นิทานภาษาอังกฤษ

GRANDMOTHER is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her
hair is quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they
have a mild, gentle expression in them when they look at you,
which does you good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk,
with large flowers worked on it; and it rustles when she
moves. And then she can tell the most wonderful stories.
Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive before
father and mother- that’s quite certain. She has a hymn-book
with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the
book, between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it
is not so pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass,
and yet she smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come
into her eyes. “I wonder why grandmother looks at the withered
flower in the old book that way? Do you know?” Why, when
grandmother’s tears fall upon the rose, and she is looking at
it, the rose revives, and fills the room with its fragrance;
the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around her is the
glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young
again, a charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy
cheeks, fair, bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and
graceful; but the eyes, those mild, saintly eyes, are the
same,- they have been left to grandmother. At her side sits a
young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and she
smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and
recollections of the past; but the handsome young man is gone,
and the rose has withered in the old book, and grandmother is
sitting there, again an old woman, looking down upon the
withered rose in the book.

    Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her
arm-chair, telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was
finished, she said she was tired, and leaned her head back to
sleep awhile. We could hear her gentle breathing as she slept;
gradually it became quieter and calmer, and on her countenance
beamed happiness and peace. It was as if lighted up with a ray
of sunshine. She smiled once more, and then people said she
was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking mild and
beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though her
eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a
sweet smile. We did not feel at all afraid to look at the
corpse of her who had been such a dear, good grandmother. The
hymn-book, in which the rose still lay, was placed under her
head, for so she had wished it; and then they buried
grandmother.

    On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat
among the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in
the church sounded the music and the words of the beautiful
psalms, which were written in the old book under the head of
the dead one.

    The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not
there; every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a
rose from the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more
than we do who are living. They know what a terror would come
upon us if such a strange thing were to happen, as the
appearance of a dead person among us. They are better off than
we are; the dead return no more. The earth has been heaped on
the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within it. The
leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave
fresh roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds
and there still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with
the loving, gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can
never die. Ours will once again behold dear grandmother, young
and beautiful as when, for the first time, she kissed the
fresh, red rose, that is now dust in the grave.

                            THE END

THE drummer’s wife went into the church. She saw the new
altar with the painted pictures and the carved angels. Those
upon the canvas and in the glory over the altar were just as
beautiful as the carved ones; and they were painted and gilt
into the bargain. Their hair gleamed golden in the sunshine,
lovely to behold; but the real sunshine was more beautiful
still. It shone redder, clearer through the dark trees, when
the sun went down. It was lovely thus to look at the sunshine
of heaven. And she looked at the red sun, and she thought
about it so deeply, and thought of the little one whom the
stork was to bring, and the wife of the drummer was very
cheerful, and looked and looked, and wished that the child
might have a gleam of sunshine given to it, so that it might
at least become like one of the shining angels over the altar.

    And when she really had the little child in her arms, and
held it up to its father, then it was like one of the angels
in the church to behold, with hair like gold- the gleam of the
setting sun was upon it.

    “My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine!” said the
mother; and she kissed the shining locks, and it sounded like
music and song in the room of the drummer; and there was joy,
and life, and movement. The drummer beat a roll- a roll of
joy. And the Drum said- the Fire-drum, that was beaten when
there was a fire in the town:

    “Red hair! the little fellow has red hair! Believe the
drum, and not what your mother says! Rub-a dub, rub-a dub!”

    And the town repeated what the Fire-drum had said.

    The boy was taken to church, the boy was christened. There
was nothing much to be said about his name; he was called
Peter. The whole town, and the Drum too, called him Peter the
drummer’s boy with the red hair; but his mother kissed his red
hair, and called him her golden treasure.

    In the hollow way in the clayey bank, many had scratched
their names as a remembrance.

    “Celebrity is always something!” said the drummer; and so
he scratched his own name there, and his little son’s name
likewise.

    And the swallows came. They had, on their long journey,
seen more durable characters engraven on rocks, and on the
walls of the temples in Hindostan, mighty deeds of great
kings, immortal names, so old that no one now could read or
speak them. Remarkable celebrity!

    In the clayey bank the martens built their nest. They
bored holes in the deep declivity, and the splashing rain and
the thin mist came and crumbled and washed the names away, and
the drummer’s name also, and that of his little son.

    “Peter’s name will last a full year and a half longer!”
said the father.

    “Fool!” thought the Fire-drum; but it only said, “Dub,
dub, dub, rub-a-dub!”

    He was a boy full of life and gladness, this drummer’s son
with the red hair. He had a lovely voice. He could sing, and
he sang like a bird in the woodland. There was melody, and yet
no melody.

    “He must become a chorister boy,” said his mother. “He
shall sing in the church, and stand among the beautiful gilded
angels who are like him!”

    “Fiery cat!” said some of the witty ones of the town.

    The Drum heard that from the neighbors’ wives.

    “Don’t go home, Peter,” cried the street boys. “If you
sleep in the garret, there’ll be a fire in the house, and the
fire-drum will have to be beaten.”

    “Look out for the drumsticks,” replied Peter; and, small
as he was, he ran up boldly, and gave the foremost such a
punch in the body with his fist, that the fellow lost his legs
and tumbled over, and the others took their legs off with
themselves very rapidly.

    The town musician was very genteel and fine. He was the
son of the royal plate-washer. He was very fond of Peter, and
would sometimes take him to his home; and he gave him a
violin, and taught him to play it. It seemed as if the whole
art lay in the boy’s fingers; and he wanted to be more than a
drummer- he wanted to become musician to the town.

    “I’ll be a soldier,” said Peter; for he was still quite a
little lad, and it seemed to him the finest thing in the world
to carry a gun, and to be able to march one, two- one, two,
and to wear a uniform and a sword.

    “Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum, dum, dum!”
said the Drum.

    “Yes, if he could only march his way up to be a general!”
observed his father; “but before he can do that, there must be
war.”

    “Heaven forbid!” said his mother.

    “We have nothing to lose,” remarked the father.

    “Yes, we have my boy,” she retorted.

    “But suppose he came back a general!” said the father.

    “Without arms and legs!” cried the mother. “No, I would
rather keep my golden treasure with me.”

    “Drum, dum, dum!” The Fire-drum and all the other drums
were beating, for war had come. The soldiers all set out, and
the son of the drummer followed them. “Red-head. Golden
treasure!”

    The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him “famous;” the
town musician was of opinion that he ought not to go to war,
but should stay at home and learn music.

    “Red-head,” said the soldiers, and little Peter laughed;
but when one of them sometimes said to another, “Foxey,” he
would bite his teeth together and look another way- into the
wide world. He did not care for the nickname.

    The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and good-humored;
that is the best canteen, said his old comrades.

    And many a night he had to sleep under the open sky, wet
through with the driving rain or the falling mist; but his
good humor never forsook him. The drum-sticks sounded,
“Rub-a-dub, all up, all up!” Yes, he was certainly born to be
a drummer.

    The day of battle dawned. The sun had not yet risen, but
the morning was come. The air was cold, the battle was hot;
there was mist in the air, but still more gunpowder-smoke. The
bullets and shells flew over the soldiers’ heads, and into
their heads- into their bodies and limbs; but still they
pressed forward. Here or there one or other of them would sink
on his knees, with bleeding temples and a face as white as
chalk. The little drummer still kept his healthy color; he had
suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the dog of the
regiment, which was jumping along as merrily as if the whole
thing had been got up for his amusement, and as if the bullets
were only flying about that he might have a game of play with
them.

    “March! Forward! March!” This, was the word of command for
the drum. The word had not yet been given to fall back, though
they might have done so, and perhaps there would have been
much sense in it; and now at last the word “Retire” was given;
but our little drummer beat “Forward! march!” for he had
understood the command thus, and the soldiers obeyed the sound
of the drum. That was a good roll, and proved the summons to
victory for the men, who had already begun to give way.

    Life and limb were lost in the battle. Bombshells tore
away the flesh in red strips; bombshells lit up into a
terrible glow the strawheaps to which the wounded had dragged
themselves, to lie untended for many hours, perhaps for all
the hours they had to live.

    It’s no use thinking of it; and yet one cannot help
thinking of it, even far away in the peaceful town. The
drummer and his wife also thought of it, for Peter was at the
war.

    “Now, I’m tired of these complaints,” said the Fire-drum.

    Again the day of battle dawned; the sun had not yet risen,
but it was morning. The drummer and his wife were asleep. They
had been talking about their son, as, indeed, they did almost
every night, for he was out yonder in God’s hand. And the
father dreamt that the war was over, that the soldiers had
returned home, and that Peter wore a silver cross on his
breast. But the mother dreamt that she had gone into the
church, and had seen the painted pictures and the carved
angels with the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden
treasure of her heart, who was standing among the angels in
white robes, singing so sweetly, as surely only the angels can
sing; and that he had soared up with them into the sunshine,
and nodded so kindly at his mother.

    “My golden treasure!” she cried out; and she awoke. “Now
the good God has taken him to Himself!” She folded her hands,
and hid her face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept.
“Where does he rest now? among the many in the big grave that
they have dug for the dead? Perhaps he’s in the water in the
marsh! Nobody knows his grave; no holy words have been read
over it!” And the Lord’s Prayer went inaudibly over her lips;
she bowed her head, and was so weary that she went to sleep.

    And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

    It was evening. Over the battle-field a rainbow spread,
which touched the forest and the deep marsh.

    It has been said, and is preserved in popular belief, that
where the rainbow touches the earth a treasure lies buried, a
golden treasure; and here there was one. No one but his mother
thought of the little drummer, and therefore she dreamt of
him.

    And the days went by, in life as in dreams!

    Not a hair of his head had been hurt, not a golden hair.

    “Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum! there he is!” the Drum might
have said, and his mother might have sung, if she had seen or
dreamt it.

    With hurrah and song, adorned with green wreaths of
victory, they came home, as the war was at an end, and peace
had been signed. The dog of the regiment sprang on in front
with large bounds, and made the way three times as long for
himself as it really was.

    And days and weeks went by, and Peter came into his
parents’ room. He was as brown as a wild man, and his eyes
were bright, and his face beamed like sunshine. And his mother
held him in her arms; she kissed his lips, his forehead, and
his red hair. She had her boy back again; he had not a silver
cross on his breast, as his father had dreamt, but he had
sound limbs, a thing the mother had not dreamt. And what a
rejoicing was there! They laughed and they wept; and Peter
embraced the old Fire-drum.

    “There stands the old skeleton still!” he said.

    And the father beat a roll upon it.

    “One would think that a great fire had broken out here,”
said the Fire-drum. “Bright day! fire in the heart! golden
treasure! skrat! skr-r-at! skr-r-r-r-at!”

    And what then? What then!- Ask the town musician.

    “Peter’s far outgrowing the drum,” he said. “Peter will be
greater than I.”

