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IN Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg,
close by the Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both
English, Russian, and Prussian, pass by hundreds every day.
And they salute the old castle with cannons, “Boom, boom,”
which is as if they said, “Good-day.” And the cannons of the
old castle answer “Boom,” which means “Many thanks.” In winter
no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered with ice as
far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance of a
high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes
and Swedes say, “Good-day,” and “Thank you” to each other, not
with cannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they
exchange white bread and biscuits with each other, because
foreign articles taste the best.

    But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of
Kronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar,
into which no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and
rests his head on his strong arm; his long beard hangs down
upon the marble table, into which it has become firmly rooted;
he sleeps and dreams, but in his dreams he sees everything
that happens in Denmark. On each Christmas-eve an angel comes
to him and tells him that all he has dreamed is true, and that
he may go to sleep again in peace, as Denmark is not yet in
any real danger; but should danger ever come, then Holger
Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst asunder as
he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his
strength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the
countries of the world.

    An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all
this about Holger Danske, and the boy knew that what his
grandfather told him must be true. As the old man related this
story, he was carving an image in wood to represent Holger
Danske, to be fastened to the prow of a ship; for the old
grandfather was a carver in wood, that is, one who carved
figures for the heads of ships, according to the names given
to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood there
erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his
broad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish
arms. The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal
about Danish men and women who had distinguished themselves in
olden times, so that he fancied he knew as much even as Holger
Danske himself, who, after all, could only dream; and when the
little fellow went to bed, he thought so much about it that he
actually pressed his chin against the counterpane, and
imagined that he had a long beard which had become rooted to
it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and
carving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish
arms. And when he had finished he looked at the whole figure,
and thought of all he had heard and read, and what he had that
evening related to his little grandson. Then he nodded his
head, wiped his spectacles and put them on, and said, “Ah,
yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my lifetime, but the boy
who is in bed there may very likely live to see him when the
event really comes to pass.” And the old grandfather nodded
again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the more
satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It
seemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered
like iron and steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more
and more red; while the lions, with gold crowns on their
heads, were leaping up. “That is the most beautiful coat of
arms in the world,” said the old man. “The lions represent
strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love.” And as he
gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute, who
chained great England to Denmark’s throne; and he looked at
the second lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark
and conquered the Vandals. The third lion reminded him of
Margaret, who united Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he
gazed at the red hearts, their colors glowed more deeply, even
as flames, and his memory followed each in turn. The first led
him to a dark, narrow prison, in which sat a prisoner, a
beautiful woman, daughter of Christian the Fourth, Eleanor
Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her bosom, and its
blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this noblest and
best of all Danish women. “Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble
heart in the Danish arms,” said the grandfather. and his
spirit followed the second flame, which carried him out to
sea, where cannons roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke,
and the flaming heart attached itself to the breast of
Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbon of an order, as he blew
himself and his ship into the air in order to save the fleet.
And the third flame led him to Greenland’s wretched huts,
where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every word
and action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added
another heart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather’s
spirit followed the next hovering flame, he knew whither it
would lead him. In a peasant woman’s humble room stood
Frederick the Sixth, writing his name with chalk on the beam.
The flame trembled on his breast and in his heart, and it was
in the peasant’s room that his heart became one for the Danish
arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he had known
King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blue
eyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and
remained for some time silent. Then his daughter came to him
and said it was getting late, that he ought to rest for a
while, and that the supper was on the table.

    “What you have been carving is very beautiful,
grandfather,” said she. “Holger Danske and the old coat of
arms; it seems to me as if I have seen the face somewhere.”

    “No, that is impossible,” replied the old grandfather;
“but I have seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as
I have retained it in my memory. It was a long time ago, while
the English fleet lay in the roads, on the second of April,
when we showed that we were true, ancient Danes. I was on
board the Denmark, in Steene Bille’s squadron; I had a man by
my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He sung old
songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were
something more than a man. I still remember his face, but from
whence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows.
I have often thought it might have been Holger Danske himself,
who had swam down to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour
of danger. That was my idea, and there stands his likeness.”

    The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and
even on part of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger
Danske stood behind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no
doubt caused by the flame of the lamp not burning steadily.
Then the daughter-in-law kissed the old grandfather, and led
him to a large arm-chair by the table; and she, and her
husband, who was the son of the old man and the father of the
little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper with him. And
the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish
hearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained
quite clearly that there is another strength than that which
lies in a sword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number
of old books, and amongst them a collection of Holberg’s
plays, which are much read and are so clever and amusing that
it is easy to fancy we have known the people of those days,
who are described in them.

    “He knew how to fight also,” said the old man; “for he
lashed the follies and prejudices of people during his whole
life.”

    Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the
looking-glass, where hung an almanac, with a representation of
the Round Tower upon it, and said “Tycho Brahe was another of
those who used a sword, but not one to cut into the flesh and
bone, but to make the way of the stars of heaven clear, and
plain to be understood. And then he whose father belonged to
my calling,- yes, he, the son of the old image-carver, he whom
we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks and his broad
shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;- yes, he was a
sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear
in marble, so that people in all countries of the world may
hear of the strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health
of Bertel.”

    But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of
Kronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far
down in the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and
dreaming of everything that was passing above him.

    And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in
which the image-carver sat; he heard all that had been said,
and he nodded in his dream, saying, “Ah, yes, remember me, you
Danish people, keep me in your memory, I will come to you in
the hour of need.”

    The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the
wind brought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the
neighboring shores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle
with the boom of the cannon, and Kronenburg returned the
salute, “Boom, boom.” But the roaring cannons did not awake
Holger Danske, for they meant only “Good morning,” and “Thank
you.” They must fire in another fashion before he awakes; but
wake he will, for there is energy yet in Holger Danske.

                            THE END

THIS story really consists of two parts. The first part
might be left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and
these are useful

    We were staying in the country at a gentleman’s seat,
where it happened that the master was absent for a few days.
In the meantime, there arrived from the next town a lady; she
had a pug dog with her, and came, she said, to dispose of
shares in her tan-yard. She had her papers with her, and we
advised her to put them in an envelope, and to write thereon
the address of the proprietor of the estate, “General
War-Commissary Knight,” &c.

    She listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused,
and begged us to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and
she wrote; but in the midst of the “General War-” she struck
fast, sighed deeply, and said, “I am only a woman!” Her Puggie
had seated itself on the ground while she wrote, and growled;
for the dog had come with her for amusement and for the sake
of its health; and then the bare floor ought not to be offered
to a visitor. His outward appearance was characterized by a
snub nose and a very fat back.

    “He doesn’t bite,” said the lady; “he has no teeth. He is
like one of the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is
my grandchildren’s fault, for they have teased him; they play
at wedding, and want to give him the part of the bridesmaid,
and that’s too much for him, poor old fellow.”

    And she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her
arm. And this is the first part of the story which might have
been left out.

    PUGGIE DIED!! That’s the second part.

    It was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and
put up at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which
was divided into two parts by a partition of planks; in one
half were many skins and hides, raw and tanned. Here was all
the apparatus necessary to carry on a tannery, and it belonged
to the widow. Puggie had died in the morning, and was to be
buried in this part of the yard; the grandchildren of the
widow (that is, of the tanner’s widow, for Puggie had never
been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful
grave- it must have been quite pleasant to lie there.

    The grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and
strewn over with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half
a beer bottle, with the neck upwards, and that was not at all
allegorical.

    The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the
boys among them, a practical youngster of seven years, made
the proposition that there should be an exhibition of Puggie’s
burial-place for all who lived in the lane; the price of
admission was to be a trouser button, for every boy would be
sure to have one, and each might also give one for a little
girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.

    And all the children out of the lane- yes, even out of the
little lane at the back- flocked to the place, and each gave a
button. Many were noticed to go about on that afternoon with
only one suspender; but then they had seen Puggie’s grave, and
the sight was worth much more.

    But in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood
a little girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with
curly hair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure
to look into them. The child said not a word, nor did she cry;
but each time the little door was opened she gave a long, long
look into the yard. She had not a button- that she knew right
well, and therefore she remained standing sorrowfully outside,
till all the others had seen the grave and had gone away; then
she sat down, held her little brown hands before her eyes, and
burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen Puggie’s grave.
It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can
experience.

    We saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many
a grief of our own and of others can make us smile! That is
the story, and whoever does not understand it may go and
purchase a share in the tan-yard from the window.

                            THE END

A BEGINNING

    IN a house in Copenhagen, not far from the king’s new
market, a very large party had assembled, the host and his
family expecting, no doubt, to receive invitations in return.
One half of the company were already seated at the
card-tables, the other half seemed to be waiting the result of
their hostess’s question, “Well, how shall we amuse
ourselves?”

    Conversation followed, which, after a while, began to
prove very entertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon
the events of the middle ages, which some persons maintained
were more full of interest than our own times. Counsellor
Knapp defended this opinion so warmly that the lady of the
house immediately went over to his side, and both exclaimed
against Oersted’s Essays on Ancient and Modern Times, in which
the preference is given to our own. The counsellor considered
the times of the Danish king, Hans, as the noblest and
happiest.

    The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a
moment by the arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however,
contain much worth reading, and while it is still going on we
will pay a visit to the ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks,
and goloshes were carefully placed. Here sat two maidens, one
young, and the other old, as if they had come and were waiting
to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking at them
more closely, it could easily be seen that they were no common
servants. Their shapes were too graceful, their complexions
too delicate, and the cut of their dresses much too elegant.
They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune herself,
but the chambermaid of one of Fortune’s attendants, who
carries about her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who was
named Care, looked rather gloomy; she always goes about to
perform her own business in person; for then she knows it is
properly done. They were telling each other where they had
been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only
transacted a few unimportant matters; for instance, she had
preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain, and obtained for
an honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so on; but she
had something extraordinary to relate, after all.

    “I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday;
and in honor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of
goloshes, to introduce amongst mankind. These goloshes have
the property of making every one who puts them on imagine
himself in any place he wishes, or that he exists at any
period. Every wish is fulfilled at the moment it is expressed,
so that for once mankind have the chance of being happy.”

    No,” replied Care; “you may depend upon it that whoever
puts on those goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the
moment in which he can get rid of them.”

    “What are you thinking of?” replied the other. “Now see; I
will place them by the door; some one will take them instead
of his own, and he will be the happy man.”

    This was the end of their conversation.
COUNSELLOR

             WHAT HAPPENED TO THE COUNSELLOR

    IT was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in thought about
the times of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so
ordered it that he put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of
his own, and walked out into the East Street. Through the
magic power of the goloshes, he was at once carried back three
hundred years, to the times of King Hans, for which he had
been longing when he put them on. Therefore he immediately set
his foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in those
days possessed no pavement.

    “Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is!” said
the counsellor; and the whole pavement has vanished, and the
lamps are all out.”

    The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the
thick foggy air, and all the objects around him were confused
together in the darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung
before a picture of the Madonna; but the light it gave was
almost useless, for he only perceived it when he came quite
close and his eyes fell on the painted figures of the Mother
and Child.

    “That is most likely a museum of art,” thought he, “and
they have forgotten to take down the sign.”

    Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.

    “What odd figures!” thought he; “they must be returning
from some masquerade.”

    Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then
a blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor
stared with astonishment as he beheld a most strange
procession pass before him. First came a whole troop of
drummers, beating their drums very cleverly; they were
followed by life-guards, with longbows and crossbows. The
principal person in the procession was a clerical-looking
gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it all meant,
and who the gentleman might be.

    “That is the bishop of Zealand.”

    “Good gracious!” he exclaimed; “what in the world has
happened to the bishop? what can he be thinking about?” Then
he shook his head and said, “It cannot possibly be the bishop
himself.”

    While musing on this strange affair, and without looking
to the right or left, he walked on through East Street and
over Highbridge Place. The bridge, which he supposed led to
Palace Square, was nowhere to be found; but instead, he saw a
bank and some shallow water, and two people, who sat in a
boat.

    “Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm?”
asked one.

    “To the Holm!” exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in
what age he was now existing; “I want to go to Christian’s
Haven, in Little Turf Street.” The men stared at him. “Pray
tell me where the bridge is!” said he. “It is shameful that
the lamps are not lighted here, and it is as muddy as if one
were walking in a marsh.” But the more he talked with the
boatmen the less they could understand each other.

    “I don’t understand your outlandish talk,” he cried at
last, angrily turning his back upon them. He could not,
however, find the bridge nor any railings.

    “What a scandalous condition this place is in,” said he;
never, certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as
on this evening. “I think it will be better for me to take a
coach; but where are they?” There was not one to be seen! “I
shall be obliged to go back to the king’s new market,” said
he, “where there are plenty of carriages standing, or I shall
never reach Christian’s Haven.” Then he went towards East
Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the moon burst
forth from a cloud.

    “Dear me, what have they been erecting here?” he cried, as
he caught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to
stand at the end of East Street. However, he found an opening
through which he passed, and came out upon where he expected
to find the new market. Nothing was to be seen but an open
meadow, surrounded by a few bushes, through which ran a broad
canal or stream. A few miserable-looking wooden booths, for
the accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the opposite
shore.

    “Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy,”
groaned the counsellor. “What can it be? What is the matter
with me?” He turned back in the full conviction that he must
be ill. In walking through the street this time, he examined
the houses more closely; he found that most of them were built
of lath and plaster, and many had only a thatched roof.

    “I am certainly all wrong,” said he, with a sigh; and yet
I only drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that,
and it was very foolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I
shall speak about it to our hostess, the agent’s lady. Suppose
I were to go back now and say how ill I feel, I fear it would
look so ridiculous, and it is not very likely that I should
find any one up.” Then he looked for the house, but it was not
in existence.

    “This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East
Street. Not a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched,
tumble-down houses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or
Ringstedt. Oh, I really must be ill! It is no use to stand
upon ceremony. But where in the world is the agent’s house.
There is a house, but it is not his; and people still up in
it, I can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer.” As he
reached the half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was
a tavern of the olden times, and seemed a kind of beershop.
The room had the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of
people, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few
scholars, sat in deep conversation over their mugs, and took
very little notice of the new comer.

    “Pardon me,” said the counsellor, addressing the landlady,
“I do not feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you
will send for a fly to take me to Christian’s Haven.” The
woman stared at him and shook her head. Then she spoke to him
in German. The counsellor supposed from this that she did not
understand Danish; he therefore repeated his request in
German. This, as well as his singular dress, convinced the
woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood, however,
that he did not find himself quite well, and therefore brought
him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater,
certainly, although it had been drawn from the well outside.
Then the counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep
breath, and pondered over all the strange things that had
happened to him.

    “Is that to-day’s number of the Day?” he asked, quite
mechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of
paper. She did not understand what he meant, but she handed
him the sheet; it was a woodcut, representing a meteor, which
had appeared in the town of Cologne.

    “That is very old,” said the counsellor, becoming quite
cheerful at the sight of this antique drawing. “Where did you
get this singular sheet? It is very interesting, although the
whole affair is a fable. Meteors are easily explained in these
days; they are northern lights, which are often seen, and are
no doubt caused by electricity.”

    Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at
him in great astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his
hat respectfully, and said in a very serious manner, “You must
certainly be a very learned man, monsieur.”

    “Oh no,” replied the counsellor; “I can only discourse on
topics which every one should understand.”

    “Modestia is a beautiful virtue,” said the man. “Moreover,
I must add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case
I would suspend my judicium.”

    “May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”

    “I am a Bachelor of Divinity,” said the man. This answer
satisfied the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.

    “This is surely,” thought he, “an old village
schoolmaster, a perfect original, such as one meets with
sometimes even in Jutland.”

    “This is not certainly a locus docendi,” began the man;
“still I must beg you to continue the conversation. You must
be well read in ancient lore.”

    “Oh yes,” replied the counsellor; “I am very fond of
reading useful old books, and modern ones as well, with the
exception of every-day stories, of which we really have more
than enough.

    “Every-day stories?” asked the bachelor.

    “Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present
day.”

    “Oh,” replied the man, with a smile; “and yet they are
very witty, and are much read at Court. The king likes
especially the romance of Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian, which
describes King Arthur and his knights of the round table. He
has joked about it with the gentlemen of his Court.”

    “Well, I have certainly not read that,” replied the
counsellor. “I suppose it is quite new, and published by
Heiberg.”

    “No,” answered the man, “it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von
Gehman brought it out.”

    “Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name,” said
the counsellor; “was it not the name of the first publisher in
Denmark?”

    “Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now,”
replied the scholar.

