นิทานภาษาอังกฤษ

THERE was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with
a drawbridge which was but seldom let down:- not all guests
are good people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot
through, and to pour down boiling water or even molten lead on
the enemy, should he approach. Inside the house the rooms were
very high and had ceilings of beams, and that was very useful
considering the great deal of smoke which rose up from the
chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood smouldered. On
the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and proud ladies
in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about
alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the
house, to her belonged the castle.

    Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her
people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the
kennel by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in
the hall and drank the wine and the good ale out of her
cellar. Mrs. Meta was now on the chain, she could not even
bark.

    But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly
approached her; they must not see it, otherwise they would
have killed him.

    "Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember
how my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride
on the wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good,
he was to ride until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole
down to him, as I steal now to you, you yourself put little
stones under each of his feet that he might have support,
nobody saw it, or they pretended not to see it, for you were
then the young gracious mistress. My father has told me this,
and I have not forgotten it! Now I will free you, Mrs. Meta
Mogen!"

    Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off
in rain and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.

    "Thus the small service done to the old man was richly
rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.

    "Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.

    The robbers were hanged.

    There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not
belong to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble
family.

    We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the
gilt knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like
bouquets on the water, and wild swans are swimming round them.
In the garden grow roses; the mistress of the house is herself
the finest rose petal, she beams with joy, the joy of good
deeds: however, not done in the wide world, but in her heart,
and what is preserved there is not forgotten. Delaying is not
forgetting!

    Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in
the field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of
her little room looks northward, the sun does not enter here.
The girl can only see a small piece of field which is
surrounded by a high fence. But to-day the sun shines here-
the warm, beautiful sun of God is within the little room; it
comes from the south through the new window, where formerly
the wall was.

    The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see
the wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so
beautiful, and only through a single word from the kind
mistress of the mansion.

    "The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the
joy it afforded me was infinitely great and sweet!"

    And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in
the humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are
also afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does
not forget it. Delayed is not forgotten!

    An old house stood there; it was in the large town with
its busy traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do
not enter them, we remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and
light, clean and tidy; the copper utensils are shining, the
table as if polished with beeswax; the sink looks like a
freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single servant has done,
and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go to
church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that
signifies mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither
father nor mother, neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a
poor girl. One day she was engaged to a poor fellow; they
loved each other dearly.

    One day he came to her and said:

    "We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the
basement has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but
you are in my heart; what do you advise me to do?"

    "I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your
happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but
remember this; from the hour we part we shall never see each
other again."

    Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and
sweetheart in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she
could not help asking him, "How are you?"

    "Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the
woman is brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have
fought the battle, it will soon be ended; we shall not see
each other again now until we meet before God!"

    A week has passed; this morning his death was in the
newspaper, that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old
sweetheart is dead and has left a wife and three
step-children, as the paper says; it sounds as if there is a
crack, but the metal is pure.

    The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points
to the same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the
heart and will never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!

    These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same
stalk. Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little
heartbook are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!

                            THE END

Now listen! In the country, close by the high road, stood
a farmhouse; perhaps you have passed by and seen it yourself.
There was a little flower garden with painted wooden palings
in front of it; close by was a ditch, on its fresh green bank
grew a little daisy; the sun shone as warmly and brightly upon
it as on the magnificent garden flowers, and therefore it
thrived well. One morning it had quite opened, and its little
snow-white petals stood round the yellow centre, like the rays
of the sun. It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass,
and that it was a poor despised flower; on the contrary, it
was quite happy, and turned towards the sun, looking upward
and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air.

    The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a
great holiday, but it was only Monday. All the children were
at school, and while they were sitting on the forms and
learning their lessons, it sat on its thin green stalk and
learnt from the sun and from its surroundings how kind God is,
and it rejoiced that the song of the little lark expressed so
sweetly and distinctly its own feelings. With a sort of
reverence the daisy looked up to the bird that could fly and
sing, but it did not feel envious. "I can see and hear," it
thought; "the sun shines upon me, and the forest kisses me.
How rich I am!"

    In the garden close by grew many large and magnificent
flowers, and, strange to say, the less fragrance they had the
haughtier and prouder they were. The peonies puffed themselves
up in order to be larger than the roses, but size is not
everything! The tulips had the finest colours, and they knew
it well, too, for they were standing bolt upright like
candles, that one might see them the better. In their pride
they did not see the little daisy, which looked over to them
and thought, "How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the
pretty bird will fly down and call upon them. Thank God, that
I stand so near and can at least see all the splendour." And
while the daisy was still thinking, the lark came flying down,
crying "Tweet," but not to the peonies and tulips- no, into
the grass to the poor daisy. Its joy was so great that it did
not know what to think. The little bird hopped round it and
sang, "How beautifully soft the grass is, and what a lovely
little flower with its golden heart and silver dress is
growing here." The yellow centre in the daisy did indeed look
like gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as
silver.

    How happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea. The
bird kissed it with its beak, sang to it, and then rose again
up to the blue sky. It was certainly more than a quarter of an
hour before the daisy recovered its senses. Half ashamed, yet
glad at heart, it looked over to the other flowers in the
garden; surely they had witnessed its pleasure and the honour
that had been done to it; they understood its joy. But the
tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces were pointed
and red, because they were vexed. The peonies were sulky; it
was well that they could not speak, otherwise they would have
given the daisy a good lecture. The little flower could very
well see that they were ill at ease, and pitied them
sincerely.

    Shortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a
large sharp knife. She went to the tulips and began cutting
them off, one after another. "Ugh!" sighed the daisy, "that is
terrible; now they are done for."

    The girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad that
it was outside, and only a small flower- it felt very
grateful. At sunset it folded its petals, and fell asleep, and
dreamt all night of the sun and the little bird.

    On the following morning, when the flower once more
stretched forth its tender petals, like little arms, towards
the air and light, the daisy recognised the bird's voice, but
what it sang sounded so sad. Indeed the poor bird had good
reason to be sad, for it had been caught and put into a cage
close by the open window. It sang of the happy days when it
could merrily fly about, of fresh green corn in the fields,
and of the time when it could soar almost up to the clouds.
The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage. The
little daisy would have liked so much to help it, but what
could be done? Indeed, that was very difficult for such a
small flower to find out. It entirely forgot how beautiful
everything around it was, how warmly the sun was shining, and
how splendidly white its own petals were. It could only think
of the poor captive bird, for which it could do nothing. Then
two little boys came out of the garden; one of them had a
large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had cut the
tulips. They came straight towards the little daisy, which
could not understand what they wanted.

    "Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark," said one of
the boys, and began to cut out a square round the daisy, so
that it remained in the centre of the grass.

    "Pluck the flower off" said the other boy, and the daisy
trembled for fear, for to be pulled off meant death to it; and
it wished so much to live, as it was to go with the square of
turf into the poor captive lark's cage.

    "No let it stay," said the other boy, "it looks so
pretty".

    And so it stayed, and was brought into the lark's cage.
The poor bird was lamenting its lost liberty, and beating its
wings against the wires; and the little daisy could not speak
or utter a consoling word, much as it would have liked to do
so. So the forenoon passed.

    "I have no water," said the captive lark, "they have all
gone out, and forgotten to give me anything to drink. My
throat is dry and burning. I feel as if I had fire and ice
within me, and the air is so oppressive. Alas! I must die, and
part with the warm sunshine, the fresh green meadows, and all
the beauty that God has created." And it thrust its beak into
the piece of grass, to refresh itself a little. Then it
noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed it with
its beak and said: "You must also fade in here, poor little
flower. You and the piece of grass are all they have given me
in exchange for the whole world, which I enjoyed outside. Each
little blade of grass shall be a green tree for me, each of
your white petals a fragrant flower. Alas! you only remind me
of what I have lost."

    "I wish I could console the poor lark," thought the daisy.
It could not move one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its
delicate petals streamed forth, and was much stronger than
such flowers usually have: the bird noticed it, although it
was dying with thirst, and in its pain tore up the green
blades of grass, but did not touch the flower.