    And yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer; but all
that he had learned in half a lifetime, Peter learned in half
a year.

    There was something so merry about him, something so truly
kind-hearted. His eyes gleamed, and his hair gleamed too-
there was no denying that!

    “He ought to have his hair dyed,” said the neighbor’s
wife. “That answered capitally with the policeman’s daughter,
and she got a husband.”

    “But her hair turned as green as duckweed, and was always
having to be colored up.”

    “She knows how to manage for herself,” said the neighbors,
“and so can Peter. He comes to the most genteel houses, even
to the burgomaster’s where he gives Miss Charlotte piano-forte
lessons.”

    He could play! He could play, fresh out of his heart, the
most charming pieces, that had never been put upon
music-paper. He played in the bright nights, and in the dark
nights, too. The neighbors declared it was unbearable, and the
Fire-drum was of the same opinion.

    He played until his thoughts soared up, and burst forth in
great plans for the future:

    “To be famous!”

    And burgomaster’s Charlotte sat at the piano. Her delicate
fingers danced over the keys, and made them ring into Peter’s
heart. It seemed too much for him to bear; and this happened
not once, but many times; and at last one day he seized the
delicate fingers and the white hand, and kissed it, and looked
into her great brown eyes. Heaven knows what he said; but we
may be allowed to guess at it. Charlotte blushed to guess at
it. She reddened from brow to neck, and answered not a single
word; and then strangers came into the room, and one of them
was the state councillor’s son. He had a lofty white forehead,
and carried it so high that it seemed to go back into his
neck. And Peter sat by her a long time, and she looked at him
with gentle eyes.

    At home that evening he spoke of travel in the wide world,
and of the golden treasure that lay hidden for him in his
violin.

    “To be famous!”

    “Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum!” said the Fire-drum.
“Peter has gone clear out of his wits. I think there must be a
fire in the house.”

    Next day the mother went to market.

    “Shall I tell you news, Peter?” she asked when she came
home. “A capital piece of news. Burgomaster’s Charlotte has
engaged herself to the state councillor’s son; the betrothal
took place yesterday evening.”

    “No!” cried Peter, and he sprang up from his chair. But
his mother persisted in saying “Yes.” She had heard it from
the baker’s wife, whose husband had it from the burgomaster’s
own mouth

    And Peter became as pale as death, and sat down again.

    “Good Heaven! what’s the matter with you?” asked his
mother.

    “Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself,” he answered
but the tears were running down his cheeks.

    “My sweet child, my golden treasure!” cried the mother,
and she wept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but
inwardly.

    “Charlotte’s gone! Charlotte’s gone! and now the song is
done.”

    But the song was not done; there were many more verses in
it, long verses, the most beautiful verses, the golden
treasures of a life.

    “She behaves like a mad woman,” said the neighbor’s wife.
“All the world is to see the letters she gets from her golden
treasure, and to read the words that are written in the papers
about his violin playing. And he sends her money too, and
that’s very useful to her since she has been a widow.”

    “He plays before emperors and kings,” said the town
musician. “I never had that fortune, but he’s my pupil, and he
does not forget his old master.”

    And his mother said,

    “His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with
a silver cross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is
still more difficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the
cross of honor. If his father had only lived to see it!”

    “He’s grown famous!” said the Fire-drum, and all his
native town said the same thing, for the drummer’s son, Peter
with the red hair- Peter whom they had known as a little boy,
running about in wooden shoes, and then as a drummer, playing
for the dancers- was become famous!

    “He played at our house before he played in the presence
of kings,” said the burgomaster’s wife. “At that time he was
quite smitten with Charlotte. He was always of an aspiring
turn. At that time he was saucy and an enthusiast. My husband
laughed when he heard of the foolish affair, and now our
Charlotte is a state councillor’s wife.”

    A golden treasure had been hidden in the heart and soul of
the poor child, who had beaten the roll as a drummer- a roll
of victory for those who had been ready to retreat. There was
a golden treasure in his bosom, the power of sound; it burst
forth on his violin as if the instrument had been a complete
organ, and as if all the elves of a midsummer night were
dancing across the strings. In its sounds were heard the
piping of the thrush and the full clear note of the human
voice; therefore the sound brought rapture to every heart, and
carried his name triumphant through the land. That was a great
firebrand- the firebrand of inspiration.

    “And then he looks so splendid!” said the young ladies and
the old ladies too; and the oldest of all procured an album
for famous locks of hair, wholly and solely that she might beg
a lock of his rich splendid hair, that treasure, that golden
treasure.

    And the son came into the poor room of the drummer,
elegant as a prince, happier than a king. His eyes were as
clear and his face was as radiant as sunshine; and he held his
mother in his arms, and she kissed his mouth, and wept as
blissfully as any one can weep for joy; and he nodded at every
old piece of furniture in the room, at the cupboard with the
tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He nodded at the
sleeping-bench, where he had slept as a little boy; but the
old Fire-drum he brought out, and dragged it into the middle
of the room, and said to it and to his mother:

    “My father would have beaten a famous roll this evening.
Now I must do it!”

    And he beat a thundering roll-call on the instrument, and
the Drum felt so highly honored that the parchment burst with
exultation.

    “He has a splendid touch!” said the Drum. “I’ve a
remembrance of him now that will last. I expect that the same
thing will happen to his mother, from pure joy over her golden
treasure.”

    And this is the story of the Golden Treasure.

                            THE END

THERE was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling
her shoes, and the misfortunes that happened to her in
consequence are well known. Her name was Inge; she was a poor
child, but proud and presuming, and with a bad and cruel
disposition. When quite a little child she would delight in
catching flies, and tearing off their wings, so as to make
creeping things of them. When older, she would take
cockchafers and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she
pushed a green leaf, or a little scrap of paper towards their
feet, and when the poor creatures would seize it and hold it
fast, and turn over and over in their struggles to get free
from the pin, she would say, “The cockchafer is reading; see
how he turns over the leaf.” She grew worse instead of better
with years, and, unfortunately, she was pretty, which caused
her to be excused, when she should have been sharply reproved.

    “Your headstrong will requires severity to conquer it,”
her mother often said to her. “As a little child you used to
trample on my apron, but one day I fear you will trample on my
heart.” And, alas! this fear was realized.

    Inge was taken to the house of some rich people, who lived
at a distance, and who treated her as their own child, and
dressed her so fine that her pride and arrogance increased.

    When she had been there about a year, her patroness said
to her, “You ought to go, for once, and see your parents,
Inge.”

    So Inge started to go and visit her parents; but she only
wanted to show herself in her native place, that the people
might see how fine she was. She reached the entrance of the
village, and saw the young laboring men and maidens standing
together chatting, and her own mother amongst them. Inge’s
mother was sitting on a stone to rest, with a fagot of sticks
lying before her, which she had picked up in the wood. Then
Inge turned back; she who was so finely dressed she felt
ashamed of her mother, a poorly clad woman, who picked up wood
in the forest. She did not turn back out of pity for her
mother’s poverty, but from pride.

    Another half-year went by, and her mistress said, “you
ought to go home again, and visit your parents, Inge, and I
will give you a large wheaten loaf to take to them, they will
be glad to see you, I am sure.”

    So Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, drew
her dress up around her, and set out, stepping very carefully,
that she might be clean and neat about the feet, and there was
nothing wrong in doing so. But when she came to the place
where the footpath led across the moor, she found small pools
of water, and a great deal of mud, so she threw the loaf into
the mud, and trod upon it, that she might pass without wetting
her feet. But as she stood with one foot on the loaf and the
other lifted up to step forward, the loaf began to sink under
her, lower and lower, till she disappeared altogether, and
only a few bubbles on the surface of the muddy pool remained
to show where she had sunk. And this is the story.

    But where did Inge go? She sank into the ground, and went
down to the Marsh Woman, who is always brewing there.

    The Marsh Woman is related to the elf maidens, who are
well-known, for songs are sung and pictures painted about
them. But of the Marsh Woman nothing is known, excepting that
when a mist arises from the meadows, in summer time, it is
because she is brewing beneath them. To the Marsh Woman’s
brewery Inge sunk down to a place which no one can endure for
long. A heap of mud is a palace compared with the Marsh
Woman’s brewery; and as Inge fell she shuddered in every limb,
and soon became cold and stiff as marble. Her foot was still
fastened to the loaf, which bowed her down as a golden ear of
corn bends the stem.

    An evil spirit soon took possession of Inge, and carried
her to a still worse place, in which she saw crowds of unhappy
people, waiting in a state of agony for the gates of mercy to
be opened to them, and in every heart was a miserable and
eternal feeling of unrest. It would take too much time to
describe the various tortures these people suffered, but
Inge’s punishment consisted in standing there as a statue,
with her foot fastened to the loaf. She could move her eyes
about, and see all the misery around her, but she could not
turn her head; and when she saw the people looking at her she
thought they were admiring her pretty face and fine clothes,
for she was still vain and proud. But she had forgotten how
soiled her clothes had become while in the Marsh Woman’s
brewery, and that they were covered with mud; a snake had also
fastened itself in her hair, and hung down her back, while
from each fold in her dress a great toad peeped out and
croaked like an asthmatic poodle. Worse than all was the
terrible hunger that tormented her, and she could not stoop to
break off a piece of the loaf on which she stood. No; her back
was too stiff, and her whole body like a pillar of stone. And
then came creeping over her face and eyes flies without wings;
she winked and blinked, but they could not fly away, for their
wings had been pulled off; this, added to the hunger she felt,
was horrible torture.

    “If this lasts much longer,” she said, “I shall not be
able to bear it.” But it did last, and she had to bear it,
without being able to help herself.

    A tear, followed by many scalding tears, fell upon her
head, and rolled over her face and neck, down to the loaf on
which she stood. Who could be weeping for Inge? She had a
mother in the world still, and the tears of sorrow which a
mother sheds for her child will always find their way to the
child’s heart, but they often increase the torment instead of
being a relief. And Inge could hear all that was said about
her in the world she had left, and every one seemed cruel to
her. The sin she had committed in treading on the loaf was
known on earth, for she had been seen by the cowherd from the
hill, when she was crossing the marsh and had disappeared.

    When her mother wept and exclaimed, “Ah, Inge! what grief
thou hast caused thy mother” she would say, “Oh that I had
never been born! My mother’s tears are useless now.”

    And then the words of the kind people who had adopted her
came to her ears, when they said, “Inge was a sinful girl, who
did not value the gifts of God, but trampled them under her
feet.”

    “Ah,” thought Inge, “they should have punished me, and
driven all my naughty tempers out of me.”

    A song was made about “The girl who trod on a loaf to keep
her shoes from being soiled,” and this song was sung
everywhere. The story of her sin was also told to the little
children, and they called her “wicked Inge,” and said she was
so naughty that she ought to be punished. Inge heard all this,
and her heart became hardened and full of bitterness.

