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"But how can one flower tell another? Flowers cannot speak?"

"No, certainly not," replied the student; "but they can makesigns. Have you not often seen that when the wind blows they nod atone another, and rustle all their green leaves?"

"Can the professor understand the signs?" asked Ida.

"Yes, to be sure he can. He went one morning into his garden,and saw a stinging nettle making signs with its leaves to abeautiful red carnation. It was saying, 'You are so pretty, I like youvery much.' But the professor did not approve of such nonsense, sohe clapped his hands on the nettle to stop it. Then the leaves,which are its fingers, stung him so sharply that he has never venturedto touch a nettle since."

"Oh how funny!" said Ida, and she laughed.

"How can anyone put such notions into a child's head?" said atiresome lawyer, who had come to pay a visit, and sat on the sofa.He did not like the student, and would grumble when he saw him cuttingout droll or amusing pictures. Sometimes it would be a man hangingon a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand as if he had been stealinghearts. Sometimes it was an old witch riding through the air on abroom and carrying her husband on her nose. But the lawyer did notlike such jokes, and he would say as he had just said, "How can anyoneput such nonsense into a child's head! what absurd fancies there are!"

But to little Ida, all these stories which the student told herabout the flowers, seemed very droll, and she thought over them agreat deal. The flowers did hang their heads, because they had beendancing all night, and were very tired, and most likely they were ill.Then she took them into the room where a number of toys lay on apretty little table, and the whole of the table drawer besides wasfull of beautiful things. Her doll Sophy lay in the doll's bed asleep,and little Ida said to her, "You must really get up Sophy, and becontent to lie in the drawer to-night; the poor flowers are ill, andthey must lie in your bed, then perhaps they will get well again."So she took the doll out, who looked quite cross, and said not asingle word, for she was angry at being turned out of her bed. Idaplaced the flowers in the doll's bed, and drew the quilt over them.Then she told them to lie quite still and be good, while she made sometea for them, so that they might be quite well and able to get upthe next morning. And she drew the curtains close round the littlebed, so that the sun might not shine in their eyes. During the wholeevening she could not help thinking of what the student had toldher. And before she went to bed herself, she was obliged to peepbehind the curtains into the garden where all her mother's beautifulflowers grew, hyacinths and tulips, and many others. Then shewhispered to them quite softly, "I know you are going to a ballto-night." But the flowers appeared as if they did not understand, andnot a leaf moved; still Ida felt quite sure she knew all about it. Shelay awake a long time after she was in bed, thinking how pretty itmust be to see all the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's garden."I wonder if my flowers have really been there," she said toherself, and then she fell asleep. In the night she awoke; she hadbeen dreaming of the flowers and of the student, as well as of thetiresome lawyer who found fault with him. It was quite still inIda's bedroom; the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father andmother were asleep. "I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy'sbed," she thought to herself; "how much I should like to know." Sheraised herself a little, and glanced at the door of the room where allher flowers and playthings lay; it was partly open, and as shelistened, it seemed as if some one in the room was playing thepiano, but softly and more prettily than she had ever before heard it."Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there," she thought, "ohhow much I should like to see them," but she did not dare move forfear of disturbing her father and mother. "If they would only comein here," she thought; but they did not come, and the musiccontinued to play so beautifully, and was so pretty, that she couldresist no longer. She crept out of her little bed, went softly tothe door and looked into the room. Oh what a splendid sight therewas to be sure! There was no night-lamp burning, but the room appearedquite light, for the moon shone through the window upon the floor, andmade it almost like day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in twolong rows down the room, not a single flower remained in the window,and the flower-pots were all empty. The flowers were dancinggracefully on the floor, making turns and holding each other bytheir long green leaves as they swung round. At the piano sat alarge yellow lily which little Ida was sure she had seen in thesummer, for she remembered the student saying she was very much likeMiss Lina, one of Ida's friends. They all laughed at him then, but nowit seemed to little Ida as if the tall, yellow flower was reallylike the young lady. She had just the same manners while playing,bending her long yellow face from side to side, and nodding in time tothe beautiful music. Then she saw a large purple crocus jump intothe middle of the table where the playthings stood, go up to thedoll's bedstead and draw back the curtains; there lay the sickflowers, but they got up directly, and nodded to the others as asign that they wished to dance with them. The old rough doll, with thebroken mouth, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers. They did notlook ill at all now, but jumped about and were very merry, yet none ofthem noticed little Ida. Presently it seemed as if something fell fromthe table. Ida looked that way, and saw a slight carnival rodjumping down among the flowers as if it belonged to them; it was,however, very smooth and neat, and a little wax doll with a broadbrimmed hat on her head, like the one worn by the lawyer, sat upon it.The carnival rod hopped about among the flowers on its three redstilted feet, and stamped quite loud when it danced the Mazurka; theflowers could not perform this dance, they were too light to stampin that manner. All at once the wax doll which rode on the carnivalrod seemed to grow larger and taller, and it turned round and saidto the paper flowers, "How can you put such things in a child'shead? they are all foolish fancies;" and then the doll was exactlylike the lawyer with the broad brimmed hat, and looked as yellow andas cross as he did; but the paper dolls struck him on his thin legs,and he shrunk up again and became quite a little wax doll. This wasvery amusing, and Ida could not help laughing. The carnival rod wenton dancing, and the lawyer was obliged to dance also. It was no use,he might make himself great and tall, or remain a little wax doll witha large black hat; still he must dance. Then at last the other flowersinterceded for him, especially those who had lain in the doll's bed,and the carnival rod gave up his dancing. At the same moment a loudknocking was heard in the drawer, where Ida's doll Sophy lay with manyother toys. Then the rough doll ran to the end of the table, laidhimself flat down upon it, and began to pull the drawer out a littleway.

Then Sophy raised himself, and looked round quite astonished,"There must be a ball here to-night," said Sophy. "Why did notsomebody tell me?"

"Will you dance with me?" said the rough doll.

"You are the right sort to dance with, certainly," said she,turning her back upon him.

Then she seated herself on the edge of the drawer, and thoughtthat perhaps one of the flowers would ask her to dance; but none ofthem came. Then she coughed, "Hem, hem, a-hem;" but for all that notone came. The shabby doll now danced quite alone, and not verybadly, after all. As none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophy, shelet herself down from the drawer to the floor, so as to make a verygreat noise. All the flowers came round her directly, and asked if shehad hurt herself, especially those who had lain in her bed. But shewas not hurt at all, and Ida's flowers thanked her for the use ofthe nice bed, and were very kind to her. They led her into themiddle of the room, where the moon shone, and danced with her, whileall the other flowers formed a circle round them. Then Sophy wasvery happy, and said they might keep her bed; she did not mind lyingin the drawer at all. But the flowers thanked her very much, andsaid,-

"We cannot live long. To-morrow morning we shall be quite dead;and you must tell little Ida to bury us in the garden, near to thegrave of the canary; then, in the summer we shall wake up and bemore beautiful than ever."

"No, you must not die," said Sophy, as she kissed the flowers.

Then the door of the room opened, and a number of beautifulflowers danced in. Ida could not imagine where they could come from,unless they were the flowers from the king's garden. First came twolovely roses, with little golden crowns on their heads; these were theking and queen. Beautiful stocks and carnations followed, bowing toevery one present. They had also music with them. Large poppies andpeonies had pea-shells for instruments, and blew into them till theywere quite red in the face. The bunches of blue hyacinths and thelittle white snowdrops jingled their bell-like flowers, as if theywere real bells. Then came many more flowers: blue violets, purpleheart's-ease, daisies, and lilies of the valley, and they all dancedtogether, and kissed each other. It was very beautiful to behold.

At last the flowers wished each other good-night. Then littleIda crept back into her bed again, and dreamt of all she had seen.When she arose the next morning, she went quickly to the little table,to see if the flowers were still there. She drew aside the curtains ofthe little bed. There they all lay, but quite faded; much more so thanthe day before. Sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida had placedher; but she looked very sleepy.

"Do you remember what the flowers told you to say to me?" saidlittle Ida. But Sophy looked quite stupid, and said not a single word.

"You are not kind at all," said Ida; "and yet they all danced withyou."

Then she took a little paper box, on which were paintedbeautiful birds, and laid the dead flowers in it.

"This shall be your pretty coffin," she said; "and by and by, whenmy cousins come to visit me, they shall help me to bury you out in thegarden; so that next summer you may grow up again more beautifulthan ever."

Her cousins were two good-tempered boys, whose names were Jamesand Adolphus. Their father had given them each a bow and arrow, andthey had brought them to show Ida. She told them about the poorflowers which were dead; and as soon as they obtained permission, theywent with her to bury them. The two boys walked first, with theircrossbows on their shoulders, and little Ida followed, carrying thepretty box containing the dead flowers. They dug a little grave in thegarden. Ida kissed her flowers and then laid them, with the box, inthe earth. James and Adolphus then fired their crossbows over thegrave, as they had neither guns nor cannons.

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

LITTLE TINY OR THUMBELINA

by Hans Christian Andersen

THERE was once a woman who wished very much to have a littlechild, but she could not obtain her wish. At last she went to a fairy,and said, "I should so very much like to have a little child; canyou tell me where I can find one?"

"Oh, that can be easily managed," said the fairy. "Here is abarleycorn of a different kind to those which grow in the farmer'sfields, and which the chickens eat; put it into a flower-pot, andsee what will happen."

"Thank you," said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelveshillings, which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went homeand planted it, and immediately there grew up a large handsome flower,something like a tulip in appearance, but with its leaves tightlyclosed as if it were still a bud. "It is a beautiful flower," said thewoman, and she kissed the red and golden-colored leaves, and while shedid so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a realtulip. Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a verydelicate and graceful little maiden. She was scarcely half as longas a thumb, and they gave her the name of "Thumbelina," or Tiny,because she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly polished, servedher for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet-leaves, with arose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during theday she amused herself on a table, where the woman had placed aplateful of water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with theirstems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, whichserved Tiny for a boat. Here the little maiden sat and rowed herselffrom side to side, with two oars made of white horse-hair. It reallywas a very pretty sight. Tiny could, also, sing so softly andsweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard.One night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toadcrept through a broken pane of glass in the window, and leaped rightupon the table where Tiny lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt."What a pretty little wife this would make for my son, said thetoad, and she took up the walnut-shell in which little Tiny layasleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden.

In the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived thetoad, with her son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when hesaw the pretty little maiden in her elegant bed, he could only cry,"Croak, croak, croak."

"Don't speak so loud, or she will wake," said the toad, "andthen she might run away, for she is as light as swan's down. We willplace her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream; it willbe like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then shecannot escape; and, while she is away, we will make haste andprepare the state-room under the marsh, in which you are to livewhen you are married."

Far out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broadgreen leaves, which seemed to float on the top of the water. Thelargest of these leaves appeared farther off than the rest, and theold toad swam out to it with the walnut-shell, in which little Tinylay still asleep. The tiny little creature woke very early in themorning, and began to cry bitterly when she found where she was, forshe could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf,and no way of reaching the land. Meanwhile the old toad was verybusy under the marsh, decking her room with rushes and wild yellowflowers, to make it look pretty for her new daughter-in-law. Thenshe swam out with her ugly son to the leaf on which she had placedpoor little Tiny. She wanted to fetch the pretty bed, that she mightput it in the bridal chamber to be ready for her. The old toad bowedlow to her in the water, and said, "Here is my son, he will be yourhusband, and you will live happily in the marsh by the stream."

"Croak, croak, croak," was all her son could say for himself; sothe toad took up the elegant little bed, and swam away with it,leaving Tiny all alone on the green leaf, where she sat and wept.She could not bear to think of living with the old toad, and havingher ugly son for a husband. The little fishes, who swam about in thewater beneath, had seen the toad, and heard what she said, so theylifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden. Assoon as they caught sight of her, they saw she was very pretty, and itmade them very sorry to think that she must go and live with theugly toads. "No, it must never be!" so they assembled together inthe water, round the green stalk which held the leaf on which thelittle maiden stood, and gnawed it away at the root with theirteeth. Then the leaf floated down the stream, carrying Tiny far awayout of reach of land.

Tiny sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushessaw her, and sang, "What a lovely little creature;" so the leaf swamaway with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands.A graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her,and at last alighted on the leaf. Tiny pleased him, and she was gladof it, for now the toad could not possibly reach her, and thecountry through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone uponthe water, till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdleand tied one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of theribbon she fastened to the leaf, which now glided on much fasterthan ever, taking little Tiny with it as she stood. Presently alarge cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught sight of her, he seizedher round her delicate waist with his claws, and flew with her intoa tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterflyflew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away.