    The evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the poor
bird a drop of water; it opened its beautiful wings, and
fluttered about in its anguish; a faint and mournful "Tweet,
tweet," was all it could utter, then it bent its little head
towards the flower, and its heart broke for want and longing.
The flower could not, as on the previous evening, fold up its
petals and sleep; it dropped sorrowfully. The boys only came
the next morning; when they saw the dead bird, they began to
cry bitterly, dug a nice grave for it, and adorned it with
flowers. The bird's body was placed in a pretty red box; they
wished to bury it with royal honours. While it was alive and
sang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage; now,
they cried over it and covered it with flowers. The piece of
turf, with the little daisy in it, was thrown out on the dusty
highway. Nobody thought of the flower which had felt so much
for the bird and had so greatly desired to comfort it.

                            THE END

 AT a rich merchant's house there was a children's party,
and the children of rich and great people were there. The
merchant was a learned man, for his father had sent him to
college, and he had passed his examination. His father had
been at first only a cattle dealer, but always honest and
industrious, so that he had made money, and his son, the
merchant, had managed to increase his store. Clever as he was,
he had also a heart; but there was less said of his heart than
of his money. All descriptions of people visited at the
merchant's house, well born, as well as intellectual, and some
who possessed neither of these recommendations.

    Now it was a children's party, and there was children's
prattle, which always is spoken freely from the heart. Among
them was a beautiful little girl, who was terribly proud; but
this had been taught her by the servants, and not by her
parents, who were far too sensible people.

    Her father was groom of the Chambers, which is a high
office at court, and she knew it. "I am a child of the court,"
she said; now she might just as well have been a child of the
cellar, for no one can help his birth; and then she told the
other children that she was well-born, and said that no one
who was not well-born could rise in the world. It was no use
to read and be industrious, for if a person was not well-born,
he could never achieve anything. "And those whose names end
with 'sen,'" said she, "can never be anything at all. We must
put our arms akimbo, and make the elbow quite pointed, so as
to keep these 'sen' people at a great distance." And then she
stuck out her pretty little arms, and made the elbows quite
pointed, to show how it was to be done; and her little arms
were very pretty, for she was a sweet-looking child.

    But the little daughter of the merchant became very angry
at this speech, for her father's name was Petersen, and she
knew that the name ended in "sen," and therefore she said as
proudly as she could, "But my papa can buy a hundred dollars'
worth of bonbons, and give them away to children. Can your
papa do that?"

    "Yes; and my papa," said the little daughter of the editor
of a paper, "my papa can put your papa and everybody's papa
into the newspaper. All sorts of people are afraid of him, my
mamma says, for he can do as he likes with the paper." And the
little maiden looked exceedingly proud, as if she had been a
real princess, who may be expected to look proud.

    But outside the door, which stood ajar, was a poor boy,
peeping through the crack of the door. He was of such a lowly
station that he had not been allowed even to enter the room.
He had been turning the spit for the cook, and she had given
him permission to stand behind the door and peep in at the
well-dressed children, who were having such a merry time
within; and for him that was a great deal. "Oh, if I could be
one of them," thought he, and then he heard what was said
about names, which was quite enough to make him more unhappy.
His parents at home had not even a penny to spare to buy a
newspaper, much less could they write in one; and worse than
all, his father's name, and of course his own, ended in "sen,"
and therefore he could never turn out well, which was a very
sad thought. But after all, he had been born into the world,
and the station of life had been chosen for him, therefore he
must be content.

    And this is what happened on that evening.

    Many years passed, and most of the children became
grown-up persons.

    There stood a splendid house in the town, filled with all
kinds of beautiful and valuable objects. Everybody wished to
see it, and people even came in from the country round to be
permitted to view the treasures it contained.

    Which of the children whose prattle we have described,
could call this house his own? One would suppose it very easy
to guess. No, no; it is not so very easy. The house belonged
to the poor little boy who had stood on that night behind the
door. He had really become something great, although his name
ended in "sen,"- for it was Thorwaldsen.

    And the three other children- the children of good birth,
of money, and of intellectual pride,- well, they were
respected and honored in the world, for they had been well
provided for by birth and position, and they had no cause to
reproach themselves with what they had thought and spoken on
that evening long ago, for, after all, it was mere "children's
prattle."

                            THE END

FROM my father I received the best inheritance, namely a
"good temper." "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do
with the good temper; but I will say he was lively,
good-looking round, and fat; he was both in appearance and
character a complete contradiction to his profession. "And
pray what was his profession and his standing in respectable
society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a book these
were written and printed, many, when they read it, would lay
the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title,
I don't like things of this sort." And yet my father was not a
skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his
employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of
the town, and it was his place by right. He had to precede the
bishop, and even the princes of the blood; he always went
first,- he was a hearse driver! There, now, the truth is out.
And I will own, that when people saw my father perched up in
front of the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide,
black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat on his
head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as the
sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That
face said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people
think." So I have inherited from him, not only my good temper,
but a habit of going often to the churchyard, which is good,
when done in a proper humor; and then also I take in the
Intelligencer, just as he used to do.

    I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor
a library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is
enough for me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was
to my father. It is of great use, for it contains all that a
man requires to know; the names of the preachers at the
church, and the new books which are published; where houses,
servants, clothes, and provisions may be obtained. And then
what a number of subscriptions to charities, and what innocent
verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements, all so
plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in
the Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly,
and by the end of his life will have such a capital stock of
paper that he can lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers
wood shavings for his resting-place. The newspaper and the
churchyard were always exciting objects to me. My walks to the
latter were like bathing-places to my good humor. Every one
can read the newspaper for himself, but come with me to the
churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are green, and
let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a closed
book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title
of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great
deal of information from my father, and I have noticed a great
deal myself. I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my
own use and pleasure a history of all who lie here, and a few
more beside.

    Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron
railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little
bit of evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its
green tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very
unhappy man, and yet while he lived he might be said to occupy
a very good position. He had enough to live upon, and
something to spare; but owing to his refined tastes the least
thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to a theatre of an
evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite annoyed
if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of
the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the
scenes when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a
palm-tree was introduced into a scene representing the
Zoological Gardens of Berlin, or a cactus in a view of Tyrol,
or a beech-tree in the north of Norway. As if these things
were of any consequence! Why did he not leave them alone? Who
would trouble themselves about such trifles? especially at a
comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. Then
sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to
please him. "They are like wet wood," he would say, looking
round to see what sort of people were present, "this evening;
nothing fires them." Then he would vex and fret himself
because they did not laugh at the right time, or because they
laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted and worried
himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself into the
grave.

    Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high
birth and position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he
would have been scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to
observe how wisely nature orders these things. He walked about
in a coat embroidered all over, and in the drawing-rooms of
society looked just like one of those rich pearl-embroidered
bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind them
always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a
stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and
performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now,
these serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes.
It is all so wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good
humor.

    Here rests,- ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of
him!- but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was
never remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in
the hope of having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in
his own mind, that he really had one, and was so delighted
that he positively died of joy at the thought of having at
last caught an idea. Nobody got anything by it; indeed, no one
even heard what the good thing was. Now I can imagine that
this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in his
grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is
necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he
can only make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts
are believed generally to do; why then this good idea would
not suit the hour, and the man would have to carry it down
again with him into the grave- that must be a troubled grave.

    The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that
during her life she would get up in the night and mew, that
her neighbors might think she kept a cat. What a miser she
was!

    Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would
always make her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi
manca la voce,"* it was the only true thing she ever said in
her life.

    * "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."

    Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged
to be married,- but, her story is one of every-day life; we
will leave her to rest in the grave.

    Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried
gall in her heart. She used to go round among the families
near, and search out their faults, upon which she preyed with
all the envy and malice of her nature. This is a family grave.
The members of this family held so firmly together in their
opinions, that they would believe in no other. If the
newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain
subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he
had learned quite differently, they would take his assertion
as the only true one, because he belonged to the family. And
it is well known that if the yard-cock belonging to this
family happened to crow at midnight, they would declare it was
morning, although the watchman and all the clocks in the town
were proclaiming the hour of twelve at night.

    The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words,
"may be continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard
be continued. I come here often, and if any of my friends, or
those who are not my friends, are too much for me, I go out
and choose a plot of ground in which to bury him or her. Then
I bury them, as it were; there they lie, dead and powerless,
till they come back new and better characters. Their lives and
their deeds, looked at after my own fashion, I write down in
my diary, as every one ought to do. Then, if any of our
friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about it. Let
them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good
temper. They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper
written by the people, with their hands guided. When the time
comes for the history of my life, to be bound by the grave,
then they will write upon it as my epitaph-

                 "The man with a cheerful temper."

