Produced by Dianna Adair, John Campbell and the Online

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Obvious spelling, typographical and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the
text and consultation of external sources.

  More detail can be found at the end of the book.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
  The oe ligature has been expanded.

  WONDERFUL STORIES
  FOR CHILDREN.

  BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN,
  AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATORE," ETC.

  TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY MARY HOWITT.

  NEW YORK.
  WILEY & PUTNAM,
  161 Broadway.

  1846.

CONTENTS.

                                                     PAGE

  OLÉ LUCKOIÈ--THE STORY-TELLER AT NIGHT                5

  THE DAISY                                            28

  THE NAUGHTY BOY                                      37

  TOMMELISE                                            42

  THE ROSE-ELF                                         64

  THE GARDEN OF PARADISE                               74

  A NIGHT IN THE KITCHEN                              102

  LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS                                108

  THE CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER                            124

  THE STORKS                                          133

OLÉ LUCKOIÈ, (SHUT-EYE.)

There is nobody in all this world who knows so many tales as Olé
Luckoiè! He can tell tales! In an evening, when a child sits so nicely
at the table, or on its little stool, Olé Luckoiè comes. He comes
so quietly into the house, for he walks without shoes; he opens the
door without making any noise, and then he flirts sweet milk into the
children's eyes; but so gently, so very gently, that they cannot keep
their eyes open, and, therefore, they never see him; he steals softly
behind them and blows gently on their necks, and thus their heads
become heavy. Oh yes! But then it does them no harm; for Olé Luckoiè
means nothing but kindness to the children, he only wants to amuse
them; and the best thing that can be done is for somebody to carry them
to bed, where they may lie still and listen to the tales that he will
tell them.

Now when the children are asleep, Olé Luckoiè sits down on the bed;
he is very well dressed; his coat is of silk, but it is not possible
to tell what color it is, because it shines green, and red, and blue,
just as if one color ran into another. He holds an umbrella under each
arm; one of them is covered all over the inside with pictures, and
this he sets over the good child, and it dreams all night long the
most beautiful histories. The other umbrella has nothing at all within
it; this he sets over the heads of naughty children, and they sleep so
heavily, that next morning when they wake they have not dreamed the
least in the world.

Now we will hear how Olé Luckoiè came every evening for a whole week to
a little boy, whose name was Yalmar, and what he told him. There are
seven stories, because there are seven days in a week.

MONDAY.

"Just listen!" said Olé Luckoiè, in the evening, when they had put
Yalmar in bed; "now I shall make things fine!"--and with that all the
plants in the flower-pots grew up into great trees which stretched
out their long branches along the ceiling and the walls, till the
whole room looked like the most beautiful summer-house; and all the
branches were full of flowers, and every flower was more beautiful than
a rose, and was so sweet, that if anybody smelt at it, it was sweeter
than raspberry jam! The fruit on the trees shone like gold, and great
big bunches of raisins hung down--never had any thing been seen like
it!--but all at once there began such a dismal lamentation in the
table-drawer where Yalmar kept his school-books.

"What is that?" said Olé Luckoiè, and went to the table and opened
the drawer. It was the slate that was in great trouble; for there was
an addition sum on it that was added up wrong, and the slate-pencil
was hopping and jumping about in its string, like a little dog that
wanted to help the sum, but it could not! And besides this, Yalmar's
copy-book was crying out sadly! All the way down each page stood a
row of great letters, each with a little one by its side; these were
the copy; and then there stood other letters, which fancied that they
looked like the copy; and these Yalmar had written; but they were
some one way and some another, just as if they were tumbling over the
pencil-lines on which they ought to have stood.

"Look, you should hold yourselves up--thus!" said the copy; "thus, all
in a line, with a brisk air!"

"Oh! we would so gladly, if we could," said Yalmar's writing; "but we
cannot, we are so miserable!"

"Then we will make you!" said Olé Luckoiè gruffly.

"Oh, no!" cried the poor little crooked letters; but for all that they
straightened themselves, till it was quite a pleasure to see them.