    But one day, while hunger and grief were gnawing in her
hollow frame, she heard a little, innocent child, while
listening to the tale of the vain, haughty Inge, burst into
tears and exclaim, “But will she never come up again?”

    And she heard the reply, “No, she will never come up
again.”

    “But if she were to say she was sorry, and ask pardon, and
promise never to do so again?” asked the little one.

    “Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon,”
was the answer.

    “Oh, I wish she would!” said the child, who was quite
unhappy about it. “I should be so glad. I would give up my
doll and all my playthings, if she could only come here again.
Poor Inge! it is so dreadful for her.”

    These pitying words penetrated to Inge’s inmost heart, and
seemed to do her good. It was the first time any one had said,
“Poor Inge!” without saying something about her faults. A
little innocent child was weeping, and praying for mercy for
her. It made her feel quite strange, and she would gladly have
wept herself, and it added to her torment to find she could
not do so. And while she thus suffered in a place where
nothing changed, years passed away on earth, and she heard her
name less frequently mentioned. But one day a sigh reached her
ear, and the words, “Inge! Inge! what a grief thou hast been
to me! I said it would be so.” It was the last sigh of her
dying mother.

    After this, Inge heard her kind mistress say, “Ah, poor
Inge! shall I ever see thee again? Perhaps I may, for we know
not what may happen in the future.” But Inge knew right well
that her mistress would never come to that dreadful place.

    Time-passed- a long bitter time- then Inge heard her name
pronounced once more, and saw what seemed two bright stars
shining above her. They were two gentle eyes closing on earth.
Many years had passed since the little girl had lamented and
wept about “poor Inge.” That child was now an old woman, whom
God was taking to Himself. In the last hour of existence the
events of a whole life often appear before us; and this hour
the old woman remembered how, when a child, she had shed tears
over the story of Inge, and she prayed for her now. As the
eyes of the old woman closed to earth, the eyes of the soul
opened upon the hidden things of eternity, and then she, in
whose last thoughts Inge had been so vividly present, saw how
deeply the poor girl had sunk. She burst into tears at the
sight, and in heaven, as she had done when a little child on
earth, she wept and prayed for poor Inge. Her tears and her
prayers echoed through the dark void that surrounded the
tormented captive soul, and the unexpected mercy was obtained
for it through an angel’s tears. As in thought Inge seemed to
act over again every sin she had committed on earth, she
trembled, and tears she had never yet been able to weep rushed
to her eyes. It seemed impossible that the gates of mercy
could ever be opened to her; but while she acknowledged this
in deep penitence, a beam of radiant light shot suddenly into
the depths upon her. More powerful than the sunbeam that
dissolves the man of snow which the children have raised, more
quickly than the snowflake melts and becomes a drop of water
on the warm lips of a child, was the stony form of Inge
changed, and as a little bird she soared, with the speed of
lightning, upward to the world of mortals. A bird that felt
timid and shy to all things around it, that seemed to shrink
with shame from meeting any living creature, and hurriedly
sought to conceal itself in a dark corner of an old ruined
wall; there it sat cowering and unable to utter a sound, for
it was voiceless. Yet how quickly the little bird discovered
the beauty of everything around it. The sweet, fresh air; the
soft radiance of the moon, as its light spread over the earth;
the fragrance which exhaled from bush and tree, made it feel
happy as it sat there clothed in its fresh, bright plumage.
All creation seemed to speak of beneficence and love. The bird
wanted to give utterance to thoughts that stirred in his
breast, as the cuckoo and the nightingale in the spring, but
it could not. Yet in heaven can be heard the song of praise,
even from a worm; and the notes trembling in the breast of the
bird were as audible to Heaven even as the psalms of David
before they had fashioned themselves into words and song.

    Christmas-time drew near, and a peasant who dwelt close by
the old wall stuck up a pole with some ears of corn fastened
to the top, that the birds of heaven might have feast, and
rejoice in the happy, blessed time. And on Christmas morning
the sun arose and shone upon the ears of corn, which were
quickly surrounded by a number of twittering birds. Then, from
a hole in the wall, gushed forth in song the swelling thoughts
of the bird as he issued from his hiding place to perform his
first good deed on earth,- and in heaven it was well known who
that bird was.

    The winter was very hard; the ponds were covered with ice,
and there was very little food for either the beasts of the
field or the birds of the air. Our little bird flew away into
the public roads, and found here and there, in the ruts of the
sledges, a grain of corn, and at the halting places some
crumbs. Of these he ate only a few, but he called around him
the other birds and the hungry sparrows, that they too might
have food. He flew into the towns, and looked about, and
wherever a kind hand had strewed bread on the window-sill for
the birds, he only ate a single crumb himself, and gave all
the rest to the rest of the other birds. In the course of the
winter the bird had in this way collected many crumbs and
given them to other birds, till they equalled the weight of
the loaf on which Inge had trod to keep her shoes clean; and
when the last bread-crumb had been found and given, the gray
wings of the bird became white, and spread themselves out for
flight.

    “See, yonder is a sea-gull!” cried the children, when they
saw the white bird, as it dived into the sea, and rose again
into the clear sunlight, white and glittering. But no one
could tell whither it went then although some declared it flew
straight to the sun.

                            THE END

FAR down in the forest, where the warm sun and the fresh
air made a sweet resting-place, grew a pretty little fir-tree;
and yet it was not happy, it wished so much to be tall like
its companions- the pines and firs which grew around it. The
sun shone, and the soft air fluttered its leaves, and the
little peasant children passed by, prattling merrily, but the
fir-tree heeded them not. Sometimes the children would bring a
large basket of raspberries or strawberries, wreathed on a
straw, and seat themselves near the fir-tree, and say, “Is it
not a pretty little tree?” which made it feel more unhappy
than before. And yet all this while the tree grew a notch or
joint taller every year; for by the number of joints in the
stem of a fir-tree we can discover its age. Still, as it grew,
it complained, “Oh! how I wish I were as tall as the other
trees, then I would spread out my branches on every side, and
my top would over-look the wide world. I should have the birds
building their nests on my boughs, and when the wind blew, I
should bow with stately dignity like my tall companions.” The
tree was so discontented, that it took no pleasure in the warm
sunshine, the birds, or the rosy clouds that floated over it
morning and evening. Sometimes, in winter, when the snow lay
white and glittering on the ground, a hare would come
springing along, and jump right over the little tree; and then
how mortified it would feel! Two winters passed, and when the
third arrived, the tree had grown so tall that the hare was
obliged to run round it. Yet it remained unsatisfied, and
would exclaim, “Oh, if I could but keep on growing tall and
old! There is nothing else worth caring for in the world!” In
the autumn, as usual, the wood-cutters came and cut down
several of the tallest trees, and the young fir-tree, which
was now grown to its full height, shuddered as the noble trees
fell to the earth with a crash. After the branches were lopped
off, the trunks looked so slender and bare, that they could
scarcely be recognized. Then they were placed upon wagons, and
drawn by horses out of the forest. “Where were they going?
What would become of them?” The young fir-tree wished very
much to know; so in the spring, when the swallows and the
storks came, it asked, “Do you know where those trees were
taken? Did you meet them?”

    The swallows knew nothing, but the stork, after a little
reflection, nodded his head, and said, “Yes, I think I do. I
met several new ships when I flew from Egypt, and they had
fine masts that smelt like fir. I think these must have been
the trees; I assure you they were stately, very stately.”

    “Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea,” said
the fir-tree. “What is the sea, and what does it look like?”

    “It would take too much time to explain,” said the stork,
flying quickly away.

    “Rejoice in thy youth,” said the sunbeam; “rejoice in thy
fresh growth, and the young life that is in thee.”

    And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew watered it with
tears; but the fir-tree regarded them not.

    Christmas-time drew near, and many young trees were cut
down, some even smaller and younger than the fir-tree who
enjoyed neither rest nor peace with longing to leave its
forest home. These young trees, which were chosen for their
beauty, kept their branches, and were also laid on wagons and
drawn by horses out of the forest.

    “Where are they going?” asked the fir-tree. “They are not
taller than I am: indeed, one is much less; and why are the
branches not cut off? Where are they going?”

    “We know, we know,” sang the sparrows; “we have looked in
at the windows of the houses in the town, and we know what is
done with them. They are dressed up in the most splendid
manner. We have seen them standing in the middle of a warm
room, and adorned with all sorts of beautiful things,- honey
cakes, gilded apples, playthings, and many hundreds of wax
tapers.”

    “And then,” asked the fir-tree, trembling through all its
branches, “and then what happens?”

    “We did not see any more,” said the sparrows; “but this
was enough for us.”

    “I wonder whether anything so brilliant will ever happen
to me,” thought the fir-tree. “It would be much better than
crossing the sea. I long for it almost with pain. Oh! when
will Christmas be here? I am now as tall and well grown as
those which were taken away last year. Oh! that I were now
laid on the wagon, or standing in the warm room, with all that
brightness and splendor around me! Something better and more
beautiful is to come after, or the trees would not be so
decked out. Yes, what follows will be grander and more
splendid. What can it be? I am weary with longing. I scarcely
know how I feel.”

    “Rejoice with us,” said the air and the sunlight. “Enjoy
thine own bright life in the fresh air.”

    But the tree would not rejoice, though it grew taller
every day; and, winter and summer, its dark-green foliage
might be seen in the forest, while passers by would say, “What
a beautiful tree!”

    A short time before Christmas, the discontented fir-tree
was the first to fall. As the axe cut through the stem, and
divided the pith, the tree fell with a groan to the earth,
conscious of pain and faintness, and forgetting all its
anticipations of happiness, in sorrow at leaving its home in
the forest. It knew that it should never again see its dear
old companions, the trees, nor the little bushes and
many-colored flowers that had grown by its side; perhaps not
even the birds. Neither was the journey at all pleasant. The
tree first recovered itself while being unpacked in the
courtyard of a house, with several other trees; and it heard a
man say, “We only want one, and this is the prettiest.”

    Then came two servants in grand livery, and carried the
fir-tree into a large and beautiful apartment. On the walls
hung pictures, and near the great stove stood great china
vases, with lions on the lids. There were rocking chairs,
silken sofas, large tables, covered with pictures, books, and
playthings, worth a great deal of money,- at least, the
children said so. Then the fir-tree was placed in a large tub,
full of sand; but green baize hung all around it, so that no
one could see it was a tub, and it stood on a very handsome
carpet. How the fir-tree trembled! “What was going to happen
to him now?” Some young ladies came, and the servants helped
them to adorn the tree. On one branch they hung little bags
cut out of colored paper, and each bag was filled with
sweetmeats; from other branches hung gilded apples and
walnuts, as if they had grown there; and above, and all round,
were hundreds of red, blue, and white tapers, which were
fastened on the branches. Dolls, exactly like real babies,
were placed under the green leaves,- the tree had never seen
such things before,- and at the very top was fastened a
glittering star, made of tinsel. Oh, it was very beautiful!