And this is my story.

                            THE END

THERE was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as
may be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from
among the flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at
all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers were seated
quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should
sit before they are engaged; but there was a great number of
them, and it appeared as if his search would become very
wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much
trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French
call this flower "Marguerite," and they say that the little
daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they
pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus:
"Does he or she love me?- Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A
little? Not at all?" and so on. Every one speaks these words
in his own language. The butterfly came also to Marguerite to
inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a
kiss on each of them, for he thought there was always more to
be done by kindness.

    "Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the
wisest woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the
flowers I shall choose for my wife. Which will be my bride?
When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose."

    But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that
he should call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there
is a great difference. He asked her a second time, and then a
third; but she remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he
would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at
once. It was in the early spring, when the crocus and the
snowdrop were in full bloom.

    "They are very pretty," thought the butterfly; "charming
little lasses; but they are rather formal."

    Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the
elder girls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather
sour to his taste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The
lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a large
family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like
roses, bloomed to-day, but might fall off to-morrow, with the
first wind that blew; and he thought that a marriage with one
of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom pleased
him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender,
and belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty
appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He was just
about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw
a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

    "Who is that?" he asked.

    "That is my sister," replied the pea-blossom.

    "Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day," said he;
and he flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.

    A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom;
but there were so many girls like her, with long faces and
sallow complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did
he like?

    Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn
came; but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in
their most gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the
fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for
fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very
little of that to be found in the dahlias or the dry
chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to the mint on
the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is
sweetness all over,- full of fragrance from head to foot, with
the scent of a flower in every leaf.

    "I will take her," said the butterfly; and he made her an
offer. But the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to
him. At last she said,-

    "Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and
you are old, but we may live for each other just the same; as
to marrying- no; don't let us appear ridiculous at our age."

    And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all.
He had been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And
the butterfly became what is called an old bachelor.

    It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather.
The cold wind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so
that they creaked again. It was not the weather for flying
about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly was not
out in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room
heated by a stove, and as warm as summer. He could exist here,
he said, well enough.

    "But it is not enough merely to exist," said he, "I need
freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion."

    Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and
admired by those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on
a pin, in a box of curiosities. They could not do more for
him.

    "Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers," said the
butterfly. "It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should
imagine it is something like being married; for here I am
stuck fast." And with this thought he consoled himself a
little.

    "That seems very poor consolation," said one of the plants
in the room, that grew in a pot.

    "Ah," thought the butterfly, "one can't very well trust
these plants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind."

                            THE END

THERE were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were all
brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin
spoon. They shouldered arms and looked straight before them,
and wore a splendid uniform, red and blue. The first thing in
the world they ever heard were the words, "Tin soldiers!"
uttered by a little boy, who clapped his hands with delight
when the lid of the box, in which they lay, was taken off.
They were given him for a birthday present, and he stood at
the table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly alike,
excepting one, who had only one leg; he had been left to the
last, and then there was not enough of the melted tin to
finish him, so they made him to stand firmly on one leg, and
this caused him to be very remarkable.

    The table on which the tin soldiers stood, was covered
with other playthings, but the most attractive to the eye was
a pretty little paper castle. Through the small windows the
rooms could be seen. In front of the castle a number of little
trees surrounded a piece of looking-glass, which was intended
to represent a transparent lake. Swans, made of wax, swam on
the lake, and were reflected in it. All this was very pretty,
but the prettiest of all was a tiny little lady, who stood at
the open door of the castle; she, also, was made of paper, and
she wore a dress of clear muslin, with a narrow blue ribbon
over her shoulders just like a scarf. In front of these was
fixed a glittering tinsel rose, as large as her whole face.
The little lady was a dancer, and she stretched out both her
arms, and raised one of her legs so high, that the tin soldier
could not see it at all, and he thought that she, like
himself, had only one leg. "That is the wife for me," he
thought; "but she is too grand, and lives in a castle, while I
have only a box to live in, five-and-twenty of us altogether,
that is no place for her. Still I must try and make her
acquaintance." Then he laid himself at full length on the
table behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could
peep at the little delicate lady, who continued to stand on
one leg without losing her balance. When evening came, the
other tin soldiers were all placed in the box, and the people
of the house went to bed. Then the playthings began to have
their own games together, to pay visits, to have sham fights,
and to give balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their box; they
wanted to get out and join the amusements, but they could not
open the lid. The nut-crackers played at leap-frog, and the
pencil jumped about the table. There was such a noise that the
canary woke up and began to talk, and in poetry too. Only the
tin soldier and the dancer remained in their places. She stood
on tiptoe, with her legs stretched out, as firmly as he did on
his one leg. He never took his eyes from her for even a
moment. The clock struck twelve, and, with a bounce, up sprang
the lid of the snuff-box; but, instead of snuff, there jumped
up a little black goblin; for the snuff-box was a toy puzzle.

    "Tin soldier," said the goblin, "don't wish for what does
not belong to you.

    But the tin soldier pretended not to hear.

    "Very well; wait till to-morrow, then," said the goblin.

    When the children came in the next morning, they placed
the tin soldier in the window. Now, whether it was the goblin
who did it, or the draught, is not known, but the window flew
open, and out fell the tin soldier, heels over head, from the
third story, into the street beneath. It was a terrible fall;
for he came head downwards, his helmet and his bayonet stuck
in between the flagstones, and his one leg up in the air. The
servant maid and the little boy went down stairs directly to
look for him; but he was nowhere to be seen, although once
they nearly trod upon him. If he had called out, "Here I am,"
it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out
for help while he wore a uniform.

    Presently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and
faster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two
boys happened to pass by, and one of them said, "Look, there
is a tin soldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in."

    So they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin
soldier in it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while the
two boys ran by the side of it, and clapped their hands. Good
gracious, what large waves arose in that gutter! and how fast
the stream rolled on! for the rain had been very heavy. The
paper boat rocked up and down, and turned itself round
sometimes so quickly that the tin soldier trembled; yet he
remained firm; his countenance did not change; he looked
straight before him, and shouldered his musket. Suddenly the
boat shot under a bridge which formed a part of a drain, and
then it was as dark as the tin soldier's box.

    "Where am I going now?" thought he. "This is the black
goblin's fault, I am sure. Ah, well, if the little lady were
only here with me in the boat, I should not care for any
darkness."

    Suddenly there appeared a great water-rat, who lived in
the drain.

    "Have you a passport?" asked the rat, "give it to me at
once." But the tin soldier remained silent and held his musket
tighter than ever. The boat sailed on and the rat followed it.
How he did gnash his teeth and cry out to the bits of wood and
straw, "Stop him, stop him; he has not paid toll, and has not
shown his pass." But the stream rushed on stronger and
stronger. The tin soldier could already see daylight shining
where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound quite
terrible enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the
tunnel the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place,
which made it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to
us. He was too close to it to stop, so the boat rushed on, and
the poor tin soldier could only hold himself as stiffly as
possible, without moving an eyelid, to show that he was not
afraid. The boat whirled round three or four times, and then
filled with water to the very edge; nothing could save it from
sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water, while deeper
and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and loose
with the wet, till at last the water closed over the soldier's
head. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should
never see again, and the words of the song sounded in his
ears-

                     "Farewell, warrior! ever brave,
                      Drifting onward to thy grave."

    Then the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank
into the water and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by
a great fish. Oh how dark it was inside the fish! A great deal
darker than in the tunnel, and narrower too, but the tin
soldier continued firm, and lay at full length shouldering his
musket. The fish swam to and fro, making the most wonderful
movements, but at last he became quite still. After a while, a
flash of lightning seemed to pass through him, and then the
daylight approached, and a voice cried out, "I declare here is
the tin soldier." The fish had been caught, taken to the
market and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen and
cut him open with a large knife. She picked up the soldier and
held him by the waist between her finger and thumb, and
carried him into the room. They were all anxious to see this
wonderful soldier who had travelled about inside a fish; but
he was not at all proud. They placed him on the table, and-
how many curious things do happen in the world!- there he was
in the very same room from the window of which he had fallen,
there were the same children, the same playthings, standing on
the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little
dancer at the door; she still balanced herself on one leg, and
held up the other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched
the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin
tears, but he kept them back. He only looked at her and they
both remained silent. Presently one of the little boys took up
the tin soldier, and threw him into the stove. He had no
reason for doing so, therefore it must have been the fault of
the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box. The flames
lighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very
terrible, but whether it proceeded from the real fire or from
the fire of love he could not tell. Then he could see that the
bright colors were faded from his uniform, but whether they
had been washed off during his journey or from the effects of
his sorrow, no one could say. He looked at the little lady,
and she looked at him. He felt himself melting away, but he
still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder. Suddenly the
door of the room flew open and the draught of air caught up
the little dancer, she fluttered like a sylph right into the
stove by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in
flames and was gone. The tin soldier melted down into a lump,
and the next morning, when the maid servant took the ashes out
of the stove, she found him in the shape of a little tin
heart. But of the little dancer nothing remained but the
tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a cinder.

