to touch; I must go gingerly,« said
the wind. »For the stork's sake the house was allowed to remain, though
of course it was an eyesore on the heath. The Dean and his family didn't
want to drive away the stork, and so the hovel was left standing, and the
poor creature who lived there was allowed to stay. She had the Egyptian

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 '^rv^

bird to thank for that; or wasit gratitude for her having once upon a time

pleaded for his frantic black brother's nest in Borreby Wood? Poor thing,
she was then a young child, a delicate pale hyacinth in nobility's garden.
She remembered it all, did Anna Dorothea.
»'Heigh-ho!'« - yes, humans can sigh, just as the wind does in the reeds
and rushes. »'Heigh-ho! There were no bells rung for your burial, Val-
demar Daa, no poor schoolboys to sing when Borreby's one-time lord of
the manor was laid to earth. Heigh-ho! Everything ends in time, even
misery. Sister Ida became the wife of a peasant; that was the sorest trial
for our His daughter to be married to a miserable serf, whom his
father.
lord and master could order astride the wooden horse. Now I suppose
he's dead and buried. And you too^ Ida? ... Ah, yes, but it isn't all over yet.
Poor me! There's still poor old penniless me. Call me home, rich
Christ! '«
That was Anna Dorothea's prayer in the miserable hut that was left

standing for the sake of the stork.

»She cut her
»I looked after the strongest of the sisters, « said the wind.
clothes according to her cloth. She went on board as a fellow who was
hard-up and signed on for the voyage with the skipper. She was a crea-
ture of few words, rather sulky-looking, though a willing worker. But she
couldn't climb; so I blew her overboard before they found out that she
was a woman, and no doubt it was just as well that I did,« said the wind.

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 »It was an Easter morning it was when Valdemar Daa imagined he
- as
had discovered the red gold when I heard a hymn being sung within the
-
rickety walls below the stork's nest; it was Anna Dorothea's last song.
There was no window, but only a gap in the wall, into which the sun
came and settled like a nugget of gold - what brilliance! Her eyes grew
dim, her heart gave out, as indeed they must have done, even had the sun
not shone on her that morning.
The stork gave her a roof to die under. I sang at her grave, « said the
wind. »I sang at her father's grave; I know where it is and where hers is,
but no one else does.
New times, different times! Old roads merge in enclosed fields, hal-
lowed graves become busy highways; and soon we shall have steam with
its row of carriages roaring along over the graves, now as forgotten as the

names they bear. Hu-woosh! Let's be off!

Well, there's the story of Valdemar Daa and his daughters. Tell it
better, you others, if you can,« said the wind, and turned - and was gone.
 «

The Girl Who Trod

on the Loaf

I expect you've heard of the girl who trod on the loaf so as not to dirty
her shoes, and of how she came to a bad end. The story's been written,
and printed too.
She was a poor child, proud and vain; there was a bad streak in her, as
the saying is. When quite a little child she enjoyed catching flies and
pulling off their wings, so making creeping things of them. She would
take a cockchafer and a beetle, stick each of them on a pin, and then place
a green leaf or a little bit of paper up against their feet. The poor creature
would hold on tight to it, turning and twisting it to try and get off the
pin.
»Now the cockchafer's reading,« said little Inger. »Look how it's turn-
ing over the page.«
As she grew older, she got worse rather than better; but she was very
pretty, and that was her misfortune, for otherwise she'd have been
slapped a good deal oftener than she was.
»It'll need a desperate remedy to cure your disease, « said her own

mother. »Often, when you were little, you trod on my apron; now you're
older, I'm afraid you'll end by treading on my heart.
And, sure enough, she did.
She now went out to service with a good family who lived in the
country. They treated her as if she was their own child and dressed her in
the same way; she was very goodlooking, and she grew vainer than ever.
After she had been with them for a year, her mistress said to her. »Don't
you think you ought to go some time and see your parents, Inger dear?«
So she went, though it was only to show herself off and let them see
how fine she had become. But when she got to the outskirts of the town
and saw some girls and young fellows gossiping together by the pond

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and her mother, on a stone with a bundle of faggots she had
too, resting
gathered in the wood, she ashamed that she who was so finely dressed
felt

should have a mother who went about in rags collecting sticks. She
wasn't in the least sorry at having to turn back; she was only annoyed.
And now another six months went by.
»You really ought to go home one day and see your old father and
mother, Inger dear,« said her mistress. »Look - here's a big white loaf;
you can take that with you. They'll be so glad to see you.«
So Inger put on her best things and her new shoes, and she caught up
her skirt and looked well where she was going, so as to keep her shoes
nice and clean; and of course she couldn't be blamed for that. But when
she came to where the path led across marshy ground and there was a
long strip of puddles and slush, she flung the loaf down into the mud, so
as to tread on this and get across without wetting her shoes. But as she
stood with one foot on the loaf and lifted the other, the loaf sank down
with her deeper and deeper, and she disappeared altogether, till there was
nothing to be seen but a black bubbling swamp.
That's the story.
What became of her? She came down to the marsh-woman, who goes
in for brewing. The marsh- woman is aunt to the elf-maids; they are well
enough known - they've had ballads written about them and pictures
drawn of them. But all that people know about the marsh-woman is that,
when the meadows are steaming in summer, that's the marsh-woman

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brewing. It was down into her brewery that Inger sank, and that's not a
place you can stand for long. A cesspit is a gay palatial apartment com-
pared with the marsh- woman's brewery. Every vat stinks enough to make
a man faint and, besides, the vats are all pressed up against each other;
and if there is somewhere a little gap between them through which you
might squeeze yourself out, you can't do it because of all the slimy toads
and fat snakes that get entangled here together. This was where Inger sank
down. All that nasty living mess was so icy cold that she shuddered in
every limb, and itmade her more and more stiff and numb. The loaf still
clung to her feet and dragged her on, just as an amber button may drag a
bit of straw.
The marsh-woman was at home; the brewery that day was being in-
spected by the Devil and his great-grandmother, an extremely venomous
old female whois never idle. She never goes out without her needlework,

and she had with her now. She had her pin-cushion with her, so as to
it

give people pins and needles in their legs. She embroidered lies and did
crochet from rash remarks that had fallen to the ground - anything, in
fact, that could lead to injury and corruption. Oh yes, she knew all about

sewing, embroidery and crochet work did old great-granny.

She caught sight of Inger, put on her spectacles and then had another
look at her. »That's a girl with talent,« she said. »rd like her as a memen-
to of my visit here. She will do very well as a statue for my great-
grandson's en trance- hall.

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 «

And she got her. In this way Inger came to hell. People can't always go
straight down, but they can get there by a roundabout way if they have

talent.
It was an entrance-hall that never seemed to end. It made you giddy to

look ahead and giddy to look back. And then there was a forlorn crowd
waiting for the door of mercy to be opened; they might have to wait a
long time. Great fat waddling spiders spun a thousand-year web over
their feet, and and clamped them
these toils cut into the feet like screws
like copper chains; and, added to was a never-ending disquiet
this, there
in every soul, a disquiet that was itself a torment. Among them was the
miser who had lost the key of his safe and now remembered he had left it
in the lock. But there - it would take too long to go through all the
different pains and torments that were felt there. Inger felt that it was
ghastly to be standing as a statue; she was just as though riveted from
below to the loaf.
»This comes of taking care to keep your shoes clean, « she said to
herself. »Look how they're staring at me« - and, it's true, they were all
looking at her. Their evil passions gleamed from their eyes and spoke
silently from the corners of their mouths; they were a horrible sight.
»I must be delightful to look at,« thought Inger. »I have a pretty face
and nice clothes, « and then she turned her eyes - her neck was too stiff for
that to be turned. Goodness, how dirty she had got in the marsh- woman's
brewhouse! She hadn't thought of that. Her clothes seemed to be smeared
over with one great blotch of slime; a snake had got caught in her hair
and was dangling down her neck, and from each fold in her dress a toad
peeped out with a croak like the bark of a wheezy pug-dog. It was most
unpleasant. »Still,« she consoled herself, »the others down here really
look just as dreadful.
Worst of all was the terrible hunger she felt. Couldn't she at least stoop
dov^n and break off a bit of the loaf she was standing on? No, for her back
had stiffened, her arms and hands had stiffened, her whole body was like
a stone pillar; all she could turn were the eyes in her head, turn them
right round, so that they could see backwards - and that was a ghastly
sight, that was. Then the flies came and crawled over her eyes, to and fro.
She blinked her eyes, but the flies didn't fly away; they couldn't, because
their wings had been pulled off and they had become creeping things.
That was torment for her, and as for her hunger - well, at last she felt that
her innards were eating themselves up, and she became quite empty in-
side, so appallingly empty.
»If it goes on much longer, I shan't be able to bear it,« she said; but she
had and
to bear it, went on.
it still

Then a burning tear fell on her head. It trickled down her face and
breast right down to the loaf. Another tear fell - and many more beside.
Who was it crying over Inger? Well, hadn't she up on earth a mother?
Sorrowing tears that a mother sheds for her child will always reach it, but

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 «

they don't set it free; they burn, they only make the torment greater. And

now thisunbearable hunger - and not to be able to get at the loaf she was
treading with her foot! At last she got a feeling that everything inside her
must have eaten itself up. She was like a thin hollow reed that drew every
sound inside it. She could hear distinctly everything up on earth that
concerned her, and what she heard was harsh and spiteful. Her mother,
to be sure, wept in deep sorrow, but she added, »Pride goes before a fall -
that was your misfortune, Inger. How you have grieved your mother!«
Her mother and all the others up there knew about her sin, how she
had trodden on the loaf and had sunk down and disappeared. The cow-
herd had told them, for he had seen it all himself from the slope.
»How you have grieved your mother, Inger !« said the mother. »Yes,
and I always felt you would.

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 « « «

»I wish I had never been born,« thought Inger. »It would have been far
better. What's the good now of my mother sniveUing hke that?«
Inger heard how her master and mistress were speaking, those two
good-natured people who had been like father and mother to her: »She
was a wicked child,« they said. »She had no respect for God's gifts, but
trod them underfoot; the door of mercy will be hard for her to open.«
»They should have corrected me more often, « thought Inger, »cured
me of my bad ways if I had any.«
She heard that a whole ballad about her had been brought out - The
proud young girl who trod on the loaf to save her pretty shoes - and it
was sung all over the country.
»To think of being blamed so much for it and suffering so much for
it,« thought Inger. »Why aren't the others punished for what they've

done? Yes, and what a lot there would be to punish! Ooh, how I'm
tormented !«
And her heart grew even harder than her shell.
»I shall never get any better while I'm down here in this company, and
I don't want to get any better. Look how they're glaring.«

And she felt angry and vicious towards all mankind.

»Now I dare say they'll have something to talk about up there - ooh,
how I'm tor men ted !«
And she heard them telling her story to the children, and the little ones
called her Wicked Inger. »She was so horrid, « they said, »so nasty, she
deserves to be well punished.
There were nothing but hard words against her in children's mouths.
And yet one day, as hunger and resentment were gnawing deep in her
hollow shell and she heard her name mentioned and her story told to an
innocent child, a small girl, she noticed that the little one burst into tears
at the story of the proud Inger and her love of finery.
»But won't she ever come up again?« asked the small girl. And she was
told, »No, she'll never come up again.
»Yes, but if she will ask to be forgiven and promise never to do it
again?«
»But she won't ask to be forgiven, « they told the child.
»Oh, I do wish she would,« said the little girl, and refused to be com-
forted. »ril give up my doll's house, if they let her come up. It's so
horrible for poor Inger.
These words went right down into Inger's heart; they seemed to do her
good. It was the first time anyone had said »poor Inger« without adding

the least thing about her faults. An innocent little child cried and pleaded
gave her such a queer feeling that she would like to have cried
for her; it
herself,but she couldn't cry, and that too was a torment.
As the years passed by up there - there were no changes below - she
heard sounds from above less often and there was less talk about her.
Then one day she heard a sigh, » Inger, Inger, what sorrow you have

358
brought me! I always said you would. « It was her mother dying.
Sometimes she heard her name mentioned by her old master and mis-
tress, and the mildest remark was when the housewife said, »I wonder if I

shall ever see you again, Inger, There's no knowing what may become of
one.«
But Inger knew well enough that her honest mistress never could come
where she was.
In that way another long and bitter time went by. Then Inger again
heard her name spoken and saw above what seemed to be two bright stars
shining. They were two gentle eyes that were closing on earth. So many
years had passed since the time when the small girl cried inconsolably for
»pooY Inger« that the child had now become an old woman, whom God
would soon be calling to himself; and at that very moment, when the
thoughts of her whole life were rising before her, she also remembered
how help crying bitterly when she heard the
as a little child she couldn't
story about Inger. That time and the impression it made on her stood so
vividly before the old woman in her hour of death that she burst out
aloud, »Lord, my God, haven't I too, like Inger, sometimes trodden
thoughtlessly on the blessings you gave? Haven't I, too, gone with pride
in my heart? And yet you, in your mercy, did not let me sink, held me up.
Do not abandon me in my last hour.«
And her old eyes closed, and the soul's eyes opened to what lies hidden;
and as Inger was there so vividly in her last thoughts, she saw Inger - saw
to what depths she had been dragged down - and at the sight of her the

359
saintly soul burst into tears. She stood like a child in the kingdom of
heaven and wept for poor Inger; her tears and prayers rang like an echo
down into the hollow empty shell that hemmed in the imprisoned tor-
mented soul, and it was overcome by all this undreamed affection from
above. To think that an angel of God should be weeping for her! Why
was she granted this favour? The tortured soul seemed to gather up into
its thoughts every deed it had ever done in its life on earth, and it shook

with weeping; Inger could never have wept like that. She was filled with
sorrow for herself, and she felt that never could the gate of mercy be
opened for her. As in her contrite heart she realized this, at that moment a
beam of light flashed down into the bottomless pit - a beam stronger
even than the sunbeam that thaws the snowman made by the boys in the
yard. Then, far quicker than the snowflake falling on a child's warm lips
melts away to a drop, Inger 's stiffened stony figure evaporated; a little
bird soared like forked lightning up towards the world of men. But it was
timid and shy of everything near; it felt ashamed of itself in the sight of
all living creatures and hurriedly looked for shelter in a dark hole, and
found it in a crumbling wall. Here it perched cowering and trembling all
over without uttering a sound, for it had no voice. It stayed there a long
while before it felt calm enough to see and appreciate all the beauty that
lay before it. Yes, indeed, beauty there was. The air was so fresh and
genial, the moon shone so bright, trees and shrubs smelt sweet; and then
the spot where it perched was so cosy, its feather coat so clean and deli-

cate. What
a revelation of love and splendour in all created things! All
the thoughts stirring in the heart of the bird strove to find utterance in
song, but the bird didn't know how. It would have liked to sing as the
cuckoo and nightingale do in spring. God, who also hears the worm's
silent song of praise, hearkened now to the song of praise that rose in har-
monies of thought, just as a psalm used to ring in David's heart before it
found words and music.

360
 For days and weeks these noiseless songs grew and grew; surely they
must break out at the first beat of wings in a good deed; such a deed must
now be done.
The holy Christmas was here. The farmer put up a pole
festival of
close against the wall and tied on it an unthreshed bundle of oats, so that
the birds of the air might also have a merry Christmas and a cheerful
dinner at this season of the Saviour's.
And the sun rose up on Christmas morning and shone on to the sheaf
of oats, and all round the dinnerpole. Then, too,
the twittering birds flew
a »tweet, tweet !«sounded from the wall. The swelling thought turned
into sound; the feeble chirp became a whole paean of joy. The idea of a
good deed had awakened, and the bird flew out from its hiding-place. In
heaven they knew well enough the kind of bird it was.
Winter began in earnest, the waters were frozen deep, and birds and
forest animals were often pinched for food. The little bird flew along the
high road and there in the tracks of the sledges it managed to find, in
places, a grain of corn. At coaching inns it might come across a few
breadcrumbs, but would only eat one of these and then let all the other
famishing sparrows know that here they could find food. It also flew to
the towns, scouted around, and wherever a kind hand had scattered
crumbs from the window for the birds, it ate only a single crumb itself
and gave the rest to the others.
In the course of the winter the bird had collected and given away so
many crumbs that the weight of them all would have equalled that of the
whole loaf that Inger had trodden on so as not to dirty her shoes; and
when the last crumb had been found and given away, the bird's grey
wings turned white and spread themselves out.
»Look! TTiere's a tern flying off across the lake,« cried the children who
saw the white bird. First, it dipped down on to the lake, then it rose into
the bright sunshine; the bird was so dazzling white that there was no
chance of seeing what became of it. They said that it flew straight into the
sun.
 The Butterfly

T.he butterfly wanted to find himself a sweetheart. Of course, one of

the nice little what he wanted. So he had a look at them. Each
flowers was
sat so quietlyand modestly on her stalk, just as a young lady should sit,
when she's not yet engaged. But what a lot there were to choose from!
This was a difficulty the butterfly didn't know how to get over, and so he
fluttered off to the daisy. The French call her Marguerite, for they know
she can tell and she does, too. Lovers pick off her petals one by
fortunes -
one, and with each of them they ask a question about their sweetheart:
»She loves me - she doesn't - she may do - she won't - she would if she
could, but she can't« - or something like that. Everyone asks in his own
language, and so the butterfly also came to ask. He didn't pull off the
petals, but gave each of them a kiss, his idea being that kindness pays best
in the long run.
»Chere Marguerite,« he said, »you are the wisest woman among all the
flowers. You can tell fortunes. Please tell me - which am I .to have? This
one, or that one, or which one? Directly I know, I can fly straight along to
her and begin courting.«
But the daisy never answered a word. She couldn't bear him to call her
a woman; for, you see, a woman would be a 'Mrs', and she was a 'Miss'.
He asked her a second time and he asked her a third time; and as he
couldn't get a single word out of her, he gave up asking her any more, but
flew off courting again.
It was early spring; there were masses of snowdrops and crocuses.

»They're very pretty, « said the butterfly. »Sweet little things who have
just come out, though rather colourless. « Like all young men, he had an
eye for older girls. Then he flew away to the anemones, but found them a
trifle bitter in their outlook; the violets rather too romantic; the tulips too

showy; the daffodils too suburban; the lime blossoms too small - and,
besides, they had such a lot of relations. The apple blossoms certainly
looked like roses, but they were here today and gone tomorrow at the least

362
 « « « «

breath of wind; he felt that would be too short a marriage altogether. The
sweet pea was the one he liked best; she was red and white, and so delicate
and refined. She was one of those domesticated girls who are both good-
looking and good in the kitchen. He was just going to propose to her,
when suddenly close by him, be caught sight of a pea-pod with a dead
flower hanging on the end of it. »Who's that?« he asked. »It's my sister,
said the sweet pea.
»Oh, I see. So that's what you'll look like later on, is it?« This rather
scared the butterfly, and so off he flew.
There was some honeysuckle hanging over the fence, with a lot of
those girls that have long faces and sallow complexions. They weren't at
all his type. Well, but what sort did he like? You'd better ask him your-

self.

Spring passed, summer passed, and now it was autumn. He was no

nearer making up his mind. And the flowers now put on their loveliest
dresses, but what was the good of that? The fresh fragrance of youth had
all gone. Fragrance it is that the heart's in search of, as the years go by;
and it can't be said there's much of that in dahlias and hollyhocks. So the
butterfly flew down to the mint.
»She hasn't any blossom, I know, but she's a whole flower in herself,
scented from root to crown, with fragrance in every leaf. She's the one I'll
choose.
And so at last he proposed.
But the mint stood stiff and silent, and at last she said. »Friendship, but
nothing more! I am old, and you are old. I dare say we might live for one
another, but marry - no! Don't let's make fools of ourselves at our time of
life.«

So the butterfly got no one at all.. He had been too 'choosy', and that
doesn't do. The butterfly remained a bachelor, as they're called.
It was late autumn, wet and gusty. The old willows creaked as the wind

sent shivers down their backs. This was no time to gad about in summer
clothes - you might be sorry you did, as they say - but the butterfly wasn't
out of doors. He happened to have come inside, where there was a fire
burning; proper summertime warmth it was. Yes, here he could live. But,
»just living is not enough, « he said. »One must have sunshine, freedom
and a little flower.
Then he flew against the window-pane, where he was seen, admired
and stuck on a pin in a box of curios. Could more have been done for
him?
»Well, here I am on a stalk just like the f lowers, « said the butterfly. »I
can't say it's altogether comfortable. I expect it's like being married:
you're certainly pinned down then!« And the thought consoled him.
»Rather a poor consolation, « said the pot-plants in the parlour.
»Still, pot-plants aren't always to be trusted« thought the butterfly.
»They have too much to do with human beings.

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 Dad's Always Right

No low listen! I'm going to tell you a story I heard when I was a boy.
Since then the story seems to have become nicer every time I've thought
about it. You see, stories are like a good many people - they get nicer and
nicer as they grow older, and that is so pleasant.
Of course you've been in the country, haven't you? You know what a
real old farmhouse looks like, with a thatch roof all grown over with
moss and weeds and a stork's nest perched on the ridge - we can't do
without the stork - and crooked walls and low-browed windows, only
one of which will open. The oven pokes out its fat little stomach; and the
elder-bush leans over the fence, where there's a little pond with a duck or
some ducklings, just under the wrinkled willow-tree. Yes, and then
there's a dog on a chain that keeps barking at all and sundry.
Well, that's just the sort of farmhouse there was out in the country, and
two people lived in it, a farmer and his wife. They had little enough of
their own, and yet there was one thing they could do without: that was a
horse which used to graze along the roadside ditch. Father would ride it
into town, the neighbours would borrow it, and of course one good turn
deserved another; and yet they felt it would pay them better to sell the
horse or to change it for something else that might be still more use to
them. But whatever was it to be?
»You'll know best, Dad!« said his wife. »It's market-day today, so you
just ride into town and get some money for the horse or else change it for
something good. What you do is always right. Now ride along to mar-
ket !«
And knew how to do that better than
then she tied on his necktie - she
he did - and she tied it in a double bow; it did look smart. And she
brushed his hat with the flat of her hand and gave him a nice warm kiss,

364
and then away he rode on the horse that he was either to sell or exchange.
Yes, depend upon it, Dad knew.
There was a burning sun and not a cloud in the sky. The road was full
of dust, there were such a lot of people driving and riding to market or
going there on Shanks' pony. It was scorching hot, and there wasn't a
scrap of shade on the road.
A man came along driving a cow - you couldn't imagine a finer cow.
»ril bet she gives lovely milk,« said the farmer to himself, thinking what
a good exchange it would make. »I say, you with the cow,« he called out,
»rd like to have a word with you. Now look here, I suppose a horse is
really worth more than a cow. But, never mind, I've more use for a cow.
Will you change over?«
»You bet I will!« said the man with the cow. And so they changed over.
Well, now the deal was done, and the farmer might just as well have
turned back. After all, he had done what he wanted; but then, you see, he
had made up his mind to go to market, and so to market he would go, if
only to have a look at it. So on he went with his cow. He quickened his
pace, and so did the cow, and presently they found themselves walking
alongside a man who was driving a sheep. It was a good sheep, in good
condition and with a good fleece.
»I could do with that sheep, I could, « thought the farmer. »It would
find plenty of grazing at the side of our ditch, and in the winter we could
bring it into the house. Really, when you come to think of it, we'd do
better to keep a sheep than a cow. Shall we do a swop?« he asked.
Yes, the man who had the sheep was quite ready to do that; and so the
bargain was struck, and the farmer went on with his sheep down the
road. There, by a stile, he saw a man with a big goose under his arm.
»That's a plump'un you've got there!« said the farmer. »It's got both
feathers and flesh; that'd look well if we kept it by our little pond. It'd be
something Mother could save her scraps for. She's often said: 'If only we
had a goose!' Well, now she can have one - and she shall have one! Will
you do a swop? I'll give you the sheep for the goose - and a thankee as
well.« The other man said yes, he didn't mind if he did, and so they made
the exchange; the farmer got the goose.
As he neared the town, the traffic on the road got bigger and bigger;
there was a swarm of people and cattle, stretching over road and ditch
right up to the toll-keeper's potatoes, where his hen was kept shut in so as
not to take fright and go astray and get lost. It was a bob-tailed, good-loo-
king hen, that winked with one eye. »Cluck, cluck!« she said. What her
idea may have been, I can't say; but the farmer's idea, when he saw her,
was: »she's the finest hen I've ever seen; she's finer than Parson's brood-
hen. I could do with that hen, I could. A hen will always find a bit o'
com; she can almost take care of herself. I reckon it's a good exchange if I
get her for the goose. »What do you say to a swop?« he asked. »Swop?«
answered the other. »Why, yes, that's not at all a bad idea.« And so they

365
 «

f^xAiA

changed over; the tollkeeper got the goose, and the farmer got the hen.
He had done such a lot of things on his way to town, and it was a warm
day and he was tired. He felt he could do with a drop to drink and a
morsel to eat. He had now reached the inn and, just as he was about to
enter, there was the ostler coming out, and he met him right in the
doorway carrying a bag that was brimful of something.
»What's that you've got there?« asked the farmer.
»Rotten apples, « answered the ostler. »A whole sackful for the pigs.«
»Why, what a tremendous lot! I do wish Mother could see that. Last
year we only had one solitary apple on the old tree by the coal-shed. That
apple had to be kept, and it lay on the chest of drawers till it burst. 'That
looks so prosperous', said Mother. Well, here's a prosperous sight for her
- how I wish she could se it!«
»What'll you give me?« asked the ostler.
»Give? I'll give you my hen in exchange.
And so he gave him and went into
the hen, got the apples in exchange
the taproom straight up His sack with the apples he leaned
to the bar.
against the stove, without noticing that the fire was alight. He found a
number of strangers in the room - horsedealers, cattle-dealers and two
Englishmen; these two were so rich that their pockets were bursting with
gold. And the way they bet - you just listen to this.
S-s-s! S-s-s! What was that they could hear beside the stove? The apples

366
 « « «« « « «« «

were beginning to roast. »Whatever is it?« they asked. Well, they very soon
heard. They were given the whole story of the horse which was changed
for the cow, and so on right down to the rotten apples.
»Well, well! Your missus '11 warm your ears for you, when you get
home!« said the Englishmen; »there'll be a fine set-out.
»No, she won't, she'll give me a kiss,« said the farmer. »She'll say: Dad's
always right !«
»Shall we have a bet?« they asked. »Golden sovereigns by the barrel - a
hundred pounds to the hundredweight !«
»Make it a bushel - that'll be enough, « said the farmer; »I can only put
up a bushel of apples, with myself and the missus thrown in. After all,
that's more than full measure - that's heaped measure.
»Done!« they answered, and the bet was made.
The innkeeper brought out his cart; the Englishmen got in, the farmer
got in, the rotten apples got in, and soon they all came to the farmer's
house.
»Good evening. Mother.
»Good evening, Dad!«
»Well, I've done the deal.«
»Ay, you're the one for that,« said the wife and, heeding neither bag
nor strangers, she gave him a hug.
»I exchanged the horse for a cow.«
»Thaitk goodness for some milk!« said the wife; »now we can have
milkpuddings and butter and cheese to eat. What a lovely exchange !«
»Well, but I swopped the cow again for a sheep.
»There, that's better still, « she replied; »You think of everything.
We've got plenty of grazing for a sheep. Now we can have ewe's milk and
cheese and woollen stockings, yes, and woollen night-clothes - the cow
couldn't give us that; it sheds its hair ... You really are a considerate
husband.
»But I swopped the sheep for a goose.
»My dear Dad, do you mean to say we shall have Michaelmas goose this
year? You're always thinking how you can give me pleasure. What a
lovely idea of yours! We can tether the goose and fatten it up for Michael-
mas.
»But I swopped the goose for a hen,« said the husband.
»A hen? That was a good exchange, « said the wife. »The hen will lay
eggs and hatch them out; we shall get chicks and a fowlrun. That's just
what I've always wanted.
»Yes, but I swopped the hen for a bag of rotten apples.
»Why, now you must have a kiss,« said the wife. »lliank you, dear
husband o' mine. And now I've got something for you to hear. While you
were away, I thought of a really nice meal to cook you when you got
back: omelette flavoured with onion. I had the eggs, but no onions. So I
went across to the schoolmaster's; they grow chives there, I know. But his

367
wife's stingy, the mealy mouthed vixen! I asked her to lend me - 'Lend?'
she repeated. 'Nothing grows in our garden, not so much as a rotten
apple. I couldn't even lend you that.' Well, now I can lend her ten - in

fact, a whole bagful! What a lark. Father! « And then she gave him a kiss
right on the mouth.
»I do like that,« cried the Englishmen together. » Always going down-
hill and never downhearted. It's worth the money. « And with that they
counted out a hundredweight of gold coins to the farmer who was not
scolded but kissed.
Yes, it always pays for the wife to admit freely that 'Dad' knows best
and what he does is right.
that
Well, what do you think of that for a story? I heard it as a child and
now you have heard it, too, and realize that Dad's always right.
 The Naughty Boy

Th here was once an old poet - such a kindhearted old poet, he was. One
evening that he was sitting at home, the weather outside got worse and
worse. ITie rain came pouring down, but the old poet had a nice cosy seat
beside his fire where the flames were blazing and the apples were sizzling.
»rm afraid they won't have a dry stitch on them,« he said, »the poor
creatures who are out in this weather;« for he was such a kindhearted old
poet.
»Oh, me in! I'm so cold and wet,« shouted a little child out in the
let

was crying and hammering away on the door, as the rain poured
street. It

down and the wind rattled all the windows.

