The Garden of Paradise   
   
   
ONCE there was a King’s son. No one had so many and so beautiful books as he; everything that had happened in this world he could read there, and could see pictures of it all in lovely copper-plates. Of every people, and of every land he could get intelligence; but there was not a word to tell where the Garden of Paradise could be found, and it was just that of which he thought most.     1   
  His grandmother had told him, when he was quite little, but was to begin to go to school, that every flower in this Paradise Garden was a delicate cake, and the pistils contained the choicest wine; on one of the flowers history was written, and on another geography or tables, so that one had only to eat cake, and one knew a lesson; and the more one ate, the more history, geography, or tables did one learn.     2   
  At that time he believed this. But when he became a bigger boy, and learned more and became wiser, he understood well that the splendor in the Garden of Paradise must be of quite a different kind.     3   
  “O, why did Eve pluck from the Tree of Knowledge? Why did Adam eat the forbidden fruit? If I had been he, it would never have happened—then sin would never have come into the world.”     4   
  That he said then, and he still said it when he was seventeen years old. The Garden of Paradise filled all his thoughts.     5   
  One day he walked in the wood. He was walking quite alone, for that was his greatest pleasure. The evening came, and the clouds gathered together; rain streamed down as if the sky were one single river from which the water was pouring; it was dark as it usually is at night in the deepest well. Often he slipped on the smooth grass, often he fell over the smooth stones which peered up out of the wet, rocky ground. Everything was soaked with water, and there was not a dry thread on the poor Prince. He was obliged to climb over great blocks of stone, where the water spurted from the thick moss. He was nearly fainting. Then he heard a strange rushing, and saw before him a great illuminated cave. In the midst of it burned a fire so large that a stag might have been roasted at it. And this was in fact being done. A glorious deer had been stuck, horns and all, upon a spit, and was turning slowly between two felled pine trunks. An elderly woman, large and strongly built, looking like a disguised man, sat by the fire, into which she threw one piece of wood after another.     6   
  “Come nearer!” said she. “Sit down by the fire and dry your clothes.”     7   
  “There’s a great draught here!” said the Prince; and he sat down on the ground.     8   
  “That will be worse when my sons come home,” replied the Woman. “You are here in the Cavern of the Winds, and my sons are the four Winds of the world; can you understand that?”     9   
  “Where are your sons? asked the Prince.     10   
  “It is difficult to answer when stupid questions are asked,” said the Woman. “My sons do business on their own account. They play at shuttlecock with the clouds up yonder in the King’s hall.”     11   
  And she pointed upwards.     12   
  “O, indeed!” said the Prince. “But you speak rather gruffly, by the way, and are not so mild as the women I generally see about me.”     13   
  “Yes, they have most likely nothing else to do! I must be hard, if I want to keep my sons in order; but I can do it, though they are obstinate fellows. Do you see the four sacks hanging there by the wall? They are just as frightened of those as you used to be of the rod stuck behind the glass. I can bend the lads together, I tell you, and then I pop them into the bag; we don’t make any ceremony. There they sit, and may not wander about again until I think fit to allow them. But here comes one of them.”     14   
  It was the North Wind, who rushed in with piercing cold; great hailstones skipped about on the floor, and snow-flakes fluttered about. He was dressed in a jacket and trousers of bear-skin; a cap of seal-skin was drawn down over his ears; long icicles hung on his beard, and one hailstone after another rolled from the collar of his jacket.     15   
  “Do not go so near the fire directly,” said the Prince; “you might get your hands and face frost-bitten.”     16   
  “Frost-bitten?” repeated the North Wind, and he laughed aloud. “Cold is exactly what rejoices me most! But what kind of little tailor art thou? How did you find your way into the Cavern of the Winds?”     17   
  “He is my guest,” interposed the old Woman, “and if you’re not satisfied with this explanation you may go into the sack; do you understand me?”     18   
  You see that was the right way; and now the North Wind told whence he came, and where he had been for almost a month.     19   
  “I come from the Polar Sea,” said he; “I have been in the bear’s icy land with the walrus hunters. I sat and slept on the helm when they went away from the North Cape, and when I awoke, now and then, the storm-bird flew round my legs. That’s a comical bird! He gives a sharp clap with his wings, and then holds them quite still and shoots along in full career.”     20   
  “Don’t be too long-winded,” said the Mother of the Winds. “And so you came to the Bear’s Island?”     21   
  “It is very beautiful there. There’s a floor for dancing on as flat as a plate. Half-thawed snow, with a little moss, sharp stones, and skeletons of walruses and polar bears lie around, and likewise gigantic arms and legs of a rusty green color. One would have thought the sun had never shone there. I blew a little upon the mist, so that one could see the hut; it was a house built of wreck-wood and covered with walrus-skins—the fleshy side turned outwards. It was full of green and red, and on the roof sat a live polar bear who was growling. I went to the shore to look after birds’-nests, and saw the unfledged nestlings screaming and opening their beaks; then I blew down into their thousand throats, and taught them to shut their mouths. Farther on the huge walruses were splashing like great maggots with pigs’ heads, and teeth an ell long!”     22   
  “You tell your story well, my son,” said the old Lady. “My mouth waters when I hear you!”     23   
  “Then the hunting began! The harpoon was hurled into the walrus’ breast, so that a smoking stream of blood spurted like a fountain over the ice. When I thought of my sport, I blew, and let my sailing ships, the big icebergs, crush the boats between them. O, how the people whistled and how they cried! but I whistled louder than they. They were obliged to throw the dead walruses and their chests and tackle out upon the ice. I shook the snow-flakes over them, and let them drive south in their crushed boats with their booty to taste salt-water. They’ll never come to Bear’s Island again!”     24   
  “Then you have done a wicked thing!” said the Mother of the Winds.     25   
  “What good I have done others may tell,” replied he. “But here comes a brother from the west. I like him best of all: he tastes of the sea and brings a delicious coolness with him.”     26   
  “Is that little Zephyr? asked the Prince.     27   
  “Yes, certainly, that is little Zephyr,” replied the old Woman. “But he is not little. Years ago he was a pretty boy, but that’s past now.”     28   
  He looked like a wild man, but he had a broad-brimmed hat on, to save his face. In his hand he held a club of mahogany, hewn in the American mahogany forests. It was no trifle.     29   
  “Where do you come from?” said his mother.     30   
  “Out of the forest wilderness,” said he, “where the water-snake lies in the wet grass, and the people don’t seem to be wanted.”     31   
  “What were you doing there?     32   
  “I looked into the deepest river, and watched how it rushed down from the rocks, and turned to spray, and shot up toward the clouds to carry the rainbow. I saw the wild buffalo swimming in the stream, but the stream carried him away. He drifted with the flock of wild ducks that flew up where the water fell down in a cataract. The buffalo had to go down it! That pleased me, and I blew a storm, so that ancient trees were split up into splinters!”     33   
  “And have you done nothing else?” asked the old Dame.     34   
  “I have thrown somersaults in the Savannahs: I have stroked the wild horses and shaken the cocoa-nut palms. Yes, yes, I have stories to tell! But one must not tell all one knows. You know that, old Lady.”     35   
  And he kissed his mother so roughly that she almost tumbled over. He was a terribly wild young fellow!     36   
  Now came the South Wind, with a turban on and flying Bedouin’s cloak.     37   
  “It’s terribly cold out here!” cried he, and threw some more wood on the fire. “One can feel that the North Wind came first.”     38   
  “It’s so hot that one could roast a Polar bear here,” said the North Wind.     39   
  “You’re a Polar bear yourself,” retorted the South Wind.     40   
  “Do you want to be put in the sack?” asked the old Dame. “Sit upon the stone yonder and tell me where you have been.”     41   
  “In Africa, mother,” he answered. “I was out hunting the lion with the Hottentots in the land of the Kaffirs. Grass grows there in the plains, green as an olive. There the ostrich ran races with me, but I am swifter than he. I came into the desert where the yellow sand lies: it looks there like the bottom of the sea. I met a caravan. The people were killing their last camel to get water to drink, but it was very little they got. The sun burned above and the sand below. The outspread deserts had no bounds. Then I rolled in the fine loose sand, and whirled it up in great pillars. That was a dance! You should have seen how the dromedary stood there terrified, and the merchant drew the caftan over his head. He threw himself down before me, as before Allah, his God. Now they are buried—a pyramid of sand covers them all. When I some day blow that away, the sun will bleach the white bones; then travellers may see that men have been there before them. Otherwise, one would not believe that, in the desert!”     42   
  “So you have done nothing but evil!” exclaimed the Mother. “March into the sack!”     43   
  And before he was aware, she had seized the South Wind round the body, and popped him into the bag. He rolled about on the floor; but she sat on the sack, and then he had to keep quiet.     44   
  “Those are lively boys of yours,” said the Prince.     45   
  “Yes,” she replied, “and I know how to punish them! Here comes the fourth!”     46   
  That was the East Wind, who came dressed like a Chinaman.     47   
  “O! do you come from that region?” said the mother. “I thought you had been in the Garden of Paradise.”     48   
  “I don’t fly there till to-morrow,” said the East Wind. “It will be a hundred years to-morrow since I was there. I come from China now, where I danced around the porcelain tower till all the bells jingled again! In the streets the officials were being thrashed: the bamboos were broken upon their shoulders, yet they were high people, from the first to the ninth grade. They cried, ‘Many thanks, my paternal benefactor!’ but it did not come from their hearts. And I rang the bells and sang ‘Tsing, Tsang, tsu!’”     49   
  “You are foolish,” said the old Dame. “It is a good thing that you are going into the Garden of Paradise to-morrow, that always helps on your education. Drink bravely out of the spring of wisdom, and bring home a little bottleful for me.”     50   
  “That I will do,” said the East Wind. “But why have you clapped my brother South in the bag? Out with him! He shall tell me about the Phœnix bird, for about that bird the Princess in the Garden of Paradise always wants to hear, when I pay my visit every hundredth year. Open the sack, then you shall be my sweetest of mothers, and I will give you two pocketfuls of tea, green and fresh as I plucked it at the place where it grew!”     51   
  “Well, for the sake of the tea, and because you are my darling boy, I will open the sack.”     52   
  She did so, and the South Wind crept out, but he looked quite downcast, because the strange Prince had seen his disgrace.     53   
  “There you have a palm-leaf for the Princess,” said the South Wind. “This palm-leaf was given me by the Phœnix bird, the only one who is in the world. With his beak he has scratched upon it a description of all the hundred years he has lived. Now she may read herself how the Phœnix bird set fire to her nest, and sat upon it, and was burned to death like a Hindoo’s widow. How the dry branches crackled! What a smoke and a steam there was! At last everything burst into a flame, and the old Phœnix turned to ashes, but her egg lay red-hot in the fire; it burst with a great bang, and the young one flew out. Now this young one is ruler over all the birds, and the only Phœnix in the world. It has bitten a hole in the palm-leaf I have given you. That is a greeting to the Princess.”     54   
  “Let us have something to eat,” said the Mother of the Winds.     55   
  And now they all sat down to eat of the roasted deer. The Prince sat beside the East Wind, and they soon became good friends.     56   
  “Just tell me,” said the Prince, “what Princess is that about whom there is so much talk here? and where does the Garden of Paradise lie?”     57   
  “Ho, ho!” said the East Wind, “do you want to go there? Well, then, fly to-morrow with me! But I must tell you, however, that no man has been there since the time of Adam and Eve. You have read of them in your Bible histories?”     58   
  “Yes,” said the Prince.     59   
  “When they were driven away, the Garden of Paradise sank into the earth; but it kept warm its sunshine, its mild air, and all its splendor. The Queen of the Fairies lives there, and there lies the Island of Happiness, where death never comes, and where it is beautiful. Sit upon my back to-morrow, and I will take you with me; I think it can very well be done. But now leave off talking, for I want to sleep.”     60   
  And then they all went to rest.     61   
  In the early morning the Prince awoke, and was not a little astonished to find himself high above the clouds. He was sitting on the back of the East Wind, who was faithfully holding him; they were so high in the air that the woods and fields, rivers and lakes, looked as if they were painted on a map below them.     62   
  “Good morning!” said the East Wind. “You might very well sleep a little longer, for there is not much to be seen on the flat country under us, unless you care to count the churches. They stand like dots of chalk on the green carpet.”     63   
  What he called green carpet was field and meadow.     64   
  “It was rude of me not to say good-by to your mother and your brothers,” said the Prince.     65   
  “When one is asleep, one must be excused,” replied the East Wind.     66   