                            THE END

 OUR scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called
"wild moor." We hear what is called the "Wester-wow-wow"- the
peculiar roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the
western coast of Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound
that penetrates for miles into the land; and we are quite near
the roaring. Before us rises a great mound of sand- a mountain
we have long seen, and towards which we are wending our way,
driving slowly along through the deep sand. On this mountain
of sand is a lofty old building- the convent of Borglum. In
one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church. And
at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but
the weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and
the eye can range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of
Aalborg, over heath and meadow, and far across the deep blue
sea.

    Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other
farm buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to
the Old Castle Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines along
the walls, and, sheltered from the wind and weather, grow so
luxuriantly that their twigs and leaves almost conceal the
windows.

    We mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through
the long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans
very strangely here, both within and without. It is hardly
known how, but the people say- yes, people say a great many
things when they are frightened or want to frighten others-
they say that the old dead choir-men glide silently past us
into the church, where mass is sung. They can be heard in the
rushing of the storm, and their singing brings up strange
thoughts in the hearers- thoughts of the old times into which
we are carried back.

    On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors
are there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The
sea washes away the blood that has flowed from the cloven
skulls. The stranded goods belong to the bishop, and there is
a store of goods here. The sea casts up tubs and barrels
filled with costly wine for the convent cellar, and in the
convent is already good store of beer and mead. There is
plenty in the kitchen- dead game and poultry, hams and
sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

    The Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has great
possessions, but still he longs for more- everything must bow
before the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is
dead, and his widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how
comes it that one relation is always harder towards another
than even strangers would be? The widow's husband had
possessed all Thyland, with the exception of the church
property. Her son was not at home. In his boyhood he had
already started on a journey, for his desire was to see
foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no
news of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and
would never come back to his home, to rule where his mother
then ruled.

    "What has a woman to do with rule?" said the bishop.

    He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he
gain thereby? The widow had never been disobedient to the law,
and was strong in her just rights.

    Bishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose? What
writest thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy
seal, and intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride
away, far away, to the city of the Pope?

    It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships,
and soon icy winter will come.

    Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed
the horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from
Rome with a papal decree- a ban, or bull, against the widow
who had dared to offend the pious bishop. "Cursed be she and
all that belongs to her. Let her be expelled from the
congregation and the Church. Let no man stretch forth a
helping hand to her, and let friends and relations avoid her
as a plague and a pestilence!"

    "What will not bend must break," said the Bishop of
Borglum

    And all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God.
He is her helper and defender.

    One servant only- an old maid- remained faithful to her;
and with the old servant, the widow herself followed the
plough; and the crop grew, although the land had been cursed
by the Pope and by the bishop.

    "Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my
purpose!" cried the Bishop of Borglum. "Now will I lay the
hand of the Pope upon thee, to summon thee before the tribunal
that shall condemn thee!"

    Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to
her to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old
servant, and travelled away across the heath out of the Danish
land. As a stranger she came into a foreign country, where a
strange tongue was spoken and where new customs prevailed.
Farther and farther she journeyed, to where green hills rise
into mountains, and the vine clothes their sides. Strange
merchants drive by her, and they look anxiously after their
wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an attack from the
armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor women, in
their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel
fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the
darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met
them a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed
followers. He paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and
questioned the women as to the goal of their journey and the
place whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland in
Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her woes, which were
soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed it. For the
stranger knight is the widow's son! He seized her hand, he
embraced her, and the mother wept. For years she had not been
able to weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood
started.

    It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships,
and soon will icy winter come.

    The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's
cellar. In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the
fire. At Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms,
while cold winter raged without, when a piece of news was
brought to the bishop. "Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back,
and his mother with him." Jens Glob laid a complaint against
the bishop, and summoned him before the temporal and the
spiritual court.

    "That will avail him little," said the bishop. "Best leave
off thy efforts, knight Jens."

    Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships.
Icy winter comes again, and the "white bees" are swarming, and
sting the traveller's face till they melt.

    "Keen weather to-day!" say the people, as they step in.

    Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he
singes the skirt of his wide garment.

    "Thou Borglum bishop," he exclaims, "I shall subdue thee
after all! Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach
thee; but Jens Glob shall reach thee!"

    Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase,
in Sallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas
eve, at mass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is
to read the mass, and consequently will journey from Borglum
to Thyland; and this is known to Jens Glob.

    Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. The
marsh will bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests
and armed men. They ride the shortest way, through the waving
reeds, where the wind moans sadly.

    Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin!
it sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath
and moorland- over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the
hot summer, though now icy, like all the country- towards the
church of Widberg.

    The wind is blowing his trumpet too- blowing it harder and
harder. He blows up a storm- a terrible storm- that increases
more and more. Towards the church they ride, as fast as they
may through the storm. The church stands firm, but the storm
careers on over field and moorland, over land and sea.

    Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will
scarce do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his
warriors on the farther side of the bay, in order that he may
help Jens Glob, now that the bishop is to be summoned before
the judgment seat of the Highest.

    The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council
table. The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra.
The storm reads out the accusation and the sentence, roaming
in the air over moor and heath, and over the rolling waters.
No ferry-boat can sail over the bay in such weather as this.

    Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his
warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and
gives them leave to ride home and greet his wife. He intends
to risk his life alone in the roaring waters; but they are to
bear witness for him that it is not his fault if Jens Glob
stands without reinforcement in the church at Widberg. The
faithful warriors will not leave him, but follow him out into
the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away; but Olaf Hase
and two of the youngest men reach the farther side. They have
still four miles to ride.

    It is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated.
The church is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through
the window-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath. The
mass has long been finished, silence reigns in the church, and
the wax is heard dropping from the candles to the stone
pavement. And now Olaf Hase arrives.

    In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,

    "I have just made an agreement with the bishop."

    "Sayest thou so?" replied Olaf Hase. "Then neither thou
nor the bishop shall quit this church alive."

    And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals
a blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens
Glob hastily closes between them, fly in fragments.

    "Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I
made. I have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests.
They will have no word more to say in the matter, nor will I
speak again of all the wrong that my mother has endured."

    The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there
is a redder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies
with cloven skull, and his dead warriors around him, in the
quiet of the holy Christmas night.

    And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in
the convent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and the slain
warriors and priests are displayed under a black canopy,
surrounded by candelabra decked with crape. There lies the
dead man, in the black cloak wrought with silver; the crozier
in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The incense
rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It
sounds like a wail- it sounds like a sentence of wrath and
condemnation, that must be heard far over the land, carried by
the wind- sung by the wind- the wail that sometimes is silent,
but never dies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even
into our own time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his
hard nephew. It is heard in the dark night by the frightened
husbandman, driving by in the heavy sandy road past the
convent of Borglum. It is heard by the sleepless listener in
the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not only to the ear
of superstition is the sighing and the tread of hurrying feet
audible in the long echoing passages leading to the convent
door that has long been locked. The door still seems to open,
and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the
fragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient
splendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain
bishop, who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle,
with the crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud
forehead gleams the red wound like fire, and there burn the
worldly mind and the wicked thoughts.

    Sink down into his grave- into oblivion- ye terrible
shapes of the times of old!

    Hark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the
rolling sea! A storm approaches without, calling aloud for
human lives. The sea has not put on a new mind with the new
time. This night it is a horrible pit to devour up lives, and
to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a glassy mirror- even as in the
old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly, if thou canst
sleep!

    Now it is morning.

    The new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still
keeps up mightily. A wreck is announced- as in the old time.