»You poor child!« said the old poet, and he went and opened the door.
There stood a little boy; he was quite naked, and the water streamed from
his long yellow hair. He was shivering with cold and, if he hadn't come
in, he would certainly have perished in such terrible weather.

»You poor child!« repeated the old poet, taking his hand. »Come in
here, and I'll soon help you to get warm. You must have some wine and
an apple, a lovely boy like you.«
And he was, too. His eyes were like two shining stars and, although the
water was running down his yellow hair, yet he had such pretty curls. He
looked like a little angel-child, but he was quite pale with cold and
trembling all over his body. He had a fine bow in his hand, but this was
badly spoilt by the rain; all the arrows' pretty colours had run into each
other because of the wet.
The old poet sat down by the fireside, took the little boy on his lap,
wrung the water from his hair, warmed his hands in his own, and heated

369
up sweet wine for him. After that the boy was quite all right and got rosy
cheeks; he jumped down on the floor and began dancing round the old
poet.
»You're a merry boy!« said the old man. »What's your name?« »My
name's Cupid,« he answered. »Don't you know'me? That's my bow; you
bet I can shoot with that! Look, now the weather's clearing up; there's
the moon.«
»Yes, but your bow is all spoilt, « said the old poet.
»I say, that's dreadful, « said the little boy and picked it up and looked
at it. »Oh, but it's dry already; there's nothing at all the matter with it.

The string's as tight as anything; I'll just try it.« And then he bent it, put
an arrow in the bow, took aim and shot the kind old poet clean through
the heart. »There, now you can see that my bow isn't spoilt,« he said, and
off he went laughing gaily ... What a naughty boy! To go and shoot the
old poet who had let him into his nice warm room, been so kind to him
and given him the delicious wine and the best apple.
The kind-hearted poet lay on the floor and wept. Yes, he had been shot
clean through the heart, and he said, »For shame! what a naughty boy
Cupid is! I shall tell all good children about it and warn them not to play
with him, for he does them harm.«
All the children, girls and boys, that he told about it kept a kind of
look-out for the naughty Cupid, but he tricked them all the same, for he's
so artful. As the students come out of lectures, he runs alongside them
with a book under his arm and a black gown on. They never can tell who
he is, and they take him under the arm, thinking that he is a student like
themselves, and then he sticks the arrow into their breast. At Confirma-
tion time, when the girls are going home from the parson's and when
they are standing in church at the service, then he is after them again.
Yes, he's always running after people. He sits in the big chandelier at the
theatre and blazes up so that people think it's a lamp, but they notice
later that it's something else. He goes in the King's Garden and on the
Ramparts. Once upon a time he shot your father and mother in the heart.
You've only to ask them, and you'll hear what they say. Oh, yes, he's a
bad lad, this Cupid; you mustn't ever have anything to do with him. He's
after everybody. Just fancy - he even shot an arrow at old Granny; but
that's a long time ago, that's past history - though she'll never forget a
thing like that. For shame! You rascally Cupid!
Well, now you know him and realize what a naughty boy he is.
 « «

The Hill of the Elves

k5ome lizards were scuttling about in the crevices on an old tree. They
could understand each other all right, because they spoke the lizard lan-
guage.
»Goodness! What a rumbling and mumbling is going on in the old Elf
Hill,« said, one lizard. »For two nights together I haven't closed my eyes
for the clatter they're making. I might as well be lying with toothache for
all the sleep I get.«
»There's something going to happen in there, « said another lizard.
»The been standing on four glowing pillars right away till cock-
Hill's
crow; and been thoroughly aired, and the elf girls have been learning
it's

new dances - dances with stamping in them. Yes, there's something

going to happen.
»And I've had a talk with an earthworm I know,« said a third lizard.
»He was just coming up from the Hill, where for nights and days he had
been rummaging in the ground, and he had overheard a great deal. Of
course, he can't see, poor creature, though he knows how to feel his way
and to listen. They're expecting visitors in the Elf Hill, distinguished
visitors, but the earthworm wouldn't say who - or perhaps he didn't
know. All the will-o'-the-wisps are summoned to attend for the torch-
light procession (as it's called), and the silver and gold, of which there's

plenty in the Hill, are being polished and set out in the moonlight.
»Who wonder what's
ever can the visitors be?« asked all the lizards. »I
going to happen. Just listen to the humming and
drumming!« At
the
that very moment the Elf Hill opened and an old Elfwoman, who had no
back but was otherwise very respectably dressed, came tripping out; she

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 « «

was the old Elf King's housekeeper, distantly connected with his family
and wearing an amber heart on her forehead. She knew how to get about.
Trip, trip! My word, she was quick on her pins - how she could run! And
shemade straight for the marsh, to the night-raven.
»You are invited to the Elf Hill - it's for tonight, « she said. »But will
you first do us a favour and see to the invitations? You must do your bit,
you know, as you don't yourself have to keep house. We are having some
very distinguished guests, trolls of great importance, and so the Elf King
means to be there.
»Who are to be invited?« asked the night-raven.
»WelI, to the grand ball anybody may come, even humans, as long as
they can talk in their sleep or manage to do something more or less in our
line. But for the first banquet the guests are to be very carefully chosen;
we will only have the most select. I have battled for this with the Elf
King, because I don't consider we can even let ghosts in. The merman
and his daughtersmust first be invited, though I dare say they are not
very keen on coming ashore; still I'll see that each of them gets a wet
boulder or something better to sit on, so I rather fancy they won't say no
this time. All old trolls of the first class with tails must be asked, and the
river-sprite and the goblins; and then I don't see how we can leave out the
grave-pig, the death-horse and the church-lamb. It's true that they really
rank among the clergy, who don't belong to our people, but those are just
their duties; they are nearly related to us, and they pay us regular calls.
»Brah!« croaked the night-raven and flew off to do the inviting.
Elf girls were already dancing on the Elf Hill; they were dancing in
shawls woven of mist and moonlight, which looks charming for people
who like that sort of thing. In the middle of the Elf Hill the great hall had
been properly smartened up: the floor had been washed with moonlight
and the walls rubbed down with witches' lard until they shone like tulip
petals with the light behind them. The kitchen was crammed with frogs
on the spit, snake-skins stuffed with little children's fingers and salads of
toadstool seeds, moist mouse-noses and hemlock, beer from the marsh-
woman's brewery, sparkling saltpeter wine from the burial vault - all
very substantial. Rusty nails and bits of stained-glass window were for
nibbling in the sweet course.
The old Elf King had his gold crown polished with powdered slate-
pencil - it was top form slate-pencil, and it's very difficult for the Elf
King to get top form slate-pencil. In his bedroom they hung up curtains
and made them fast with snake spittle. Yes, there was a tremendous
hurrying and scurrying.
»Now we must fumigate with horsehair and pig's bristles, then I think
I shall have done my share, « said the old housekeeper.

»Daddy darling,« said the smallest of the daughters; »mayn't I hear

who the grand visitors are to be?« »Well, I never!« he said. »Then I
suppose I shall have to tell you. Two of my daughters must hold them-

372
 « «

selves in readiness to get married. Yes, two of them will certainly be

married off. The up in Norway, the one who lives in the old
old Troll
Dovre mountain and owns a number of granite castles and a gold mine
which is better than people think, he's coming down to us with his two
boys - they're each looking for a wife. The old Troll is a real genuine old
Norwegian greybeard, merry and openhearted. I know him from olden
days, when we drank to eternal friendship with each other. He was dov^m
here to fetch his wife; she's dead now - she was a daughter of the King of
the Moen chalk cliffs; she had been chalked up to be his wife, as the
saying is ... I am
longing to meet the old Norwegian Troll again.
Oh,
They say his boys are a couple of pert, ill-mannered young cubs, but it
may of course be that people are not being fair to them, and that they'll
improve with keeping. Now let me see you girls lick them into shape.
»And when are they arriving?« asked one daughter. »That depends on
wind and weather,« said the Elf King. »They're travelling on the cheap.
They're coming down whenever there happens to be a ship. I wanted
them to come by way of Sweden, but the old buffer hasn't any leanings
yet in that direction. He doesn't keep up with the times, and that's a
thing I can't bear.«
Just then two will-o'-the wisps came hopping in, one faster than the
other,and therefore he came in first.
»Here they are, here they are!« they shouted.
»Give me my crown, and let me stand in the moonlight,« said the Elf
King. His daughters raised their shawls and bowed low to the ground.
There stood the old Troll from Dovre in his crown of stiff icicles and
polished fircones, wearing, too, bearskin and sleighboots. The two sons,
on the other hand, went open-necked and without braces, for they were
lusty fellows.
»Do you call that thing a hill?« asked the younger of them, pointing to
the Elf Hill. »Up in Norway we should call it a cave.«
»Come, boys!« said the old Troll. »Caves go inward, hills go upward.
Haven't you any eyes in your head?«
The one thing them down here, they said, was the way
that surprised
away understand the language.
they could straight
»Now, stop showing off,- you two!« said the old Troll. »Anyone might
think that you were only half-baked.
And then they went into the Elf Hill, where there certainly was a
distinguished company assembled, and all in a hurry, too - almost as if

they had been blown together - and the arrangements for everyone were
all so neat and attractive. The sea folk sat at table in large water-jugs;
they felt completely at home, they said. They all minded their table
manners except the two young Norwegian trolls, who put their feet on
the table; but then they were so cocksure in everything they did.
»Feet out of the food « cried the old Troll, and they obeyed, though
I

they didn't do so at once. They tickled the lady sitting next them with fir-

373
cones they had brought in their pockets, and then they took off their
boots to be comfortable and gave them to her to hold. But their father -
the old Troll from Dovre - his behaviour was completely different. He
told wonderful tales of the splendid Norwegian mountains and of the
foam-white waterfalls that came rushing down with a roar like peals of
thunder or of organ-music. He told of the salmon that leapt from the
rushing waters, when the water-sprite played on his gold harp. He told of
the glittering winter-nights, when sleigh bells jingled and the youngsters
ran with blazing torches away over the shining ice which was so trans-
parent that they could see the fish panicking under their feet. Yes, he
could tell a tale so that you saw and heard what he said; it was just as if
the sawmills were going, as if lads and lassies were singing songs and
dancing the Hallinge dance.
All at once the old Troll gave the old Elf maid a smacking uncle's kiss
- yes, a real proper kiss - and yet they were in no way connected.
Now the elf girls had to do some dancing, both the simple kind and the
kind with stamping, and it just suited them. Then came figure dancing
or, as it's called, »stepping in free style. « Goodness me, how they could
foot it! You couldn't tell end from beginning; you couldn't tell arms
from legs; they wound in among each other like shavings from a saw; and
then they did a toe-spin that quite upset the death-horse and he had to
leave the table. »Prrrrr!« said the old Troll. »What fun to cut capers like
that! But what else can they do besides dancing, high kicks and toe-
spins?«
»A11 right, you shall see,« said the Elf King; and then he called up the
youngest of his daughters. She was slender and as radiant as moonshine,
the most delicate of all the sisters; she could take a white peg in hfr
mouth and, there! she had vanished. That was her secret.
The old Troll said he didn't want his wife to have a trick like that, and
he didn't suppose his boys would either.
The second daughter was able to walk beside herself as if she had a
shadow and trolls don't go in for shadows.
,

The third was quite another type. She had been taught in the marsh-
woman's brewery, and she was the one who knew how to lard alder-
stumps with glow-worms.
»She'll make a good housewife,« said the old Troll, and he drank to
her with his eyes, for he didn't want to take so much liquor.
Now it was the turn of the fourth elf girl. She had a big gold harp to
play and, as she plucked the first string, they all raised their left legs,
because trolls are left-legged; and, when she plucked the second string,
they all had to do what she wanted.
»She's a dangerous woman, « said the old Troll, but both his sons
walked out of the Hill, for by now they were tired of listening.
»And what can the next daughter do?« asked the old Troll.

374
 « « «

»I have grown so fond of Norwegians, « she said, »and never shall I

marry, unless I can come to Norway.
But the youngest of the sisters whispered to the old Troll: »It's only
because she has heard of a Norwegian folk-song that, when the world
comes an end, the crags of Norway will stil stand as monuments; and
to
that's whyshe wants to go there, for she's so afraid of coming to an end.«
»Aha!« said the old Troll, »so that's it! But what can the seventh and
last do?«
»The sixth comes before the seventh, « said the Elf King, for he could
do arithmetic. But the sixth held back. »I can only tell people the truth,
she said; »no one bothers about me, and I have enough to do stitching my
own winding-sheet.
Now came the seventh and last, and what could she do? Well, she could
tell stories - as many as she liked.
»Look,« said the old Troll, »here are my five fingers. Tell me a story
about each of them.« And the elf girl took him by the wrist, and he
gurgled with laughter. When she came to the ring-finger, which had a
gold ring round its waist, as if it knew there was to be an engagement, the
old Troll cried out: »Hold tight what you've got, the hand is yours. You
shall be my own wife.«
The elf girl said there was some more about the ring-finger and about
little Peter Playboy.
»We'll hear more about them in the winter, « said the old Troll, »and
we'll hearabout the fir and the birch and the presents from the wood-
nymphs and the crisp ringing frost. You'll come and
tell us stories, won't

you, because there's no one up there yet who

can do that properly. And
then we'll sit in the stone chamber, where the pine chips blaze, and drink
mead out of the gold horns of the ancient Norwegian kings; the water-
sprite has presented me with one or two. And as we sit like that, the Garbo
brownie will pay us a visit, and he'll sing you all the dairymaids' songs.
We'll have a merry time. The salmon will leap in the torrent and beat
against the stone wall, but they'll never come in ... Yes, you may take my
word for it - it's wonderful in dear old Norway. But where are the boys?«

375
 Yes, where were the boys? They were running about in the fields and
blowing out will-o'-the-wisps who had come so kindly to make a torch-
light procession.
»A11 this gadding about !« the old Troll said to them. »rve just taken a
mother for you, now you two can each take an aunt.«
But the lads said that they would much rather make a speech and drink
toasts; as for getting married, they had no desire to. So then they made
speeches and drank toasts and turned their glasses upside down to show
that they were empty, took off their coats and lay down on the table to
sleep, for they didn't care what they did. But the old Troll went dancing
round the hall with his young bride and exchanged boots with her,
because that's smarter than exchanging rings.
^There's the cock crowing!« said the old elfin housekeeper. »Now we've
got to close the shutters to save us from being burnt to death by the sun.«
And with that the Hill was closed for the day ...
But outside the lizards were still scuttling up and down the crevices on
the tree, and one of them said to the other: »Oh, I did enjoy the old
Norwegian Troll !«
»I prefer the boys,« said the earthworm; but of course he couldn't see,

poor creature.
 « « «

The Snow Man

o,oh! I'm creaking all over in this lovely cold weather, « said the snow
man. »I must say the wind knows how to sting life into you. And that
goggle-eye over there - how she does stare !« - it was the sun he meant,
which was just going down - »she won't get me to wince; I can hold on to
my bits all right. « These were two large three-cornered bits of roof-tiles
that he had for eyes; the mouth was part of an old rake, and so he had
teeth.
He had been born amid shouts of glee from the boys, and saluted with
jingling of bells and cracking of whips from the sledges.
The sun went down and the full moon rose, round and huge, clear and
lovely in the blue sky. »There she comes again from another direction,
said the snow man. He imagined it was the sun appearing once more. »I
have cured her of staring. Now she can hang there and light me up to see
myself. If I only knew how one sets about moving! I should so like to
move. If I could, I would go straight away and do some sliding on the ice,
as I saw the boys doing. But I don't know how to run.«
»Be-off-off!« barked the old watchdog from his chain. He was a bit
husky; he had been like that ever since he had lived indoors and lain close
to the fire. »The sun will teach you to run all right! I saw that happen
last year to the snow man before you, to the one before him, 'be-off-off -
and off they've gone.«
»I don't follow you, mate,« said the snow man. »Will that creature up
there teach me how to run?« (He was referring to the moon.) »Well, yes,
she ran fast enough just now, when I stared back at her; now she's
creeping up from another direction.
»You don't know a thing,« said the watchdog; »but, there, they've only
just stuck you up. What you're looking at is called the moon; the other,
who disappeared, was the sun. She'll come back tomorrow and show you
well enough how to run - right down into the pond. There'll soon be a
change in the weather, I can feel it in my left hind leg - such twinges! yes,
the weather's going to change.

377
 »I can't make him out,« said the snow man, »though I've a feehng that
it'ssomething unpleasant he's getting at. The one who stared and went
down - he calls her the sun - she isn't my friend either, I feel sure of that.«
»Be-off-off!« barked the watchdog, turned round three times about
himself and lay down inside his kennel to sleep.
There really was a change in the weather. A thick clammy fog settled
down in the early morning over the whole neighbourhood. At break of
day there was a light breeze; the wind was so icy cold that the frost got a
firm grip. But what a sight there was when the sun rose! All the trees and
bushes were covered with hoar-frost; it was like a whole forest of white
coral; it was as if all the boughs had been smothered with glittering white
blossoms. Thousands of delicate twigs, that in summer are not to be seen
because of all the leaves, now
stood out, every one of them. It all looked
just like lace and so dazzling white that a white radiance appeared to
stream from every branch. The weeping birch stirred in the breeze, with
life in it you might see in a tree in summer. You never saw such loveli-

ness; and as the sun shone out, goodness! how everything sparkled as if it

378
had been sprinkled over with diamond dust, and the whole snow-covered
earth was a glitter of big diamonds - or you might also suppose they were
thousands of tiny candles, even whiter than the snow itself.
»How perfectly beautiful !« said a girl, as she stepped with a young
man out into the garden and paused alongside the snow man, looking at
the glistening trees. »You couldn't see anything lovelier even in sum-
mer,« she said with sparkling eyes.
»Nor a fellow like this one here - you'd never come across him,« said
the young man and pointed at the snow man. »He's splendid !«
The girl laughed and gave the snow man a nod; then she tripped off
with her friend across the snow, which crunched under them as if they
were walking on starch.
»Who were those two?« the snow man asked the watchdog. » You've
been here longer than I have; do you know them?«
»Indeed I do,« replied the watchdog. »She sometimes pats my back,
and he has given me a bone. I'll never bite them.«
»But what are they doing here?« asked the snow man.
»They're swee-eethearts!« said the watchdog. »They are to move into a
kennel of their own and gnaw bones together. Be-off-off!«
»Are these two just as important as you and I?« asked the snow man.
»Well, you see, they belong to the family,« said the watchdog. »It's
true, no one can be expected to know much if he was born yesterday.
That's clearly the case with you. Now, I possess age and knowledge; I
know everyone here at the house. There was a time when I didn't have to
stand chained up here in the cold. Be-off-off!«

379
 »But cold is delightful, « said the snow man. »Do go on with your
story! But don't keep rattling your chain; that upsets me.«
»Be-off-off!« barked the watchdog. »I was a puppy then; a sweet little
thing, they said I was. There I lay indoors on a velvet chair, curled up on
my lady's lap. I was kissed on the nose and had my paws wiped with an
embroidered handkerchief; they called me »the beautifullest«, »ducky-
ducky-darling« ... But soon I grew too big for them, and they gave me to
the housekeeper. I came down to the basement; you can see into it from
where you're standing. You can see down into the room where I was lord
and master, for that's what I was with the housekeeper. I dare say they
were humbler quarters than upstairs, but it was more comfortable here: I
wasn't pawed and lugged about by children as I had been upstairs. I got
just as good food as before, and much more of it. I had my own cushion,
and then there was a stove. That's the most glorious thing in the world at
this time of the year. I used to crawl right in underneath it, till I was out
of sight. Oh, I still dream of that stove. Be-off-off!«
»Is a stove really so nice to look at?« asked the snow man. »Is it at all
like me?«
»It's just theopposite of you. Coal-black, and has a long neck with
brass collar. It on logs, so that flames shoot out of its mouth. You
feeds
can keep beside it, close up, or right under; it is such a comfort. You must
be able to see through the window from where you are.«
it

And the snow man looked and, sure enough, he saw a shiny black-
polished object with a brass collar; fire was gleaming out from below.
The snow man had a strange sensation, a feeling he couldn't himself
account for. Something came over him that was quite new to him,
though people all know it who are not snow men.
»And why did you leave her?« asked the snow man, for he felt that the
stove must be one of the female sex. »How could you desert such a spot?«
»Well, the fact is I had to,« said the watchdog. »They turned me out
and chained me up here. I had bitten the youngest son of the house in the
leg, because he had kicked away the bone I was gnawing; a bone for a
bone, I thought. But they didn't like it, and from that day I've been

380
 « «

chained up and have lost my clear voice; listen how hoarse I am - be-off-
off! That was the end of it all.«
The snow man gave up listening. He still went on staring into the
housekeeper's basement, down into her room where the stove stood on its
four iron legs and looked about the size of the snow man himself.
»There's a queer creaking inside me,« he said. »Am I never to come
into that room? an innocent wish, and surely our innocent wishes
It's

ought to be granted. It's my greatest wish, my one and only wish; and it

would be hardly fair if it weren't satisfied. I must come in, I must nestle
up against her, even if I have to smash the window.
»You'll never come in there,«said the watchdog; » and if you did reach
the stove you'd soon be off, off!«
»rm as good as off already,« said the snow man. »I feel I'm breaking
up.«
All day long the snow man stood looking in at the window. At dusk
the room became still more inviting. The stove shone so kindly in a way
that neither moon nor sun can ever shine - no, but as only a stove can
shine, when there's something in it. When the door was opened, the
flame shot out; that was its habit. The snow man's white face went
flaming red, and the pink glow spread right up his chest.
»It's more than I can bear,« he said. »How pretty she looks when she
puts out her tongue !«
The night was very long, but not for the snow man. He stood there
with his own beautiful thoughts, and they froze till they crackled. In the
early morning the basement windows were frozen over; they had the
loveliest ice- ferns any snow man could ask for, but they hid the stove.
The panes refused to thaw, so he couldn't see her. There was crackling
and crunching, it was exactly the kind of frosty weather to delight a snow
man; but he was not delighted. He might and ought to have felt so
happy, but he wasn't happy; he had 'stove-sickness'.
»That's a serious complaint for a snow man,« said the watchdog, »rve
had it myself, but I've got over it - be-off-off! There's a change in the
weather coming.

381
 And there was a change in the weather; it turned to a thaw. The thaw
increased, the snow man decreased. He didn't say anything, he didn't
complain, and that's a sure sign.
One morning he collapsed. Where he had been standing there was
something like a broom-handle sticking out; it was round this the boys
had built him up.
»Now I understand about his 'stove-sickness', « said the watchdog.
»The snow man has a stove-rake in his body; that's what upset him, and
now he's done with it. Be-off-off!«
And soon winter was done with too.
»Be-off-off !« barked the watchdog; but the little girls at the house sang:
»Sweet woodruff, now's the time to sprout,
and, willow, hang your mittens out.
Come, lark, and cuckoo, when you sing
then winter's gone and here is spring.
I'll join you both - twit-twit! cuckoo! Come, darling sun, we long for

you!«
After that, nobody gave a thought to the snow man.
 The Silver Shilling

J- here was once a shilling that came fresh from the mint; he jumped
and jingled - »Hurrah! now I'm off to see the great big world!« And away
he went.
Children would clutch tight hold of him in their warm hands, and the
miser ind his cold clammy hands. Older folk would twist and turn him
over and over, while the younger ones immediately let him run away.
The shilling was made of silver, with very little copper in him and had
already been out in the world for a whole year - that's to say, round about
in the country where he was coined. But then he went on a journey
abroad; he was the last of his country's coins to be left in the purse that
his master had on his travels - the man didn't himself realize that he had
got the coin till he felt him between his fingers.
»Why, I've still got a shilling here that I brought from home,« he said.
»He can travel along with me.« And the shilling jingled and jumped for
joy, as he was put back into the purse. There he lay together with foreign
companions who came and went; one gave way to another, but the shil-
ling from home always stayed in the purse; that was an honour.
By now several weeks had gone by, and the shilling had come far out
into the world without exactly knowing where. He heard of the other
coins being French or Italian; one explained that now they were in this
town, another that they were in that. But the shilling couldn't possibly
tell, because you don't see the world if you're always inside a purse; and

that's where the shilling was. But one day, as he lay there, he noticed that
the purse wasn't shut, and so he crept up to the opening to take a little
peep outside. Of course, he oughtn't to have done that, but he was inqui-
sitive; and that seldom pays. He slid out into the trouser-pocket and,
when at night the purse was put on one side, the shilling remained where
he was and came with the clothes out in the passage. There he at once fell
on the floor; nobody heard it, nobody saw it.

383
 First thing in the morning the clothes were brought in, the gentleman
put them on and continued his journey; but the shilling didn't go with
him. Somebody found him; he was put into service again and went out
with three other coins.
»Anyhow, it's nice to travel about in the world, « thought the shilling;
»to come across other people and other ways of doing things.
»What sort of a shilling is this?«saidsomeone just at that moment.»It's
not one of ours; it's bad money; no good!«
Well, this is where the shilling's story begins, as he told it later on.
»'Bad money!' 'No good!' The words went right through me,« said the
shilling. »I knew I was good silver, rang true and bore a genuine stamp.
There was no doubt they were making a mistake; they couldn't mean me.
But they did mean me! I it was they called bad, no good.« »I must pass
this off in the dark,« said the man who had him.« »So I was passed off in
the dark and then, in the daylight, was again called 'bad', 'no good' - 'we
must get rid of this somehow !'«
And the shilling trembled in the owner's fingers every time he had to
steal out on the
and pass as a coin
sly of the country.
»Wretched shilling that I am! What's the good of my silver, my value,
my stamp, if they don't stand for anything. For the public you're simply
what the public thinks you are. All the same, it must be terrible to have a
bad conscience, to find yourself sneaking along the wrong path when I,
who am so completely innocent, can feel uncomfortable at the very sight
of wrongdoing ... Every time I was taken out of the purse, I'd cringe
before the eyes that looked at me; I knew that I should be refused, flung
on to the table as a cheat and swindler.
One day I came to a poor wretched woman who was given me as pay
for her drudgery. But, no, she couldn't get rid of me; not one would have
me; I was a piece of real bad luck for her.
'I'm afraid be forced to take somebody in with this coin,' she said. 'I
I'll

can't afford to keep a bad shilling. The well-to-do baker shall have it; he's
the one who can best put up with it. Still, I feel I'm doing wrong, all the

same. '«

384
 »Now I'm going so burden the woman's conscience, « sighed
far as to
the shilhng. »Has such a change come over me in my old age?«
really
»The woman went to the well-to-do baker, but he knew perfectly well
what a geniune shilling looked like. I wasn't allowed to lie where I was; I
was flung in the woman's face. She got no bread in exchange for me, and
I felt utterly miserable at having been coined just to get others into

trouble - I, who in my young days had been so bold and confident, so

certain of my value and my genuine stamp. I felt as down in the mouth as
a poor shilling can be, when nobody will have him. But the woman took
me home again and looked at me very closely, even gently and kindly.
'No,' she said, 'I can't cheat anyone with you. I'll punch a hole in you, so
that everybody can see that you're not genuine ... and yet, it suddenly
occurs to me, perhaps you're a lucky shilling - yes, I'm sure you are. The
idea has just struck me: I'll make a hole in the shilling, thread a string
through the hole and give it to my neighbour's little girl to wear round
her neck as a lucky shilling.'
And she punched a hole in me. It's never very pleasant to have a hole
knocked into you, though when the intention is good you can stand a
good deal. I had a string put through me and became a sort of medal to
wear. I was hung round the little child's neck, and she smiled at me and
kissed me, and I lay all night on the child's warm innocent breast.

Early next morning the mother took me between her fingers, looked at
me and mean-while thought her own thoughts. I soon learnt what they
were. She got out some scissors and cut the string.
'Lucky shilling!' she said. 'We'll soon see about that.' And she put me
in salts till I turned green; after that, she puttied up the hole, rubbed me a
bit and then went off at dusk to the lottery agent in order to get a lottery
ticket that was to bring good luck.
How uneasy I feltl I was in such a tight corner that I thought I should
break in two I knew I should be called bad and thrown out, right in front
of a lot of shillings and coins with inscription and face to be proud of;
but I got through. There were so many people at the agent's, and he was
so busy, that I was sent tinkling into the drawer among the other coins.