  And then they flew on faster than ever. One could hear them in the tops of the trees, for when they passed over them the leaves and twigs rustled; one could hear them on the sea and on the lakes, for when they flew by the water rose higher, and the great ships bowed themselves toward the water like swimming swans.     67   
  Toward evening, when it became dark, the great towns looked charming, for lights were burning below, here and there; it was just as when one has lighted a piece of paper, and sees all the little sparks which vanish one after another. And the Prince clapped his hands; but the East Wind begged him to let that be, and rather to hold fast, otherwise he might easily fall down and get caught on a church spire.     68   
  The eagle in the dark woods flew lightly, but the East Wind flew more lightly still. The Cossack on his little horse skimmed swiftly over the surface of the earth, but the Prince skimmed more swiftly still.     69   
  “Now you can see the Himalayas,” said the East Wind. “That is the highest mountain range in Asia. Now we shall soon get to the Garden of Paradise.”     70   
  Then they turned more to the south, and soon the air was fragrant with flowers and spices; figs and pomegranates grew wild, and the wild vine bore clusters of red and purple grapes. Here both alighted, and stretched themselves on the soft grass, where the flowers nodded to the wind, as though they would have said, “Welcome!”     71   
  “Are we now in the Garden of Paradise?” asked the Prince.     72   
  “Not at all,” replied the East Wind. “But we shall soon get there. Do you see the rocky wall yonder, and the great cave, where the vines cluster like a broad green curtain? Through that we shall pass. Wrap yourself in your cloak. Here the sun scorches you, but a step farther it will be icy cold. The bird which hovers past the cave has one wing in the region of summer and the other in the wintry cold.”     73   
  “So this is the way to the Garden of Paradise?” observed the Prince.     74   
  They went into the cave. Ugh! but it was icy cold there, but this did not last long. The East Wind spread out his wings, and they gleamed like the brightest fire. What a cave was that! Great blocks of stone, from which the water dripped down, hung over them in the strangest shapes; sometimes it was so narrow that they had to creep on their hands and knees, sometimes as lofty and broad as in the open air. The place looked like a number of mortuary chapels, with dumb organ pipes, the organs themselves being petrified.     75   
  “We are going through the way of death to the Garden of Paradise, are we not?” inquired the Prince.     76   
  The East Wind answered not a syllable, but he pointed forward to where a lovely blue light gleamed upon them. The stone blocks over their heads became more and more like a mist, and at last looked like a white cloud in the moonlight. Now they were in a deliciously mild air, fresh as on the hills, fragrant as among the roses of the valley. There ran a river clear as the air itself, and the fishes were like silver and gold: purple eels, flashing out blue sparks at every moment, played in the water below; and the broad water-plant leaves shone in the colors of the rainbow; the flower itself was an orange-colored burning flame, to which the water gave nourishment, as the oil to the burning lamp; a bridge of marble, strong, indeed, but so lightly built that it looked as if made of lace and glass beads, led them across the water to the Island of Happiness, where the Garden of Paradise bloomed.     77   
  Were they palm-trees that grew here, or gigantic water-plants? Such verdant, mighty trees the Prince had never beheld; the most wonderful climbing plants hung there in long festoons, as one only sees them illuminated in gold and colors on the margins of gold missal-books, or twined among the initial letters. Here were the strangest groupings of birds, flowers, and twining lines. Close by, in the grass, stood a flock of peacocks, with their shining starry trains outspread.     78   
  Yes, it was really so! But when the Prince touched these, he found they were not birds, but plants; they were great burdocks, which shone like the peacock’s gorgeous train. The lion and the tiger sprang to and fro like agile cats among the green bushes, which were fragrant as the blossom of the olive-tree; and the lion and the tiger were tame. The wild wood-pigeon shone like the most beautiful pearl, and beat her wings against the lion’s mane; and the antelope, usually so timid, stood by, nodding its head, as if it wished to play too.     79   
  Now came the Fairy of Paradise. Her garb shone like the sun, and her countenance was cheerful like that of a happy mother when she is well pleased with her child. She was young and beautiful, and was followed by a number of pretty maidens, each with a gleaming star in her hair. The East Wind gave her the written leaf from the Phœnix bird, and her eyes shone with pleasure.     80   
  She took the Prince by the hand and led him into her palace, where the walls had the color of a splendid tulip-leaf when it is held up in the sunlight. The ceiling was a great sparkling flower, and the more one looked up at it, the deeper did it cup appear. The Prince stepped to the window and looked through one of the panes. Here he saw the Tree of Knowledge, with the serpent, and Adam and Eve were standing close by.     81   
  “Were they not driven out?” he asked.     82   
  And the Fairly smiled, and explained to him that Time had burned in the picture upon the pane, but not as people are accustomed to see pictures. No; there was life in it; the leaves of the trees moved, men came and went as in a dissolving view. And he looked through another pane, and there was Jacob’s dream, with the ladder reaching up into heaven, and the angels with great wings were ascending and descending. Yes, everything that had happened in the world lived and moved in the glass panes; such cunning pictures only Time could burn in.     83   
  The Fairy smiled, and led him into a great lofty hall, whose walls appeared transparent. Here were portraits, and each face looked fairer than the last. There were to be seen millions of happy ones who smiled and sang, so that it flowed together into a melody; the uppermost were so small that they looked like the smallest rose-bud when it is drawn as a point upon paper. And in the midst of the hall stood a great tree with rich, pendent boughs; golden apples, great and small, hung like oranges among the leaves. That was the Tree of Knowledge, of whose fruit Adam and Eve had eaten. From each leaf fell as shining red dew-drop; it was as though the tree wept tears of blood.     84   
  “Let us now get into the boat,” said the Fairy; “then we will enjoy some refreshment on the heaving waters. The boat rocks, yet does not quit its station; but all the lands of the earth will glide past in our sight.”     85   
  And it was wonderful to behold how the whole coast moved. There came the lofty snow-covered Alps, with clouds and black pine-trees; the horn sounded with its melancholy note, and the shepherd trolled his merry song in the valley. Then the banana-trees bent their long, hanging branches over the boat; coal-black swans swam on the water, and the strangest animals and flowers showed themselves upon the shore. That was New Holland, the fifth great division of the world, which glided past with a background of blue hills. They heard song of the priests, and saw the savages dancing to the sound of drums and of bone trumpets. Egypt’s pyramids, towering aloft to the cloud; overtuned pillars and sphinxes half buried in the sand sailed past likewise. The northern lights shone over the extinct volcanoes of the Pole—it was a fire-work that no one could imitate. The Prince was quite happy, and he saw a hundred times more than we can relate here.     86   
  “And can I always stay here?” asked he.     87   
  “That depends upon yourself,” answered the Fairy. “If you do not, like Adam, yield to the temptation to do what is forbidden, you may always remain here.”     88   
  “I shall not touch the apples on the Tree of Knowledge!” said the Prince. “Here are thousands of fruits just a beautiful as those.”     89   
  “Search your own heart, and if you are not strong enough, go away with the East Wind that brought you hither. He is going to fly back, and will not show himself here again for a hundred years: the time will pass for you in this place as if it were a hundred hours, but it is a long time for the temptation of sin. Every evening, when I leave you, I shall have to call to you, ‘Come with me!’ and I shall have to beckon to you with my hand; but stay where you are: do not go with me, or your longing will become greater with every step. You will the come into the hall where the Tree of Knowledge grows; I sleep under its fragrant, pendent boughs; you will bend over me, and I must smile; but if you press a kiss upon my mouth, the Paradise will sink deep into the earth and be lost to you. The keen wind of the desert will rush around you, the cold rain drop upon your head, and sorrow and woe will be your portion.”     90   
  “I shall stay here!” said the Prince.     91   
  And the East Wind kissed him on the forehead, and said,—     92   
  “Be strong, and we shall meet here again in a hundred years. Farewell! farewell!”     93   
  And the East Wind spread out his broad wings, and they flashed like sheet lightning in harvest-time, or like the northern light in the cold winter.     94   
  “Farewell! farewell!” sounded from among the flowers and the trees. Storks and pelicans flew away in rows like fluttering ribbons, and bore him company to the boundary of the garden.     95   
  “Now we will begin our dances!” cried the Fairy. “At the end, when I dance with you, when the sun goes down, you will see me beckon to you; you will hear me call to you, ‘Come with me;’ but do not obey. For a hundred years I must repeat this every evening; every time, when the trial is past, you will gain more strength; at last you will not think of it at all. This evening is the first time. Now I have warned you.”     96   
  And the Fairy led him into a great hall of white transparent lilies: the yellow stamens in each flower formed a little golden harp, which sounded like stringed instrument and flute. The most beautiful maidens, floating and slender, clad in gauzy mist, glided by in the dance, and sang of the happiness of living, and declared that they would never die, and that the Garden of Paradise would bloom forever.     97   
  And the sun went down. The whole sky shone like gold, which gave to the lilies the hue of the most glorious roses; and the Prince drank of the foaming wine which the maidens poured out of him, and felt a happiness he had never before known. He saw how the background of the hall opened, and the Tree of Knowledge stood in a glory which blinded his eyes; the singing there was soft and lovely as the voice of his dear mother, and it was as through she sang, “My child! my beloved child!”     98   
  Then the Fairy beckoned to him, and called out persuasively,—     99   
  “Come with me! come with me!”     100   
  And he rushed toward her, forgetting his promise,—forgetting it the very first evening; and still she beckoned and smiled. The fragrance, the delicious fragrance around became stronger, the harps sounded far more lovely, and it seemed as though the millions of smiling heads in the hall, where the Tree grew, nodded and sang, “One must know everything—man is the lord of the earth.” And they were no longer drops of blood that the Tree of Knowledge wept; they were red, shining stars which he seemed to see.     101   
  “Come! come!” the quivering voice still cried, and at every step the Prince’s cheeks burned more hotly and his blood flowed more rapidly.     102   
  “I must!” said he. “It is no sin; it cannot be one. Why not follow beauty and joy? I only want to see her asleep; there will be nothing lost if I only refrain from kissing her: and I will not kiss her; I am strong and have a resolute will!”     103   
  And the Fairy threw off her shining cloak and bent back the branches, and in another moment she was hidden among them.     104   
  “I have not yet sinned,” said the Prince, “and I will not.”     105   
  And he pushed the boughs aside. There she slept already, beautiful as only a fairy in the Garden of Paradise can be. She smiled in her dreams, and he bent over her, and saw tears quivering beneath her eyelids!     106   
  “Do you weep for me?” he whispered. “Weep not, thou glorious woman! Now only I understand the bliss of Paradise! It streams through my blood, through my thoughts; the power of the angel and of increasing life I fell in my mortal body! Let what will happen to me now; one moment like this is wealth enough!”     107   
  And he kissed the tears from her eyes—his mouth touched hers.     108   
  Then there resounded a clap of thunder so loud and dreadful that no one had ever heard the like, and everything fell down; and the beautiful Fairy and the charming Paradise sank down, deeper and deeper. The Prince saw it vanish into the black night; like a little bright star it gleamed out of the far distance. A deadly chill ran through his frame, and he closed his eyes, and lay for a long time as one dead.     109   
  The cold fell upon his face, the keen wind roared round his head, and then his senses returned to him.     110   
  “What have I done?” he sighed. “I have sinned like Adam—sinned so that Paradise has sunk deep down!”     111   
  And he opened his eyes, and the star in the distance—the star that gleamed like the Paradise that had sunk down—was the morning-star in the sky.     112   
  He stood up, and found himself in the great forest, close by the Cave of the Winds, and the Mother of the Winds sat by his side: she looked angry, and raised her arm in the air.     113   
  “The very first evening!” said she. “I thought it would be so! Yes, if you were my son, you would have to go into the sack!”     114   
  “Yes, he shall go in there!” said Death. He was a strong old man, with a scythe in his hand, and with great black wings. “Yes, he shall be laid in his coffin, but not yet: I only register him, and let him wander awhile in the world to expiate his sins and to grow better. But one day I shall come. When he least expects it, I shall clap him in the black coffin, put him on my head, and fly up toward the star. There, too, blooms the Garden of Paradise; and if he is good and pious he will go in there; but if his thoughts are evil, and his heart still full of sin, he will sink with his coffin deeper than Paradise has sunk, and only every thousandth year I shall fetch him, that he may sink deeper, or that he may attain to the star—the shining star up yonder!”