    During the night, down yonder by Lokken, the little
fishing village with the red-tiled roofs- we can see it up
here from the window- a ship has come ashore. It has struck,
and is fast embedded in the sand; but the rocket apparatus has
thrown a rope on board, and formed a bridge from the wreck to
the mainland; and all on board are saved, and reach the land,
and are wrapped in warm blankets; and to-day they are invited
to the farm at the convent of Borglum. In comfortable rooms
they encounter hospitality and friendly faces. They are
addressed in the language of their country, and the piano
sounds for them with melodies of their native land; and before
these have died away, the chord has been struck, the wire of
thought that reaches to the land of the sufferers announces
that they are rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled; and
at even they join in the dance at the feast given in the great
hall at Borglum. Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and
Danish popular songs, and melodies of foreign lands in these
modern times.

    Blessed be thou, new time! Speak thou of summer and of
purer gales! Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and
thoughts! On thy glowing canvas let them be painted- the dark
legends of the rough hard times that are past!

                            THE END

"DING-DONG! ding-dong!" It sounds up from the "bell-deep"
in the Odense-Au. Every child in the old town of Odense, on
the island of Funen, knows the Au, which washes the gardens
round about the town, and flows on under the wooden bridges
from the dam to the water-mill. In the Au grow the yellow
water-lilies and brown feathery reeds; the dark velvety flag
grows there, high and thick; old and decayed willows, slanting
and tottering, hang far out over the stream beside the monk's
meadow and by the bleaching ground; but opposite there are
gardens upon gardens, each different from the rest, some with
pretty flowers and bowers like little dolls' pleasure grounds,
often displaying cabbage and other kitchen plants; and here
and there the gardens cannot be seen at all, for the great
elder trees that spread themselves out by the bank, and hang
far out over the streaming waters, which are deeper here and
there than an oar can fathom. Opposite the old nunnery is the
deepest place, which is called the "bell-deep," and there
dwells the old water spirit, the "Au-mann." This spirit sleeps
through the day while the sun shines down upon the water; but
in starry and moonlit nights he shows himself. He is very old.
Grandmother says that she has heard her own grandmother tell
of him; he is said to lead a solitary life, and to have nobody
with whom he can converse save the great old church Bell. Once
the Bell hung in the church tower; but now there is no trace
left of the tower or of the church, which was called St.
Alban's.

    "Ding-dong! ding-dong!" sounded the Bell, when the tower
still stood there; and one evening, while the sun was setting,
and the Bell was swinging away bravely, it broke loose and
came flying down through the air, the brilliant metal shining
in the ruddy beam.

    "Ding-dong! ding-dong! Now I'll retire to rest!" sang the
Bell, and flew down into the Odense-Au, where it is deepest;
and that is why the place is called the "bell-deep."

    But the Bell got neither rest nor sleep. Down in the
Au-mann's haunt it sounds and rings, so that the tones
sometimes pierce upward through the waters; and many people
maintain that its strains forebode the death of some one; but
that is not true, for the Bell is only talking with the
Au-mann, who is now no longer alone.

    And what is the Bell telling? It is old, very old, as we
have already observed; it was there long before grandmother's
grandmother was born; and yet it is but a child in comparison
with the Au-mann, who is quite an old quiet personage, an
oddity, with his hose of eel-skin, and his scaly Jacket with
the yellow lilies for buttons, and a wreath of reed in his
hair and seaweed in his beard; but he looks very pretty for
all that.

    What the Bell tells? To repeat it all would require years
and days; for year by year it is telling the old stories,
sometimes short ones, sometimes long ones, according to its
whim; it tells of old times, of the dark hard times, thus:

    "In the church of St. Alban, the monk had mounted up into
the tower. He was young and handsome, but thoughtful
exceedingly. He looked through the loophole out upon the
Odense-Au, when the bed of the water was yet broad, and the
monks' meadow was still a lake. He looked out over it, and
over the rampart, and over the nuns' hill opposite, where the
convent lay, and the light gleamed forth from the nun's cell.
He had known the nun right well, and he thought of her, and
his heart beat quicker as he thought. Ding-dong! ding-dong!"

    Yes, this was the story the Bell told.

    "Into the tower came also the dapper man-servant of the
bishop; and when I, the Bell, who am made of metal, rang hard
and loud, and swung to and fro, I might have beaten out his
brains. He sat down close under me, and played with two little
sticks as if they had been a stringed instrument; and he sang
to it. 'Now I may sing it out aloud, though at other times I
may not whisper it. I may sing of everything that is kept
concealed behind lock and bars. Yonder it is cold and wet. The
rats are eating her up alive! Nobody knows of it! Nobody hears
of it! Not even now, for the bell is ringing and singing its
loud Ding-dong, ding-dong!'

    "There was a King in those days. They called him Canute.
He bowed himself before bishop and monk; but when he offended
the free peasants with heavy taxes and hard words, they seized
their weapons and put him to flight like a wild beast. He
sought shelter in the church, and shut gate and door behind
him. The violent band surrounded the church; I heard tell of
it. The crows, ravens and magpies started up in terror at the
yelling and shouting that sounded around. They flew into the
tower and out again, they looked down upon the throng below,
and they also looked into the windows of the church, and
screamed out aloud what they saw there. King Canute knelt
before the altar in prayer; his brothers Eric and Benedict
stood by him as a guard with drawn swords; but the King's
servant, the treacherous Blake, betrayed his master. The
throng in front of the church knew where they could hit the
King, and one of them flung a stone through a pane of glass,
and the King lay there dead! The cries and screams of the
savage horde and of the birds sounded through the air, and I
joined in it also; for I sang 'Ding-dong! ding-dong!'

    "The church bell hangs high, and looks far around, and
sees the birds around it, and understands their language. The
wind roars in upon it through windows and loopholes; and the
wind knows everything, for he gets it from the air, which
encircles all things, and the church bell understands his
tongue, and rings it out into the world, 'Ding-dong!
ding-dong!'

    "But it was too much for me to hear and to know; I was not
able any longer to ring it out. I became so tired, so heavy,
that the beam broke, and I flew out into the gleaming Au,
where the water is deepest, and where the Au-mann lives,
solitary and alone; and year by year I tell him what I have
heard and what I know. Ding-dong! ding-dong"

    Thus it sounds complainingly out of the bell-deep in the
Odense-Au. That is what grandmother told us.

    But the schoolmaster says that there was not any bell that
rung down there, for that it could not do so; and that no
Au-mann dwelt yonder, for there was no Au-mann at all! And
when all the other church bells are sounding sweetly, he says
that it is not really the bells that are sounding, but that it
is the air itself which sends forth the notes; and grandmother
said to us that the Bell itself said it was the air who told
it to him, consequently they are agreed on that point, and
this much is sure.

    "Be cautious, cautious, and take good heed to thyself,"
they both say.

    The air knows everything. It is around us, it is in us, it
talks of our thoughts and of our deeds, and it speaks longer
of them than does the Bell down in the depths of the Odense-Au
where the Au-mann dwells. It rings it out in the vault of
heaven, far, far out, forever and ever, till the heaven bells
sound "Ding-dong! ding-dong!"

                            THE END

THERE was once an Emperor who had a horse shod with gold.
He had a golden shoe on each foot, and why was this? He was a
beautiful creature, with slender legs, bright, intelligent
eyes, and a mane that hung down over his neck like a veil. He
had carried his master through fire and smoke in the
battle-field, with the bullets whistling round him; he had
kicked and bitten, and taken part in the fight, when the enemy
advanced; and, with his master on his back, he had dashed over
the fallen foe, and saved the golden crown and the Emperor's
life, which was of more value than the brightest gold. This is
the reason of the Emperor's horse wearing golden shoes.

    A beetle came creeping forth from the stable, where the
farrier had been shoeing the horse. "Great ones, first, of
course," said he, "and then the little ones; but size is not
always a proof of greatness." He stretched out his thin leg as
he spoke.

    "And pray what do you want?" asked the farrier.

    "Golden shoes," replied the beetle.

    "Why, you must be out of your senses," cried the farrier.
"Golden shoes for you, indeed!"

    "Yes, certainly; golden shoes," replied the beetle. "Am I
not just as good as that great creature yonder, who is waited
upon and brushed, and has food and drink placed before him?
And don't I belong to the royal stables?"

    "But why does the horse have golden shoes?" asked the
farrier; "of course you understand the reason?"

    "Understand! Well, I understand that it is a personal
slight to me," cried the beetle. "It is done to annoy me, so I
intend to go out into the world and seek my fortune."