385
Whether, later on, anything was won on my
ticket I don't know, but I do
know that already the following day was found to be a bad shilling, laid
I

on one side and sent out to swindle someone else - always to swindle.
Really it's more than anyone can stand, when he's honest and trustwor-
thy; and I can't deny being that.
In the course of time I was bandied about like this from hand to hand,
from house to house, always abused, always distrusted. No one believed
in me, and I didn't believe in myself nor in the world; I had a hard time of
it.

Then one day a traveller turned up. Of course they passed me off on
him, and he was simple-minded enough to take me for legal tender. But
when the time came for hrm to spend me, once more I heard the cry of
'It's a bad shilling - no good!«

It was given to me as genuine,' said the man; and he had a good close
look at me. Then he smiled all over his face; no other face had ever done
that after examining me. 'Why, what on earth's this?' he exclaimed.
'Here's a coin from our own country, a good honest shilling from home,
which they've made a hole in and called counterfeit. Well, that is funny!
I'm jolly well going to save you you home with me.'
up and take
A thrill of joy went through me. To be called a good honest shilling,
and to be going home where everyone would recognize me and know that
I was good silver with a genuine stamp - I could have sparkled for joy,

only I don't go in for sparkling; steel can do that, but not silver.
I was wrapped up in delicate white paper, so as not to get mixed with

the other coins and get spent. Only on festive occasions, when we came
across fellow-countrymen, was I brought out and spoken tremendously
well of. They found me interesting. That's funny, isn't it? - to be able to
be interesting without uttering a single word!
And at last I came home. All my troubles were over, and my joy was
beginning. You see, I was good silver, I had the genuine stamp, and no
harm whatever had been done to me by the hole knocked into me as a bad
coin. That doesn't matter as long as you're not lead. You've got to stick it
out. Everyone comes into his own in time. Well, anyhow, that's my
belief,« said the shilling.
 «

The Teapot

X here was a proud teapot, proud of proud of its long

its porcelain,
spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something something in front,
behind - the spout in front and the handle behind - and that's what it
liked to talk about, h never talked about its lid, for that was cracked, that
was riveted; the lid had a defect, and we don't care to talk about our
defects - others will see to that. Cups, cream jug and sugar basin, the
whole tea-set would of course much more easily bear in mind the frailty
of the lid and gossip about that rather than about the good handle and
the excellent spout. The teapot was well aware of all this.
»I know them,« it said to itself. »And I also know my own defects well
enough and admit them. That's where my humility, my modesty, come
in. We all have our failings, though we also have gifts, don't we? The

cups have a handle, the sugar basin has a lid; but I have both, as well as
one thing in front which they've never got: I have a spout, and that makes
me Queen of the tea-table. The sugar basin and the cream jug are privile-
ged to be the handmaids of taste, but I am the giver, the mistress. I pour
out a blessing for thirsting humanity; in my inside the Chinese tea-leaves
are brewed in boiling, tasteless water.
All this was said by the teapot in the confident days of its youth. It

stood on the teatable, was lifted by the most delicate hand; but the most
it

delicate hand was clumsy, and the teapot was dropped. The spout broke
off, the handle broke off, and the lid - well, the lid isn't worth mentio-

ning; it's been talked about enough already. The teapot lay fainting on
the floor with the boiling water running out of it. It was a hard blow that
it got, and yet the hardest blow was the way they laughed; they laughed at

the teapot, and not at the clumsy hand.

»That's something I shall never forget, « said the teapot, when it after-
wards turned over in its mind the story of its own life. »They said I was
done for. I was put aside in a corner and, the day after, given away to a

387
 «

woman who had come to beg for dripping. I was reduced to poverty; I
couldn't say a word, whether outwardly or inwardly. Yet, as I stood there,
a better life began for me. First, you're one thing, and then you become
something quite Earth was put into me. That means burial for
different.
a teapot, but in the earth there was placed a bulb. Who put it there, who
gave it, I have no idea; but given it was - a substitute for the Chinese tea-
leaves and the boiling water, a substitute for the handle and spout that
broke off.

The bulb lay in the earth; thebulb lay in me and became my heart, my
living heart, such as I'd never had before. There was life in me, there was
strength and energy. My pulse beat, the bulb sprouted till it almost burst
with thoughts and feelings; it broke out into flower. I saw it, I carried it; I
forgot myself in its loveliness - a wonderful thing it is to forget yourself in
others. It never thanked me, never gave a thought to me .... It was praised
and admired. All this made me so glad; how glad it must have made the
bulb! Then one day I heard someone saying that it deserved a better pot.
They broke me across the middle, which hurt like anything. But the
flower was moved into a better pot - while I was thrown out into the
yard, to lie there like an old potsherd ... But I have my memories; I can't
be robbed of those.
 Twelve by the M ail-
Coach

T.here was a sharp frost, a clear starry sky, not a breath of wind. »Cro-
omp!« - that was a jar they hurled at the door. »Bang!« - they were
shooting the New Year in. It was New Year's Eve; the clock was striking
twelve.
»Taran-tara!« There came the mail. The big mail-coach halted outside
the town brought twelve passengers. There was no room for more;
gate; it

every seat was taken. Cheering and singing could be heard inside the
houses, where people were keeping New Year's Eve and had just stood up
with their glasses filled to toast the coming year.
»Here'5 health and happiness in the New Year!<< they cried. »A pretty
wife! Lots of money! No more troubles !«
Yes, that'swhat they wished each other, as they clinked glasses - and
the mail-coach halted at the town gate with twelve unknown travellers.
What sort of people were they? They had passports and luggage with
them - yes, and presents for you and me and everybody in the town. Who
were the strangers? What did they want and what were they bringing?
»Good morning!« they said to the sentry at the gate.
»Good morning!« he replied, for 12 o'clock had already struck. »Your
name and profession ?« asked the sentry of the first to step out of the
coach.
»You'll find it on the passport, « said the passenger. »I am I.« He

certainly was no end of a fellow, wearing a bearskin coat and sleigh-

boots. »rm the man on whom so many people pin their hopes. Come
tomorrow and you shall have your Christmas box. I scramble pennies
and shillings, give away presents, yes, and I give balls too, as many as
thirty -one; that's as many nights as I have to give away. My ships are
icebound, though it's nice and warm in my office. I'm a merchant; my
name's January. I've got nothing but bills on me.«
The next passenger to come was a gay spark. He ran plays, fancy-dress
balls and every kind of entertainment you can think of. His luggage
consisted of a big barrel. »We'll knock a lot more out of that at Shrove-

389
tide than just the cat,« he said. »I mean to amuse others as well as myself,
because I have the shortest life in the whole family. I shall never be more
than twenty -eight ... Well, perhaps one day may be tacked on, but it
makes no difference. Cheerio !«
»Don't bawl out so loud,« said the sentry.
»That's just what I will do,« he replied. »rm Prince Carnival, and I
travel under the name of Februarius.«
Now came the third passenger. He looked the very image of fasting,
but he held his head high because he was connected with »The Forty
Knights« and was a weather prophet, though that's not a very fat job;
that's why he thought so much of Lent. He sported a bunch of violets in
his buttonhole, but they were very small ones.
»Quick march, Mr. March !« cried the fourth passenger, giving the
third a push. »March, Mr. March, into the guard-house. They've got
some punch there, I can smell it!« But there wasn't any; he only wanted
to make an April fool of him - that was how the fourth chap began. He
looked to be in good spirits. He didn't do much work, it's true, but went
in for so many holidays. »My spirits go up and down,« he said. »Rain
and sunshine, moving out and moving in. I'm a house-agent, I'm an
undertaker, I can both laugh and cry. I've got a summer suit in my trunk,
but it would be sheer madness to put it on. Here I am! When I'm in full
fig, I put on silk stockings and carry a muff.«

Now it was a lady who got out of the coach. »Miss May!« she said. She
wore a summer dress with goloshes. She had on a silk gown of beech-leaf
green, with anemones in her hair, while the scent of her sweet woodruff
was so strong that it made the sentry sneeze. »Bless you!« she said - that
was how she greeted him. She was charming, and a singer too - not at the
theatre, but in the woods; not in booths, but she liked to sing in the fresh
green glades for her own enjoyment. In her work-bag she had poems such
as Christian Winther's »Woodcuts«, for they are like the beech wood
itself, and Richardt's »Short Poems«, which are like sweet woodruff.

»Here comes my lady, our youthful mistress,« they called out from
inside the coach. And there she came, young and slender, queenly and
attractive. She was born lackadaisical; you could see that at a glance.
She always gave a party on the longest day in the year, so as to allow
time to eat the many different courses. She could afford to drive in her
own carriage, but preferred to come by coach with the others; she wanted
in this way to show that she wasn't proud. She wasn't anyhow travelling
alone, for with her she had her younger brother Julius.
He was stout, and wore a summer suit and a Panama hat. He took very
little luggage with him; it was so tiring in the heat. He had nothing but

swimming trunks and a bathing cap; that's not very much.

Now came Mother August. She was a fruitdealer on a large scale,
owner of a good many fish-tanks, and also a farmer in petticoats. She was
buxom and hearty; she took part in all that was going on and even went

390
round with kegs of beer to the people out working in the fields. »In the
sweat of the face shah thou eat bread,« she said; »that's what it says in the
Bible. There'll be plenty of time afterwards for dancing in the meadow
and harvest home.« Yes, she was Mother August.
Next came another man, a printer by profession, a colourist who let the
forest know when its leaves had got to have a change of colour, though
this could be lovely if he wanted, splashing red, yellow and brown all
over the woods. The colour master could whistle like a blackbird, and he
was a clever workman who twined the brownish green hop-bine round
his beer-mug; this was very effective, and he always had an eye for effect.
There he stood with his box of paints, which was all the luggage he had.
Now came the gentleman farmer, whose mind was on the month for
sowing, on ploughing and working the soil and - well, yes - also on the

391
 «

pleasures of sport. He had dog and gun with him, and he had nuts in his
game-bag - crack, crack! He brought all sorts of things with him, inclu-
ding an English plough. He talked agriculture, but what with the
coughing and wheezing he was difficult to follow ... for here was Novem-
ber arriving.
November had a cold, a violent cold, so that he had to use a sheet
instead of a pocket handkerchief; and yet he was obliged, he said, to go
with the maids to their new place. However, he'd be sure to get rid of his
cold when he started chopping firewood, and he was ready to do that
because he was chief sawyer to his guild. He spent the evenings in mak-
ing wooden skates, as he knew that in a very few weeks there would be a
demand for this enjoyable footwear.
And now came the last passenger of all, a little old grandam with her
brazier. She was cold, but her eyes shone like two bright stars. She was
carrying a flowerpot with a little fir tree in it. »I will tend it and take care
of it so that it grows tall enough by Christmas Eve to reach from the floor
right up to the ceiling, with lighted candles, gilded apples and cut-out
paper figures. The brazier will give warmth like a stove; I'll take the
storybook out of my pocket and read aloud from it, so that all the chil-
dren in the room keep still. But the dolls on the tree will come alive, the
little wax angel at the top of the tree will shake her tinsel wings and fly

down and kiss big and little ones in the room - yes, even the poor chil-
dren that stand outside singing their christmas carol about the star of
Bethlehem.
»Very well,« said the sentry. »Now the coach may drive on; that makes
the dozen. Let a fresh mail-coach be brought up.«
»Right you are. But first I want the twelve passengers to come in here,«
said the captain of the guard. »One at a time! I shall keep your passports,
which are each valid for one month. At the end of that time I shall write
on them how each of you has behaved. Now then, Mr. January, will you
kindly step in?«
And so in he went.
»When a year's up, I'll tell you what the twelve travellers have brought
you and me and all of us. At present I don't know, and of course they
don't know themselves either, for these are strange times that we live in.«
 The Cripple

T.here was an old country-house with a splendid young squire and his
wife living there. They had wealth and all they wanted; they liked to
enjoy themselves, and they did good to others. They wanted everybody to
be as happy as they were themselves.
On Christmas Eve a beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in the
old baronial hall, where the fire was burning on the hearth and the old
pictures were hung with branches of fir. Here the master and mistress and
their guests were assembled, and there was singing and dancing.
Earlier in the evening there had already been Christmas merriment in
the servants' hall. Here, too, stood a large Christmas tree with lighted red
and white candles, small Danish flags, swans and fishing-nets cut out of
coloured paper and filled with »sweeties«. The poor children from the
village were invited, each one with its mother, though the mothers never
took much notice of the tree but kept their eyes on the Christmas tables
laden with woollens, linen, dress material and stuff for trousers. Yes,
these caught the attention of the mothers and their older children; only
the very little ones stretched out their hands to the candles, the tinsel and
the flags.
They had all arrived early in the afternoon and got their Christmas
pudding as well as roast goose and red cabbage. Then, when the Christ-
mas tree had been looked at and the presents given round, each got a
small glass of punch and doughnuts stuffed with apples.
When they came home to their own humble parlour, there was gossip
about »the good way of living«, that's to say, good things to eat; and they
had a proper look once more at their presents.
Now there were a couple called Garden Kirsten and Garden Ole. They
were married and had their house and daily bread for weeding and dig-
ging in the manor garden. Every Christmas parly brought them a gene-
rous share of presents. They had five children, and all five got their clothes
from the squire and his wife.

393
 « « « « «

»They're kind-hearted folk at the manor«, they said. »But then they can
afford it, and itthem pleasure.
gives
»Well, here's some good clothes for the four children to wear out,« said
Ole; »but why isn't there something for the cripple? They don't generally
forget him, even though he doesn't come to the party.
It was the eldest of the children whom they called »the cripple«; other-

wise his name was Hans. When he was small, he was the quickest and
liveliest child, but then he suddenly went »groggy« in the legs - unable to
stand or walk, and now for five years he had been bedridden.
»Oh, but I did get something for him as well,« said the mother,
»through it's nothing much; it's only a book for him to read.«
»A fat lot of use that'll be to him,« said the father.
But Hans was pleased with it. He was a very intelligent boy, who
enjoyed reading; yet he also used his time in working, as far as he, who
always had to lie in bed, could make himself useful. He was neat with his
fingers and used his hands to knit woollen stockings and even counterpa-
nes; the lady at the manor had praised them and bought them.
It was a story-book Hans had been given. There was lots to read in it,

lots to think about.

»Not much use for that sort of thing in this house, « said the parents.
»Still, let him read; it'll make the time go, and he can't always be knitting
stockings.
Spring arrived. Flowers and greenery began to sprout - also weeds, as
no doubt the nettles may be called, although the hymn speaks so well of
them:

»No king there be nor royal chief,

with all his might and mettle,
could ever bring the smallest leaf
to grow upon a nettle.

There was plenty to do in the manor garden, not merely for the gardener
and his assistants, but also for Kirsten and Ole.
»It's a tough job«, they said; »and, soon as we've raked the paths and
got them to look really nice, they go and get all messed up again; there's
forever o' visitors coming here to the manor. Think what that must cost!
Still, they're rich people, the master and mistress.

»That's a queer kind o' sharc-out,« said Ole. »Parson says we're all

God's children. Then why's there so much difference?«

»That all comes of the Fall,« said Kirsten.
They went on with their talk in the evening, while Cripple Hans lay
reading his story-book.
Poverty and daily grind had hardened the parents' hands - and also
theirjudgment and their minds. They couldn't make things out, they
weren't equal to it, and now they talked themselves still sulkier and
angrier.

394
 « «

»Some people are well off and happy, others are always hard-up. Why
should we have to suffer because Adam and Eve were disobedient and
inquisitive? We'd never have gone on like those two.«
»Oh, yes, we should!« said Cripple Hans all of a sudden. »It's all down
here in this book.«
»What does the book say?« asked the parents.
So Hans read them the old tale of The Woodcutter and his Wife. They
too came to words over the inquisitiveness of Adam and Eve, which was
the cause of their misfortune.

Just then their King went by. »Come home

with me,« he said, »and you
shall live just as I and a show-dish. That
do: seven courses for dinner,
will be in a closed tureen; you mustn't touch that, or it will be the end of
your fine living.« »I wonder what is in the tureen, « said the wife. »That's
no business of ours,« said the husband. »Well, but I'm not inquisitive,«
said the wife; »Vd only like to know why we mayn't lift up the lid; it must
be something tasty. « »As long as it's not some infernal machine,« said the
husband; »Some kind of pistol-shot that goes off and wakes the whole
house. « »Gracious me!« said the wife and didn't touch the tureen. But in
the night she dreamt that the lid raised itself, and there came a whiff of
the finest punch such as you get at weddings and funerals. There was a
big silver shilling with the inscription:
»Drink of this punch and you shall be the richest couple in the world,
and the rest of mankind shall be beggars« - and at that point the wife
woke up and told the husband her dream. » You 're thinking too much
about the thing,« he said. »We could of course raise it cautiously, « said
the wife. »Yes, cautiously !« he replied; and very gently she raised the lid
... Out sprang two nimble little mice and disappeared into a mouse-hole.

»Good night !« said the King. »Now you may go home and lie in your
own bed. Don't find fault any more with Adam and Eve; you've been just
and ungrateful yourselves.
as inquisitive
»Iwonder where the book got that story from,« said Garden Ole. »You
might have thought it was aimed at us. It gives you plenty to think
about.
On the following day they went to work again. They were scorched by

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 «

the sun and drenched to the skin by the rain; and they were filled with
grumpy thoughts, which they brooded over.
The evening was still light when they got home and had eaten their
milk-porridge. »Read us that story again about the woodcutter, « said
Garden Ole.
»There are so many nice ones in this book,« said Hans, »such a lot you
don't know.«
»Well, I don't mind about them. I want to hear the one I know.«
And he and his wife listened to it again. On more than one evening
they came back to that story.
»It still doesn't make everything
quite clear to me,« said Ole. »It's the
same with people milk that curdles; some of it makes fine curd-
as with
cheese, but it may also turn to thin watery whey. Some folks are lucky in
everything, always given the place of honour and know nothing of sor-
row or want.«
Cripple Hans heard that. Though weak in the legs, he was wise in the
head. So he read them another tale from his book, one about The Man
free from Sorrow or Want. Where ever was he to be found - and found he
must be!
The King was ill and could only be cured by putting on a shirt worn
threadbare on the back of a man who could truly be said never to have
known sorrow or want.
»But / haven't!« cried a swineherd who sat in the hedge, laughing and
singing. »Vts\ the happiest!«
»Then give us your shirt, « said the King's messengers. »You shall be
paid half-a-kingdom for it.«
But he hadn't got a shirt, and yet he claimed to be the happiest man.
»Well, that was a grand chap!« shouted Ole, and he and his wife
laughed as they hadn't laughed for years.
Just then the schoolmaster went by.
»What a gay time you're having!« he said. »That's quite a novelty in
this house. Have you drawn a lucky number in the lottery?«
»No, nothing of that sort,« said Ole. »You see, Hans has been reading
to us from his story-book. He read about The Man free from Sorrow or
Want; that chap, he had no shirt. It makes you laugh till you cry, to hear
that sort of thing, especially out of a printed book. I reckon each one of us
has his troubles to bear; we're none of us alone in that. Well, that's
always a comfort.
»Where did you get the book?« asked the schoolmaster.
»Hans was given it over a year ago at Christmas; it was a present from
the manor. You know how fond he is of reading - fancy, a cripple like
him! At the time we'd rather he had got a couple of canvas shirts. But the
book's extraordinary; it seems to kind of answer your though ts.«
The schoolmaster took the book and opened it.
»Let's have the same story over again, « said Ole. »I haven't yet taken it

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 «

all in. And then he must also read us the other one about the woodcut-
ter.

Those two tales were quite enough for Ole. They were like two sun-
beams coming into that humble parlour, into that stunted mind which
could be so sullen and surly.
Hans had read the whole book over and over again. The tales carried
him out into the world, where of course he couldn't go, because his legs
wouldn't take him there.
The schoolmaster sat by his bed; they talked together, and that was
jolly for both of them.
From then on, the schoolmaster came more often to see Hans, while his
parents were out at work. It was quite a treat for the boy every time he
came. How eagerly he listened to what the old teacher told him of the size
of the earth and its many countries, and how the sun was yet nearly half a
million times bigger than the earth and so far away that a cannon-ball
would need a good twenty-five years to travel from the sun to the earth,
whereas the sun's rays could reach the earth in eight minutes.
Of course, every schoolboy knows all this, but to Hans it was new and
even more wonderful than what was in his story-book.
Every now and then the schoolmaster used to go and dine at the manor,
and on one such occasion he told his host and hostess how much the story-
book had come to mean to that humble household, where two stories
alone from the book had proved an inspiration and a blessing. With his
reading the weakly, shrewd little boy had brought happiness and food for
thought into the house.
As the schoolmaster was leaving the manor to go home, the lady pres-
sed a couple of golden sovereigns into his hand for little Hans. »They'll
be for Dad and Mum,* said the boy, when the schoolmaster brought him
the money. And Ole and Kirsten said, »Our cripple boy, after all, is a
boon and a blessing to us.«
A few days while the parents were out working at the manor, the
later,
squire's carriage stopped outside. It was the kind-hearted mistress, who
had come, delighted that her Christmas present had brought such com-
fort and enjoyment to the boy and his parents. With her she had brought
fine bread, fruit and a bottle of sweet syrup; but, what was even nicer, she
carried, in a gilt cage, a little blackbird which could whistle delightfully.
The cage with the bird was placed up on the old chest of drawers some
distance from the boy's bed, where he could see the bird and hear it; in
fact, even people right out in the road could hear it singing.

Ole and Kirsten didn't get home till the lady had driven away. They
noticed how pleased Hans was, and yet they felt it would only mean more
trouble for them, this present he had been given.
»Rich peofile don't look at a thing all round, « they said. »Have we now
got this to mind as well? Poor Hans can't do that, of course. It'll end by
the cat getting ii.«

397
 «

A week passed, and then another week. During that time the cat had
often been in the room without frightening the bird,
alone hurting it.
let

Then an astonishing thing happened. It was afternoon. The parents and

the other children were away at work; Hans was left quite alone. He had
the story-book in his hand and was reading about the fisherman's wife,
who had all her wishes granted. She wished to be an emperor, and she
was. But then she wished to be God - and she found herself sitting again
in the muddy had come from.
ditch she
That story had nothing whatever to do with the bird or the cat, but it
happened to be story the boy was reading when the incident took place;
he remembered it ever after.
The cage stood on the chest of drawers; the cat stood on the floor with
its greeny-yellow eyes fixed on the bird up there. There was something in

the cat's face that seemed to say to the bird, »How lovely you are! How I
would like to eat you!«
Hans realized that;he read it plainly in the cat's face.
»Go away, he shouted. »Get out of the room, will you!« It looked
cat!«
as if it was just going to jump.
Hans couldn't get at it, hadn't anything to throw at it but his dearest
treasure, the story-book. He threw that; but the binding was loose, it flew
to one side, and the book itself with all its leaves flew to the other. The cat
slowly backed a little way in the room and looked up at Hans as much as
to say, »Don't you meddle in this affair. Master Hans! I can walk and I
can jump, but you can't do either.
Hans kept his eye on the cat and was very much alarmed, and the bird
was also frightened. There wasn't a soul to call out to. The cat semed to
know this and again got ready to spring. Hans waved his counterpane at
it, for he could use his hands; but the cat took no notice of the counterpa-

ne, and when this too had been thrown at it in vain, it hopped on to a
chair and then on to the windowsill, where it was nearer to the bird.
Hans could feel his own warm blood mside him, but he had no
thought of that; he thought only of the cat and the bird. The boy couldn't
of course manage to get out of bed; he couldn't stand up on his legs,
much less walk. His gorge seemed to rise inside him, when he saw the cat

398
spring from the window straight on to the chest of drawers and crash into
the cage so that it overturned. The bird fluttered about wildly inside.
Hans gave a shriek, his legs twitched and, without a thought of what
he was doing, he jumped out of bed towards the chest of drawers, knock-
ed the cat off it and caught hold of the cage with the terrified bird inside
it. With the cage still in his hand he ran out of the door and right into the

road.
The tears were now streaming from his eyes; he shouted for joy, crying
out loud, »I can walk! I can walk!« He had got back the use of his legs.
Such things can happen, and it happened with him.
The schoolmaster lived near by. The boy ran to him in his bare feet,
wearing nothing but a shirt and jacket, and with the bird in the cage.
»I can walk!« he cried. »God in heaven !« and he burst into sobs of sheer
joy.
And was joy at home with Ole and Kirsten. »We shall never live
there
to see ahappier day than this,« they both said. Hans was sent for to the
manor; he hadn't been that way for many years. It seemed as though the
trees and hazels that he knew so well were nodding to him and saying,
»Good day, Hans! Glad to see you out here.« The sun shone into his face,
right into his heart.
At the manor the kind young master and mistress made him sit with
them and looked as delighted as if he had been one of their own family.
And yet most delighted was the lady, who had given him the story-
book, given him the songbird. This, it is true, had now died - died of
fright - but it had been, in a way, the means by which he was cured; and
the book had proved an inspiration to him and his parents. He had it still
and meant to keep it and read it, however old he became. And now he
could make himself useful at home. He wanted to learn a handicraft,
become a bookbinder for choice; »because«, he said, »then I can get all
the new books to read!«
manor sent for the two parents.
Later in the afternoon the lady at the
She had had a talk with her husband about Hans; he was a good intelli-
gent boy, quick and eager to work; and Heaven helps those who help
themselves.
That evening the parents went home very happy from the manor,
especially Kirsten; but aweek later she was in tears, for their dear Hans
was leaving them. He had been given good clothes and was a good boy,
but now he was to go across the salt water, a long way off, to a grammar
school, and it would be many years before they saw him again.
He didn't take the story-book with him; his parents wanted that as a
keepsake. And his father often read it, though nothing but the two stories
that heknew so well.
They got letters from Hans, each happier thanthe last. He was board-
ing with very nice people and was well looked after. Most of all he
enjoyed going to school; there was so much to learn and to know. He

399
only wanted now to live to be a hundred and one day be a schoolmaster.
»If only we could live to see that!« said the parents, and they pressed
each other's hands, as at communion.
»Think of all that's happened to Hans!« said Ole. »God doesn't forget
the poor man's child. But fancy our cripple being the one to prove it!
Why, it's just as if Hans was to read it to us out of the story-book.«
 «

Auntie Toothache

\u here the story comes from - you want to know that, do you? We got
it from the butter cask, the one with the old papers in it.
Many a good and rare book has gone to the grocer's and the provision
dealer's, not for reading, but as something that may come in handy. They
must have paper to make bags for starch and coffee-beans, paper to wrap
up bloaters, butter and cheese. Handwritten documents can also be used.
Things often go into the tub that oughtn't to go into the tub.
I know a grocer's boy who's the son of a provision dealer. He has risen

from the store-room to the front shop; a young man well up in paper-bag
literature, whether printed or in manuscript. He has an interesting col-
lection, including several important documents from the waste-paper
basket of some bewildered overworked official; secret notes between
lady friends; bits of scandal that mustn't go further or be mentioned
to a soul. He's a walking salvage store for a large range of literature;
and he has a big field to work in, for he has the shops of his parents and
of his employer. He has rescued many a book or page of a book that
might well deserve a second reading.
He has shown me his collection of printed and written things from the
tub, chiefly from the grocer's. There were a few pages from a biggish
exercise book, and the particularly fine clear handwriting at once
caught my attention.
»That was written by the student, « said the young man; »the student
who lived just opposite and died a month ago. He must have suffered a
lot from toothache. It's well worth reading. There's only a little left here
of what he wrote - originally a complete book and some more besides.
My parents gave half a pound of green soap for it to the student's land-
lady. Here's what I manage to rescue.
I borrowed it and read it, and now I'll pass it on to you. The title was:

Auntie Toothache
I

My aunt used to give me sweets when I was small. My teeth held out and
weren't ruined. NowI'm older and have left school. She still spoils me
with sweets and says I'm a poet.

401
 There is something of the poet in me, though not enough. Often, as I
walk through the streets of the town, I feel as if I was in a large library.
The houses are bookcases, every storey a shelf with books. Here is a tale of
everyday life, there a good old play and scientific works on every subject,
and there again reading pleasant and unpleasant. All that literature is for
me to dream and philosophize over.
Yes, I've got something of the poet in me, but not enough. Lots of
people must have just as much as I have - and yet have no badge or title
to the name of poet.
To them and to me is given a gift from God, a boon big enough for
oneself, but far too small to be parcelled out again among others. It

comes like a rayfrom the sun, filling mind and soul; it comes like the
scent of a flower, or a melody one has heard but cannot remember where.
The other evening, as I sat in my room longing to read, but without
book or paper to look at, all at once a fresh green leaf dropped down from
the lime tree, and a puff of air blew it in to me through the window.
I was looking at all the branching veins on the leaf, when a little insect

crawled across it, just as though it wanted to make a close study of the
leaf. That set me thinking about human wisdom. We, too, crawl about

on a leaf, knowing nothing but that, and then proceed to give a lecture
on the whole great tree - root, trunk and summit - the whole great tree,
that's to say, God, the world and immortality ... And all we know of the
whole thing is on a little leaf.