Oh, how frightened little Tiny felt when the cockchafer flewwith her to the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautifulwhite butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he couldnot free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did nottrouble himself at all about the matter. He seated himself by her sideon a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat,and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like acockchafer. After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers,and said, "She has only two legs! how ugly that looks." "She has nofeelers," said another. "Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is likea human being."

"Oh! she is ugly," said all the lady cockchafers, although Tinywas very pretty. Then the cockchafer who had run away with her,believed all the others when they said she was ugly, and would havenothing more to say to her, and told her she might go where she liked.Then he flew down with her from the tree, and placed her on a daisy,and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even thecockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while shewas really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and astender and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf. During the wholesummer poor little Tiny lived quite alone in the wide forest. She woveherself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf,to protect herself from the rain. She sucked the honey from theflowers for food, and drank the dew from their leaves every morning.So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter,-the long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetlywere flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The largeclover leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolledtogether and shrivelled up, nothing remained but a yellow witheredstalk. She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and shewas herself so frail and delicate, that poor little Tiny was nearlyfrozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes, as theyfell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, forwe are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herselfup in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keepher warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she hadbeen living lay a corn-field, but the corn had been cut a long time;nothing remained but the bare dry stubble standing up out of thefrozen ground. It was to her like struggling through a large wood. Oh!how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of afield-mouse, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. Theredwelt the field-mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful ofcorn, a kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor little Tiny stoodbefore the door just like a little beggar-girl, and begged for a smallpiece of barley-corn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for twodays.

"You poor little creature," said the field-mouse, who was really agood old field-mouse, "come into my warm room and dine with me." Shewas very pleased with Tiny, so she said, "You are quite welcome tostay with me all the winter, if you like; but you must keep my roomsclean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear themvery much." And Tiny did all the field-mouse asked her, and foundherself very comfortable.

"We shall have a visitor soon," said the field-mouse one day;"my neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than Iam; he has large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. Ifyou could only have him for a husband, you would be well providedfor indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him some of yourprettiest stories.

But Tiny did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, forhe was a mole. However, he came and paid his visit dressed in hisblack velvet coat.

"He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times largerthan mine," said the field-mouse.

He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightinglyof the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them.Tiny was obliged to sing to him, "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly awayhome," and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with herbecause she had such a sweet voice; but he said nothing yet, for hewas very cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a longpassage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of thefield-mouse to his own, and here she had permission to walk withTiny whenever she liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at thesight of a dead bird which lay in the passage. It was a perfectbird, with a beak and feathers, and could not have been dead long, andwas lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took apiece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth, and it glittered likefire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through thelong, dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the deadbird, the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, the earthgave way, so that there was a large hole, and the daylight shoneinto the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, hisbeautiful wings pulled close to his sides, his feet and his head drawnup under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of the cold.It made little Tiny very sad to see it, she did so love the littlebirds; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her sobeautifully. But the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs, andsaid, "He will sing no more now. How miserable it must be to be born alittle bird! I am thankful that none of my children will ever bebirds, for they can do nothing but cry, 'Tweet, tweet,' and always dieof hunger in the winter."

"Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!" exclaimed thefield-mouse, "What is the use of his twittering, for when winter comeshe must either starve or be frozen to death. Still birds are very highbred."

Tiny said nothing; but when the two others had turned theirbacks on the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the softfeathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids."Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer,"she said; "and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird."

The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone,and then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny couldnot sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet ofhay; then she carried it to the dead bird, and spread it over him;with some down from the flowers which she had found in thefield-mouse's room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread some ofit on each side of the bird, so that he might lie warmly in the coldearth. "Farewell, you pretty little bird," said she, "farewell;thank you for your delightful singing during the summer, when allthe trees were green, and the warm sun shone upon us. Then she laidher head on the bird's breast, but she was alarmed immediately, for itseemed as if something inside the bird went "thump, thump." It was thebird's heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, andthe warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the swallows flyaway into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the coldseizes it, it becomes frozen, and falls down as if dead; it remainswhere it fell, and the cold snow covers it. Tiny trembled very much;she was quite frightened, for the bird was large, a great deallarger than herself,- she was only an inch high. But she took courage,laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow, and then took a leafwhich she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it over thehead of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to seehim. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for amoment to look at Tiny, who stood by holding a piece of decayed woodin her hand, for she had no other lantern. "Thank you, pretty littlemaiden," said the sick swallow; "I have been so nicely warmed, thatI shall soon regain my strength, and be able to fly about again in thewarm sunshine."

"Oh," said she, "it is cold out of doors now; it snows andfreezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you."

Then she brought the swallow some water in a flower-leaf, andafter he had drank, he told her that he had wounded one of his wingsin a thorn-bush, and could not fly as fast as the others, who weresoon far away on their journey to warm countries. Then at last hehad fallen to the earth, and could remember no more, nor how he cameto be where she had found him. The whole winter the swallow remainedunderground, and Tiny nursed him with care and love. Neither themole nor the field-mouse knew anything about it, for they did not likeswallows. Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed theearth. Then the swallow bade farewell to Tiny, and she opened the holein the ceiling which the mole had made. The sun shone in upon themso beautifully, that the swallow asked her if she would go with him;she could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with herinto the green woods. But Tiny knew it would make the field-mouse verygrieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, "No, I cannot."

"Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden," saidthe swallow; and he flew out into the sunshine.

Tiny looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She wasvery fond of the poor swallow.

"Tweet, tweet," sang the bird, as he flew out into the greenwoods, and Tiny felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out intothe warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field overthe house of the field-mouse had grown up high into the air, andformed a thick wood to Tiny, who was only an inch in height.

"You are going to be married, Tiny," said the field-mouse. "Myneighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child likeyou. Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be bothwoollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the mole'swife."

Tiny had to turn the spindle, and the field-mouse hired fourspiders, who were to weave day and night. Every evening the molevisited her, and was continually speaking of the time when thesummer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day with Tiny;but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth, andmade it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, thewedding should take place. But Tiny was not at all pleased; for shedid not like the tiresome mole. Every morning when the sun rose, andevery evening when it went down, she would creep out at the door,and as the wind blew aside the ears of corn, so that she could see theblue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there,and wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he neverreturned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely greenforest.

When autumn arrived, Tiny had her outfit quite ready; and thefield-mouse said to her, "In four weeks the wedding must take place."

Then Tiny wept, and said she would not marry the disagreeablemole.

"Nonsense," replied the field-mouse. "Now don't be obstinate, or Ishall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome mole; thequeen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. Hiskitchen and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankfulfor such good fortune."

So the wedding-day was fixed, on which the mole was to fetchTiny away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again tosee the warm sun, because he did not like it. The poor child wasvery unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun,and as the field-mouse had given her permission to stand at thedoor, she went to look at it once more.

"Farewell bright sun," she cried, stretching out her arm towardsit; and then she walked a short distance from the house; for thecorn had been cut, and only the dry stubble remained in the fields."Farewell, farewell," she repeated, twining her arm round a little redflower that grew just by her side. "Greet the little swallow fromme, if you should see him again."

"Tweet, tweet," sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, andthere was the swallow himself flying close by. As soon as he spiedTiny, he was delighted; and then she told him how unwilling she feltto marry the ugly mole, and to live always beneath the earth, andnever to see the bright sun any more. And as she told him she wept.

"Cold winter is coming," said the swallow, "and I am going tofly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on myback, and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away fromthe ugly mole and his gloomy rooms,- far away, over the mountains,into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly- thanhere; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greaterbeauty. Fly now with me, dear little Tiny; you saved my life when Ilay frozen in that dark passage."

"Yes, I will go with you," said Tiny; and she seated herself onthe bird's back, with her feet on his outstretched wings, and tied hergirdle to one of his strongest feathers.

Then the swallow rose in the air, and flew over forest and oversea, high above the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Tinywould have been frozen in the cold air, but she crept under the bird'swarm feathers, keeping her little head uncovered, so that she mightadmire the beautiful lands over which they passed. At length theyreached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly, and the skyseems so much higher above the earth. Here, on the hedges, and bythe wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons andoranges hung from trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant withmyrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along thecountry lanes, playing with large gay butterflies; and as theswallow flew farther and farther, every place appeared still morelovely.

At last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded bytrees of the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble,built in the olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, andat the top were many swallows' nests, and one of these was the home ofthe swallow who carried Tiny.

"This is my house," said the swallow; "but it would not do for youto live there- you would not be comfortable. You must choose foryourself one of those lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it,and then you shall have everything that you can wish to make youhappy."

"That will be delightful," she said, and clapped her littlehands for joy.

A large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, hadbeen broken into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the mostbeautiful large white flowers; so the swallow flew down with Tiny, andplaced her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised she was tosee in the middle of the flower, a tiny little man, as white andtransparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had a gold crownon his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was not muchlarger than Tiny herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a tinyman and a tiny woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king ofthem all.

"Oh, how beautiful he is!" whispered Tiny to the swallow.

The little prince was at first quite frightened at the bird, whowas like a giant, compared to such a delicate little creature ashimself; but when he saw Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her theprettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crownfrom his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if shewould be his wife, and queen over all the flowers.

This certainly was a very different sort of husband to the sonof a toad, or the mole, with my black velvet and fur; so she said,"Yes," to the handsome prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out ofeach came a little lady or a tiny lord, all so pretty it was quite apleasure to look at them. Each of them brought Tiny a present; but thebest gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which had belonged to a largewhite fly and they fastened them to Tiny's shoulders, so that shemight fly from flower to flower. Then there was much rejoicing, andthe little swallow who sat above them, in his nest, was asked tosing a wedding song, which he did as well as he could; but in hisheart he felt sad for he was very fond of Tiny, and would have likednever to part from her again.

"You must not be called Tiny any more," said the spirit of theflowers to her. "It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. Wewill call you Maia."

"Farewell, farewell," said the swallow, with a heavy heart as heleft the warm countries to fly back into Denmark. There he had anest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairytales. The swallow sang, "Tweet, tweet," and from his song came thewhole story.

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

LITTLE TUK

by Hans Christian Andersen

YES, they called him Little Tuk, but it was not his real name;he had called himself so before he could speak plainly, and he meantit for Charles. It was all very well for those who knew him, but notfor strangers.

Little Tuk was left at home to take care of his little sister,Gustava, who was much younger than himself, and he had to learn hislessons at the same time, and the two things could not very well beperformed together. The poor boy sat there with his sister on his lap,and sung to her all the songs he knew, and now and then he looked intohis geography lesson that lay open before him. By the next morninghe had to learn by heart all the towns in Zealand, and all thatcould be described of them.

His mother came home at last, and took little Gustava in her arms.Then Tuk ran to the window, and read so eagerly that he nearly readhis eyes out; for it had become darker and darker every minute, andhis mother had no money to buy a light.

"There goes the old washerwoman up the lane," said the mother,as she looked out of the window; "the poor woman can hardly dragherself along, and now she had to drag a pail of water from thewell. Be a good boy, Tuk, and run across and help the old woman, won'tyou?"

So Tuk ran across quickly, and helped her, but when he came backinto the room it was quite dark, and there was not a word said about alight, so he was obliged to go to bed on his little trucklebedstead, and there he lay and thought of his geography lesson, and ofZealand, and of all the master had told him. He ought really to haveread it over again, but he could not for want of light. So he putthe geography book under his pillow, for he had heard that this wasa great help towards learning a lesson, but not always to bedepended upon. He still lay thinking and thinking, when all at once itseemed as if some one kissed him on his eyes and mouth. He slept andyet he did not sleep; and it appeared as if the old washerwoman lookedat him with kind eyes and said, "It would be a great pity if you didnot know your lesson to-morrow morning; you helped me, and now Iwill help you, and Providence will always keep those who helpthemselves;" and at the same time the book under Tuk's pillow began tomove about. "Cluck, cluck, cluck," cried a hen as she crept towardshim. "I am a hen from Kjoge," and then she told him how manyinhabitants the town contained, and about a battle that had beenfought there, which really was not worth speaking of.

"Crack, crack," down fell something. It was a wooden bird, theparrot which is used as a target as Prastoe. He said there were asmany inhabitants in that town as he had nails in his body. He was veryproud, and said, "Thorwalsden lived close to me, and here I am now,quite comfortable."