The Constant Tin Soldier   
   
   
THERE were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers, for they had all been born of one old tin spoon. They shouldered their muskets and looked straight before them; their uniform was red and blue, and very splendid. The first thing they had heard in the world, when the lid was taken off their box, had been the words “Tin soldiers!” These words were uttered by a little boy, clapping his hands; the soldiers had been given to him, for it was his birthday; and now he put them upon the table. Each soldier was exactly like the rest; but one of them had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly upon one leg as the others on their two; and it was just this soldier who became remarkable.     1   
  On the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings, but the toy that attracted most attention was a neat castle of card-board. Through the little windows one could see straight into the hall. Before the castle some little trees were placed round a little looking-glass, which was to represent a clear lake. Waxen swans swam on this lake, and were mirrored in it. This was all very pretty; but the prettiest of all was a little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she was also cut out in paper, but she had a dress of the clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders, that looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining tinsel rose, as big as her whole face. The little Lady stretched out both her arms, for she was a dancer, and then she lifted one leg so high that the Tin Soldier could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself, she had but one leg.     2   
  “That would be the wife for me,” thought he; “but she is very grand. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty of us in that. It is no place for her. But I must try to make acquaintance with her.”     3   
  And then he lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was on the table; there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance.     4   
  When the evening came, all the other tin soldiers were put into their box, and the people in the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play at “visiting,” and at “war,” and “giving balls.” The tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they wanted to join, but could not lift the lid. The Nut-cracker threw somersaults, and the Pencil amused itself on the table; there was so much noise that the Canary woke up, and began to speak too, and even in verse. The only two who did not stir from their places were the Tin Soldier and the Dancing Lady; she stood straight up on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out both her arms: and he was just as enduring on his one leg; and he never turned his eyes away from her.     5   
  Now the clock struck twelve—and, bounce!—the lid flew off the snuff-box; but there was not snuff in it, but a little black goblin; you see, it was a trick.     6   
  “Tin Soldier,” said the Goblin, “don’t stare at things that don’t concern you.”     7   
  But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear him.     8   
  “Just you wait till to-morrow!” said the Goblin.     9   
  But when the morning came, and the children got up, the Tin Soldier was placed in the window; and whether it was the Goblin or the draught that did it, all at once the window flew open, and the Soldier fell, head over heels, out of the third story.     10   
  That was a terrible passage! He put his leg straight up, and struck with his helmet downward, and his bayonet between the paving-stones.     11   
  The servant-maid and the little boy came down directly to look for him, but though they almost trod upon him they could not see him. If the soldier had cried out, “Here I am!” they would have found him; but he did not think it fitting to call out loudly, because he was in uniform.     12   
  Now it began to rain; the drops soon fell thicker, and at last it came down in a complete stream. When the rain was past, two street boys came by.     13   
  “Just look!” said one of them, “there lies a tin soldier. He must come out and ride in the boat.”     14   
  And they made a boat out of a newspaper, and put the Tin Soldier in the middle of it; and so he sailed down the gutter, and the two boys ran beside him and clapped their hands. Goodness preserve us! how the waves rose in that gutter, and how fast the stream ran! But then it had been a heavy rain. The paper boat rocked up and down, and sometimes turned round so rapidly that the Tin Soldier trembled; but he remained firm, and never changed countenance, and looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket.     15   
  All at once the boat went into a long drain, and it became as dark as if he had been in his box.     16   
  “Where am I going now?” he thought. “Yes, yes, that’s the Goblin’s fault. Ah! if the little Lady only sat here with me in the boat, it might be twice as dark for what I should care.”     17   
  Suddenly there came a great water-rat, which lived under the drain.     18   
  “Have you a passport?” said the Rat. “Give me your passport.”     19   
  But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and only held his musket tighter than ever.     20   
  The boat went on, but the Rat came after it. Hu! how he gnashed his teeth, and called out to the bits of straw and wood,—     21   
  “Hold him! hold him! he hasn’t paid toll—he hasn’t shown his passport!”     22   
  But the stream became stronger and stronger. The Tin Soldier could see the bright daylight where the arch ended; but he heard a roaring noise, which might well frighten a bolder man. Only think—just where the tunnel ended, the drain ran into a great canal; and for him that would have been as dangerous as for us to be carried down a great waterfall.     23   
  Now he was already so near it that he could not stop. The boat was carried out, the poor Tin Soldier stiffening himself as much as he could, and no one could say that he moved an eyelid. The boat whirled round three or four times, and was full of water to the very edge—it must sink. The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water, and the boat sank deeper and deeper, and the paper was loosened more and more; and now the water closed over the Soldier’s head. Then he thought of the pretty little Dancer, and how he should never see her again; and it sounded in the Soldier’s ears:—
           “Farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave,   
Die shalt thou this day.”   
  24   
  And now the paper parted, and the Tin Soldier fell out; but at that moment he was snapped up by a great fish.     25   
  O, how dark it was in that fish’s body! It was darker yet than in the drain tunnel; and then it was very narrow, too. But the Tin Soldier remained unmoved, and lay at full length, shouldering his musket.     26   
  The fish swam to and fro; he made the most wonderful movements, and then became quite still. At last something flashed through him like lightning. The daylight shone quite clear, and a voice said aloud, “The Tin Soldier!” The fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and taken into the kitchen, where the cook cut him open with a large knife. She seized the Soldier round the body with both her hands, and carried him into the room where all were anxious to see the remarkable man who had travelled about in the inside of a fish; but the Tin Soldier was not at all proud. They placed him on the table, and there—no! What curious things may happen in the world! The Tin Soldier was in the very room in which he had been before! he saw the same children, and the same toys stood upon the table; and there was the pretty castle with the graceful little Dancer. She was still balancing herself on one leg, and held the other extended in the air. She was faithful too. That moved the Tin Soldier: he was very near weeping tin tears, but that would not have been proper. He looked at her, but they said nothing to each other.     27   
  Then one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and flung him into the stove. He gave no reason for doing this. It must have been the fault of the Goblin in the snuff-box.     28   
  The Tin Soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that was terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or from love he did not know. The colors had quite gone off from him; but whether that had happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief, no one could say. He looked at the little Lady, she looked at him, and he felt that he was melting; but he stood firm, shouldering his musket. Then suddenly the door flew open, and the draught of air caught the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the stove to the Tin Soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and then was gone! Then the Tin soldier melted down into a lump, and when the servant-maid took the ashes out next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the Dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, and that was burned as black as a coal.

The Daisy   
   
   
NOW you shall hear!     1   
  Out in the country, close by the road-side, there was a country-house: you yourself have certainly once seen it. Before it is a little garden with flowers, and a paling which is painted. Close by it, by the ditch, in the midst of the most beautiful green grass, grew a little Daisy. The sun shone as warmly and as brightly upon it as on the great splendid garden flowers, and so it grew from hour to hour. One morning it stood in full bloom, with its little shining white leaves spreading like rays round the little yellow sun in the centre. It never thought that no man would notice it down in the grass, and that it was a poor despised floweret; no, it was very merry, and turned to the warm sun, looked up at it, and listened to the Lark caroling high in the air.     2   
  The little Daisy was as happy as if it were a great holiday, and yet it was only a Monday. All the children were at school; and while they sat on their benches learning, it sat on its little green stalk, and learned also from the warm sun, and from all around, how good God is. And the Daisy was very glad that everything that it silently felt was sung so loudly and charmingly by the Lark. And the Daisy looked up with a kind of respect to the happy bird who could sing and fly; but it was not at all sorrowful because it could not fly and sing also.     3   
  “I can see and hear,” it thought: “the sun shines on me, and the forest kisses me. O, how richly have I been gifted!”     4   
  Within the palings stood many stiff, aristocratic flowers—the less scent they had the more they flaunted. The peonies blew themselves out to be greater than the roses, but size will not do it; the tulips had the most splendid colors, and they knew that, and held themselves bolt upright, that they might be seen more plainly. They did not notice the little Daisy outside there, but the Daisy looked at them the more, and thought, “How rich and beautiful they are! Yes, the pretty bird flies across to them and visits them. I am glad that I stand so near them, for at any rate I can enjoy the sight of their splendor!” And just as she thought that—“keevit!”—down came flying the Lark, but not down to the peonies and tulips—no, down into the grass to the lowly Daisy, which started so with joy that it did not know what to think.     5   
  The little bird danced round about it, and sang,—     6   
  “O, how soft the grass is! and see what a lovely little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!”     7   
  For the yellow point in the Daisy looked like gold, and the little leaves around it shone silvery white.     8   
  How happy was the little Daisy—no one can conceive how happy! The bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew up again into the blue air. A quarter of an hour passed, at least, before the Daisy could recover itself. Half ashamed, yet inwardly rejoiced, it looked at the other flowers in the garden, for they had seen the honor and happiness it had gained, and must understand what a joy it was. But the tulips stood up twice as stiff as before, and they looked quite peaky in the face and quite red, for they had been vexed. The peonies were quite wrong-headed: it was well they could not speak, or the Daisy would have received a good scolding. The poor little flower could see very well that they were not in a good humor, and that hurt it sensibly. At this moment there came into the garden a girl with a great sharp, shining knife; she went straight up to the tulips, and cut off one after another of them.     9   
  “O!” sighed the little Daisy, “that is dreadful! Now it is all over with them.”     10   
  Then the girl went away with the tulips. The Daisy was glad to stand out in the grass, and to be only a poor little flower; it felt very grateful; and when the sun went down it folded its leaves and went to sleep, and dreamed all night long about the sun and the pretty little bird.     11   
  The next morning, when the flower again happily stretched out all its white leaves, like little arms, toward the air and the light, it recognized the voice of the bird, but the song he was singing sounded mournful. Yes, the poor Lark had good reason to be sad: he was caught, and now sat in a cage close by the open window. He sang of free and happy roaming, sang of the young green corn in the fields, and of the glorious journey he might make on his wings high through the air. The poor Lark was not in good spirits, for there he sat a prisoner in a cage.     12   
  The little Daisy wished very much to help him. But what was it to do? Yes, that was difficult to make out. It quite forgot how everything was so beautiful around, how warm the sun shone, and how splendidly white its own leaves were. Ah! it could think only of the imprisoned bird, and how it was powerless to do anything for him.     13   
  Just then two little boys come out of the garden. One of them carried in his hand the knife which the girl had used to cut off the tulips. They went straight up to the little Daisy, which could not at all make out what they wanted.     14   
  “Here we may cut a capital piece of turf for the Lark,” said one of the boys; and he began to cut off a square patch round about the Daisy, so that the flower remained standing in its piece of grass.     15   
  “Tear off the flower!” said the other boy.     16   
  And the Daisy trembled with fear, for to be torn off would be to lose its life; and now it wanted particularly to live, as it was to be given with the piece of turf to the captive Lark.     17   
  “No, let it stay,” said the other boy; “it makes such a nice ornament.”     18   
  And so it remained, and was put into the Lark’s cage. But the poor bird complained aloud of his lost liberty, and beat his wings against the wires of his prison; and the little Daisy could not speak—could say no consoling word to him, gladly as it would have done so. And thus the whole morning passed.     19   
  “Here is no water,” said the captive Lark. “They are all gone out, and have forgotten to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and burning. It is like fire and ice within me, and the air is so close. O, I must die! I must leave the warm sunshine, the fresh green, and all the splendor that God has created!”     20   
  And then he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with it. Then the bird’s eye fell upon the Daisy, and he nodded to it, and kissed it with his beak, and said,—     21   
  “You also must wither in here, poor little flower. They have given you to me with the little patch of green grass on which you grow, instead of the whole world which was mine out there! Every little blade of grass shall be a great tree for me, and every one of your fragrant leaves a greater flower. Ah, you only tell me how much I have lost!”     22   
  “If I could only comfort him!” thought the Daisy.     23   
  It could not stir a leaf; but the scent which streamed forth from its delicate leaves was far stronger than is generally found in these flowers; the bird also noticed that, and though he was fainting with thirst, and in his pain plucked up the green blades of grass, he did not touch the flower.     24   
  The evening came on, and yet nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a drop of water. Then he stretched out his pretty wings and beat the air frantically with them; his song changed to a mournful piping, his little head sank down toward the flower, and the bird’s heart broke with want and yearning. Then the flower could not fold its leaves, as it had done on the previous evening, and sleep; it drooped, sorrowful and sick, toward the earth.     25   
  Not till the next morn did the boys come; and when they found the bird dead they wept—wept many tears—and dug him a neat grave, which they adorned with leaves of flowers. The bird’s corpse was put into a pretty red box, for he was to be royally buried—the poor bird! While he was alive and sang they forgot him, and let him sit in his cage and suffer want; but now that he was dead he had adornment and many tears.     26   
  But the patch of turf with the Daisy on it was thrown out into the high road: no one thought of the flower that had felt the most for the little bird, and would have been so glad to console him.