402
 «

As I sat there, I had a visit from Auntie Millie. I showed her the leaf
with the insect, told her what had come into my mind, and her eyes
shone.
» You 're a poet!« she exclaimed. »Perhaps the greatest we have. If I

should live to see that, I would go happy my grave. You have always,
to
ever since Brewer Rasmussen's funeral, astonished me by your tremen-
dous imagination.
So said Auntie Millie and kissed me.
Now, who was this Auntie Millie, and who was Brewer Rasmussen?

//

Mother's aunt was always called »Auntie« by us children; we had no

other name for her.
She gave us sugar and jam, although this was very bad for our teeth,
but she was weak with the dear children, she said; it was so cruel to deny

them the little bit of sweet stuff they were so fond of.

And that made maid - always

us very fond of Auntie. She was an old
old, as far back ascan remember. Her age stood still.
I

In earlier years she suffered a lot from toothache and was always talk-
ing about it; that's why her friend. Brewer Rasmussen, called her for a
joke »Auntie Toothache«.
He didn't do any brewing in his later years, but lived on his dividends;
he often came to see Auntie and was older than she was. He had no teeth
at all, only a few black stumps.
As a child he had eaten too much sugar, he told us children, and that's
what happened to your teeth. Auntie can't ever in her childhood have
eaten sugar; she had the loveliest white teeth. She saved them, too - said
Brewer Rasmussen - by not sleeping with them at night!
We children knew that was very naughty of him, but Auntie said he
didn't mean anything by it.
One morning, at breakfast, she told us of a nasty dream she had had in
the night: one of her teeth had fallen out. »That means I shall lose a true
»Was it a false tooth?« asked the brewer with a chuckle.
friend, « she said.
»Then it may only mean that you'll lose a false friend !«
»You're a rude old gentleman, « said Auntie, more angry than I've ever
seen her before or since.
But later on she said that her old friend was only teasing; he was the
most generous man on earth and, when he came to die, he would become
one of God's little angels in heaven.
I puzzled a lot over this tranformation and wondered whether I should

ever be able to recognize him in his new shape.

When Auntie was young and he too was young, he proposed to her.
She hesitated too long, was slow in making up her mind, was much too

403
slow in making up her mind; and so she always remained an old maid,
yetalways a faithful friend.
And then Brewer Rasmussen died.
He was driven to his grave in the most expensive hearse and was
accompanied by a large number of people in uniform and decorations.
Dressed in mourning, Auntie stood at the window with all of us chil-
dren - except for the little brother that the stork had brought a week
before.
When the hearse and all the mourners had gone by and the street was
empty, Auntie wanted to leave, but I didn't want to. I was waiting for the
angel. Brewer Rasmussen; for, of course, he had now become a little
winged child of God and must show up.
»Auntie,« I said, »don't you think he'll come now, or maybe when the
stork brings us another little brother he'll bring us Angel Rasmussen?«
My imagination quite took Auntie's breath away, and she said, »That
child will be a great poet«; and she kept on saying this all through my
schooldays, even after I was confirmed, right down to my present years as
a student.
She was and is my most sympathetic friend both in the throes of wri-
ting and the throes of toothache. You see, I have attacks of both.
»Write down all your thoughts, that's all,« she said, »and then put
them away in a drawer. Jean Paul did that, and became a great writer,
who as a matter of fact I'm not very fond of. He doesn't thrill. You must
thrill - and you will thrill !«
The night I lay in longing and agony with a
after this conversation
deep desire to become the great writer that Auntie could see in me. I was

404
 «

aching to be a poet. But there is a worse ache than that - toothache. It

smashed me and hashed me; I became a writhing worm with a hot poul-
tice and bhstering Spanish beetles.
»Yes, I know all about that!« said Auntie.
There was a sad smile about her mouth; her teeth shone so very white.
But here I must begin a new chapter in my aunt's history and in my
own.

///

I had moved into new lodgings and had been living there for a month. I

was chatting with Auntie about this.

»Vm living (I said) with a quiet family. They don't worry about me,
even when I ring three times. Otherwise, it's a regular house of din with
all the hubbub of wind and weather and people. My room is right over

the entrance; every cart that comes out or in sets the pictures swinging on
the wall. The banging of the gate shakes the house as if there was an
earthquake. If I'm lying in bed, the shocks go right through me, though
it's all supposed to strengthen the nerves. If it's windy - and it's always

windy in this country - then the long window-catches outside swing to

and fro and knock against the wall. The gate bell to the yard next-door
peals with every gust of wind.
The lodgers in our house come home in driblets, late at night, well
into the small hours. The who by day
lodger immediately above me,
gives lessons on the trombone, home, and before he gets into
is the last
bed he has a little midnight walk up and down, with heavy steps and
hobnailed boots.
There are no double windows, but there is a broken pane which the
landlady has stuck paper over; all the same, the wind blows in through
the crack and produces a sound like a buzzing hornet. That's my lullaby.
When I do at last fall asleep, I'm soon woken up by a cock crowing. Both
cock and hen announce from the cellarman's chicken-house that it will
soon be morning. The little Norwegian ponies, which have no stable but
are tethered in the cubby hole under the stairs, kick on the door and
skirting as they stretch their legs.
The day dawns. The concierge, who sleeps with his family in the attic,
goes stamping downstairs; the clogs clatter, the door slams, the house
trembles and, when that's all over and done with, the lodger overhead
begins to do his morning exercises, lifting with each hand an heavy
dumb-bell which he cannot hold on to - it keeps falling. Meanwhile the
young people of the house, who are off to school, come rushing scream-
ing downstairs. I go to the window ana open it some fresh air -
to get
and it is refreshing, as long as I can get it and the young woman in the
backhouse washing gloves in her chemicals, which is how she gets a
isn't
living. Otherwise, it's a nice house and I'm living with a quiet family.

405
 Well, that's the account I gave Auntie of the place where I lodged. Only
I made it livelier, for a description by word of mouth is more vivid than it

is in writing.
»You're a poet!« cried Auntie. »Only write your talk down, and you'll
be as good as Dickens. In fact, you interest me much more. You paint,
when you talk. You describe your house so that one sees it, and shudders!
Go on writing - about something that's alive - about people; best of all,
about unhappy people!«
As for the house, I really did write it down, with all its din and draw-

backs, but only with myself in it. There was no action; that came later.

IV

It was during winter, late in the evening, after the theatre; with terrible

weather - a snowstorm - so that you could hardly get along.

Auntie had been at the theatre, and I was there to take her home; but it
was hard enough to get along yourself, let alone take others with you.
The cabs were all engaged. Auntie lived a long way out, whereas my
lodgings were close to the theatre; but for that we might have stood
sheltering till further notice.
We
stumbled ahead in the deep snow with the snowflakes whirling
around us. I lifted her, I supported her, I pushed her forward. We only
fell twice, but we fell softly.

We approached my gate, where we shook ourselves. Again, on the

steps, we shook ourselves, and even then we took in enough snow with us
to cover the floor of theen trance- hall.
We
took off overcoats and undercoats and any other things that could
be taken off. The landlady lent Auntie dry stockings and a dressing-
gown; this was necessary, said the landlady, enough -
and added - truly
that auntie couldn't possibly go home that night. She invited her to make
shift with her sitting room; she would make up a bed for her on the sofa
in front of the permanently locked door into my room. And this was
done.
Thefire was burning in my stove, the tea things were laid on the table,

and was very cosy in the little room - even though hardly as cosy as at
it

Auntie's, where in the winter there are thick curtains on the door, thick
curtains on the windows, double carpets on the floor with three layers of
thick paper underneath. You sit there as if you were in a well-corked
bottle with warm air; and yet, as I said just now, it was also very cosy in
my room, with the wind whistling outside.
Auntie talked and talked. Her young days came back to her; the brewer,
too, came back, and old memories.
She could remember me cutting my first tooth and how delighted the
family was.

406
 The first tooth! The tooth of innocence, shining hke a httle white drop
of milk: the milk tooth.
There came one, there came several, a whole row,
side by side, above
and below, the loveliest child's teeth; and
were only the advance
yet these
troops, not the real ones that must last right through life.
Then they too arrived and the wisdom-teeth as well, fuglemen in the
ranks, born in pain and great trouble.
They leave you again, everyone of them. They go before their period of
service has run out; even the last one goes, and that's no day of rejoicing;
it's a day of sadness.

And then you're old, even if your heart is young.

Conversation and thoughts like that are hardly amusing, and yet we
came to talk of all that; we came back to the years of childhood, talked
and talked, and the clock struck twelve before Auntie retired to rest in the
room next to mine.
»Good night, my dear child,« she called out. »Now I shall sleep as if I

lay in my own chest of drawers !« And she settled down to sleep in peace.
But no peace was to be found either in the house or outside. The gale
shook the windows, flogged the long dangling window-catches, rang the
neighbour's door-bell in the yard behind the house. The lodger overhead
had come home; once more he took his little nightly stroll up and down,
then he flung his boots on to the floor and laid himself to rest. But his
snoring is so loud that it can easily be heard through the ceiling.
There was no rest or peace for me, and the weather didn't settle down
either; it was abominably active. The wind whizzed and sang in its own
way; my teeth also began to be active, and whizzed and sang in their own
way. It was the signal for a full-dress toothache.
There was a draught from the window. The moon shone in across the
floor. The glimmer came and went as the clouds came and went in the
gale. There was a restless light and shadow, but at last the shadow on the
floor began to look like something. I stared at this moving object ... and I
felt my blood run cold.

On the floor sat a figure, long and thin, just as when a child draws
with a pencil on its slate something resembling a person. A single thin
stroke makes the body, another and another are the arms; the legs are also
each done in one stroke, and the head is a polygon.
Presently the shape grew more distinct, wearing some sort of drapery,
very thin and delicate; but this showed that it belonged to one of the
female sex.
I heard a droning sound. Was it her, or was it the wind humming like a
hornet through the window-crack?
No, it was Madame Toothache herself, her infernal Satanic Frightful-
ness - heaven preserve us from a visit from her!
»It's good to be here,« she droned. »This is a good neighbourhood:
marshy, boggy ground. The mosquitoes have buzzed here with poison in

407
 « ««

their sting; now I have the sting. It must be sharpened on human teeth.
They're shining so white on this fellow in bed. They have defied sweet
and sour, hot and cold, nutshells and plum stones; but I'll take them and
shake them, nourish their roots with draughts, let the cold in their
stumps.
This was a terrible speech, from a terrible visitor.
»Dear, dear, so you're a poet, are you?« she said. »Very well. I'll com-
pose tortures for you in every metre. I'll give you iron and steel in your
body, new fibres in all your nerves.
I felt as if a red-hot gimlet was piercing my cheekbone; I writhed and
squirmed.
»A capital toothache!« she said. »Quitean organ to play on. Concert
on the Jew's harp - magnificent - with trumpetsand kettledrums, picco-
los, and a trombone in the wisdom-tooth. Great poet - great music!«

And she struck up - no doubt about that - and her appearance was
frightful, even though you could hardly see more of her than her hand,
that shadowy ice-cold hand with the long skinny fingers. Each of them
was an instrument of torture. Thumb and first finger had forceps and
screw, the second finger ended as a sharp-pointed awl, the ring finger was
a gimlet and the little finger squirted mosquito poison.
»ril teach you metrics!« she said. »A big poet must have a big tooth-
ache, a poet a little toothache.
little

»Please me be little,« I begged. »Don't let me be anything! I'm no

let

poet, I only have fits of writing, like fits of toothache. Do go away!«

408
 « « «

»Will you admit, then, that I'm more powerful than poetry, philoso-
phy, mathematics and all music?« she asked. »More powerful than all

those impressions in paint and in marble? I'm older than the whole lot of
them. I was born near the Garden of Eden, just outside, where the wind
blew and the damp toadstools were growing. I got Eve to wear clothes in
the cold weather, and Adam too. Believe me, there was strength in the
first toothache.
»I believe everything you say,« I replied. »But do go away!«
»Very well. If you will give up being a poet, never write down a single
verse on paper, slate or any other kind of writing material, then I'll leave
you. But I shall come back, if you start writing.«
»I swear!« answered. »A11 I ask is never to see you or meet you again.
I

»But you shall s^e me, only in an ampler form, one dearer to you than
mine is at present. You shall see me as Auntie Millie; and I shall say,
'Write, my dear boy! You're a great poet, maybe the greatest we have'.
But, believe me, if you start writing I shall set your poems to music and
play them on your Jew's harp, you darling child! Remember me, when
you see Auntie Millie.
And she vanished.
As a parting gift I got a red-hot stab in the cheekbone, but it was soon
lulled. I seemed to glide on smooth water and to see the white water-lilies
with their broad green leaves give way and sink beneath me, then wither
and dissolve, and I sank with them and faded away in rest and peace ...
»Die, melt away like snow,« came the sound of singing in the water.
»Vanish in the cloud, sail away like the cloud.. .«
Down to me through the water came shining large luminous names
inscribed upon floating banners of victory, the patent of immortality
written on the may-fly's wings.
I slept deeply, a sleep without dreams. No longer I heard the whistling

wind, the banging door, the clanging bell at the neighbour's entrance,
nor the clumsy exercises of the lodger.
How heavenly!
Suddenly there came a gust of wind, and the locked door into Auntie's
room flew open. Auntie jumped up, slipped on clothes and shoes, and
came in to me.
I was sleeping like an angel, she said, and she hadn't the heart to wake

me.
I awoke of my own accord, opened my
and had quite forgotten
eyes
that Auntie was remembered it, remem-
in the house. But then presently I

bered my toothache apparition. Dream and reality became mingled to-

gether.
»I suppose you didn't write something last night, after we had said
good-night?« she asked. »If only you had! You are my poet, and you'll
always be that.«
Her smile seemed to me so crafty. I wasn't sure whether it was the

409
good-natured Auntie Millie who loved me, or the terrible one I had given
my promise to last night.
»Have you written anything, dear child?«
»No, no!« I cried. »You are my Auntie Millie, aren't you?«
»Who else?« she said. And it was Auntie Millie. She kissed me, got into
a cab and drove home.
I wrote down what is written here. It's not in verse and it shall never be

printed ...

Well, that's where the manuscript stopped. My young friend, the future
grocer's apprentice, couldn't lay his hands on the part that was missing;
ithad gone out into the world as paper to wrap up bloaters, butter and
green soap. It had fulfilled its destiny.
The brewer is dead; Auntie is dead; the student is dead, the sparks of
whose went into the
spirit tub. That's the end of my story - the story of
Auntie Toothache.
 «

The Flea and the

Professor

Jjierewas once a balloonist who came to grief. His balloon burst, and
theman tumbled out and was dashed to pieces. Two minutes earlier he
had sent his boy down by parachute. That was lucky for the boy; he was
unhurt and was left with plenty of knowledge how to sail a balloon, but
he had no balloon and no means of getting one.
He had got to live, and so he went in for conjuring and learnt to talk
with his stomach, which is called being a ventriloquist. He was young
and good-looking, and when he grew a moustache and was well-dressed,
he might have been taken for a nobleman's son. The ladies thought him
handsome, and one young woman was so carried away by his charm and
his conjuring that she went along with him to cities and countries
abroad. There he called himself Professor, which was the least that would
do.
His one thought was still to get hold of a balloon and to go up with his
dear wife, but so far they hadn't the wherewithal.
»It'll turn up,« he said.
»I do hope so,« she replied.
»Well, we're both young, and I'm now a professor. Haifa loaf is better
than no bread.
She helped him faithfully, for she sat at the door selling tickets for the
performance, and that was a chilly pastime in winter. There was one
trick, too, in which she helped him. He used to put his wife into the
drawer of a table - a large one. There she crept into a drawer at the back,
and so was invisible in front. It was a kind of optical illusion.
But one evening, when he opened the drawer, she had vanished. She
wasn't in the front drawer, or in the back drawer, or anywhere in the
building; she was not to be seen or heard. That was her conjuring trick.
She never came back; she was tired of it, and it bored him too - he lost his
spirits and ceased to laugh and make jokes, and so nobody came. The
takings grew worse, and so did his clothes. At last he owned nothing but
a large flea, an inheritance from his wife, and therefore especially dear to
him. So he began training it, taught it some good tricks, taught it to
present arms and fire a cannon - a little one, of course.

411
 The Professor was proud of the flea, and the flea was proud of itself. It
knew a thing or two and had human blood in its veins and had been in
the largest cities; it had been seen by princes and princesses and had won
their royal applause. It was billed in the newspapers and on posters. It

knew it was a celebrity and could support a professor and, in fact, a

whole family.
Yet, proud as it was and famous as it was, when the Professor travelled
by train they went third class; that gets there just as quickly as first
class. There was an unspoken promise between them that they would
never be parted, never get married; the flea would stay a bachelor and the
Professor a widower. That would make them all square.
»Where you've once had a great success, « said the Professor, »don't
chance your luck a second time.« He was a judge of character, and that
too is an art.
At length he had toured every country but the land of the savages; and
so to the land of the savages he made up his mind to go. The Professor
knew of course that they eat Christian people there; but he wasn't really a
Christian and the flea wasn't really a person, so he thought they might as
well risk a tour there and earn good profits.
They went by steamer and by sailing ship. The flea went through his
tricks, and so their voyage cost them nothing and they came to the land of
the savages. This was governed by a little Princess; she was only eight,
but still she governed. She had seized power from her father and mother,
for she had a will of her own and was so marvellously pretty and naugh-
ty-

Directly the flea presented arms and fired the cannon, the Princess was
so taken with him that she cried, »Him
nobody !« Sheor fell quite wildly
in love, and she was already wild enough before.
»My dear, darling, sensible child, « said her father, »if only it could first

be turned into a man!«

»Leave that to me, old thing!« she said. Not a very nice way for a little
princess to speak to her father, but she was wild.
She placed the flea on her little hand.
»Now mind you do what I want,
you're a man, reigning with me. But
or I'll you and eat the Professor.«
kill

The Professor was given a large room to live in. The walls were made
of sugar cane, which he might go and lick, only he hadn't a sweet tooth.
He got a hammock to sleep in. It reminded him of sleeping in a balloon,
which was what he had always longed for and couldn't get out of his
thoughts.
The flea stayed with the Princess, sitting on her little hand and on her
soft neck. She pulled a hair out of her head, and the Professor had to tie
this round the flea's leg; in this way she kept it fastened to the large piece
of coral she wore in the lobe of her ear.
What a lovely time for the Princess - and also for the flea, she thought.

412
 «

But the Professor was not at all pleased; he liked to keep on the move and
wander from town to town, to read in the papers about his perseverance
and skill in teaching a do everything a man can do. Day in, day
flea to
out, he lolled in his hammock and was given good food: fresh bird's-eggs,
elephant's eyes and giraffe steaks. Cannibals don't only live on human
flesh; that's a delicacy. »Shoulder of child with piquant sauce, « said the
Princess's mother, »is the most delicious.
The Professor was bored and wanted very much to get away from the
land of the savages, but the flea must come with him; it was his prodigy
and his bread-and-butter. How could he catch it and keep it? That was
not so easy.

413
 « «

He racked his brain to think of a way, and then said to himself, »I have
it!«
»Princess's fatlier! Please let me have something to do. May I train your
inhabitants in the proper way to salute? That's what the greatest coun-
tries call culture.

»And what can you teach me?« asked the Princess's father.
»My finest trick«, said the Professor, »is to fire off a cannon, so that the
whole earth trembles and all the tastiest birds of the air fall down ready
cooked. There's no end of a bang.«
»Come on - let's see that cannon !« said the Princess's father.
But in the whole country there wasn't a cannon to be found, except the
one the flea had brought, and that was too small.
»ril make a bigger one, « said the Professor. »A11 1 want are the mate-
rials. I must have fine silk, needle and thread, ropes and cords, together
with balloon's stomach medicine. This will inflate, lighten and heave it
up; it's what gives the bang to the stomach of the cannon.
He got all that he asked for.
The whole country gathered to see the big cannon. The Professor
didn'i give the word till he had the balloon quite ready to fill and go up.
The flea sat on the Princess's hand and looked on. The balloon filled,
bellying so much that it could scarcely be held - it was so hard to control.
»I must take up to cool it off,« said the Professor and took his seat in
it

the basket that hung below. »But I can't manage to steer it all by myself. I
must have an expert with me to help. There's no one here that can do it
except the flea.«
»I don't like to allow that,« said the Princess. All the same, she passed
the flea over to the Professor who set it on his hand.
»Slip cords and cables !« he cried. »N()w then off she goes!«
They thought he meant the cannon.
And the balloon went higher and higher, away above the clouds, away
from the land of the savages.
The little Princess, her father and mother, and the whole population
with them, stood and waited. They're waiting still; and if you don't
believe it, then go to the land of the savages, where every child talks about
the flea and the Professor and thinks they will both come back when the
cannon has cooled off. But they won't. They're at home here with us;
they're in their mother country, travelling by train, first class, not third.
They earn good money and have a large balloon. Nobody asks how they
got the balloon or where it comes from. They are well-to-do, highly
respected people, the flea and the Professor.
 «

The Beetle*

Thhe Emperor's horse was given gold shoes, a gold shoe to each foot ...
Why should he have gold shoes?
He was a most beautiful animal: he had good legs, intelligent eyes,
and a mane that hung from his neck like a silk veil. He had carried his
master through gunpowder fumes and a hail of bullets, and had heard
the bullets sing and whistle past him. He had snapped and kicked and
joined in the fighting, when the enemy surged forward; with the Empe-
ror on his back he had leapt clean over the fallen horse of the enemy and
saved his Emperor's crown of red gold, saved his Emperor's life, more
precious than red gold - and for that the Emperor's horse was given gold
shoes, a gold shoe to each foot.
Then the beetle came crawling out.
»First the big ones, then the little ones,« he said: »And yet it isn't size
that does it.« With that he stretched out his thin legs.
»What do you want?« asked the smith.
»Gold shoes,« replied the beetle.
»Why, you must have gone off your head,« said the smith. »Do you
mean to say you want gold shoes, too?«
»Yes, gold shoes,« said the beetle. »Am I not just as good as that great
brute who
has to be waited on, rubbed down, looked after, fed and wa-
tered? Don't I also belong to the Emperor's stables?«
»Yes, but why is the horse being given gold shoes?« asked the smith.
»Don't you understand?«
»Understand? I understand that I'm.being treated with contempt, « said
the beetle. »It's an insult - and so now I'm going out into the wide
world.
»Be
off with you!« said the smith.
»Ill-mannered brute!« said the beetle, and he went outside, flew a little
way, and there he was in a pretty little flower-garden where there was a
delicious smell of roses and lavender.
»Isn't it beautiful here?« said one of the tiny ladybirds that were flying
about with black spots on their red scaly wings. »Doesn't it smell nice,
and isn't the garden lovely !«
»rm accustomed to something better, « said the beetle. »Do you call
this beautiful? Why, there isn't even a manure heap.«
And so he went a bit further on, till he reached the shade of a large
stock on which a caterpillar was crawling.

* Suggested by an Arabian proverb quoted by Die kens.

415
 «

»What a nice world it is!« said the caterpillar. »The sun's so warm,
everything's so delightful; and when I one day fall asleep and die, as they
call it, then I shall wake up and be a butterfly.
»Where did you get that idea from?« said the beetle. »We're flying
about like butterflies already. I come from the Emperor's stables; but
nobody there - not even the Emperor's he wears my
own charger, though
cast-off gold shoes - has ideas like that. Get wings? Fly? Yes, let's fly
straight away.« And the beetle flew off. »I don't like getting annoyed, but
I am annoyed all the same.«

Then he dropped down on to a large patch of grass and lay there

a while; and then he fell asleep.
Bless my soul, how it rained! It was coming down in sheets. The beetle
was woken up by all this pelting and at once tried to go into the ground,
but couldn't. He toppled over; he tried swimming on his stomach and
then on his back. Flying was out of the question; it looked as if he would
never get away from this spot alive. He lay where he lay, and went on
lying there.
When it cleared a little and
had blinked the water out of his
the beetle
eyes, he caught a glimpse of something white; it was some linen left to

bleach. He came up to it and crept into a fold of the soaking fabric. This
was certainly quite a different thing from lying on a warm heap in the
stable; still, here there was nothing better to be had, and so he stayed

416
 «

where he was whole day and night, and the rain stayed too. In the
for a
morning was furious with the weather.
the beetle crept out; he
Two frogs were squatting on the linen; their eyes shone bright from
sheer enjoyment. »What glorious weather!« said one of them. »How
refreshing it is! And the linen holds the water so splendidly. My hind legs
are simply itching to swim.«
»I should very much like to know«, said the other, »whether the swal-
low - that gadabout creature - on its many journeys abroad has ever
found a better climate than ours, with all its drizzle and damp. It's just as
if you lay in a soaking wet ditch. If you don't revel in that, you can't

really loveyour native land.«

»Then suppose you've never been in the Emperor's stables, have
I

you?« asked the beetle. »The moisture there is both warm and spicy.
That's what I'm used to; that's my climate, but you can't take it with you
when you travel. Isn't there a hotbed anywhere in the garden, where
people of some standing like myself can put up and feel at home?«
But the frogs couldn't make head or tail of him - or they didn't want
to.

»I never ask a second time,« said the beetle, when he had already asked
three times without getting an answer.
Then he went on further and came across a bit of broken flower-pot. It
oughtn't to have been there but, lying like that, it offered shelter. Several
earwig families were living here; they don't need a lot of space, but they
do like company. The females have a great gift for mother love, and so of
course each one's child was the nicest-looking and the cleverest.
»Our son has just got engaged,« said one mother. »The little innocent!
His great ambition is to be able one day to creep into a parson's ear. He's
such a dear childish boy; his engagement will keep him out of mischief,
and that's such a comfort for a mother.
»Our son,« said another mother, »he was at it directly he came out of the
egg; he's all fizzle and splutter; he's sowing his wild oats. That's a great
relief to a mother, don't you think, Mr. Beetle?« They could tell the
stranger by his shape.

-A

417
 «

»You're both right,« said the beetle; so then he was invited in - as far he
could manage to get - under the broken flower-pot.
»Now let me show you my little earwig,« said a third mother and a
fourth. »They're the dearest childrenand so amusing. They're never
naughty unless they have stomachache, though that's easy to get at their
time of life.«
And each mother talked about her young ones, and the young ones
joined in and used the little fork they have on their tails to pull the
beetle's moustache.
»They're always up to something or other, the little rogues! « said the
mother earwigs, dribbling over with motherliness; but the beetle was
bored, and so he asked how far it was to the hotbed.
»It's a tremendous way off on the other side of the ditch, « said the
earwig. »I hope no child of mine go so far away, for if it did I
will ever
should never get over it.«
»A11 the same, that's where I mean to try and get,« said the beetle and
went off without saying goodbye, as they do in the best circles.
By the ditch he came across several of his own kind, all beetles.
»This is where we live,« they said. »We're very snug. May we invite you
to join us in this fertile spot? You must have had a tiring journey.
»Yes, I have,« said the beetle. »rve been lying on linen in the rain, and
too much washing always takes it out of me. I've also got rheumatism in
the wing-joints from standing in a draught under a broken flower-pot.
It's a great relief to find yourself among your own people.«

»Do you happen to come from the hotbed?« asked the oldest of them.
»Higher up than that,« said the beetle. »I come from the Emperor's
stables, where I was born with gold shoes on. I'm travelling on a secret
errand, but you mustn't pump me about that, for I shan't say a word.«
And with that the beetle crawled down into the rich mud, where three
young she-beetles sat and giggled, for they didn't know what to say.
»They're none of them engaged,« said their mother, and they giggled
again, though this was from bashfulness.