But now little Tuk was no longer in bed; all in a moment hefound himself on horseback. Gallop, gallop, away he went, seated infront of a richly-attired knight, with a waving plume, who held him onthe saddle, and so they rode through the wood by the old town ofWordingburg, which was very large and busy. The king's castle wassurrounded by lofty towers, and radiant light streamed from all thewindows. Within there were songs and dancing; King Waldemar and theyoung gayly-dressed ladies of the court were dancing together. Morningdawned, and as the sun rose, the whole city and the king's castle sanksuddenly down together. One tower after another fell, till at lastonly one remained standing on the hill where the castle had formerlybeen.

The town now appeared small and poor, and the school-boys readin their books, which they carried under their arms, that it containedtwo thousand inhabitants; but this was a mere boast, for it did notcontain so many.

And again little Tuk lay in his bed, scarcely knowing whether hewas dreaming or not, for some one stood by him.

"Tuk! little Tuk!" said a voice. It was a very little person whospoke. He was dressed as a sailor, and looked small enough to be amiddy, but he was not one. "I bring you many greetings from Corsor. Itis a rising town, full of life. It has steamships and mail-coaches. Intimes past they used to call it ugly, but that is no longer true. Ilie on the sea-shore," said Corsor; "I have high-roads andpleasure-gardens; I have given birth to a poet who was witty andentertaining, which they are not all. I once wanted to fit out aship to sail round the world, but I did not accomplish it, though mostlikely I might have done so. But I am fragrant with perfume, for closeto my gates most lovely roses bloom."

Then before the eyes of little Tuk appeared a confusion of colors,red and green; but it cleared off, and he could distinguish a cliffclose to the bay, the slopes of which were quite overgrown withverdure, and on its summit stood a fine old church with pointedtowers. Springs of water flowed out of the cliff in thick waterspouts,so that there was a continual splashing. Close by sat an old king witha golden crown on his white head. This was King Hroar of the Springsand near the springs stood the town of Roeskilde, as it is called.Then all the kings and queens of Denmark went up the ascent to the oldchurch, hand in hand, with golden crowns on their heads, while theorgan played and the fountains sent forth jets of water.

Little Tuk saw and heard it all. "Don't forget the names ofthese towns," said King Hroar.

All at once everything vanished; but where! It seemed to himlike turning over the leaves of a book. And now there stood before himan old peasant woman, who had come from Soroe where the grass grows inthe market-place. She had a green linen apron thrown over her head andshoulders, and it was quite wet, as if it had been raining heavily."Yes, that it has," said she, and then, just as she was going totell him a great many pretty stories from Holberg's comedies, andabout Waldemar and Absalom, she suddenly shrunk up together, andwagged her head as if she were a frog about to spring. "Croak," shecried; "it is always wet, and as quiet as death in Soroe." Then littleTuk saw she was changed into a frog. "Croak," and again she was an oldwoman. "One must dress according to the weather," said she. "It iswet, and my town is just like a bottle. By the cork we must go in, andby the cork we must come out again. In olden times I had beautifulfish, and now I have fresh, rosy-cheeked boys in the bottom of thebottle, and they learn wisdom, Hebrew and Greek."

"Croak." How it sounded like the cry of the frogs on the moor,or like the creaking of great boots when some one is marching,- alwaysthe same tone, so monotonous and wearing, that little Tuk at lengthfell fast asleep, and then the sound could not annoy him. But evenin this sleep came a dream or something like it. His little sisterGustava, with her blue eyes, and fair curly hair, had grown up abeautiful maiden all at once, and without having wings she couldfly. And they flew together over Zealand, over green forests andblue lakes.

"Hark, so you hear the cock crow, little Tuk. 'Cock-a-doodle-doo.'The fowls are flying out of Kjoge. You shall have a large farm-yard.You shall never suffer hunger or want. The bird of good omen shallbe yours, and you shall become a rich and happy man; your houseshall rise up like King Waldemar's towers, and shall be richly adornedwith marble statues, like those at Prastoe. Understand me well; yourname shall travel with fame round the world like the ship that wasto sail from Corsor, and at Roeskilde,- Don't forget the names ofthe towns, as King Hroar said,- you shall speak well and clearlylittle Tuk, and when at last you lie in your grave you shall sleeppeacefully, as-"

"As if I lay in Soroe," said little Tuk awaking. It was brightdaylight, and he could not remember his dream, but that was notnecessary, for we are not to know what will happen to us in thefuture. Then he sprang out of bed quickly, and read over his lesson inthe book, and knew it all at once quite correctly. The old washerwomanput her head in at the door, and nodded to him quite kindly, and said,"Many thanks, you good child, for your help yesterday. I hope all yourbeautiful dreams will come true."

Little Tuk did not at all know what he had dreamt, but One abovedid.

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

OLE THE TOWER-KEEPER

by Hans Christian Andersen

"IN the world it's always going up and down; and now I can't go upany higher!" So said Ole the tower-keeper. "Most people have to tryboth the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get tobe watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height."

Such was the speech of Ole, my friend, the old tower-keeper, astrange, talkative old fellow, who seemed to speak out everything thatcame into his head, and who for all that had many a serious thoughtdeep in his heart. Yes, he was the child of respectable people, andthere were even some who said that he was the son of a privycouncillor, or that he might have been. He had studied, too, and hadbeen assistant teacher and deputy clerk; but of what service was allthat to him? In those days he lived in the clerk's house, and was tohave everything in the house- to be at free quarters, as the sayingis; but he was still, so to speak, a fine young gentleman. He wantedto have his boots cleaned with patent blacking, and the clerk couldonly afford ordinary grease; and upon that point they split. One spokeof stinginess, the other of vanity, and the blacking became theblack cause of enmity between them, and at last they parted.

This is what he demanded of the world in general, namely, patentblacking, and he got nothing but grease. Accordingly, he at lastdrew back from all men, and became a hermit; but the church tower isthe only place in a great city where hermitage, office and bread canbe found together. So he betook himself up thither, and smoked hispipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward,and had his own thoughts, and told in his own way of what he read inbooks and in himself. I often lent him books- good books; and youmay know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the Englishgoverness novels nor the French ones, which he called a mixture ofempty wind and raisin-stalks: he wanted biographies, anddescriptions of the wonders of, the world. I visited him at least oncea year, generally directly after New Year's day, and then he alwaysspoke of this and that which the change of the year had put into hishead.

I will tell the story of three of these visits, and will reproducehis own words whenever I can remember them.

FIRST VISIT

Among the books which I had lately lent Ole, was one which hadgreatly rejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book,containing an account of the boulders.

"Yes, they're rare old fellows, those boulders!" he said; "andto think that we should pass them without noticing them! And overthe street pavement, the paving stones, those fragments of theoldest remains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking aboutthem. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfullyat every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me withthought, and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romanceof the earth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It's apity one can't read the first volume of it, because it is written in alanguage that we don't understand. One must read in the differentstrata, in the pebble-stones, for each separate period. Yes, it is aromance, a very wonderful romance, and we all have our place in it. Wegrope and ferret about, and yet remain where we are; but the ballkeeps turning, without emptying the ocean over us; the clod on whichwe move about, holds, and does not let us through. And then it's astory that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years andis still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders.Those are fellows indeed! They could tell us something worthhearing, if they only knew how to talk. It's really a pleasure now andthen to become a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highlyplaced as I am. And then to think that we all, even with patentlacquer, are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hillthe earth, though we may be insects with stars and garters, places andoffices! One feels quite a novice beside these venerablemillion-year-old boulders. On last New Year's eve I was reading thebook, and had lost myself in it so completely, that I forgot myusual New Year's diversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amack. Ah, youdon't know what that is!

"The journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known-that journey is taken on St. John's eve, to the Brocken; but we have awild journey, also which is national and modern, and that is thejourney to Amack on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poetsand poetesses, musicians, newspaper writers, and artisticnotabilities,- I mean those who are no good,- ride in the New Year'snight through the air to Amack. They sit backwards on their paintingbrushes or quill pens, for steel pens won't bear them- they're toostiff. As I told you, I see that every New Year's night, and couldmention the majority of the riders by name, but I should not like todraw their enmity upon myself, for they don't like people to talkabout their ride to Amack on quill pens. I've a kind of niece, whois a fishwife, and who, as she tells me, supplies three respectablenewspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use, andshe has herself been at Amack as an invited guest; but she was carriedout thither, for she does not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. Shehas told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true, but theother half gives us information enough. When she was out there, thefestivities began with a song; each of the guests had written hisown song, and each one sang his own song, for he thought that thebest, and it was all one, all the same melody. Then those camemarching up, in little bands, who are only busy with their mouths.There were ringing bells that rang alternately; and then came thelittle drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle; andacquaintance was made with those who write without putting theirnames, which here means as much as using grease instead of patentblacking; and then there was the beadle with his boy, and the boywas worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then,too, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns overthe dust-bin, and calls it 'good, very good, remarkably good.' Andin the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meetingof these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amack astem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof,which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in ithung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Outof the tree poured sparks like flames of fire; these were the ideasand thoughts, borrowed from others, which they had used, and which nowgot free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at 'thestick burns,' and the young poets played at 'heart-burns,' and thewitlings played off their jests, and the jests rolled away with athundering sound, as if empty pots were being shattered against doors.'It was very amusing!' my niece said; in fact, she said many thingsthat were very malicious but very amusing, but I won't mention them,for a man must be good-natured, and not a carping critic. But you willeasily perceive that when a man once knows the rights of the journeyto Amack, as I know them, it's quite natural that on the New Year'snight one should look out to see the wild chase go by. If in the NewYear I miss certain persons who used to be there, I am sure tonotice others who are new arrivals; but this year I omitted takingmy look at the guests, I bowled away on the boulders, rolled backthrough millions of years, and saw the stones break loose high up inthe north, saw them drifting about on icebergs, long before Noah's arkwas constructed, saw them sink down to the bottom of the sea, andre-appear with a sand-bank, with that one that peered forth from theflood and said, 'This shall be Zealand!' I saw them become thedwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us, and then become theseat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing, until with their axesthey cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones, which then cameinto the calendar of time. But as for me, I had gone quite beyondall lapse of time, and had become a cipher and a nothing. Then threeor four beautiful falling stars came down, which cleared the air,and gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a falling staris, do you not? The learned men are not at all clear about it. Ihave my own ideas about shooting stars, as the common people in manyparts call them, and my idea is this: How often are silentthanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble action!The thanks are often speechless, but they are not lost for all that. Ithink these thanks are caught up, and the sunbeams bring the silent,hidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor; and if it be awhole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a longlapse of time, the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers, andat length falls in the form of a shooting star over the good man'sgrave. I am always very much pleased when I see a shooting star,especially in the New Year's night, and then find out for whom thegift of gratitude was intended. Lately a gleaming star fell in thesouthwest, as a tribute of thanksgiving to many- many! 'For whom wasthat star intended?' thought I. It fell, no doubt, on the hill bythe Bay of Plensberg, where the Danebrog waves over the graves ofSchleppegrell, Lasloes, and their comrades. One star also fell inthe midst of the land, fell upon Soro, a flower on the grave ofHolberg, the thanks of the year from a great many - thanks for hischarming plays!

"It is a great and pleasant thought to know that a shooting starfalls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall- no sunbeambrings thanks to me, for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. Ishall not get the patent lacquer," said Ole, "for my fate on earthis only grease, after all."

SECOND VISIT

It was New Year's day, and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke ofthe toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year intothe New- from one grave into the other, as he said. And he told me astory about the glasses, and this story had a very deep meaning. Itwas this:

"When on the New Year's night the clock strikes twelve, the peopleat the table rise up with full glasses in their hands, and drain theseglasses, and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year withthe glass in their hands; that is a good beginning for drunkards. Theybegin the New Year by going to bed, and that's a good beginning fordrones. Sleep is sure to play a great part in the New Year, and theglass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass?" asked Ole. "Iwill tell you. There dwell in the glass, first, health, and thenpleasure, then the most complete sensual delight; and misfortune andthe bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now, suppose we count theglasses- of course I count the different degrees in the glasses fordifferent people.

"You see, the first glass, that's the glass of health, and in thatthe herb of health is found growing. Put it up on the beam in theceiling, and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbor ofhealth.

"If you take the second glass- from this a little bird soarsupward, twittering in guileless cheerfulness, so that a man may listento his song, and perhaps join in 'Fair is life! no downcast looks!Take courage, and march onward!'

"Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin, who cannotcertainly be called an angel child, for there is goblin blood in hisveins, and he has the spirit of a goblin- not wishing to hurt orharm you, indeed, but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'llsit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you; he'll creep intoyour heart and warm you, so that you grow very merry, and become awit, so far as the wits of the others can judge.

"In the fourth glass is neither herb, bird, nor urchin. In thatglass is the pause drawn by reason, and one may never go beyond thatsign.

"Take the fifth glass, and you will weep at yourself, you willfeel such a deep emotion; or it will affect you in a different way.Out of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival, ninetimes and extravagantly merry. He'll draw you away with him; you'llforget your dignity, if you have any, and you'll forget more thanyou should or ought to forget. All is dance, song and sound: the maskswill carry you away with them, and the daughters of vanity, clad insilk and satin, will come with loose hair and alluring charms; buttear yourself away if you can!

"The sixth glass! Yes, in that glass sits a demon, in the formof a little, well dressed, attractive and very fascinating man, whothoroughly understands you, agrees with you in everything, and becomesquite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him, to give youlight as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saintwho was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins, and whoaccordingly chose drunkenness, which appeared to him the least, butwhich led him to commit all the other six. The man's blood ismingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass, and with thatthe germ of all evil shoots up within us; and each one grows up with astrength like that of the grains of mustard-seed, and shoots up into atree, and spreads over the whole world: and most people have no choicebut to go into the oven, to be re-cast in a new form.

"That's the history of the glasses," said the tower-keeper Ole,"and it can be told with lacquer or only with grease; but I give ityou with both!"

THIRD VISIT

On this occasion I chose the general "moving-day" for my visitto Ole, for on that day it is anything but agreeable down in thestreets in the town; for they are full of sweepings, shreds, andremnants of all sorts, to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in whichone has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two childrenplaying in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at "goingto bed," for the occasion seemed especially favorable for thissport. They crept under the straw, and drew an old bit of raggedcurtain over themselves by way of coverlet. "It was splendid!" theysaid; but it was a little too strong for me, and besides, I wasobliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.

"It's moving-day to day," he said; "streets and houses are likea dust-bin- a large dust-bin; but I'm content with a cartload. I mayget something good out of that, and I really did get something goodout of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street;it was rough weather, wet and dirty- the right kind of weather tocatch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart, which was full,and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back ofthe cart stood a fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on itstwigs; it had been used on Christmas eve, and now it was thrown outinto the street, and the dustman had stood it up at the back of hiscart. It was droll to look at, or you may say it was mournful- alldepends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought aboutit, and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart: orI might have done so, and that comes to the same thing. There was anold lady's glove, too: I wonder what that was thinking of? Shall Itell you? The glove was lying there, pointing with its little fingerat the tree. 'I'm sorry for the tree,' it thought; 'and I was alsoat the feast, where the chandeliers glittered. My life was, so tospeak, a ball night- a pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memorykeeps dwelling upon that, and I have really nothing else to live for!'This is what the glove thought, or what it might have thought. 'That'sa stupid affair with yonder fir tree,' said the potsherds. You see,potsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in thedust-cart,' they said, 'one ought not to give one's self airs and weartinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world- far more usefulthan such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken, and Idon't think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that, the fir treelooked very well: it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap; andtruly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way isdifficult and troublesome then, and I feel obliged to run away outof the confusion; or, if I am on the tower, I stay there and lookdown, and it is amusing enough.

"There are the good people below, playing at 'changing houses.'They toil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and thehousehold goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All thelittle griefs of the lodging and the family, and the real cares andsorrows, move with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and whatgain is there for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there waswritten long ago the good old maxim: 'Think on the great moving-day ofdeath!' That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable toyou that I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certainmessenger, after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes,Death is the omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, andhe countersigns our service-book, and he is director of the savingsbank of life. Do you understand me? All the deeds of our life, thegreat and the little alike, we put into this savings bank; and whenDeath calls with his omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive withhim into the land of eternity, then on the frontier he gives us ourservice-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey, he takesthis or that good deed we have done, and lets it accompany us; andthis may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escapedthe omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was notallowed to go- they call him the Wandering Jew: he has to ridebehind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in, he would haveescaped the clutches of the poets.

"Just cast your mind's eye into that great omnibus. The society ismixed, for king and beggar, genius and idiot, sit side by side. Theymust go without their property and money; they have only theservice-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But whichof our deeds is selected and given to us? Perhaps quite a littleone, one that we have forgotten, but which has been recorded- small asa pea, but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin whosat on a low stool in the corner, and was jeered at and flouted,will perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision; and thestool may become a litter in the land of eternity, and rise up then asa throne, gleaming like gold and blooming as an arbor. He who alwayslounged about, and drank the spiced draught of pleasure, that he mightforget the wild things he had done here, will have his barrel given tohim on the journey, and will have to drink from it as they go on;and the drink is bright and clear, so that the thoughts remain pure,and all good and noble feelings are awakened, and he sees and feelswhat in life he could not or would not see; and then he has within himthe punishment, the gnawing worm, which will not die through timeincalculable. If on the glasses there stood written 'oblivion,' on thebarrel 'remembrance' is inscribed.

"When I read a good book, an historical work, I always think atlast of the poetry of what I am reading, and of the omnibus ofdeath, and wonder, which of the hero's deeds Death took out of thesavings bank for him, and what provisions he got on the journey intoeternity. There was once a French king- I have forgotten his name, forthe names of good people are sometimes forgotten, even by me, but itwill come back some day;- there was a king who, during a famine,became the benefactor of his people; and the people raised up to hismemory a monument of snow, with the inscription, 'Quicker than thismelts didst thou bring help!' I fancy that Death, looking back uponthe monument, gave him a single snow-flake as provision, asnow-flake that never melts, and this flake floated over his royalhead, like a white butterfly, into the land of eternity. Thus, too,there was Louis XI. I have remembered his name, for one remembers whatis bad- a trait of him often comes into my thoughts, and I wish onecould say the story is not true. He had his lord high constableexecuted, and he could execute him, right or wrong; but he had theinnocent children of the constable, one seven and the other eightyears old, placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of theirfather spurted over them, and then he had them sent to the Bastille,and shut up in iron cages, where not even a coverlet was given them toprotect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner tothem every week, and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each,that they might not be too comfortable; and the elder of the boyssaid, 'My mother would die of grief if she knew that my youngerbrother had to suffer so cruelly; therefore pull out two of myteeth, and spare him.' The tears came into the hangman's eyes, but theking's will was stronger than the tears; and every week two littleteeth were brought to him on a silver plate; he had demanded them, andhe had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of thesavings bank of life, and gave them to Louis XI, to carry with himon the great journey into the land of immortality; they fly before himlike two flames of fire; they shine and burn, and they bite him, theinnocent children's teeth.

"Yes, that's a serious journey, the omnibus ride on the greatmoving-day! And when is it to be undertaken? That's just the seriouspart of it. Any day, any hour, any minute, the omnibus may draw up.Which of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank, and giveto us as provision? Let us think of the moving-day that is notmarked in the calendar."

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

OLE-LUK-OIE, THE DREAM-GOD

by Hans Christian Andersen

THERE is nobody in the world who knows so many stories asOle-Luk-Oie, or who can relate them so nicely. In the evening, whilethe children are seated at the table or in their little chairs, hecomes up the stairs very softly, for he walks in his socks, then heopens the doors without the slightest noise, and throws a smallquantity of very fine dust in their eyes, just enough to preventthem from keeping them open, and so they do not see him. Then hecreeps behind them, and blows softly upon their necks, till theirheads begin to droop. But Ole-Luk-Oie does not wish to hurt them,for he is very fond of children, and only wants them to be quietthat he may relate to them pretty stories, and they never are quietuntil they are in bed and asleep. As soon as they are asleep,Ole-Luk-Oie seats himself upon the bed. He is nicely dressed; his coatis made of silken stuff; it is impossible to say of what color, for itchanges from green to red, and from red to blue as he turns fromside to side. Under each arm he carries an umbrella; one of them, withpictures on the inside, he spreads over the good children, and thenthey dream the most beautiful stories the whole night. But the otherumbrella has no pictures, and this he holds over the naughtychildren so that they sleep heavily, and wake in the morning withouthaving dreamed at all.

Now we shall hear how Ole-Luk-Oie came every night during awhole week to the little boy named Hjalmar, and what he told him.There were seven stories, as there are seven days in the week.MONDAY

MONDAY

"Now pay attention," said Ole-Luk-Oie, in the evening, whenHjalmar was in bed, "and I will decorate the room."

Immediately all the flowers in the flower-pots became large trees,with long branches reaching to the ceiling, and stretching along thewalls, so that the whole room was like a greenhouse. All thebranches were loaded with flowers, each flower as beautiful and asfragrant as a rose; and, had any one tasted them, he would havefound them sweeter even than jam. The fruit glittered like gold, andthere were cakes so full of plums that they were nearly bursting. Itwas incomparably beautiful. At the same time sounded dismal moans fromthe table-drawer in which lay Hjalmar's school books.

"What can that be now?" said Ole-Luk-Oie, going to the table andpulling out the drawer.

It was a slate, in such distress because of a false number inthe sum, that it had almost broken itself to pieces. The pencil pulledand tugged at its string as if it were a little dog that wanted tohelp, but could not.

And then came a moan from Hjalmar's copy-book. Oh, it was quiteterrible to hear! On each leaf stood a row of capital letters, everyone having a small letter by its side. This formed a copy; under thesewere other letters, which Hjalmar had written: they fancied theylooked like the copy, but they were mistaken; for they were leaning onone side as if they intended to fall over the pencil-lines.

"See, this is the way you should hold yourselves," said thecopy. "Look here, you should slope thus, with a graceful curve."

"Oh, we are very willing to do so, but we cannot," saidHjalmar's letters; "we are so wretchedly made."

"You must be scratched out, then," said Ole-Luk-Oie.

"Oh, no!" they cried, and then they stood up so gracefully itwas quite a pleasure to look at them.

"Now we must give up our stories, and exercise these letters,"said Ole-Luk-Oie; "One, two- one, two- " So he drilled them tillthey stood up gracefully, and looked as beautiful as a copy couldlook. But after Ole-Luk-Oie was gone, and Hjalmar looked at them inthe morning, they were as wretched and as awkward as ever.TUESDAY

TUESDAY

As soon as Hjalmar was in bed, Ole-Luk-Oie touched, with hislittle magic wand, all the furniture in the room, which immediatelybegan to chatter, and each article only talked of itself.

Over the chest of drawers hung a large picture in a gilt frame,representing a landscape, with fine old trees, flowers in the grass,and a broad stream, which flowed through the wood, past severalcastles, far out into the wild ocean. Ole-Luk-Oie touched thepicture with his magic wand, and immediately the birds commencedsinging, the branches of the trees rustled, and the clouds movedacross the sky, casting their shadows on the landscape beneath them.Then Ole-Luk-Oie lifted little Hjalmar up to the frame, and placed hisfeet in the picture, just on the high grass, and there he stood withthe sun shining down upon him through the branches of the trees. Heran to the water, and seated himself in a little boat which lay there,and which was painted red and white. The sails glittered likesilver, and six swans, each with a golden circlet round its neck,and a bright blue star on its forehead, drew the boat past the greenwood, where the trees talked of robbers and witches, and the flowersof beautiful little elves and fairies, whose histories the butterflieshad related to them. Brilliant fish, with scales like silver and gold,swam after the boat, sometimes making a spring and splashing the waterround them, while birds, red and blue, small and great, flew after himin two long lines. The gnats danced round them, and the cockchaferscried "Buz, buz." They all wanted to follow Hjalmar, and all hadsome story to tell him. It was a most pleasant sail. Sometimes theforests were thick and dark, sometimes like a beautiful garden, gaywith sunshine and flowers; then he passed great palaces of glass andof marble, and on the balconies stood princesses, whose faces werethose of little girls whom Hjalmar knew well, and had often playedwith. One of them held out her hand, in which was a heart made ofsugar, more beautiful than any confectioner ever sold. As Hjalmarsailed by, he caught hold of one side of the sugar heart, and heldit fast, and the princess held fast also, so that it broke in twopieces. Hjalmar had one piece, and the princess the other, butHjalmar's was the largest. At each castle stood little princesacting as sentinels. They presented arms, and had golden swords, andmade it rain plums and tin soldiers, so that they must have beenreal princes.

Hjalmar continued to sail, sometimes through woods, sometimes asit were through large halls, and then by large cities. At last he cameto the town where his nurse lived, who had carried him in her armswhen he was a very little boy, and had always been kind to him. Shenodded and beckoned to him, and then sang the little verses she hadherself composed and set to him,-

"How oft my memory turns to thee,

My own Hjalmar, ever dear!