   
The Nightingale   
   
   
IN China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but that’s just why it’s worth while to hear the story, before it is forgotten. The Emperor’s palace was the most splendid in the world; it was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and brittle that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the costliest of them silver bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody should pass by without noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor’s garden was admirably arranged. And it extended so far, that the gardener himself did not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could sail to and fro beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a nightingale, which sang so splendidly that even the poor Fisherman, who had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale.     1   
  “How beautiful that is!” he said; but he was obliged to attend to his property, and thus forgot the bird. But when in the next night the bird sang again, and the Fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, “How beautiful that is!”     2   
  From all the countries of the world travellers came to the city of the Emperor and admired it, and the palace, and the garden, but when they heard the Nightingale, they said, “That is the best of all!”     3   
  And the travellers told of it when they came home; and the learned men wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they did not forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and those who were poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale in the wood by the deep lake.     4   
  The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions of the city, the palace, and the garden. “But the Nightingale is the best of all!”—it stood written there.     5   
  “What’s that?” exclaimed the Emperor. “I don’t know the Nightingale at all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I’ve never heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing for the first time from books!”     6   
  And hereupon he called his Cavalier. This Cavalier was so grand that if any one lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him any question, he answered nothing but “P!”—and that meant nothing.     7   
  “There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale!” said the Emperor. “They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why have I never heard anything about it?”     8   
  “I have never heard him named,” replied the Cavalier. “He has never been introduced at court.”     9   
  “I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me,” said the Emperor. “All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it myself!”     10   
  “I have never heard him mentioned,” said the Cavalier, “I will seek for him. I will find him.”     11   
  But where was he to be found? The Cavalier ran up and down all the staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the Cavalier ran back to the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of books.     12   
  “Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is fiction, besides something that they call the black art.”     13   
  “But the book in which I read this,” said the Emperor, “was sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan, and therefore it cannot be a falsehood. I will hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my imperial favor; and if it does not come, all the court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped!”     14   
  “Tsing-pe” said the Cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the court ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon.     15   
  Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all the world knew excepting the people at court.     16   
  At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said,—     17   
  “The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. She lives down by the strand, and when I get back and am tired, and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the water comes into my eyes, and it just as if my mother kissed me!”     18   
  “Little Kitchen Girl,” said the Cavalier, “I will get you a place in the kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will lead us to the Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening.”     19   
  So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed to sing; half the court went forth. When they were in the midst of their journey a cow began to low.     20   
  “O!” cried the court page, “now we have it! That shows a wonderful power in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before.”     21   
  “No, those are cows lowing!” said the little Kitchen Girl. “We are a long way from the place yet!”     22   
  Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.     23   
  “Glorious!” said the Chinese Court Preacher. “Now I hear it—it sounds just like little church bells.”     24   
  “No, those are frogs!” said the little Kitchen-maid. “But now I think we shall soon hear it.”     25   
  And then the Nightingale began to sing.     26   
  “That is it!” exclaimed the little Girl. “Listen, listen! and yonder it sits.”     27   
  And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.     28   
  “Is it possible?” cried the Cavalier. “I should never have thought it looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its color at seeing such grand people around.”     29   
  “Little Nightingale” called the Kitchen-maid, quite loudly “our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him.”     30   
  “With the greatest pleasure!” replied the Nightingale, and began to sing most delightfully.     31   
  “It sounds just like glass bells!” said the Cavalier. “And look at its little throat, how it’s working! It’s wonderful that we should never have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at court.”     32   
  “Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?” asked the Nightingale, for it thought the Emperor was present.     33   
  “My excellent little Nightingale,” said the Cavalier, “I have great pleasure in inviting you to a court festival this evening, when you shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing.”     34   
  “My song sounds best in the greenwood!” replied the Nightingale; still it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.     35   
  The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the passages. There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and all the bells rang so loudly that one could not hear one’s self speak.     36   
  In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole court was there, and the little Cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the door, as she had now received the title of a real court cook. All were in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the Emperor nodded.     37   
  And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the Emperor’s eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart. The Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined this with thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward.     38   
  “I have seen tears in the Emperor’s eyes—that is the real treasure to me. An emperor’s tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!” And then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.     39   
  “That’s the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!” said the ladies who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when any one spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And the lackeys and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied too; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the most difficult to please. In short, the Nightingale achieved a real success.     40   
  It was now to remain at court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed when the Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened to the bird’s leg, which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure in an excursion of that kind.     41   
  The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said nothing but “Nightin,” and the other said “gale;” and then they sighed, and understood one another. Eleven peddler’s children were named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note.     42   
  One day the Emperor received a large parcel, on which was written “The Nightingale.”     43   
  “There we have a new book about this celebrated bird,” said the Emperor.     44   
  But it was not a book, but a little work of art, contained in a box, an artificial nightingale, which was to sing like a natural one and was brilliantly ornamented with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. So soon as the artificial bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that he really sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, “The Emperor of China’s Nightingale is poor compared to that of the Emperor of Japan.”     45   
  “That is capital!” said they all, and he who had brought the artificial bird immediately received the title, Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.     46   
  “Now they must sing together; what a duet that will be!”     47   
  And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the artificial bird sang waltzes.     48   
  “That’s not his fault,” said the Play-master; “he’s quite perfect, and very much in my style.”     49   
  Now the artificial bird was to sing alone. He had just as much success as the real one, and then it was much handsomer to look at—it shone like bracelets and breastpins.     50   
  Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to sing something now. But where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window, back to the greenwood.     51   
  “But what is become of that?” said the Emperor.     52   
  And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale, and declared that it was a very ungrateful creature.     53   
  “We have the best bird, after all,” said they.     54   
  And so the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty-fourth time that they listened to the same piece. For all that they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And the Play-master praised the bird particularly; yes, he declared that it was better than a nightingale, not only with regard to its plumage and the many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.     55   
  “For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial Majesty, with a real nightingale one can never calculate what is coming, but in this artificial bird everything is settled. One can explain it; one can open it, and make people understand where the waltzes come from, how they go, and how one follows up another.”     56   
  “Those are quite our own ideas,” they all said.     57   
  And the speaker received permission to show the bird to the people on the next Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, the Emperor commanded; and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had all got tipsy upon tea, for that’s quite the Chinese fashion; and they all said, “O!” and held up their forefingers and nodded. But the poor Fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said,—     58   
  “It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies resemble each other, but there’s something wanting, though I know not what!”     59   
  The real Nightingale was banished from the country and empire. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor’s bed; all the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, were ranged about it; in title it had advanced to be the High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank, to number one on the left hand; for the Emperor considered that side the most important in which the heart is placed, and even in an emperor the heart is on the left side; and the Play-master wrote a work of five-and-twenty volumes about the artificial bird; it was very learned and very long, full of most difficult Chinese words; but yet all the people declared that they had read it, and understood it, for fear of being considered stupid, and having their bodies trampled on.     60   
  So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese knew every little twitter in the artificial bird’s song by heart. But just for that reason it pleased them best—they could sing with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang, “Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!” and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that was certainly famous.     61   
  But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird said, “Whizz!” Something cracked. “Whir-r-r!” All the wheels ran round, and then the music stopped.     62   
  The Emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and caused his body physician to be called; but what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker, and after a good deal of talking and investigation, the bird was put into something like order; but the Watchmaker said that the bird must be carefully treated, for the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put new ones in such a manner that the music would go. There was great lamentation; only once in a year was it permitted to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the Play-master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as before—and so of course it was as good as before.     63   
  Now five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation. The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was ill, and could not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the Cavalier how their old Emperor did.     64   
  “P!” said he, and shook his head.     65   
  Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great gorgeous bed; the whole court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay homage to the new ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies’-maids had a great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid down so that no footstep could be heard, and therefore it was quiet there, quiet quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet: stiff and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird.     66   
  The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay upon his chest: he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death who sat upon his chest, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one hand the Emperor’s sword and in the other his beautiful banner. And all around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quiet lovely and mild. These were all the Emperor’s bad and good deeds, that stood before him now that Death sat upon his heart.     67   
  “Do you remember this?” whispered one to the other. “Do you remember that?” and then they told him so much that the perspiration ran from his forehead.     68   
  “I did not know that!” said the Emperor. “Music! music! the great Chinese drum!” he cried, “so that I need not hear all they say!” And they continued speaking, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said.     69   
  “Music! music!” cried the Emperor. “You little precious golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck—sing now, sing!”     70   
  But the bird stood still; no one was there to wind him up, and he could not sing without that; but Death continued to stare at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.     71   
  Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It has heard of the Emperor’s sad plight, and had come to sing to him of comfort and hope. And as it sang the spectres grew paler and paler; the blood ran quickly and more quickly through the Emperor’s weak limbs; and even Death listened, and said,—     72   
  “Go on, little Nightingale, go on!”     73   
  “But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor’s crown?”     74   
  And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet church-yard, where the white roses grow, where the elder-blossom smells sweet, and where the fresh grass is moistened by the tears of survivors. The Death felt a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold, white mist.     75   
  “Thanks! thanks!” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little bird! I know you well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my heart! How can I reward you?”     76   
  “You have rewarded me!” replied the Nightingale. “I have drawn tears from your eyes, when I sang the first time— I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer’s heart. But now sleep and grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you something.”     77   
  And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows, when he awoke refreshed and restored; not one of his servants had yet returned, for they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still sat beside him and sang.     78   
  “You must always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You shall sing as you please; and I’ll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”     79   
  “Not so,” replied the Nightingale. “It did well as long as it could; keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace to dwell in; but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something, so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that remain hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant’s roof, to every one who dwells far away from you and from your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I will come and sing to you—but one thing you must promise me.”     80   
  “Everything!” said the Emperor; and he stood there in his imperial robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with gold to his heart.     81   
  “One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. Then it will go all the better.”     82   
  And the Nightingale flew away.     83   
  The servants came in to look to their dead Emperor, and—yes, there he stood, and the Emperor said “Good morning!”

   
The Storks   
   
   
ON the last house in a little village stood a stork’s nest. The Mother Stork sat in it with her four young ones, who stretched out their heads with the pointed black beaks, for their beaks had not yet turned red. A little way off stood the Father Stork, all alone on the ridge of the roof, quite upright and stiff; he had drawn up one of his legs, so as not to be quite idle while he stood sentry. One would have thought he had been carved out of wood, so still did he stand. He thought, “It must look very grand, that my wife has a sentry standing by her nest. They can’t tell that it is her husband. They certainly think I have been commanded to stand here. That looks so aristocratic!” And he went on standing on one leg.     1   
  Below in the street a whole crowd of children were playing; and when they caught sight of the Storks, one of the boldest of the boys, and afterwards all of them, sang the old verse about the Storks. But they only sang it just as he could remember it:—
“The first he will be hanged,
           “Stork, stork, long-legged stork;   
Off to thy home I prithee walk.   
Thy dear wife is in the nest,   
Where she rocks her young to rest.   
   
  The second will be hit,   
The third he will be shot,   
  And the fourth put on the spit.”   
  2   
  “Just hear what those boys are saying!” said the little Stork children. “They say we’re to be hanged and killed.”     3   
  “You’re not to care for that!” said the Mother Stork. “Don’t listen to it, and then it won’t matter.”     4   
  But the boys went on singing, and pointed at the Storks mockingly with their fingers; only one boy, whose name was Peter, declared that it was a sin to make a jest of animals, and he would not join in it at all.     5   
  The Mother Stork comforted her children. “Don’t you mind it at all,” she said; “see how quiet your father stands, though it’s only on one leg.”     6   
  “We are very much afraid,” said the young Storks; and they drew their heads far back into the nest.     7   
  Now to-day, when the children came out again to play, and saw the Storks, they sang their song,—
           “The first he will be hanged,   
  The second will be hit.”   
  8   
  “Shall we be hanged and beaten?” asked the young Storks.     9   
  “No, certainly not,” replied the mother. “You shall learn to fly; I’ll exercise you; then we shall fly into the meadows and pay a visit to the frogs; they will bow before us in the water, and sing ‘Co-ax! co-ax!’ and then we shall eat them up. That will be a real pleasure.”     10   
  “And what then?” asked the young Storks.     11   
  “Then all the Storks will assemble, all that are here in the whole country, and the autumn exercises begin: then one must fly well, for that is highly important, for whoever cannot fly properly will be thrust dead by the general’s beak; so take care and learn well when the exercising begins.”     12   
  “But then we shall be killed, as the boys say—and only listen, now they’re singing again.”     13   
  “Listen to me, and not to them,” said the Mother Stork. “After the great review we shall fly away to the warm countries, far away from here, over mountains and forests. We shall fly to Egypt, where there are three covered houses of stone, which curl in a point and tower above the clouds; they are called pyramids, and are older than a stork can imagine. There is a river in that country which runs out of its bed, and then all the land is turned to mud. One walks about in the mud, and eats frogs.”     14   
  “O!” cried all the young ones.     15   
  “Yes! It is glorious there! One does nothing all day long but eat; and while we are so comfortable over there, here there is not a green leaf on the trees; here it is so cold that the clouds freeze to pieces, and fall down in little white rags!”     16   
  It was the snow that she meant, but she could not explain it in any other way.     17   
  “And do the naughty boys freeze to pieces?” asked the young Storks.     18   
  “No, they don’t freeze to pieces; but they are not far from it, and must sit in the dark room and cower. You, on the other hand, can fly about in foreign lands, where there are flowers, and the sun shines warm.”     19   
  Now some time had elapsed, and the nestlings had grown so large that they could stand upright in the nest and look far around; and the Father Stork came every day with delicious frogs, little snakes, and all kinds of stork-dainties as he found them. O! it looked funny when he performed feats before them. He laid his head quite back upon his tail, and clapped with his beak as if he had been a little clapper; and then he told them stories, all about the marshes.     20   
  “Listen! now you must learn to fly,” said the Mother Stork one day; and all the four young ones had to go out on the ridge of the roof. O, how they tottered! how they balanced themselves with their wings, and yet they were nearly falling down.     21   
  “Only look at me,” said the mother. “Thus you must hold your heads! Thus you must pitch your feet! One, two! one, two! That’s what will help you on in the world.”     22   
  Then she flew a little way, and the young ones made a little clumsy leap. Bump!—there they lay, for their bodies were too heavy.     23   
  “I will not fly!” said one of the young Storks, and crept back into the nest. “I don’t care about getting to the warm countries.”     24   
  “Do you want to freeze to death here, when the winter comes? Are the boys to come and hang you, and singe you, and roast you? Now I’ll call them.”     25   
  “O no!” cried the young Stork, and hopped out on to the roof again like the rest.     26   
  On the third day they could actually fly a little, and then they thought they could also soar and hover in the air. They tried it, but—bump!—down they tumbled, and they had to shoot their wings again quickly enough. Now the boys came into the street again and sang their song,—
           “Stork, stork, long-legged stork!”   
  27   
  “Shall we fly down and pick their eyes out?” asked the young Storks.     28   
  “No,” replied the mother, “let them alone. Only listen to me; that’s far more important. One, two, three!—now we fly round to the right. One, two, three!—now to the left round the chimney! See, that was very good! the last kick with the feet was so neat and correct that you shall have permission to-morrow to fly with me to the marsh! Several nice Stork families go there with their young: show them that mine are the nicest, and that you can start proudly; that looks well, and will get you consideration.”     29   
  “But are we not to take revenge on the rude boys?” asked the young Storks.     30   
  “Let them scream as much as they like. You will fly up to the clouds, and get to the land of the pyramids, when they will have to shiver, and not have a green leaf or a sweet apple.”     31   
  “Yes, we will revenge ourselves!” they whispered to one another; and then the exercising went on.     32   
  Among all the boys down in the street, the one most bent upon singing the teasing song was he who had begun it, and he was quite a little boy. He could hardly be more than six years old. The young Storks certainly thought he was a hundred, for he was much bigger than their mother and father; and how should they know how old children and grown-up people can be! Their revenge was to come upon this boy, for it was he who had begun, and he always kept on. The young Storks were very angry; and as they grew bigger they were less inclined to bear it: at last their mother had to promise them that they should be revenged, but not till the last day of their stay.     33   
  “We must first see how you behave at the grand review. If you get through badly, so that the general stabs you through the chest with his beak, the boys will be right, at least in one way. Let us see.”     34   
  “Yes, you shall see!” cried the young Storks; and then they took all imaginable pains. They practiced every day, and flew so neatly and so lightly that it was a pleasure to see them.     35   
  Now the autumn came on; all the Storks began to assemble, to fly away to the warm countries while it is winter here. That was a review. They had to fly over forests and villages, to show how well they could soar, for it was a long journey they had before them. The young Storks did their parts so well that they got as a mark, “Remarkably well, with frogs and snakes.” That was the highest mark; and they might eat the frogs and snakes; and that is what they did.     36   
  “Now we will be revenged!” they said.     37   
  “Yes, certainly!” said the Mother Stork. “What I have thought of will be the best. I know the pond in which all the little mortals lie till the stork comes and brings them to their parents. The pretty little babies lie there and dream so sweetly as they never dream afterwards. All parents are glad to have such a child, and all children want to have a sister or a brother. Now we will fly to the pond, and bring one for each of the children who have not sung the naughty song and laughed at the Storks.”     38   
  “But he who began to sing,—that naughty, ugly boy!” screamed the young Storks; “what shall we do with him?”     39   
  “There is a little dead child in the pond, one that has dreamed itself to death; we will bring that for him. Then he will cry because we have brought him a little dead brother. But that good boy—you have not forgotten him, the one who said, “It is wrong to laugh at animals!’—for him we will bring a brother and a sister too. And as his name is Peter, all of you shall be called Peter too.”     40   
  And it was done as she said; all the storks were named Peter, and so they are all called even now.