418
 »They're as pretty as any I've seen in the royal stables, « said the beetle
traveller.
»You mustn't turn my daughters' heads! And please don't speak to
them unless you have honourable intentions ... but I feel sure you have,
and I give you my blessing.«
»Splendid!« cried all the others, and the beetle then became engaged.
First betrothal, then marriage - what else w^as there to wait for!
The following day went off well enough, the day after was so-so, but
the third day there was food to be thought of for wife and maybe little
ones.
»rve let myself be caught by surprise, « he said. »Well, the only thing to
do is to surprise them.«
And he did. He was gone: gone all day, gone all night, and his wife was
left a widow. The other beetles said it was nothing but a tramp they had

taken into their family, and now they had his wife on their hands.
»Then she can be a spinster again, « said her mother, »and be with my
other children. What a shame! Such a caddish trick to go and leave her
like that!«
In themeantime he was on the move and had sailed across the ditch on
a cabbage leaf. Later in the morning two people came along, who caught
sight of the beetle, picked him up and turned and twisted him about; they
both knew all about insects, especially the boy. »*Allah sees the black
beetle in the black stone in the black mountain' - isn't that what it says in
the Koran?« he asked. Then he translated the beetle's name into Latin
and gave an account of its species and their habits. The elder expert was
against taking him home with them; they had, he said, just as good
specimens already. This wasn't very polite of him, thought the beetle;
and so he flew off his hand, flew a good way - for his wings had dried out
- and in this way reached the greenhouse. As it happened, one of the
windows had been pushed open, so he was able to slip in and dig himself
down in the fresh manure.
»Ooh, this is delicious!« he said.
Presently he fell asleep and dreamt that the Emperor's horse had had a
fall and that Mr. Beetle had been given its gold shoes and the promise of

two more. That was a pleasant dream, and when the beetle woke up, he
crawled out and looked around. How gorgeous it was in the greenhouse!
Huge palms spread themselves like fans up in the roof, and the sun shone
right through their leaves, while below them grew a wealth of greenery
and a blaze of flowers that were red as fire, yellow as amber, and white as
new-fallen snow.
»Did you ever see such vegetation!«exclaimed the beetle. »Won't it taste
lovely when it all goes bad! This is a fine larder they've got; I dare say
some of my family are living here. I'll try and track them down and see if

Ican find any I can mix with. I have my pride, and I'm proud of it.« And
he fell to thinking of his dream about the dead horse and the gold shoes
he had won.
419
 .

Suddenly a hand caught hold of the beetle; he was squeezed, twisted

and turned.
The gardener's small son was in the greenhouse with a friend; they had
seen the beetle and meant to have some fun with him. Wrapped in a
grape-vine leaf, he was put into a warm trouser-pocket, where he wriggled
about until he got another squeeze from the boy, who was running off
to the big lake at the bottom of the garden. Here the beetle was put into
an old broken wooden shoe with the instep missing. A little peg was
stuck in as a mast, and the beetle was tied up to this with a wool thread.
He was to be skipper, and now he was going for a sail.
The lake was so big that the beetle thought it was the ocean and was so
astonished that he fell over backwards with his legs kicking in the air.
The wooden shoe sailed off with the current, but when the boat got too
far out one of the boys immediately rolled up his trousers and went out
and fetched it back; but next time it went adrift the boys happened to be
wanted - wanted at once - and so off they ran, leaving the wooden shoe to
its fate. Away it drifted, further and further from the shore. This was

dreadful for the beetle, and he couldn't fly because he was lashed up to
the mast.
Then a fly came to see him.
»Delightful weather we're having,« said the »This is just the place
fly.

for me to take a rest and bask found a cosy spot.«

in the sun. You've
»What nonsense you're talking! Can't you see that I'm tied up?«
»Well, I'm not tied up,« answered the fly and promptly flew away.
»So that's the kind of world it is,« said the beetle. »It's a mean low-
down world. I'm the only respectable creature in it. First, I'm refused
gold shoes; then I have to lie on damp linen and stand in a draught; and

'
^t5^-.cS^,'^l^ ^ l^Q .

420
 « «

after that they saddle me with a wife. Next, I stride boldly out into the
world something of life and how I ought to live it, and up comes a
to see
human puppy and sets me tethered on the raging sea. And all this time
the Emperor's horse is going about in gold shoes! That's what gets my
goat ... But you can't expect sympathy in this world. I've had a most
interesting career, though what's the good of that if nobody knows about
it? No, and the world doesn't deserve to know about it either, or it would

have given me gold shoes in the royal stables that time the Emperor's
charger stretched out its legs and was shod. If I'd been given gold shoes, I
should have been an honour to the stables. Now they've lost me, and the
world has lost me. It's all over.«
But it wasn't all over yet, for a boat came along with two young girls in
it.

»Look, there's a wooden shoe floating,« said one of them.

»It's got a little up in it.« said the other.
creature tied
They were just alongside the wooden shoe, so they lifted it out of the
water and one of the girls took out a small pair of scissors and cut
through the wool thread without doing any harm to the beetle; and as
soon as they landed she put him down in the grass.
»Now then, crawl, crawl - fly, fly - if you can!« she said. »It's lovely to
be free.«
And the beetle flew straight in through the open window of a large
building - and sank down exhausted in the beautiful, long mane of the
Emperor's charger, which was standing in the stable they both belonged
to. The beetle held on tight to the mane and sat for a while trying to

pull himself together: »Here I am, sitting on the Emperor's own charger
- riding like a horseman ... What was that I said? Ah, yes, now I'm

beginning to understand. What a good idea, and quite correct too. Why
was the horse given gold shoes? He asked me that as well, the smith did.
Now I realize. It was because of me that the horse was given gold shoes.
That put the beetle into a good humour again. »Travelling helps one
to see things more clearly, « he said.
The sun shone in on him, shone very beautifully. »The world isn't so
bad considering, « said the beetle, »only you've got to learn how to take
it.« Yes, the world was beautiful now; for, you see, the Emperor's charger

had been given gold shoes because the beetle was to be the rider.
»Now I'll dismount and tell the other beetles how much has been done
for me. I'll tell them of all my pleasant adventures abroad, and I shall
explain to them that now I'm gQing to stay at home till the horse has
worn out his gold shoes.
 ^^>•-;^^.^.0^^^;

Soup from a Sausage-Stick

I
Soup from a sausage-stick

^ A. hat was an excellent dinner we had yesterday, « said an old she-

mouse toone who hadn't been at the party. »I sat twenty-first from the
old Mouse-King; that wasn't bad, when you come to think of it. Now
would you like to hear the different courses? They were extremely well
put together. There was mouldy bread, bacon rind, tallow candle and
sausage - all with second helpings. It was as good as having two meals.
There was a pleasant atmosphere of cheerful nonsense, such as you get in
a family circle. Not a crumb was left except the sausage-sticks and, while

422
we were talking about these, the question cropped up of making soup
from a sausagestick. Everyone, of course, had heard about it, but nobo-
dy had tasted such soup, much less knew how to make it. A charming
toast was proposed to the inventor: he deserved (said the speaker) to be
master of a workhouse. Wasn't that witty? And the old Mouse-King got
up and promised that the young mouse who could turn out the tastiest
soup of the kind mentioned should become his Queen; they should have
a year and a day to think it over.«
»That's not so dusty!« said the second mouse. »But how do you make
soup from a sausage-stick?«
»Yes, how's it made?« asked all the she-mice, young and old. They all
liked the idea of being Queen, but they didn't fancy the bother of going
out into the wide world in order to learn how to make the soup - which
of course they would have to do. After all, it isn't everyone who is ready to
leave their family and the old nooks and corners; away from home, you
don't run across cheese-rind and sniff bacon-rind every day. No, you may
starve sometimes - and even perhaps be eaten alive by a cat.
These no doubt were the thoughts that scared most of them out of
sallying forth in search of knowledge, and only four mice - young,
nimble, but poor - turned up at the start. They were each of them ready
to go to one of the four corners of the earth; the result would then have to
be left to chance. Each one took a sausage-stick with her as a reminder of
why they were going; it would do for a pilgrim's staff.
Early in May they set out, and early in May the following year they
came back ... but only three of them. The fourth one didn't report,
nothing was heard of her, and today was the day of decision.
»There always has to be a touch of sadness clinging to our gayest
entertainments, « said the Mouse-King. Still, he ordered invitations to be
sent out to every mouse for many miles around; they were all to assemble
in the kitchen. The three mice who'd just come back stood lined up by
themselves; and for the fourth one, who was missing, a sausage-stick had
been brought wound about with black crape. Nobody dared to say what
he thought until the three had spoken and until the Mouse-King had
announced what might be said after that.
Now we're going to hear all about it.
423
 II

What the first little mouse had seen

and learnt on her travels
»When I set out into the wide world,« said the
little mouse, »I imagined,

like so many of my age, that I knew

was to know. Well, I didn't;
all there
it takes a year and a day for that to happen. I went straight away to sea; I

joined a ship bound for the north. I had heard that at sea a cook has got
to know how to make things do; but it's easy enough to make things do;
when you've plenty of sides of bacon, barrels of salt meat and mitey flour.
You can live like a fighting-cock - but you don't learn how to make soup
from a sausage-stick. For days and nights we sailed along, rolling and
drenched. As soon as we came to the port we were making for, I left the
vessel; it was far up in the north.
It's a curious feeling to leave your own little hole at home, sail in a

ship (which is also a kind of hole) - and then suddenly find yourself
hundreds of miles away, standing in a foreign country. There were track-
less forests with trees of spruce and birch; they smelt so strong - I don't
like that - and the wild herbs smelt so spicy that it made me sneeze, and I
thought of sausages. There were forest lakes with water that looked quite
clear from close by, but inky black from a distance. White swans were
floating there; they lay so still that I mistook them for foam, though
when I saw them fly and saw them walk I knew what they were. They
belong to the goose family; once you see them waddle, there's no getting
away from their relationship. I stuck to my own sort; I made friends with
fieldmice, who as a matter of fact know precious little, especially on the
subject of good food, and that was just what I went abroad for. The very
idea of making soup from a sausagestick was to them so extraordinary
that it was immediately passed through the whole wood, but that it could
actually be done they regarded as quite hopeless; least of all did I imagine
that here this night I should be let into the secret. It was midsummer and
that, they said, was why the perfume of the woods was so strong and the

424
herbs so spicy, why the lakes were so clear and yet showed so dark against
the white swans.
At the edge of the wood, among three or four houses, a pole as tall as a
mainmast was put up, and from the top of it hung wreaths and ribbons.
It was the maypole. Girls and boys danced round and round it, and their

singing vied with jigging of the fiddler. It was a merry party at sunset and
in the moonlight, though I didn't join in - imagine a little mouse at a
dance in the woods! No, I stayed in the velvety moss and held on to my
sausage-stick. The moon shone on one spot especially, where there was a
tree covered with moss as delicate - yes, I make bold to say, as delicate as
the coat of the Mouse-King; but it was of a green colour that was most
refreshing to the eyes. Then all at once there came tripping forward the
sweetest little people not more than knee-high to me. They looked like
human beings, though better proportioned. They are called elves and are
elegantly dressed in flower-petals trimmed with the wings of flies and
gnats: really quite smart. It was soon clear that they were looking for
something, I couldn't make out what. But then a few of them came up to
me, and the chief one pointed to my sausage-stick and said, »That's just
the very thing for us. It's cut the right length; it'll be top-hole« - and he
got more and more delighted, as he eyed my pilgrim's staff.
'You may borrow, but not keep,' I said.
'Not keep,' they all repeated. They took over my sausage-stick, as I let
go of it, and they danced away with it to the beautiful mossy bit of
ground; there they set up the sausage-stick in the middle of the glade.
They, too, wanted to have a maypole, and the pole they now had might
have been cut specially for them! Then it was dressed, and it looked an
absolute picture.
Tiny spiders spun a thread of gold round and round it, hung up
fluttering veilsand pennants, so finely woven, so bleached and snowy ir)
the moonlight, that my eyes were dazzled. The elves took colours from the
butterfly's wings and sprinkled them over the white linen and, with flo-
wers and diamonds glittering there, I didn't know my sausage-stick any
longer. A maypole such as this had become was surely not to be found

425
anywhere else in the world. And now came the arrival of the really
at last
important elves. They wore no which gave them an air of great
clothes,
distinction, and I was invited to look on at the show, but from some way
off, as was too big beside them.
I

Now the music began. It was like the deep clanging of a thousand glass
bells. I thought it was the swans singing; I even fancied I could hear the

cuckoo and the thrush. At last it was as if the whole wood joined in: the
voices of childen, the ringing of bells and the singing of birds, the most
delicious melodies. And all that loveliness rang out from the maypole of
the elves; it was a complete chime, and it came from my sausage-stick.
Never had I dreamt that so much could come from it, but no doubt it all
depends on who handles it. I was tremendously moved; I cried, as a little
mouse can sometimes, tears of pure delight.
The night was only too short, but they always are up there at that time
of the year. A breeze got up at dawn and ruffled the surface of the lake; all
the delicate, hovering veils and pennants flew off into the air; the sway-
ing kiosques of gossamer, suspension bridges and balustrades (or what-
ever they're called) which had been flung across from leaf to leaf, vanished
into nothingness ... came and brought me my sausage-stick,
Six elves
asking whether I had any wish they could grant me. So I begged them to
tell me how you make soup from a sausage-stick.

'How we do it?' said the principal elf, laughing. 'Well, you've just
seen. I expect you could hardly tell your sausage-stick, could you?'
'Oh, you mean in that way,' I said, and told him straight out why I had
come abroad and what was expected of me when I got back. 'What use,' I
asked, 'will it be for the Mouse-King and the rest of our great empire to
know that I've seen all this beauty? I can't shake it out of my sausage-
stickand say. Look, here's the stick, now comes the soup - though it
might do, all the same, as a kind of dessert when you'd had enough.'
Then the elf dipped his tiny finger down into a blue violet and said to
me, 'Now, mind! I'll rub your staff with magic, and then, when you get
back Mouse-King's palace, touch your King's warm breast with the
to the
staff. At come out all over the staff, even on the coldest
that, violets will
days in winter. There, that's something for you to take home, and a bit
extra as well ...'«

But before the little mouse said what this was, she turned her staff

towards the King's breast and, sure enough, the loveliest bunch of flowers
burst out, smelling so strong that the Mouse-King ordered the mice who
stood next to the fireplace to put their tails at once into the fire, so as to
cause a slight smell of burning; for the scent of the violets was unbearable,
and not at all the kind that the mice cared for.
»But what was the you spoke of?« asked the Mouse-King.
bit extra
»Well, you see,« said the mouse, »it's what's generally known as
little

the 'effect'. « And then she turned the sausage-stick round, and there were
no flowers left. She simply held the bare stick and raised it like a conduc-
tor's baton.

426
 and touch - that's what the elf told me;
»Violets are for sight, smell
but there must still be something for hearing and taste.« So she began to
beat time. It wasn't the music she heard in the wood at the festival of the
elves - no, it was the kind you can hear in the kitchen ... Well, well! What
a hotch-potch! It came suddenly, as though the wind was roaring down
all the chimneys: kettles and saucepans boiled over, the coal-shovel

banged against the brass kettle -and then, just as suddenly, it quietened
down. You could hear the faint song of the tea-kettle, so curious that you
couldn't possibly tell if it was stopping or beginning. Then the little pot
boiled, and the big pot boiled - they didn't take any notice of each other -
it was as if a pot never had any brains. And the little mouse waved her

baton more excitedly than ever, till the saucepans foamed and bubbled
and boiled right over, the wind whistled and the chimney whined ...
Phew! it got so terrific that the little mouse even dropped her stick.
»That was a stiff soup!« said the old Mouse-King. »What about the
next course?«
»There isn't any more,« said the little mouse, and curtseyed.
»No more?« exclaimed the Mouse-King. »Very well; then let's hear
what the next one has to say.«

III
What the second little mouse had to tell
»I was born in the Castle library, « said the second mouse, »I as well as
several of my family, who never had the luck to go into the dining-room,
let alone the larder. Not until I left home and came here today did I ever
see a kitchen. We were often positively starving in the library, but we got

427
 «

to know a great deal. Report reached us up there of the prize offered by

the King for making soup from a sausage-stick, and then if my old
grandmother didn't go and rout out a manuscript! She couldn't read
herself, but she had it read to her - in which it said, 'If only you've a poet,
you can make soup from a sausage-stick.' She asked me if I was a poet. I
couldn't claim to be this, and she said that in that case I must set about
becoming one. 'But what's wanted to become one?' I asked; for it was just
as hard for me to find this out as to make the soup. However, Granny had
listened to what others read; she said that three things were required,
'common sense, fantasy, and feeling; if you can only get these into you,
then you'll be a poet and you'll manage all right with the sausage-stick'.
And so I went westward out into the wide world, in order to become a
poet.
Common sense, I is the most important thing of all; the other
realized,
two don't seem to matter somuch. So I began by searching for common
sense. Now, where's it to be found? 'Go to the ant and become wise,' said
a great king in Palestine; I knew that from my library, and I didn't stop
till I got to the nearest big ant-hill, where I lay in wait watching for wis-

dom.
They're a highly respectable people, the ants; they're common sense
itself. Everything with them is like a correctly done sum that comes out
right. To work and to lay eggs, they say, is to live for the present and
provide for the future; and that's just what they do. They divide up into
clean ants and dirty ants, and they're numbered according to rank. The
queen ant is number
one, and what she thinks is always right, for she
knows know, and this was an important thing for me to
all there is to
grasp. She spoke so much, and so cleverly, that it seemed to me nonsense.
She said that their ant-hill was the highest thing in the world; but close
by stood a tree that was taller, much taller. This couldn't be denied, and
so the subject was allowed to drop. One evening an ant had strayed off in
that direction, crept up the trunk, not as far as the top, and yet higher
than any ant had ever been before; and when it turned round and found
its way back, it told them in the ant-hill of something much higher,

further off. But the ants all found this statement insulting to the whole
community, and the ant was condemned to wear a muzzle and to serve a
long term of solitary confinement. Then, not long after, another ant went
to the tree and made the same climb and discovery, but its account (they
felt) was given in a quiet level-headed way; and as, besides that, it was a

much respected ant and one of the clean ones, they believed what it said
and when it died they put up an egg-shell to its memory, for they always
paid respect to knowledge. I noticed, « said the little mouse, »that the ants
frequently ran along with their eggs on their backs. I saw one of them
drop hers, and she was making great efforts to get it up again, but she
couldn't manage it. Then two others came and did all they could to help
- in fact, they nearly dropped their own eggs - and this made them at

428
once give up helping, for you have to look after number one; and the
queen ant's comment was that it had been a good example of kindness
and intelligence. 'These,' she said, 'are two qualities that set us ants
highest among rational beings. Intelligence must and should outweigh
everything, and it's I who have most of that.' With that she rose on her
hind legs; she was so easy to recognize, I couldn't mistake her - and I
swallowed her. 'Go to the ant and become wise?' I'd now got the queen.
I then went nearer to the big tree I've been speaking about. It was an

oak of great age, with a tall trunk and a gigantic crown. I knew there was
a living creature dwelt here, a woman called a dryad, who is born with
the tree and dies with it. I had heard about this in the library, and now I
was seeing such a tree, such an oak-nymph, with my own eyes. She gave a
terrible scream when she saw me so near, for like all women she was very
frightened of mice, though as a matter of fact she had more excuse than
the rest of them because I could gnaw right through the tree, on which of
course her life depended. I spoke to her in a friendly cordial way, and she
got back her courage and took me on her delicate hand. And when she
heard why I had come out into the wide world, she promised me that
perhaps that very evening I might come by one of the two treasures I was
still looking for. She explained to me that Fantasus was a very good

friend of hers, that he was as beautiful as the god of love, and that he of-
ten took a rest under the leafy boughs of her tree, which then rustled mo-
re than ever above their heads. He called her his dryad (she said) and the
tree his tree; the oak - all gnarled, gigantic and beautiful - was just after
his own heart, with spreading roots going deep down into the earth and
with trunk and crown that rose high into the cool air and knew the drift-
ing snow, the bitter winds and the warm sunshine as they should be
known. 'Yes (she went on), the birds sing in the tree-top and tell of foreign
lands, and there on that one dead bough the stork has built his nest; it
looks very well and we get to hear something of the land of the Pyramids.
All this appeals very much to Fantasus, though it isn't really enough for
him. I myself have to tell him about life in the woods ever since the time

429
when I was small and my tree was so tiny that a nettle could have hidden
it, until now when grown so huge and majestic. Sit down there, will
it's

you, under the woodruff, and mind! as soon as Fantasus comes, I shall be
sure to get a chance to pluck at his wing and nip out a little feather. Take
that - no poet ever had a better - then you'll have all you need.'
And Fantasus came, the feather was twitched off, and I seized it,« said
the little mouse. »I held it in water till it was soft It was still difficult to
...

digest, but I managed to nibble it up. It isn't at all easy to nibble yourself
into being a poet; there's such a lot you must get inside you. Well,
anyhow, now I'd got two things, common sense and fantasy, and through
them I now realized that the third was to be found in the library, for a
great man once said and wrote that there are novels which are written
solely that people may be relieved of their unnecessary tears; in fact,
they're a kind of sponge to mop up feeling with. I called to mind a few of
these books, which had always seemed to me so tempting; they looked so
used and greasy, they must have soaked up no end of feeling.
I went home to the library and immediately devoured pretty well a

whole novel - that's to say, the soft part, the real book, whereas the crust,
the binding, I left alone. Once I had digested this novel and another like
it, I soon noticed their effect inside me; I ate part of a third and, lo and

behold, I was a poet! I said so to myself - and to the others, too. I had
head-ache, stomach-ache, and goodness knows what other aches. And
when I thought of all the stories that might be associated with a sausage-
stick, my mind became full of sticks; the queen ant must have had a
wonderful head. I thought of the man who put a white stick in his
mouth, so that he and the stick both became invisible. I thought of a dry
old who was goldstick-in-waiting, and a stick-in-the-mud who
stick,
wasn't; and of drumsticks and fiddlesticks. My whole mind seemed to run
on sticks; and surely they would all make poems, if you were a poet, and I
am a poet - I've worn myself out to become one. So, you see, any day of
the week, sir, I shall be able to treat you to a stick - a story. There, that's
the soup I'll make.«
»Now let us hear the third one,« said the Mouse-King.

»Pee-pee!« There was a squeak from the kitchen door, as a little mouse
- the fourth of them, the one they thought was dead - came scurrying in
and knocked over the sausagestick with the black crape on it. She had run
night and day, travelling on the railway by goods train when she had the
chance, and even then she had nearly come too late. She pushed herself
forward, looking rumpled and ruffled; she had lost her stick, but not her
voice. She at once began speaking, as if she was the only one they were
waiting for - the only one they would listen to - and as if nothing else in
the world mattered to the world but herself. She began at once and said
her say. Her arrival was so unexpected that no one had time to object to
her or what she had to say, as long as she was saying it. Well, now let's
listen.

430
 IV
What the fourth mouse, who spoke before
the third one had spoken, had to say
»I went straight to the largest town,« she said. »I can't remember its name;
I never can remember names. From the railway I went, along with some
goods that had been seized by the Customs, to the town-hall, and there I
called on the gaoler. He talked about his prisoners, especially about one
who had been making rash speeches; and these had been quoted and
quoted till he had to be made an example of. 'The whole thing's just
soup from a sausage-stick,' said the gaoler, 'but soup may well cost him
his napper'.«
»That aroused my mouse, »and
interest in the prisoner, « said the little
I mousehole
seized the opportunity to slip into his cell; there's always a
behind every locked door. The prisoner looked pale; he had a long beard
and big flashing eyes. The lamp smoked, but the walls were used to that
and could hardly become blacker. The prisoner scratched both pictures
and verses on them, white on black, but I didn't read them. I fancy he was
bored, and so I was a welcome visitor. He coaxed me with bread-crumbs,
with whistling and gentle words. He was very fond of me, I came to trust
him, and so we were soon friends. He shared his bread and water with
me, and gave me cheese and sausage. I lived in grand style, and yet it was
more than anything our familiar intercourse (if I may put it that way)
that appealed to me. He let me scamper on his hand and arm and even
up his sleeve; he allowed me to creep into his beard and called me his
little friend. I grew tremendously fond of him, and of course that sort of

thing is mutual. I forgot my errand out in the wide world, forgot my

sausagestick that I left in a crack in the floor; it's still there. I only

thought of staying where I was. If I went away, then of course the poor
prisoner would have had no one left, and that's much too little in this
world! So I stayed - but he didn't. He spoke to me so mournfully on our
last day, gave me a double helping of bread and cheese-rind, kissed his
fingers to me, and then he went and never came back. I don't know what
happened to him. 'Soup from a sausage-stick,' said the gaoler; and to him
I went, but I never ought to have trusted him. It's true, he took me on

his hand, but then he shut me in a cage, on a treadmill. It's terrible! You
run and run and you get no farther; you're just a laughing-stock.
The gaoler's grandchild was a sweet little thing with golden curls,
merry eyes and a laughing mouth. 'Poor little mouse!' she said, peeping
into my horrid cage. Then she drew back the catch ... and I jumped down
on to the window sill and out into the gutter. Free! Free! That was all I
thought of, not what I had come away to find out.
It was dusk, and night was coming on. I found lodging in an old tower,

where a watchman lived, and also an owl. I didn't trust either of them,
least of all the owl. Owls are like cats and have one serious drawback, that

431
 « «

they eat mice. You're bound to make mistakes sometimes, and that's what
I She was a respectable old owl, most ladylike, who knew more than
did.
the watchman and just as much as myself. The young owls kept grum-
bling about one thing and another. 'Don't make soup out of a sausage-
stick!' the old owl would tell them. That was the harshest thing she could

say to them, so deeply attached was she to her family. I came to have such
confidence in her that I said 'peep!' to her from the crack where I was, She
seemed pleased with this trust and promised me her protection: no crea-
ture should be allowed to do anything to me - she would see to that
herself next winter, when they were on short commons.
Yes, she was a downy old bird. She explained to me that the watchman
couldn't hoot without a horn that hung loose from his shoulder. 'He
fancies himself no end with that; he thinks he's an owl in the tower -
thinks a big splash can be made by a small stone. Soup from a sausage-
stick!' I begged her to jot down the recipe, and this is what she told me:

'Soup from a sausage-stick,' she said, 'is just a phrase among human
beings; it can be taken in various ways, and every one thinks his way is
the right way, though it's really nothing at all.'
»'Nothing at all!' I repeated. It gave me quite a shock. The truth's not
always pleasant, but truth's the highest thing we know - the old owl
agreed to that. I thought it over and realized that, if I brought back the
highest thing we know, I should be bringing a good deal more than soup
from a sausage-stick. So I hurried away to get home in good time, bring-
ing with me the highest and best, namely, truth. Mice are canny folk
and the Mouse-King is the leader of them all. He's in a position to make
me Queen for the sake of truth.
»Your truth's a lie!« said the mouse who hadn't yet got leave to speak.
»I can make the soup, and ! shall.

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 « «

V
How the soup was made
»I didn't go away,« said the fourth mouse. »I stayed in this country; that's
the right thing to do. There's no point in going abroad. You can get all
you want just as well here. I stayed at home. My
knowledge hasn't come
to me hom elves and dryads; I haven't nibbled my way to it, nor gossiped
with owls. I've got mine by thinking things out for myself. Now please
let's have the kettle on. Fill it up with water - right up. Light the fire, and

let it burn till the water is brought to the boil- it must boil till it bubbles.

Now throw in the stick. Next, will your Majesty please dip your tail into
the seething pot and stir it round. The longer the stirring, the richer the
soup. It costs nothing; no need of flavouring; just stir round.
»Can'4: someone else do the job?« asked the Mouse-King. »No,« said the
mouse. »Only the King's tail makes the right kind of stock.
The water boiled right over, and the Mouse-King came close up, al-
most dangerously near. And he whisked out his tail in the way that mice
do in the dairy when they skim the cream from a bowl and then lick their
tails. But his tail came no further than the hot steam before he jumped

quickly down.
»Why,of course, you shall be my Queen, « he said. »The soup can wait
tillour gold wedding; then our poor will have something to look forward
to - and plenty of time to do it.«
So the wedding took place. But a number of the mice, when they got
home, said, »You could hardly call that soup from a sausage-stick; it was
more like soup from a mouse's tail.« One or two of the stories, they
thought, weren't half bad, though the whole might have been better
done. »For instance, I should have said - so on and so forth!«
That was criticism, which is always so clever - afterwards.

The went round the world. Opinion on it might differ, but the
story
remained entire. And that's just as it should be in things great
story itself
or small, even in soup made from a sausage-stick - though you mustn't
expect to be thanked for it.

433
 The Puppet Showman

o n board the steamer there was an oldish-looking man with such a

contented face that, unless you were mistaken, he must surely be the
happiest being on earth. And that's just what he said he was; he told me
himself. He was a Dane, a countryman of mine, and a travelling theatre
manager. He had his entire company with him in a large box; he was a
puppet showman. His natural cheerfulness, he said, had been put to the
test by a Bachelor of Science, and through this experiment he had become

completely happy. I didn't understand him, to begin with; but presently

he came out with the whole story, and here it is.
»It happened in the town of Slagelse,« he said. »I was giving a perfor-
mance at the coaching inn there and had a splendid audience - all of
them quite young except for a couple of old ladies. But then a fellow in a
dark suit, who looked as if he might have been a university student, came
in and sat down. He always laughed in the right place and clapped
correctly - he was quite an unusual playgoer! I was curious to know
who he was, and then they tell me he's a bachelor-of-arts sent out by
the Scientific Institute in Copenhagen to instruct people in the pro-
vinces. By eight o'clock my show was over; children must of course go to
bed early, and the convenience of the public must be borne in mind.
At nine o'clock the bachelor-of-arts began his lecture and experiments,
and thistime it was my turn to listen to him.
It was extraordinary what he had to tell us and to set before our eyes.