"Now, then, cannot we tell a story?" said Olé Luckoiè; "now I can
exercise them! One, two! One, two!" And so, like a drill-sergeant, he
put them all through their exercise, and they stood as straight and
as well-shaped as any copy. After that Olé Luckoiè went his way; and
Yalmar, when he looked at the letters next morning, found them tumbling
about just as miserably as at first.

TUESDAY.

No sooner was Yalmar in bed than Olé Luckoiè came with his little wand,
and touched all the furniture in the room; and, in a minute, every
thing began to chatter; and they chattered all together, and about
nothing but themselves. Every thing talked except the old door-mat,
which lay silent, and was vexed that they should be all so full of
vanity as to talk of nothing but themselves, and think only about
themselves, and never have one thought for it which lay so modestly in
a corner and let itself be trodden upon.

There hung over the chest of drawers a great picture in a gilt frame;
it was a landscape; one could see tall, old trees, flowers in the
grass, and a great river, which ran through great woods, past many
castles out into the wild sea.

Olé Luckoiè touched the picture with his wand; and with that the birds
in the picture began to sing, the tree-branches began to wave, and the
clouds regularly to move,--one could see them moving along over the
landscape!

Olé Luckoiè now lifted little Yalmar up into the picture; he put his
little legs right into it, just as if into tall grass, and there he
stood. The sun shone down through the tree-branches upon him. He ran
down to the river, and got into a little boat which lay there. It was
painted red and white, the sails shone like silk, and six swans, each
with a circlet of gold round its neck and a beaming blue star upon its
head, drew the little boat past the green-wood,--where he heard the
trees talking about robbers, and witches, and flowers, and the pretty
little fairies, and all that the summer birds had told them of.

The loveliest fishes, with scales like silver and gold, swam after the
boat, and leaped up in the water; and birds, some red and some blue,
small and great, flew, in two long rows, behind; gnats danced about,
and cockchafers said hum, hum! They all came following Yalmar, and you
may think what a deal they had to tell him.

It was a regular voyage! Now the woods were so thick and so dark--now
they were like the most beautiful garden, with sunshine and flowers;
and in the midst of them there stood great castles of glass and of
marble. Upon the balconies of these castles stood princesses, and every
one of them were the little girls whom Yalmar knew very well, and with
whom he had played. They all reached out their hands to him, and held
out the most delicious sticks of barley-sugar which any confectioner
could make; and Yalmar bit off a piece from every stick of barley-sugar
as he sailed past, and Yalmar's piece was always a very large piece!
Before every castle stood little princes as sentinels; they stood with
their golden swords drawn, and showered down almonds and raisins. They
were perfect princes!

Yalmar soon sailed through the wood, then through a great hall, or into
the midst of a city; and at last he came to that in which his nurse
lived, she who had nursed him when he was a very little child, and
had been so very fond of him. And there he saw her, and she nodded
and waved her hand to him, and sang the pretty little verse which she
herself had made about Yalmar--

    Full many a time I thee have missed,
      My Yalmar, my delight!
    I, who thy cherry-mouth have kissed,
      Thy rosy cheeks, thy forehead white!
    I saw thy earliest infant mirth--
      I now must say farewell!
    May our dear Lord bless thee on earth,
      Then take thee to his heaven to dwell!

And all the birds sang, too, the flowers danced upon their stems, and
the old trees nodded like as Olé Luckoiè did while he told his tales.

WEDNESDAY.

How the rain did pour down! Yalmar could hear it in his sleep! and
when Olé Luckoiè opened the casement, the water stood up to the very
window-sill. There was a regular sea outside; but the most splendid
ship lay close up to the house.

"If thou wilt sail with me, little Yalmar," said Olé Luckoiè, "thou
canst reach foreign countries in the night, and be here again by
to-morrow morning!"

And with this Yalmar stood in his Sunday clothes in the ship, and
immediately the weather became fine, and they sailed through the
streets, tacked about round the church, and then came out into a great,
desolate lake. They sailed so far, that at last they could see no more
land, and then they saw a flock of storks, which were coming from home,
on their way to the warm countries; one stork after another flew on,
and they had already flown such a long, long way. One of the storks was
so very much tired that it seemed as if his wings could not support him
any longer; he was the very last of all the flock, and got farther and
farther behind them; and, at last, he sank lower and lower, with his
outspread wings: he still flapped his wings, now and then, but that
did not help him; now his feet touched the cordage of the ship; now he
glided down the sail, and, bounce! down he came on the deck.