When I could watch thy infant glee,

Or kiss away a pearly tear.

'Twas in my arms thy lisping tongue

First spoke the half-remembered word,

While o'er thy tottering steps I hung,

My fond protection to afford.

Farewell! I pray the Heavenly Power

To keep thee till thy dying hour."And all the birds sang the same tune, the flowers danced on theirstems, and the old trees nodded as if Ole-Luk-Oie had been tellingthem stories as well.WEDNESDAY

WEDNESDAY

How the rain did pour down! Hjalmar could hear it in his sleep;.and when Ole-Luk-Oie opened the window, the water flowed quite up tothe window-sill. It had the appearance of a large lake outside, anda beautiful ship lay close to the house.

"Wilt thou sail with me to-night, little Hjalmar?" saidOle-Luk-Oie; "then we shall see foreign countries, and thou shaltreturn here in the morning."

All in a moment, there stood Hjalmar, in his best clothes, onthe deck of the noble ship; and immediately the weather became fine.They sailed through the streets, round by the church, and on everyside rolled the wide, great sea. They sailed till the landdisappeared, and then they saw a flock of storks, who had left theirown country, and were travelling to warmer climates. The storks flewone behind the other, and had already been a long, long time on thewing. One of them seemed so tired that his wings could scarcelycarry him. He was the last of the row, and was soon left very farbehind. At length he sunk lower and lower, with outstretched wings,flapping them in vain, till his feet touched the rigging of theship, and he slided from the sails to the deck, and stood before them.Then a sailor-boy caught him, and put him in the hen-house, with thefowls, the ducks, and the turkeys, while the poor stork stood quitebewildered amongst them.

"Just look at that fellow," said the chickens.

Then the turkey-cock puffed himself out as large as he could,and inquired who he was; and the ducks waddled backwards, crying,"Quack, quack."

Then the stork told them all about warm Africa, of the pyramids,and of the ostrich, which, like a wild horse, runs across thedesert. But the ducks did not understand what he said, and quackedamongst themselves, "We are all of the same opinion; namely, that heis stupid."

"Yes, to be sure, he is stupid," said the turkey-cock; andgobbled.

Then the stork remained quite silent, and thought of his home inAfrica.

"Those are handsome thin legs of yours," said the turkey-cock."What do they cost a yard?"

"Quack, quack, quack," grinned the ducks; but, the stork pretendednot to hear.

"You may as well laugh," said the turkey; "for that remark wasrather witty, or perhaps it was above you. Ah, ah, is he not clever?He will be a great amusement to us while he remains here." And then hegobbled, and the ducks quacked, "Gobble, gobble; Quack, quack."

What a terrible uproar they made, while they were having suchfun among themselves!

Then Hjalmar went to the hen-house; and, opening the door,called to the stork. Then he hopped out on the deck. He had restedhimself now, and he looked happy, and seemed as if he nodded toHjalmar, as if to thank him. Then he spread his wings, and flew awayto warmer countries, while the hens clucked, the ducks quacked, andthe turkey-cock turned quite scarlet in the head.

"To-morrow you shall be made into soup," said Hjalmar to thefowls; and then he awoke, and found himself lying in his little bed.

It was a wonderful journey which Ole-Luk-Oie had made him takethis night.THURSDAY

THURSDAY

"What do you think I have got here?" said Ole-Luk-Oie, "Do notbe frightened, and you shall see a little mouse." And then he held outhis hand to him, in which lay a lovely little creature. "It has cometo invite you to a wedding. Two little mice are going to enter intothe marriage state tonight. They reside under the floor of yourmother's store-room, and that must be a fine dwelling-place."

"But how can I get through the little mouse-hole in the floor?"asked Hjalmar.

"Leave me to manage that," said Ole-Luk-Oie. "I will soon make yousmall enough." And then he touched Hjalmar with his magic wand,whereupon he became less and less, until at last he was not longerthan a little finger. "Now you can borrow the dress of the tinsoldier. I think it will just fit you. It looks well to wear a uniformwhen you go into company."

"Yes, certainly," said Hjalmar; and in a moment he was dressedas neatly as the neatest of all tin soldiers.

"Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mamma's thimble,"said the little mouse, "that I may have the pleasure of drawing you tothe wedding."

"Will you really take so much trouble, young lady?" saidHjalmar. And so in this way he rode to the mouse's wedding.

First they went under the floor, and then passed through a longpassage, which was scarcely high enough to allow the thimble todrive under, and the whole passage was lit up with thephosphorescent light of rotten wood.

"Does it not smell delicious?" asked the mouse, as she drew himalong. "The wall and the floor have been smeared with bacon-rind;nothing can be nicer."

Very soon they arrived at the bridal hall. On the right stoodall the little lady-mice, whispering and giggling, as if they weremaking game of each other. To the left were the gentlemen-mice,stroking their whiskers with their fore-paws; and in the centre of thehall could be seen the bridal pair, standing side by side, in a hollowcheese-rind, and kissing each other, while all eyes were upon them;for they had already been betrothed, and were soon to be married. Moreand more friends kept arriving, till the mice were nearly treadingeach other to death; for the bridal pair now stood in the doorway, andnone could pass in or out.

The room had been rubbed over with bacon-rind, like the passage,which was all the refreshment offered to the guests. But for dessertthey produced a pea, on which a mouse belonging to the bridal pair hadbitten the first letters of their names. This was something quiteuncommon. All the mice said it was a very beautiful wedding, andthat they had been very agreeably entertained.

After this, Hjalmar returned home. He had certainly been ingrand society; but he had been obliged to creep under a room, and tomake himself small enough to wear the uniform of a tin soldier.FRIDAY

FRIDAY

"It is incredible how many old people there are who would beglad to have me at night," said Ole-Luk-Oie, "especially those whohave done something wrong. 'Good little Ole,' say they to me, 'wecannot close our eyes, and we lie awake the whole night and see allour evil deeds sitting on our beds like little imps, and sprinkling uswith hot water. Will you come and drive them away, that we may havea good night's rest?' and then they sigh so deeply and say, 'Wewould gladly pay you for it. Good-night, Ole-Luk, the money lies onthe window.' But I never do anything for gold." "What shall we doto-night?" asked Hjalmar. "I do not know whether you would care togo to another wedding," he replied, "although it is quite adifferent affair to the one we saw last night. Your sister's largedoll, that is dressed like a man, and is called Herman, intends tomarry the doll Bertha. It is also the dolls' birthday, and they willreceive many presents."

"Yes, I know that already," said Hjalmar, "my sister always allowsher dolls to keep their birthdays or to have a wedding when theyrequire new clothes; that has happened already a hundred times, I amquite sure."

"Yes, so it may; but to-night is the hundred and first wedding,and when that has taken place it must be the last, therefore this isto be extremely beautiful. Only look."

Hjalmar looked at the table, and there stood the little card-boarddoll's house, with lights in all the windows, and drawn up before itwere the tin soldiers presenting arms. The bridal pair were seatedon the floor, leaning against the leg of the table, looking verythoughtful, and with good reason. Then Ole-Luk-Oie dressed up ingrandmother's black gown married them.

As soon as the ceremony was concluded, all the furniture in theroom joined in singing a beautiful song, which had been composed bythe lead pencil, and which went to the melody of a military tattoo.

"What merry sounds are on the wind,

As marriage rites together bind

A quiet and a loving pair,

Though formed of kid, yet smooth and fair!

Hurrah! If they are deaf and blind,

We'll sing, though weather prove unkind."

And now came the present; but the bridal pair had nothing toeat, for love was to be their food.

"Shall we go to a country house, or travel?" asked the bridegroom.

Then they consulted the swallow who had travelled so far, andthe old hen in the yard, who had brought up five broods of chickens.

And the swallow talked to them of warm countries, where the grapeshang in large clusters on the vines, and the air is soft and mild, andabout the mountains glowing with colors more beautiful than we canthink of.

"But they have no red cabbage like we have," said the hen, "Iwas once in the country with my chickens for a whole summer, there wasa large sand-pit, in which we could walk about and scratch as weliked. Then we got into a garden in which grew red cabbage; oh, hownice it was, I cannot think of anything more delicious."

"But one cabbage stalk is exactly like another," said the swallow;"and here we have often bad weather."

"Yes, but we are accustomed to it," said the hen.

"But it is so cold here, and freezes sometimes."

"Cold weather is good for cabbages," said the hen; "besides wedo have it warm here sometimes. Four years ago, we had a summer thatlasted more than five weeks, and it was so hot one could scarcelybreathe. And then in this country we have no poisonous animals, and weare free from robbers. He must be wicked who does not consider ourcountry the finest of all lands. He ought not to be allowed to livehere." And then the hen wept very much and said, "I have alsotravelled. I once went twelve miles in a coop, and it was not pleasanttravelling at all."

"The hen is a sensible woman," said the doll Bertha. "I don't carefor travelling over mountains, just to go up and come down again.No, let us go to the sand-pit in front of the gate, and then take awalk in the cabbage garden."

And so they settled it.SATURDAY

SATURDAY

"Am I to hear any more stories?" asked little Hjalmar, as soonas Ole-Luk-Oie had sent him to sleep.

"We shall have no time this evening," said he, spreading out hisprettiest umbrella over the child. "Look at these Chinese," and thenthe whole umbrella appeared like a large china bowl, with blue treesand pointed bridges, upon which stood little Chinamen nodding theirheads. "We must make all the world beautiful for to-morrow morning,"said Ole-Luk-Oie, "for it will be a holiday, it is Sunday. I mustnow go to the church steeple and see if the little sprites who livethere have polished the bells, so that they may sound sweetly. ThenI must go into the fields and see if the wind has blown the dustfrom the grass and the leaves, and the most difficult task of allwhich I have to do, is to take down all the stars and brighten themup. I have to number them first before I put them in my apron, andalso to number the places from which I take them, so that they maygo back into the right holes, or else they would not remain, and weshould have a number of falling stars, for they would all tumbledown one after the other."

"Hark ye! Mr. Luk-Oie," said an old portrait which hung on thewall of Hjalmar's bedroom. "Do you know me? I am Hjalmar'sgreat-grandfather. I thank you for telling the boy stories, but youmust not confuse his ideas. The stars cannot be taken down from thesky and polished; they are spheres like our earth, which is a goodthing for them."

"Thank you, old great-grandfather," said Ole-Luk-Oie. "I thankyou; you may be the head of the family, as no doubt you are, but Iam older than you. I am an ancient heathen. The old Romans andGreeks named me the Dream-god. I have visited the noblest houses,and continue to do so; still I know how to conduct myself both to highand low, and now you may tell the stories yourself:" and soOle-Luk-Oie walked off, taking his umbrellas with him.

"Well, well, one is never to give an opinion, I suppose," grumbledthe portrait. And it woke Hjalmar.SUNDAY

SUNDAY

"Good evening," said Ole-Luk-Oie.

Hjalmar nodded, and then sprang out of bed, and turned hisgreat-grandfather's portrait to the wall, so that it might notinterrupt them as it had done yesterday. "Now," said he, "you musttell me some stories about five green peas that lived in one pod; orof the chickseed that courted the chickweed; or of the darning needle,who acted so proudly because she fancied herself an embroideryneedle."

"You may have too much of a good thing," said Ole-Luk-Oie. "Youknow that I like best to show you something, so I will show you mybrother. He is also called Ole-Luk-Oie but he never visits any one butonce, and when he does come, he takes him away on his horse, and tellshim stories as they ride along. He knows only two stories. One ofthese is so wonderfully beautiful, that no one in the world canimagine anything at all like it; but the other is just as ugly andfrightful, so that it would be impossible to describe it." ThenOle-Luk-Oie lifted Hjalmar up to the window. "There now, you can seemy brother, the other Ole-Luk-Oie; he is also called Death. Youperceive he is not so bad as they represent him in picture books;there he is a skeleton, but now his coat is embroidered with silver,and he wears the splendid uniform of a hussar, and a mantle of blackvelvet flies behind him, over the horse. Look, how he gallopsalong." Hjalmar saw that as this Ole-Luk-Oie rode on, he lifted up oldand young, and carried them away on his horse. Some he seated in frontof him, and some behind, but always inquired first, "How stands themark-book?"

"Good," they all answered.