The Darning-needle   
   
   
THERE was once a darning-needle, who thought herself so fine, she imagined she was an embroidering-needle.     1   
  “Take care, and mind you hold me tight!” she said to the Fingers that took her out. “Don’t let me fall! If I fall on the ground I shall certainly never be found again, for I am so fine!”     2   
  “That’s as it may be,” said the Fingers; and they grasped her round the body.     3   
  “See, I’m coming with a train!” said the Darning-needle, and she drew a long thread after her, but there was no knot in the thread.     4   
  The Fingers pointed the needle just at the cook’s slipper, in which the upper leather had burst, and was to be sewn together.     5   
  “That’s vulgar work,” said the Darning-needle. “I shall never get through. I’m breaking! I’m breaking!” And she really broke. “Did I not say so?” said the Darning-needle; “I’m too fine!”     6   
  “Now it’s quite useless,” said the Fingers; but they were obliged to hold her fast, all the same; for the cook dropped some sealing-wax upon the needle, and pinned her handkerchief together with it in front.     7   
  “So, now I’m a breast-pin!” said the Darning-needle. “I knew very well that I should come to honor: when one is something, one comes to something!”     8   
  And she laughed quietly to herself—and one can never see when a darning-needle laughs. There she sat, as proud as if she was in a state coach, and looked all about her.     9   
  “May I be permitted to ask if you are of gold?” she inquired of the pin, her neighbor. “You have a very pretty appearance, and a peculiar head, but it is only little. You must take pains to grow, for it’s not every one that has sealing-wax dropped upon him.”     10   
  And the Darning-needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was rinsing out.     11   
  “Now we’re going on a journey,” said the Darning-needle. “If I only don’t get lost!”     12   
  But she really was lost.     13   
  “I’m too fine for this world,” she observed, as she lay in the gutter. “But I know who I am, and there’s always something in that!”     14   
  So the Darning-needle kept her proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor. And things of many kinds swam over her, chips and straws and pieces of old newspapers.     15   
  “Only look how they sail!” said the Darning-needle. “They don’t know what is under them! I’m here, I remain firmly here. See, there goes a chip thinking of nothing in the world but of himself—of a chip! There’s a straw going by now. How he turns! how he twirls about! Don’t think only of yourself, you might easily run up against a stone. There swims a bit of newspaper. What’s written upon it has long been forgotten, and yet it gives itself airs. I sit quietly and patiently here. I know who I am, and I shall remain what I am.”     16   
  One day something lay close beside her that glittered splendidly; then the Darning-needle believed that it was a diamond; but it was a bit of broken bottle; and because it shone, the Darning-needle spoke to it, introducing herself as a breast-pin.     17   
  “I suppose you are a diamond?” she observed.     18   
  “Why, yes, something of that kind.”     19   
  And then each believed the other to be a very valuable thing; and they began speaking about the world, and how very conceited it was.     20   
  “I have been in a lady’s box,” said the Darning-needle, “and this lady was a cook. She had five fingers on each hand, and I never saw anything so conceited as those five fingers. And yet they were only there that they might take me out of the box and put me back into it.”     21   
  “Were they of good birth?” asked the Bit of Bottle.     22   
  “No, indeed, replied the Darning-needle; “but very haughty. There were five brothers, all of the finger family. They kept very proudly together, though they were of different lengths: the outermost, the thumbling, was short and fat; he walked out in front of the ranks, and only had one joint in his back, and could only make a single bow; but he said that if he were hacked off a man, that man was useless for service in war. Daintymount, the second finger, thrust himself into sweet and sour, pointed to sun and moon, and gave the impression when they wrote. Longman, the third, looked at all the others over his shoulder. Goldborder, the fourth, went about with a golden belt round his waist; and little Playman did nothing at all, and was proud of it. There was nothing but bragging among them, and therefore I went away.”     23   
  “And now we sit here and glitter!” said the Bit of Bottle.     24   
  At that moment more water came into the gutter, so that it overflowed, and the Bit of Bottle was carried away.     25   
  “So he is disposed of,” observed the Darning-needle. “I remain here, I am too fine. But that’s my pride, and my pride is honorable.” And proudly she sat there, and had many great thoughts. “I could almost believe I had been born of a sunbeam, I’m so fine! It really appears as if the sunbeams were always seeking for me under the water. Ah! I’m so fine that my mother cannot find me. If I had my old eye, which broke off, I think I should cry; but, no, I should not do that; it’s not genteel to cry.”     26   
  One day a couple of street boys lay grubbing in the gutter, where they sometimes found old nails, farthings, and similar treasures. It was dirty work, but they took great delight in it.     27   
  “O!” cried one, who had pricked himself with the Darning-needle, “there’s a fellow for you!”     28   
  “I’m not a fellow; I’m a young lady!” said the Darning-needle.     29   
  But nobody listened to her. The sealing-wax had come off, and she had turned black; but black makes one look slender, and she thought herself finer even than before.     30   
  “Here comes an egg-shell sailing along!” said the boys; and they stuck the Darning-needle fast in the egg-shell.     31   
  “White walls, and black myself! that looks well,” remarked the Darning-needle. “Now one can see me. I only hope I shall not be seasick!” But she was not seasick at all. “It is good against seasickness, if one has a steel stomach, and does not forget that one is a little more than an ordinary person! Now my seasickness is over. The finer one is, the more one can bear.”     32   
  “Crack!” went the egg-shell, for a wagon went over her.     33   
  “Good heavens, how it crushes one!” said the Darning-needle. “I’m getting seasick now,—I’m quite sick.”     34   
  But she was not really sick, though the wagon went over her; she lay there at full length, and there she may lie.     35   