    “This evening,” they all exclaimed, “how bright it will
be!” “Oh, that the evening were come,” thought the tree, “and
the tapers lighted! then I shall know what else is going to
happen. Will the trees of the forest come to see me? I wonder
if the sparrows will peep in at the windows as they fly? shall
I grow faster here, and keep on all these ornaments summer and
winter?” But guessing was of very little use; it made his bark
ache, and this pain is as bad for a slender fir-tree, as
headache is for us. At last the tapers were lighted, and then
what a glistening blaze of light the tree presented! It
trembled so with joy in all its branches, that one of the
candles fell among the green leaves and burnt some of them.
“Help! help!” exclaimed the young ladies, but there was no
danger, for they quickly extinguished the fire. After this,
the tree tried not to tremble at all, though the fire
frightened him; he was so anxious not to hurt any of the
beautiful ornaments, even while their brilliancy dazzled him.
And now the folding doors were thrown open, and a troop of
children rushed in as if they intended to upset the tree; they
were followed more silently by their elders. For a moment the
little ones stood silent with astonishment, and then they
shouted for joy, till the room rang, and they danced merrily
round the tree, while one present after another was taken from
it.

    “What are they doing? What will happen next?” thought the
fir. At last the candles burnt down to the branches and were
put out. Then the children received permission to plunder the
tree.

    Oh, how they rushed upon it, till the branches cracked,
and had it not been fastened with the glistening star to the
ceiling, it must have been thrown down. The children then
danced about with their pretty toys, and no one noticed the
tree, except the children’s maid who came and peeped among the
branches to see if an apple or a fig had been forgotten.

    “A story, a story,” cried the children, pulling a little
fat man towards the tree.

    “Now we shall be in the green shade,” said the man, as he
seated himself under it, “and the tree will have the pleasure
of hearing also, but I shall only relate one story; what shall
it be? Ivede-Avede, or Humpty Dumpty, who fell down stairs,
but soon got up again, and at last married a princess.”

    “Ivede-Avede,” cried some. “Humpty Dumpty,” cried others,
and there was a fine shouting and crying out. But the fir-tree
remained quite still, and thought to himself, “Shall I have
anything to do with all this?” but he had already amused them
as much as they wished. Then the old man told them the story
of Humpty Dumpty, how he fell down stairs, and was raised up
again, and married a princess. And the children clapped their
hands and cried, “Tell another, tell another,” for they wanted
to hear the story of “Ivede-Avede;” but they only had “Humpty
Dumpty.” After this the fir-tree became quite silent and
thoughtful; never had the birds in the forest told such tales
as “Humpty Dumpty,” who fell down stairs, and yet married a
princess.

    “Ah! yes, so it happens in the world,” thought the
fir-tree; he believed it all, because it was related by such a
nice man. “Ah! well,” he thought, “who knows? perhaps I may
fall down too, and marry a princess;” and he looked forward
joyfully to the next evening, expecting to be again decked out
with lights and playthings, gold and fruit. “To-morrow I will
not tremble,” thought he; “I will enjoy all my splendor, and I
shall hear the story of Humpty Dumpty again, and perhaps
Ivede-Avede.” And the tree remained quiet and thoughtful all
night. In the morning the servants and the housemaid came in.
“Now,” thought the fir, “all my splendor is going to begin
again.” But they dragged him out of the room and up stairs to
the garret, and threw him on the floor, in a dark corner,
where no daylight shone, and there they left him. “What does
this mean?” thought the tree, “what am I to do here? I can
hear nothing in a place like this,” and he had time enough to
think, for days and nights passed and no one came near him,
and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put away
large boxes in a corner. So the tree was completely hidden
from sight as if it had never existed. “It is winter now,”
thought the tree, “the ground is hard and covered with snow,
so that people cannot plant me. I shall be sheltered here, I
dare say, until spring comes. How thoughtful and kind
everybody is to me! Still I wish this place were not so dark,
as well as lonely, with not even a little hare to look at. How
pleasant it was out in the forest while the snow lay on the
ground, when the hare would run by, yes, and jump over me too,
although I did not like it then. Oh! it is terrible lonely
here.”

    “Squeak, squeak,” said a little mouse, creeping cautiously
towards the tree; then came another; and they both sniffed at
the fir-tree and crept between the branches.

    “Oh, it is very cold,” said the little mouse, “or else we
should be so comfortable here, shouldn’t we, you old
fir-tree?”

    “I am not old,” said the fir-tree, “there are many who are
older than I am.”

    “Where do you come from? and what do you know?” asked the
mice, who were full of curiosity. “Have you seen the most
beautiful places in the world, and can you tell us all about
them? and have you been in the storeroom, where cheeses lie on
the shelf, and hams hang from the ceiling? One can run about
on tallow candles there, and go in thin and come out fat.”

    “I know nothing of that place,” said the fir-tree, “but I
know the wood where the sun shines and the birds sing.” And
then the tree told the little mice all about its youth. They
had never heard such an account in their lives; and after they
had listened to it attentively, they said, “What a number of
things you have seen? you must have been very happy.”

    “Happy!” exclaimed the fir-tree, and then as he reflected
upon what he had been telling them, he said, “Ah, yes! after
all those were happy days.” But when he went on and related
all about Christmas-eve, and how he had been dressed up with
cakes and lights, the mice said, “How happy you must have
been, you old fir-tree.”

    “I am not old at all,” replied the tree, “I only came from
the forest this winter, I am now checked in my growth.”

    “What splendid stories you can relate,” said the little
mice. And the next night four other mice came with them to
hear what the tree had to tell. The more he talked the more he
remembered, and then he thought to himself, “Those were happy
days, but they may come again. Humpty Dumpty fell down stairs,
and yet he married the princess; perhaps I may marry a
princess too.” And the fir-tree thought of the pretty little
birch-tree that grew in the forest, which was to him a real
beautiful princess.

    “Who is Humpty Dumpty?” asked the little mice. And then
the tree related the whole story; he could remember every
single word, and the little mice was so delighted with it,
that they were ready to jump to the top of the tree. The next
night a great many more mice made their appearance, and on
Sunday two rats came with them; but they said, it was not a
pretty story at all, and the little mice were very sorry, for
it made them also think less of it.

    “Do you know only one story?” asked the rats.

    “Only one,” replied the fir-tree; “I heard it on the
happiest evening of my life; but I did not know I was so happy
at the time.”

    “We think it is a very miserable story,” said the rats.
“Don’t you know any story about bacon, or tallow in the
storeroom.”

    “No,” replied the tree.

    “Many thanks to you then,” replied the rats, and they
marched off.

    The little mice also kept away after this, and the tree
sighed, and said, “It was very pleasant when the merry little
mice sat round me and listened while I talked. Now that is all
passed too. However, I shall consider myself happy when some
one comes to take me out of this place.” But would this ever
happen? Yes; one morning people came to clear out the garret,
the boxes were packed away, and the tree was pulled out of the
corner, and thrown roughly on the garret floor; then the
servant dragged it out upon the staircase where the daylight
shone. “Now life is beginning again,” said the tree, rejoicing
in the sunshine and fresh air. Then it was carried down stairs
and taken into the courtyard so quickly, that it forgot to
think of itself, and could only look about, there was so much
to be seen. The court was close to a garden, where everything
looked blooming. Fresh and fragrant roses hung over the little
palings. The linden-trees were in blossom; while the swallows
flew here and there, crying, “Twit, twit, twit, my mate is
coming,”- but it was not the fir-tree they meant. “Now I shall
live,” cried the tree, joyfully spreading out its branches;
but alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it lay in a
corner amongst weeds and nettles. The star of gold paper still
stuck in the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine. In
the same courtyard two of the merry children were playing who
had danced round the tree at Christmas, and had been so happy.
The youngest saw the gilded star, and ran and pulled it off
the tree. “Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir-tree,”
said the child, treading on the branches till they crackled
under his boots. And the tree saw all the fresh bright flowers
in the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had
remained in the dark corner of the garret. It thought of its
fresh youth in the forest, of the merry Christmas evening, and
of the little mice who had listened to the story of “Humpty
Dumpty.” “Past! past!” said the old tree; “Oh, had I but
enjoyed myself while I could have done so! but now it is too
late.” Then a lad came and chopped the tree into small pieces,
till a large bundle lay in a heap on the ground. The pieces
were placed in a fire under the copper, and they quickly
blazed up brightly, while the tree sighed so deeply that each
sigh was like a pistol-shot. Then the children, who were at
play, came and seated themselves in front of the fire, and
looked at it and cried, “Pop, pop.” But at each “pop,” which
was a deep sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in the
forest; and of Christmas evening, and of “Humpty Dumpty,” the
only story it had ever heard or knew how to relate, till at
last it was consumed. The boys still played in the garden, and
the youngest wore the golden star on his breast, with which
the tree had been adorned during the happiest evening of its
existence. Now all was past; the tree’s life was past, and the
story also,- for all stories must come to an end at last.

                            THE END

THERE was once a merchant who was so rich that he could
have paved the whole street with gold, and would even then
have had enough for a small alley. But he did not do so; he
knew the value of money better than to use it in this way. So
clever was he, that every shilling he put out brought him a
crown; and so he continued till he died. His son inherited his
wealth, and he lived a merry life with it; he went to a
masquerade every night, made kites out of five pound notes,
and threw pieces of gold into the sea instead of stones,
making ducks and drakes of them. In this manner he soon lost
all his money. At last he had nothing left but a pair of
slippers, an old dressing-gown, and four shillings. And now
all his friends deserted him, they could not walk with him in
the streets; but one of them, who was very good-natured, sent
him an old trunk with this message, “Pack up!” “Yes,” he said,
“it is all very well to say ‘pack up,’ “but he had nothing
left to pack up, therefore he seated himself in the trunk. It
was a very wonderful trunk; no sooner did any one press on the
lock than the trunk could fly. He shut the lid and pressed the
lock, when away flew the trunk up the chimney with the
merchant’s son in it, right up into the clouds. Whenever the
bottom of the trunk cracked, he was in a great fright, for if
the trunk fell to pieces he would have made a tremendous
somerset over the trees. However, he got safely in his trunk
to the land of Turkey. He hid the trunk in the wood under some
dry leaves, and then went into the town: he could so this very
well, for the Turks always go about dressed in dressing-gowns
and slippers, as he was himself. He happened to meet a nurse
with a little child. “I say, you Turkish nurse,” cried he,
“what castle is that near the town, with the windows placed so
high?”

    “The king’s daughter lives there,” she replied; “it has
been prophesied that she will be very unhappy about a lover,
and therefore no one is allowed to visit her, unless the king
and queen are present.”