"Yes, but let me see for myself," he replied; and they wereobliged to give him the books. Then all those who had "Very good,"or "Exceedingly good," came in front of the horse, and heard thebeautiful story; while those who had "Middling," or "Tolerablygood," in their books, were obliged to sit behind, and listen to thefrightful tale. They trembled and cried, and wanted to jump downfrom the horse, but they could not get free, for they seemedfastened to the seat.

"Why, Death is a most splendid Luk-Oie," said Hjalmar. "I am notin the least afraid of him."

"You need have no fear of him," said Ole-Luk-Oie, "if you takecare and keep a good conduct book."

"Now I call that very instructive," murmured thegreat-grandfather's portrait. "It is useful sometimes to express anopinion;" so he was quite satisfied.

These are some of the doings and sayings of Ole-Luk-Oie. I hope hemay visit you himself this evening, and relate some more.

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

OUR AUNT

by Hans Christian Andersen

You ought to have known our aunt; she was charming! That is tosay, she was not charming at all as the word is usually understood;but she was good and kind, amusing in her way, and was just as any oneought to be whom people are to talk about and to laugh at. She mighthave been put into a play, and wholly and solely on account of thefact that she only lived for the theatre and for what was donethere. She was an honorable matron; but Agent Fabs, whom she used tocall "Flabs," declared that our aunt was stage-struck.

"The theatre is my school," said she, "the source of my knowledge.From thence I have resuscitated Biblical history. Now, 'Moses' and'Joseph in Egypt'- there are operas for you! I get my universalhistory from the theatre, my geography, and my knowledge of men. Outof the French pieces I get to know life in Paris- slippery, butexceedingly interesting. How I have cried over "La FamilleRoquebourg'- that the man must drink himself to death, so that she maymarry the young fellow! Yes, how many tears I have wept in the fiftyyears I have subscribed to the theatre!"

Our aunt knew every acting play, every bit of scenery, everycharacter, every one who appeared or had appeared. She seemed reallyonly to live during the nine months the theatre was open. Summertimewithout a summer theatre seemed to be only a time that made her old;while, on the other hand, a theatrical evening that lasted tillmidnight was a lengthening of her life. She did not say, as otherpeople do, "Now we shall have spring, the stork is here," or, "They'veadvertised the first strawberries in the papers." She, on thecontrary, used to announce the coming of autumn, with "Have youheard they're selling boxes for the theatre? now the performances willbegin."

She used to value a lodging entirely according to its proximity tothe theatre. It was a real sorrow to her when she had to leave thelittle lane behind the playhouse, and move into the great streetthat lay a little farther off, and live there in a house where she hadno opposite neighbors.

"At home," said she, "my windows must be my opera-box. Onecannot sit and look into one's self till one's tired; one must seepeople. But now I live just as if I'd go into the country. If I wantto see human beings, I must go into my kitchen, and sit down on thesink, for there only I have opposite neighbors. No; when I lived in mydear little lane, I could look straight down into the ironmonger'sshop, and had only three hundred paces to the theatre; and now I'vethree thousand paces to go, military measurement."

Our aunt was sometimes ill, but however unwell she might feel, shenever missed the play. The doctor prescribed one day that she shouldput her feet in a bran bath, and she followed his advice; but shedrove to the theatre all the same, and sat with her feet in branthere. If she had died there, she would have been very glad.Thorwaldsen died in the theatre, and she called that a happy death.

She could not imagine but that in heaven there must be a theatretoo. It had not, indeed, been promised us, but we might very wellimagine it. The many distinguished actors and actresses who had passedaway must surely have a field for their talent.

Our aunt had an electric wire from the theatre to her room. Atelegram used to be dispatched to her at coffee-time, and it used toconsist of the words, "Herr Sivertsen is at the machinery;" for it washe who gave the signal for drawing the curtain up and down and forchanging the scenes.

From him she used to receive a short and concise description ofevery piece. His opinion of Shakspeare's "Tempest," was, "Madnonsense! There's so much to put up, and the first scene begins with'Water to the front of the wings.'" That is to say, the water had tocome forward so far. But when, on the other hand, the same interiorscene remained through five acts, he used to pronounce it asensible, well-written play, a resting play, which performed itself,without putting up scenes.

In earlier times, by which name our aunt used to designatethirty years ago, she and the before-mentioned Herr Sivertsen had beenyounger. At that time he had already been connected with themachinery, and was, as she said, her benefactor. It used to be thecustom in those days that in the evening performances in the onlytheatre the town possessed, spectators were admitted to the partcalled the "flies," over the stage, and every machinist had one or twoplaces to give away. Often the flies were quite full of goodcompany; it was said that generals' wives and privy councillors' wiveshad been up there. It was quite interesting to look down behind thescenes, and to see how the people walked to and fro on the stagewhen the curtain was down.

Our aunt had been there several times, as well when there was atragedy as when there was a ballet; for the pieces in which there werethe greatest number of characters on the stage were the mostinteresting to see from the flies. One sat pretty much in the darkup there, and most people took their supper up with them. Once threeapples and a great piece of bread and butter and sausage fell downright into the dungeon of Ugolino, where that unhappy man was to bestarved to death; and there was great laughter among the audience. Thesausage was one of the weightiest reasons why the worthy managementrefused in future to have any spectators up in the flies.

"But I was there seven-and-thirty times," said our aunt, "and Ishall always remember Mr. Sivertsen for that."

On the very last evening when the flies were still open to thepublic, the "Judgment of Solomon" was performed, as our auntremembered very well. She had, through the influence of herbenefactor, Herr Sivertsen, procured a free admission for the AgentFabs, although he did not deserve it in the least, for he was alwayscutting his jokes about the theatre and teasing our aunt; but shehad procured him a free admission to the flies, for all that. Hewanted to look at this player-stuff from the other side.

"Those were his own words, and they were just like him," saidour aunt.

He looked down from above on the 'Judgment of Solomon," and fellasleep over it. One would have thought that he had come from adinner where many toasts had been given. He went to sleep, and waslocked in. And there he sat through the dark night in the flies, andwhen he woke, he told a story, but our aunt would not believe it.

"The 'Judgment of Solomon' was over," he said, "and all the peoplehad gone away, up stairs and down stairs; but now the real play began,the after-piece, which was the best of all," said the agent. "Thenlife came into the affair. It was not the 'Judgment of Solomon' thatwas performed; no, a real court of judgment was held upon thestage." And Agent Fabs had the impudence to try and make our auntbelieve all this. That was the thanks she got for having got him aplace in the flies.

What did the agent say? Why, it was curious enough to hear, butthere was malice and satire in it.

"It looked dark enough up there," said the agent; "but then themagic business began- a great performance, 'The Judgment in theTheatre.' The box-keepers were at their posts, and every spectator hadto show his ghostly pass-book, that it might be decided if he was tobe admitted with hands loose or bound, and with or without a muzzle.Grand people who came too late, when the performance had begun, andyoung people, who could not always watch the time, were tied upoutside, and had list slippers put on their feet, with which they wereallowed to go in before the beginning of the next act, and they hadmuzzles too. And then the 'Judgment on the Stage' began."

"All malice, and not a bit of truth in it," said our aunt.

The painter, who wanted to get to Paradise, had to go up astaircase which he had himself painted, but which no man couldmount. That was to expiate his sins against perspective. All theplants and buildings, which the property-man had placed, with infinitepains, in countries to which they did not belong, the poor fellowwas obliged to put in their right places before cockcrow, if he wantedto get into Paradise. Let Herr Fabs see how he would get in himself;but what he said of the performers, tragedians and comedians,singers and dancers, that was the most rascally of all. Mr. Fabs,indeed!- Flabs! He did not deserve to be admitted at all, and our auntwould not soil her lips with what he said. And he said, did Flabs,that the whole was written down, and it should be printed when hewas dead and buried, but not before, for he would not risk havinghis arms and legs broken.

Once our aunt had been in fear and trembling in her temple ofhappiness, the theatre. It was on a winter day, one of those days inwhich one has a couple of hours of daylight, with a gray sky. It wasterribly cold and snowy, but aunt must go to the theatre. A littleopera and a great ballet were performed, and a prologue and anepilogue into the bargain; and that would last till late at night. Ouraunt must needs go; so she borrowed a pair of fur boots of her lodger-boots with fur inside and out, and which reached far up her legs.

She got to the theatre, and to her box; the boots were warm, andshe kept them on. Suddenly there was a cry of "Fire!" Smoke was comingfrom one of the side scenes, and streamed down from the flies, andthere was a terrible panic. The people came rushing out, and ouraunt was the last in the box, "on the second tier, left-hand side, forfrom there the scenery looks best," she used to say. "The scenes arealways arranged that they look best from the King's side." Aunt wantedto come out, but the people before her, in their fright andheedlessness, slammed the door of the box; and there sat our aunt, andcouldn't get out, and couldn't get in; that is to say, she couldn'tget into the next box, for the partition was too high for her. Shecalled out, and no one heard her; she looked down into the tier ofboxes below her, and it was empty, and low, and looked quite near, andaunt in her terror felt quite young and light. She thought ofjumping down, and had got one leg over the partition, the otherresting on the bench. There she sat astride, as if on horseback,well wrapped up in her flowered cloak with one leg hanging out- aleg in a tremendous fur boot. That was a sight to behold; and whenit was beheld, our aunt was heard too, and was saved from burning, forthe theatre was not burned down.

That was the most memorable evening of her life, and she wasglad that she could not see herself, for she would have died withconfusion.

Her benefactor in the machinery department, Herr Sivertsen,visited her every Sunday, but it was a long time from Sunday toSunday. In the latter time, therefore, she used to have in a littlechild "for the scraps;" that is to say, to eat up the remains of thedinner. It was a child employed in the ballet, one that certainlywanted feeding. The little one used to appear, sometimes as an elf,sometimes as a page; the most difficult part she had to play was thelion's hind leg in the "Magic Flute;" but as she grew larger she couldrepresent the fore-feet of the lion. She certainly only got half aguilder for that, whereas the hind legs were paid for with a wholeguilder; but then she had to walk bent, and to do without fresh air."That was all very interesting to hear," said our aunt.

She deserved to live as long as the theatre stood, but she couldnot last so long; and she did not die in the theatre, butrespectably in her bed. Her last words were, moreover, not withoutmeaning. She asked,

"What will the play be to-morrow?"

At her death she left about five hundred dollars. We presumethis from the interest, which came to twenty dollars. This our aunthad destined as a legacy for a worthy old spinster who had no friends;it was to be devoted to a yearly subscription for a place in thesecond tier, on the left side, for the Saturday evening, "for onthat evening two pieces were always given," it said in the will; andthe only condition laid upon the person who enjoyed the legacy was,that she should think, every Saturday evening, of our aunt, who waslying in her grave.

This was our aunt's religion.

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

POULTRY MEG'S FAMILY

by Hans Christian Andersen

POULTRY MEG was the only person who lived in the new statelydwelling that had been built for the fowls and ducks belonging tothe manor house. It stood there where once the old knightly buildinghad stood with its tower, its pointed gables, its moat, and itsdrawbridge. Close by it was a wilderness of trees and thicket; herethe garden had been, and had stretched out to a great lake, whichwas now moorland. Crows and choughs flew screaming over the old trees,and there were crowds of birds; they did not seem to get fewer whenany one shot among them, but seemed rather to increase. One heardthe screaming into the poultry-house, where Poultry Meg sat with theducklings running to and fro over her wooden shoes. She knew everyfowl and every duck from the moment it crept out of the shell; and shewas fond of her fowls and her ducks, and proud of the stately housethat had been built for them. Her own little room in the house wasclean and neat, for that was the wish of the gracious lady to whom thehouse belonged. She often came in the company of grand noble guests,to whom she showed "the hens' and ducks' barracks," as she calledthe little house.

Here were a clothes cupboard, and an, arm-chair, and even achest of drawers; and on these drawers a polished metal plate had beenplaced, whereon was engraved the word "Grubbe," and this was thename of the noble family that had lived in the house of old. The brassplate had been found when they were digging the foundation; and theclerk has said it had no value except in being an old relic. The clerkknew all about the place, and about the old times, for he had hisknowledge from books, and many a memorandum had been written and putin his table-drawer. But the oldest of the crows perhaps knew morethan he, and screamed it out in her own language; but that was thecrow's language, and the clerk did not understand that, clever as hewas.