The Shadow   
   
   
IT is in the hot lands that the sun burns, sure enough! there the people become quite mahogany brown, aye, and in the hottest lands they are burnt to negroes. But now it was only to the hot lands that a learned man had come from the cold; there he thought that he could run about just as when at home, but he soon found out his mistake.     1   
  He, and all sensible folks, were obliged to stay within doors; the window-shutters and doors were closed the whole day; it looked as if the whole house slept, or there was no one at home.     2   
  The narrow street, with the high houses, was built so that the sunshine must fall there from morning till evening,—it was really not to be borne.     3   
  The learned man from the cold lands—he was a young man, and seemed to be a clever man—sat in a glowing oven; it took effect on him, he became quite meagre—even his shadow shrunk in, for the sun had also an effect on it. It was first toward evening, when the sun was down, that they began to freshen up again.     4   
  In the warm lands every window has a balcony, and the people come out on all the balconies in the street—for one must have air, even if one be accustomed to be mahogany! It was lively both up and down the street. Tailors, and shoemakers, and all the folks, moved out into the street; chairs and tables were brought forth; and candles burnt—yes, above a thousand lights were burning; and the one talked and the other sung, and people walked and church-bells rang, and asses went along with a dingle-dingle-dong! for they too had bells on. The street boys were screaming and hooting, and shouting and shooting, with devils and detonating balls: and there came corpse bearers and hood wearers,—for there were funerals with psalm and hymn; and then the din of carriages driving and company arriving,—yes, it was, in truth, lively enough down in the street. Only in that single house, which stood opposite that in which the learned foreigner lived, it was quite still; and yet some one lived there, for there stood flowers in the balcony—they grew so well in the sun’s heat!—and that they could not do unless they were watered; and some one must water them—there must be somebody there. The door opposite was also opened late in the evening, but it was dark within, at least in the front room; further in there was heard the sound of music. The learned foreigner thought it quite marvelous, but now—it might be that he only imagined it, for he found everything marvelous out there in the warm lands, if there had only been no sun. The stranger’s landlord said that he didn’t know who had taken the house opposite, one saw no person about, and as to the music, it appeared to him to be extremely tiresome. “It is as if some one sat there and practiced a piece that he could not master—always the same piece. ‘I shall master it!’ says he; but yet he cannot master it, however long he plays.”     5   
  One night the stranger awoke—he slept with the doors of the balcony open—the curtain before it was raised by the wind, and he thought that a strange lustre came from the opposite neighbor’s house; all the flowers shone like flames, in the most beautiful colors, and in the midst of the flowers stood a slender, graceful maiden,—it was as if she also shone; the light really hurt his eyes. He now opened them quite wide—yes, he was quite awake; with one spring he was on the floor; he crept gently behind the curtain, but the maiden was gone; the flowers shone no longer, but there they stood, fresh and blooming as ever: the door was ajar, and, far within, the music sounded so soft and delightful, one could really melt away in sweet thoughts from it. Yet it was like a piece of enchantment. And who lived there? Where was the actual entrance? The whole of the ground-floor was a row of shops, and there people could not always be running through.     6   
  One evening, the stranger sat out on the balcony. The light burnt in the room behind him; and thus it was quite natural that his shadow should fall on his opposite neighbor’s wall. Yes, there it sat, directly opposite, between the flowers on the balcony; and when the stranger moved, the shadow also moved: for that it always does.     7   
  “I think my shadow is the only living thing one sees over there,” said the Learned Man. “See! how nicely it sits between the flowers. The door stands half-open: now the shadow should be cunning, and go into the room, look about, and then come and tell me what it has seen. Come, now! be useful, and do me a service,” said he, in jest. “Have the kindness to step in. Now! art thou going?” and then he nodded to the Shadow, and the Shadow nodded again. “Well, then, go! but don’t stay away.”     8   
  The stranger rose, and his Shadow on their opposite neighbor’s balcony rose also; the stranger turned round, and the Shadow also turned around. Yes! if any one had paid particular attention to it, they would have seen, quite distinctly, that the Shadow went in through the half-open balcony-door of their opposite neighbor, just as the stranger went into his own room, and let the long curtain fall down after him.     9   
  Next morning, the Learned Man went out to drink coffee and read the newspapers.     10   
  “What is that?” said he, as he came out into the sunshine. “I have no shadow! So, then, it has actually gone last night, and not come again. It is really tiresome!”     11   
  This annoyed him: not so much because the shadow was gone, but because he knew there was a story about a man without a shadow. It was known to everybody at home, in the cold lands; and if the Learned Man now came there and told his story, they would say that he was imitating it, and that he had no need to do. He would, therefore, not talk about it at all; and that was wisely thought.     12   
  In the evening, he went out again on the balcony. He had placed the light directly behind him, for he knew that the shadow would always have its master for a screen, but he could not entice it. He made himself little; he made himself great; but no shadow came again. He said, “Hem! hem!” but it was of no use.     13   
  It was vexatious; but in the warm lands everything grows so quickly; and after the lapse of eight days he observed, to his great joy, that a new shadow came in the sunshine. In the course of three weeks he had a very fair shadow, which, when he set out for his home in the northern lands, grew more and more in the journey, so that at last it was so long and so large that it was more than sufficient.     14   
  The Learned Man then came home, and he wrote books about what was true in the world, and about what was good, and what was beautiful; and there passed days and years,—yes! many years passed away.     15   
  One evening, as he was sitting in his room, there was a gentle knocking at the door.     16   
  “Come in!” said he; but no one came in; so he opened the door, and there stood before him such an extremely lean man, that he felt quite strange. As to the rest, the man was very finely dressed,—he must be a gentleman.     17   
  “Whom have I the honor of speaking to?” asked the Learned Man.     18   
  “Yes, I thought as much,” said the fine man. “I thought you would not know me. I have got so much body. I have even got flesh and clothes. You certainly never thought of seeing me so well off. Do you not know your old Shadow? You certainly thought I should never more return. Things have gone on well with me since I was last with you. I have, in all respects, become very well off. Shall I purchase my freedom from service? If so, I can do it;” and then he rattled a whole bunch of valuable seals that hung to his watch, and he stuck his hand in the thick gold chain he wore around his neck;—nay! how all his fingers glittered with diamond rings; and then all were pure gems.     19   
  “Nay, I cannot recover from my surprise!” said the Learned Man: “what is the meaning of all this?”     20   
  “Something common it is not,” said the Shadow: “but you yourself do not belong to the common order; and I, as you know well, have from a child followed in your footsteps. As soon as you found I was capable to go out alone in the world, I went my own way. I am in the most brilliant circumstances, but there came a sort of desire over me to see you once more before you die;—you will die, I suppose? I also wished to see this land again,—for you know we always love our native land. I know you have got another Shadow again; have I anything to pay to it or you? If so, you will oblige me by saying what it is.”     21   
  “Nay, is it really thou?” said the Learned Man: “it is most remarkable. I never imagined that one’s old shadow could come again as a man.”     22   
  “Tell me what I have to pay,” said the Shadow; “for I don’t like to be in any sort of debt.”     23   
  “How canst thou talk so?” said the Learned Man; “what debt is there total about? Make thyself as free as any one else. I am extremely glad to her of thy good fortune: sit down, old friend, and tell me a little how it has gone with thee, and what thou hast seen at our opposite neighbor’s there—in the warm lands.”     24   
  “Yes, I will tell you all about it,” said the Shadow, and sat down: “but then you must also promise me, that, wherever you may meet me, you will never say to any one here in the town that I have been your shadow. I intend to get betrothed, for I can provide for more than one family.”     25   
  “Be quite at thy ease about that,” said the Learned Man; “I shall not say to any one who thou actually art; there is my hand—I promise it, and a man’s bond is his word.”     26   
  “A word is a shadow,” said the Shadow, “and as such it must speak.”     27   
  It was really quite astonishing how much of a man it was. It was dressed entirely in black, and of the very finest cloth; it had patent leather boots, and a hat that could be folded together, so that it was bare crown and brim; not to speak of what we already know it had—seals, gold neck-chain, and diamond rings; yes, the Shadow was well-dressed, and it was just that which made it quite a man.     28   
  “Now I shall tell you my adventures,” said the Shadow; and then he sat, with the polished boots on, as heavily as he could on the arm of the Learned Man’s new shadow, which lay like a poodle-dog at his feet. Now this was perhaps from arrogance; and the shadow on the ground kept itself so still and quiet, that it might hear all that passed: it wished to know how it could get free, and work its way up, so as to become its own master.     29   
  “Do you know who lived in our opposite neighbor’s house?” said the Shadow; “it was the most charming of all beings, it was Poetry! I was there for three weeks, and that has as much effect as if one had lived three thousand years, and read all that was composed and written; that is what I say, and it is right. I have seen everything, and I know everything!”     30   
  “Poetry!” cried the Learned Man; “yes, yes, she is often an anchoret in the large towns! Poetry! yes, I have seen her,—a single, short moment, but sleep came into my eyes! She stood on the balcony and shone as the aurora borealis shines. Go on, go on!—thou wert on the balcony, and went through the door-way, and then—”     31   
  “Then I was in the antechamber,” said the Shadow. “You always sat and looked over the antechamber. There was no light; there was a sort of twilight, but the one door stood open directly opposite the other through a long row of rooms and saloons, and there it was lighted up. I should have been completely killed if I had gone over to the maiden, but I was circumspect, I took time to think, and that one must always do.”     32   
  “And what didst thou then see?” asked the Learned Man.     33   
  “I saw everything, and I shall tell all to you; but,—it is no pride on my part,—as a free man, and with the knowledge I have, not to speak of my position in life, my excellent circumstances,—I certainly wish that you would say you to me!”     34   
  “I beg your pardon,” said the Learned Man; “it is an old habit with me. You are perfectly right, and I shall remember it; but now you must tell me all that you saw!”     35   
  “Everything!” said the Shadow, “for I saw everything, and I know everything!”     36   
  “How did it look in the furthest saloon?” asked the Learned Man. “Was it there as in the fresh woods? Was it there as in a holy church? Were the saloons like the starlit firmament when we stand on the high mountains?”     37   
  “Everything was there!” said the Shadow. “I did not to quite in; I remained in the foremost room, in the twilight, but I stood there quite well; I saw everything, and I know everything! I have been in the antechamber at the court of Poetry.”     38   
  “But what did you see? Did all the gods of the olden times pass through the large saloons? Did the old heroes combat there? Did sweet children play there, and relate their dreams?”     39   
  “I tell you I was there, and you can conceive that I saw everything there was to be seen. Had you come over there, you would not have been a man; but I became so! And besides, I learned to know my inward nature, my innate qualities, the relationship I had with Poetry. At the time I was with you, I thought not of that, but always—you know it well—when the sun rose, and when the sun went down, I became so strangely great; in the moonlight I was very near being more distinct than yourself; at that time I did not understand my nature; it was revealed to me in the antechamber! I became a man! I came out matured; but you were no longer in the warm lands: as a man I was ashamed to go as I did. I was in want of boots, of clothes, of the whole human varnish that makes a man perceptible. I took my way—I tell it to you, but you will not put it in any book—I took my way to the cake woman—I hid myself behind her; the woman didn’t think how much she concealed. I went out first in the evening; I ran about the streets in the moonlight; I made myself long up the walls—it tickles the back so delightfully! I ran up, and I ran down, peeped into the highest windows, into the saloons, and on the roofs. I peeped in where no one could peep, and I saw what no one else saw, what no one should see! This is, in fact, a base world! I would not be a man if it were not now once accepted and regarded as something to be so! I saw the most unimaginable things with the women, with the men, with parents, and with the sweet, matchless children; I saw” said the Shadow, “what no human being must know, but what they would all so willingly know—what is bad in their neighbor. Had I written a newspaper, it would have been read! but I wrote direct to the persons themselves, and there was consternation in all the towns where I came. They were so afraid of me, and yet they were so excessively fond on me. The professor made a professor of me; the tailors gave me new clothes—I am well furnished; the master of the mint struck new coin for me, and the women said I was so handsome! and so I became the man I am. And I now bid you farewell;—here is my card—I live on the sunny side of the street, and am always at home in rainy weather!” And so away went the Shadow.     40   
  “That was most extraordinary!” said the Learned Man.     41   
  Years and days passed away, then the Shadow came again.     42   
  “How goes it?” said the Shadow.     43   
  “Alas!” said the Learned Man, “I write about the true, and the good, and the beautiful, but no one cares to hear such things! I am quite desperate, for I take it so much to heart!”     44   
  “But I don’t!” said the Shadow; “I become fat, and it is that one wants to become! You do not understand the world. You will become ill by it. You must travel! I shall make a tour this summer; will you go with me? I should like to have a travelling companion! will you go with me, as shadow? It will be a great pleasure for me to have you with me,—I shall pay the travelling expenses!”     45   
  “Nay, this is too much!” said the Learned Man.     46   
  “It is just as one takes it,” said the Shadow. “It will do you much good to travel!—will you be my shadow?—you shall have everything free on the journey!”     47   
  “Nay, that is too bad!” said the Learned Man.     48   
  “But it is just so with the world!” said the Shadow, “and so it will be!” and away it went again.     49   
  The Learned Man was not at all in the most enviable state; grief and torment followed him, and what he said about the true, and the good, and the beautiful was, to most persons, like roses for a cow!—he was quite ill at last.     50   
  “You really look like a shadow!” said his friends to him; and the Learned Man trembled, for he thought of it.     51   
  “You must go to a watering-place!” said the Shadow, who came and visited him; “there is nothing else for it! I will take you with me for old acquaintance sake; I will pay the travelling expenses, and you write the descriptions—and you may make them amusing if you please. I will go to a watering-place,—my beard does not grow out as it ought—that is also a sickness, and one must have a beard. Now you be wise and accept the offer; we shall travel as comrades!”     52   
  And so they travelled; the Shadow was master, and the master was the Shadow; they drove with each other, they rode and walked together, side by side, before and behind, just as the sun was; the Shadow always took care to keep itself in the master’s place. Now the Learned Man didn’t think much about that; he was a very kind-hearted man, and particularly mild and friendly, and so he said one day to the Shadow: “As we have now become companions, and in this way have grown up together from childhood, shall we not drink ‘thou’ together? it is more familiar.”     53   
  “You are right!” said the Shadow, who was now the proper master. “It is said in a very straightforward and well-meant manner. You, as a learned man, certainly know how strange nature is. Some persons cannot bear to touch gray paper, or they become ill; others shiver in every limb if one rub a pane of glass with a nail: I have just such a feeling on hearing you say thou to me; I feel myself as if pressed to the earth in my first situation with you. You see that it is a feeling; that it is not pride. I cannot allow you to say thou to me, but I will willingly say thou to you, so it is half done!”     54   
  So the Shadow said thou to its former master.     55   
  “This is rather too bad,” thought he, “that I must say you and he say thou,” but he was now obliged to put up with it.     56   
  So they came to a watering-place where there were many strangers, and amongst them was a princess who was troubled with seeing too well; and that was so alarming!     57   
  She directly observed that the stranger who had just come was quite a different sort of person to all the others: “He has come here in order to get his beard to grow, they say; but I see the real cause, he cannot cast a shadow.”     58   
  She had become inquisitive; and so she entered into conversation directly with the strange gentleman, on their promenades. As the daughter of a king, she needed not to stand upon trifles, so she said, “Your complaint is, that you cannot cast a shadow?”     59   
  “Your royal highness must be improving considerably,” said the Shadow. “I know your complaint is, that you see too clearly; but it has decreased, you are cured, I just happen to have a very unusual shadow! Do you not see that person who always goes with me? Other persons have a common shadow, but I do not like what is common to all. We give our servants finer cloth for their livery than we ourselves use, and so I had my shadow trimmed up into a man: yes, you see I have even given him a shadow. It is somewhat expensive, but I like to have something for myself!”     60   
  “What!” thought the Princess, “should I really be cured! These baths are the first in the world! In our time water has wonderful powers. But I shall not leave the place, for it now begins to be amusing here. I am extremely fond of that stranger. Would that his beard should not grow, for in that case he will leave us.”     61   
  In the evening the Princess and the Shadow danced together in the large ball-room. She was light, but he was still lighter; she had never had such a partner in the dance. She told him from what land she came, and he knew that land; he had been there, but then she was not at home; he had peeped in at the window above and below—he had seen both the one and the other, so he could answer the Princess, and make insinuations, so that she was quite astonished; he must be the wisest man in the whole world! she felt such respect for what he knew! So that when they again danced together she fell in love with him; and that the Shadow could remark, for she almost pierced him through with her eyes. So they danced once more together; and she was about to declare herself, but she was discreet; she thought of her country and kingdom, and of the many persons she would have to reign over.     62   
  “He is a wise man,” said she to herself—“it is well; and he dances delightfully—that is also good; but has he solid knowledge?—that is just as important!—he must be examined.”     63   
  So she began, by degrees, to question him about the most difficult things she could think of, and which she herself could not have answered; so that the Shadow made a strange face.     64   
  “You cannot answer these questions?” said the Princess.     65   
  “They belong to my childhood’s learning,” said the Shadow. “I really believe my shadow, by the door there, can answer them!”     66   
  “Your shadow!” said the Princess; “that would indeed be marvelous!”     67   
  “I will not say for a certainty that he can,” said the Shadow, “but I think so; he has now followed me for so many years, and listened to my conversation—I should think it possible. But your royal highness will permit me to observe, that he is so proud of passing himself off for a man, that when he is to be in a proper humor—and he must be so to answer well—he must be treated quite like a man.”     68   
  “O! I like that!” said the Princess.     69   
  So she went to the Learned Man by the door, and she spoke with him about the sun and the moon, and about persons out of and in the world, and he answered with wisdom and prudence.     70   
  “What a man that must be who has so wise a shadow!” thought she; “it will be a real blessing for my people and kingdom if I choose him for my consort—I will do it!”     71   
  They were soon agreed, both the Princess and the Shadow; but no one was to know about it before she arrived in her own kingdom.     72   
  “No one—not even my shadow!” said the Shadow; and he had his own thoughts about it!     73   
  Now they were in the country where the Princess lived when she was at home.     74   
  “Listen, my good friend!” said the Shadow to the Learned Man. “I have now become as happy and mighty as any one can be; I will, therefore, do something particular for thee! Thou shalt always live with me in the palace, drive with me in my royal carriage, and have ten thousand pounds a year; but then thou must submit to be called shadow by all and every one; thou must not say that thou hast ever been a man; and once a year, when I sit on the balcony in the sunshine, thou must lie at my feet, as a shadow shall do! I must tell thee: I am going to marry the king’s daughter, and the nuptials are to take place this evening!”     75   
  “Nay, this is going too far!” said the Learned Man; “I will not have it; I will not do it. It is to deceive the whole country and the Princess too! I will tell everything!—that I am a man and that thou art a shadow—thou art only dressed up!”     76   
  “There is no one who will believe it!” said the Shadow; “be reasonable, or I will call the guard!”     77   
  I will go directly to the Princess!” said the Learned Man.     78   
  “But I will go first!” said the Shadow, “and thou wilt go to prison!” and that he was obliged to do—for the sentinels obeyed him whom they knew the king’s daughter was to marry.     79   
  “You tremble!” said the Princess, as the Shadow came into her chamber; “has anything happened? You must not be unwell this evening, now that we are to have our nuptials celebrated.”     80   
  “I have lived to see the most cruel thing that any one can live to see!” said the Shadow. “Only imagine—yes, it is true, such a poor shadow-skull cannot bear much—only think, my shadow has become mad: he thinks that he is a man, and that I—now only think—that I am his shadow!”     81   
  “It is terrible!” said the Princess; “but he is confined, is he not?”     82   
  “That he is. I am afraid that he will never recover.”     83   
  “Poor shadow!” said the Princess, “he is very unfortunate; it would be a real work of charity to deliver him from the little life he has, and when I think properly over the matter, I am of opinion that it will be necessary to do away with him in all stillness!”     84   
  “It is certainly hard!” said the Shadow, “for he was a faithful servant!” and then he gave a sort of sigh.     85   
  “You are a noble character!” said the Princess.     86   
  The whole city was illuminated in the evening, and the cannons went off with a bum! bum! and the soldiers presented arms. That was a marriage! The Princess and the Shadow went out on the balcony to show themselves, and get another hurrah!     87   
  The Learned Man heard nothing of all this—for they had deprived him of life.