A sailor-boy then took him up, and set him in the hencoop among hens,
and ducks, and turkeys. The poor stork stood quite confounded among
them all.

"Here's a thing!" said all the hens.

And the turkey-cock blew himself up as much as ever he could, and asked
the stork who he was; and the ducks they went on jostling one against
the other, saying, "Do thou ask! do thou ask!"

The stork told them all about the warm Africa, about the pyramids, and
about the simoom, which sped like a horse over the desert: but the
ducks understood not a word about what he said, and so they whispered
one to the other, "We are all agreed, he is silly!"

"Yes, to be sure, he is silly," said the turkey-cock aloud. The poor
stork stood quite still, and thought about Africa.

"What a pair of beautiful thin legs you have got!" said the
turkey-cock; "what is the price by the yard?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed all the ducks; but the stork pretended that he
did not hear.

"I cannot help laughing," said the turkey-cock, "it was so very witty;
or, perhaps, it was too low for him!--ha! ha! he can't take in many
ideas! Let us only be interesting to ourselves!" And with that they
began to gobble, and the ducks chattered, "Gik, gak! gik, gak!" It was
amazing to see how entertaining they were to themselves.

Yalmar, however, went up to the hencoop, opened the door, and called
to the stork, which hopped out to him on the deck. It had now rested
itself; and it seemed as if it nodded to Yalmar to thank him. With this
it spread out its wings and flew away to its warm countries; but the
hens clucked, the ducks chattered, and the turkey-cocks grew quite red
in the head.

"To-morrow we shall have you for dinner!" said Yalmar; and so he awoke,
and was lying in his little bed.

It was, however, a wonderful voyage that Olé Luckoiè had taken him that
night.

THURSDAY.

"Dost thou know what?" said Olé Luckoiè. "Now do not be afraid, and
thou shalt see a little mouse!" and with that he held out his hand with
the pretty little creature in it.

"It is come to invite thee to a wedding," said he. "There are two
little mice who are going to be married to-night; they live down
under the floor of thy mother's store-closet; it will be such a nice
opportunity for thee."

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

"Leave that to me," said Olé Luckoiè; "I shall make thee little
enough!" And with that he touched Yalmar with his wand, and immediately
he grew less and less, until at last he was no bigger than my finger.

"Now thou canst borrow the tin soldier's clothes," said Olé Luckoiè; "I
think they would fit thee, and it looks so proper to have uniform on
when people go into company."

"Yes, to be sure!" said Yalmar; and in a moment he was dressed up like
the most beautiful new tin soldier.

"Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mother's thimble,"
said the little mouse; "and then I shall have the honor of driving you!"

"Goodness!" said Yalmar; "will the young lady herself take the
trouble?" and with that they drove to the mouse's wedding.

First of all, after going under the floor, they came into a long
passage, which was so low that they could hardly drive in the thimble,
and the whole passage was illuminated with touchwood.

"Does it not smell delicious?" said the mouse as they drove along; "the
whole passage has been rubbed with bacon-sward; nothing can be more
delicious!"

They now came into the wedding-hall. On the right hand stood the little
she-mice, and they all whispered and tittered as if they were making
fun of one another; on the left hand all the he-mice, and stroked their
mustachios with their paws. In the middle of the floor were to be seen
the bridal pair, who stood in a hollow cheese-paring; and they kept
kissing one another before everybody, for they were desperately in
love, and were going to be married directly.

And all this time there kept coming in more and more strangers, till
one mouse was ready to trample another to death; and the bridal pair
had placed themselves in a doorway, so that people could neither go in
nor come out. The whole room, like the passage, had been smeared with
sward of bacon; that was all the entertainment: but as a dessert a pea
was produced, on which a little mouse of family had bitten the name of
the bridal pair,--that is to say, the first letters of their name; that
was something quite out of the common way.

All the mice said that it was a charming wedding, and that the
conversation had been so good!

Yalmar drove home again; he had really been in very grand society, but
he must have been regularly squeezed together to make himself small
enough for a tin soldier's uniform.