    “Thank you,” said the merchant’s son. So he went back to
the wood, seated himself in his trunk, flew up to the roof of
the castle, and crept through the window into the princess’s
room. She lay on the sofa asleep, and she was so beautiful
that the merchant’s son could not help kissing her. Then she
awoke, and was very much frightened; but he told her he was a
Turkish angel, who had come down through the air to see her,
which pleased her very much. He sat down by her side and
talked to her: he said her eyes were like beautiful dark
lakes, in which the thoughts swam about like little mermaids,
and he told her that her forehead was a snowy mountain, which
contained splendid halls full of pictures. And then he related
to her about the stork who brings the beautiful children from
the rivers. These were delightful stories; and when he asked
the princess if she would marry him, she consented
immediately.

    “But you must come on Saturday,” she said; “for then the
king and queen will take tea with me. They will be very proud
when they find that I am going to marry a Turkish angel; but
you must think of some very pretty stories to tell them, for
my parents like to hear stories better than anything. My
mother prefers one that is deep and moral; but my father likes
something funny, to make him laugh.”

    “Very well,” he replied; “I shall bring you no other
marriage portion than a story,” and so they parted. But the
princess gave him a sword which was studded with gold coins,
and these he could use.

    Then he flew away to the town and bought a new
dressing-gown, and afterwards returned to the wood, where he
composed a story, so as to be ready for Saturday, which was no
easy matter. It was ready however by Saturday, when he went to
see the princess. The king, and queen, and the whole court,
were at tea with the princess; and he was received with great
politeness.

    “Will you tell us a story?” said the queen,- “one that is
instructive and full of deep learning.”

    “Yes, but with something in it to laugh at,” said the
king.

    “Certainly,” he replied, and commenced at once, asking
them to listen attentively. “There was once a bundle of
matches that were exceedingly proud of their high descent.
Their genealogical tree, that is, a large pine-tree from which
they had been cut, was at one time a large, old tree in the
wood. The matches now lay between a tinder-box and an old iron
saucepan, and were talking about their youthful days. ‘Ah!
then we grew on the green boughs, and were as green as they;
every morning and evening we were fed with diamond drops of
dew. Whenever the sun shone, we felt his warm rays, and the
little birds would relate stories to us as they sung. We knew
that we were rich, for the other trees only wore their green
dress in summer, but our family were able to array themselves
in green, summer and winter. But the wood-cutter came, like a
great revolution, and our family fell under the axe. The head
of the house obtained a situation as mainmast in a very fine
ship, and can sail round the world when he will. The other
branches of the family were taken to different places, and our
office now is to kindle a light for common people. This is how
such high-born people as we came to be in a kitchen.’

    “‘Mine has been a very different fate,’ said the iron pot,
which stood by the matches; ‘from my first entrance into the
world I have been used to cooking and scouring. I am the first
in this house, when anything solid or useful is required. My
only pleasure is to be made clean and shining after dinner,
and to sit in my place and have a little sensible conversation
with my neighbors. All of us, excepting the water-bucket,
which is sometimes taken into the courtyard, live here
together within these four walls. We get our news from the
market-basket, but he sometimes tells us very unpleasant
things about the people and the government. Yes, and one day
an old pot was so alarmed, that he fell down and was broken to
pieces. He was a liberal, I can tell you.’

    “‘You are talking too much,’ said the tinder-box, and the
steel struck against the flint till some sparks flew out,
crying, ‘We want a merry evening, don’t we?’

    “‘Yes, of course,’ said the matches, ‘let us talk about
those who are the highest born.’

    “‘No, I don’t like to be always talking of what we are,’
remarked the saucepan; ‘let us think of some other amusement;
I will begin. We will tell something that has happened to
ourselves; that will be very easy, and interesting as well. On
the Baltic Sea, near the Danish shore’-    “‘What a pretty
commencement!’ said the plates; ‘we shall all like that story,
I am sure.’

    “‘Yes; well in my youth, I lived in a quiet family, where
the furniture was polished, the floors scoured, and clean
curtains put up every fortnight,’

    “‘What an interesting way you have of relating a story,’
said the carpet-broom; ‘it is easy to perceive that you have
been a great deal in women’s society, there is something so
pure runs through what you say.’

    “‘That is quite true,’ said the water-bucket; and he made
a spring with joy, and splashed some water on the floor.

    “Then the saucepan went on with his story, and the end was
as good as the beginning.

    “The plates rattled with pleasure, and the carpet-broom
brought some green parsley out of the dust-hole and crowned
the saucepan, for he knew it would vex the others; and he
thought, ‘If I crown him to-day he will crown me to-morrow.’

    “‘Now, let us have a dance,’ said the fire-tongs; and then
how they danced and stuck up one leg in the air. The
chair-cushion in the corner burst with laughter when she saw
it.

    “‘Shall I be crowned now?’ asked the fire-tongs; so the
broom found another wreath for the tongs.

    “‘They were only common people after all,’ thought the
matches. The tea-urn was now asked to sing, but she said she
had a cold, and could not sing without boiling heat. They all
thought this was affectation, and because she did not wish to
sing excepting in the parlor, when on the table with the grand
people.

    “In the window sat an old quill-pen, with which the maid
generally wrote. There was nothing remarkable about the pen,
excepting that it had been dipped too deeply in the ink, but
it was proud of that.

    “‘If the tea-urn won’t sing,’ said the pen, ’she can leave
it alone; there is a nightingale in a cage who can sing; she
has not been taught much, certainly, but we need not say
anything this evening about that.’

    “‘I think it highly improper,’ said the tea-kettle, who
was kitchen singer, and half-brother to the tea-urn, ‘that a
rich foreign bird should be listened to here. Is it patriotic?
Let the market-basket decide what is right.’

    “‘I certainly am vexed,’ said the basket; ‘inwardly vexed,
more than any one can imagine. Are we spending the evening
properly? Would it not be more sensible to put the house in
order? If each were in his own place I would lead a game; this
would be quite another thing.’

    “‘Let us act a play,’ said they all. At the same moment
the door opened, and the maid came in. Then not one stirred;
they all remained quite still; yet, at the same time, there
was not a single pot amongst them who had not a high opinion
of himself, and of what he could do if he chose.

    “‘Yes, if we had chosen,’ they each thought, ‘we might
have spent a very pleasant evening.’

    “The maid took the matches and lighted them; dear me, how
they sputtered and blazed up!

    “‘Now then,’ they thought, ‘every one will see that we are
the first. How we shine; what a light we give!’ Even while
they spoke their light went out.

    “What a capital story,” said the queen, “I feel as if I
were really in the kitchen, and could see the matches; yes,
you shall marry our daughter.”

    “Certainly,” said the king, “thou shalt have our
daughter.” The king said thou to him because he was going to
be one of the family. The wedding-day was fixed, and, on the
evening before, the whole city was illuminated. Cakes and
sweetmeats were thrown among the people. The street boys stood
on tiptoe and shouted “hurrah,” and whistled between their
fingers; altogether it was a very splendid affair.

    “I will give them another treat,” said the merchant’s son.
So he went and bought rockets and crackers, and all sorts of
fire-works that could be thought of, packed them in his trunk,
and flew up with it into the air. What a whizzing and popping
they made as they went off! The Turks, when they saw such a
sight in the air, jumped so high that their slippers flew
about their ears. It was easy to believe after this that the
princess was really going to marry a Turkish angel.

    As soon as the merchant’s son had come down in his flying
trunk to the wood after the fireworks, he thought, “I will go
back into the town now, and hear what they think of the
entertainment.” It was very natural that he should wish to
know. And what strange things people did say, to be sure!
every one whom he questioned had a different tale to tell,
though they all thought it very beautiful.

    “‘I saw the Turkish angel myself,” said one; “he had eyes
like glittering stars, and a head like foaming water.”

    “He flew in a mantle of fire,” cried another, “and lovely
little cherubs peeped out from the folds.”

    He heard many more fine things about himself, and that the
next day he was to be married. After this he went back to the
forest to rest himself in his trunk. It had disappeared! A
spark from the fireworks which remained had set it on fire; it
was burnt to ashes! So the merchant’s son could not fly any
more, nor go to meet his bride. She stood all day on the roof
waiting for him, and most likely she is waiting there still;
while he wanders through the world telling fairy tales, but
none of them so amusing as the one he related about the
matches.

                            THE END

IT is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the
wood, near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches
surrounded it on every side, in which reeds and bulrushes
grew. Close by the drawbridge, near the gate, there was an old
willow tree, which bent over the reeds.

    From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the
trampling of horses’ feet; therefore a little girl who was
watching the geese hastened to drive them away from the
bridge, before the whole hunting party came galloping up; they
came, however, so quickly, that the girl, in order to avoid
being run over, placed herself on one of the high
corner-stones of the bridge. She was still half a child and
very delicately built; she had bright blue eyes, and a gentle,
sweet expression. But such things the baron did not notice;
while he was riding past the little goose-girl, he reversed
his hunting crop, and in rough play gave her such a push with
it that she fell backward into the ditch.

    “Everything in the right place!” he cried. “Into the ditch
with you.”

    Then he burst out laughing, for that he called fun; the
others joined in- the whole party shouted and cried, while the
hounds barked.

    While the poor girl was falling she happily caught one of
the branches of the willow tree, by the help of which she held
herself over the water, and as soon as the baron with his
company and the dogs had disappeared through the gate, the
girl endeavoured to scramble up, but the branch broke off, and
she would have fallen backward among the rushes, had not a
strong hand from above seized her at this moment. It was the
hand of a pedlar; he had witnessed what had happened from a
short distance, and now hastened to assist her.

    “Everything in the right place,” he said, imitating the
noble baron, and pulling the little maid up to the dry ground.
He wished to put the branch back in the place it had been
broken off, but it is not possible to put everything in the
right place;” therefore he stuck the branch into the soft
ground.

    “Grow and thrive if you can, and produce a good flute for
them yonder at the mansion,” he said; it would have given him
great pleasure to see the noble baron and his companions well
thrashed. Then he entered the castle- but not the banqueting
hall; he was too humble for that. No; he went to the servants’
hall. The men-servants and maids looked over his stock of
articles and bargained with him; loud crying and screaming
were heard from the master’s table above: they called it
singing- indeed, they did their best. Laughter and the howls
of dogs were heard through the open windows: there they were
feasting and revelling; wine and strong old ale were foaming
in the glasses and jugs; the favourite dogs ate with their
masters; now and then the squires kissed one of these animals,
after having wiped its mouth first with the tablecloth. They
ordered the pedlar to come up, but only to make fun of him.
The wine had got into their heads, and reason had left them.
They poured beer into a stocking that he could drink with
them, but quick. That’s what they called fun, and it made them
laugh. Then meadows, peasants, and farmyards were staked on
one card and lost.

    “Everything in the right place!” the pedlar said when he
had at last safely got out of Sodom and Gomorrah, as he called
it. “The open high road is my right place; up there I did not
feel at ease.”

    The little maid, who was still watching the geese, nodded
kindly to him as he passed through the gate.