The Red Shoes   
   
   
THERE was once a little girl,—a very nice, pretty little girl. But in summer she had to go barefoot, because she was poor, and in winter she wore thick wooden shoes, so that her little instep became quite red, altogether red.     1   
  In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat and sewed, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes, of old strips of red cloth; they were clumsy enough, but well meant, and the little girl was to have them. The little girl’s name was Karen.     2   
  On the day when her mother was buried she received the red shoes and wore them for the first time. They were certainly not suited for mourning; but she had no others, and therefore thrust her little bare feet into them and walked behind the plain deal coffin.     3   
  Suddenly a great carriage came by, and in the carriage sat an old lady: she looked at the little girl and felt pity for her, and said to the clergyman,—     4   
  “Give me the little girl, and I will provide for her.”     5   
  Karen thought this was for the sake of the shoes; but the Old Lady declared they were hideous; and they were burned. But Karen herself was clothed neatly and properly: she was taught to read and to sew, and the people said she was agreeable. But her mirror said, “You are much more than agreeable; you are beautiful.”     6   
  Once the Queen travelled through the country, and had her little daughter with her; and the daughter was a Princess. And the people flocked toward the castle, and Karen too was among them; and the little Princess stood in a fine white dress at a window, and let herself be gazed at. She had neither train nor golden crown, but she wore splendid red morocco shoes; they were certainly far handsomer than those the shoemaker’s wife had made for little Karen. Nothing in the world can compare with red shoes!     7   
  Now Karen was old enough to be confirmed: new clothes were made for her, and she was to have new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the measure of her little feet; this was done in his own house, in his little room, and there stood great glass cases with neat shoes and shining boots. It had quite a charming appearance, but the Old Lady could not see well, and therefore took no pleasure in it. Among the shoes stood a red pair, just like those which the Princess had worn. How beautiful they were! The shoemaker also said they had been made for a count’s child, but they had not fitted.     8   
  “That must be patent leather,” observed the Old Lady, “the shoes shine so!”     9   
  “Yes, they shine!” replied Karen; and they fitted her, and were bought. But the Old Lady did not know that they were red; for she would never have allowed Karen to go to her Confirmation in red shoes; and that is what Karen did.     10   
  Every one was looking at her shoes. And when she went across the church porch, toward the door of the choir, it seemed to her as if the old pictures on the tombstones, the portraits of clergymen and clergymen’s wives, in their stiff collars and long black garments, fixed their eyes upon her red shoes. And she thought of her shoes only, when the priest laid his hand upon her head and spoke holy words. And the organ pealed solemnly, the children sang with their fresh sweet voices, and the old precentor sang too; but Karen thought only of her red shoes.     11   
  In the afternoon the Old Lady was informed by every one that the shoes were red; and she said it was naughty and unsuitable, and that when Karen went to church in future, she should always go in black shoes, even if they were old.     12   
  Next Sunday was Sacrament Sunday. And Karen looked at the black shoes, and she looked at the red ones—looked at them again—and put on the red ones.     13   
  The sun shone gloriously; Karen and the Old Lady went along the foot-path through the fields, and it was rather dusty.     14   
  By the church door stood an old invalid soldier with a crutch and a long beard; the beard was rather red than white, for it was red altogether; and he bowed down almost to the ground, and asked the Old Lady if he might dust her shoes. And Karen also stretched out her little foot.     15   
  “Look what pretty dancing shoes!” said the Old Soldier. “Fit so tightly when you dance!”     16   
  And he tapped the soles with his hand. And the Old Lady gave the Soldier an alms, and went into the church with Karen.     17   
  And every one in the church looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the pictures looked at them. And while Karen knelt in the church she only thought of her red shoes; and she forgot to sing her psalm, and forgot to say her prayer.     18   
  Now all the people went out of church, and the Old Lady stepped into her carriage. Karen lifted up her foot to step in too; then the Old Soldier said,—     19   
  “Look, what beautiful dancing shoes!”     20   
  And Karen could not resist: she was obliged to dance a few steps; and when she once began, her legs went on dancing. It was just as though the shoes had obtained power over her. She danced around the corner of the church—she could not help it; the coachman was obliged to run behind her and seize her: he lifted her into the carriage, but her feet went on dancing, so that she kicked the good Old Lady violently. At last they took off her shoes and her legs became quiet.     21   
  At home the shoes were put away in a cupboard; but Karen could not resist looking at them.     22   
  Now the Old Lady became very ill, and it was said she would not recover. She had to be nursed and waited on; and this was no one’s duty so much as Karen’s. But there was to be a great ball in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the Old Lady who could not recover; she looked at the red shoes, and thought there would be no harm in it. She put on the shoes, and that she might do very well; but they went to the ball and began to dance.     23   
  But when she wished to go to the right hand, the shoes danced to the left, and when she wanted to go up-stairs, the shoes danced downward, down into the street and out at the town gate. She danced, and was obliged to dance, straight out into the dark wood.     24   
  There was something glistening up among the trees, and she thought it was the moon, for she saw a face. But it was the Old Soldier with the red beard: he sat and nodded, and said,—     25   
  “Look, what beautiful dancing shoes!”     26   
  Then she was frightened, and wanted to throw away the red shoes; but they clung fast to her. And she tore off her stockings: but the shoes had grown fast to her feet. And she danced and was compelled to go dancing over field and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by day; but it was most dreadful at night.     27   
  She danced out into the open church-yard; but the dead there do not dance; they have far better things to do. She wished to sit down on the poor man’s grave, where the bitter fern grows; but there was no peace nor rest for her. And when she danced toward the open church door, she saw there an angel in long white garments, with wings that reached from his shoulders to his feet; his countenance was serious and stern, and in his hand he held a sword that was broad and gleaming.     28   
  “Thou shalt dance!” he said—“dance on thy red shoes, till thou art pale and cold, and till thy body shrivels to a skeleton. Thou shalt dance from door to door; and where proud, haughty children dwell, shalt thou knock, that they may hear thee, and be afraid of thee! Thou shalt dance, dance!”     29   
  “Mercy!” cried Karen.     30   
  But she did not hear what the Angel answered, for the shoes carried her away—carried her through the door on to the field, over stock and stone, and she was always obliged to dance.     31   
  One morning she danced past a door which she knew well. There was a sound of psalm,—singing within, and a coffin was carried out, adorned with flowers. Then she knew that the Old Lady was dead, and she felt that she was deserted by all, and condemned by the Angel of heaven.     32   
  She danced, and was compelled to dance—to dance in the dark night. The shoes carried her on over thorn and brier; she scratched herself till she bled; she danced away across the heath to a little lonely house. Here she knew the executioner dwelt; and she tapped with her fingers on the panes, and called,—     33   
  “Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance!     34   
  And the Executioner said,—     35   
  “You probably don’t know who I am? I cut off the bad people’s heads with my axe, and mark how my axe rings!”     36   
  “Do not strike off my head,” said Karen, “for if you do I cannot repent of my sin. But strike off my feet with the red shoes?”     37   
  And then she confessed all her sin, and the Executioner cut off her feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet over the fields and into the deep forest.     38   
  And he cut her a pair of wooden feet, with crutches, and taught her a psalm, which the criminals always sing; and she kissed the hand that had held the axe, and went away across the heath.     39   
  “Now I have suffered pain enough for the red shoes,” said she. “Now I will go into the church that they may see me.” And she went quickly toward the church door; but when she came there the red shoes danced before her, so that she was frightened and turned back.     40   
  The whole week through she was sorrowful, and wept many bitter tears; but when Sunday came, she said,—     41   
  “Now I have suffered and striven enough! I think that I am just as good as many of those who sit in the church and carry their heads high.”     42   
  And then she went boldly on; but she did not get farther than the church yard gate before she saw the red shoes dancing along before her: then she was seized with terror, and turned back, and repented of her sin right heartily.     43   
  And she went to the parsonage, and begged to be taken there as a servant. She promised to be industrious, and to do all she could: she did not care for wages, and only wished to be under a roof and with good people. The clergyman’s wife pitied her, and took her into her service. And she was industrious and thoughtful. Silently she sat and listened when in the evening the pastor read the Bible aloud. All the little ones were very fond of her; but when they spoke of dress and splendor and beauty she would shake her head.     44   
  Next Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked if she wished to go too; but she looked sadly, with tears in her eyes, at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God’s world; but she went alone into her little room, which was only large enough to contain her bed and a chair. And here she sat with her hymn-book; and as she read it with a pious mind, the wind bore the notes of the organ over to her from the church; and she lifted up her face, wet with tears, and said,—     45   
  “O Lord, help me!”     46   
  Then the sun shone so brightly; and before her stood the Angel in the white garments, the same she had seen that night at the church door. But he no longer grasped the sharp sword: he held a green branch covered with roses; and he touched the ceiling, and it rose up high and wherever he touched it a golden star gleamed forth; and he touched the walls, and they spread forth widely, and she saw the organ which was pealing its rich sounds; and she saw the old pictures of clergymen and their wives; and the congregation sat in the decorated seats, and sang from their hymn-books. The church had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or her chamber had become a church. She sat in the chair with the rest of the clergyman’s people; and when they had finished the psalm, and looked up, they nodded and said,—     47   
  “That was right, that you came here, Karen.”     48   
  “It was mercy!” said she.     49   
  And the organ sounded its glorious notes; and the children’s voices singing in chorus sounded sweet and lovely; the clear sunshine streamed so warm through the window upon the chair in which Karen sat; and her heart became so filled with sunshine, peace, and joy that it broke. Her soul flew on the sunbeams to heaven; and there was nobody who asked after the Red Shoes.     50   