    So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the
citizens began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had
been raging a few years before, meaning the plague of 1484.
The counsellor thought he referred to the cholera, and they
could discuss this without finding out the mistake. The war in
1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The English pirates had
taken some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the counsellor,
supposing they referred to these, agreed with them in finding
fault with the English. The rest of the talk, however, was not
so agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other. The
good bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark
of the counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too
fantastic. They stared at each other, and when it became worse
the bachelor spoke in Latin, in the hope of being better
understood; but it was all useless.

    “How are you now?” asked the landlady, pulling the
counsellor’s sleeve.

    Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of
conversation he had forgotten all that had happened
previously.

    “Goodness me! where am I?” said he. It bewildered him as
he thought of it.

    “We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer,” said
one of the guests; “will you drink with us?”

    Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of
two colors. They poured out the wine, bowed their heads, and
withdrew.

    The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. “What
is this? what does it mean?” said he; but he was obliged to
drink with them, for they overpowered the good man with their
politeness. He became at last desperate; and when one of them
said he was tipsy, he did not doubt the man’s word in the
least- only begged them to get a droschky; and then they
thought he was speaking the Muscovite language. Never before
had he been in such rough and vulgar company. “One might
believe that the country was going back to heathenism,” he
observed. “This is the most terrible moment of my life.”

    Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under
the table, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before
he reached the entry, the rest discovered what he was about,
and seized him by the feet, when, luckily for him, off came
the goloshes, and with them vanished the whole enchantment.
The counsellor now saw quite plainly a lamp, and a large
building behind it; everything looked familiar and beautiful.
He was in East Street, as it now appears; he lay with his legs
turned towards a porch, and just by him sat the watchman
asleep.

    “Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street
dreaming?” said he. “Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully
bright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass
of punch should have upset me like this.”

    Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to
drive him to Christian’s Haven. He thought of all the terror
and anxiety which he had undergone, and felt thankful from his
heart for the reality and comfort of modern times, which, with
all their errors, were far better than those in which he so
lately found himself.

                 THE WATCHMAN’S ADVENTURES

    “Well, I declare, there lies a pair of goloshes,” said the
watchman. “No doubt, they belong to the lieutenant who lives
up stairs. They are lying just by his door.” Gladly would the
honest man have rung, and given them in, for a light was still
burning, but he did not wish to disturb the other people in
the house; so he let them lie. “These things must keep the
feet very warm,” said he; “they are of such nice soft
leather.” Then he tried them on, and they fitted his feet
exactly. “Now,” said he, “how droll things are in this world!
There’s that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he does not
do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to
be a happy man. He has neither wife nor children, and he goes
out into company every evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I
should be a happy man.”

    As he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on
took effect, and the watchman at once became the lieutenant.
There he stood in his room, holding a little piece of pink
paper between his fingers, on which was a poem,- a poem
written by the lieutenant himself. Who has not had, for once
in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and at such a
moment, if the thoughts are written down, they flow in poetry.
The following verses were written on the pink paper:-

                     “OH WERE I RICH!

        “Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth’s bright hour,
          When youthful pleasures banish every care,
        I longed for riches but to gain a power,
        The sword and plume and uniform to wear!
        The riches and the honor came for me;
        Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:
                    Ah, help and pity me!

        “Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,
          A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,
        Rich in its tender love and purity,
          Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.
        Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;
          She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.
                  Thou knowest: ah, pity me!

         “Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:
           That child is now a woman, fair and free,
         As good and beautiful as angels are.
           Oh, were I rich in lovers’ poetry,
         To tell my fairy tale, love’s richest lore!
          But no; I must be silent- I am poor.
                  Ah, wilt thou pity me?

        “Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,
          I need not then my poverty bewail.
        To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;
          Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?
        A leaf on which my sorrows I relate-
          Dark story of a darker night of fate.
                   Ah, bless and pity me!”

    “Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but
a wise man will not print them. A lieutenant in love, and
poor. This is a triangle, or more properly speaking, the half
of the broken die of fortune.” The lieutenant felt this very
keenly, and therefore leaned his head against the
window-frame, and sighed deeply. “The poor watchman in the
street,” said he, “is far happier than I am. He knows not what
I call poverty. He has a home, a wife and children, who weep
at his sorrow and rejoice at his joy. Oh, how much happier I
should be could I change my being and position with him, and
pass through life with his humble expectations and hopes! Yes,
he is indeed happier than I am.”

    At this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for
having, through the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the
existence of the lieutenant, and found himself less contented
than he expected, he had preferred his former condition, and
wished himself again a watchman. “That was an ugly dream,”
said he, “but droll enough. It seemed to me as if I were the
lieutenant up yonder, but there was no happiness for me. I
missed my wife and the little ones, who are always ready to
smother me with kisses.” He sat down again and nodded, but he
could not get the dream out of his thoughts, and he still had
the goloshes on his feet. A falling star gleamed across the
sky. “There goes one!” cried he. “However, there are quite
enough left; I should very much like to examine these a little
nearer, especially the moon, for that could not slip away
under one’s hands. The student, for whom my wife washes, says
that when we die we shall fly from one star to another. If
that were true, it would be very delightful, but I don’t
believe it. I wish I could make a little spring up there now;
I would willingly let my body lie here on the steps.”

    There are certain things in the world which should be
uttered very cautiously; doubly so when the speaker has on his
feet the goloshes of Fortune. Now we shall hear what happened
to the watchman.

    Nearly every one is acquainted with the great power of
steam; we have proved it by the rapidity with which we can
travel, both on a railroad or in a steamship across the sea.
But this speed is like the movements of the sloth, or the
crawling march of the snail, when compared to the swiftness
with which light travels; light flies nineteen million times
faster than the fleetest race-horse, and electricity is more
rapid still. Death is an electric shock which we receive in
our hearts, and on the wings of electricity the liberated soul
flies away swiftly, the light from the sun travels to our
earth ninety-five millions of miles in eight minutes and a few
seconds; but on the wings of electricity, the mind requires
only a second to accomplish the same distance. The space
between the heavenly bodies is, to thought, no farther than
the distance which we may have to walk from one friend’s house
to another in the same town; yet this electric shock obliges
us to use our bodies here below, unless, like the watchman, we
have on the goloshes of Fortune.

    In a very few seconds the watchman had travelled more than
two hundred thousand miles to the moon, which is formed of a
lighter material than our earth, and may be said to be as soft
as new fallen snow. He found himself on one of the circular
range of mountains which we see represented in Dr. Madler’s
large map of the moon. The interior had the appearance of a
large hollow, bowl-shaped, with a depth about half a mile from
the brim. Within this hollow stood a large town; we may form
some idea of its appearance by pouring the white of an egg
into a glass of water. The materials of which it was built
seemed just as soft, and pictured forth cloudy turrets and
sail-like terraces, quite transparent, and floating in the
thin air. Our earth hung over his head like a great dark red
ball. Presently he discovered a number of beings, which might
certainly be called men, but were very different to ourselves.
A more fantastical imagination than Herschel’s must have
discovered these. Had they been placed in groups, and painted,
it might have been said, “What beautiful foliage!” They had
also a language of their own. No one could have expected the
soul of the watchman to understand it, and yet he did
understand it, for our souls have much greater capabilities
then we are inclined to believe. Do we not, in our dreams,
show a wonderful dramatic talent? each of our acquaintance
appears to us then in his own character, and with his own
voice; no man could thus imitate them in his waking hours. How
clearly, too, we are reminded of persons whom we have not seen
for many years; they start up suddenly to the mind’s eye with
all their peculiarities as living realities. In fact, this
memory of the soul is a fearful thing; every sin, every sinful
thought it can bring back, and we may well ask how we are to
give account of “every idle word” that may have been whispered
in the heart or uttered with the lips. The spirit of the
watchman therefore understood very well the language of the
inhabitants of the moon. They were disputing about our earth,
and doubted whether it could be inhabited. The atmosphere,
they asserted, must be too dense for any inhabitants of the
moon to exist there. They maintained that the moon alone was
inhabited, and was really the heavenly body in which the old
world people lived. They likewise talked politics.

    But now we will descend to East Street, and see what
happened to the watchman’s body. He sat lifeless on the steps.
His staff had fallen out of his hand, and his eyes stared at
the moon, about which his honest soul was wandering.

    “What is it o’clock, watchman?” inquired a passenger. But
there was no answer from the watchman.

    The man then pulled his nose gently, which caused him to
lose his balance. The body fell forward, and lay at full
length on the ground as one dead.

    All his comrades were very much frightened, for he seemed
quite dead; still they allowed him to remain after they had
given notice of what had happened; and at dawn the body was
carried to the hospital. We might imagine it to be no jesting
matter if the soul of the man should chance to return to him,
for most probably it would seek for the body in East Street
without being able to find it. We might fancy the soul
inquiring of the police, or at the address office, or among
the missing parcels, and then at length finding it at the
hospital. But we may comfort ourselves by the certainty that
the soul, when acting upon its own impulses, is wiser than we
are; it is the body that makes it stupid.

    As we have said, the watchman’s body had been taken to the
hospital, and here it was placed in a room to be washed.
Naturally, the first thing done here was to take off the
goloshes, upon which the soul was instantly obliged to return,
and it took the direct road to the body at once, and in a few
seconds the man’s life returned to him. He declared, when he
quite recovered himself, that this had been the most dreadful
night he had ever passed; not for a hundred pounds would he go
through such feelings again. However, it was all over now.

    The same day he was allowed to leave, but the goloshes
remained at the hospital.

         THE EVENTFUL MOMENT – A MOST UNUSUAL JOURNEY

    Every inhabitant of Copenhagen knows what the entrance to
Frederick’s Hospital is like; but as most probably a few of
those who read this little tale may not reside in Copenhagen,
we will give a short description of it.

    The hospital is separated from the street by an iron
railing, in which the bars stand so wide apart that, it is
said, some very slim patients have squeezed through, and gone
to pay little visits in the town. The most difficult part of
the body to get through was the head; and in this case, as it
often happens in the world, the small heads were the most
fortunate. This will serve as sufficient introduction to our
tale. One of the young volunteers, of whom, physically
speaking, it might be said that he had a great head, was on
guard that evening at the hospital. The rain was pouring down,
yet, in spite of these two obstacles, he wanted to go out just
for a quarter of an hour; it was not worth while, he thought,
to make a confidant of the porter, as he could easily slip
through the iron railings. There lay the goloshes, which the
watchman had forgotten. It never occurred to him that these
could be goloshes of Fortune. They would be very serviceable
to him in this rainy weather, so he drew them on. Now came the
question whether he could squeeze through the palings; he
certainly had never tried, so he stood looking at them. “I
wish to goodness my head was through,” said he, and instantly,
though it was so thick and large, it slipped through quite
easily. The goloshes answered that purpose very well, but his
body had to follow, and this was impossible. “I am too fat,”
he said; “I thought my head would be the worst, but I cannot
get my body through, that is certain.” Then he tried to pull
his head back again, but without success; he could move his
neck about easily enough, and that was all. His first feeling
was one of anger, and then his spirits sank below zero. The
goloshes of Fortune had placed him in this terrible position,
and unfortunately it never occurred to him to wish himself
free. No, instead of wishing he kept twisting about, yet did
not stir from the spot. The rain poured, and not a creature
could be seen in the street. The porter’s bell he was unable
to reach, and however was he to get loose! He foresaw that he
should have to stay there till morning, and then they must
send for a smith to file away the iron bars, and that would be
a work of time. All the charity children would just be going
to school: and all the sailors who inhabited that quarter of
the town would be there to see him standing in the pillory.
What a crowd there would be. “Ha,” he cried, “the blood is
rushing to my head, and I shall go mad. I believe I am crazy
already; oh, I wish I were free, then all these sensations
would pass off.” This is just what he ought to have said at
first. The moment he had expressed the thought his head was
free. He started back, quite bewildered with the fright which
the goloshes of Fortune had caused him. But we must not
suppose it was all over; no, indeed, there was worse to come
yet. The night passed, and the whole of the following day; but
no one sent for the goloshes. In the evening a declamatory
performance was to take place at the amateur theatre in a
distant street. The house was crowded; among the audience was
the young volunteer from the hospital, who seemed to have
quite forgotten his adventures of the previous evening. He had
on the goloshes; they had not been sent for, and as the
streets were still very dirty, they were of great service to
him. A new poem, entitled “My Aunt’s Spectacles,” was being
recited. It described these spectacles as possessing a
wonderful power; if any one put them on in a large assembly
the people appeared like cards, and the future events of
ensuing years could be easily foretold by them. The idea
struck him that he should very much like to have such a pair
of spectacles; for, if used rightly, they would perhaps enable
him to see into the hearts of people, which he thought would
be more interesting than to know what was going to happen next
year; for future events would be sure to show themselves, but
the hearts of people never. “I can fancy what I should see in
the whole row of ladies and gentlemen on the first seat, if I
could only look into their hearts; that lady, I imagine, keeps
a store for things of all descriptions; how my eyes would
wander about in that collection; with many ladies I should no
doubt find a large millinery establishment. There is another
that is perhaps empty, and would be all the better for
cleaning out. There may be some well stored with good
articles. Ah, yes,” he sighed, “I know one, in which
everything is solid, but a servant is there already, and that
is the only thing against it. I dare say from many I should
hear the words, ‘Please to walk in.’ I only wish I could slip
into the hearts like a little tiny thought.” This was the word
of command for the goloshes. The volunteer shrunk up together,
and commenced a most unusual journey through the hearts of the
spectators in the first row. The first heart he entered was
that of a lady, but he thought he must have got into one of
the rooms of an orthopedic institution where plaster casts of
deformed limbs were hanging on the walls, with this
difference, that the casts in the institution are formed when
the patient enters, but here they were formed and preserved
after the good people had left. These were casts of the bodily
and mental deformities of the lady’s female friends carefully
preserved. Quickly he passed into another heart, which had the
appearance of a spacious, holy church, with the white dove of
innocence fluttering over the altar. Gladly would he have
fallen on his knees in such a sacred place; but he was carried
on to another heart, still, however, listening to the tones of
the organ, and feeling himself that he had become another and
a better man. The next heart was also a sanctuary, which he
felt almost unworthy to enter; it represented a mean garret,
in which lay a sick mother; but the warm sunshine streamed
through the window, lovely roses bloomed in a little flowerbox
on the roof, two blue birds sang of childlike joys, and the
sick mother prayed for a blessing on her daughter. Next he
crept on his hands and knees through an overfilled butcher’s
shop; there was meat, nothing but meat, wherever he stepped;
this was the heart of a rich, respectable man, whose name is
doubtless in the directory. Then he entered the heart of this
man’s wife; it was an old, tumble-down pigeon-house; the
husband’s portrait served as a weather-cock; it was connected
with all the doors, which opened and shut just as the
husband’s decision turned. The next heart was a complete
cabinet of mirrors, such as can be seen in the Castle of
Rosenberg. But these mirrors magnified in an astonishing
degree; in the middle of the floor sat, like the Grand Lama,
the insignificant I of the owner, astonished at the
contemplation of his own features. At his next visit he
fancied he must have got into a narrow needlecase, full of
sharp needles: “Oh,” thought he, “this must be the heart of an
old maid;” but such was not the fact; it belonged to a young
officer, who wore several orders, and was said to be a man of
intellect and heart.

    The poor volunteer came out of the last heart in the row
quite bewildered. He could not collect his thoughts, and
imagined his foolish fancies had carried him away. “Good
gracious!” he sighed, “I must have a tendency to softening of
the brain, and here it is so exceedingly hot that the blood is
rushing to my head.” And then suddenly recurred to him the
strange event of the evening before, when his head had been
fixed between the iron railings in front of the hospital.
“That is the cause of it all!” he exclaimed, “I must do
something in time. A Russian bath would be a very good thing
to begin with. I wish I were lying on one of the highest
shelves.” Sure enough, there he lay on an upper shelf of a
vapor bath, still in his evening costume, with his boots and
goloshes on, and the hot drops from the ceiling falling on his
face. “Ho!” he cried, jumping down and rushing towards the
plunging bath. The attendant stopped him with a loud cry, when
he saw a man with all his clothes on. The volunteer had,
however, presence of mind enough to whisper, “It is for a
wager;” but the first thing he did, when he reached his own
room, was to put a large blister on his neck, and another on
his back, that his crazy fit might be cured. The next morning
his back was very sore, which was all he gained by the
goloshes of Fortune.

               THE CLERK’S TRANSFORMATION

    The watchman, whom we of course have not forgotten,
thought, after a while, of the goloshes which he had found and
taken to the hospital; so he went and fetched them. But
neither the lieutenant nor any one in the street could
recognize them as their own, so he gave them up to the police.
“They look exactly like my own goloshes,” said one of the
clerks, examining the unknown articles, as they stood by the
side of his own. “It would require even more than the eye of a
shoemaker to know one pair from the other.”