Most of it went over my head and into the parson's, as the saying is, but I
couldn't help thinking: if mankind can discover so much, surely we must
be able to last out longer than we do before being put underground. They
were positive small miracles that he showed us, and yet it was all done as
easily as kissyour hand, straight from nature. In the time of Moses and
the prophets a young man like this would have become one of his coun-
try's Wise Men, and in the Middle Ages he would have been burnt at the

stake.
I lay awake all night, but when on the following evening I gave another

performance and the bachelor-of-arts was there again, I was soon in

high spirits. I was once told by an actor that, when playing the part of a
lover, he used to fix his thoughts on a single one of his audience; for her
he played - and forgot all the rest of the house. The bachelor-of-arts was
my 'her', my one spectator, for whom I performed.

434
 When theshow was over, all the puppets were called before the curtain,
and then I was invited by the bachelor-of-arts to come in and have a glass
of wine. He spoke about my plays, and I spoke about his science, and
I fancy they both gave us equal enjoyment, though really I got the best

of it; there was so much in what he did that he himself couldn't explain -
as, for instance, that a bit of iron that is put through a coil becomes
magnetised. Well, what is the explanation? The spirit comes over it,
but where does it come from? It seems to me just as it is with people
of this world: God sends them hurtling through the coil of time, the
spirit comes over them, and there you have a Napoleon, a Luther, or
someone like that. 'The whole world is a series of miracles,' said the
bachelor-of-arts, 'but we are so accustomed to them that we take them as a
matter of course.' And he went on talking and explaining, till at last he
seemed to be prizing open my brain and I frankly admitted that, if I
weren't such an old'un, I'd go at once to his Scientific Institute and learn
to examine the world most carefully, even although I was one of its
happiest creatures. 'One of its happiest?' he repeated, as if rolling it
round on his tongue. 'Are you happy?' he asked. 'Yes', I said, 'and I'm
welcomed in every town to which I bring my puppets. Still, it's true there
is one wish that sometimes comes over me and haunts my good humour

like a nightmare. I should like to have a real live troupe, to be manager of

a genuine company of men and women.'
'I see. You want your puppets brought to life,' he said, 'you want them

to be turned into real live actors, and yourself to be their manager. Then
you would be completely happy, you think?'
Well, he didn't think so, but I did; and we argued it backwards and
forwards and at the end of it were no nearer to agreeing. Still, we clinked
glasses, and the wine was excellent - though there must have been magic
in it, otherwise the whole thing would simply mean that I got drunk. But
I didn't; my eye was perfectly clear. There was a kind of sunshine in the

435
room, beaming out of the face of the bachelor-of-arts. He made me think
of the ancient gods in their eternal youth, when theywent about on
still

this earth. I told him so, and he smiled, and I could have sworn he was a
god in disguise or one of their kinsmen. And he was too, or the dream of
my life was to be realized: my puppets were to come alive, and I was to be
the manager of a living company. We drank to the success of this; and he
packed all my puppets into the wooden box, which he tied on to my
back, and then he sent me hurtling through a coil. I can still hear how I
crashed, and there I was, lying on the floor - it's as true as true - and the
whole company jumped out of the box.
The spirit had come over them all. The puppets had all become splen-
did artists - they said to themselves - and I was their manager. Everything
was ready for the first performance. The whole company wanted to speak
to me, and so did the audience. The lady dancer said that, if she didn't
stand on one leg, the house would come down; she was the leading spirit
of the whole show and wished to be treated as such. The puppet who
played the Empress wanted to be treated as Empress off the stage as well,
or else she'd get out of practice. The man who had to come on with a
letter did it with all the assurance of a No. 1 lover; for the small and the
great, he added, are of equal importance, when looked at as an artistic
whole. Then the hero insisted that his part should have nothing but exit
lines, because they always got a clap. The leading lady would only play
under pink lights, as they suited her; lights for her! They were
no blue
like flies in a bottle, with me in the middle of the bottle, for I was
manager. I could scarcely breathe; my head went round; I was just as
miserable as anyone can be; it was a new type of humanity I had around
me; I did so wish I had them all in the box again, and that I had never
become their manager. I told them straight out that, when you came to
think of it, they were really only puppets. And so then they killed me...
I was lying on my bed in my room. How I had reached there from the

bachelor-of-arts, well, perhaps he knows, because I don't. The moon

436
shone through on to the floor, where the puppet-box lay overturned and
the puppets thrown all over the place, big ones and little ones, the whole
gang of them! I lost no time; I jumped out of bed and bundled them all
into their box, some on their heads and some on their feet. I slammed
down the lid and sat on the top of the box. What a picture to paint! Can't
you see it? I can. 'Now you've got to stay there,' I said, 'and never again
shall I want to see you as flesh and blood.'
I was in high spirits; I was the happiest of mankind. The bachelor-of-
arts had put my cheerfulness to the test. There I sat in utter bliss and fell
asleep on the box. In the morning I was still sitting there; happy, because
I had learnt that my one great wish of former days had been a foolish one.

I asked after the bachelor-of-arts; but he had gone, like the old Greek and

Roman gods. And from that time I've been the happiest man alive. I'm a
happy manager, my company don't argue, nor my audience either; they
enjoy themselves to the top of their bent. I'm free to concoct my pieces
just as I like. I pick out what I think is and
the best part of any play,
nobody minds. Pieces that the big theatres have no use for nowadays, but
thirty years ago the public crowded to and cried over, these I now take up
and give to the children, and the children cry just as Daddy and Mummy
used only I shorten the pieces, because the little ones don't care for a
to;

lot of rubbishy love-making; sad, but soon over, is what they prefer. By
this time I've been all over Denmark, up and down, this way and that; I
know and am known by everyone. Now I'm off to Sweden and, if all
goes well and I earn good money, I shall become a Scandinavian - but
not otherwise. I can say that to you, as you're a countryman of mine.«
And, being a countryman of his, I have naturally told the story all over
again, just for the pleasure of telling it.

437
 Something to Write About

JL here was a young man who was studying to be a writer. He wanted to

be one by Easter and then marry and Hve by writing. That, he knew, only
meant hitting on something to write about; the trouble was, he couldn't
hit on anything. He had been born too late; every idea had been used up
before he came into the world, everything had been thought of and
written about.
»Lucky creatures who were born a thousand years ago!« he said. »They
could easily become immortal. Even one who was born a hundred years
ago was lucky, for after all there was still something to write about. Now
the world is written out - what is there left for me to write about?«
He studied the question till he was quite ill, poor fellow. No doctor
could help him, though maybe the»wise woman« could. She lived in the
cottage by the gate leading into the fields, which she opened to people
out driving or riding. Yes, and she could direct people further than just
through the gate; she was wiser than the doctor who drives in his own
carriage and pays high taxes.
»I must go and see her,« said the young man.
The house she lived in was a nice little cottage, though in dull surround-
ings without a tree or a flower. Outside her door stood a beehive, which
came in very useful, and a small potato patch, also very useful. Like-
wise, a dike with a blackthorn which had ceased flowering and now pro-

438
 « «

duced berries that give your mouth a twist, if you taste them before the
frost has been on them.
»Here we have a graphic picture of the unpoetic age we live in,«
thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a grain of gold
that he came upon at the wise woman's door.
»Write it down!« she said. »Half a loaf is better than no bread. I know
why you've come. You can't hit on anything to write about, and yet you
want to be a writer by Easter.«
»Everything's been written already,« he said. »Our days are not the old
days.«
»No,« said the woman. »In the old days the wise women were burnt,
and the poets went about with empty stomachs and were out at elbows.
These are good times, the very best of all. But you don't look at things in
the right way. You haven't sharpened your hearing, and I don't suppose
you ever say your prayers at night. There's plenty these days of every kind
to write poems or tales about, if you can do it. You can draw it from the
plants and produce of the earth, scoop it out of the running brooks and the
stagnant pools; but you must know its meaning, know how to catch a
sunbeam. Now have a try with my glasses, put my ear-trumpet to your
ear, then pray to God and stop thinking about yourself.
The last was of course very difficult, more than a wise woman could
expect.
He took the glasses and the ear-trumpet, and she stood him up in the
middle of the potato patch. She handed him a big potato, and it gave out
sounds. It was a song, with words to it, yes, the interesting story of
potatoes - a domestic story in ten parts; ten lines would have been
enough. And what did the potato sing about?
It sang about itself and its family, about the coming of potatoes to

Europe, about all the lack of appreciation they had met and endured
before they were recognized, as they now are, to be a greater boon than a
nugget of gold.
»By royal decree we were given out at the town-hall in every city. A
proclamation was made about our great importance, but people didn't
believe in it; they didn't even understand how to plant us. One person
would dig a hole and throw his whole bushel of potatoes down into it;
another put his potatoes singly into the ground, one here, one there, and
expected each one to shoot up as an entire tree, from which you could
shake potatoes. And, in fact, plant, blossoms, watery fruit did appear, but
it all withered away. No one thought of what lay beneath the ground: the

boon, the potatoes. Yes, we've been through trials and suffering - that's
to say, our forefathers have, we and they, it comes to the same thing.
What tales we could tell!«
»Well, that'll do for the present,« said the woman. »Now take a look at
the sloes.
»We, too,« said the sloes, »are closely related to the homeland of the

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 « «

potatoes, but further north than they were growing. Northmen came
from Norway, steering west through mist and gales to an unknown land.
There, behind ice and snow, they found plants and vegetables and bushes
with the blue-black berries of the vine - sloes; they froze to ripe grapes
like ourselves. And the country was called 'Vineland' - 'Greenland' -
'Sloeland.'«
»That's a wonderfully romantic tale,« said the young man.
»Well, now come along with me,« said the wise woman, and led him to
the beehive. He
peeped inside it. What a bustle and stir! Bees in all the
passages, fluttering their wings to make a healthy draught through the
whole great factory - that was their job. Now came bees from outside,
born with baskets on their legs to carry pollen from the flowers; this was
shaken out, sorted and made into honey or wax. In and out they flew.
The queen bee also wanted to fly, but then they would all have to go with
her, and it wasn't yet time for that. But fly she would; so they bit off her
Majesty's wings, and then she had to stay.
»Now get up on to the dike,« said the wise woman. »Come and have a
look at the highroad, where people are to be seen.«
»What an enormous crowd!« said the young man. »One story after
another! Such a purring and whirring! It's getting too much for me, it'll
knock me endways!
»No, you must go straight ahead,« said the woman. »Go in and mix
with the crowd, have a sight of them, lend them an ear, give them your
heart. Then you'll soon hit on something to write about. But before you
go, I must have my glasses back and my ear-trumpet;« and she took them
both from him.
»Now I can't see a thing,« said the young man, »and I can't hear now
either.«
»Very well, then you can't be a writer by Easter, « said the wise woman.
»No? But when can I?«
»Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide. You'll never learn to hit on
any thing.
»Then what ever shall I do to earn a living by writing?«
»You can do it as early as Knock the poets out of the
Shrovetide*.
barrel! Slash at their writings; that's as good as slashing at themselves.
Only don't let them get the better of you; slash away for all you're worth,
then you'll get buns enough for yourself and your wife.«
»Something to have a cut at!« cried the young man; and then he
knocked every other poet out of the barrel, since he couldn't become a
poet himself.
We have all from the wise woman; she can tell you what to have a cut
at.

At Shrovetide in Denmark the »cat«is knocked out of the barrel at carnival time. Also, at

dawn, children awaken their parents with a switch or »teaser« and demand buns.
 «

The Toad

T
room
he well was deep, and so the rope was long; the windlass had scarcely
to go round when a bucket of water was to be hauled up over the
edge of the well. The sun could never reach down far enough to be
reflected in the water, however clear that was; but as far as it did manage
to shine, there was green of some sort growing between the stones.
It was there that a family of toads were living. They had immigrated;

actually they plunged headlong down into the well after old Mother
Toad, who was still living. The green frogs, who had settled there much
earlier and used to swim about in the water, recognized that they were
cousins and called them »our well-guests«. But these quite intended to
stay there; they thoroughly enjoyed living on dry land, as they called the
wet stones.
Mother Frog had gone travelling once. She had been in the bucket
when it was drawn up, but the light proved too strong for her and she
had trouble with her eyes. Luckily she managed to get out of the bucket
and tumbled with a fearful splosh into the water and lay for three days
afterwards with a pain in the back. She hadn't much to tell about the
world up above, though she did know - in fact they all knew - that the
well was not the whole world. Mother Toad should have been able to tell
them a thing or two, but she never answered when she was asked, and so
they never asked her.
»She's fat, ugly and loathsome,« said the young green frogs. »Her brats
will be just as loathsome.«
»Quite possibly, « said Mother Toad, »but one of them has a jewel in its

head, or else I have.«

The green frogs glared when they heard this and, as they didn't like it,
they made faces and dived to the bottom. But the young toads stretched
their hind-legs in sheer pride; each one thought he had the jewel. Then
they squatted with their heads quite still, though finally they began
asking what they were proud of and what this jewel thing really was.
»It's something so fine and precious,« said Mother Toad, »that I can't
describe it. It's a thing you wear to please yourself, and that the others go
and get annoyed about. But no more questions! I shan't answer.
»Well, I haven't got the jewel, « said the smallest toad, which was as ugly
as could be. »Why should I have anything so fine? And if it annoys
others, then it can't give me any pleasure. No, all I want is just to be

441
 «

allowed to go up to the edge of the well and look out. That must be
grand.
»Much better stay where you are,« said Mother Toad. »You're at home
here; you know your way about. Mind the bucket, or it'll squash you.
And, remember, if you do find your way into it, you may tumble out. Not
everyone falls as luckily as I did, with no damage done to legs or eggs.«
»Ko-eks!« said the little toad, as though it were trying to talk.
It did so want to go up to the edge of the well and look out. It felt such

a longing for the green things growing up there; and when the next
morning it happened that the bucket, filled with water, was being hauled
up and stopped for a moment in front of the stone where the toad was
squatting, the little creature quivered all over, jumped into the full buck-
et and sank to the bottom of the water, which was then drawn up and
emptied out.
»Ugh!« who saw it. »That's as ugly as ever I see'd, that
said the fellow
is.« And he gave a kick with his clog at the toad, which came near to
being badly hurt, though it just managed to get away in among some tall

stinging nettles. saw masses of stalks. It also looked overhead and saw
It

the sun shining on the leaves, which were quite transparent. It was the
same for the little toad as it is for us when we suddenly go into a big wood
where the sun comes shining through between boughs and foliage.
»It's far nicer here than down in the well,« said the little toad. »I should
like to stay here all my life.« It stopped there for an hour; it stopped for

442
 « «

two. »I wonder what there it said. »Having come so far, I may

is outside, «
as well go a bit further. « Then
hopped along as quickly as it could and
it

came out on to the road, where it had the sun on its back and was
sprinkled with dust as it marched across the highway.
»This really is dry land,« said the toad. »For me, it's almost too much
of a good thing; it tickles.
Now it reached the ditch. Here grew forget-me-not and meadow-sweet
and, close by, a quickset hedge with bushes ot may and alder; here, too,
was convolvulus, growing as bindweed; masses of colour, and a flutter-
ing butterfly. The toad thought this was a flower that had broken loose
in order to have a better look at the world, which was of course so likely.
»If only I could speed along like that,« said the toad. »Ko-eks, ko-eks!
What fun!«
It stayed on for eight nights and days in this ditch and never went short

of food. On the ninth day it thought: »Time to be moving!« ... And yet
what ever could be more delightful? Possibly a little toad or some green
frogs. There had been sounds on the wind last night as if there were
»cousins« not far away.
»It's wonderful to be alive, to come up out of the well, to lie among
stinging nettles, to crawl across the dusty road, to have a good rest in the
wet ditch! But on we go! Look out for frogs or a little toad - they're a
thing no one can do without. Nature is not enough. « So it continued to
ramble.
Going through the field, it came to a large pond with rushes round it
and made straight for them.
»This is rather too damp for you, isn't it?« said the frogs, »though you
are very welcome. Are you a 'he' or a 'she'? Not that it makes any differ-
ence.You will be just as welcome.
Then the toad was invited to a concert in the evening, a family con-
enthusiasm, but thin voices - we've met that before. No re-
cert: lots of
freshments; only free drinks - the whole pond if they liked.
»Now I must be getting on,« said the little toad. It still felt a desire for
something better.
It saw the stars twinkling, so far and so clear; it saw the new moon

shining; it saw the sun rising higher and higher.

»I see I'm still in the well, in a larger well. I must go up higher; I'm so
restless and full of longing.« And when the moon was full and round, the
poor creature thought, »I wonder if that's the bucket being trundled
down for me to jump into, in order to go up higher. Or is the sun the
great bucket? How huge, how gorgeous it is! It has room for us all. I must
look out for a chance. Oh, how my head's shining! I don't believe the
jewel can shine brighter. Still, I haven't got that, and I'm not sorry. No,
higher up into splendour and joy! I feel confident, and yet anxious. It's a
difficult step to take, but it's got to be done. Forward! Straight on towards
the main road!«

443
 «

And it stepped out - as far as a crawling animal like that can step out -
and soon found on a public highway where people lived; there were
itself
both flower-gardens and kitchen-gardens. It came and rested by a
cabbage-patch.
»Good heavens!« it said; »what a lot of different creatures there are
whom I've never known! And how lovely and big the world is! But I must
have a look round it and not stay squatting in one place.« With that, the
toad hopped into the cabbage-garden. »How green it is here, how beauti-
ful!«
»Yes, of course,« said the caterpillar on its leaf. »My leaf is the biggest
of the lot. It covers up half the world, but that's the part I can do without.
»Cluck, cluck!« was heard, and some chickens came tripping into the
garden. Theleading hen had very quick eyesight; she spied the caterpil-
lar on the curly leaf and pecked at it, so that it fell twisting and turning to
the ground. The hen peered first with one eye, then with the other, not
knowing what might come of all this wriggling.

444
 «

»It's not doing that because it wants to,« thought the hen and drew
back its head to strike. The toad became so frightened that it crawled

straight towards the hen.

»So it has troops in support,« said the hen. »Filthy vermin!« And it
turned away. »I don't want that tiny green morsel; it only makes my
throat tickle.« The other hens thought the same, and off they went.
»I wriggled away from it, « said the caterpillar. »It's a great thing to
have presence of mind, though the hardest job is still left, namely, to get
up on my cabbage-leaf again. Where is it?«
The little toad came along to show his sympathy and say how glad it
was that its ugliness had frightened the hens away.
»What ever do you mean by that?« asked the caterpillar. »Why, I wrig-
gled away from them myself. You're a hideous sight. Kindly allow me to
go back to where I was ... I smell cabbage! Here's my leaf! There's no
place like home. But I must go higher up.«
»That's it - higher up,« said the little toad, »higher up. It feels just as I

do, but coday not in the mood because of the fright it had.
it's We all want
to go higher up,« and it looked up as high as it could.
The stork was in its nest on the farmer's roof. He was clacking his
beak, and Mother Stork was clacking too.
»Fancy living so high up,« thought the toad. »If only I could come up
there !«
In the farmhouse lived two young students. One was a poet, the other a
naturalist. The sang and took delight in writing about all that God
first

had created and how it was mirrored in his heart; he sang it out, short,
clear and rich in melodious verse. The other student tackled the problem
itself and split it right up if need be. He considered the works of God as a

big sum of subtraction and multiplication; he was determined to get to

know it all, inside and out, and to talk intelligently about it. It was all
intelligence, and joy and wisdom were in his talk. They were kindly, gay
young fellows, both of them.
»I say - there's a good specimen of a toad,«said the naturalist. »I must
have it to keep in spirits.

445
 « «

»But you've already got two others, « said the poet. »Leave it in peace to
enjoy itself.« »Yes, but it's so beautifully ugly,« said the other.
»Of course, if we could find the jewel in its head!« said the poet, »then
I'd take a hand myself in cutting it open.«
»Jewel!« said the other. »You must be good at natural history.
»Well, isn't there something rather nice in the popular belief that the
toad, the ugliest of all creatures, often has the most precious jewel hidden
in its head? Isn't it the same with human beings? Think of the jewel that
^sop had - yes, and Socrates.
The toad heard no more and didn't understand half of what it did hear.
The two friends went away, and the toad escaped being put into spirits.
»They spoke about the jewel, too, « said the toad. »Good thing I
haven't got it, or it might have been very awkward for me.«

There was clacking of beaks on the farmer's roof. Father Stork was
giving his family a lecture, and they were casting sidelong glances at the
two young men in the garden.
»Man is the most conceited of creatures, « said the stork. »Listen what a
clatter they make. But their rattle can't compare with ours. They plume
themselves on their ready speech and on their language. A fine language,
indeed, that slops over into gibberish every day's journey we go; they just
can't understand each other. We
can speak our language all over the
world, both in Denmark and in Egypt. Men can't fly either*. They get
speed with a discovery they call 'the railway', but they often break their
necks doing that. It gives my beak the shivers whenever I think of it. The
world can do without mankind; we don't need them. If only we may keep
frogs and earthworms !«
* VVriiun in 1866.

446
 «

»That was a top-hole speech, « thought the Httle toad. »He's a great
man, that stork, and what a lofty perch he's got - I've never seen anything
like it - and how he can swim!« it exclaimed, as the stork went speeding
through the air with outstretched wings.
Meanwhile, Mother Stork was chattering in her nest all about the land
of Egypt, the waters of the Nile and the glorious mud to be found in
foreign parts; it sounded so novel and attractive to the little toad.
»I must go to Egypt, « it said. »If only the stork would take me with
him - or one of the young ones might. I'd pay him back with a good turn
on his wedding-day. That's it; I shall go to Egypt, for I'm so lucky. All
this endless longing of mine, it's far better, isn't it, than having a jewel in
my head.«
And yet it had got the jewel - that endless longing to go up, always up!
It gleamed inside it, gleamed with joy, gleamed with yearning.
At that very moment up came the stork. He had seen the toad in the
grass, and he swooped down and grabbed the little creature not too
gently. The beak squeezed, the wind whistled; it was far from pleasant,
yet up it went, up to Egypt, it felt sure - and so its eyes shone, just as
though a spark were flying out of them: »Ko-eks, ko-eks!«
The body was dead, the toad killed. But the spark from its eyes, what
became of that?
The sunbeam took it. The sunbeam carried off the jewel from the
toad's head. Where to?
It's no good asking the much better ask the poet. You'll hear
naturalist;
it all from him bringing in the caterpillar and the stork
like a fairy tale,
family, too. Just imagine - the caterpillar is transformed and turned into
a pretty butterfly. The stork family flies over the mountains and away
across the sea to far-off Africa, and yet finds the shortest way home again
to Denmark - to the same spot, the same roof. Yes, it's almost too fantas-
tic, isn't it? and yet it's true. You can ask the naturalist if you like; he'll

have to admit it. And you know it yourself, too, because you've seen it.
»But what about the jewel in the toad's head?«
»Have a look for it in the sun. Try if you can find it there.
The light up there is too dazzling. We haven't yet got eyes that can gaze
into all the splendour that God has created, but we shall get them one
day; and that will be the finest fairy tale of all, for we shall be in it

ourselves.
 Auntie

I wish you could have known Auntie - she was charming. Well, that's
to say, not a bit charming in the way we generally mean by the word
'charming'; but she was kind and pleasant, even jolly in her way, a good
subject for gossip, if there's gossip and fun to be made about someone;
she was just the kind to put into a play, if only because she lived for the
playhouse and everything to do with it. She was so respectable; but
Commissioner Fabb(whom Auntie called Fibb) said she was theatre-mad.
»The theatre's my school, « she said, »my fountain of knowledge, at
which I freshen up my history of the Scriptures: 'Moses', 'Joseph and his
Brethren' - well, these are operas. From the theatre I get my world-
history, my geography, and my knowledge of mankind. From
the French
pieces I learn about Paris improper, yet highly interesting. How I
life -

have cried over 'The Riquebourg Family'! To think that man has to
drink himself to death in order that she may marry her sweetheart!... Ah,
yes, what tears I must have wept during the fifty years Fve had a seat at the
theatre !«
Auntie knew every play, every stage-property, every actor who was
appearing or ever had appeared. She only really lived during the nine
months the theatre was open. Summer time, without summer performan-
ces, was a time that made her feel old; whereas an evening at the play that
went on past midnight was a lengthening of life. She never said, as others
do, »Here comes the spring, for the stork has arrived,« or »The papers are
announcing the first strawberries. « No, this was how she heralded the
approach of autumn: »Have you seen? Seats at the theatre are now on
sale; the season's just beginning.«
She worked out the value of a house and its situation by its nearness to
the theatre. It grieved her to desert the narrow little street behind the
theatre and to move into the big street rather further away and live there
in a house with no opposite neighbour.
»At home,« she used to say, »my window has to be my box at the
theatre. It's no good wrapped up in yourself; you must see people.
sitting
But here I'm livng as if I had moved out into the country. If I want to see
people, I have to go out into the kitchen and climb on to the sink; only
there have I an opposite neighbour. And yet, when I was living in my
narrow little street, I could see straight into the grocer's shop and at the
same time I was only three hundred steps from the theatre; now I'm three
thousand guardsman steps away.«

448
 «

Auntie might be unwell, but however poorly she felt, she never missed
the play. Her doctor ordered her one evening to have her feet poulticed
with sour dough, and she did as he said; but then she drove off to tne
theatre and sat there with her feet in poultices. If she had died there, she
would have been delighted. Thorvaldsen died in the theatre, and she
called that a »wonderful death.
It's certain she couldn't imagine the kingdom of heaven without a

theatre. Of course, we were never promised one; and yet it was natural to
suppose that the many illustrious actors and actresses who had gone on
ahead should have a continued sphere of activity.
Auntie had an electric wire between the theatre and her room; the
telegram came every Sunday at breakfast time. Her electric wire was Mr.
Sivertsen, one of the stagemanagers, the man who signalled curtains up
or down and scenery on or off.
From him she received an advance
notice, brief and to the point, of the
various plays. Shakespeare's Tempest he called »a dreadful play - far too
many scene changes - it starts off with water right down to the first
wings.« Which is to say, the rolling waves came right down to the foot-
lights. On the other hand, if one and the same interior set was to serve
through all five acts, then (he said) the play was sensible and well-
constructed, an 'easy' piece that played itself without a lot of scene-
shifting.
some thirty years
In earlier days - as Auntie used to call the period of
ago - sheand the said Mr. Sivertsen were younger. He was just a stage-
hand then, but was already her »benefactor«, as she christened him. The
fact is, that in those days, for an evening performance at the town's one

449
 it was the practice to admit spectators up in the Hies. Every
large theatre,
stage-hand had a pass or two at his disposal. The flies were often cram-
med with quite a distinguished company, including (it was said) the
wives of generals and Government officials. Itwas so interesting to look
down behind the wings and to notice what everybody did when the
curtain was down.
Auntie had been up there several times, both for tragedies and ballets,
since the pieces with the greater number of performers were the most
interesting to see from the flies. You sat pretty well in the dark up there,
and most of you had brought along some supper. Once three apples and
a large sausage-sandwich fell straight down into Ugolino's prison, where
the man was supposed to be starving, and this made people guffaw. That
sausage was one of the chief reasons that led the management to do away
altogether with places for the public in the flies.