FRIDAY.

"It is incredible how many elderly people there are who would be so
glad of me," said Olé Luckoiè, "especially those who have done any
thing wrong. 'Good little Olé,' say they to me, 'we cannot close our
eyes; and so we lie all night long awake, and see all our bad deeds,
which sit, like ugly little imps, on the bed's head, and squirt hot
water on us. Wilt thou only just come and drive them away, that we may
have a good sleep!' and with that they heave such deep sighs--'we would
so gladly pay thee; good-night, Olé!' Silver pennies lie for me in the
window," said Olé Luckoiè, "but I do not give sleep for money!"

"Now what shall we have to-night?" inquired Yalmar.

"I do not know whether thou hast any desire to go again to-night to a
wedding," said Olé Luckoiè; "but it is of a different kind to that of
last night. Thy sister's great doll, which is dressed like a gentleman,
and is called Herman, is going to be married to the doll Bertha;
besides, it is the doll's birthday, and therefore there will be a great
many presents made."

"Yes, I know," said Yalmar; "always, whenever the dolls have new
clothes, my sister entreats that they have a birthday or a wedding;
that has happened certainly a hundred times!"

"Yes, but to-night it is the hundred and first wedding, and when
a hundred and one is done then all is over! Therefore it will be
incomparably grand. Only look!"

Yalmar looked at the table; there stood the little doll's house
with lights in the windows, and all the tin soldiers presented arms
outside. The bridal couple sat upon the floor, and leaned against the
table-legs, and looked very pensive, and there might be reason for it.
But Olé Luckoiè, dressed in the grandmother's black petticoat, married
them, and when they were married, all the furniture in the room joined
in the following song, which was written in pencil, and which was sung
to the tune of the drum:--

    Our song like a wind comes flitting
    Into the room where the bride-folks are sitting;
    They are partly of wood, as is befitting:
    Their skin is the skin of a glove well fitting!
    Hurrah, hurrah! for sitting and fitting!
    Thus sing we aloud as the wind comes flitting!

And now the presents were brought, but they had forbidden any kind of
eatables, for their love was sufficient for them.

"Shall we stay in the country, or shall we travel into foreign parts?"
asked the bridegroom; and with that they begged the advice of the
breeze, which had travelled a great deal, and of the old hen, which
had had five broods of chickens. The breeze told them about the
beautiful, warm countries where the bunches of grapes hung so large and
so heavy; where the air was so mild, and the mountains had colors of
which one could have no idea "in this country."

"But there they have not our green cabbage!" said the hen. "I lived
for one summer with all my chickens in the country; there was a dry,
dusty ditch in which we could go and scuttle, and we had admittance to
a garden where there was green cabbage! O, how green it was! I cannot
fancy any thing more beautiful!"

"But one cabbage-stalk looks just like another," said the breeze; "and
then there is such wretched weather here."

"Yes, but one gets used to it," said the hen.

"But it is cold--it freezes!"

"That is good for the cabbage!" said the hen. "Besides, we also have
it warm. Had not we four years ago a summer which lasted five weeks,
and it was so hot that people did not know how to bear it? And then we
have not all the poisonous creatures which they have there! and we are
far from robbers. He is a good-for-nothing fellow who does not think
our country the most beautiful in the world! and he does not deserve to
be here!" and with that the hen cried.--"And I also have travelled,"
continued she; "I have gone in a boat above twelve miles; there is no
pleasure in travelling."

"The hen is a sensible body!" said the doll Bertha; "I would rather not
travel to the mountains, for it is only going up to come down again.
No! we will go down into the ditch, and walk in the cabbage-garden."

And so they did.

SATURDAY.

"Shall I have any stories?" said little Yalmar, as soon as Olé Luckoiè
had put him to sleep.