    Days and weeks passed, and it was seen that the broken
willow-branch which the peddlar had stuck into the ground near
the ditch remained fresh and green- nay, it even put forth
fresh twigs; the little goose-girl saw that the branch had
taken root, and was very pleased; the tree, so she said, was
now her tree. While the tree was advancing, everything else at
the castle was going backward, through feasting and gambling,
for these are two rollers upon which nobody stands safely.
Less than six years afterwards the baron passed out of his
castle-gate a poor beggar, while the baronial seat had been
bought by a rich tradesman. He was the very pedlar they had
made fun of and poured beer into a stocking for him to drink;
but honesty and industry bring one forward, and now the pedlar
was the possessor of the baronial estate. From that time
forward no card-playing was permitted there.

    “That’s a bad pastime,” he said; “when the devil saw the
Bible for the first time he wanted to produce a caricature in
opposition to it, and invented card-playing.”

    The new proprietor of the estate took a wife, and whom did
he take?- The little goose-girl, who had always remained good
and kind, and who looked as beautiful in her new clothes as if
she had been a lady of high birth. And how did all this come
about? That would be too long a tale to tell in our busy time,
but it really happened, and the most important events have yet
to be told.

    It was pleasant and cheerful to live in the old place now:
the mother superintended the household, and the father looked
after things out-of-doors, and they were indeed very
prosperous.

    Where honesty leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow.
The old mansion was repaired and painted, the ditches were
cleaned and fruit-trees planted; all was homely and pleasant,
and the floors were as white and shining as a pasteboard. In
the long winter evenings the mistress and her maids sat at the
spinning-wheel in the large hall; every Sunday the counsellor-
this title the pedlar had obtained, although only in his old
days- read aloud a portion from the Bible. The children (for
they had children) all received the best education, but they
were not all equally clever, as is the case in all families.

    In the meantime the willow tree near the drawbridge had
grown up into a splendid tree, and stood there, free, and was
never clipped. “It is our genealogical tree,” said the old
people to their children, “and therefore it must be honoured.”

    A hundred years had elapsed. It was in our own days; the
lake had been transformed into marsh land; the whole baronial
seat had, as it were, disappeared. A pool of water near some
ruined walls was the only remainder of the deep ditches; and
here stood a magnificent old tree with overhanging branches-
that was the genealogical tree. Here it stood, and showed how
beautiful a willow can look if one does not interfere with it.
The trunk, it is true, was cleft in the middle from the root
to the crown; the storms had bent it a little, but it still
stood there, and out of every crevice and cleft, in which wind
and weather had carried mould, blades of grass and flowers
sprang forth. Especially above, where the large boughs parted,
there was quite a hanging garden, in which wild raspberries
and hart’s-tongue ferns throve, and even a little mistletoe
had taken root, and grew gracefully in the old willow
branches, which were reflected in the dark water beneath when
the wind blew the chickweed into the corner of the pool. A
footpath which led across the fields passed close by the old
tree. High up, on the woody hillside, stood the new mansion.
It had a splendid view, and was large and magnificent; its
window panes were so clear that one might have thought there
were none there at all. The large flight of steps which led to
the entrance looked like a bower covered with roses and
broad-leaved plants. The lawn was as green as if each blade of
grass was cleaned separately morning and evening. Inside, in
the hall, valuable oil paintings were hanging on the walls.
Here stood chairs and sofas covered with silk and velvet,
which could be easily rolled about on castors; there were
tables with polished marble tops, and books bound in morocco
with gilt edges. Indeed, well-to-do and distinguished people
lived here; it was the dwelling of the baron and his family.
Each article was in keeping with its surroundings. “Everything
in the right place” was the motto according to which they also
acted here, and therefore all the paintings which had once
been the honour and glory of the old mansion were now hung up
in the passage which led to the servants’ rooms. It was all
old lumber, especially two portraits- one representing a man
in a scarlet coat with a wig, and the other a lady with
powdered and curled hair holding a rose in her hand, each of
them being surrounded by a large wreath of willow branches.
Both portraits had many holes in them, because the baron’s
sons used the two old people as targets for their crossbows.
They represented the counsellor and his wife, from whom the
whole family descended. “But they did not properly belong to
our family,” said one of the boys; “he was a pedlar and she
kept the geese. They were not like papa and mamma.” The
portraits were old lumber, and “everything in its right
place.” That was why the great-grandparents had been hung up
in the passage leading to the servants’ rooms.

    The son of the village pastor was tutor at the mansion.
One day he went for a walk across the fields with his young
pupils and their elder sister, who had lately been confirmed.
They walked along the road which passed by the old willow
tree, and while they were on the road she picked a bunch of
field-flowers. “Everything in the right place,” and indeed the
bunch looked very beautiful. At the same time she listened to
all that was said, and she very much liked to hear the
pastor’s son speak about the elements and of the great men and
women in history. She had a healthy mind, noble in thought and
deed, and with a heart full of love for everything that God
had created. They stopped at the old willow tree, as the
youngest of the baron’s sons wished very much to have a flute
from it, such as had been cut for him from other willow trees;
the pastor’s son broke a branch off. “Oh, pray do not do it!”
said the young lady; but it was already done. “That is our
famous old tree. I love it very much. They often laugh at me
at home about it, but that does not matter. There is a story
attached to this tree.” And now she told him all that we
already know about the tree- the old mansion, the pedlar and
the goose-girl who had met there for the first time, and had
become the ancestors of the noble family to which the young
lady belonged.

    “They did not like to be knighted, the good old people,”
she said; “their motto was ‘everything in the right place,’
and it would not be right, they thought, to purchase a title
for money. My grandfather, the first baron, was their son.
They say he was a very learned man, a great favourite with the
princes and princesses, and was invited to all court
festivities. The others at home love him best; but, I do not
know why, there seemed to me to be something about the old
couple that attracts my heart! How homely, how patriarchal, it
must have been in the old mansion, where the mistress sat at
the spinning-wheel with her maids, while her husband read
aloud out of the Bible!”

    “They must have been excellent, sensible people,” said the
pastor’s son. And with this the conversation turned naturally
to noblemen and commoners; from the manner in which the tutor
spoke about the significance of being noble, it seemed almost
as if he did not belong to a commoner’s family.

    “It is good fortune to be of a family who have
distinguished themselves, and to possess as it were a spur in
oneself to advance to all that is good. It is a splendid thing
to belong to a noble family, whose name serves as a card of
admission to the highest circles. Nobility is a distinction;
it is a gold coin that bears the stamp of its own value. It is
the fallacy of the time, and many poets express it, to say
that all that is noble is bad and stupid, and that, on the
contrary, the lower one goes among the poor, the more
brilliant virtues one finds. I do not share this opinion, for
it is wrong. In the upper classes one sees many touchingly
beautiful traits; my own mother has told me of such, and I
could mention several. One day she was visiting a nobleman’s
house in town; my grandmother, I believe, had been the lady’s
nurse when she was a child. My mother and the nobleman were
alone in the room, when he suddenly noticed an old woman on
crutches come limping into the courtyard; she came every
Sunday to carry a gift away with her.

    “‘There is the poor old woman,’ said the nobleman; ‘it is
so difficult for her to walk.’

    “My mother had hardly understood what he said before he
disappeared from the room, and went downstairs, in order to
save her the troublesome walk for the gift she came to fetch.
Of course this is only a little incident, but it has its good
sound like the poor widow’s two mites in the Bible, the sound
which echoes in the depth of every human heart; and this is
what the poet ought to show and point out- more especially in
our own time he ought to sing of this; it does good, it
mitigates and reconciles! But when a man, simply because he is
of noble birth and possesses a genealogy, stands on his hind
legs and neighs in the street like an Arabian horse, and says
when a commoner has been in a room: ‘Some people from the
street have been here,’ there nobility is decaying; it has
become a mask of the kind that Thespis created, and it is
amusing when such a person is exposed in satire.”

    Such was the tutor’s speech; it was a little long, but
while he delivered it he had finished cutting the flute.

    There was a large party at the mansion; many guests from
the neighbourhood and from the capital had arrived. There were
ladies with tasteful and with tasteless dresses; the big hall
was quite crowded with people. The clergymen stood humbly
together in a corner, and looked as if they were preparing for
a funeral, but it was a festival- only the amusement had not
yet begun. A great concert was to take place, and that is why
the baron’s young son had brought his willow flute with him;
but he could not make it sound, nor could his father, and
therefore the flute was good for nothing.

    There was music and songs of the kind which delight most
those that perform them; otherwise quite charming!

    “Are you an artist?” said a cavalier, the son of his
father; “you play on the flute, you have made it yourself; it
is genius that rules- the place of honour is due to you.”

    “Certainly not! I only advance with the time, and that of
course one can’t help.”

    “I hope you will delight us all with the little
instrument- will you not?” Thus saying he handed to the tutor
the flute which had been cut from the willow tree by the pool;
and then announced in a loud voice that the tutor wished to
perform a solo on the flute. They wished to tease him- that
was evident, and therefore the tutor declined to play,
although he could do so very well. They urged and requested
him, however, so long, that at last he took up the flute and
placed it to his lips.

    That was a marvellous flute! Its sound was as thrilling as
the whistle of a steam engine; in fact it was much stronger,
for it sounded and was heard in the yard, in the garden, in
the wood, and many miles round in the country; at the same
time a storm rose and roared; “Everything in the right place.”
And with this the baron, as if carried by the wind, flew out
of the hall straight into the shepherd’s cottage, and the
shepherd flew- not into the hall, thither he could not come-
but into the servants’ hall, among the smart footmen who were
striding about in silk stockings; these haughty menials looked
horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at table with
them. But in the hall the baron’s daughter flew to the place
of honour at the end of the table- she was worthy to sit
there; the pastor’s son had the seat next to her; the two sat
there as if they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging
to one of the oldest families of the country, remained
untouched in his place of honour; the flute was just, and it
is one’s duty to be so. The sharp-tongued cavalier who had
caused the flute to be played, and who was the child of his
parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house, but not he alone.

    The flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strange
events took place. A rich banker’s family, who were driving in
a coach and four, were blown out of it, and could not even
find room behind it with their footmen. Two rich farmers who
had in our days shot up higher than their own corn-fields,
were flung into the ditch; it was a dangerous flute.
Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was a good
thing, for then it was put back into its owner’s pocket- “its
right place.”

    The next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken
place; thus originated the phrase, “to pocket the flute.”
Everything was again in its usual order, except that the two
old pictures of the peddlar and the goose-girl were hanging in
the banqueting-hall. There they were on the wall as if blown
up there; and as a real expert said that they were painted by
a master’s hand, they remained there and were restored.
“Everything in the right place,” and to this it will come.
Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.

                            THE END

A FEW large lizards were running nimbly about in the
clefts of an old tree; they could understand one another very
well, for they spoke the lizard language.

    “What a buzzing and a rumbling there is in the elfin
hill,” said one of the lizards; “I have not been able to close
my eyes for two nights on account of the noise; I might just
as well have had the toothache, for that always keeps me
awake.”