    “Master clerk,” said a servant who entered with some
papers. The clerk turned and spoke to the man; but when he had
done with him, he turned to look at the goloshes again, and
now he was in greater doubt than ever as to whether the pair
on the right or on the left belonged to him. “Those that are
wet must be mine,” thought he; but he thought wrong, it was
just the reverse. The goloshes of Fortune were the wet pair;
and, besides, why should not a clerk in a police office be
wrong sometimes? So he drew them on, thrust his papers into
his pocket, placed a few manuscripts under his arm, which he
had to take with him, and to make abstracts from at home.
Then, as it was Sunday morning and the weather very fine, he
said to himself, “A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good:”
so away he went.

    There could not be a quieter or more steady young man than
this clerk. We will not grudge him this little walk, it was
just the thing to do him good after sitting so much. He went
on at first like a mere automaton, without thought or wish;
therefore the goloshes had no opportunity to display their
magic power. In the avenue he met with an acquaintance, one of
our young poets, who told him that he intended to start on the
following day on a summer excursion. “Are you really going
away so soon?” asked the clerk. “What a free, happy man you
are. You can roam about where you will, while such as we are
tied by the foot.”

    “But it is fastened to the bread-tree,” replied the poet.
“You need have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old
there is a pension for you.”

    “Ah, yes; but you have the best of it,” said the clerk;
“it must be so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole
world makes itself agreeable to you, and then you are your own
master. You should try how you would like to listen to all the
trivial things in a court of justice.” The poet shook his
head, so also did the clerk; each retained his own opinion,
and so they parted. “They are strange people, these poets,”
thought the clerk. “I should like to try what it is to have a
poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I should
not write such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid
spring day for a poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the
clouds are so beautiful, and the green grass has such a sweet
smell. For many years I have not felt as I do at this moment.”

    We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become
a poet. By most poets what he had said would be considered
common-place, or as the Germans call it, “insipid.” It is a
foolish fancy to look upon poets as different to other men.
There are many who are more the poets of nature than those who
are professed poets. The difference is this, the poet’s
intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an idea or a
sentiment, until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in
words, which the others cannot do. But the transition from a
character of every-day life to one of a more gifted nature is
a great transition; and so the clerk became aware of the
change after a time. “What a delightful perfume,” said he; “it
reminds me of the violets at Aunt Lora’s. Ah, that was when I
was a little boy. Dear me, how long it seems since I thought
of those days! She was a good old maiden lady! she lived
yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a sprig or a few
blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe. I could
smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny pieces
against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty view
it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships,
icebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow
represented the only living creature on board. But when the
breezes of spring came, everything started into life. Amidst
shouting and cheers the ships were tarred and rigged, and then
they sailed to foreign lands.

    “I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my
post at the police office, and letting others take passports
to distant lands. Yes, this is my fate,” and he sighed deeply.
Suddenly he paused. “Good gracious, what has come over me? I
never felt before as I do now; it must be the air of spring.
It is overpowering, and yet it is delightful.”

    He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. “These will
give me something else to think of,” said he. Casting his eyes
on the first page of one, he read, “‘Mistress Sigbirth; an
original Tragedy, in Five Acts.’ What is this?- in my own
handwriting, too! Have I written this tragedy?” He read again,
“‘The Intrigue on the Promenade; or, the Fast-Day. A
Vaudeville.’ However did I get all this? Some one must have
put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!” It was from
the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all
in polite terms.

    “Hem, hem!” said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts
were very elastic, and his heart softened strangely.
Involuntarily he seized one of the nearest flowers; it was a
little, simple daisy. All that botanists can say in many
lectures was explained in a moment by this little flower. It
spoke of the glory of its birth; it told of the strength of
the sunlight, which had caused its delicate leaves to expand,
and given to it such sweet perfume. The struggles of life
which arouse sensations in the bosom have their type in the
tiny flowers. Air and light are the lovers of the flowers, but
light is the favored one; towards light it turns, and only
when light vanishes does it fold its leaves together, and
sleep in the embraces of the air.”

    “It is light that adorns me,” said the flower.

    “But the air gives you the breath of life,” whispered the
poet.

    Just by him stood a boy, splashing with his stick in a
marshy ditch. The water-drops spurted up among the green
twigs, and the clerk thought of the millions of animalculae
which were thrown into the air with every drop of water, at a
height which must be the same to them as it would be to us if
we were hurled beyond the clouds. As the clerk thought of all
these things, and became conscious of the great change in his
own feelings, he smiled, and said to himself, “I must be
asleep and dreaming; and yet, if so, how wonderful for a dream
to be so natural and real, and to know at the same time too
that it is but a dream. I hope I shall be able to remember it
all when I wake tomorrow. My sensations seem most
unaccountable. I have a clear perception of everything as if I
were wide awake. I am quite sure if I recollect all this
tomorrow, it will appear utterly ridiculous and absurd. I have
had this happen to me before. It is with the clever or
wonderful things we say or hear in dreams, as with the gold
which comes from under the earth, it is rich and beautiful
when we possess it, but when seen in a true light it is but as
stones and withered leaves.”

    “Ah!” he sighed mournfully, as he gazed at the birds
singing merrily, or hopping from branch to branch, “they are
much better off than I. Flying is a glorious power. Happy is
he who is born with wings. Yes, if I could change myself into
anything I would be a little lark.” At the same moment his
coat-tails and sleeves grew together and formed wings, his
clothes changed to feathers, and his goloshes to claws. He
felt what was taking place, and laughed to himself. “Well, now
it is evident I must be dreaming; but I never had such a wild
dream as this.” And then he flew up into the green boughs and
sang, but there was no poetry in the song, for his poetic
nature had left him. The goloshes, like all persons who wish
to do a thing thoroughly, could only attend to one thing at a
time. He wished to be a poet, and he became one. Then he
wanted to be a little bird, and in this change he lost the
characteristics of the former one. “Well,” thought he, “this
is charming; by day I sit in a police-office, amongst the
dryest law papers, and at night I can dream that I am a lark,
flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg. Really a
complete comedy could be written about it.” Then he flew down
into the grass, turned his head about in every direction, and
tapped his beak on the bending blades of grass, which, in
proportion to his size, seemed to him as long as the
palm-leaves in northern Africa.

    In another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed
as if something immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy
had flung his large cap over the bird, and a hand came
underneath and caught the clerk by the back and wings so
roughly, that he squeaked, and then cried out in his alarm,
“You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the police-office!” but
it only sounded to the boy like “tweet, tweet;” so he tapped
the bird on the beak, and walked away with him. In the avenue
he met two school-boys, who appeared to belong to a better
class of society, but whose inferior abilities kept them in
the lowest class at school. These boys bought the bird for
eightpence, and so the clerk returned to Copenhagen. “It is
well for me that I am dreaming,” he thought; “otherwise I
should become really angry. First I was a poet, and now I am a
lark. It must have been the poetic nature that changed me into
this little creature. It is a miserable story indeed,
especially now I have fallen into the hands of boys. I wonder
what will be the end of it.” The boys carried him into a very
elegant room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady received
them, but she was not at all gratified to find that they had
brought a lark- a common field-bird as she called it. However,
she allowed them for one day to place the bird in an empty
cage that hung near the window. “It will please Polly
perhaps,” she said, laughing at a large gray parrot, who was
swinging himself proudly on a ring in a handsome brass cage.
“It is Polly’s birthday,” she added in a simpering tone, “and
the little field-bird has come to offer his congratulations.”

    Polly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing
proudly to and fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been
brought from his own warm, fragrant fatherland, the summer
previous, began to sing as loud as he could.

    “You screamer!” said the lady, throwing a white
handkerchief over the cage.

    “Tweet, tweet,” sighed he, “what a dreadful snowstorm!”
and then he became silent.

    The clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was
placed in a little cage close to the canary, and not far from
the parrot. The only human speech which Polly could utter, and
which she sometimes chattered forth most comically, was “Now
let us be men.” All besides was a scream, quite as
unintelligible as the warbling of the canary-bird, excepting
to the clerk, who being now a bird, could understand his
comrades very well.

    “I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the blooming
almond-trees,” sang the canary. “I flew with my brothers and
sisters over beautiful flowers, and across the clear, bright
sea, which reflected the waving foliage in its glittering
depths; and I have seen many gay parrots, who could relate
long and delightful stories.

    “They were wild birds,” answered the parrot, “and totally
uneducated. Now let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the
lady and her visitors can laugh at this, surely you can. It is
a great failing not to be able to appreciate what is amusing.
Now let us be men.”

    “Do you remember,” said the canary, “the pretty maidens
who used to dance in the tents that were spread out beneath
the sweet blossoms? Do you remember the delicious fruit and
the cooling juice from the wild herbs?”

    “Oh, yes,” said the parrot; “but here I am much better
off. I am well fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a
clever head; and what more do I want? Let us be men now. You
have a soul for poetry. I have deep knowledge and wit. You
have genius, but no discretion. You raise your naturally high
notes so much, that you get covered over. They never serve me
so. Oh, no; I cost them something more than you. I keep them
in order with my beak, and fling my wit about me. Now let us
be men.

    “O my warm, blooming fatherland,” sang the canary bird, “I
will sing of thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams, where
the bending branches kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing
of the joy of my brothers and sisters, as their shining
plumage flits among the dark leaves of the plants which grow
wild by the springs.”

    “Do leave off those dismal strains,” said the parrot;
“sing something to make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the
highest order of intellect. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No,
they can cry; but to man alone is the power of laughter given.
Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Polly, and repeated his witty saying,
“Now let us be men.”

    “You little gray Danish bird,” said the canary, “you also
have become a prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests,
but still there is liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten
to close the cage, and the window is open at the top. Fly,
fly!”

    Instinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the
same moment the half-opened door leading into the next room
creaked on its hinges, and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes,
the cat crept in and chased the lark round the room. The
canary-bird fluttered in his cage, and the parrot flapped his
wings and cried, “Let us be men;” the poor clerk, in the most
deadly terror, flew through the window, over the houses, and
through the streets, till at length he was obliged to seek a
resting-place. A house opposite to him had a look of home. A
window stood open; he flew in, and perched upon the table. It
was his own room. “Let us be men now,” said he, involuntarily
imitating the parrot; and at the same moment he became a clerk
again, only that he was sitting on the table. “Heaven preserve
us!” said he; “How did I get up here and fall asleep in this
way? It was an uneasy dream too that I had. The whole affair
appears most absurd.

              THE BEST THING THE GOLOSHES DID

    Early on the following morning, while the clerk was still
in bed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who lodged on
the same storey, knocked at his door, and then walked in.
“Lend me your goloshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden,
but the sun is shining brightly. I should like to go out there
and smoke my pipe.” He put on the goloshes, and was soon in
the garden, which contained only one plum-tree and one
apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small garden like this is a
great advantage.

    The student wandered up and down the path; it was just six
o’clock, and he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the
street. “Oh, to travel, to travel!” cried he; “there is no
greater happiness in the world: it is the height of my
ambition. This restless feeling would be stilled, if I could
take a journey far away from this country. I should like to
see beautiful Switzerland, to travel through Italy, and,”- It
was well for him that the goloshes acted immediately,
otherwise he might have been carried too far for himself as
well as for us. In a moment he found himself in Switzerland,
closely packed with eight others in the diligence. His head
ached, his back was stiff, and the blood had ceased to
circulate, so that his feet were swelled and pinched by his
boots. He wavered in a condition between sleeping and waking.
In his right-hand pocket he had a letter of credit; in his
left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis d’ors were
sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his
breast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost
one or another of these possessions; then he would awake with
a start, and the first movements of his hand formed a triangle
from his right-hand pocket to his breast, and from his breast
to his left-hand pocket, to feel whether they were all safe.
Umbrellas, sticks, and hats swung in the net before him, and
almost obstructed the prospect, which was really very
imposing; and as he glanced at it, his memory recalled the
words of one poet at least, who has sung of Switzerland, and
whose poems have not yet been printed:-

                 “How lovely to my wondering eyes
                  Mont Blanc’s fair summits gently rise;
                  ‘Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,-
                  If you have gold enough to spare.”

Grand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The
pine-forests looked like little groups of moss on high rocks,
whose summits were lost in clouds of mist. Presently it began
to snow, and the wind blew keen and cold. “Ah,” he sighed, “if
I were only on the other side of the Alps now, it would be
summer, and I should be able to get money on my letter of
credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter prevents me from
enjoying myself in Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on the other
side of the Alps.”

    And there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the
midst of Italy, between Florence and Rome, where the lake
Thrasymene glittered in the evening sunlight like a sheet of
molten gold between the dark blue mountains. There, where
Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the grape vines clung to each
other with the friendly grasp of their green tendril fingers;
while, by the wayside, lovely half-naked children were
watching a herd of coal-black swine under the blossoms of
fragrant laurel. Could we rightly describe this picturesque
scene, our readers would exclaim, “Delightful Italy!”

    But neither the student nor either of his travelling
companions felt the least inclination to think of it in this
way. Poisonous flies and gnats flew into the coach by
thousands. In vain they drove them away with a myrtle branch,
the flies stung them notwithstanding. There was not a man in
the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured with the
stings. The poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on
their backs in swarms, and they were only relieved when the
coachmen got down and drove the creatures off.

    As the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not
however of long duration. It produced the feeling which we
experience when we enter a vault at a funeral, on a summer’s
day; while the hills and the clouds put on that singular green
hue which we often notice in old paintings, and look upon as
unnatural until we have ourselves seen nature’s coloring in
the south. It was a glorious spectacle; but the stomachs of
the travellers were empty, their bodies exhausted with
fatigue, and all the longings of their heart turned towards a
resting-place for the night; but where to find one they knew
not. All the eyes were too eagerly seeking for this
resting-place, to notice the beauties of nature.

    The road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it
reminded the student of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a
lonely inn, and close by it a number of crippled beggars had
placed themselves; the brightest among them looked, to quote
the words of Marryat, “like the eldest son of Famine who had
just come of age.” The others were either blind, or had
withered legs, which obliged them to creep about on their
hands and knees, or they had shrivelled arms and hands without
fingers. It was indeed poverty arrayed in rags. “Eccellenza,
miserabili!” they exclaimed, stretching forth their diseased
limbs. The hostess received the travellers with bare feet,
untidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors were fastened
together with string; the floors of the rooms were of brick,
broken in many places; bats flew about under the roof; and as
to the odor within-

    “Let us have supper laid in the stable,” said one of the
travellers; “then we shall know what we are breathing.”

    The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but
quicker than air came in the withered arms and the continual
whining sounds, “Miserabili, eccellenza. On the walls were
inscriptions, half of them against “la bella Italia.”

    The supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of
watery soup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last
delicacy played a principal part in the salad. Musty eggs and
roasted cocks’-combs were the best dishes on the table; even
the wine had a strange taste, it was certainly a mixture. At
night, all the boxes were placed against the doors, and one of
the travellers watched while the others slept. The student’s
turn came to watch. How close the air felt in that room; the
heat overpowered him. The gnats were buzzing about and
stinging, while the miserabili, outside, moaned in their
dreams.

    “Travelling would be all very well,” said the student of
divinity to himself, “if we had no bodies, or if the body
could rest while the soul if flying. Wherever I go I feel a
want which oppresses my heart, for something better presents
itself at the moment; yes, something better, which shall be
the best of all; but where is that to be found? In fact, I
know in my heart very well what I want. I wish to attain the
greatest of all happiness.”

    No sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long
white curtains shaded the windows of his room, and in the
middle of the floor stood a black coffin, in which he now lay
in the still sleep of death; his wish was fulfilled, his body
was at rest, and his spirit travelling.

    “Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave,” were the
words of Solon. Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth.
Every corpse is a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this
sarcophagus might unveil its own mystery in the words which
the living had himself written two days before-

            “Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;
               Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.
            Earth’s garden reaper! from the grave’s cold bed
               The soul on Jacob’s ladder takes her flight.

            Man’s greatest sorrows often are a part
             Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,
            Which press far heavier on the lonely heart
              Than now the earth that on his coffin lies.”

    Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both.
One was the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of
Fortune. They bent over the dead.

    “Look!” said Care; “what happiness have your goloshes
brought to mankind?”

    “They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who
slumbers here,” she said.

    “Not so,” said Care, “he went away of himself, he was not
summoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to discern
the treasures which he had been destined to discover. I will
do him a favor now.” And she drew the goloshes from his feet.