    "Go along with you," said the farrier.

    "You're a rude fellow," cried the beetle, as he walked out
of the stable; and then he flew for a short distance, till he
found himself in a beautiful flower-garden, all fragrant with
roses and lavender. The lady-birds, with red and black shells
on their backs, and delicate wings, were flying about, and one
of them said, "Is it not sweet and lovely here? Oh, how
beautiful everything is."

    "I am accustomed to better things," said the beetle. "Do
you call this beautiful? Why, there is not even a dung-heap."
Then he went on, and under the shadow of a large haystack he
found a caterpillar crawling along. "How beautiful this world
is!" said the caterpillar. "The sun is so warm, I quite enjoy
it. And soon I shall go to sleep, and die as they call it, but
I shall wake up with beautiful wings to fly with, like a
butterfly."

    "How conceited you are!" exclaimed the beetle. "Fly about
as a butterfly, indeed! what of that. I have come out of the
Emperor's stable, and no one there, not even the Emperor's
horse, who, in fact, wears my cast-off golden shoes, has any
idea of flying, excepting myself. To have wings and fly! why,
I can do that already;" and so saying, he spread his wings and
flew away. "I don't want to be disgusted," he said to himself,
"and yet I can't help it." Soon after, he fell down upon an
extensive lawn, and for a time pretended to sleep, but at last
fell asleep in earnest. Suddenly a heavy shower of rain came
falling from the clouds. The beetle woke up with the noise and
would have been glad to creep into the earth for shelter, but
he could not. He was tumbled over and over with the rain,
sometimes swimming on his stomach and sometimes on his back;
and as for flying, that was out of the question. He began to
doubt whether he should escape with his life, so he remained,
quietly lying where he was. After a while the weather cleared
up a little, and the beetle was able to rub the water from his
eyes, and look about him. He saw something gleaming, and he
managed to make his way up to it. It was linen which had been
laid to bleach on the grass. He crept into a fold of the damp
linen, which certainly was not so comfortable a place to lie
in as the warm stable, but there was nothing better, so he
remained lying there for a whole day and night, and the rain
kept on all the time. Towards morning he crept out of his
hiding-place, feeling in a very bad temper with the climate.
Two frogs were sitting on the linen, and their bright eyes
actually glistened with pleasure.

    "Wonderful weather this," cried one of them, "and so
refreshing. This linen holds the water together so
beautifully, that my hind legs quiver as if I were going to
swim."

    "I should like to know," said another, "If the swallow who
flies so far in her many journeys to foreign lands, ever met
with a better climate than this. What delicious moisture! It
is as pleasant as lying in a wet ditch. I am sure any one who
does not enjoy this has no love for his fatherland."

    "Have you ever been in the Emperor's stable?" asked the
beetle. "There the moisture is warm and refreshing; that's the
climate for me, but I could not take it with me on my travels.
Is there not even a dunghill here in this garden, where a
person of rank, like myself, could take up his abode and feel
at home?" But the frogs either did not or would not understand
him.

    "I never ask a question twice," said the beetle, after he
had asked this one three times, and received no answer. Then
he went on a little farther and stumbled against a piece of
broken crockery-ware, which certainly ought not to have been
lying there. But as it was there, it formed a good shelter
against wind and weather to several families of earwigs who
dwelt in it. Their requirements were not many, they were very
sociable, and full of affection for their children, so much so
that each mother considered her own child the most beautiful
and clever of them all.

    "Our dear son has engaged himself," said one mother, "dear
innocent boy; his greatest ambition is that he may one day
creep into a clergyman's ear. That is a very artless and
loveable wish; and being engaged will keep him steady. What
happiness for a mother!"

    "Our son," said another, "had scarcely crept out of the
egg, when he was off on his travels. He is all life and
spirits, I expect he will wear out his horns with running. How
charming this is for a mother, is it not Mr. Beetle?" for she
knew the stranger by his horny coat.

    "You are both quite right," said he; so they begged him to
walk in, that is to come as far as he could under the broken
piece of earthenware.

    "Now you shall also see my little earwigs," said a third
and a fourth mother, "they are lovely little things, and
highly amusing. They are never ill-behaved, except when they
are uncomfortable in their inside, which unfortunately often
happens at their age."

    Thus each mother spoke of her baby, and their babies
talked after their own fashion, and made use of the little
nippers they have in their tails to nip the beard of the
beetle.

    "They are always busy about something, the little rogues,"
said the mother, beaming with maternal pride; but the beetle
felt it a bore, and he therefore inquired the way to the
nearest dung-heap.

    "That is quite out in the great world, on the other side
of the ditch," answered an earwig, "I hope none of my children
will ever go so far, it would be the death of me."

    "But I shall try to get so far," said the beetle, and he
walked off without taking any formal leave, which is
considered a polite thing to do.

    When he arrived at the ditch, he met several friends, all
them beetles; "We live here," they said, "and we are very
comfortable. May we ask you to step down into this rich mud,
you must be fatigued after your journey."

    "Certainly," said the beetle, "I shall be most happy; I
have been exposed to the rain, and have had to lie upon linen,
and cleanliness is a thing that greatly exhausts me; I have
also pains in one of my wings from standing in the draught
under a piece of broken crockery. It is really quite
refreshing to be with one's own kindred again."

    "Perhaps you came from a dung-heap," observed the oldest
of them.

    "No, indeed, I came from a much grander place," replied
the beetle; "I came from the emperor's stable, where I was
born, with golden shoes on my feet. I am travelling on a
secret embassy, but you must not ask me any questions, for I
cannot betray my secret."

    Then the beetle stepped down into the rich mud, where sat
three young-lady beetles, who tittered, because they did not
know what to say.

    "None of them are engaged yet," said their mother, and the
beetle maidens tittered again, this time quite in confusion.

    "I have never seen greater beauties, even in the royal
stables," exclaimed the beetle, who was now resting himself.

    "Don't spoil my girls," said the mother; "and don't talk
to them, pray, unless you have serious intentions."

    But of course the beetle's intentions were serious, and
after a while our friend was engaged. The mother gave them her
blessing, and all the other beetles cried "hurrah."

    Immediately after the betrothal came the marriage, for
there was no reason to delay. The following day passed very
pleasantly, and the next was tolerably comfortable; but on the
third it became necessary for him to think of getting food for
his wife, and, perhaps, for children.

    "I have allowed myself to be taken in," said our beetle to
himself, "and now there's nothing to be done but to take them
in, in return."

    No sooner said than done. Away he went, and stayed away
all day and all night, and his wife remained behind a forsaken
widow.

    "Oh," said the other beetles, "this fellow that we have
received into our family is nothing but a complete vagabond.
He has gone away and left his wife a burden upon our hands."

    "Well, she can be unmarried again, and remain here with my
other daughters," said the mother. "Fie on the villain that
forsook her!"

    In the mean time the beetle, who had sailed across the
ditch on a cabbage leaf, had been journeying on the other
side. In the morning two persons came up to the ditch. When
they saw him they took him up and turned him over and over,
looking very learned all the time, especially one, who was a
boy. "Allah sees the black beetle in the black stone, and the
black rock. Is not that written in the Koran?" he asked.