    “There is something going on within there,” said the other
lizard; “they propped up the top of the hill with four red
posts, till cock-crow this morning, so that it is thoroughly
aired, and the elfin girls have learnt new dances; there is
something.”

    “I spoke about it to an earth-worm of my acquaintance,”
said a third lizard; “the earth-worm had just come from the
elfin hill, where he has been groping about in the earth day
and night. He has heard a great deal; although he cannot see,
poor miserable creature, yet he understands very well how to
wriggle and lurk about. They expect friends in the elfin hill,
grand company, too; but who they are the earth-worm would not
say, or, perhaps, he really did not know. All the
will-o’-the-wisps are ordered to be there to hold a torch
dance, as it is called. The silver and gold which is plentiful
in the hill will be polished and placed out in the moonlight.”

    “Who can the strangers be?” asked the lizards; “what can
the matter be? Hark, what a buzzing and humming there is!”

    Just at this moment the elfin hill opened, and an old
elfin maiden, hollow behind, came tripping out; she was the
old elf king’s housekeeper, and a distant relative of the
family; therefore she wore an amber heart on the middle of her
forehead. Her feet moved very fast, “trip, trip;” good
gracious, how she could trip right down to the sea to the
night-raven.

    “You are invited to the elf hill for this evening,” said
she; “but will you do me a great favor and undertake the
invitations? you ought to do something, for you have no
housekeeping to attend to as I have. We are going to have some
very grand people, conjurors, who have always something to
say; and therefore the old elf king wishes to make a great
display.”

    “Who is to be invited?” asked the raven.

    “All the world may come to the great ball, even human
beings, if they can only talk in their sleep, or do something
after our fashion. But for the feast the company must be
carefully selected; we can only admit persons of high rank; I
have had a dispute myself with the elf king, as he thought we
could not admit ghosts. The merman and his daughter must be
invited first, although it may not be agreeable to them to
remain so long on dry land, but they shall have a wet stone to
sit on, or perhaps something better; so I think they will not
refuse this time. We must have all the old demons of the first
class, with tails, and the hobgoblins and imps; and then I
think we ought not to leave out the death-horse, or the
grave-pig, or even the church dwarf, although they do belong
to the clergy, and are not reckoned among our people; but that
is merely their office, they are nearly related to us, and
visit us very frequently.”

    “Croak,” said the night-raven as he flew away with the
invitations.

    The elfin maidens we’re already dancing on the elf hill,
and they danced in shawls woven from moonshine and mist, which
look very pretty to those who like such things. The large hall
within the elf hill was splendidly decorated; the floor had
been washed with moonshine, and the walls had been rubbed with
magic ointment, so that they glowed like tulip-leaves in the
light. In the kitchen were frogs roasting on the spit, and
dishes preparing of snail skins, with children’s fingers in
them, salad of mushroom seed, hemlock, noses and marrow of
mice, beer from the marsh woman’s brewery, and sparkling
salt-petre wine from the grave cellars. These were all
substantial food. Rusty nails and church-window glass formed
the dessert. The old elf king had his gold crown polished up
with powdered slate-pencil; it was like that used by the first
form, and very difficult for an elf king to obtain. In the
bedrooms, curtains were hung up and fastened with the slime of
snails; there was, indeed, a buzzing and humming everywhere.

    “Now we must fumigate the place with burnt horse-hair and
pig’s bristles, and then I think I shall have done my part,”
said the elf man-servant.

    “Father, dear,” said the youngest daughter, “may I now
hear who our high-born visitors are?”

    “Well, I suppose I must tell you now,” he replied; “two of
my daughters must prepare themselves to be married, for the
marriages certainly will take place. The old goblin from
Norway, who lives in the ancient Dovre mountains, and who
possesses many castles built of rock and freestone, besides a
gold mine, which is better than all, so it is thought, is
coming with his two sons, who are both seeking a wife. The old
goblin is a true-hearted, honest, old Norwegian graybeard;
cheerful and straightforward. I knew him formerly, when we
used to drink together to our good fellowship: he came here
once to fetch his wife, she is dead now. She was the daughter
of the king of the chalk-hills at Moen. They say he took his
wife from chalk; I shall be delighted to see him again. It is
said that the boys are ill-bred, forward lads, but perhaps
that is not quite correct, and they will become better as they
grow older. Let me see that you know how to teach them good
manners.”

    “And when are they coming?” asked the daughter.

    “That depends upon wind and weather,” said the elf king;
“they travel economically. They will come when there is the
chance of a ship. I wanted them to come over to Sweden, but
the old man was not inclined to take my advice. He does not go
forward with the times, and that I do not like.”

    Two will-o’-the-wisps came jumping in, one quicker than
the other, so of course, one arrived first. “They are coming!
they are coming!” he cried.

    “Give me my crown,” said the elf king, “and let me stand
in the moonshine.”

    The daughters drew on their shawls and bowed down to the
ground. There stood the old goblin from the Dovre mountains,
with his crown of hardened ice and polished fir-cones. Besides
this, he wore a bear-skin, and great, warm boots, while his
sons went with their throats bare and wore no braces, for they
were strong men.

    “Is that a hill?” said the youngest of the boys, pointing
to the elf hill, “we should call it a hole in Norway.”

    “Boys,” said the old man, “a hole goes in, and a hill
stands out; have you no eyes in your heads?”

    Another thing they wondered at was, that they were able
without trouble to understand the language.

    “Take care,” said the old man, “or people will think you
have not been well brought up.”

    Then they entered the elfin hill, where the select and
grand company were assembled, and so quickly had they appeared
that they seemed to have been blown together. But for each
guest the neatest and pleasantest arrangement had been made.
The sea folks sat at table in great water-tubs, and they said
it was just like being at home. All behaved themselves
properly excepting the two young northern goblins; they put
their legs on the table and thought they were all right.

    “Feet off the table-cloth!” said the old goblin. They
obeyed, but not immediately. Then they tickled the ladies who
waited at table, with the fir-cones, which they carried in
their pockets. They took off their boots, that they might be
more at ease, and gave them to the ladies to hold. But their
father, the old goblin, was very different; he talked
pleasantly about the stately Norwegian rocks, and told fine
tales of the waterfalls which dashed over them with a
clattering noise like thunder or the sound of an organ,
spreading their white foam on every side. He told of the
salmon that leaps in the rushing waters, while the water-god
plays on his golden harp. He spoke of the bright winter
nights, when the sledge bells are ringing, and the boys run
with burning torches across the smooth ice, which is so
transparent that they can see the fishes dart forward beneath
their feet. He described everything so clearly, that those who
listened could see it all; they could see the saw-mills going,
the men-servants and the maidens singing songs, and dancing a
rattling dance,- when all at once the old goblin gave the old
elfin maiden a kiss, such a tremendous kiss, and yet they were
almost strangers to each other.

    Then the elfin girls had to dance, first in the usual way,
and then with stamping feet, which they performed very well;
then followed the artistic and solo dance. Dear me, how they
did throw their legs about! No one could tell where the dance
begun, or where it ended, nor indeed which were legs and which
were arms, for they were all flying about together, like the
shavings in a saw-pit! And then they spun round so quickly
that the death-horse and the grave-pig became sick and giddy,
and were obliged to leave the table.

    “Stop!” cried the old goblin,” is that the only
house-keeping they can perform? Can they do anything more than
dance and throw about their legs, and make a whirlwind?”

    “You shall soon see what they can do,” said the elf king.
And then he called his youngest daughter to him. She was
slender and fair as moonlight, and the most graceful of all
the sisters. She took a white chip in her mouth, and vanished
instantly; this was her accomplishment. But the old goblin
said he should not like his wife to have such an
accomplishment, and thought his boys would have the same
objection. Another daughter could make a figure like herself
follow her, as if she had a shadow, which none of the goblin
folk ever had. The third was of quite a different sort; she
had learnt in the brew-house of the moor witch how to lard
elfin puddings with glow-worms.

    “She will make a good housewife,” said the old goblin, and
then saluted her with his eyes instead of drinking her health;
for he did not drink much.

    Now came the fourth daughter, with a large harp to play
upon; and when she struck the first chord, every one lifted up
the left leg (for the goblins are left-legged), and at the
second chord they found they must all do just what she wanted.

    “That is a dangerous woman,” said the old goblin; and the
two sons walked out of the hill; they had had enough of it.
“And what can the next daughter do?” asked the old goblin.

    “I have learnt everything that is Norwegian,” said she;
“and I will never marry, unless I can go to Norway.”

    Then her youngest sister whispered to the old goblin,
“That is only because she has heard, in a Norwegian song, that
when the world shall decay, the cliffs of Norway will remain
standing like monuments; and she wants to get there, that she
may be safe; for she is so afraid of sinking.”

    “Ho! ho!” said the old goblin, “is that what she means?
Well, what can the seventh and last do?”

    “The sixth comes before the seventh,” said the elf king,
for he could reckon; but the sixth would not come forward.

    “I can only tell people the truth,” said she. “No one
cares for me, nor troubles himself about me; and I have enough
to do to sew my grave clothes.”

    So the seventh and last came; and what could she do? Why,
she could tell stories, as many as you liked, on any subject.

    “Here are my five fingers,” said the old goblin; “now tell
me a story for each of them.”

    So she took him by the wrist, and he laughed till he
nearly choked; and when she came to the fourth finger, there
was a gold ring on it, as if it knew there was to be a
betrothal. Then the old goblin said, “Hold fast what you have:
this hand is yours; for I will have you for a wife myself.”

    Then the elfin girl said that the stories about the
ring-finger and little Peter Playman had not yet been told.

    “We will hear them in the winter,” said the old goblin,
“and also about the fir and the birch-trees, and the ghost
stories, and of the tingling frost. You shall tell your tales,
for no one over there can do it so well; and we will sit in
the stone rooms, where the pine logs are burning, and drink
mead out of the golden drinking-horn of the old Norwegian
kings. The water-god has given me two; and when we sit there,
Nix comes to pay us a visit, and will sing you all the songs
of the mountain shepherdesses. How merry we shall be! The
salmon will be leaping in the waterfalls, and dashing against
the stone walls, but he will not be able to come in. It is
indeed very pleasant to live in old Norway. But where are the
lads?”

    Where indeed were they? Why, running about the fields, and
blowing out the will-o’-the-wisps, who so good-naturedly came
and brought their torches.

    “What tricks have you been playing?” said the old goblin.
“I have taken a mother for you, and now you may take one of
your aunts.”

    But the youngsters said they would rather make a speech
and drink to their good fellowship; they had no wish to marry.
Then they made speeches and drank toasts, and tipped their
glasses, to show that they were empty. Then they took off
their coats, and lay down on the table to sleep; for they made
themselves quite at home. But the old goblin danced about the
room with his young bride, and exchanged boots with her, which
is more fashionable than exchanging rings.