    The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised
himself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless
she
looked upon them as her own property.

                            THE END

THERE was once a regular student, who lived in a garret,
and had no possessions. And there was also a regular huckster,
to whom the house belonged, and who occupied the ground floor.
A goblin lived with the huckster, because at Christmas he
always had a large dish full of jam, with a great piece of
butter in the middle. The huckster could afford this; and
therefore the goblin remained with the huckster, which was
very cunning of him.

    One evening the student came into the shop through the
back door to buy candles and cheese for himself, he had no one
to send, and therefore he came himself; he obtained what he
wished, and then the huckster and his wife nodded good evening
to him, and she was a woman who could do more than merely nod,
for she had usually plenty to say for herself. The student
nodded in return as he turned to leave, then suddenly stopped,
and began reading the piece of paper in which the cheese was
wrapped. It was a leaf torn out of an old book, a book that
ought not to have been torn up, for it was full of poetry.

    “Yonder lies some more of the same sort,” said the
huckster: “I gave an old woman a few coffee berries for it;
you shall have the rest for sixpence, if you will.”

    “Indeed I will,” said the student; “give me the book
instead of the cheese; I can eat my bread and butter without
cheese. It would be a sin to tear up a book like this. You are
a clever man; and a practical man; but you understand no more
about poetry than that cask yonder.”

    This was a very rude speech, especially against the cask;
but the huckster and the student both laughed, for it was only
said in fun. But the goblin felt very angry that any man
should venture to say such things to a huckster who was a
householder and sold the best butter. As soon as it was night,
and the shop closed, and every one in bed except the student,
the goblin stepped softly into the bedroom where the
huckster’s wife slept, and took away her tongue, which of
course, she did not then want. Whatever object in the room he
placed his tongue upon immediately received voice and speech,
and was able to express its thoughts and feelings as readily
as the lady herself could do. It could only be used by one
object at a time, which was a good thing, as a number speaking
at once would have caused great confusion. The goblin laid the
tongue upon the cask, in which lay a quantity of old
newspapers.

    “Is it really true,” he asked, that you do not know what
poetry is?”

    “Of course I know,” replied the cask: “poetry is something
that always stand in the corner of a newspaper, and is
sometimes cut out; and I may venture to affirm that I have
more of it in me than the student has, and I am only a poor
tub of the huckster’s.”

    Then the goblin placed the tongue on the coffee mill; and
how it did go to be sure! Then he put it on the butter tub and
the cash box, and they all expressed the same opinion as the
waste-paper tub; and a majority must always be respected.

    “Now I shall go and tell the student,” said the goblin;
and with these words he went quietly up the back stairs to the
garret where the student lived. He had a candle burning still,
and the goblin peeped through the keyhole and saw that he was
reading in the torn book, which he had brought out of the
shop. But how light the room was! From the book shot forth a
ray of light which grew broad and full, like the stem of a
tree, from which bright rays spread upward and over the
student’s head. Each leaf was fresh, and each flower was like
a beautiful female head; some with dark and sparkling eyes,
and others with eyes that were wonderfully blue and clear. The
fruit gleamed like stars, and the room was filled with sounds
of beautiful music. The little goblin had never imagined, much
less seen or heard of, any sight so glorious as this. He stood
still on tiptoe, peeping in, till the light went out in the
garret. The student no doubt had blown out his candle and gone
to bed; but the little goblin remained standing there
nevertheless, and listening to the music which still sounded
on, soft and beautiful, a sweet cradle-song for the student,
who had lain down to rest.”

    “This is a wonderful place,” said the goblin; “I never
expected such a thing. I should like to stay here with the
student;” and the little man thought it over, for he was a
sensible little spirit. At last he sighed, “but the student
has no jam!” So he went down stairs again into the huckster’s
shop, and it was a good thing he got back when he did, for the
cask had almost worn out the lady’s tongue; he had given a
description of all that he contained on one side, and was just
about to turn himself over to the other side to describe what
was there, when the goblin entered and restored the tongue to
the lady. But from that time forward, the whole shop, from the
cash box down to the pinewood logs, formed their opinions from
that of the cask; and they all had such confidence in him, and
treated him with so much respect, that when the huckster read
the criticisms on theatricals and art of an evening, they
fancied it must all come from the cask.

    But after what he had seen, the goblin could no longer sit
and listen quietly to the wisdom and understanding down
stairs; so, as soon as the evening light glimmered in the
garret, he took courage, for it seemed to him as if the rays
of light were strong cables, drawing him up, and obliging him
to go and peep through the keyhole; and, while there, a
feeling of vastness came over him such as we experience by the
ever-moving sea, when the storm breaks forth; and it brought
tears into his eyes. He did not himself know why he wept, yet
a kind of pleasant feeling mingled with his tears. “How
wonderfully glorious it would be to sit with the student under
such a tree;” but that was out of the question, he must be
content to look through the keyhole, and be thankful for even
that.

    There he stood on the old landing, with the autumn wind
blowing down upon him through the trap-door. It was very cold;
but the little creature did not really feel it, till the light
in the garret went out, and the tones of music died away. Then
how he shivered, and crept down stairs again to his warm
corner, where it felt home-like and comfortable. And when
Christmas came again, and brought the dish of jam and the
great lump of butter, he liked the huckster best of all.

    Soon after, in the middle of the night, the goblin was
awoke by a terrible noise and knocking against the window
shutters and the house doors, and by the sound of the
watchman’s horn; for a great fire had broken out, and the
whole street appeared full of flames. Was it in their house,
or a neighbor’s? No one could tell, for terror had seized upon
all. The huckster’s wife was so bewildered that she took her
gold ear-rings out of her ears and put them in her pocket,
that she might save something at least. The huckster ran to
get his business papers, and the servant resolved to save her
blue silk mantle, which she had managed to buy. Each wished to
keep the best things they had. The goblin had the same wish;
for, with one spring, he was up stairs and in the student’s
room, whom he found standing by the open window, and looking
quite calmly at the fire, which was raging at the house of a
neighbor opposite. The goblin caught up the wonderful book
which lay on the table, and popped it into his red cap, which
he held tightly with both hands. The greatest treasure in the
house was saved; and he ran away with it to the roof, and
seated himself on the chimney. The flames of the burning house
opposite illuminated him as he sat, both hands pressed tightly
over his cap, in which the treasure lay; and then he found out
what feelings really reigned in his heart, and knew exactly
which way they tended. And yet, when the fire was
extinguished, and the goblin again began to reflect, he
hesitated, and said at last, “I must divide myself between the
two; I cannot quite give up the huckster, because of the jam.”

    And this is a representation of human nature. We are like
the goblin; we all go to visit the huckster “because of the
jam.”

                            THE END

THERE was once a king’s son who had a larger and more
beautiful collection of books than any one else in the world,
and full of splendid copper-plate engravings. He could read
and obtain information respecting every people of every land;
but not a word could he find to explain the situation of the
garden of paradise, and this was just what he most wished to
know. His grandmother had told him when he was quite a little
boy, just old enough to go to school, that each flower in the
garden of paradise was a sweet cake, that the pistils were
full of rich wine, that on one flower history was written, on
another geography or tables; so those who wished to learn
their lessons had only to eat some of the cakes, and the more
they ate, the more history, geography, or tables they knew. He
believed it all then; but as he grew older, and learnt more
and more, he became wise enough to understand that the
splendor of the garden of paradise must be very different to
all this. “Oh, why did Eve pluck the fruit from the tree of
knowledge? why did Adam eat the forbidden fruit?” thought the
king’s son: “if I had been there it would never have happened,
and there would have been no sin in the world.” The garden of
paradise occupied all his thoughts till he reached his
seventeenth year.

    One day he was walking alone in the wood, which was his
greatest pleasure, when evening came on. The clouds gathered,
and the rain poured down as if the sky had been a waterspout;
and it was as dark as the bottom of a well at midnight;
sometimes he slipped over the smooth grass, or fell over
stones that projected out of the rocky ground. Every thing was
dripping with moisture, and the poor prince had not a dry
thread about him. He was obliged at last to climb over great
blocks of stone, with water spurting from the thick moss. He
began to feel quite faint, when he heard a most singular
rushing noise, and saw before him a large cave, from which
came a blaze of light. In the middle of the cave an immense
fire was burning, and a noble stag, with its branching horns,
was placed on a spit between the trunks of two pine-trees. It
was turning slowly before the fire, and an elderly woman, as
large and strong as if she had been a man in disguise, sat by,
throwing one piece of wood after another into the flames.

    “Come in,” she said to the prince; “sit down by the fire
and dry yourself.”

    “There is a great draught here,” said the prince, as he
seated himself on the ground.

    “It will be worse when my sons come home,” replied the
woman; “you are now in the cavern of the Winds, and my sons
are the four Winds of heaven: can you understand that?”

    “Where are your sons?” asked the prince.

    “It is difficult to answer stupid questions,” said the
woman. “My sons have plenty of business on hand; they are
playing at shuttlecock with the clouds up yonder in the king’s
hall,” and she pointed upwards.

    “Oh, indeed,” said the prince; “but you speak more roughly
and harshly and are not so gentle as the women I am used to.”

    “Yes, that is because they have nothing else to do; but I
am obliged to be harsh, to keep my boys in order, and I can do
it, although they are so head-strong. Do you see those four
sacks hanging on the wall? Well, they are just as much afraid
of those sacks, as you used to be of the rat behind the
looking-glass. I can bend the boys together, and put them in
the sacks without any resistance on their parts, I can tell
you. There they stay, and dare not attempt to come out until I
allow them to do so. And here comes one of them.”

    It was the North Wind who came in, bringing with him a
cold, piercing blast; large hailstones rattled on the floor,
and snowflakes were scattered around in all directions. He
wore a bearskin dress and cloak. His sealskin cap was drawn
over his ears, long icicles hung from his beard, and one
hailstone after another rolled from the collar of his jacket.

    “Don’t go too near the fire,” said the prince, “or your
hands and face will be frost-bitten.”

    “Frost-bitten!” said the North Wind, with a loud laugh;
“why frost is my greatest delight. What sort of a little snip
are you, and how did you find your way to the cavern of the
Winds?”

    “He is my guest,” said the old woman, “and if you are not
satisfied with that explanation you can go into the sack. Do
you understand me?”

    That settled the matter. So the North Wind began to relate
his adventures, whence he came, and where he had been for a
whole month. “I come from the polar seas,” he said; “I have
been on the Bear’s Island with the Russian walrus-hunters. I
sat and slept at the helm of their ship, as they sailed away
from North Cape. Sometimes when I woke, the storm-birds would
fly about my legs. They are curious birds; they give one flap
with their wings, and then on their outstretched pinions soar
far away.

    “Don’t make such a long story of it,” said the mother of
the winds; “what sort of a place is Bear’s Island?”

    “A very beautiful place, with a floor for dancing as
smooth and flat as a plate. Half-melted snow, partly covered
with moss, sharp stones, and skeletons of walruses and
polar-bears, lie all about, their gigantic limbs in a state of
green decay. It would seem as if the sun never shone there. I
blew gently, to clear away the mist, and then I saw a little
hut, which had been built from the wood of a wreck, and was
covered with the skins of the walrus, the fleshy side
outwards; it looked green and red, and on the roof sat a
growling bear. Then I went to the sea shore, to look after
birds’ nests, and saw the unfledged nestlings opening their
mouths and screaming for food. I blew into the thousand little
throats, and quickly stopped their screaming. Farther on were
the walruses with pig’s heads, and teeth a yard long, rolling
about like great worms.

    “You relate your adventures very well, my son,” said the
mother, “it makes my mouth water to hear you.

    “After that,” continued the North Wind, “the hunting
commenced. The harpoon was flung into the breast of the
walrus, so that a smoking stream of blood spurted forth like a
fountain, and besprinkled the ice. Then I thought of my own
game; I began to blow, and set my own ships, the great
icebergs sailing, so that they might crush the boats. Oh, how
the sailors howled and cried out! but I howled louder than
they. They were obliged to unload their cargo, and throw their
chests and the dead walruses on the ice. Then I sprinkled snow
over them, and left them in their crushed boats to drift
southward, and to taste salt water. They will never return to
Bear’s Island.”

    “So you have done mischief,” said the mother of the Winds.

    “I shall leave others to tell the good I have done,” he
replied. “But here comes my brother from the West; I like him
best of all, for he has the smell of the sea about him, and
brings in a cold, fresh air as he enters.”

    “Is that the little Zephyr?” asked the prince.

    “Yes, it is the little Zephyr,” said the old woman; “but
he is not little now. In years gone by he was a beautiful boy;
now that is all past.”

    He came in, looking like a wild man, and he wore a
slouched hat to protect his head from injury. In his hand he
carried a club, cut from a mahogany tree in the American
forests, not a trifle to carry.

    “Whence do you come?” asked the mother.

    “I come from the wilds of the forests, where the thorny
brambles form thick hedges between the trees; where the
water-snake lies in the wet grass, and mankind seem to be
unknown.”

    “What were you doing there?”

    “I looked into the deep river, and saw it rushing down
from the rocks. The water drops mounted to the clouds and
glittered in the rainbow. I saw the wild buffalo swimming in
the river, but the strong tide carried him away amidst a flock
of wild ducks, which flew into the air as the waters dashed
onwards, leaving the buffalo to be hurled over the waterfall.
This pleased me; so I raised a storm, which rooted up old
trees, and sent them floating down the river.”

    “And what else have you done?” asked the old woman.

    “I have rushed wildly across the savannahs; I have stroked
the wild horses, and shaken the cocoa-nuts from the trees.
Yes, I have many stories to relate; but I need not tell
everything I know. You know it all very well, don’t you, old
lady?” And he kissed his mother so roughly, that she nearly
fell backwards. Oh, he was, indeed, a wild fellow.

    Now in came the South Wind, with a turban and a flowing
Bedouin cloak.

    “How cold it is here!” said he, throwing more wood on the
fire. “It is easy to feel that the North Wind has arrived here
before me.”

    “Why it is hot enough here to roast a bear,” said the
North Wind.

    “You are a bear yourself,” said the other.

    “Do you want to be put in the sack, both of you?” said the
old woman. “Sit down, now, on that stone, yonder, and tell me
where you have been.”

    “In Africa, mother. I went out with the Hottentots, who
were lion-hunting in the Kaffir land, where the plains are
covered with grass the color of a green olive; and here I ran
races with the ostrich, but I soon outstripped him in
swiftness. At last I came to the desert, in which lie the
golden sands, looking like the bottom of the sea. Here I met a
caravan, and the travellers had just killed their last camel,
to obtain water; there was very little for them, and they
continued their painful journey beneath the burning sun, and
over the hot sands, which stretched before them a vast,
boundless desert. Then I rolled myself in the loose sand, and
whirled it in burning columns over their heads. The dromedarys
stood still in terror, while the merchants drew their caftans
over their heads, and threw themselves on the ground before
me, as they do before Allah, their god. Then I buried them
beneath a pyramid of sand, which covers them all. When I blow
that away on my next visit, the sun will bleach their bones,
and travellers will see that others have been there before
them; otherwise, in such a wild desert, they might not believe
it possible.”

    “So you have done nothing but evil,” said the mother.
“Into the sack with you;” and, before he was aware, she had
seized the South Wind round the body, and popped him into the
bag. He rolled about on the floor, till she sat herself upon
him to keep him still.

    “These boys of yours are very lively,” said the prince.

    “Yes,” she replied, “but I know how to correct them, when
necessary; and here comes the fourth.” In came the East Wind,
dressed like a Chinese.

    “Oh, you come from that quarter, do you?” said she; “I
thought you had been to the garden of paradise.”

    “I am going there to-morrow,” he replied; “I have not been
there for a hundred years. I have just come from China, where
I danced round the porcelain tower till all the bells jingled
again. In the streets an official flogging was taking place,
and bamboo canes were being broken on the shoulders of men of
every high position, from the first to the ninth grade. They
cried, ‘Many thanks, my fatherly benefactor;’ but I am sure
the words did not come from their hearts, so I rang the bells
till they sounded, ‘ding, ding-dong.’”

    “You are a wild boy,” said the old woman; “it is well for
you that you are going to-morrow to the garden of paradise;
you always get improved in your education there. Drink deeply
from the fountain of wisdom while you are there, and bring
home a bottleful for me.”

    “That I will,” said the East Wind; “but why have you put
my brother South in a bag? Let him out; for I want him to tell
me about the phoenix-bird. The princess always wants to hear
of this bird when I pay her my visit every hundred years. If
you will open the sack, sweetest mother, I will give you two
pocketfuls of tea, green and fresh as when I gathered it from
the spot where it grew.”