    Then he translated the beetle's name into Latin, and said
a great deal upon the creature's nature and history. The
second person, who was older and a scholar, proposed to carry
the beetle home, as they wanted just such good specimens as
this. Our beetle considered this speech a great insult, so he
flew suddenly out of the speaker's hand. His wings were dry
now, so they carried him to a great distance, till at last he
reached a hothouse, where a sash of the glass roof was partly
open, so he quietly slipped in and buried himself in the warm
earth. "It is very comfortable here," he said to himself, and
soon after fell asleep. Then he dreamed that the emperor's
horse was dying, and had left him his golden shoes, and also
promised that he should have two more. All this was very
delightful, and when the beetle woke up he crept forth and
looked around him. What a splendid place the hothouse was! At
the back, large palm-trees were growing; and the sunlight made
the leaves- look quite glossy; and beneath them what a
profusion of luxuriant green, and of flowers red like flame,
yellow as amber, or white as new-fallen snow! "What a
wonderful quantity of plants," cried the beetle; "how good
they will taste when they are decayed! This is a capital
store-room. There must certainly be some relations of mine
living here; I will just see if I can find any one with whom I
can associate. I'm proud, certainly; but I'm also proud of
being so. Then he prowled about in the earth, and thought what
a pleasant dream that was about the dying horse, and the
golden shoes he had inherited. Suddenly a hand seized the
beetle, and squeezed him, and turned him round and round. The
gardener's little son and his playfellow had come into the
hothouse, and, seeing the beetle, wanted to have some fun with
him. First, he was wrapped, in a vine-leaf, and put into a
warm trousers' pocket. He twisted and turned about with all
his might, but he got a good squeeze from the boy's hand, as a
hint for him to keep quiet. Then the boy went quickly towards
a lake that lay at the end of the garden. Here the beetle was
put into an old broken wooden shoe, in which a little stick
had been fastened upright for a mast, and to this mast the
beetle was bound with a piece of worsted. Now he was a sailor,
and had to sail away. The lake was not very large, but to the
beetle it seemed an ocean, and he was so astonished at its
size that he fell over on his back, and kicked out his legs.
Then the little ship sailed away; sometimes the current of the
water seized it, but whenever it went too far from the shore
one of the boys turned up his trousers, and went in after it,
and brought it back to land. But at last, just as it went
merrily out again, the two boys were called, and so angrily,
that they hastened to obey, and ran away as fast as they could
from the pond, so that the little ship was left to its fate.
It was carried away farther and farther from the shore, till
it reached the open sea. This was a terrible prospect for the
beetle, for he could not escape in consequence of being bound
to the mast. Then a fly came and paid him a visit. "What
beautiful weather," said the fly; "I shall rest here and sun
myself. You must have a pleasant time of it."

    "You speak without knowing the facts," replied the beetle;
"don't you see that I am a prisoner?"

    "Ah, but I'm not a prisoner," remarked the fly, and away
he flew.

    "Well, now I know the world," said the beetle to himself;
"it's an abominable world; I'm the only respectable person in
it. First, they refuse me my golden shoes; then I have to lie
on damp linen, and to stand in a draught; and to crown all,
they fasten a wife upon me. Then, when I have made a step
forward in the world, and found out a comfortable position,
just as I could wish it to be, one of these human boys comes
and ties me up, and leaves me to the mercy of the wild waves,
while the emperor's favorite horse goes prancing about proudly
on his golden shoes. This vexes me more than anything. But it
is useless to look for sympathy in this world. My career has
been very interesting, but what's the use of that if nobody
knows anything about it? The world does not deserve to be made
acquainted with my adventures, for it ought to have given me
golden shoes when the emperor's horse was shod, and I
stretched out my feet to be shod, too. If I had received
golden shoes I should have been an ornament to the stable; now
I am lost to the stable and to the world. It is all over with
me."

    But all was not yet over. A boat, in which were a few
young girls, came rowing up. "Look, yonder is an old wooden
shoe sailing along," said one of the younger girls.

    "And there's a poor little creature bound fast in it,"
said another.

    The boat now came close to our beetle's ship, and the
young girls fished it out of the water. One of them drew a
small pair of scissors from her pocket, and cut the worsted
without hurting the beetle, and when she stepped on shore she
placed him on the grass. "There," she said, "creep away, or
fly, if thou canst. It is a splendid thing to have thy
liberty." Away flew the beetle, straight through the open
window of a large building; there he sank down, tired and
exhausted, exactly on the mane of the emperor's favorite
horse, who was standing in his stable; and the beetle found
himself at home again. For some time he clung to the mane,
that he might recover himself. "Well," he said, "here I am,
seated on the emperor's favorite horse,- sitting upon him as
if I were the emperor himself. But what was it the farrier
asked me? Ah, I remember now,- that's a good thought,- he
asked me why the golden shoes were given to the horse. The
answer is quite clear to me, now. They were given to the horse
on my account." And this reflection put the beetle into a good
temper. The sun's rays also came streaming into the stable,
and shone upon him, and made the place lively and bright.
"Travelling expands the mind very much," said the beetle. "The
world is not so bad after all, if you know how to take things
as they come.

                            THE END

ANNE LISBETH was a beautiful young woman, with a red and
white complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes;
and her footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was
lighter still. She had a little child, not at all pretty; so
he was put out to be nursed by a laborer's wife, and his
mother went to the count's castle. She sat in splendid rooms,
richly decorated with silk and velvet; not a breath of air was
allowed to blow upon her, and no one was allowed to speak to
her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's child. He was
fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an angel; and
how she loved this child! Her own boy was provided for by
being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently
than the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home
to take care of the child. Then he would cry, but what nobody
knows nobody cares for; so he would cry till he was tired, and
then fall asleep; and while we are asleep we can feel neither
hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes; sleep is a capital invention.

    As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like
weeds, although they said his growth had been stunted. He had
become quite a member of the family in which he dwelt; they
received money to keep him, so that his mother got rid of him
altogether. She had become quite a lady; she had a comfortable
home of her own in the town; and out of doors, when she went
for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she never walked out to see
the laborer: that was too far from the town, and, indeed, she
had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to these laboring
people. He had food, and he could also do something towards
earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he
knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

    The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion
sits proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and
barks at every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps
into his house, and there he is warm and dry. Anne Lisbeth's
boy also sat in the sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting
out a little toy. If it was spring-time, he knew of three
strawberry-plants in blossom, which would certainly bear
fruit. This was his most hopeful thought, though it often came
to nothing. And he had to sit out in the rain in the worst
weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind dry
the clothes on his back afterwards. If he went near the
farmyard belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked
about, for the men and the maids said he was so horrible ugly;
but he was used to all this, for nobody loved him. This was
how the world treated Anne Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be
otherwise. It was his fate to be beloved by no one. Hitherto
he had been a land crab; the land at last cast him adrift. He
went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat at the helm, while
the skipper sat over the grog-can. He was dirty and ugly,
half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never
had enough to eat, which was really the case.

    Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and
wet, and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing,
especially at sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only
two men on board, or, more correctly, a man and a half, for it
was the skipper and his boy. There had only been a kind of
twilight all day, and it soon grew quite dark, and so bitterly
cold, that the skipper took a dram to warm him. The bottle was
old, and the glass too. It was perfect in the upper part, but
the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been fixed upon
a little carved block of wood, painted blue. A dram is a great
comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while
the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed
hands. He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked
crippled and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy,
though in the church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's
son. The wind cut through the rigging, and the boat cut
through the sea. The sails, filled by the wind, swelled out
and carried them along in wild career. It was wet and rough
above and below, and might still be worse. Hold! what is that?
What has struck the boat? Was it a waterspout, or a heavy sea
rolling suddenly upon them?

    "Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat
heeled over and lay on its beam ends. It had struck on a rock,
which rose from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like
an old shoe in a puddle. "It sank at once with mouse and man,"
as the saying is. There might have been mice on board, but
only one man and a half, the skipper and the laborer's boy. No
one saw it but the skimming sea-gulls and the fishes beneath
the water; and even they did not see it properly, for they
darted back with terror as the boat filled with water and
sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the surface, and
those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The glass
with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not
sink, for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be
cast upon the shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of
no consequence. It had served its purpose, and it had been
loved, which Anne Lisbeth's boy had not been. But in heaven no
soul will be able to say, "Never loved."

    Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was
called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she
remembered the old, noble days, in which she had driven in the
carriage, and had associated with countess and baroness. Her
beautiful, noble child had been a dear angel, and possessed
the kindest heart; he had loved her so much, and she had loved
him in return; they had kissed and loved each other, and the
boy had been her joy, her second life. Now he was fourteen
years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had not seen him
since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been for
years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither
from the town.

    "I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see
my darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my
heart. Certainly he must long to see me, too, the young count;
no doubt he thinks of me and loves me, as in those days when
he would fling his angel-arms round my neck, and lisp 'Anne
Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I must make an effort to
see him again." She drove across the country in a grazier's
cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot, and
thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and
magnificent as it had always been, and the garden looked the
same as ever; all the servants were strangers to her, not one
of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor of what consequence she had
once been there; but she felt sure the countess would soon let
them know it, and her darling boy, too: how she longed to see
him!

    Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was
kept waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes
slowly. But before the great people went in to dinner, she was
called in and spoken to very graciously. She was to go in
again after dinner, and then she would see her sweet boy once
more. How tall, and slender, and thin he had grown; but the
eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still beautiful. He looked
at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did not know who
she was. He turned round and was going away, but she seized
his hand and pressed it to her lips.