    “The cock is crowing,” said the old elfin maiden who acted
as housekeeper; now we must close the shutters, that the sun
may not scorch us.”

    Then the hill closed up. But the lizards continued to run
up and down the riven tree; and one said to the other, “Oh,
how much I was pleased with the old goblin!”

    “The boys pleased me better,” said the earth-worm. But
then the poor miserable creature could not see.

                            THE END

IN the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary
farm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The
sun was shining and all the windows were open; within the
house people were very busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed
by lilac bushes in full bloom, stood an open coffin; thither
they had carried a dead man, who was to be buried that very
afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him; his face was covered
over with a white cloth, under his head they had placed a
large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded
sheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between
them; it was the herbarium which he had gathered in various
places and was to be buried with him, according to his own
wish. Every one of the flowers in it was connected with some
chapter of his life.

    “Who is the dead man?” we asked.

    “The old student,” was the reply. “They say that he was
once an energetic young man, that he studied the dead
languages, and sang and even composed many songs; then
something had happened to him, and in consequence of this he
gave himself up to drink, body and mind. When at last he had
ruined his health, they brought him into the country, where
someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentle as a
child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; but
when it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and
ran about in the wood like a chased deer. But when we
succeeded in bringing him home, and prevailed upon him to open
the book with the dried-up plants in it, he would sometimes
sit for a whole day looking at this or that plant, while
frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks. God knows what
was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book into his
coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will
be placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the
grave!”

    The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead
man’s face expressed peace- a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow
flew with the swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning
in its flight, and twittered over the dead man’s head.

    What a strange feeling it is- surely we all know it- to
look through old letters of our young days; a different life
rises up out of the past, as it were, with all its hopes and
sorrows. How many of the people with whom in those days we
used to be on intimate terms appear to us as if dead, and yet
they are still alive- only we have not thought of them for
such a long time, whom we imagined we should retain in our
memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow with them.

    The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the
friend, the schoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life.
He fixed the leaf to the student’s cap in the green wood, when
they vowed eternal friendship. Where does he dwell now? The
leaf is kept, but the friendship does no longer exist. Here is
a foreign hothouse plant, too tender for the gardens of the
North. It is almost as if its leaves still smelt sweet! She
gave it to him out of her own garden- a nobleman’s daughter.

    Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and
watered with salt tears- a lily of sweet water. And here is a
nettle: what may its leaves tell us? What might he have
thought when he plucked and kept it? Here is a little snowdrop
out of the solitary wood; here is an evergreen from the
flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simple blade of grass.

    The lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead
man’s head; the swallow passes again- “twit, twit;” now the
men come with hammer and nails, the lid is placed over the
dead man, while his head rests on the dumb book- so long
cherished, now closed for ever!

                            THE END

OF course you know what is meant by a magnifying glass-
one of those round spectacle-glasses that make everything look
a hundred times bigger than it is? When any one takes one of
these and holds it to his eye, and looks at a drop of water
from the pond yonder, he sees above a thousand wonderful
creatures that are otherwise never discerned in the water. But
there they are, and it is no delusion. It almost looks like a
great plateful of spiders jumping about in a crowd. And how
fierce they are! They tear off each other’s legs. and arms and
bodies, before and behind; and yet they are merry and joyful
in their way.

    Now, there once was an old man whom all the people called
Kribble-Krabble, for that was his name. He always wanted the
best of everything, and when he could not manage it otherwise,
he did it by magic.

    There he sat one day, and held his magnifying-glass to his
eye, and looked at a drop of water that had been taken out of
a puddle by the ditch. But what a kribbling and krabbling was
there! All the thousands of little creatures hopped and sprang
and tugged at one another, and ate each other up.

    “That is horrible!” said old Kribble-Krabble. “Can one not
persuade them to live in peace and quietness, so that each one
may mind his own business?”

    And he thought it over and over, but it would not do, and
so he had recourse to magic.

    “I must give them color, that they may be seen more
plainly,” said he; and he poured something like a little drop
of red wine into the drop of water, but it was witches’ blood
from the lobes of the ear, the finest kind, at ninepence a
drop. And now the wonderful little creatures were pink all
over. It looked like a whole town of naked wild men.

    “What have you there?” asked another old magician, who had
no name- and that was the best thing about him.

    “Yes, if you can guess what it is,” said Kribble-Krabble,
“I’ll make you a present of it.”

    But it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.

    And the magician who had no name looked through the
magnifying-glass.

    It looked really like a great town reflected there, in
which all the people were running about without clothes. It
was terrible! But it was still more terrible to see how one
beat and pushed the other, and bit and hacked, and tugged and
mauled him. Those at the top were being pulled down, and those
at the bottom were struggling upwards.

    “Look! look! his leg is longer than mine! Bah! Away with
it! There is one who has a little bruise. It hurts him, but it
shall hurt him still more.”

    And they hacked away at him, and they pulled at him, and
ate him up, because of the little bruise. And there was one
sitting as still as any little maiden, and wishing only for
peace and quietness. But now she had to come out, and they
tugged at her, and pulled her about, and ate her up.

    “That’s funny!” said the magician.

    “Yes; but what do you think it is?” said Kribble-Krabble.
“Can you find that out?”

    “Why, one can see that easily enough,” said the other.
“That’s Paris, or some other great city, for they’re all
alike. It’s a great city!”

    “It’s a drop of puddle water!” said Kribble-Krabble.

                             THE END

THERE was once a darning-needle who thought herself so
fine that she fancied she must be fit for embroidery. “Hold me
tight,” she would say to the fingers, when they took her up,
“don’t let me fall; if you do I shall never be found again, I
am so very fine.”

    “That is your opinion, is it?” said the fingers, as they
seized her round the body.

    “See, I am coming with a train,” said the darning-needle,
drawing a long thread after her; but there was no knot in the
thread.

    The fingers then placed the point of the needle against
the cook’s slipper. There was a crack in the upper leather,
which had to be sewn together.

    “What coarse work!” said the darning-needle, “I shall
never get through. I shall break!- I am breaking!” and sure
enough she broke. “Did I not say so?” said the darning-needle,
“I know I am too fine for such work as that.”

    “This needle is quite useless for sewing now,” said the
fingers; but they still held it fast, and the cook dropped
some sealing-wax on the needle, and fastened her handkerchief
with it in front.

    “So now I am a breast-pin,” said the darning-needle; “I
knew very well I should come to honor some day: merit is sure
to rise;” and she laughed, quietly to herself, for of course
no one ever saw a darning-needle laugh. And there she sat as
proudly as if she were in a state coach, and looked all around
her. “May I be allowed to ask if you are made of gold?” she
inquired of her neighbor, a pin; “you have a very pretty
appearance, and a curious head, although you are rather small.
You must take pains to grow, for it is not every one who has
sealing-wax dropped upon him;” and as she spoke, the
darning-needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of
the handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was
cleaning. “Now I am going on a journey,” said the needle, as
she floated away with the dirty water, “I do hope I shall not
be lost.” But she really was lost in a gutter. “I am too fine
for this world,” said the darning-needle, as she lay in the
gutter; “but I know who I am, and that is always some
comfort.” So the darning-needle kept up her proud behavior,
and did not lose her good humor. Then there floated over her
all sorts of things,- chips and straws, and pieces of old
newspaper. “See how they sail,” said the darning-needle; “they
do not know what is under them. I am here, and here I shall
stick. See, there goes a chip, thinking of nothing in the
world but himself- only a chip. There’s a straw going by now;
how he turns and twists about! Don’t be thinking too much of
yourself, or you may chance to run against a stone. There
swims a piece of newspaper; what is written upon it has been
forgotten long ago, and yet it gives itself airs. I sit here
patiently and quietly. I know who I am, so I shall not move.”

    One day something lying close to the darning-needle
glittered so splendidly that she thought it was a diamond; yet
it was only a piece of broken bottle. The darning-needle spoke
to it, because it sparkled, and represented herself as a
breast-pin. “I suppose you are really a diamond?” she said.

    “Why yes, something of the kind,” he replied; and so each
believed the other to be very valuable, and then they began to
talk about the world, and the conceited people in it.

    “I have been in a lady’s work-box,” said the
darning-needle, “and this lady was the cook. She had on each
hand five fingers, and anything so conceited as these five
fingers I have never seen; and yet they were only employed to
take me out of the box and to put me back again.”

    “Were they not high-born?”

    “High-born!” said the darning-needle, “no indeed, but so
haughty. They were five brothers, all born fingers; they kept
very proudly together, though they were of different lengths.
The one who stood first in the rank was named the thumb, he
was short and thick, and had only one joint in his back, and
could therefore make but one bow; but he said that if he were
cut off from a man’s hand, that man would be unfit for a
soldier. Sweet-tooth, his neighbor, dipped himself into sweet
or sour, pointed to the sun and moon, and formed the letters
when the fingers wrote. Longman, the middle finger, looked
over the heads of all the others. Gold-band, the next finger,
wore a golden circle round his waist. And little Playman did
nothing at all, and seemed proud of it. They were boasters,
and boasters they will remain; and therefore I left them.”

    “And now we sit here and glitter,” said the piece of
broken bottle.

    At the same moment more water streamed into the gutter, so
that it overflowed, and the piece of bottle was carried away.

    “So he is promoted,” said the darning-needle, “while I
remain here; I am too fine, but that is my pride, and what do
I care?” And so she sat there in her pride, and had many such
thoughts as these,- “I could almost fancy that I came from a
sunbeam, I am so fine. It seems as if the sunbeams were always
looking for me under the water. Ah! I am so fine that even my
mother cannot find me. Had I still my old eye, which was
broken off, I believe I should weep; but no, I would not do
that, it is not genteel to cry.”

    One day a couple of street boys were paddling in the
gutter, for they sometimes found old nails, farthings, and
other treasures. It was dirty work, but they took great
pleasure in it. “Hallo!” cried one, as he pricked himself with
the darning-needle, “here’s a fellow for you.”

    “I am not a fellow, I am a young lady,” said the
darning-needle; but no one heard her.

    The sealing-wax had come off, and she was quite black; but
black makes a person look slender, so she thought herself even
finer than before.

    “Here comes an egg-shell sailing along,” said one of the
boys; so they stuck the darning-needle into the egg-shell.

    “White walls, and I am black myself,” said the
darning-needle, “that looks well; now I can be seen, but I
hope I shall not be sea-sick, or I shall break again.” She was
not sea-sick, and she did not break. “It is a good thing
against sea-sickness to have a steel stomach, and not to
forget one’s own importance. Now my sea-sickness has past:
delicate people can bear a great deal.”

    Crack went the egg-shell, as a waggon passed over it.
“Good heavens, how it crushes!” said the darning-needle. “I
shall be sick now. I am breaking!” but she did not break,
though the waggon went over her as she lay at full length; and
there let her lie.

                            THE END