    “Well, for the sake of the tea, and because you are my own
boy, I will open the bag.”

    She did so, and the South Wind crept out, looking quite
cast down, because the prince had seen his disgrace.

    “There is a palm-leaf for the princess,” he said. “The old
phoenix, the only one in the world, gave it to me himself. He
has scratched on it with his beak the whole of his history
during the hundred years he has lived. She can there read how
the old phoenix set fire to his own nest, and sat upon it
while it was burning, like a Hindoo widow. The dry twigs
around the nest crackled and smoked till the flames burst
forth and consumed the phoenix to ashes. Amidst the fire lay
an egg, red hot, which presently burst with a loud report, and
out flew a young bird. He is the only phoenix in the world,
and the king over all the other birds. He has bitten a hole in
the leaf which I give you, and that is his greeting to the
princess.”

    “Now let us have something to eat,” said the mother of the
Winds. So they all sat down to feast on the roasted stag; and
as the prince sat by the side of the East Wind, they soon
became good friends.

    “Pray tell me,” said the prince, “who is that princess of
whom you have been talking! and where lies the garden of
paradise?”

    “Ho! ho!” said the East Wind, “would you like to go there?
Well, you can fly off with me to-morrow; but I must tell you
one thing- no human being has been there since the time of
Adam and Eve. I suppose you have read of them in your Bible.”

    “Of course I have,” said the prince.

    “Well,” continued the East Wind, “when they were driven
out of the garden of paradise, it sunk into the earth; but it
retained its warm sunshine, its balmy air, and all its
splendor. The fairy queen lives there, in the island of
happiness, where death never comes, and all is beautiful. I
can manage to take you there to-morrow, if you will sit on my
back. But now don’t talk any more, for I want to go to sleep;”
and then they all slept.

    When the prince awoke in the early morning, he was not a
little surprised at finding himself high up above the clouds.
He was seated on the back of the East Wind, who held him
faithfully; and they were so high in the air that woods and
fields, rivers and lakes, as they lay beneath them, looked
like a painted map.

    “Good morning,” said the East Wind. “You might have slept
on a while; for there is very little to see in the flat
country over which we are passing unless you like to count the
churches; they look like spots of chalk on a green board.” The
green board was the name he gave to the green fields and
meadows.

    “It was very rude of me not to say good-bye to your mother
and your brothers,” said the prince.

    “They will excuse you, as you were asleep,” said the East
Wind; and then they flew on faster than ever.

    The leaves and branches of the trees rustled as they
passed. When they flew over seas and lakes, the waves rose
higher, and the large ships dipped into the water like diving
swans. As darkness came on, towards evening, the great towns
looked charming; lights were sparkling, now seen now hidden,
just as the sparks go out one after another on a piece of
burnt paper. The prince clapped his hands with pleasure; but
the East Wind advised him not to express his admiration in
that manner, or he might fall down, and find himself hanging
on a church steeple. The eagle in the dark forests flies
swiftly; but faster than he flew the East Wind. The Cossack,
on his small horse, rides lightly o’er the plains; but lighter
still passed the prince on the winds of the wind.

    “There are the Himalayas, the highest mountains in Asia,”
said the East Wind. “We shall soon reach the garden of
paradise now.”

    Then, they turned southward, and the air became fragrant
with the perfume of spices and flowers. Here figs and
pomegranates grew wild, and the vines were covered with
clusters of blue and purple grapes. Here they both descended
to the earth, and stretched themselves on the soft grass,
while the flowers bowed to the breath of the wind as if to
welcome it. “Are we now in the garden of paradise?” asked the
prince.

    “No, indeed,” replied the East Wind; “but we shall be
there very soon. Do you see that wall of rocks, and the cavern
beneath it, over which the grape vines hang like a green
curtain? Through that cavern we must pass. Wrap your cloak
round you; for while the sun scorches you here, a few steps
farther it will be icy cold. The bird flying past the entrance
to the cavern feels as if one wing were in the region of
summer, and the other in the depths of winter.”

    “So this then is the way to the garden of paradise?” asked
the prince, as they entered the cavern. It was indeed cold;
but the cold soon passed, for the East Wind spread his wings,
and they gleamed like the brightest fire. As they passed on
through this wonderful cave, the prince could see great blocks
of stone, from which water trickled, hanging over their heads
in fantastic shapes. Sometimes it was so narrow that they had
to creep on their hands and knees, while at other times it was
lofty and wide, like the free air. It had the appearance of a
chapel for the dead, with petrified organs and silent pipes.
“We seem to be passing through the valley of death to the
garden of paradise,” said the prince.

    But the East Wind answered not a word, only pointed
forwards to a lovely blue light which gleamed in the distance.
The blocks of stone assumed a misty appearance, till at last
they looked like white clouds in moonlight. The air was fresh
and balmy, like a breeze from the mountains perfumed with
flowers from a valley of roses. A river, clear as the air
itself, sparkled at their feet, while in its clear depths
could be seen gold and silver fish sporting in the bright
water, and purple eels emitting sparks of fire at every
moment, while the broad leaves of the water-lilies, that
floated on its surface, flickered with all the colors of the
rainbow. The flower in its color of flame seemed to receive
its nourishment from the water, as a lamp is sustained by oil.
A marble bridge, of such exquisite workmanship that it
appeared as if formed of lace and pearls, led to the island of
happiness, in which bloomed the garden of paradise. The East
Wind took the prince in his arms, and carried him over, while
the flowers and the leaves sang the sweet songs of his
childhood in tones so full and soft that no human voice could
venture to imitate. Within the garden grew large trees, full
of sap; but whether they were palm-trees or gigantic
water-plants, the prince knew not. The climbing plants hung in
garlands of green and gold, like the illuminations on the
margins of old missals or twined among the initial letters.
Birds, flowers, and festoons appeared intermingled in seeming
confusion. Close by, on the grass, stood a group of peacocks,
with radiant tails outspread to the sun. The prince touched
them, and found, to his surprise, that they were not really
birds, but the leaves of the burdock tree, which shone with
the colors of a peacock’s tail. The lion and the tiger, gentle
and tame, were springing about like playful cats among the
green bushes, whose perfume was like the fragrant blossom of
the olive. The plumage of the wood-pigeon glistened like
pearls as it struck the lion’s mane with its wings; while the
antelope, usually so shy, stood near, nodding its head as if
it wished to join in the frolic. The fairy of paradise next
made her appearance. Her raiment shone like the sun, and her
serene countenance beamed with happiness like that of a mother
rejoicing over her child. She was young and beautiful, and a
train of lovely maidens followed her, each wearing a bright
star in her hair. The East Wind gave her the palm-leaf, on
which was written the history of the phoenix; and her eyes
sparkled with joy. She then took the prince by the hand, and
led him into her palace, the walls of which were richly
colored, like a tulip-leaf when it is turned to the sun. The
roof had the appearance of an inverted flower, and the colors
grew deeper and brighter to the gazer. The prince walked to a
window, and saw what appeared to be the tree of knowledge of
good and evil, with Adam and Eve standing by, and the serpent
near them. “I thought they were banished from paradise,” he
said.

    The princess smiled, and told him that time had engraved
each event on a window-pane in the form of a picture; but,
unlike other pictures, all that it represented lived and
moved,- the leaves rustled, and the persons went and came, as
in a looking-glass. He looked through another pane, and saw
the ladder in Jacob’s dream, on which the angels were
ascending and descending with outspread wings. All that had
ever happened in the world here lived and moved on the panes
of glass, in pictures such as time alone could produce. The
fairy now led the prince into a large, lofty room with
transparent walls, through which the light shone. Here were
portraits, each one appearing more beautiful than the other-
millions of happy beings, whose laughter and song mingled in
one sweet melody: some of these were in such an elevated
position that they appeared smaller than the smallest rosebud,
or like pencil dots on paper. In the centre of the hall stood
a tree, with drooping branches, from which hung golden apples,
both great and small, looking like oranges amid the green
leaves. It was the tree of knowledge of good and evil, from
which Adam and Eve had plucked and eaten the forbidden fruit,
and from each leaf trickled a bright red dewdrop, as if the
tree were weeping tears of blood for their sin. “Let us now
take the boat,” said the fairy: “a sail on the cool waters
will refresh us. But we shall not move from the spot, although
the boat may rock on the swelling water; the countries of the
world will glide before us, but we shall remain still.”

    It was indeed wonderful to behold. First came the lofty
Alps, snow-clad, and covered with clouds and dark pines. The
horn resounded, and the shepherds sang merrily in the valleys.
The banana-trees bent their drooping branches over the boat,
black swans floated on the water, and singular animals and
flowers appeared on the distant shore. New Holland, the fifth
division of the world, now glided by, with mountains in the
background, looking blue in the distance. They heard the song
of the priests, and saw the wild dance of the savage to the
sound of the drums and trumpets of bone; the pyramids of Egypt
rising to the clouds; columns and sphinxes, overthrown and
buried in the sand, followed in their turn; while the northern
lights flashed out over the extinguished volcanoes of the
north, in fireworks none could imitate.

    The prince was delighted, and yet he saw hundreds of other
wonderful things more than can be described. “Can I stay here
forever?” asked he.

    “That depends upon yourself,” replied the fairy. “If you
do not, like Adam, long for what is forbidden, you can remain
here always.”

    “I should not touch the fruit on the tree of knowledge,”
said the prince; there is abundance of fruit equally
beautiful.”

    “Examine your own heart,” said the princess, “and if you
do not feel sure of its strength, return with the East Wind
who brought you. He is about to fly back, and will not return
here for a hundred years. The time will not seem to you more
than a hundred hours, yet even that is a long time for
temptation and resistance. Every evening, when I leave you, I
shall be obliged to say, ‘Come with me,’ and to beckon to you
with my hand. But you must not listen, nor move from your
place to follow me; for with every step you will find your
power to resist weaker. If once you attempted to follow me,
you would soon find yourself in the hall, where grows the tree
of knowledge, for I sleep beneath its perfumed branches. If
you stooped over me, I should be forced to smile. If you then
kissed my lips, the garden of paradise would sink into the
earth, and to you it would be lost. A keen wind from the
desert would howl around you; cold rain fall on your head, and
sorrow and woe be your future lot.”

    “I will remain,” said the prince.

    So the East Wind kissed him on the forehead, and said, “Be
firm; then shall we meet again when a hundred years have
passed. Farewell, farewell.” Then the East Wind spread his
broad pinions, which shone like the lightning in harvest, or
as the northern lights in a cold winter.

    “Farewell, farewell,” echoed the trees and the flowers.

    Storks and pelicans flew after him in feathery bands, to
accompany him to the boundaries of the garden.

    “Now we will commence dancing,” said the fairy; and when
it is nearly over at sunset, while I am dancing with you, I
shall make a sign, and ask you to follow me: but do not obey.
I shall be obliged to repeat the same thing for a hundred
years; and each time, when the trial is past, if you resist,
you will gain strength, till resistance becomes easy, and at
last the temptation will be quite overcome. This evening, as
it will be the first time, I have warned you.”

    After this the fairy led him into a large hall, filled
with transparent lilies. The yellow stamina of each flower
formed a tiny golden harp, from which came forth strains of
music like the mingled tones of flute and lyre. Beautiful
maidens, slender and graceful in form, and robed in
transparent gauze, floated through the dance, and sang of the
happy life in the garden of paradise, where death never
entered, and where all would bloom forever in immortal youth.
As the sun went down, the whole heavens became crimson and
gold, and tinted the lilies with the hue of roses. Then the
beautiful maidens offered to the prince sparkling wine; and
when he had drank, he felt happiness greater than he had ever
known before. Presently the background of the hall opened and
the tree of knowledge appeared, surrounded by a halo of glory
that almost blinded him. Voices, soft and lovely as his
mother’s sounded in his ears, as if she were singing to him,
“My child, my beloved child.” Then the fairy beckoned to him,
and said in sweet accents, “Come with me, come with me.”
Forgetting his promise, forgetting it even on the very first
evening, he rushed towards her, while she continued to beckon
to him and to smile. The fragrance around him overpowered his
senses, the music from the harps sounded more entrancing,
while around the tree appeared millions of smiling faces,
nodding and singing. “Man should know everything; man is the
lord of the earth.” The tree of knowledge no longer wept tears
of blood, for the dewdrops shone like glittering stars.

    “Come, come,” continued that thrilling voice, and the
prince followed the call. At every step his cheeks glowed, and
the blood rushed wildly through his veins. “I must follow,” he
cried; “it is not a sin, it cannot be, to follow beauty and
joy. I only want to see her sleep, and nothing will happen
unless I kiss her, and that I will not do, for I have strength
to resist, and a determined will.”

    The fairy threw off her dazzling attire, bent back the
boughs, and in another moment was hidden among them.

    “I have not sinned yet,” said the prince, “and I will
not;” and then he pushed aside the boughs to follow the
princess. She was lying already asleep, beautiful as only a
fairy in the garden of paradise could be. She smiled as he
bent over her, and he saw tears trembling out of her beautiful
eyelashes. “Do you weep for me?” he whispered. “Oh weep not,
thou loveliest of women. Now do I begin to understand the
happiness of paradise; I feel it to my inmost soul, in every
thought. A new life is born within me. One moment of such
happiness is worth an eternity of darkness and woe.” He
stooped and kissed the tears from her eyes, and touched her
lips with his.

    A clap of thunder, loud and awful, resounded through the
trembling air. All around him fell into ruin. The lovely
fairy, the beautiful garden, sunk deeper and deeper. The
prince saw it sinking down in the dark night till it shone
only like a star in the distance beneath him. Then he felt a
coldness, like death, creeping over him; his eyes closed, and
he became insensible.

    When he recovered, a chilling rain was beating upon him,
and a sharp wind blew on his head. “Alas! what have I done?”
he sighed; “I have sinned like Adam, and the garden of
paradise has sunk into the earth.” He opened his eyes, and saw
the star in the distance, but it was the morning star in
heaven which glittered in the darkness.

    Presently he stood up and found himself in the depths of
the forest, close to the cavern of the Winds, and the mother
of the Winds sat by his side. She looked angry, and raised her
arm in the air as she spoke. “The very first evening!” she
said. “Well, I expected it! If you were my son, you should go
into the sack.”

    “And there he will have to go at last,” said a strong old
man, with large black wings, and a scythe in his hand, whose
name was Death. “He shall be laid in his coffin, but not yet.
I will allow him to wander about the world for a while, to
atone for his sin, and to give him time to become better. But
I shall return when he least expects me. I shall lay him in a
black coffin, place it on my head, and fly away with it beyond
the stars. There also blooms a garden of paradise, and if he
is good and pious he will be admitted; but if his thoughts are
bad, and his heart is full of sin, he will sink with his
coffin deeper than the garden of paradise has sunk. Once in
every thousand years I shall go and fetch him, when he will
either be condemned to sink still deeper, or be raised to a
happier life in
the world beyond the stars.”

                            THE END

THE flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue
flowers as delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so.
The sun shone, and the showers watered it; and this was just
as good for the flax as it is for little children to be washed
and then kissed by their mother. They look much prettier for
it, and so did the flax.

    “People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax,
“and that I am so fine and long that I shall make a beautiful
piece of linen. How fortunate I am; it makes me so happy, it
is such a pleasant thing to know that something can be made of
me. How the sunshine cheers me, and how sweet and refreshing
is the rain; my happiness overpowers me, no one in the world
can feel happier than I am.”

    “Ah, yes, no doubt,” said the fern, “but you do not know
the world yet as well as I do, for my sticks are knotty;” and
then it sung quite mournfully-

                      “Snip, snap, snurre,
                       Basse lurre:
                       The song is ended.”

    “No, it is not ended,” said the flax. “To-morrow the sun
will shine, or the rain descend. I feel that I am growing. I
feel that I am in full blossom. I am the happiest of all
creatures.”

    Well, one day some people came, who took hold of the flax,
and pulled it up by the roots; this was painful; then it was
laid in water as if they intended to drown it; and, after
that, placed near a fire as if it were to be roasted; all this
was very shocking. “We cannot expect to be happy always,” said
the flax; “by experiencing evil as well as good, we become
wise.” And certainly there was plenty of evil in store for the
flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken, and combed;
indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it. At last it was
put on the spinning wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the wheel so
quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts. “Well, I
have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain,
“and must be contented with the past;” and contented he
remained till he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful
piece of white linen. All the flax, even to the last stalk,
was used in making this one piece. “Well, this is quite
wonderful; I could not have believed that I should be so
favored by fortune. The fern was not wrong with its song of

                       ‘Snip, snap, snurre,
                        Basse lurre.’