"In the evening we have no time for any," said Olé, and spread out
his most beautiful umbrella above his head. "Look now at this Chinese
scene!" and with that the whole inside of the umbrella looked like a
great china saucer, with blue trees and pointed bridges, on which
stood little Chinese, who stood and nodded with their heads. "We shall
have all the world dressed up beautifully this morning," said Olé, "for
it is really a holiday; it is Sunday. I shall go up into the church
towers to see whether the little church-elves polish the bells, because
they sound so sweetly. I shall go out into the market, and see whether
the wind blows the dust, and grass, and leaves, and what is the hardest
work there. I shall have all the stars down to polish them; I shall put
them into my apron, but first of all I must have them all numbered, and
the holes where they fit up there numbered also; else we shall never
put them into their proper places again, and then they will not be
firm, and we shall have so many falling stars, one dropping down after
another!"

"Hear, you Mr. Luckoiè, there!" said an old portrait that hung on the
wall of the room where Yalmar slept: "I am Yalmar's grandfather. We are
obliged to you for telling the boy pretty stories, but you must not go
and confuse his ideas. The stars cannot be taken down and polished! The
stars are globes like our earth, and they want nothing doing at them!"

"Thou shalt have thanks, thou old grandfather," said Olé Luckoiè;
"thanks thou shalt have! Thou art, to be sure, the head of the family;
thou art the old head of the family; but for all that, I am older than
thou! I am an old heathen; the Greeks and the Romans called me the god
of dreams. I go into great folks' houses, and I shall go there still. I
know how to manage both with young and old. But now thou mayst take thy
turn." And with this Olé Luckoiè went away, and took his umbrella with
him.

"Now, one cannot tell what he means!" said the old Portrait.

And Yalmar awoke.

SUNDAY.

"Good-evening!" said Olé Luckoiè, and Yalmar nodded; but he jumped up
and turned the grandfather's portrait to the wall, that it might not
chatter as it had done the night before.

"Now thou shalt tell me a story," said Yalmar, "about the five peas
that live in one pea-pod, and about Hanebeen who cured Honebeen; and
about the darning-needle, that was so fine that it fancied itself a
sewing-needle."

"One might do a deal of good by so doing," said Olé Luckoiè; "but, dost
thou know, I would rather show thee something. I will show thee my
brother; he also is called Olé Luckoiè. He never comes more than once
to anybody,--and when he comes he takes the person away with him on his
horse, and tells him a great and wonderful history. But he only knows
two, one of them is the most incomparably beautiful story, so beautiful
that nobody in the world can imagine it; and the other is so dismal and
sad--oh, it is impossible to describe how sad!"

Having said this, Olé Luckoiè lifted little Yalmar up to the window
and said, "There thou mayst see my brother, the other Olé Luckoiè!
They call him Death! Dost thou see, he does not look horrible as they
have painted him in picture-books, like a skeleton; no, his coat is
embroidered with silver; he wears a handsome Hussar uniform! A cloak of
black velvet flies behind, over his horse. See how he gallops!"

Yalmar looked, and saw how the other Olé Luckoiè rode along, and took
both young and old people with him on his horse. Some he set before
him, and some he set behind; but his first question always was, "How
does it stand in your character-book?"

Everybody said, "Good!"

"Yes! let me see myself," said he; and they were obliged to show him
their books: and all those in whose books were written, "Very good!" or
"Remarkably good!" he placed before him on his horse; and they listened
to the beautiful story that he could tell. But they in whose books was
written, "Not very good," or "Only middling," they had to sit behind
and listen to the dismal tale. These wept bitterly, and would have been
glad to have got away, that they might have amended their characters;
but it was then too late.

"Death is, after all, the most beautiful Olé Luckoiè," said Yalmar; "I
shall not be afraid of him."

"Thou need not fear him," said Olé Luckoiè, "if thou only take care and
have a good character-book."

"There is instruction in that," mumbled the old grandfather's
portrait; "that is better: one sees his meaning!" and he was pleased.

See, this is the story about Olé Luckoiè. This night, perhaps, he may
tell thee some others.

THE DAISY.

Now thou shalt hear!--Out in the country, close by the high road, there
stood a pleasure-house,--thou hast, no doubt, seen it thyself. In the
front is a little garden full of flowers, and this is fenced in with
painted palisades. Close beside these, in a hollow, there grew, all
among the loveliest green grass, a little tuft of daisies. The sun
shone upon it just as warmly and as sweetly as upon the large and rich
splendid flowers within the garden, and, therefore, it grew hour by
hour. One morning it opened its little shining white flower-leaves,
which looked just like rays of light all round the little yellow sun
in the inside. It never once thought that nobody saw it down there in
the grass, and that it was a poor, despised flower! No, nothing of the
kind! It was so very happy; turned itself round towards the warm sun,
looked up, and listened to the lark which sang in the blue air.