   
Little Ida’s Flowers   
   
   
“MY poor flowers are quite dead!” said little Ida. “They were so pretty yesterday, and now all the leaves hang withered. Why do they do that?” she asked the Student, who sat on the sofa; for she liked him very much. He knew the prettiest stories, and could cut out the most amusing pictures: hearts, with little ladies in them who danced; flowers, and great castles in which one could open the doors; he was a merry student. “Why do the flowers look so faded to-day?” she asked again, and showed him a nosegay, which was quite withered.     1   
  “Do you know what’s the matter with them?” said the Student. “The flowers have been at a ball last night, and that’s why they hang their heads.”     2   
  “But flowers cannot dance!” cried little Ida.     3   
  “O yes,” said the Student, “when it grows dark, and we are asleep, they jump about merrily. Almost every night they have a ball.”     4   
  “Can children go to this ball?”     5   
  “Yes,” said the Student, “quite little daisies, and lilies of the valley.”     6   
  “Where do the beautiful flowers dance?” asked Ida.     7   
  “Have you not often been outside the town gate, by the great castle, where the king lives in summer, and where the beautiful garden is with all the flowers? You have seen the swans, which swim up to you when you want to give them bread crumbs? There are capital balls there, believe me.”     8   
  “I was out there in the garden yesterday, with my mother,” said Ida; “but all the leaves were off the trees, and there was not one flower left. Where are they? In the summer I saw so many.”     9   
  “They are within, in the castle,” replied the Student. “You must know, as soon as the king and all the court go to town, the flowers run out of the garden into the castle and are merry. You should see that. The two most beautiful roses seat themselves on the throne, and then they are king and queen; all the red coxcombs range themselves on either side, and stand and bow; they are the chamberlains. Then all the pretty flowers come, and there is a great ball. The blue violets represent little naval cadets; they dance with hyacinths and crocuses, which they call young ladies; the tulips and great tiger-lilies are old ladies who keep watch that the dancing is well done, and that everything goes on with propriety.”     10   
  “But,” asked little Ida, “is nobody there who hurts the flowers, for dancing in the king’s castle?”     11   
  “There is nobody who really knows about it,” answered the Student. “Sometimes, certainly, the old steward of the castle comes at night, and he has to watch there. He has a great bunch of keys with him; but as soon as the flowers hear the keys rattle they are quite quiet, hide behind the long curtains, and only poke their heads out. Then the old steward says, ‘I smell that there are flowers here,’ but he cannot see them.”     12   
  “That is famous!” cried little Ida, clapping her hands. “But should not I be able to see the flowers?”     13   
  “Yes,” said the student: “only remember, when you go out again, to peep through the window; then you will see them. That is what I did to-day. There was a long yellow lily lying on the sofa and stretching herself. She was a court lady.”     14   
  “Can the flowers out of the Botanical Garden get there? Can they go the long distance?”     15   
  “Yes, certainly,” replied the Student; “if they like they can fly. Have you not seen the beautiful butterflies—red, yellow, and white? They almost look like flowers; and that is what they have been. They have flown off their stalks high into the air, and have beaten it with their leaves, as if these leaves were little wings, and thus they flew. And because they behaved themselves well, they got leave to fly about in the day-time too, and were not obliged to sit still upon their stalks at home; and thus at last the leaves became real wings. That you have seen yourself. It may be, however, that the flowers in the Botanical Garden have never been in the king’s castle, or that they don’t know of the merry proceedings there at night. Therefore I will tell you something: he will be very much surprised, the botanical professor, who lives close by here. You know him, do you not? When you come into his garden, you must tell one of the flowers that there is a great ball yonder in the castle. Then that flower tell it to all the rest, and then they will fly away: when the professor comes out into the garden, there will not be a single flower left, and he won’t be able to make out where they are gone.”     16   
  “But how can one flower tell it to another? For, you know, flowers cannot speak.”     17   
  “That they cannot, certainly,” replied the Student; “but then they make signs. Have you not noticed that when the wind blows a little, the flowers nod at one another, and move all their green leaves? They can understand that just as well as we when we speak together.”     18   
  “Can the professor understand these signs?” asked Ida.     19   
  “Yes, certainly. He came one morning into his garden, and saw a great stinging-nettle standing there, and making signs to a beautiful red carnation with its leaves. It was saying, ‘You are so pretty, and I love you with all my heart.’ But the professor does not like that kind of thing, and he directly slapped the stinging-nettle upon its leaves, for those are its fingers; but he stung himself, and since that time he has not dared to touch a stinging-nettle.”     20   
  “That is funny,” cried little Ida; and she laughed.     21   
  “How can any one put such notions into a child’s head?” said the tiresome Privy Councilor, who had come to pay a visit, and was sitting on the sofa. He did not like the Student, and always grumbled when he saw him cutting out the merry, funny pictures—sometimes a man hanging on a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand, to show that he stole hearts; sometimes an old witch riding on a broom, and carrying her husband on her nose. The Councilor could not bear this, and then he said, just as he did now. “How can any one put such notions into a child’s head? Those are stupid fancies!”     22   
  But to little Ida, what the Student told about her flowers seemed very droll; and she thought much about it. The flowers hung their heads, for they were tired because they had danced all night; they were certainly ill. Then she went with them to her other toys, which stood on a pretty little table, and the whole drawer was full of beautiful things. In the doll’s bed lay her doll Sophy, asleep; but little Ida said to her,—     23   
  “You must really get up, Sophy, and manage to lie in the drawer for to-night. The poor flowers are ill, and they must lie in your bed; perhaps they will then get well again.”     24   
  And she at once took the doll out; but the doll looked cross, and did not say a single word; for she was cross because she could not keep her own bed.     25   
  Then Ida laid the flowers in the doll’s bed, pulled the little coverlet quite up over them, and said they were to lie still and be good, and she would make them some tea, so that they might get well again, and be able to get up to-morrow. And she drew the curtains closely round the little bed, so that the sun should not shine in their eyes. The whole evening through she could not help thinking of what the Student had told her. And when she was going to bed herself she was obliged first to look behind the curtains which hung before the windows where her mother’s beautiful flowers stood—hyacinths as well as tulips; then she whispered, “I know you are going to the ball—tonight!” But the flowers made as if they did not understand a word, and did not stir a leaf; but still little Ida knew what she knew.     26   
  When she was in bed she lay for a long time thinking how pretty it must be to see the beautiful flowers dancing out in the king’s castle. “I wonder if my flowers have really been there?” And then she fell asleep. In the night she woke up again: she had dreamed of the flowers, and of the Student with whom the Councilor found fault. It was quite quiet in the bedroom where Ida lay; the night-lamp burned on the table, and father and mother were asleep.     27   
  “I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy’s bed?” she thought to herself. “How I should like to know it!” She raised herself a little, and looked at the door, which stood ajar: within lay the flowers and all her playthings. She listened, and then it seemed to her as if she heard some one playing on the piano in the next room, but quite softly and prettily, as she had never heard it before.     28   
  “Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there!” thought she. “O, how glad I should be to see it!” But she dared not get up, for she would have disturbed her father and mother.     29   
  “If they would only come in!” thought she. But the flowers did not come, and the music continued to play beautifully; then she could not bear it any longer, for it was too pretty; she crept out of her little bed, and went quietly to the door, and looked into the room.     30   
  O, how splendid it was, what she saw!     31   
  There was no night-lamp burning, but still it was quite light: the moon shone through the window into the middle of the floor; it was almost like day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two long rows in the room; there were none at all left at the window—there stood the empty flower-pots. On the floor all the flowers were dancing very gracefully round each other, making perfect turns, and holding each other by the long green leaves as they swung round. But at the piano sat a great yellow lily, which little Ida had certainly seen in summer; for she remembered how the Student had said, “How like that one is to Miss Lina.” Then he had been laughed at by all; but now it seemed really to little Ida as if the long, yellow flower looked like the young lady; and it had just her manners in playing—sometimes bending its long, yellow face to one side, sometimes to the other, and nodding in tune to the charming music! No one noticed little Ida. Then she saw a great blue crocus hop into the middle of the table, where the toys stood, and go to the doll’s bed and pull the curtains aside; there lay the sick flowers, but they got up directly, and nodded to the others, to say that they wanted to dance too. The old Chimney-sweep doll, whose underlip was broken off, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers: these did not look at all ill now; they jumped down to the others, and were very merry.     32   
  Then it seemed as if something fell down from the table. Ida looked that way. It was the birch rod which was jumping down! it seemed almost as if it belonged to the flowers. At any rate it was very neat; and a little wax doll, with just such a broad hat on its head as the Councilor wore, sat upon it. The birch rod hopped about among the flowers on its three legs, and stamped quite loud, for it was dancing the mazourka; and the other flowers could not manage that dance, because they were too light, and unable to stamp like that.     33   
  The wax doll on the birch rod all at once became quite great and long, turned itself over the paper flowers, and said, “How can one put such things in a child’s head? those are stupid fancies!” and then the wax doll was exactly like the Councilor with the broad hat, and looked just as yellow and cross as he. But the paper flowers hit him on his thin legs, and then he shrank up again, and became quite a little wax doll. That was very amusing to see; and little Ida could not restrain her laughter. The birch rod went on dancing, and the Councilor was obliged to dance too; it was no use, he might make himself great and long, or remain the little yellow wax doll with the big black hat. Then the other flowers put in a good word for him, especially those who had lain in the doll’s bed, and then the birch rod gave over. At the same moment there was a loud knocking at the drawer, inside where Ida’s doll, Sophy, lay with many other toys. The Chimney-sweep ran to the edge of the table, lay flat down on his stomach, and began to pull the drawer out of a little. Then Sophy raised herself, and looked round quite astonished.     34   
  “There must be a ball here,” said she; “why did nobody tell me?”     35   
  “Will you dance with me?” asked the Chimney-sweep.     36   
  “You are a nice sort of fellow to dance!” she replied, and turned her back upon him.     37   
  Then she seated herself upon the drawer, and thought that one of the flowers would come and ask her; but not one of them came. Then she coughed, “Hem! hem! hem!” but for all that not one came. The Chimney-sweep now danced all alone, and that was not at all so bad.     38   
  As none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophy, she let herself fall down from the drawer straight upon the floor, so that there was a great noise. The flowers now all came running up, to ask if she had not hurt herself; and they were all very polite to her, especially the flowers that had lain in her bed. But she had not hurt herself at all; and Ida’s flowers all thanked her for the nice bed, and were kind to her, took her into the middle of the room, where the moon shone in, and danced with her; and all the other flowers formed a circle round her. Now Sophy was glad, and said they might keep her bed, she did not at all mind lying in the drawer.     39   
  But the flowers said, “We thank you heartily, but in any way we cannot live long. To-morrow we shall be quite dead. But tell little Ida she is to bury us out in the garden, where the canary lies; then we shall wake up again in summer, and be far more beautiful.”     40   
  “No, you must not die,” said Sophy; and she kissed the flowers.     41   
  Then the room door opened, and a great number of splendid flowers came dancing in. Ida could not imagine whence they had come; these must certainly all be flowers from the king’s castle yonder. First of all came two glorious roses, and they had little gold crowns on; they were a king and a queen. Then came the prettiest stocks and carnations; and they bowed in all directions. They had music with them. Great poppies and peonies blew upon pea-pods till they were quite red in the face. The blue hyacinths and the little white snow-drops rang just as if they had been bells. That was wonderful music! Then came many other flowers, and danced all together; the blue violets and the pink primroses, daisies and the lilies of the valley. And all the flowers kissed one another. It was beautiful to look at!     42   
  At last the flowers wished one another good-night; then little Ida, too, crept to bed, where she dreamed of all she had seen.     43   
  When she rose next morning, she went quickly to the little table, to see if the pretty flowers were still there. She drew aside the curtains of the little bed; there were they all, but they were quite faded, far more than yesterday. Sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida laid her; she looked very sleepy.     44   
  “Do you remember what you were to say to me?” asked little Ida.     45   
  But Sophy looked quite stupid, and did not say a single word.     46   
  “You are not good at all!” said Ida. “And yet they all danced with you.”     47   
  Then she took a little paper box, on which were painted beautiful birds, and opened it, and laid the dead flowers in it.     48   
  “That shall be your pretty coffin,” said she, “and when my cousins come to visit me by and by they shall help me to bury you outside in the garden, so that you may grow again in summer, and become more beautiful than ever.”     49   
  These cousins were two merry boys. Their names were Gustave and Adolphe; their father had given them two new cross-bows, and they brought these with them to show to Ida. She told them about the poor flowers which had died, and then they got leave to bury them. The two boys went first, with their cross-bows on their shoulders, and little Ida followed with the dead flowers in the pretty box. Out in the garden a little grave was dug. Ida first kissed the flowers, and then laid them in the earth in the box, and Adolphe and Gustave shot with their cross-bows over the grave, for they had neither guns nor cannons.     50   

   
The Angel   
   
   
WHENEVER a good child dies, an angel from heaven comes down to earth and takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies away over all the places the child has loved, and picks quite a handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom in heaven more brightly than on earth. And the Father presses all the flowers to His heart; but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and the flower is then endowed with a voice, and can join in the great chorus of praise!     1   
  “See”—this is what an Angel said, as he carried a dead child up to heaven, and the Child heard, as if in a dream; and they went on over the regions of home where the little Child had played, and came through gardens with beautiful flowers—“which of these shall we take with us to plant in heaven?” asked the Angel.     2   
  Now, there stood near them a slender, beautiful rose-bush; but a wicked hand had broken the stem, so that all the branches, covered with half-opened buds, were hanging around, quite withered     3   
  “The poor rose-bush!” said the Child. “Take it, that it may bloom up yonder.”     4   
  And the Angel took it, and kissed the Child, and the little one half opened his eyes. They plucked some of the rich flowers, but also took with them the wild pansy and the despised buttercup.     5   
  “Now we have flowers,” said the Child.     6   
  And the Angel nodded, but he did not yet fly upward to heaven. It was night and quite silent. They remained in the great city; they floated about there in a small street, where lay whole heaps of straw, ashes, and sweepings, for it had been removal day. There lay fragments of plates, bits of plaster, rags, and old hats, and all this did not look well. And the Angel pointed amid all this confusion to a few fragments of a flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out, and which was kept together by the roots of a great dried field flower, which was of no use, and had therefore been thrown out into the street.     7   
  “We will take that with us,” said the Angel. “I will tell you why, as we fly onward.     8   
  “Down yonder in the narrow lane, in the low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; from his childhood he had been bed-ridden. When he was at his best he could go up and down the room a few times, leaning on crutches; that was the utmost he could do. For a few days in summer the sun-beams would penetrate for a few hours to the ground of the cellar, and when the poor boy sat there and the sun shone on him, and he looked at the red blood in his three fingers, as he held them up before his face, he would say, “Yes, today he has been out!’ He knew the forest with its beautiful vernal green only from the fact that the neighbor’s little son brought him the first green branch of a beech-tree, and he held that up over his head, and dreamed he was in the beech wood, where the sun shone and the birds sang. On a spring day the neighbor’s boy brought him also field flowers, and among them was, by chance, one to which the root was still hanging; and so it was planted in a flower-pot, and placed by the bed, close to the window. And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand; and it grew, threw out new shoots, and bore flowers every year. It became a splendid flower garden to the sickly boy—his little treasure here on earth. He watered it, and tended it, and took care that it had the benefit of every ray of sunlight, down to the latest that struggled in through the narrow window; and the flower itself was woven into his dreams, for it grew for him and gladdened his eyes, and spread its fragrance about him; and toward it he turned in death, when the Father called him. He has now been with the Almighty for a year; for a year the flower has stood forgotten in the window, and is withered; and thus, at the removal, it has been thrown out into the dust of the street. And this is the poor flower which we have taken into our nosegay; for this flower has given more joy than the richest in a queen’s garden.”     9   
  “But how do you know all this?” asked the Child.     10   
  “I know it,” said the Angel, “for I myself was that boy who walked on crutches. I know my flower well.”     11   
  And the Child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious, happy face of the Angel; and at the same moment they entered the regions where there is peace and joy. And the Father pressed the dead Child to His bosom, and then it received wings like Angel, and flew hand in hand with him. And the Almighty kissed the dry withered field flower, and it received a voice and sang with all the angels hovering around—some near, and some in wider circles, and some in infinite distance, but all equally happy. And they all sang—little and great, the good, happy Child, and the poor field flower that had lain there withered, thrown among the dust, in the rubbish of the removal day, in the dark narrow lane.