But the song is not ended yet, I am sure; it is only just
beginning. How wonderful it is, that after all I have
suffered, I am made something of at last; I am the luckiest
person in the world- so strong and fine; and how white, and
what a length! This is something different to being a mere
plant and bearing flowers. Then I had no attention, nor any
water unless it rained; now, I am watched and taken care of.
Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a shower-bath
from the watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the clergyman’s
wife noticed me, and said I was the best piece of linen in the
whole parish. I cannot be happier than I am now.”

    After some time, the linen was taken into the house,
placed under the scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and
then pricked with needles. This certainly was not pleasant;
but at last it was made into twelve garments of that kind
which people do not like to name, and yet everybody should
wear one. “See, now, then,” said the flax; “I have become
something of importance. This was my destiny; it is quite a
blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as everyone
ought to be; it is the only way to be happy. I am now divided
into twelve pieces, and yet we are all one and the same in the
whole dozen. It is most extraordinary good fortune.”

    Years passed away, and at last the linen was so worn it
could scarcely hold together. “It must end very soon,” said
the pieces to each other; “we would gladly have held together
a little longer, but it is useless to expect impossibilities.”
And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it
was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and
steeped in water, and made into a pulp, and dried, and they
knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves
beautiful white paper. “Well, now, this is a surprise; a
glorious surprise too,” said the paper. “I am now finer than
ever, and I shall be written upon, and who can tell what fine
things I may have written upon me. This is wonderful luck!”
And sure enough the most beautiful stories and poetry were
written upon it, and only once was there a blot, which was
very fortunate. Then people heard the stories and poetry read,
and it made them wiser and better; for all that was written
had a good and sensible meaning, and a great blessing was
contained in the words on this paper.

    “I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper,
“when I was only a little blue flower, growing in the fields.
How could I fancy that I should ever be the means of bringing
knowledge and joy to man? I cannot understand it myself, and
yet it is really so. Heaven knows that I have done nothing
myself, but what I was obliged to do with my weak powers for
my own preservation; and yet I have been promoted from one joy
and honor to another. Each time I think that the song is
ended; and then something higher and better begins for me. I
suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so
that people may read me. It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is
more than probable; for I have more splendid thoughts written
upon me, than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am
happier than ever.”

    But the paper did not go on its travels; it was sent to
the printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in
type, to make a book, or rather, many hundreds of books; for
so many more persons could derive pleasure and profit from a
printed book, than from the written paper; and if the paper
had been sent around the world, it would have been worn out
before it had got half through its journey.

    “This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written
paper; “I really did not think of that. I shall remain at
home, and be held in honor, like some old grandfather, as I
really am to all these new books. They will do some good. I
could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all
this has looked at me, as every word flowed from his pen upon
my surface. I am the most honored of all.”

    Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and
thrown into a tub that stood in the washhouse.

    “After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper, “and a
very good opportunity to collect one’s thoughts. Now I am
able, for the first time, to think of my real condition; and
to know one’s self is true progress. What will be done with me
now, I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward. I have
always progressed hitherto, as I know quite well.”

    Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was
taken out, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it
could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar,
because it had been written upon. The children in the house
stood round the stove; for they wanted to see the paper burn,
because it flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the
ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running one after the
other, here and there, as quick as the wind. They called it
seeing the children come out of school, and the last spark was
the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had come;
and one would cry, “There goes the schoolmaster;” but the next
moment another spark would appear, shining so beautifully. How
they would like to know where the sparks all went to! Perhaps
we shall find out some day, but we don’t know now.

    The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and
was soon alight. “Ugh,” cried the paper, as it burst into a
bright flame; “ugh.” It was certainly not very pleasant to be
burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames
mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been
able to raise its little blue flower, and they glistened as
the white linen never could have glistened. All the written
letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and
thoughts turned to fire.

    “Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice
in the flames; and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the
words; and the flames darted up through the chimney, and went
out at the top. Then a number of tiny beings, as many in
number as the flowers on the flax had been, and invisible to
mortal eyes, floated above them. They were even lighter and
more delicate than the flowers from which they were born; and
as the flames were extinguished, and nothing remained of the
paper but black ashes, these little beings danced upon it; and
whenever they touched it, bright red sparks appeared.

    “The children are all out of school, and the schoolmaster
was the last of all,” said the children. It was good fun, and
they sang over the dead ashes,-

                     “Snip, snap, snurre,
                      Basse lure:
                      The song is ended.”

    But the little invisible beings said, “The song is never
ended; the most beautiful is yet to come.”

    But the children could neither hear nor understand this,
nor should they; for children must not know everything.

                            THE END

THERE were two cocks- one on the dung-hill, the other on
the roof. They were both arrogant, but which of the two
rendered most service? Tell us your opinion- we’ll keep to
ours just the same though.

    The poultry yard was divided by some planks from another
yard in which there was a dung-hill, and on the dung-hill lay
and grew a large cucumber which was conscious of being a
hot-bed plant.

    “One is born to that,” said the cucumber to itself. “Not
all can be born cucumbers; there must be other things, too.
The hens, the ducks, and all the animals in the next yard are
creatures too. Now I have a great opinion of the yard cock on
the plank; he is certainly of much more importance than the
weather-cock who is placed so high and can’t even creak, much
less crow. The latter has neither hens nor chicks, and only
thinks of himself and perspires verdigris. No, the yard cock
is really a cock! His step is a dance! His crowing is music,
and wherever he goes one knows what a trumpeter is like! If he
would only come in here! Even if he ate me up stump, stalk,
and all, and I had to dissolve in his body, it would be a
happy death,” said the cucumber.

    In the night there was a terrible storm. The hens, chicks,
and even the cock sought shelter; the wind tore down the
planks between the two yards with a crash; the tiles came
tumbling down, but the weather-cock sat firm. He did not even
turn round, for he could not; and yet he was young and freshly
cast, but prudent and sedate. He had been born old, and did
not at all resemble the birds flying in the air- the sparrows,
and the swallows; no, he despised them, these mean little
piping birds, these common whistlers. He admitted that the
pigeons, large and white and shining like mother-o’-pearl,
looked like a kind of weather-cock; but they were fat and
stupid, and all their thoughts and endeavours were directed to
filling themselves with food, and besides, they were tiresome
things to converse with. The birds of passage had also paid
the weather-cock a visit and told him of foreign countries, of
airy caravans and robber stories that made one’s hair stand on
end. All this was new and interesting; that is, for the first
time, but afterwards, as the weather-cock found out, they
repeated themselves and always told the same stories, and
that’s very tedious, and there was no one with whom one could
associate, for one and all were stale and small-minded.

    “The world is no good!” he said. “Everything in it is so
stupid.”

    The weather-cock was puffed up, and that quality would
have made him interesting in the eyes of the cucumber if it
had known it, but it had eyes only for the yard cock, who was
now in the yard with it.

    The wind had blown the planks, but the storm was over.

    “What do you think of that crowing?” said the yard cock to
the hens and chickens. “It was a little rough- it wanted
elegance.”

    And the hens and chickens came up on the dung-hill, and
the cock strutted about like a lord.

    “Garden plant!” he said to the cucumber, and in that one
word his deep learning showed itself, and it forgot that he
was pecking at her and eating it up. “A happy death!”

    The hens and the chickens came, for where one runs the
others run too; they clucked, and chirped, and looked at the
cock, and were proud that he was of their kind.

    “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” he crowed, “the chickens will grow up
into great hens at once, if I cry it out in the poultry-yard
of the world!”

    And hens and chicks clucked and chirped, and the cock
announced a great piece of news.

    “A cock can lay an egg! And do you know what’s in that
egg? A basilisk. No one can stand the sight of such a thing;
people know that, and now you know it too- you know what is in
me, and what a champion of all cocks I am!”

    With that the yard cock flapped his wings, made his comb
swell up, and crowed again; and they all shuddered, the hens
and the little chicks- but they were very proud that one of
their number was such a champion of all cocks. They clucked
and chirped till the weather-cock heard; he heard it; but he
did not stir.

    “Everything is very stupid,” the weather-cock said to
himself. “The yard cock lays no eggs, and I am too lazy to do
so; if I liked, I could lay a wind-egg. But the world is not
worth even a wind-egg. Everything is so stupid! I don’t want
to sit here any longer.”

    With that the weather-cock broke off; but he did not kill
the yard cock, although the hens said that had been his
intention. And what is the moral? “Better to crow than to be
puffed up and break off!

                            THE END

MANY, many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much
of new clothes that he spent all his money in order to obtain
them; his only ambition was to be always well dressed. He did
not care for his soldiers, and the theatre did not amuse him;
the only thing, in fact, he thought anything of was to drive
out and show a new suit of clothes. He had a coat for every
hour of the day; and as one would say of a king "He is in his
cabinet," so one could say of him, "The emperor is in his
dressing-room."

    The great city where he resided was very gay; every day
many strangers from all parts of the globe arrived. One day
two swindlers came to this city; they made people believe that
they were weavers, and declared they could manufacture the
finest cloth to be imagined. Their colours and patterns, they
said, were not only exceptionally beautiful, but the clothes
made of their material possessed the wonderful quality of
being invisible to any man who was unfit for his office or
unpardonably stupid.

    "That must be wonderful cloth," thought the emperor. "If I
were to be dressed in a suit made of this cloth I should be
able to find out which men in my empire were unfit for their
places, and I could distinguish the clever from the stupid. I
must have this cloth woven for me without delay." And he gave
a large sum of money to the swindlers, in advance, that they
should set to work without any loss of time. They set up two
looms, and pretended to be very hard at work, but they did
nothing whatever on the looms. They asked for the finest silk
and the most precious gold-cloth; all they got they did away
with, and worked at the empty looms till late at night.

    "I should very much like to know how they are getting on
with the cloth," thought the emperor. But he felt rather
uneasy when he remembered that he who was not fit for his
office could not see it. Personally, he was of opinion that he
had nothing to fear, yet he thought it advisable to send
somebody else first to see how matters stood. Everybody in the
town knew what a remarkable quality the stuff possessed, and
all were anxious to see how bad or stupid their neighbours
were.

    "I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers,"
thought the emperor. "He can judge best how the stuff looks,
for he is intelligent, and nobody understands his office
better than he."

    The good old minister went into the room where the
swindlers sat before the empty looms. "Heaven preserve us!" he
thought, and opened his eyes wide, "I cannot see anything at
all," but he did not say so. Both swindlers requested him to
come near, and asked him if he did not admire the exquisite
pattern and the beautiful colours, pointing to the empty
looms. The poor old minister tried his very best, but he could
see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. "Oh dear," he
thought, "can I be so stupid? I should never have thought so,
and nobody must know it! Is it possible that I am not fit for
my office? No, no, I cannot say that I was unable to see the
cloth."

    "Now, have you got nothing to say?" said one of the
swindlers, while he pretended to be busily weaving.

    "Oh, it is very pretty, exceedingly beautiful," replied
the old minister looking through his glasses. "What a
beautiful pattern, what brilliant colours! I shall tell the
emperor that I like the cloth very much."

    "We are pleased to hear that," said the two weavers, and
described to him the colours and explained the curious
pattern. The old minister listened attentively, that he might
relate to the emperor what they said; and so he did.

    Now the swindlers asked for more money, silk and
gold-cloth, which they required for weaving. They kept
everything for themselves, and not a thread came near the
loom, but they continued, as hitherto, to work at the empty
looms.

    Soon afterwards the emperor sent another honest courtier
to the weavers to see how they were getting on, and if the
cloth was nearly finished. Like the old minister, he looked
and looked but could see nothing, as there was nothing to be
seen.

    "Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?" asked the two
swindlers, showing and explaining the magnificent pattern,
which, however, did not exist.

    "I am not stupid," said the man. "It is therefore my good
appointment for which I am not fit. It is very strange, but I
must not let any one know it;" and he praised the cloth, which
he did not see, and expressed his joy at the beautiful colours
and the fine pattern. "It is very excellent," he said to the
emperor.

    Everybody in the whole town talked about the precious
cloth. At last the emperor wished to see it himself, while it
was still on the loom. With a number of courtiers, including
the two who had already been there, he went to the two clever
swindlers, who now worked as hard as they could, but without
using any thread.

    "Is it not magnificent?" said the two old statesmen who
had been there before. "Your Majesty must admire the colours
and the pattern." And then they pointed to the empty looms,
for they imagined the others could see the cloth.

    "What is this?" thought the emperor, "I do not see
anything at all. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to
be emperor? That would indeed be the most dreadful thing that
could happen to me."

    "Really," he said, turning to the weavers, "your cloth has
our most gracious approval;" and nodding contentedly he looked
at the empty loom, for he did not like to say that he saw
nothing. All his attendants, who were with him, looked and
looked, and although they could not see anything more than the
others, they said, like the emperor, "It is very beautiful."
And all advised him to wear the new magnificent clothes at a
great procession which was soon to take place. "It is
magnificent, beautiful, excellent," one heard them say;
everybody seemed to be delighted, and the emperor appointed
the two swindlers "Imperial Court weavers."

    The whole night previous to the day on which the
procession was to take place, the swindlers pretended to work,
and burned more than sixteen candles. People should see that
they were busy to finish the emperor's new suit. They
pretended to take the cloth from the loom, and worked about in
the air with big scissors, and sewed with needles without
thread, and said at last: "The emperor's new suit is ready
now."

    The emperor and all his barons then came to the hall; the
swindlers held their arms up as if they held something in
their hands and said: "These are the trousers!" "This is the
coat!" and "Here is the cloak!" and so on. "They are all as
light as a cobweb, and one must feel as if one had nothing at
all upon the body; but that is just the beauty of them."

    "Indeed!" said all the courtiers; but they could not see
anything, for there was nothing to be seen.

    "Does it please your Majesty now to graciously undress,"
said the swindlers, "that we may assist your Majesty in
putting on the new suit before the large looking-glass?"

    The emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put
the new suit upon him, one piece after another; and the
emperor looked at himself in the glass from every side.

    "How well they look! How well they fit!" said all. "What a
beautiful pattern! What fine colours! That is a magnificent
suit of clothes!"

    The master of the ceremonies announced that the bearers of
the canopy, which was to be carried in the procession, were
ready.

    "I am ready," said the emperor. "Does not my suit fit me
marvellously?" Then he turned once more to the looking-glass,
that people should think he admired his garments.

    The chamberlains, who were to carry the train, stretched
their hands to the ground as if they lifted up a train, and
pretended to hold something in their hands; they did not like
people to know that they could not see anything.

    The emperor marched in the procession under the beautiful
canopy, and all who saw him in the street and out of the
windows exclaimed: "Indeed, the emperor's new suit is
incomparable! What a long train he has! How well it fits him!"
Nobody wished to let others know he saw nothing, for then he
would have been unfit for his office or too stupid. Never
emperor's clothes were more admired.

    "But he has nothing on at all," said a little child at
last. "Good heavens! listen to the voice of an innocent
child," said the father, and one whispered to the other what
the child had said. "But he has nothing on at all," cried at
last the whole people. That made a deep impression upon the
emperor, for it seemed to him that they were right; but he
thought to himself, "Now I must bear up to the end." And the
chamberlains walked with still greater dignity, as if they
carried the train which did not exist.

                            THE END

IN the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full
blossom, and in the prettiest of all the roses lived an elf.
He was such a little wee thing, that no human eye could see
him. Behind each leaf of the rose he had a sleeping chamber.
He was as well formed and as beautiful as a little child could
be, and had wings that reached from his shoulders to his feet.
Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his chambers! and how
clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were the blushing
leaves of the rose.

    During the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm
sunshine, flew from flower to flower, and danced on the wings
of the flying butterflies. Then he took it into his head to
measure how many steps he would have to go through the roads
and cross-roads that are on the leaf of a linden-tree. What we
call the veins on a leaf, he took for roads; ay, and very long
roads they were for him; for before he had half finished his
task, the sun went down: he had commenced his work too late.
It became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew; so he
thought the best thing he could do would be to return home. He
hurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses
all closed up, and he could not get in; not a single rose
stood open. The poor little elf was very much frightened. He
had never before been out at night, but had always slumbered
secretly behind the warm rose-leaves. Oh, this would certainly
be his death. At the other end of the garden, he knew there
was an arbor, overgrown with beautiful honey-suckles. The
blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he thought to
himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the
morning. He flew thither; but "hush!" two people were in the
arbor,- a handsome young man and a beautiful lady. They sat
side by side, and wished that they might never be obliged to
part. They loved each other much more than the best child can
love its father and mother.