The little daisy was as happy as if it had been some great holiday, and
yet it was only a Monday. All the children were in school, and while
they sat upon the benches learning their lessons, it also sat upon its
little green stalk, and learned from the warm sun and from every thing
around it, how good God is. And it seemed to it quite right that the
little lark sang so intelligibly and so beautifully every thing which
it felt in stillness; and it looked up with a sort of reverence to
the happy bird, which could sing and fly, but it was not at all vexed
because it could not do the same.

"I see it and hear it," thought the daisy; "the sun shines upon me, and
the winds kiss me! O, what a many gifts I enjoy!"

Inside the garden paling there were such a great many stiff, grand
flowers; and all the less fragrance they had the more they seemed to
swell themselves out. The pionies blew themselves out that they might
be bigger than the roses; but it is not size which does every thing.
The tulips had the most splendid colors, and they knew it too, and
held themselves so upright on purpose that people should see them all
the better. They never paid the least attention to the little daisy
outside, but it looked at them all the more, and thought, "How rich
they are, and how beautiful! Yes, to be sure, the charming bird up
there must fly down and pay them a visit. Thank God! that I am so
near that I can see all the glory!" And while she was thinking these
thoughts--"Quirrevit!" down came the lark flying,--but not down to the
pionies and the tulips: no! but down into the grass to the poor little
daisy; which was so astonished by pure joy, that it did not know what
it should think.

The little bird danced round about, and sang, "Nay, but the grass is in
flower! and see, what a sweet little blossom, with a golden heart and a
silver jerkin on!"--for the yellow middle of the daisy looked as if it
were of gold, and the little leaves round about were shining and silver
white.

So happy as the little daisy was it is quite impossible to describe!
The bird kissed it with its beak, sang before it, and then flew up
again into the blue air. It required a whole quarter of an hour before
the daisy could come to itself again. Half bashfully, and yet with
inward delight, it looked into the garden to the other flowers; they
had actually seen the honor and the felicity which she had enjoyed;
they could certainly understand, she thought, what a happiness it was.
But the tulips stood yet just as stiffly as before, and their faces
were so peaked and so red!--for they were quite vexed. The pionies were
quite thick-headed, too! it was a good thing that they could not talk,
or else the daisy would have been regularly scolded. The poor little
flower, however, could see very plainly that they were not in a good
humor, and that really distressed her. At that very moment there came
a girl into the garden with a great knife in her hand, which was very
sharp and shining, and she went all among the tulips, and she cut off
first one and then another.

"Ah!" sighed the little daisy, "that was very horrible; now all is over
with them!"

So the girl went away with the tulips. The daisy was glad that it grew
in the grass, and was a little mean flower; it felt full of gratitude,
and when the sun set, it folded its leaves, slept, and dreamed the
whole night long about the sun and the little bird.

Next morning, the flower again, full of joy, spread out all its white
leaves, like small arms, towards the air and the light; it recognised
the bird's voice; but the song of the bird was very sorrowful. Yes,
the poor little bird had good reason for being sad! it had been taken
prisoner, and now sat in a cage close by the open window of the
pleasure-house. It sang about flying wherever it would in freedom and
bliss; it sang about the young green corn in the fields, and about the
charming journeys which it used to make up in the blue air upon its
hovering wings. The poor bird was heavy at heart, and was captive in a
cage.

The little daisy wished so sincerely that it could be of any service;
but it was difficult to tell how. In sympathizing with the lark, the
daisy quite forgot how beautiful was every thing around it--how warmly
the sun shone, and how beautifully white were its own flower-leaves.
Ah! it could think of nothing but of the captive bird, for which it
was not able to do any thing.

Just then came two little boys out of the garden; one of them had a
knife in his hand, large and sharp, like that which the girl had, and
with which she cut off the tulips. They went straight up to the little
daisy, which could not think what they wanted.