    "Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the
room. He who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best,
and who was her whole earthly pride!

    Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public
road, feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and
night, and even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold
and strange, and had not a word or thought respecting her. A
great black raven darted down in front of her on the high
road, and croaked dismally.

    "Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?"
Presently she passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the
door, and the two women spoke to each other.

    "You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump;
you are well off."

    "Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.

    "The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans
the skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end
of them. I always thought the boy would be able to help me
with a few dollars. He'll never cost you anything more, Anne
Lisbeth."

    "So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she
said no more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very
low-spirited, because her count-child had shown no inclination
to speak to her who loved him so well, and who had travelled
so far to see him. The journey had cost money too, and she had
derived no great pleasure from it. Still she said not a word
of all this; she could not relieve her heart by telling the
laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not enjoy
her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over
her, screaming again as he flew.

    "The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by
frightening me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with
her, for she thought it would be a charity to the poor woman
to give them to her to boil a cup of coffee, and then she
would take a cup herself.

    The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne
Lisbeth seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she
dreamed of something which she had never dreamed before;
singularly enough she dreamed of her own child, who had wept
and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had been knocked about
in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the depths of
the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was
still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing
the coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting.
But suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the
threshold a beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's
child, and this apparition said to her, "The world is passing
away; hold fast to me, for you are my mother after all; you
have an angel in heaven, hold me fast;" and the child-angel
stretched out his hand and seized her. Then there was a
terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces, and the
angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by the
sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the
ground; but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her
feet and dragged her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of
women were clinging to her, and crying, "If thou art to be
saved, we must be saved too. Hold fast, hold fast." And then
they all hung on her, but there were too many; and as they
clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell down in
horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over
in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so
startled and alarmed that she could not remember what she had
dreamed, only that it was something very dreadful.

    They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then
Anne Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was
to meet the carrier, who was to drive her back to her own
home. But when she came to him she found that he would not be
ready to start till the evening of the next day. Then she
began to think of the expense, and what the distance would be
to walk. She remembered that the route by the sea-shore was
two miles shorter than by the high road; and as the weather
was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to
make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might
reach home the next day.

    The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the
air from the tower of the village church, but to her it was
not the bells, but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then
they ceased, and all around became still; not a bird could be
heard, they were all at rest, even the owl had not left her
hiding place; deep silence reigned on the margin of the wood
by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she could hear her
own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea were at
rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence. There
was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne
Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say,
or rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for
thought is never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many
thoughts that have lain dormant are roused at the proper time,
and begin to stir in the mind and the heart, and seem even to
come upon us from above. It is written, that a good deed bears
a blessing for its fruit; and it is also written, that the
wages of sin is death. Much has been said and much written
which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises within
us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and
thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and
every virtue lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie
like little grains of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the
touch of an evil hand, or you turn the corner to the right or
to the left, and the decision is made. The little seed is
stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours its sap into your
blood, directing your course either for good or evil.
Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting
there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it
were slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked
on thus with her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were
fermenting within her.

    From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to
weigh down the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year;
much may be forgotten, sins against heaven in word and
thought, sins against our neighbor, and against our own
conscience. We are scarcely aware of their existence; and Anne
Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors. She had committed
no crime against the law of the land; she was an honorable
person, in a good position- that she knew.

    She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea.
What was it she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now
when might that have been washed overboard? She drew nearer,
she stopped to look at the hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?"
She shuddered; yet it was nothing save a heap of grass and
tangled seaweed flung across a long stone, but it looked like
a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was frightened at
it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her mind that
she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of spectres
by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied
people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate
beach. The body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but
the spirit could pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to
him, and demand to be carried to the churchyard, that it might
rest in consecrated ground. "Hold fast! hold fast!" the
spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth murmured these words to
herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly recalled to her
memory, when the mother had clung to her, and uttered these
words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had been
torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who
wanted to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her
own child, which she had never loved, lay now buried in the
sea, and might rise up, like a spectre, from the waters, and
cry, "Hold fast; carry me to consecrated ground!"

    As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed
to her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came
upon her as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her
heart, so that she almost fainted. As she looked across the
sea, all there grew darker; a heavy mist came rolling onwards,
and clung to bush and tree, distorting them into fantastic
shapes. She turned and glanced at the moon, which had risen
behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless surface, and a
deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold," thought
she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the
moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist,
hanging like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to
consecrated earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow
tones. The sound did not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no
sign of such creatures. "A grave! dig me a grave!" was
repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed the spectre of her
child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and whose spirit
could have no rest until it was carried to the churchyard, and
until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated ground. She
would go there at once, and there she would dig. She turned in
the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart
seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but
when she turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned.
"Stop! stop!" and the words came quite clear, though they were
like the croak of a frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig
me a grave!"

    The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist
and clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and
clung to her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had
never before been there.

    In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a
single night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full
glory of youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the
consciousness of the sin that has been committed in thoughts,
words, and actions of our past life, be unfolded to us. When
once the conscience is awakened, it springs up in the heart
spontaneously, and God awakens the conscience when we least
expect it. Then we can find no excuse for ourselves; the deed
is there and bears witness against us. The thoughts seem to
become words, and to sound far out into the world. We are
horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us,
and at the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil
which has its origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart
conceals within itself the vices as well as the virtues, and
they grow in the shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now
experienced in thought what we have clothed in words. She was
overpowered by them, and sank down and crept along for some
distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a grave!" sounded
again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried herself,
if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her
actions.

    It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish
and horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with
cold or burn with the heat of fever. Many things, of which she
had feared even to speak, came into her mind. Silently, as the
cloud-shadows in the moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted
by her; she had heard of it before. Close by her galloped four
snorting steeds, with fire flashing from their eyes and
nostrils. They dragged a burning coach, and within it sat the
wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred years
before. The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock,
he drove into his castleyard and out again. He was not as pale
as dead men are, but black as a coal. He nodded, and pointed
to Anne Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast! hold fast! and then
you may ride again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your
child."

    She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard;
but black crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and
she could not distinguish one from the other. The ravens
croaked as the raven had done which she saw in the daytime,
but now she understood what they said. "I am the raven-mother;
I am the raven-mother," each raven croaked, and Anne Lisbeth
felt that the name also applied to her; and she fancied she
should be transformed into a black bird, and have to cry as
they cried, if she did not dig the grave. And she threw
herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the
hard ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers. "A grave!
dig me a grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful
that the cock might crow, and the first red streak appear in
the east, before she had finished her work; and then she would
be lost. And the cock crowed, and the day dawned in the east,
and the grave was only half dug. An icy hand passed over her
head and face, and down towards her heart. "Only half a
grave," a voice wailed, and fled away. Yes, it fled away over
the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and
overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses
left her.

    It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men
were raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard,
but on the sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the
sand, and cut her hand with a piece of broken glass, whose
sharp stern was stuck in a little block of painted wood. Anne
Lisbeth was in a fever. Conscience had roused the memories of
superstitions, and had so acted upon her mind, that she
fancied she had only half a soul, and that her child had taken
the other half down into the sea. Never would she be able to
cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered this other
half which was now held fast in the deep water.

    Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer
the woman she had been. Her thoughts were like a confused,
tangled skein; only one thread, only one thought was clear to
her, namely that she must carry the spectre of the sea-shore
to the churchyard, and dig a grave for him there; that by so
doing she might win back her soul. Many a night she was missed
from her home, and was always found on the sea-shore waiting
for the spectre.

    In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she
vanished again, and was not to be found. The whole of the next
day was spent in a useless search after her.

    Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll
the vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had
spent the whole day there. Her powers of body were almost
exhausted, but her eyes flashed brightly, and on her cheeks
was a rosy flush. The last rays of the setting sun shone upon
her, and gleamed over the altar upon the shining clasps of the
Bible, which lay open at the words of the prophet Joel, "Rend
your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord."

    "That was just a chance," people said; but do things
happen by chance? In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by
the evening sun, could be seen peace and rest. She said she
was happy now, for she had conquered. The spectre of the
shore, her own child, had come to her the night before, and
had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half a grave: but thou
hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether in thy
heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And
then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the
church. "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that
house we are happy."

    When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that
region where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's
troubles were at an end.

                            THE END