»But I was there thirty-seven times, « said Auntie, »and I shall always
remember Mr. Sivertsen for that.«
It happened to be the very last night that the flies were open to the

public. They were playing The Judgment of Solomon; Auntie remember-

ed so well. Through her benefactor, Mr. Sivertsen, she had secured a
ticket of admission for Commissioner Fabb, although he didn't deserve
it, as he was always teasing her and making fun of the theatre. All the

same, she had got him a pass to the flies. He was anxious to see this play-
acting nonsense the wrong way round - those were his own words, and it
was just like him, said Auntie.
So he saw The Judgment of Solomon from above and fell asleep. You
might have thought he had come from a big dinner where a lot of toasts
had been drunk. He slept and got shut in, sat and slept through the
darkness of night in the flies above the stage; and he told Auntie (though
she didn't believe him) that when he awoke. The Judgment of Solomon
was over, lamps and candles were out, all the people, from balcony to
stalls, had gone. But it was not till then that the real comedy began:

Epilogue. This was the best, said the commissioner. Everything came
alive. It wasn't The Judgment of Solomon they were giving; no, it was
Doomsday at the Theatre. Commissioner Fabb had the impudence to try
and make Auntie believe all that; this was his way of thanking her for
having got him a seat in the flies.
What the commissioner had to tell - that was no doubt funny in its
way, though at bottom it was just spitefulness and teasing.
»At first all was dark up there, « said the commissioner. »But then the
magic began, the great performance: Doomsday at the Theatre. The
attendants stood at the doors, and every member of the audience had to
show by his good conduct book whether he might go in with his hands
tied or free, and his mouth gagged or no. Gentlepeople who arrived late,
after the show had already begun, and also young folk who never can keep
time, were tethered outside and given felt soles under their feet to go in

450
with at the beginning of the second act, besides being gagged. And so
they made a start with Doomsday at the Theatre.«
»Just spitefulness!« said Auntie. »God has nothing to go with that.«
The scene-painter, he wanted to go to heaven, had to go up by a
if

stairway he had painted himself, but which no one on earth could clam-
ber up. That was of course merely a sin against perspective. All the plants
and buildings that the stage-carpenter had carefully set up in countries to
which they didn't belong had to be shifted by the poor man to their right
place - shifted, too, before cockcrow if he wanted to get to heaven. Mr.
Fabb should have made sure that he could get there himself; and his tales
about the actors, whether in comedy or tragedy song or dance, were some
of Mr. Fabb's wickedest. Fabb's fibs! He didn't deserve to be allowed
backstage. Auntie wouldn't soil her lips by repeating what he said - such
impertinence! It was all written down, he had said (fibs!), and was to be
put into print when he was dead and gone, not before. He didn't want to
be flayed alive by the critics.
Only once had Auntie been in fear and trembling at her temple of bliss,
the theatre. It was a winter's day, one of those days when we have two
hours of drab daylight. It was cold and snowy, but Auntie couldn't stay
away from the theatre. They were doing Herman von Unna, and also a
short opera and a long ballet, a prologue and an epilogue. It would go on
till past midnight. Auntie was determined to go; her lodger had lent her a

pair of sleigh-boots with fur both inside and out; they came half-way up
her legs.
She came to the theatre, came to her box. The boots were warm, so she
kept them on. Suddenly there was a cry of 'fire!' Smoke was coming from
one of the wings, smoke from the flies. There was terrible alarm; people
stampeded out. Auntie was the last in her box -« second tier, left side, the
scenery looks best from there,« she used to say, »it's always placed so as to
look most effective from the side of the royal box« - and she wanted to get
out. But the panicking people in front of her had thoughtlessly slammed
the door behind them. There sat Auntie, unable to get out or in - that's to
say, into the next box; the rail was too high. She called out, but no one
heard. She peered down into the tier below her. It was empty, it was low,

451
and not far away. In her alarm Auntie felt quite young and nimble. She
wanted to jump down, and she did get one leg over the balustrade, the
other off the seat; there she sat astride, nicely draped in her flowered skirt,
with one leg dangling right out, a leg wearing an enormous sleigh-boot.
What a sight to see! And when it was seen, Auntie was also heard - and
saved from being burnt to death; for, as a matter of fact, the theatre wasn't
really on fire at all.

That, she said, was the most memorable evening in her life; but she
was glad she hadn't been able to see herself, for then she would have died
of shame.
Her benefactor from among the stage-staff, Mr. Sivertsen, always came
on Sunday to see her, but it was a long while from Sunday to Sunday. So
she had lately, in the middle of the week, had a little child in to 'left-
overs' - that is, to eat up what was left over from yesterday's dinner. It was
a small child from the ballet, who needed more to eat. She was appearing
both as a fairy and as a page; her most difficult part was as hind-legs of
the lion in The Magic Flute, but she grew to be the lion's front paws.
It's true she only got three shillings for this, whereas the hind-legs earned

her four; but for that she had to walk with a stoop and also to miss the
fresh air. Auntie thought all this was most interesting to hear about.
She had deserved to live as long as the theatre itself, but she didn't
manage to last it out. Nor did she die there but nicely and properly in her
own bed. Incidentally, her last words were full of meaning: she asked,
»What are they playing tomorrow?«
When she died she left, I suppose, about five hundred pounds; we infer
that from the interest, which comes to twenty pounds. This sum Auntie
had directed to be paid to a deserving old maid without relatives; it was to
be expended yearly on a subscription to a seat in the second tier, left side,
on Saturdays, for it was then they put on the best plays. There was only
one condition for the person who benefited by this legacy: every Satur-
day, in the theatre, she was to think of Auntie who lay in her grave.
That was Auntie's religion.
 «

The Rags

o
from
utside the factory were stacks of rags piled
far
up in heaps, gathered in
and wide. Each rag had his history, each could tell his own tale;
but we can't listen to them all. Some were domestic rags, others came
from foreign countries. Now, here was a Danish rag up against a Norwe-
gian rag; the one was out-and-out Danish, the other as Norwegian as
possible; and that was the amusing thing about these two, as every sensi-
ble Norwegian and Dane will agree.
They could tell each other, of course, by the way they spoke, although
the Norwegian maintained that their two languages were as different
from each other as French and Hebrew. »Our tongue draws its strength
from the craggy heights, while the Dane makes up a namby-pamby
gibberish of his own.«
The two rags talked on, and rags are rags in every country; they only
really count in a rag-heap.
»rm Norwegian, « said the one from Norway; »and when I say that I'm
Norwegian, I reckon that's enough. I'm tough in every fibre, like the
oldest rocks in ancient Norway - the land that has a constitution, like free
America. It makes my thread quiver to think what I am and to feel my
thoughts clang out in words of granite.
»But we have a litterature,« said the Danish rag. »Do you understand
what that is?«
»Understand!« echoed the Norwegian. »Dweller in a flat country, shall
I lift him up to the hills and bathe him in Northern Lights, rag as he is?

When the ice thaws in the Norwegian sun, then Danish apple barges sail
up to us with butter and cheese, such a tasty cargo! And, as ballast, there
comes with them - Danish literature! We don't need it. And we'd sooner
go without that stale beer, here where the fresh spring gushes forth, and
the well has not been bored, nor boosted into European fame by newspa-
pers or the travels of Oddfellows and authors abroad. I speak right out

453
 «

from the lungs, and the Dane must get used to the sound of freedom.
He'll learn to do that from his Scandinavian attachment to our proud
rocky land, Earth's earliest clod.«
»Well, well !A Danish rag could never talk like that,« said the Dane. »It
isn't our nature to. I know myself, and all our Danish rags are like me;
we're so amiable and modest, we've too little faith in ourselves, and that
really doesn't get you anywhere. But it's a temperament I quite like; I
find it charming. Otherwise, I assure you, I'm well aware of my own
good qualities, though I don't talk about them. That's a failing no one
shall have the chance to accuse me of. I'm weak and yielding. I put up
with everything, I envy no one and speak well of everybody, even though
there isn't much to be said for most of the others; still, that's their look-
out. I treat it all as a joke, being so talented myself.
»Don't talk to me in that flat country's paste-pot language; it makes me
sick,« said the Norwegian, and managed in the wind to get away from the
heap and go over to another.
In the end they were both turned into paper; and, as luck would have
it, the Norwegian rag beame paper on which a Norwegian wrote a faith-

ful love-letter to a Danish girl, while the Danish rag became the manu-
script of a Danish ode written in praise of Norway's power and splendour.
So some good can come even out of rags, once they leave the rag-heap
and are transformed into truth and beauty. Then a close understanding is
kindled, and that is a blessing.
There's the story. It's quite amusing and can't possibly offend anyone -
except the rags.
 The Most Incredible Thing

T,he one who could do the most incredible thing was to have the
King's daughter and half the kingdom.
The young men - and the old ones, too - strained every thought,
muscle and sinew: two of them killed themselves by overeating, and
another drank himself to death, trying, each according to his lights, to do
the most incredible thing. But that wasn't how it was to be done. Little
street-boys practised spitting on their own backs; they considered that the
most incredible thing.
On a fixed day a display was to be given of what each one had to show
as the most incredible thing. The judges appointed ranged from children
of three up to people in their nineties. There was a whole exhibition of
incredible things, but everyone soon agreed that the most incredible was a
huge clock in its case, most cunningly contrived both in and out. At every
hour living pictures appeared, showing which hour had struck; altoge-

455
ther, there were twelve representations with moving figures that sang or
spoke.
»Yes, thatwas the most incredible thing,« people said.
The dock struck one, and Moses stood on the mountain and wrote
down on the Tables of the Law the first Commandment: »Thou shah

have none other gods but me.«

The clock struck two, and the Garden of Eden was seen, where Adam
and Eve met, both happy without so much as a wardrobe; they didn't
need one.
On Wise Men appeared, one of them was
the stroke of three the three
coal-black, but he couldn't help that - he had been blackened by the sun.
On the stroke of four came the four seasons: spring with the cuckoo in
the fresh foliage of a beech tree, summer with a grasshopper on the ripe
ear of corn, autumn with an empty stork's nest from which the bird had
flown, winter with an old crow who could tell stories in the chimney-
corner, memories of the past.
As it struck five, there came the five senses: sight as an optician, hear-
ing as a coppersmith; smell sold violets and sweet woodruff, taste was a
cook, and feeling an undertaker with mourning cape down to his heels.
The clock struck six. There sat a gambler, throwing dice; the die
showed its highest face, and it was »six'.
Then came the seven days of the week - or the seven deadly sins -
people couldn't agree about that, for they went together and weren't easy
to tell from each other.
Next, a choir of monks came and sang eight o'clock matins.
On the stroke of nine appeared the nine Muses, one engaged in astro-
nomy, another as a keeper of historical documents, while the others
belonged to the theatre.
On Moses stepped forward again with the Tables of
the stroke of ten
the Law, on which were all the commandments of God, and they were
ten.

456
 The clock struck again, and little boys and girls came skipping out;
they were playing a game, at which they sang:
»Three, four, five, six, seven -
the clock has struck eleven«.
Finally, the clock struck twelve, and the watchman stepped forward
with fur cap and halberd; he sang the old song of the watchman:
»Twas at the hour of midnight
our Saviour he was born«.
and, as he sang, roses sprang up and turned to angel-heads borne on
rain bow -coloured wings.
It was charming to hear, and delightful to see. The whole contrivance

was a matchless work of art; everyone declared that this was the most
incredible thing. The artist was a young man, kind-hearted and happy as
a child, a faithful friend and good to his badly-off parents. Yes, he de-
served the Princess and half the kingdom.
The day of decision had arrived. It was a fete day for the whole city, and
the Princess sat on the royal throne, which had been newly stuffed with
horsehair but wasn't any more comfortable for that. The judges all round
looked knowingly across at the likely winner, who stood there confident
and happy; his success was certain, for he had done the most incredible
thing.
»No, no! I do that« suddenly shouted a gaunt, lanky giant of a
shall
fellow. »I am the man
for the most incredible thing. « And he swung a
great axe at the work of art.
»Crash! Bash! Bang!« -- there lay the whole contrivance. Wheels and

457
 « «

springs flew all over the place. Everything was dashed to pieces.
»That was what I could do,« said the man. »My deed has beaten his and

beaten you all. have done the most incredible thing.

I

»To destroy such a work of art!« said the judges. »Yes, that was the
most incredible thing.
All the people said the same, and so the man was to have the Princess
and half the kingdom; for a law is a law, even if it is the most incredible
thing.
From the ramparts and all the towers in the city it was proclaimed
by trumpet that the wedding was to take place. The Princess wasn't
at all pleased; still, she looked charming and was gorgeously dressed. The
church was ablaze with candles; late at night they are seen at their best.
The noble young girls of the city sang and led the bride forward; the
knights sang and escorted the bridegroom, who strutted as though he
could never be broken in two.
Now the singing stopped, and the church became so silent that you
could have heard a pin fall. But, in the midst of the silence, with rolling
and rumbling the great churchdoor flew open and boom! boom! all the
works of the clock came marching up the middle aisle and stood in
between bride and bridegroom. Dead men can't walk again - we know
that well enough - but a work of art can. The body had been dashed to
pieces, but not the spirit. The spirit of great art haunted the place; there
wasn't the ghost of a doubt about that:

458
 « «

The work of art stood there exactly as it was when it was new and
untouched.The clock struck the hours, one after the other, up to twelve,
and the figures came swarming out. First, Moses; flames of fire seemed to
blaze from his forehead, as he hurled the heavy stone Tables of the Law
on to the bridegroom's feet and pinned them to the floor of the church.
»I cannot lift them up again, « said Moses. »You have knocked off my
arms. Stand as you are!«
Next came Adam and Eve, the Wise Men from the east and the four
seasons; each told him unpleasant truths - »shame upon you!«
But he felt no shame.
All the figures that had to appear at the stroke of each hour now
stepped out of the clock and all increased terribly in size, till there hard-
ly seemed room for the real people. And when at the stroke of twelve
the watchman stepped out with fur cap and halberd, there was a rare to-
do. The watchman went straight up to the bridegroom and bashed him
on the head with his halberd.
»Lie there!« he cried. »Measure for measure! Now we're avenged, and
our young master, too. We vanish.
And then the whole contrivance disappeared. But the candles all over
the church turned into great flowers of light, the gilded stars under the
roof threw out long luminous beams, and the organ played of itself. All
the people said that this was the most incredible thing they had ever
known.
»Then please to summon the right onc!« said the Princess. »He that
made the work of art - let him be my lord and husband,

459
 And he stood in the church with all the people around him. All re-
joiced and wished him well. There wasn't one who was jealous - and
that was the most incredible thing of all.*

* This tale, first published in 1871, was thought to be an allegory of the Franco- Prussian
War; and its publication in Denmark, like that of »The Wicked Prince«, was forbidden
by the Nazis during the occupation of 1940-45, though it was nevertheless circulated
by the Underground Movement.

460
 The Gardener and the Squire

A..bout four miles from the capital stood an old manor-house with thick
and stepped gables. Here lived, though only in the summer,
walls, turrets
a richnobleman and his wife; this house was the best and handsomest of
the various houses they owned. Outside, it looked as if it had only just
been built, but inside it was as cosy and comfortable as possible. The
family arms were carved in stone over the entrance, beautiful roses climb-
ed round arms and oriel window, and a large grass lawn spread out in
front of the house; there were may trees, both pink and white, and there
were rare flowers even outside the greenhouse.
The squire had also a clever gardener; the flowers, the orchard and the
kitchen-garden were a treat to see. Up against this part of the garden
there was still some of the old original garden left with box hedges
clipped in the shape of crowns and pyramids. Behind these stood two
massive old trees which were nearly always leafless, and you might well
suppose that a gale or a waterspout had spattered great lumps of manure
over them; but every lump was a bird's nest.
Here, from time out of mind, a swarm of screaming rooks and crows
had built; it was an absolute colony of birds, and the birds were the
masters, the landed proprietors, the oldest family on the estate, the real
lords of the manor. None of the people down below meant anything to
them, but they put up with these crawling creatures in spite of their
sometimes banging away with their guns, so that the birds got their
spines tickled and each of them flew up with frightened cries of »Caw!
Caw!«
The gardener often spoke to his master and mistress about cutting
down the old trees; they didn't look well (he said) and, once they were
gone, the place would most likely be rid of the screaming birds, which
would go in search of new quarters. But the squire was unwilling to give
up either the trees or the swarms of birds; they were something the manor
couldn't be without, something from the old days, and these should not
be altogether lost to mind.
»Those trees have now become the birds' inheritance. Let them keep it,

my good Larsen.«
Larsen was the gardener's name, but we needn't bother any more about
that.

461
 - -*••
/' i-'\'r. . ^-*r

Mm -^^m

^^~

»My dear Larsen, haven't you enough room already? With your flower-
garden, glasshouses, orchard and kitchen-garden?«
Yes, he had and he tended and looked after them with great
all these,

keenness and His master and mistress admitted this, and yet they
skill.

couldn't hide from him the fact that at other people's houses they often
ate fruit or saw flowers that were better than anything in their own
garden. The gardener was sorry to hear this, for he did his best that the
best should be done. He was good at heart and good at his job.
One day the squire sent for him and told him, as friend and master,
that, on the previous day, at the house of some distinguished friends, they
had been given apples and pears so rich in juice and flavour that they and
all the guests were filled with admiration. The fruit was obviously not

home-grown, but it ought to be introduced into this country, if it could

stand the climate. The fruit was known to have been bought in the town
at the leading fruiterer's, and the gardener should go in and find out
where these apples and pears had come from and then order cuttings.
The gardener knew the fruiterer well, for it was to him that he sold for
the squire the surplus fruit growing in the manor garden.
So the gardener went to town and asked the fruiterer where he had got
these apples and pears that were so much admired.
»They come from your own garden, « said the fruiterer and showed him
both apples and pears, which he soon recognised.
Dear me, how pleased the gardener was! He hurried to the squire and
explained to him that both apples and pears came from his own garden.
The squire and his lady could simply not believe this. »h's not possi-
ble, Larsen. Can you produce a written assurance from the fruiterer?«
Yes, he could; and he brought along a written certificate.
»How very odd!« said the squire.

462
 « « « «

And now every day at the manor huge bowls

of these magnificent
apples and pears from their own
garden appeared on the table. Bushels
and barrels of the fruit were sent to friends in and out of town, and even
abroad, bringing no end of pleasure. Still, they had to admit that of
course there had been two unusually good summers for fruit-trees; these
had done well all over the country.
Time passed. The squire and his wife went and dined at Court. The
day after, the gardener was sent for by his master. At the royal table they
had had melons so full of juice and flavour from their Majesties' green-
house.
»You must go to the royal gardener, my good Larsen, and get us some
of the seeds of these delicious melons.
»But the royal gardener got the seeds from us,« said the gardener, quite
delighted.
»Then the man has known how to improve the fruit in some way,«
answered the squire. »Every melon was excellent.
»Well, that does make me feel proud,« said the gardener. »I must
explain to you, sir: the royal gardener has had no luck this year with his
melons, and when he saw how fine ours were and tasted them, he ordered
three of these to be sent up to the castle.
»Larsen, don't tell me melons were out of our garden !«
that those
»I fancy so,« said the gardener; and he went to the royal gardener and
got out of him a written certificate saying that the melons on the King's
table had come from the manor.
This was indeed a surprise for the squire, and he made no secret of the
incident, but showed people the certificate and even had melons sent out
far and wide just as previously the cuttings had been.
Then news came back that the seeds were striking and setting admira-
bly and the plant was called after the squire's manor, so that in this way
its name could now be read in English, German and French. That was

something never dreamed of before.

»I do hope the gardener won't begin to think too much of himself,
said the squire.
But the gardener took it His great ambition
in a very different way.
now was to establish his name
one of the leading gardeners in the
as
country, and to try every year to produce something first-rate in garden-
ing; and he did this. But, all the same, he often heard it said that his very
first fruit, the apples and the pears, were really his best; all that came after

was much inferior. The melons were no doubt extremely good, but they
were of course something quite different. His strawberries might be cal-
led excellent, and yet no better than those to be found on other estates;
and when one year the radishes were a failure, it was only the unfortunate
radishes that they talked about and not a word about anything else that
turned out well.
It was almost as though the squire felt relieved to be able to say, »Well,

463
 « «

Larsen, rather a poor year, eh?« They quite enjoyed saying, »Rather a
poor year.«
Twice a week the gardener brought fresh flowers up to the house,
always most tastefully arranged. The colours seemed to be heightened by
the way they were grouped.
»You have taste, Larsen, « said the squire. »That's a gift, not of your
own, but of God.«
One day the gardener brought in a big crystal bowl with the leaf of a
waterlily lying inside. On this had been laid, with its long thick stalk in
the water, a brilliant blue flower as large as a sunflower.
»An Indian water-lily !« exclaimed the squire and his wife. They had
never seen such a flower; by day it was carefully placed in the sun and,
when evening came, in a reflected light. Everyone who saw it thought it
very lovely and most unusual; even the highest young lady in the land,
said so, and she was a princess, kind and sensible.
The squire and his lady were only too proud to present her with the
flower, and she took it with her back to the castle. Then they both went
down into the garden to pick a similar flower themselves, if such a thing
was still to be found; but it wasn't. So they called the gardener and asked
him where he'd got the blue water-lily from.
»We can't find it anywhere, « they said. »We've been through the green-
houses and right round the flower-garden.
»Well, but that's not where it is,« said the gardener. »It's only a humble
flower from the kitchen-garden. Still, it is beautiful, isn't looks like
it? It

a blue cactus, and yet it's only the blossom on an artichoke.

464
 « « «

»You should have told us that straight away,« said the squire. »We
couldn't help thinking it was. a rare foreign flower. You've made us look
ridiculous in the eyes of the young saw the flower at our
Princess. She
house and found it so beautiful. She didn't know what
it was - though

she's well up in botany - but that science has nothing to do with vege-
tables. How on earth, my good Larsen, could you think of sending such a
flower up to the house? It will make us a laughing-stock.
And the pretty blue flower thathad been brought from the kitchen-
garden was taken away from the room at the manor, where it was quite
out of place; and the squire sent an excuse to the Princess, explaining
that the flower was nothing but a vegetable which the gardener had taken
into his head to display, and for this he had had a good talking-to.
»What a shame! How unfair!« said the Princess. »Why,he has opened
our eyes to a splendid flower we had never noticed; he has shown us
beauty where we never dreamed of looking. Every day, as long as the
artichokes are in flower, the royal gardener is to bring me one up to my
room.«
And this was done.
The squire sent word to the gardener that he might again bring them a
fresh artichoke blossom.
»It's really quite handsome,« he said; »altogether remarkable. « And the
gardener was praised.
»That's what Larsen enjoys, « said the squire. »He's a spoilt child.
In the autumn there was a tremendous gale. It sprang up in the small
hours and was so violent that numbers of big trees on the fringe of the
wood were torn up by the roots, and to the great sorrow of the squire and
his wife - sorrow for them, but joy for the gardener - the two massive
trees were blown down, together with all the bird's-nests. The cries of
rooks and crows could be heard through the gale, as they beat their wing
on the windows, said the servants at the manor.
»Now, Larsen, I suppose you're happy, « said the squire. »The gale has
brought down the trees, and the birds have taken to the woods. So it's
goodbye to the dear old days; not a sign or hint of them is left. To us it is

a great grief.
The gardener said nothing - but he thought of what he had long had
in mind - how he could best make use of the fine sunny space he had
never before had at his disposal. It should grow to be an ornament to the
garden and a joy to the squire.
The big trees that had been blown down had crushed and flattened the
venerable boxhedges with all their cut-out patterns. Here he put up a
thicket of shrubs, native plants from field and wood. Things that no
other gardener had thought of j)utiing in at all abundantly in the garden
near the house, he now planted in their proper soil and in the shade and
sunshine required by each sort. He tended in love, and they grew into
splendour.

465
 Junipers from the heaths of Jutland were raised, with the shape and
colour of Italy's cypress; the glossy prickly holly, green alike in winter
cold or in summer sunshine, was a delight to the eye. In front grew ferns
of every species, some looking as if they were children of the palm tree,
and others as if they were parents of that lovely delicate plant we call
maidenhair. Here was the despised burdock that when freshly picked is
so beautiful that it can look fine in a bunch of flowers. The burdock was
on dry soil, but on lower damper ground there grew the common dock,
also a despised plant and yet with its height and its tremendous leaf
wonderfully picturesque. Six foot high, with flower upon flower like a
huge many-branched candlestick, rose the great mullein, transplanted
from the fields. And here were sweet woodruff, primroses and lilies-of-
the-valley, arum lilies and the delicate three-leaved wood sorrel... All
most beautiful to look at.
In front, with steel wire supports, there grew rows of little French pear
trees. They got plenty of sun and attention, and they soon bore large juicy

pears, as they had done in the country they came from.

To take the place of the two old leafless trees, a tall flagstaff was put up
flying the Danish flag, and, near by, another pole round which the hops
twined their sweet-smelling clusters in summer and at harvest-time. But
in winter according to ancient custom a sheaf of oats was hung from
this pole, so that the birds of the air might have something to eat at
happy Christmas time.
»Our good Larsen is getting sentimental in his old age,« said the
squire. »But he's faithful and devoted to us.«
With the New Year there appeared in one of the capital's illustrated
papers a picture of the old manor-house, showing the flagstaff and the
sheaf of oats for the birds at Christmas, and emphasis was laid on the
happy idea of keeping up a time-honoured custom in this way - an idea
so very characteristic of the old place.
»They beat the big drum for every mortal thing that Larsen does,« said
the squire. »He's a lucky man. I suppose we ought almost to be proud of
having him.«
But they weren't in the least proud of it. They felt that they were the
master and mistress and could give Larsen a month's notice if they liked,
but they didn't do that. They were kind people, and there are so many
kind people of that sort. What a good thing that is for all the Larsens!
Well, that's the story of The Gardener and the Squire... Now you can
think it over.
 sy /.

What the Thistle Found Out

A..djoining the stately manor-house lay a beautifully-kept garden with

rare trees and flowers. Friends who visited the house were enchanted by
these; people from the country round and from neighbouring towns
would come on Sundays and public holidays and ask for leave to see over
the garden, and even whole schools arrived on similar visits.
Outside the garden, close by the fence against the road through the
fields, stood a huge thistle. It was so large that, spreading from the root in
several branches, it could almost be called a thistle-bush. No one gave it a
thought except the old donkey that drew the milkmaids' milk-cart. He
put out his neck full stretch and said, »You're lovely! I could eat you!«
But the tether-rope wasn't long enough for the donkey to reach out and
eat it.

There was a large party at the manor, including a well-known family

from the capital with some nice-looking girls and, among these, a young
lady from a very long way off; she came from Scotland and was of good
birth with plenty of means and property - a bride worth having, said
more than one young gentleman, and their mothers said the same.
The young people amused themselves on the lawn and played croquet.
They strolled among the flowers, and each of the girls picked a flower and
put it in one of the young men's buttonhole. But the Scottish girl spent a
long time looking around and would have none of the flowers; none of
them seemed quite to her liking. Then she looked over the fence ... There
stood the big thistle-bush with its sturdy purple blooms. She saw them
and smiled, and she begged the son of the house to pick her one of them.

467
 »It's the flower of Scotland,« she said. »It waves proudly on my coun-
try's shield. Do get me one!«
So he fetched her the finest bloom and pricked his fingers, as if it were
the most prickly rosebush that it grew on.
She put the thistle bloom in the young man's buttonhole, and he felt
highly honoured. Each of the other young men would gladly have given
up his own splendid flower to have worn this one, from the fair hands of
the young lady from Scotland. And if the son of the house felt honoured,
think what were the feelings of the thistle-bush! It was just as though she
were bathed in dew and sunshine.
»rm more important than I thought, « the thistle said to herself. »My
real place is inside the fence, and not outside. One's position in the world
is indeed surprising. To think that I've now got one of my bairns on the

other side of the fence and even in a buttonhole!«

Every bud as it came out and unfolded was told what had happened;
and not many days went by before the thistle-bush heard, not from peo-
ple or the chirping of birds, but from the air itself which keeps and sends
out sounds far and wide (right from the most secret walks of the garden
and through the open doors and windows of the manor) that the young
gentleman, who was given the thistle bloom by that fair Scottish hand,
had now won hand and heart as well. They made a handsome pair, a
splendid match.
»It was I who fixed that up for them,« thought the thistle-bush, and
her mind turned to the flower she had given for the buttonhole. Every
flower that came out was told about this.
»I expect I'll be moved into the garden, « she said to herself, »or perhaps
be put in a pot that squeezes; still, that's the greatest honour of all. « And

468
the thistle-bush pondered so deeply on this that she declared with absolu-
te certainty, »Yes, I shall be put in a pot.«
She promised every little thistle bloom that came out it should also be
put in a pot, possibly in a buttonhole, which was the highest one could
hope for. But none of them was put in a pot, let alone a buttonhole; they
drank in light and air, basked in the sun by day, lapped up the dew by
night, came into full flower, were visited by bees and hornets searching
for a dowry of honey in the flowers - and the honey they took but let the
flower alone. »Set of robbers!« murmured the thistle-bush. »If only I
could stab them! But I can't.«
The flowers hung and drooped, but fresh ones came in
their heads
their place.»You're just what I wanted!« said the thistle-bush. »Every
minute I'm expecting us to get across the fence. « A group of innocent
daisies and plantains stood listening in deep admiration and believed
every word she said.
The old donkey from the milk-cart stole a glance by the roadside over
to the flowering thistle-bush, but its tether-rope was too short to reach
her.
And the thistle thought so long about Scotland's thistle, to whose fam-
ily she felt she belonged, that at last she really believed she came from
Scotland and that her own parents had grown into the Scottish shield.
That was a big thought, but big thistles can of course have big thoughts.
»Sometimes one comes of so distinguished a family that it makes you
tremble to think of it,« said the nettle growing near by, which also had a
kind of feehng that it might turn into »nettle-cloth«, if it were treated in
the right way.
Summer passed, and autumn passed. The leaves fell off the trees, the
flowers grew deeper in colour and fainter in smell. The gardener's boy
sang in the garden, the other side of the fence:
»Up we sir, down we go, sir,
go,
that we need to know, sir!«
is all

The young fir trees in the wood were beginning to long for Christmas,
but was still a far cry to Christmas.
it

»Here I am - still here!« said the thistle. »It's just as though nobody
gave me a thought, and yet it was I who arranged the match. They got
engaged, and now they're married - married a week ago. Well, there's
nothing I can do, for I can't move a yard.«
Several more weeks passed, and the thistle was now left with her last
solitary bloom, large and full-blown. It had shot out near the root; the
wind blew cold across it, till the colours were gone, the splendour gone,
and the calyx - big as the bloom on an artichoke - had all the appearance
of a silver sunflower.
Then the young couple, now man and wife, came into the garden. They
strolled along the fence, and the young wife looked over it.
»The big thistle's still there,« she said; »but she hasn't a flower left.«

469
 « « «

»Yes, she has. Look, there's the ghost of the last one,« he said, pointing
to the silvery remainder of the flower, itself a flower.