    "But we must part," said the young man; "your brother does
not like our engagement, and therefore he sends me so far away
on business, over mountains and seas. Farewell, my sweet
bride; for so you are to me."

    And then they kissed each other, and the girl wept, and
gave him a rose; but before she did so, she pressed a kiss
upon it so fervently that the flower opened. Then the little
elf flew in, and leaned his head on the delicate, fragrant
walls. Here he could plainly hear them say, "Farewell,
farewell;" and he felt that the rose had been placed on the
young man's breast. Oh, how his heart did beat! The little elf
could not go to sleep, it thumped so loudly. The young man
took it out as he walked through the dark wood alone, and
kissed the flower so often and so violently, that the little
elf was almost crushed. He could feel through the leaf how hot
the lips of the young man were, and the rose had opened, as if
from the heat of the noonday sun.

    There came another man, who looked gloomy and wicked. He
was the wicked brother of the beautiful maiden. He drew out a
sharp knife, and while the other was kissing the rose, the
wicked man stabbed him to death; then he cut off his head, and
buried it with the body in the soft earth under the
linden-tree.

    "Now he is gone, and will soon be forgotten," thought the
wicked brother; "he will never come back again. He was going
on a long journey over mountains and seas; it is easy for a
man to lose his life in such a journey. My sister will suppose
he is dead; for he cannot come back, and she will not dare to
question me about him."

    Then he scattered the dry leaves over the light earth with
his foot, and went home through the darkness; but he went not
alone, as he thought,- the little elf accompanied him. He sat
in a dry rolled-up linden-leaf, which had fallen from the tree
on to the wicked man's head, as he was digging the grave. The
hat was on the head now, which made it very dark, and the
little elf shuddered with fright and indignation at the wicked
deed.

    It was the dawn of morning before the wicked man reached
home; he took off his hat, and went into his sister's room.
There lay the beautiful, blooming girl, dreaming of him whom
she loved so, and who was now, she supposed, travelling far
away over mountain and sea. Her wicked brother stopped over
her, and laughed hideously, as fiends only can laugh. The dry
leaf fell out of his hair upon the counterpane; but he did not
notice it, and went to get a little sleep during the early
morning hours. But the elf slipped out of the withered leaf,
placed himself by the ear of the sleeping girl, and told her,
as in a dream, of the horrid murder; described the place where
her brother had slain her lover, and buried his body; and told
her of the linden-tree, in full blossom, that stood close by.

    "That you may not think this is only a dream that I have
told you," he said, "you will find on your bed a withered
leaf."

    Then she awoke, and found it there. Oh, what bitter tears
she shed! and she could not open her heart to any one for
relief.

    The window stood open the whole day, and the little elf
could easily have reached the roses, or any of the flowers;
but he could not find it in his heart to leave one so
afflicted. In the window stood a bush bearing monthly roses.
He seated himself in one of the flowers, and gazed on the poor
girl. Her brother often came into the room, and would be quite
cheerful, in spite of his base conduct; so she dare not say a
word to him of her heart's grief.

    As soon as night came on, she slipped out of the house,
and went into the wood, to the spot where the linden-tree
stood; and after removing the leaves from the earth, she
turned it up, and there found him who had been murdered. Oh,
how she wept and prayed that she also might die! Gladly would
she have taken the body home with her; but that was
impossible; so she took up the poor head with the closed eyes,
kissed the cold lips, and shook the mould out of the beautiful
hair.

    "I will keep this," said she; and as soon as she had
covered the body again with the earth and leaves, she took the
head and a little sprig of jasmine that bloomed in the wood,
near the spot where he was buried, and carried them home with
her. As soon as she was in her room, she took the largest
flower-pot she could find, and in this she placed the head of
the dead man, covered it up with earth, and planted the twig
of jasmine in it.

    "Farewell, farewell," whispered the little elf. He could
not any longer endure to witness all this agony of grief, he
therefore flew away to his own rose in the garden. But the
rose was faded; only a few dry leaves still clung to the green
hedge behind it.

    "Alas! how soon all that is good and beautiful passes
away," sighed the elf.

    After a while he found another rose, which became his
home, for among its delicate fragrant leaves he could dwell in
safety. Every morning he flew to the window of the poor girl,
and always found her weeping by the flower pot. The bitter
tears fell upon the jasmine twig, and each day, as she became
paler and paler, the sprig appeared to grow greener and
fresher. One shoot after another sprouted forth, and little
white buds blossomed, which the poor girl fondly kissed. But
her wicked brother scolded her, and asked her if she was going
mad. He could not imagine why she was weeping over that
flower-pot, and it annoyed him. He did not know whose closed
eyes were there, nor what red lips were fading beneath the
earth. And one day she sat and leaned her head against the
flower-pot, and the little elf of the rose found her asleep.
Then he seated himself by her ear, talked to her of that
evening in the arbor, of the sweet perfume of the rose, and
the loves of the elves. Sweetly she dreamed, and while she
dreamt, her life passed away calmly and gently, and her spirit
was with him whom she loved, in heaven. And the jasmine opened
its large white bells, and spread forth its sweet fragrance;
it had no other way of showing its grief for the dead. But the
wicked brother considered the beautiful blooming plant as his
own property, left to him by his sister, and he placed it in
his sleeping room, close by his bed, for it was very lovely in
appearance, and the fragrance sweet and delightful. The little
elf of the rose followed it, and flew from flower to flower,
telling each little spirit that dwelt in them the story of the
murdered young man, whose head now formed part of the earth
beneath them, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister.
"We know it," said each little spirit in the flowers, "we know
it, for have we not sprung from the eyes and lips of the
murdered one. We know it, we know it," and the flowers nodded
with their heads in a peculiar manner. The elf of the rose
could not understand how they could rest so quietly in the
matter, so he flew to the bees, who were gathering honey, and
told them of the wicked brother. And the bees told it to their
queen, who commanded that the next morning they should go and
kill the murderer. But during the night, the first after the
sister's death, while the brother was sleeping in his bed,
close to where he had placed the fragrant jasmine, every
flower cup opened, and invisibly the little spirits stole out,
armed with poisonous spears. They placed themselves by the ear
of the sleeper, told him dreadful dreams and then flew across
his lips, and pricked his tongue with their poisoned spears.
"Now have we revenged the dead," said they, and flew back into
the white bells of the jasmine flowers. When the morning came,
and as soon as the window was opened, the rose elf, with the
queen bee, and the whole swarm of bees, rushed in to kill him.
But he was already dead. People were standing round the bed,
and saying that the scent of the jasmine had killed him. Then
the elf of the rose understood the revenge of the flowers, and
explained it to the queen bee, and she, with the whole swarm,
buzzed about the flower-pot. The bees could not be driven
away. Then a man took it up to remove it, and one of the bees
stung him in the hand, so that he let the flower-pot fall, and
it was broken to pieces. Then every one saw the whitened
skull, and they knew the dead man in the bed was a murderer.
And the queen bee hummed in the air, and sang of the revenge
of the flowers, and of the elf of the rose and said that
behind the smallest leaf dwells One, who can discover evil
deeds, and punish them also.

                            THE END

    WE are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

    Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without
magic. We flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across
the land.

    Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

    We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming
flowers ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

    Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony
door we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down
there; it has come to Paris, and arrived at the same time with
us. It has come in the shape of a glorious young chestnut
tree, with delicate leaves newly opened. How the tree gleams,
dressed in its spring garb, before all the other trees in the
place! One of these latter had been struck out of the list of
living trees. It lies on the ground with roots exposed. On the
place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be
planted, and to flourish.

    It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which
has brought it this morning a distance of several miles to
Paris. For years it had stood there, in the protection of a
mighty oak tree, under which the old venerable clergyman had
often sat, with children listening to his stories.

    The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories;
for the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered
the time when the tree was so little that it only projected a
short way above the grass and ferns around. These were as tall
as they would ever be; but the tree grew every year, and
enjoyed the air and the sunshine, and drank the dew and the
rain. Several times it was also, as it must be, well shaken by
the wind and the rain; for that is a part of education.

    The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the
sunshine, and the singing of the birds; but she was most
rejoiced at human voices; she understood the language of men
as well as she understood that of animals.

    Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that
could fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told
of the village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old
castle with its parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water
dwelt also living beings, which, in their way, could fly under
the water from one place to another- beings with knowledge and
delineation. They said nothing at all; they were so clever!

    And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty
little goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the
old carp. The swallow could describe all that very well, but,
"Self is the man," she said. "One ought to see these things
one's self." But how was the Dryad ever to see such beings?
She was obliged to be satisfied with being able to look over
the beautiful country and see the busy industry of men.

    It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old
clergyman sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of
the great deeds of her sons and daughters, whose names will be
mentioned with admiration through all time.

    Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc,
and of Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and
Napoleon the First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the
hearts of the people.

    The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad
no less attentively; she became a school-child with the rest.
In the clouds that went sailing by she saw, picture by
picture, everything that she heard talked about. The cloudy
sky was her picture-book.

    She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land
of genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the
sting remained that the bird, that every animal that could
fly, was much better off than she. Even the fly could look
about more in the world, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.

    France was so great and so glorious, but she could only
look across a little piece of it. The land stretched out,
world-wide, with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all
these Paris was the most splendid and the mightiest. The birds
could get there; but she, never!

    Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl,
but a pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or
singing and twining red flowers in her black hair.

    "Don't go to Paris!" the old clergyman warned her. "Poor
child! if you go there, it will be your ruin."

    But she went for all that.

    The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish,
and felt the same longing for the great city.

    The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms;
the birds were twittering round them in the most beautiful
sunshine. Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way,
and in it sat a grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed
horses. On the back seat a little smart groom balanced
himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and the old clergyman knew
her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw her, and said:

    "So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor
Mary!"

    "That one poor?" thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress
fit for a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic
changes). "Oh, if I were only there, amid all the splendor and
pomp! They shine up into the very clouds at night; when I look
up, I can tell in what direction the town lies."

    Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She
saw in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in
the clear moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds,
which showed her pictures of the city and pictures from
history.

    The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped
at the cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky
was for her a blank leaf; and for several days she had only
had such leaves before her.

    It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through
the glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it
were torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

    Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about
where the gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris."

    The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,
hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over
the whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

    Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay
piled over one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from
them.

    "These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old
clergyman had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of
lightning, a lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could
burst blocks of rock asunder. The lightning struck and split
to the roots the old venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It
seemed as if the tree were stretching forth its arms to clasp
the messengers of the light.

    No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a
royal child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old
oak. The rain streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing;
the storm had gone by, and there was quite a holiday glow on
all things. The old clergyman spoke a few words for honorable
remembrance, and a painter made a drawing, as a lasting record
of the tree.

    "Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away
like a cloud, and never comes back!"

    The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof
of his school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished.
The children did not come; but autumn came, and winter came,
and then spring also. In all this change of seasons the Dryad
looked toward the region where, at night, Paris gleamed with
its bright mist far on the horizon.

    Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train
after train, whistling and screaming at all hours in the day.
In the evening, towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day
through, came the trains. Out of each one, and into each one,
streamed people from the country of every king. A new wonder
of the world had summoned them to Paris.

    In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

    "A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has
unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower,
from whose petals one can learn geography and statistics, and
can become as wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to
the level of art and poetry, and study the greatness and power
of the various lands."

    "A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored
lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet
carpet over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth,
the summer will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds
will sweep it away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its
root shall remain."

    In front of the Military School extends in time of peace
the arena of war- a field without a blade of grass, a piece of
sandy steppe, as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where
Fata Morgana displays her wondrous airy castles and hanging
gardens. In the Champ de Mars, however, these were to be seen
more splendid, more wonderful than in the East, for human art
had converted the airy deceptive scenes into reality.

    "The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it
was said. "Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its
wonderful splendor."

    The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master
Bloodless" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great
circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone,
in Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is
stirring in every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of
flowers, everything that mind and skill can create in the
workshop of the artisan, has been placed here for show. Even
the memorials of ancient days, out of old graves and
turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.

    The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided
into small portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if
it is to be understood and described.

    Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars
carried a wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this
knickknacks from all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on
a grand scale, for every nation found some remembrance of
home.

    Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the
caravanserai of the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his
sunny country, and hastened by on his camel. Here stood the
Russian stables, with the fiery glorious horses of the steppe.
Here stood the simple straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish
peasant, with the Dannebrog flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's
wooden house from Dalarne, with its wonderful carvings.
American huts, English cottages, French pavilions, kiosks,
theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the
fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes,
rare trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self
transported into the tropical forest; whole gardens brought
from Damascus, and blooming under one roof. What colors, what
fragrance!

    Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt
water, and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the
visitor seemed to wander at the bottom of the sea, among
fishes and polypi.

    "All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and
around the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings
moves like a busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little
carriages, for not all feet are equal to such a fatiguing
journey.

    Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening.
Steamer after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the
Seine. The number of carriages is continually on the increase.
The swarm of people on foot and on horseback grows more and
more dense. Carriages and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and
embroidered with people. All these tributary streams flow in
one direction- towards the Exhibition. On every entrance the
flag of France is displayed; around the world's bazaar wave
the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a murmuring
from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of
the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the
churches mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the
East. It is a kingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!

    In very truth it was. That's what all the reports said,
and who did not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is
told here of the new wonder in the city of cities.

    "Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back
and tell me," said the Dryad.

    The wish became an intense desire- became the one thought
of a life. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full
moon was shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's
disc, and fall like a shooting star. And before the tree,
whose leaves waved to and fro as if they were stirred by a
tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and grand figure. In tones
that were at once rich and strong, like the trumpet of the
Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to the
great account, it said:

    "Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root
there, and enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the
sunshine there. But the time of thy life shall then be
shortened; the line of years that awaited thee here amid the
free nature shall shrink to but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It
shall be thy destruction. Thy yearning and longing will
increase, thy desire will grow more stormy, the tree itself
will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit thy cell and give
up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men. Then the years
that would have belonged to thee will be contracted to half
the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one
night, and thy life-taper shall be blown out- the leaves of
the tree will wither and be blown away, to become green never
again!"

    Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but
not the longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever
of expectation.

    "I shall go there!" she cried, rejoicingly. "Life is
beginning and swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is
hastening."

    When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the
clouds were tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words
of promise were fulfilled.

    People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the
roots of the tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon
was brought out, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted
up, with its roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to
them; matting was placed around the roots, as though the tree
had its feet in a warm bag. And now the tree was lifted on the
wagon and secured with chains. The journey began- the journey
to Paris. There the tree was to grow as an ornament to the
city of French glory.

    The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in
the first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled
in the pleasurable feeling of expectation.

    "Away! away!" it sounded in every beat of her pulse.
"Away! away" sounded in words that flew trembling along. The
Dryad forgot to bid farewell to the regions of home; she
thought not of the waving grass and of the innocent daisies,
which had looked up to her as to a great lady, a young
Princess playing at being a shepherdess out in the open air.

    The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his
branches; whether this meant "farewell" or "forward," the
Dryad knew not; she dreamed only of the marvellous new things,
that seemed yet so familiar, and that were to unfold
themselves before her. No child's heart rejoicing in
innocence- no heart whose blood danced with passion- had set
out on the journey to Paris more full of expectation than she.

    Her "farewell" sounded in the words "Away! away!"

    The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present
vanished. The region was changed, even as the clouds change.
New vineyards, forests, villages, villas appeared- came
nearer- vanished!

    The chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with
it. Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up
into the air vapory clouds, that formed figures which told of
Paris, whence they came, and whither the Dryad was going.

    Everything around knew it, and must know whither she was
bound. It seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched
out its leaves towards her, with the prayer- "Take me with
you! take me with you!" for every tree enclosed a longing
Dryad.

    What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be
rising out of the earth- more and more- thicker and thicker.
The chimneys rose like flower-pots ranged side by side, or in
rows one above the other, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in
letters a yard long, and figures in various colors, covering
the walls from cornice to basement, came brightly out.

    "Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?" asked
the Dryad.

    The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle
increased; carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and
people on horseback were mingled together; all around were
shops on shops, music and song, crying and talking.

    The Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The
great heavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square
planted with trees. The high houses around had all of them
balconies to the windows, from which the inhabitants looked
down upon the young fresh chestnut tree, which was coming to
be planted here as a substitute for the dead tree that lay
stretched on the ground.

    The passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its
pure vernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still
closed, whispered with their waving branches, "Welcome!
welcome!" The fountain, throwing its jet of water high up in
the air, to let it fall again in the wide stone basin, told
the wind to sprinkle the new-comer with pearly drops, as if it
wished to give him a refreshing draught to welcome him.