After the hot summer days the mist sometimes hung over themoorland as if a whole lake were behind the old trees, among which thecrows and the daws were fluttering; and thus it had looked when thegood Knight Grubbe had lived here- when the old manor house stood withits thick red walls. The dog-chain used to reach in those days quiteover the gateway; through the tower one went into a paved passagewhich led to the rooms; the windows were narrow, and the panes weresmall, even in the great hall where the dancing used to be; but in thetime of the last Grubbe, there had been no dancing in the hallwithin the memory of man, although an old drum still lay there thathad served as part of the music. Here stood a quaintly carvedcupboard, in which rare flower-roots were kept, for my Lady Grubbe wasfond of plants and cultivated trees and shrubs. Her husbandpreferred riding out to shoot wolves and boars; and his littledaughter Marie always went with him part of the way. When she was onlyfive years old, she would sit proudly on her horse, and look saucilyround with her great black eyes. It was a great amusement to her tohit out among the hunting-dogs with her whip; but her father wouldrather have seen her hit among the peasant boys, who came running upto stare at their lord.

The peasant in the clay hut close by the knightly house had ason named Soren, of the same age as the gracious little lady. Theboy could climb well, and had always to bring her down the bird'snests. The birds screamed as loud as they could, and one of thegreatest of them hacked him with its beak over the eye so that theblood ran down, and it was at first thought the eye had beendestroyed; but it had not been injured after all. Marie Grubbe used tocall him her Soren, and that was a great favor, and was an advantageto Soren's father- poor Jon, who had one day committed a fault, andwas to be punished by riding on the wooden horse. This same horsestood in the courtyard, and had four poles for legs, and a singlenarrow plant for a back; on this Jon had to ride astride, and someheavy bricks were fastened to his feet into the bargain, that he mightnot sit too comfortably. He made horrible grimaces, and Soren wept andimplored little Marie to interfere. She immediately ordered thatSoren's father should be taken down, and when they did not obey her,she stamped on the floor, and pulled at her father's sleeve till itwas torn to pieces. She would have her way, and she got her way, andSoren's father was taken down.

Lady Grubbe, who now came up, parted her little daughter's hairfrom the child's brow, and looked at her affectionately; but Marie didnot understand why.

She wanted to go to the hounds, and not to her mother, who wentdown into the garden, to the lake where the water-lily bloomed, andthe heads of bulrushes nodded amid the reeds; and she looked at allthis beauty and freshness. "How pleasant!" she said. In the gardenstood at that time a rare tree, which she herself had planted. Itwas called the blood-beech- a kind of negro growing among the othertrees, so dark brown were the leaves. This tree required muchsunshine, for in continual shade it would become bright green like theother trees, and thus lose its distinctive character. In the loftychestnut trees were many birds' nests, and also in the thickets and inthe grassy meadows. It seemed as though the birds knew that theywere protected here, and that no one must fire a gun at them.

Little Marie came here with Soren. He knew how to climb, as wehave already said, and eggs and fluffy-feathered young birds werebrought down. The birds, great and small, flew about in terror andtribulation; the peewit from the fields, and the crows and daws fromthe high trees, screamed and screamed; it was just such din as thefamily will raise to the present day.

"What are you doing, you children?" cried the gentle lady; "thatis sinful!"

Soren stood abashed, and even the little gracious lady looked downa little; but then he said, quite short and pretty,

"My father lets me do it!"

"Craw-craw! away-away from here!" cried the great black birds, andthey flew away; but on the following day they came back, for they wereat home here.

The quiet gentle lady did not remain long at home here on earth,for the good God called her away; and, indeed, her home was ratherwith Him than in the knightly house; and the church bells tolledsolemnly when her corpse was carried to the church, and the eyes ofthe poor people were wet with tears, for she had been good to them.

When she was gone, no one attended to her plantations, and thegarden ran to waste. Grubbe the knight was a hard man, they said;but his daughter, young as she was, knew how to manage him. He used tolaugh and let her have her way. She was now twelve years old, andstrongly built. She looked the people through and through with herblack eyes, rode her horse as bravely as a man, and could fire off hergun like a practiced hunter.

One day there were great visitors in the neighborhood, thegrandest visitors who could come. The young King, and his half-brotherand comrade, the Lord Ulric Frederick Gyldenlowe. They wanted tohunt the wild boar, and to pass a few days at the castle of Grubbe.

Gyldenlowe sat at table next to Marie Grubbe, and he took her bythe hand and gave her a kiss, as if she had been a relation; but shegave him a box on the ear, and told him she could not bear him, atwhich there was great laughter, as if that had been a very amusingthing.

And perhaps it was very amusing, for, five years afterwards,when Marie had fulfilled her seventeenth year, a messenger arrivedwith a letter, in which Lord Gyldenlowe proposed for the hand of thenoble young lady. There was a thing for you!

"He is the grandest and most gallant gentleman in the wholecountry," said Grubbe the knight; "that is not a thing to despise."

"I don't care so very much about him," said Marie Grubbe; butshe did not despise the grandest man of all the country, who sat bythe king's side.

Silver plate, and fine linen and woollen, went off to Copenhagenin a ship, while the bride made the journey by land in ten days. Butthe outfit met with contrary winds, or with no winds at all, forfour months passed before it arrived; and when it came, my LadyGyldenlowe was gone.

"I'd rather lie on coarse sacking than lie in his silken beds,"she declared. "I'd rather walk barefoot than drive with him in acoach!"

Late one evening in November two women came riding into the townof Aarhuus. They were the gracious Lady Gyldenlowe (Marie Grubbe)and her maid. They came from the town of Weile, whither they hadcome in a ship from Copenhagen. They stopped at Lord Grubbe's stonemansion in Aarhuus. Grubbe was not well pleased with this visit. Mariewas accosted in hard words; but she had a bedroom given her, and gother beer soup of a morning; but the evil part of her father's naturewas aroused against her, and she was not used to that. She was notof a gentle temper, and we often answer as we are addressed. Sheanswered openly, and spoke with bitterness and hatred of herhusband, with whom she declared she would not live; she was toohonorable for that.

A year went by, but it did not go by pleasantly. There were evilwords between the father and the daughter, and that ought never to be.Bad words bear bad fruit. What could be the end of such a state ofthings?

"We two cannot live under the same roof," said the father one day."Go away from here to our old manor house; but you had better biteyour tongue off than spread any lies among the people."

And so the two parted. She went with her maid to the old castlewhere she had been born, and near which the gentle, pious lady, hermother, was lying in the church vault. An old cowherd lived in thecourtyard, and was the only other inhabitant of the place. In therooms heavy black cobwebs hung down, covered with dust; in thegarden everything grew just as it would; hops and climbing plantsran like a net between the trees and bushes, and the hemlock andnettle grew larger and stronger. The blood-beech had been outgrownby other trees, and now stood in the shade; and its leaves weregreen like those of the common trees, and its glory had departed.Crows and choughs, in great close masses, flew past over the tallchestnut trees, and chattered and screamed as if they had somethingvery important to tell one another- as if they were saying, "Now she'scome back again, the little girl who had their eggs and their youngones stolen from them; and as for the thief who had got them down,he had to climb up a leafless tree, for he sat on a tall ship'smast, and was beaten with a rope's end if he did not behave himself."

The clerk told all this in our own times; he had collected itand looked it up in books and memoranda. It was to be found, with manyother writings, locked up in his table-drawer.

"Upward and downward is the course of the world," said he. "Itis strange to hear.

And we will hear how it went with Marie Grubbe. We need not forthat forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting in her capital hen-house, inour own time. Marie Grubbe sat down in her times, but not with thesame spirit that old Poultry Meg showed.

The winter passed away, and the spring and the summer passed away,and the autumn came again, with the damp, cold sea-fog. It was alonely, desolate life in the old manor house. Marie Grubbe took hergun in her hand and went out to the heath, and shot hares and foxes,and whatever birds she could hit. More than once she met the noble SirPalle Dyre, of Norrebak, who was also wandering about with his gun andhis dogs. He was tall and strong, and boasted of this when they talkedtogether. He could have measured himself against the deceased Mr.Brockenhuus, of Egeskov, of whom the people still talked. Palle Dyrehad, after the example of Brockenhuus, caused an iron chain with ahunting-horn to be hung in his gateway; and when he came ridinghome, he used to seize the chain, and lift himself and his horsefrom the ground, and blow the horn.

"Come yourself, and see me do that, Dame Marie," he said. 'One canbreathe fresh and free at Norrebak.

When she went to his castle is not known, but on the altarcandlestick in the church of Norrebak it was inscribed that theywere the gift of Palle Dyre and Marie Grubbe, of Norrebak Castle.

A great stout man was Palle Dyre. He drank like a sponge. He waslike a tub that could never get full; he snored like a whole sty ofpigs, and he looked red and bloated.

"He is treacherous and malicious," said Dame Pally Dyre,Grubbe's daughter. Soon she was weary of her life with him, but thatdid not make it better.

One day the table was spread, and the dishes grew cold. Palle Dyrewas out hunting foxes, and the gracious lady was nowhere to befound. Towards midnight Palle Dyre came home, but Dame Dyre cameneither at midnight, nor next morning. She had turned her back uponNorrebak, and had ridden away without saying good-bye.

It was gray, wet weather; the wind grew cold, and a flight ofblack screaming birds flew over her head. They were not so homeless asshe.

First she journeyed southward, quite down into the German land.A couple of golden rings with costly stones were turned into money;and then she turned to the east, and then she turned again and wenttowards the west. She had no food before her eyes, and murmuredagainst everything, even against the good God himself, so wretched washer soul. Soon her body became wretched too, and she was scarcely ableto move a foot. The peewit flew up as she stumbled over the mound ofearth where it had built its nest. The bird cried, as it always cried,"You thief! you thief!" She had never stolen her neighbor's goods; butas a little girl she had caused eggs and young birds to be takenfrom the trees, and she thought of that now.

From where she lay she could see the sand-dunes. By the seashorelived fishermen; but she could not get so far, she was so ill. Thegreat white sea-mews flew over her head, and screamed as the crows anddaws screamed at home in the garden of the manor house. The birds flewquite close to her, and at last it seemed to her as if they becameblack as crows, and then all was night before her eyes.

When she opened her eyes again, she was being lifted andcarried. A great strong man had taken her up in his arms, and shewas looking straight into his bearded face. He had a scar over oneeye, which seemed to divide the eyebrow into two parts. Weak as shewas, he carried her to the ship, where he got a rating for it from thecaptain.

The next day the ship sailed away. Madame Grubbe had not beenput ashore, so she sailed away with it. But she will return, willshe not? Yes, but where, and when?

The clerk could tell about this too, and it was not a storywhich he patched together himself. He had the whole strange historyout of an old authentic book, which we ourselves can take out andread. The Danish historian, Ludwig Holberg, who has written so manyuseful books and merry comedies, from which we can get such a goodidea of his times and their people, tells in his letters of MarieGrubbe, where and how he met her. It is well worth hearing; but forall that, we don't at all forget Poultry Meg, who is sittingcheerful and comfortable in the charming fowl-house.

The ship sailed away with Marie Grubbe. That's where we left off.

Long years went by.

The plague was raging at Copenhagen; it was in the year 1711.The Queen of Denmark went away to her German home, the King quittedthe capital, and everybody who could do so hurried away. The students,even those who had board and lodging gratis, left the city. One ofthese students, the last who had remained in the free college, at lastwent away too. It was two o'clock in the morning. He was carryinghis knapsack, which was better stacked with books and writings thanwith clothes. A damp mist hung over the town; not a person was to beseen in the streets; the street-doors around were marked with crosses,as a sign that the plague was within, or that all the inmates weredead. A great wagon rattled past him; the coachman brandished hiswhip, and the horses flew by at a gallop. The wagon was filled withcorpses. The young student kept his hand before his face, and smelt atsome strong spirits that he had with him on a sponge in a little brassscent-case. Out of a small tavern in one of the streets there weresounds of singing and of unhallowed laughter, from people who drankthe night through to forget that the plague was at their doors, andthat they might be put into the wagon as the others had been. Thestudent turned his steps towards the canal at the castle bridge, wherea couple of small ships were lying; one of these was weighinganchor, to get away from the plague-stricken city.

"If God spares our lives and grants us a fair wind, we are goingto Gronmud, near Falster," said the captain; and he asked the nameof the student who wished to go with him.

"Ludwig Holberg," answered the student; and the name soundedlike any other. But now there sounds in it one of the proudest namesof Denmark; then it was the name of a young, unknown student.

The ship glided past the castle. It was not yet bright day when itwas in the open sea. A light wind filled the sails, and the youngstudent sat down with his face turned towards the fresh wind, and wentto sleep, which was not exactly the most prudent thing he could havedone.

Already on the third day the ship lay by the island of Falster.