»Oh, yes, it's lovely, « she said. »We must have one like that carved into
the frame round our picture.
So once more the young man had to climb over the fence and break off
the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers; that came of calling it a
»ghost«. It was brought into the garden, up to the manor and into the

drawing-room, where there was a painting of the married couple. In the

bridegroom's buttonhole a thistle had been painted. They talked about
this, and they talked about the calyx they had brought in - the last thistle
bloom, now shining like silver, which was to be copied and carved on the
frame.
And their talk was carried out, far away, by the wind.
»What a lot we may live to see!« said the thistle-bush. »My first-born
came to a buttonhole, my last-born has come to a frame; where shall I
come?«
The donkey stood by the roadside and glanced at to me, my
her. »Come
yum-yum thistle. I can't come to you; my long enough.
tether isn't
But the thistle-bush didn't answer. She grew more and more thought-
ful; she went on thinking right up to Christmas time, and then her
thought came into flower.
»As long as one's children come inside the fence, a mother can put up
with staying outside.«
»That's a beautiful thought,« said the sunbeam. »You, too, shall be
given a good place.
»In a pot or in a frame?« asked the thistle.

»In a fairy tale,« said the sunbeam.

And here it is.
 Old Johanna's Tale
(Andersen's last)

T,he wind sighs in the old willow tree. It's as though you heard a song;

the wind sings it, the tree tells the story. If you don't understand it, then
ask old Johanna in the almshouse; she knows all about it, for she was
born and bred in the parish.
Years back, when the highway still ran along here, the tree was already
tall and striking. It stood, where it still stands, outside the tailor's white-

washed half-timbered house close to the pond, which was at that time so
big that cattle were watered here, and where in a hot summer the little
boys of the village ran about naked and splashed in the water. Close
under the tree was a milestone of hewn granite, but this has now fallen
over and brambles are growing across it.
On the far side of the rich farmer's house the new highway had been
made, while the old one became a lane and the pond a mere pool choked
with duckweed. When a frog plopped into it, the green surface parted
and you saw the black water; round about it grew cat's-tails, buck-beans
and yellow irises.
The tailor's house was now old and leaning on one side, the roof a
hotbed for moss and house-leek. The dovecote had fallen in, and the
starlings were building there; the swallows hung nest after nest on the
gable of the house and away under the roof, just as if it was a lucky spot
to live in.
It was once; but now it had become lonely and silent. »Poor Rasmus«
(as they calledhim) lived in it, solitary and weak-willed. He was born
here, had played here, bounded over fields and fence, paddled as a child
in the village pond, clambered in the old willow tree.
In glorious beauty it raised its long branches, as it raises them still; but

gales had already twisted the trunk a little, and time had given it a crack;
now wind and weather had blown earth into the crack so that grass and
greenstuff are sprouting there, and even a little rowan has planted itself
there.
VV^hen the swallows returned in spring, they would fly about tree and
roof, and would daub and repair their old nests. But poor Rasmus al-
liked;heneither daubed nor propped
lowed his nest to stand or fall as it it.

»What's the good?« was his watchword, and his father's before him.

471
 He stayed in his home. The swallows flew away, but they came back
The starlings flew off, and came back and
again, the faithful creatures.
whistled their songs. There was a time when Rasmus could whistle with
the best of them, but now he neither whistled nor sang.
The wind sighed in the old willow tree; it's sighing still. It's as though
you heard a song; the wind sings it, the tree tells the story. If you don't
understand it, then ask old Johanna in the almshouse; she knows all
about it. She's an old hand - almost a Book of the Chronicles - full of
wise saws and ancient memories
When the house was first built, the village tailor, Ivar Gossage, moved
in with his wife Maren - honest, hard-working folk, both of them. In
those days old Johanna was a child; she was the daughter of the man who
made clogs, one of the poorest men in the parish. Many a titbit did she
get from Maren, who was never short of food. Maren was well in with the
squire's wife, always smiling and happy; she kept in good heart and,
while busy with the tongue, she was also busy with her hands - her nee-
dle was as nimble as her tongue -and at the same time she looked after
her house and her children; there were nearly a dozen of them: eleven
anyhow, for the twelfth didn't turn up.
»The poor always have the nest full of young ones,« growled the
squire. »If you could drown them like kittens and only keep one or two of
the lustiest, there wouldn't be much harm done.«
»Goodness gracious me!« said the tailor's wife. »Why, children are a
blessing from heaven; they're the joy of the house. Every child is one
more prayer to God. When times are hard and there are many mouths to
feed, then you exert yourself more and more to find out ways and means
in all honesty. God doesn't let go, as long as we don't let go.«
The nodded kindly and patted Maren 's
squire's lady agreed with her,
cheek. She had done that many a time - yes, and kissed her, too - but she
was a little child then, and Maren her nursemaid. They were both very
fond of each other and that sentiment still held.
Every year at Christmas time supplies for the winter were sent over
from the manor to the tailor's house: a barrel of flour, a pig, two geese, a
cask of butter, cheese and apples. This was a great help to the larder. And
Ivar Gossage actually looked quite pleased, though he soon came back to
his familiar byword, »What's the good?«
It was clean and tidy in the house, with curtains in the windows and

flowers, too, both pinks and yellow balsam. A sampler hung in a picture-
frame; and close beside it a little knitted poem, which Maren Gossage had
written herself, for she knew how to make up rhymes. She was really
rather proud of the name »Gossage«; it was the only word in the language
to rhyme with sausage. »After all,« she said with a laugh, » that's an
advantage we always have over other people. « She was always in good
spirits and never said like her husband, »What's the good?« Her motto
was, »Have faith in yourself and in God!« That's what she did, and it

472
kept everything together. The children were healthy, outgrew their nest,
went ahead and were well-behaved. Rasmus was the youngest. He was
such a lovely child that one of the best artists from the capital borrowed
him to do a painting pf him - as naked as when he first came into the
world. That picture was now hanging in the King's palace, where the
lady of the manor had seen it and recognized little Rasmus, although he
had no clothes on.
But after that came hard times. The tailor got rheumatism in both
hands; they became all knotted. No doctor could do anything, not even
the wise Stine, who went in for »doctoring«.
»We mustn't lose heart,« said Maren. »Never say die! Now we've no
longer got Dad's two hands to help us, I must get all the busier with
mine. Little Rasmus also knows how to use a needle. « He was already
squatting on the table, whistling and singing; he was a merry boy. But
his mother didn't want him to sit there all day; that wouldn't be fair on
the child. He must also run about and play. The clog-maker's Johanna
was his best playfellow; she came of even poorer parents than Rasmus.
She wasn't pretty, and she went bare-legged; her clothes hung in tatters.
She had no one to help with them, and it didn't occur to her to mend
them herself. She was a child, happy as a bird in God's sunshine.
Rasmus and Johanna were playing together by the granite milestone
under the big willow tree.
Rasmus had great ideas. He meant to be a fine tailor one day and live
right in the town, where there were master tailors who had ten men
working together; he had heard about that from his father. He would
begin as a worker by the day, and then he would grow to be a master, and
then Johanna was to come and see him; and if she could cook, well, she
should cook dinner for them all and have a parlour of her own.
Johanna hardly dared to believe in all this, but Rasmus believed that it
could happen all right.
There they sat under the old tree, and the wind sighed in the leaves and
branches; it was as though the wind sang and the tree told the story.

473
 «

In the autumn every single leaf dropped off, and the rain dripped from
the naked branches.
»They'llgrow green again, « said Mother Gossage.
»What's the good?« said her husband. »New year means new worry to
earn a living.
»The larder's full,« said his wife. »We can thank the squire's good lady
for that. I'm in good health and full of energy. It's wicked of us to com-

plain.«
The squire and his family spent Christmas at their house in the coun-
try; but early in the New Year they moved into the capital, where they
passed the winter in a round of pleasure and fun. They were invited to
balls and parties even by the King himself.
The lady had got two expensive dresses from France; their material, cut
and needlework were so fine that the tailor's Maren had never seen any-
thing like it before. So she asked the squire's wife if she might bring her
husband up to the manor, so that he too could see the dresses. It was
certain, she said, that no country tailor had ever seen dresses to compare
with them.
He saw them and hadn't a word to say till he got home, and then what
he said was only what he came out with each time: »What's the good?«
and this time there was some truth in what he said.
Master and mistress went to town. Balls and gaiety were just begin-
ning; but in the middle of everything the old squire died, and his wife
never put on her gorgeous clothes. She was bowed down with sorrow and
was dressed all over in black, in the deepest mourning, not a shred of
white to be seen. All the servants were in black, and even the state coach
was draped in fine black cloth.
It was a night of sharp frost, the snow glittered and the stars were

shining. The melancholy hearse came with the body from the capital to
the private chapel of the manor, where it was to be laid in the family
vault. The agent and the head of the parish council were waiting on

474
 « «

horseback with torches at the churchyard gate. The church was Hghted
up, and the priest stood at the open church-door and received the body.
The coffin was carried up into the chancel, and all the people of the
parish followed it in. The priest gave an address, and a hymn was sung.
The widow, too, was in church; she had driven there in the black-draped
state coach, black inside and out. Nothing like it had ever been seen
before in the parish.
This funeral pomp became the talk of the whole winter, which always
came back to »the squire's funeral«. »You could see there just what the
man stood for,« said the country folk. »He was high-born at birth, and he
was borne high at his funeral.
»What's the good of that?« said the tailor. »Life and property are both
lost to him now. We've at least got one«.
»You mustn't talk like that « said Maren. »He has eternal life in the
kingdom of heaven«.
»Who told you so, Maren? « said the tailor. »Dead men are good ma-
nure. But this man was of course too well-connected to bring benefit to
the soil; he's to be buried in a vault.
»Don't talk so wicked, « said Maren, »I tell you, he has eternal life.«
»Who told you Maren?« repeated the tailor. But Maren threw her
so,
apron over little Rasmus; he mustn't hear such talk. She carried him
across to the peat shed and wept.
»Those words you hear over there, little Rasmus, they weren't your
father's. It was Satan who went through the room and used your father's
voice. Say 'Our Father' - we'll both say it.« And she folded the child's
hands.
»Now I'm happy again, « she said. »Have faith in yourself and in
God!«
The year of mourning had ended, the widow went into half-mourning,
but there were no half-measures about her happiness.
There was a rumour that she had a suitor and was thinking of marry-
ing again. Maren knew something of this, and the parson knew a bit
more.

475
 «

On Palm Sunday, after the sermon, the banns of marriage were to be

pubhshed between the widowed lady and her betrothed. He was a stone-
carver or sculptor - there was some uncertainty as to what his occupa-
tion was called, for at that time the name of Thorvaldsen and his art were
hardly yet talked about. The new squire was not of noble birth, though
certainly a fine figure of a man. He was one, they said, who was some-
thing nobody could understand: he carved figures, was clever at his job,
and was young and handsome.
»What's the good of that?« asked the tailor.
On Palm Sunday the banns were published from the pulpit, after
which came hymnsinging and communion. The tailor was in church
with his wife and little Rasmus. When his parents went up to the altar,
Rasmus stayed in his pew, for he was not confirmed. They had lately
been running short of clothes in the tailor's house; the old ones had been
turned and turned, sewed and patched, but now all three of them were in
new clothes, though they were black ones as if for a funeral because their
clothes were made from the covering used on the funeral coach. The man
had got a coat and trousers from it, Maren a high-necked dress and ,

Rasmus a whole suit to grow in until he was confirmed. The cloth from
both inside and outside the funeral coach had been used. No one need
have known what it had previously been used for; but, all the same,
people did soon get to know: the wise woman, Stine, and one or two
other equally »wise« women who didn't make a living out of their wis-
dom, said that these clothes would bring plague and pestilence to their
home, for »none may get his clothes from a hearse without driving to his
grave.
The clog-maker's Johanna wept when she heard this said; and, as it

happened that from that day the tailor's health grew worse and worse it

would soon be revealed who was to be the victim.

And revealed it was.
On the 1st after Trinity tailor Gossage died. Now Maren would
Sunday
have to keep everything going by herself and she did; kept faith in herself
and in God.
The following year Rasmus was confirmed. Next, he had to go to town
and be apprenticed true, with twelve daily
to a big tailor - not, it's

assistants, butwith one; and little Rasmus might count as another half.
He was happy and looked very pleased, but Johanna wept, for she was
fonder of him than she realized. The tailor's widow stayed in the old
house and carried on the business.
It was about this time that the new highway was opened. The old one,

running past the willow tree and the tailor's house, became a lane. The
pond grew full of weeds; the mere puddle that was left got covered with
duckweed; the milestone gave way - there was nothing for it to stand for -
but the willow tree held on, turdy and beautiful. The wind still sighed in
the leaves and branches.

476
 «

The swallows flew off, the starlings flew off, and yet came back in
they
the spring and, when they now returned for the fourth Rasmus tootime,
came back home. He had finished his apprenticeship and was now a
good-looking, though slight, young man. Now he meant to pack up his
knapsack and see foreign parts; his heart was set on that. But his mother
kept him back; after all, home was the place! The other children were all
scattered about; he was the youngest, and the house was to be his. He
could get plenty of work, if he would go about the district and be a tra-
velling tailor; work, say, two weeks at one house and a couple more at
another. That could also be called travelling. And Rasmus followed his
mother's advice.
So he once more slept in the house where he was born, sat again under
the old willow and heard it sigh.
He was nice-looking, he could whistle like a bird and sing songs new
and old. He was welcome at the big farms, especially at Klaus Hansen's,
the second richest farmer in the parish.
The daughter, Elsa, was like the loveliest flower, and she was always
laughing. In fact, there were people who were unkind enough to say that
she only laughed to show her pretty teeth. She loved to laugh and was
always ready to play pranks; nothing came amiss from her.
She fell in love with Rasmus, and he fell in love with her, but neither
of them said it in so many words.
Then he took to having fits of depression; he had more of his father's
temperament than His spirits only rose when Elsa turned
his mother's.
up; then they would both of them laugh and joke and play pranks but,
although there were plenty of chances, he never hinted a word about his
love. »What's the good?« he thought to himself. »Her parents are hoping
to find her someone who's well off, and I'm not that. The wisest thing
would be for me to clear out.« But he couldn't desert the farm; Elsa had
him fast on a string. With her he was like a bird trained to sing and
whistle at her will and pleasure.
Johanna, daughter of the clog-maker, was merely a servant at the farm,
given humble jobs. She drove the milk-cart out to the fields, where with
the other maids she milked the cows, and she even if need be had to cart
manure. She never came up to the parlour, and she saw little of Rasmus
or Elsa, though she did hear that the two were as good as engaged.
»Yes, Rasmus will soon be well off«, she said. »I don't grudge him
that.« And tears came into her eyes, though there wasn't anything here to
cry about!
It was market-day in the town. Klaus Hansen drove in, and Rasmus

went too. He sat beside Elsa both going there and coming back. He was
head over ears in love, but he didn't say a word about it.
»Well, he'll surely say something to me on the subject, « thought the
young woman, and that was natural enough. »If he doesn't speak, bless
me, I'll give him a fright.

477
 Soon it was being said at the farm that the richest farmer in the parish
had proposed to Elsa, and so he had; but no one knew what answer she
had given him.
Rasmus' brain was in a whirl.
One evening Elsa put a gold ring on her finger and asked Rasmus what
that stood for.
»You're engaged, « he answered.
»And who with, do you think?« she asked.
»With the rich farmer, « he said.
»You've hit it!« she nodded, as she slipped away.
And he too slipped away; rushed home to his mother's house like a
man gone crazy, and packed his knapsack. He was off into the wide
world; his mother's tears were of no avail. He cut himself a stick from the
old willow and began to whistle, as if he were in good spirits. He was
starting out to see all the splendours of the world.
»For me,« said his mother, »it's a sad disappointment. But for you I
dare say it's wisest and best to go away, so I must put up with it. Have
faith in yourself and in God, then I shall soon have you back again,
pleased and happy.
He went by the new high road, and there he saw Johanna driving up
with a load of manure; she hadn't caught sight of him, and he didn't
want her to see him. So he crouched behind the hedge - there he was
hidden - and Johanna drove past.

Up he rose and went out into the world, no one knew where. His
mother thought to herself: »He'll be sure to come home before the year's
out. Now he'll have new things to see, new things to think about, and

478
 «

then once more take up the old ways that can't be ironed out by any
tailor's »goose«. He's got rather too much of his father's temperament;
I'd rather see him with mine, poor child. But he'll come home all right;
he can't turn his back on us altogether, me and the house.
The mother was ready to wait for ages; Elsa only waited a month. At
the end of that time she paid a secret visit to the wise woman, Stine, who
went in for »doctoring«, told fortunes from cards or tea leaves, and knew
a thing or two besides. For instance, she knew where Rasmus was; she
read that from the coffee grounds. He was in a foreign town, but she
couldn't make out the name of it. It was a town with soldiers in it and
charming young ladies. He wasn't sure whether to go for a soldier - or
one of the young ladies.
Elsa couldn't bear to hear this. She would gladly give up her savings to
buy him off, but no one must know it was her.
Old Stine promised he should come back. She knew a magic art, dan-
gerous for the one who came under its spell, but it was the last resort. She
would put on her cauldron to boil for him, and then he would have to
come away wherever he might be; he would have to come home to where
the pot was boiling and his sweetheart awaited him. It might be months
before he came, but come he must - if there was still breath in his body.
Night and day he must keep on the move - without stop or stay, over
lake and mountain, be the weather fair or foul, be he ever so footsore. No
help for it, he should and must come home.
The moon was in its first quarter - as it had to be for this bit of magic,
said old Stine. There was a gale blowing, so that it creaked and groaned
in the old willow tree. Stine cut off a twig and twisted it into a knot; this
would help recall him to his mother's home. Moss and house-leek were
taken from the roof and put into the pot where it stood on the fire. Elsa
had to tear a leaf out of the hymn-book and, as it happened, she tore out

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the last page - the one that gave the misprints. »It makes no odds,« said
Stine and threw the leaf into the pot.
Lots of different things had to go into the broth, which had to boil and
keep on boiling till Rasmus came home. The black cock in Stine's room
had to part with his red comb; it went into the pot. Elsa's heavy gold ring
went and she would never see it again, Stine warned her in
in as well,
advance. She so much, old Stine. Many things that we couldn't put
knew
a name to went into the pot; and all the time it stood on the fire, or on
glowing embers, or on hot ashes. Only she and Elsa knew what was in it.
The moon waxed, and the moon waned. Each time Elsa came and
asked, »Can't you see him coming?«
»Much do I know,« said Stine, »and much do I see, but how far he still
has to travel I cannot see. Now he is over the first mountains, now he is at

sea in bad weather. The way is long, through great forests; he has blisters
on his feet, he has fever in his body; but he must keep moving.
»Oh, no!« said Elsa. »Vm so sorry for him.«
»He mustn't be stopped now; for if we do that, then he'll fall down
dead on the road«...
A long time had passed. The moon was shining round and huge, the
wind was sighing in the old tree, and in the moonlight a rainbow ap-
peared in the sky. »That is a sign to confirm that he's coming, « said
Stine. »Rasmus will soon be here.«
And yet he didn't come.
»It's been a long wait,« said Stine. »Yes, and I'm tired of waiting,«
said Elsa. Now she came less often to Stine and brought her no more
presents. She grew more cheerful, and one fine morning everyone in the
parish heard that Elsa had said yes to the richest farmer.
She went over to look at the house and the land, the cattle and the
furniture. Everything was in good order; there was nothing for the mar-
riage to wait for.
It festivities, which lasted for three days. There
took place with great
was dancing and
to clarinet fiddles. Nobody in the parish was forgotten
in the invitation. Mother Gossage was there too; and when the whole
thing was over, and the caterers had said thank you to the guests, and the
trumpets had sounded the retreat, she went home with left-overs from the
feasting.
She had only fastened the door with a latch; this had been raised, the
door was open, and there in the living-room sat Rasmus. He had come
home - yes, just come home. Heavens above, what a sight he was! Noth-
ing but skin and bone, pale and sallow.
»Rasmus!« exclaimed his mother. »Is that really you? How poorly you
look! But how glad I am to have you!« And she gave him some of the
good food she had brought away from the wedding-feast, a piece of the
roast and some of the wedding-cake.
He told her how in recent times he had often thought of his mother, his

480
 «

home, and the old willow tree. It was strange how often in his dreams he
had seen that tree and Johanna with her bare legs.
He made no mention of Elsa. He was ill and had to go to bed. But we
mustn't suppose that the cauldron had anything to do with this, or that it
had cast a spell over him. Only old Stine and Elsa believed that, but they
said nothing about it.
Rasmus lay in a fever; it was infectious. And so no one called at the
tailor's house except Johanna, the clog-maker's daughter. She wept to see
Rasmus looking so wretched. The doctor gave him a prescription at the
chemist's but he refused to take the medicine. »What's the good?« he said.
»Yes , but that's the way to get better, « said his mother. »Have faith in
yourself and in God. If only I could see you put on weight, hear you
whistle and sing, then I would gladly give up my own life.« And Rasmus
got over his illness, but his mother caught it. God called her away, not
him.
It was lonely in the house, and conditions grew poorer. »He's worn
out,« they said in the parish. »Poor Rasmus !«
He had led a reckless life on his travels; it was that, and not the black
pot on the boil, which had sapped his strength and made him feel so
restless.His hair had turned thin and grey; he had no desire to do any real
work. »What's the good?« he said. He betook himself to the inn rather
than the church.
One autumn evening, in wind and rain, he was struggling along the
muddy lane from the inn to his house; his mother had long ago been laid
in her grave. The swallows and starlings had also gone, the faithful
creatures. But Johanna, the clog-maker's daughter, had not gone; she
overtook him on the road and went along a little way with him. »Pull
yourself together, Rasmus, « she said.
»What's the good?« he replied.
»That's a bad saying of yours,« she said. »Remember what your mother
used to say - 'Have faith in yourself and in God.' You don't, Rasmus, but
you should and must. Never say, 'What's the good?' for, if you do, you
root up all power of action in yourself.
She went with him to his door, and there she left him. He didn't stay in
the house, but made his way under the old willow tree and sat down on a
block of the fallen milestone.
The wind sighed in the branches of the tree; it was like a song, it was
like a story. Rasmus answered he spoke out loud, but no one heard
it;

him - no one but the tree and the sighing wind.

»I feel so cold. I dare say it's time I went to bed. Sleep, sleep!« And he
went, not towards the house, but towards the pond; there he stumbled and
fell. The rain was pouring down, and the wind was icy cold, though he

didn't notice it. But when the sun got up and the crows flew away over
the reeds, he awoke half-dead. Had he laid his head where his feet were
lying, he would never have got up again; the green duckweed would have
been his shroud.
481
 « «

Late in the morning Johanna went to the tailor's house. She was his
help; she got him »We've known each other since we were
to hospital.
children, « she said. »Your mother gave me meat and drink; I shall never
be able to repay her. You'll get your health back; you'll be one to go on
living.
And God willed that he should live on. But his health and his spirits
went up and down.
The swallows and starlings came and went and came again. Rasmus
grew old before his time. All by himself he sat in the house, which fell
more and more into decay. He was a poor man, worse off now than
Johanna.
»You've no faith, « she said, »and without God what have we left? I tell
you what - you should go to communion, « she said. »I don't suppose
you've been since you were confirmed.*
»Yes, but what's the good?« he said.
»If that's your answer and that's your faith, then don't! God wants no
unwilling guest at his table. Still, think of your mother and the time
when you were a child. In those days you were a nice good boy. May I say a
hymn to you?«
»What's the good?« he said.
»I always find it such a comfort, « she answered.
»What a saint you've become, Johanna!« And he looked at hei with
tired listless eyes.
Johanna went through the hymn, but she didn't read it out of a book,
for shehadn't one there; she knew it by heart.
»Those were beautiful words, « he said, » Though I couldn't follow all
the way through. My head feels so heavy.
Rasmus had become an old man, but neither was Elsa any longer
young, if we may venture to name her. Rasmus never mentioned her. She
was now a grandmother. A pert little girl, who was her grandchild, was

482
playing with some other children in the village. Rasmus came along,
leaning on his stick; he stood still and looked smiling at the children's
play, with memories of old times shining through his thoughts. Elsa's
grandchild pointed at him - »poor Rasmus!« she called out. The other
little girls followed her example: »poor Rasmus !« they shouted and ran

screaming after the old man.

It was a grey gloomy day, followed by several more, but after days that

are grey and gloomy comes one also with sunshine. It was a beautiful
Whitsunday morning. The church was decorated with green sprays of
birch, and a smell of the woods had come inside while the sun shone
across the pews. The big altar-candles were alight, for there was commu-
nion, and Johanna was among the kneelers - but not Rasmus. That very
morning he had been called away... With God were mercy and compas-
sion.
Many years have passed since then. The tailor's house is still there, but
no one lives in it. The first gale in the night may sweep it away. The
pond is choked with reeds and marsh trefoil. The wind sighs in the old
tree. It's as though you heard a song; the wind sings it, the tree tells the

story. If you don't understand it, then ask old Johanna in the almshouse.
There she lives and sings her hymn that she sang for Rasmus. She
thinks of him and prays to God for him, faithful soul that she is. She can
tell of the times that are gone, of the memories that sigh in the old tree.

483
 About the Author

Hans Christian Andersen, the son of a poor shoemaker, was

born in the slums of Odense, Denmark, in 1805. At the age of
fourteen he moved to Copenhagen, "in order to become
famous." He worked for a time with the Royal Theater, and
then, in 1828, entered Copenhagen University. Andersen's
first book was published in 1822, but it was not until 1835

that his first four tales for children were published. Ander-
sen's tales were an almost immediate success, and he contin-
ued to write fairy tales and stories until 1872, completing 156
altogether. He died in 1875 at the age of seventy.
 The Pantheon Fairy Tale
8c Folklore Library

Abbey Lubbers, Banshees 8c Boggarts:

An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Fairies
by Katharine Briggs

America in Legend
by Richard M. Dorson

British Folktales
by Katharine Briggs

Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies

translatedand edited by Moss Roberts

The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales

introduced by Padraic Colum

Eighty Fairy Tales

by Hans Christian Andersen

An Encyclopedia of Fairies: Hobgoblins, Brownies,

Bogies, and other Supernatural Creatures
by Katharine Briggs

Gk)ds and Heroes: Myths and Epics of Ancient Greece

by Gustav Schwab

Italian Folktales
selected and retold by Italo Calvino

Nine Lives: Cats in Folklore

by Katharine Briggs

The Norse Myths

introduced and retold by Kevin Crossley- Holland

Norwegian Folk Tales

collected by Peter Christen Asbj(/)rnsen and J^rgen Moe

Russian Fairy Tales

collected by Aleksandr Afanas'ev
 [Continued from front flap]

Richly illustrated throughout with the enchant-

ing artwork of Vilhelm Pedersen and Lorenz
Frolich that appeared in the original Danish
editions of Andersen's work. Eighty Fairy Tales is

a delight and a treasure no family's bookshelf

should be without.

Hans Christian Andersen, the son of a poor

shoemaker, was born in the slums of Odense,

Denmark, in At the age of fourteen he

1805.
moved to Copenhagen, "in order to become fa-
mous." He worked for a time with the Royal Thea-
ter, and then, in 1828, entered Copenhagen

University. Andersen's first book was published

in 1822, but it was not until 1835 that his first

four tales for children were published. The tales

were an almost immediate success, and he contin-

ued to write fairy tales and stories until 1872,
completing 156 altogether. He died in 1875 at
the age of 70.

Jacket illustration by David Frampton

Jacket design by Louise Fill

Pantheon Books, New York

9/82 Printed In the U.S.A. ©1982 Random House, Inc.

 From the Introduction by Elias Bredsdorff :

Let me [quote] Andersen's own definition of the literary genre

in which he was, and still is, the unsurpassed master:

In the whole realm of poetry no domain is so boundless as

that of the fairy tale. It reaches from the blood-drenched
graves of antiquity to the pious legends of a child's picture-
book; it takes in the poetry of the people and the poetry
of the artist. To me it represents all poetry, and he who
masters it must be able to put into it tragedy, comedy,
naiVe simplicity, and humor.... In the folk tale it is always
Simple Simon who is victorious in the end....Thus also the
innocence of poetry, overlooked and jeered at by the
other brothers, will reach farthest in the end.

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