    The Dryad felt how her tree was being lifted from the
wagon to be placed in the spot where it was to stand. The
roots were covered with earth, and fresh turf was laid on top.
Blooming shrubs and flowers in pots were ranged around; and
thus a little garden arose in the square.

    The tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the
steam of kitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon
the wagon and driven away. The passers-by looked on. Children
and old men sat upon the bench, and looked at the green tree.
And we who are telling this story stood upon a balcony, and
looked down upon the green spring sight that had been brought
in from the fresh country air, and said, what the old
clergyman would have said, "Poor Dryad!"

    "I am happy! I am happy!" the Dryad cried, rejoicing; "and
yet I cannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything
is as I fancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it."

    The houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight
shone on only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over
with bills and placards, before which the people stood still;
and this made a crowd.

    Carriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones
and heavy ones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded
moving houses, came rattling by; horsemen galloped among them;
even carts and wagons asserted their rights.

    The Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which
stood so close around her, would not remove and take other
shapes, like the clouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that
she might cast a glance into Paris, and over it. Notre Dame
must show itself, the Vendome Column, and the wondrous
building which had called and was still calling so many
strangers to the city.

    But the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet
day when the lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the
shops, and shone even into the branches of the trees, so that
it was like sunlight in summer. The stars above made their
appearance, the same to which the Dryad had looked up in her
home. She thought she felt a clear pure stream of air which
went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up and
strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through
every leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the
noise and the turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew
herself watched by mild eyes.

    From the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles
and wind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to
jollity and pleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it
was, that horses, carriages, trees, and houses would have
danced, if they had known how. The charm of intoxicating
delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.

    "How glorious, how splendid it is!" she cried,
rejoicingly. "Now I am in Paris!"

    The next day that dawned, the next night that fell,
offered the same spectacle, similar bustle, similar life;
changing, indeed, yet always the same; and thus it went on
through the sequence of days.

    "Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I
know every house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow
cut-off corner, where I am denied the sight of this great
mighty city. Where are the arches of triumph, the Boulevards,
the wondrous building of the world? I see nothing of all this.
As if shut up in a cage, I stand among the high houses, which
I now know by heart, with their inscriptions, signs, and
placards; all the painted confectionery, that is no longer to
my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard, for which
I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what
have I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt
before; I feel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and
to experience. I must go out into the ranks of living men, and
mingle among them. I must fly about like a bird. I must see
and feel, and become human altogether. I must enjoy the one
half-day, instead of vegetating for years in every-day
sameness and weariness, in which I become ill, and at last
sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will gleam
like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over
the whole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one
knoweth whither."

    Thus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:

    "Take from me the years that were destined for me, and
give me but half of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me
from my prison! Give me human life, human happiness, only a
short span, only the one night, if it cannot be otherwise; and
then punish me for my wish to live, my longing for life!
Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the fresh young tree,
wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and scattered to
all the winds!"

    A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was
a trembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire
streamed through it. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and
from the midst of that crown a female figure came forth. In
the same moment she was sitting beneath the
brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful to
behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, "The
great city will be thy destruction."

    The Dryad sat at the foot of the tree- at her house door,
which she had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young!
so fair! The stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps
saw her, and gleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she
was, and yet how blooming!- a child, and yet a grown maiden!
Her dress was fine as silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves
on the crown of the tree; in her nut-brown hair clung a
half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked like the Goddess of
Spring.

    For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang
up, and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and
sprang like the reflection from the mirror that, carried by
the sunshine, is cast, now here, now there. Could any one have
followed her with his eyes, he would have seen how
marvellously her dress and her form changed, according to the
nature of the house or the place whose light happened to shine
upon her.

    She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed
forth from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the
cafes. Here stood in a row young and slender trees, each of
which concealed its Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial
sunlight. The whole vast pavement was one great festive hall,
where covered tables stood laden with refreshments of all
kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse down to coffee and beer.
Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues, books, and colored
stuffs.

    From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth
over the terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder
heaved a stream of rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches,
omnibuses, cabs, and among them riding gentlemen and marching
troops. To cross to the opposite shore was an undertaking
fraught with danger to life and limb. Now lanterns shed their
radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand; suddenly a
rocket rises! Whence? Whither?

    Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish
songs are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets;
but strongest of all, and predominating over the rest, the
street-organ tunes of the moment, the exciting "Can-Can"
music, which Orpheus never knew, and which was never heard by
the "Belle Helene." Even the barrow was tempted to hop upon
one of its wheels.

    The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every
moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with
the world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.

    As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is
carried away by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along.
Whenever she paused, she was another being, so that none was
able to follow her, to recognize her, or to look more closely
at her.

    Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked
into a thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she
saw not a single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained
in her memory. She thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged
merry child, who wore the red flowers in her black hair. Mary
was now here, in the world-city, rich and magnificent as in
that day when she drove past the house of the old clergyman,
and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.

    Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult.
Perhaps she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous
carriages in waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in
gold braid and footmen in silken hose, drove up. The people
who alighted from them were all richly-dressed ladies. They
went through the opened gate, and ascended the broad staircase
that led to a building resting on marble pillars. Was this
building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There Mary would
certainly be found.

    "Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense
floated through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a
solemn twilight reigned.

    It was the Church of the Madeleine.

    Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs,
fashioned according to the latest mode, the rich feminine
world of Paris glided across the shining pavement. The crests
of the proprietors were engraved on silver shields on the
velvet-bound prayer-books, and embroidered in the corners of
perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with Brussels lace. A few of
the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer before the altars;
others resorted to the confessionals.

    Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as
if she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here
was the abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was
said in whispers, every word was a mystery.

    The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the
women of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps,
every one of them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?

    A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some
confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the
Dryad? She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed
incense, and not the fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place
of her longing.

    Away! away- a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly
knows not repose, for her existence is flight.

    She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a
magnificent fountain.

    "All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the
innocent blood that was spilt here."

    Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around,
carrying on a lively conversation, such as no one would have
dared to carry on in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the
Dryad came.

    A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not
understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths
below. The strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and
the cheerful life of the upper world behind them.

    "I am afraid," said one of the women who stood around, to
her husband, "I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for
the wonders down yonder. You had better stay here with me."

    "Indeed, and travel home," said the man, "and quit Paris
without having seen the most wonderful thing of all- the real
wonder of the present period, created by the power and
resolution of one man!"

    "I will not go down for all that," was the reply.

    "The wonder of the present time," it had been called. The
Dryad had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent
longing had thus been reached, and here was the entrance to
it. Down into the depths below Paris? She had not thought of
such a thing; but now she heard it said, and saw the strangers
descending, and went after them.

    The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy.
Below there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They
stood in a labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all
communicating with each other. All the streets and lanes of
Paris were to be seen here again, as in a dim reflection. The
names were painted up; and every, house above had its number
down here also, and struck its roots under the macadamized
quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water flowed
onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on
arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes
and telegraph-wires.

    In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the
world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was
heard. This came from the heavy wagons rolling over the
entrance bridges.

    Whither had the Dryad come?

    You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are
vanishing points in that new underground world- that wonder of
the present day- the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and
not in the world's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.

    She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.

    "From here go forth health and life for thousands upon
thousands up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with
its manifold blessings."

    Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of
those creatures who had been born here, and who built and
dwelt here- of the rats, namely, who were squeaking to one
another in the clefts of a crumbling wall, quite plainly, and
in a way the Dryad understood well.

    A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was
relieving his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave
their tribute of concurrence to every word he said:

    "I am disgusted with this man-mewing," he cried- "with
these outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all
made up of gas and petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that.
Everything here is so fine and bright now, that one's ashamed
of one's self, without exactly knowing why. Ah, if we only
lived in the days of tallow candles! and it does not lie so
very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as one may say."

    "What are you talking of there?" asked the Dryad. "I have
never seen you before. What is it you are talking about?"

    "Of the glorious days that are gone," said the Rat- "of
the happy time of our great-grandfathers and
great-grandmothers. Then it was a great thing to get down
here. That was a rat's nest quite different from Paris. Mother
Plague used to live here then; she killed people, but never
rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here. Here
was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages, whom
one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act
melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our
rat's nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken
in."

    Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old
time, when Mother Plague was still alive.

    A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift
horses. The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard
de Sebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over
which the well-known crowded street of that name extended.

    The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad
disappeared, lifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and
not below in the vaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the
wonder work must be found which she was to seek in her short
lifetime. It must gleam brighter than all the gas-flames,
stronger than the moon that was just gliding past.

    Yes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it
gleamed before her, and twinkled and glittered like the
evening star in the sky.

    She saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little
garden, where all was brightness and dance music. Colored
lamps surrounded little lakes, in which were water-plants of
colored metal, from whose flowers jets of water spurted up.
Beautiful weeping willows, real products of spring, hung their
fresh branches over these lakes like a fresh, green,
transparent, and yet screening veil. In the bushes burnt an
open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts of
branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated- an ear
tickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing
through the veins.

    Beautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on
their lips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts-
"Marys," with roses in their hair, but without carriage and
postilion- flitted to and fro in the wild dance.

    Where were the heads, where the feet? As if stung by
tarantulas, they sprang, laughed, rejoiced, as if in their
ecstacies they were going to embrace all the world.

    The Dryad felt herself torn with them into the whirl of
the dance. Round her delicate foot clung the silken boot,
chestnut brown in color, like the ribbon that floated from her
hair down upon her bare shoulders. The green silk dress waved
in large folds, but did not entirely hide the pretty foot and
ankle.

    Had she come to the enchanted Garden of Armida? What was
the name of the place?

    The name glittered in gas-jets over the entrance. It was
"Mabille."

    The soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of
fountains, and the popping of champagne corks accompanied the
wild bacchantic dance. Over the whole glided the moon through
the air, clear, but with a somewhat crooked face.

    A wild joviality seemed to rush through the Dryad, as
though she were intoxicated with opium. Her eyes spoke, her
lips spoke, but the sound of violins and of flutes drowned the
sound of her voice. Her partner whispered words to her which
she did not understand, nor do we understand them. He
stretched out his arms to draw her to him, but he embraced
only the empty air.

    The Dryad had been carried away, like a rose-leaf on the
wind. Before her she saw a flame in the air, a flashing light
high up on a tower. The beacon light shone from the goal of
her longing, shone from the red lighthouse tower of the Fata
Morgana of the Champ de Mars. Thither she was carried by the
wind. She circled round the tower; the workmen thought it was
a butterfly that had come too early, and that now sank down
dying.

    The moon shone bright, gas-lamps spread light around,
through the halls, over the all-world's buildings scattered
about, over the rose-hills and the rocks produced by human
ingenuity, from which waterfalls, driven by the power of
"Master Bloodless," fell down. The caverns of the sea, the
depths of the lakes, the kingdom of the fishes were opened
here. Men walked as in the depths of the deep pond, and held
converse with the sea, in the diving-bell of glass. The water
pressed against the strong glass walls above and on every
side. The polypi, eel-like living creatures, had fastened
themselves to the bottom, and stretched out arms, fathoms
long, for prey. A big turbot was making himself broad in
front, quietly enough, but not without casting some suspicious
glances aside. A crab clambered over him, looking like a
gigantic spider, while the shrimps wandered about in restless
haste, like the butterflies and moths of the sea.

    In the fresh water grew water-lilies, nymphaea, and reeds;
the gold-fishes stood up below in rank and file, all turning
their heads one way, that the streaming water might flow into
their mouths. Fat carps stared at the glass wall with stupid
eyes. They knew that they were here to be exhibited, and that
they had made the somewhat toilsome journey hither in tubs
filled with water; and they thought with dismay of the
land-sickness from which they had suffered so cruelly on the
railway.

    They had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated
it from their fresh or salt-water position. They looked
attentively at the crowds of people who passed by them early
and late. All the nations in the world, they thought, had made
an exhibition of their inhabitants, for the edification of the
soles and haddocks, pike and carp, that they might give their
opinions upon the different kinds.

    "Those are scaly animals" said a little slimy Whiting.
"They put on different scales two or three times a day, and
they emit sounds which they call speaking. We don't put on
scales, and we make ourselves understood in an easier way,
simply by twitching the corners of our mouths and staring with
our eyes. We have a great many advantages over mankind."

    "But they have learned swimming of us," remarked a
well-educated Codling. "You must know I come from the great
sea outside. In the hot time of the year the people yonder go
into the water; first they take off their scales, and then
they swim. They have learnt from the frogs to kick out with
their hind legs, and row with their fore paws. But they cannot
hold out long. They want to be like us, but they cannot come
up to us. Poor people!"

    And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm
of people whom they had seen in the bright daylight were still
moving around them; they were certain they still saw the same
forms that had first caught their attention.

    A pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round
back, declared that the "human fry" were still there.

    "I can see a well set-up human figure quite well," said
the Barbel. "She was called 'contumacious lady,' or something
of that kind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and
a great balloon at the back of her head, and something like a
shut-up umbrella in front; there were a lot of dangling bits
of seaweed hanging about her. She ought to take all the
rubbish off, and go as we do; then she would look something
like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible for a
person to look like one!"

    "What's become of that one whom they drew away with the
hook? He sat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and
ink, and wrote down everything. They called him a 'writer.'"

    "They're going about with him still," said a hoary old
maid of a Carp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so
that she was quite hoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed
a hook, and still swam patiently about with it in her gullet.
"A writer? That means, as we fishes describe it, a kind of
cuttle or ink-fish among men."

    Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the
artificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were
obliged to take advantage of the hours of night to get their
work done by daybreak. They accompanied with blows of their
hammers and with songs the parting words of the vanishing
Dryad.

    "So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty
gold-fishes," she said. "Yes, I know you;" and she waved her
hand to them. "I have known about you a long time in my home;
the swallow told me about you. How beautiful you are! how
delicate and shining! I should like to kiss every one of you.
You others, also. I know you all; but you do not know me."

    The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not
understand a word of it.

    The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in
the open air, where the different countries- the country of
black bread, the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather,
and the banks of eau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil-
exhaled their perfumes from the world-wonder flower.

    When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep
and half awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears;
we hear them, and could sing them all from memory. When the
eye of the murdered man closes, the picture of what it saw
last clings to it for a time like a photographic picture.

    So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not
yet disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she
knew, thus it will be repeated tomorrow.

    The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she
knew them, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red
pomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in
her dark hair.

    Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed
through her thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect
around, and feverish restlessness chased her through the
wonder-filled halls.

    A weariness that increased continually, took possession of
her. She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets
within, or to lean against the weeping willow without by the
clear water. But for the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a
few moments the day had completed its circle.

    Her thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down
on the grass by the bubbling water.

    "Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth," she said
mournfully. "Moisten my tongue- bring me a refreshing
draught."

    "I am no living water," was the answer. "I only spring
upward when the machine wills it."

    "Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass,"
implored the Dryad; "give me one of thy fragrant flowers."

    "We must die if we are torn from our stalks," replied the
Flowers and the Grass.

    "Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air- only a single
life-kiss."

    "Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red," answered the
Wind; "then thou wilt be among the dead- blown away, as all
the splendor here will be blown away before the year shall
have ended. Then I can play again with the light loose sand on
the place here, and whirl the dust over the land and through
the air. All is dust!"

    The Dryad felt a terror like a woman who has cut asunder
her pulse-artery in the bath, but is filled again with the
love of life, even while she is bleeding to death. She raised
herself, tottered forward a few steps, and sank down again at
the entrance to a little church. The gate stood open, lights
were burning upon the altar, and the organ sounded.

    What music! Such notes the Dryad had never yet heard; and
yet it seemed to her as if she recognized a number of
well-known voices among them. They came deep from the heart of
all creation. She thought she heard the stories of the old
clergyman, of great deeds, and of the celebrated names, and of
the gifts that the creatures of God must bestow upon
posterity, if they would live on in the world.

    The tones of the organ swelled, and in their song there
sounded these words:

    "Thy wishing and thy longing have torn thee, with thy
roots, from the place which God appointed for thee. That was
thy destruction, thou poor Dryad!"

    The notes became soft and gentle, and seemed to die away
in a wail.

    In the sky the clouds showed themselves with a ruddy
gleam. The Wind sighed:

    "Pass away, ye dead! now the sun is going to rise!"

    The first ray fell on the Dryad. Her form was irradiated
in changing colors, like the soap-bubble when it is bursting
and becomes a drop of water; like a tear that falls and passes
away like a
vapor.

    Poor Dryad! Only a dew-drop, only a tear, poured upon the
earth,
and vanished away!

                            THE END