"Do you know any one here with whom I could lodge cheaply?"Holberg asked the captain.

"I should think you would do well to go to the ferry-woman inBorrehaus," answered the captain. "If you want to be very civil toher, her name is Mother Soren Sorensen Muller. But it may happenthat she may fly into a fury if you are too polite to her. The manis in custody for a crime, and that's why she manages the ferry-boatherself- she has fists of her own."

The student took his knapsack and betook himself to theferry-house. The house door was not locked- it opened, and he wentinto a room with a brick floor, where a bench, with a great coverletof leather, formed the chief article of furniture. A white hen, whohad a brood of chickens, was fastened to the bench, and had overturnedthe pipkin of water, so that the wet ran across the floor. Therewere no people either here or in the adjoining room; only a cradlestood there, in which was a child. The ferry-boat came back withonly one person in it. Whether that person was a man or a woman wasnot an easy matter to determine. The person in question was wrapped ina great cloak, and wore a kind of hood. Presently the boat lay to.

It was a woman who got out of it and came into the room. Shelooked very stately when she straightened her back; two proud eyeslooked forth from beneath her black eyebrows. It was Mother Soren, theferry-wife. The crows and daws might have called out another namefor her, which we know better.

She looked morose, and did not seem to care to talk; but this muchwas settled, that the student should board in her house for anindefinite time, while things looked so bad in Copenhagen.

This or that honest citizen would often come to the ferry-housefrom the neighboring little town. There came Frank the cutler, andSivert the exciseman. They drank a mug of beer in the ferry-house, andused to converse with the student, for he was a clever young man,who knew his "Practica," as they called it; he could read Greek andLatin, and was well up in learned subjects.

"The less one knows, the less it presses upon one," said MotherSoren.

"You have to work hard," said Holberg one day, when she wasdipping clothes in the strong soapy water, and was obliged herselfto split the logs for the fire.

"That's my affair," she replied.

"Have you been obliged to toil in this way from your childhood?"

"You can read that from my hands," she replied, and held out herhands, that were small indeed, but hard and strong, with bitten nails."You are learned, and can read."

At Christmas-time it began to snow heavily. The cold came on,the wind blue sharp, as if there were vitriol in it to wash thepeople's faces. Mother Soren did not let that disturb her; she threwher cloak around her, and drew her hood over her head. Early in theafternoon- it was already dark in the house- she laid wood and turf onthe hearth, and then she sat down to darn her stockings, for there wasno one to do it for her. Towards evening she spoke more words to thestudent than it was customary with her to use; she spoke of herhusband.

"He killed a sailor of Dragor by mischance, and for that he has towork for three years in irons. He's only a common sailor, andtherefore the law must take its course."

"The law is there for people of high rank, too," said Holberg.

"Do you think so?" said Mother Soren; then she looked into thefire for a while; but after a time she began to speak again. "Have youheard of Kai Lykke, who caused a church to be pulled down, and whenthe clergyman, Master Martin, thundered from the pulpit about it, hehad him put in irons, and sat in judgment upon him, and condemnedhim to death? Yes, and the clergyman was obliged to bow his head tothe stroke. And yet Kai Lykke went scot-free."

"He had a right to do as he did in those times," said Holberg;"but now we have left those times behind us."

"You may get a fool to believe that," cried Mother Soren; andshe got up and went into the room where the child lay. She lifted upthe child, and laid it down more comfortably. Then she arranged thebed-place of the student. He had the green coverlet, for he felt thecold more than she, though he was born in Norway.

On New Year's morning it was a bright sunshiny day. The frosthad been so strong, and was still so strong, that the fallen snowhad become a hard mass, and one could walk upon it. The bells of thelittle town were tolling for church. Student Holberg wrapped himselfup in his woollen cloak, and wanted to go to the town.

Over the ferry-house the crows and daws were flying with loudcries; one could hardly hear the church bells for their screaming.Mother Soren stood in front of the house, filling a brass pot withsnow, which she was going to put on the fire to get drinking water.She looked up to the crowd of birds, and thought her own thoughts.

Student Holberg went to church. On his way there and on his returnhe passed by the house of tax-collector Sivert, by the town-gate. Herehe was invited to take a mug of brown beer with treacle and sugar. Thediscourse fell upon Mother Soren, but the tax collector did not knowmuch about her, and, indeed, few knew much about her. She did notbelong to the island of Falster, he said; she had a little property ofher own at one time. Her husband was a common sailor, a fellow of avery hot temper, and had killed a sailor of Dragor; and he beat hiswife, and yet she defended him.

"I should not endure such treatment," said the tax-collector'swife. "I am come of more respectable people. My father wasstocking-weaver to the Court."

"And consequently you have married a governmental official,"said Holberg, and made a bow to her and to the collector.

It was on Twelfth Night, the evening of the festival of theThree Kings, Mother Soren lit up for Holberg a three-king candle, thatis, a tallow candle with three wicks, which she had herself prepared.

"A light for each man," said Holberg.

"For each man?" repeated the woman, looking sharply at him.

"For each of the wise men from the East," said Holberg.

"You mean it that way," said she, and then she was silent for along time. But on this evening he learned more about her than he hadyet known.

"You speak very affectionately of your husband," observed Holberg,"and yet the people say that he ill-uses you every day."

"That's no one's business but mine," she replied. "The blows mighthave done me good when I was a child; now, I suppose, I get them formy sins. But I know what good he has done me," and she rose up."When I lay sick upon the desolate heath, and no one would have pityon me, and no one would have anything to do with me, except thecrows and daws, which came to peck me to bits, he carried me in hisarms, and had to bear hard words because of the burden he brought onboard ship. It's not in my nature to be sick, and so I got well. Everyman has his own way, and Soren has his; but the horse must not bejudged by the halter. Taking one thing with another, I have lived moreagreeably with him than with the man whom they called the most nobleand gallant of the King's subjects. I have had the StadtholderGyldenlowe, the King's half-brother, for my husband; and afterwardsI took Palle Dyre. One is as good as another, each in his own way, andI in mine. That was a long gossip, but now you know all about me."

And with those words she left the room.

It was Marie Grubbe! so strangely had fate played with her. Shedid not live to see many anniversaries of the festival of the ThreeKings; Holberg has recorded that she died in June, 1716; but he hasnot written down, for he did not know, that a number of great blackbirds circled over the ferry-house, when Mother Soren, as she wascalled, was lying there a corpse. They did not scream, as if they knewthat at a burial silence should be observed. So soon as she lay in theearth, the birds disappeared; but on the same evening in Jutland, atthe old manor house, an enormous number of crows and choughs wereseen; they all cried as loud as they could, as if they had someannouncement to make. Perhaps they talked of him who, as a little boy,had taken away their eggs and their young; of the peasant's son, whohad to wear an iron garter, and of the noble young lady, who endedby being a ferryman's wife.

"Brave! brave!" they cried.

And the whole family cried, "Brave! brave!" when the old house waspulled down.

"They are still crying, and yet there's nothing to cry about,"said the clerk, when he told the story. "The family is extinct, thehouse has been pulled down, and where it stood is now the statelypoultry-house, with gilded weathercocks, and the old Poultry Meg.She rejoices greatly in her beautiful dwelling. If she had not comehere," the old clerk added, "she would have had to go into thework-house."

The pigeons cooed over her, the turkey-cocks gobbled, and theducks quacked.

"Nobody knew her," they said; "she belongs to no family. It's purecharity that she is here at all. She has neither a drake father nora hen mother, and has no descendants."

She came of a great family, for all that; but she did not know it,and the old clerk did not know it, though he had so much written down;but one of the old crows knew about it, and told about it. She hadheard from her own mother and grandmother about Poultry Meg's motherand grandmother. And we know the grandmother too. We saw her ride,as child, over the bridge, looking proudly around her, as if the wholeworld belonged to her, and all the birds' nests in it; and we sawher on the heath, by the sand-dunes; and, last of all, in theferry-house. The granddaughter, the last of her race, had come back tothe old home, where the old castle had stood, where the black wildbirds were screaming; but she sat among the tame birds, and these knewher and were fond of her. Poultry Meg had nothing left to wish for;she looked forward with pleasure to her death, and she was oldenough to die.

"Grave, grave!" cried the crows.

And Poultry Meg has a good grave, which nobody knew except the oldcrow, if the old crow is not dead already.

And now we know the story of the old manor house, of its oldproprietors, and of all Poultry Meg's family.

THE END.

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

SHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING

by Hans Christian Andersen

THE mayor stood at the open window. He looked smart, for hisshirt-frill, in which he had stuck a breast-pin, and his ruffles, werevery fine. He had shaved his chin uncommonly smooth, although he hadcut himself slightly, and had stuck a piece of newspaper over theplace. "Hark 'ee, youngster!" cried he.

The boy to whom he spoke was no other than the son of a poorwasher-woman, who was just going past the house. He stopped, andrespectfully took off his cap. The peak of this cap was broken inthe middle, so that he could easily roll it up and put it in hispocket. He stood before the mayor in his poor but clean andwell-mended clothes, with heavy wooden shoes on his feet, looking ashumble as if it had been the king himself.

"You are a good and civil boy," said the mayor. "I suppose yourmother is busy washing the clothes down by the river, and you aregoing to carry that thing to her that you have in your pocket. It isvery bad for your mother. How much have you got in it?"

"Only half a quartern," stammered the boy in a frightened voice.

"And she has had just as much this morning already?"

"No, it was yesterday," replied the boy.

"Two halves make a whole," said the mayor. "She's good fornothing. What a sad thing it is with these people. Tell your mothershe ought to be ashamed of herself. Don't you become a drunkard, but Iexpect you will though. Poor child! there, go now."

The boy went on his way with his cap in his hand, while the windfluttered his golden hair till the locks stood up straight. Heturned round the corner of the street into the little lane that led tothe river, where his mother stood in the water by her washing bench,beating the linen with a heavy wooden bar. The floodgates at themill had been drawn up, and as the water rolled rapidly on, the sheetswere dragged along by the stream, and nearly overturned the bench,so that the washer-woman was obliged to lean against it to keep itsteady. "I have been very nearly carried away," she said; "it is agood thing that you are come, for I want something to strengthen me.It is cold in the water, and I have stood here six hours. Have youbrought anything for me?"

The boy drew the bottle from his pocket, and the mother put itto her lips, and drank a little.

"Ah, how much good that does, and how it warms me," she said;"it is as good as a hot meal, and not so dear. Drink a little, my boy;you look quite pale; you are shivering in your thin clothes, andautumn has really come. Oh, how cold the water is! I hope I shallnot be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of that. Give me a littlemore, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you must not getused to it, my poor, dear child." She stepped up to the bridge onwhich the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water drippedfrom the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from hergown. "I work hard and suffer pain with my poor hands," said she, "butI do it willingly, that I may be able to bring you up honestly andtruthfully, my dear boy."

At the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, cametowards them. She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, andwith a large false curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which wasblind. This curl was intended to conceal the blind eye, but it madethe defect only more visible. She was a friend of the laundress, andwas called, among the neighbors, "Lame Martha, with the curl." "Oh,you poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the water!" sheexclaimed. "You really do need something to give you a littlewarmth, and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take."And then Martha repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes,all that the mayor had said to her boy, which she had overheard; andshe felt very angry that any man could speak, as he had done, of amother to her own child, about the few drops she had taken; and shewas still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor was going tohave a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, richwine, drunk by the bottle. "Many will take more than they ought, butthey don't call that drinking! They are all right, you are good fornothing indeed!" cried Martha indignantly.

"And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child?" said thewasher-woman, and her lips trembled as she spoke. "He says you havea mother who is good for nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but heshould not have said it to my child. How much has happened to mefrom that house!"

"Yes," said Martha; "I remember you were in service there, andlived in the house when the mayor's parents were alive; how many yearsago that is. Bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and peoplemay well be thirsty," and Martha smiled. "The mayor's greatdinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but the news cametoo late. The footman told me the dinner was already cooked, when aletter came to say that the mayor's younger brother in Copenhagen isdead."

"Dead!" cried the laundress, turning pale as death.

"Yes, certainly," replied Martha; "but why do you take it somuch to heart? I suppose you knew him years ago, when you were inservice there?"

"Is he dead?" she exclaimed. "Oh, he was such a kind, good-heartedman, there are not many like him," and the tears rolled down hercheeks as she spoke. Then she cried, "Oh, dear me; I feel quite ill:everything is going round me, I cannot bear it. Is the bottleempty?" and she leaned against the plank.