"Here we can get a beautiful grass turf for the lark," said one of the
boys; and began deeply to cut out a square around the daisy-root, so
that it was just in the middle of the turf.

"Break off the flower!" said the other boy; and the daisy trembled for
very fear of being broken off, and thus losing its life; when it would
so gladly live and go with the turf into the cage of the captive lark.

"Nay, let it be where it is!" said the other boy; "it makes it look so
pretty!"

And so it was left there, and was taken into the cage to the lark.

But the poor bird made loud lamentations over its lost freedom, and
struck the wires of the cage with its wings. The little daisy could
not speak, could not say one consoling word, however gladly it would
have done so. Thus passed the forenoon.

"There is no water here," said the captive lark; "they are all gone
out, and have forgotten to give me a drop to drink! my throat is dry
and burning! it is fire and ice within me, and the air is so heavy! Ah!
I shall die away from the warm sunshine, from the fresh green leaves,
from all the glorious things which God has created!" and with that
it bored its little beak down into the cool turf to refresh itself a
little. At that moment it caught sight of the daisy, nodded to it,
kissed it with its beak, and said, "Thou also must wither here, thou
poor little flower! Thou and the little plot of grass, which they have
given me for the whole world which I had out there! Every little blade
of grass may be to me a green tree, every one of thy little white
leaves a fragrant flower! Ah! you only tell me how much I have lost!"

"Ah! who can comfort him!" thought the daisy, but could not move a
leaf; and yet the fragrance which was given forth from its delicate
petals was much sweeter than is usual in such flowers. The bird
remarked this, and when, overcome by the agony of thirst and misery, it
tore up every green blade of grass, it touched not the little flower.

Evening came, and yet no one brought a single drop of water to the
poor bird. It stretched out its beautiful wings, fluttered them
convulsively, and its song was a melancholy wailing; its little head
bowed down towards the flower, and its heart broke from thirst and
longing. The little flower knew this not; before the evening was ended,
it had folded its petals together and slept upon the earth, overcome
with sickness and sorrow.

Not until the next morning came the boys, and when they saw that the
bird was dead they wept, wept many tears, and dug for it a handsome
grave, which they adorned with leaves of flowers. The corpse of the
bird was laid in a beautiful red box. It was to be buried royally, the
poor bird! which, when full of life and singing its glorious song, they
forgot, and let it pine in a cage, and suffer thirst--and now they did
him honor, and shed many tears over him!

But the sod of grass with the daisy, that they threw out into the dust
of the highway; no one thought about it, though it had felt more than
any of them for the little bird, and would so gladly have comforted it.

THE NAUGHTY BOY.

There was once upon a time an old poet, such a really good old poet!
One evening, he sat at home--it was dreadful weather out of doors--the
rain poured down; but the old poet sat so comfortably, and in such a
good humor, beside his stove, where the fire was burning brightly, and
his apples were merrily roasting.

"There will not be a dry thread on the poor souls who are out in this
weather!" said he; for he was such a good old poet.

"O let me in! I am freezing, and I am so wet!" cried the voice of a
little child outside. It cried and knocked at the door, while the rain
kept pouring down, and the wind rattled at all the windows.

"Poor little soul!" said the old poet, and got up to open the door.
There stood a little boy; he had not any clothes on, and the rain ran
off from his long yellow hair. He shook with the cold; if he had not
been taken in, he would most surely have died of that bad weather.

"Thou poor little soul!" said the kind old poet, and took him by the
hand; "come in, and I will warm thee! and thou shalt have some wine,
and a nice roasted apple, for thou art a pretty little boy!"

And so he was. His eyes were like two bright stars, and, although the
water ran down from his yellow hair, yet it curled so beautifully. He
looked just like a little angel; but he was pale with the cold, and his
little body trembled all over. In his hand he carried a pretty little
bow; but it was quite spoiled with the rain, and all the colors of his
beautiful little arrows ran one into another with the wet.

The good old poet seated himself by the stove, and took the little boy
upon his knee; he wrung the rain out of his hair, warmed his little
hands in his, and made some sweet wine warm for him; by this means the
rosy color came back into his cheeks, he jumped down upon the floor,
and danced round and round the old poet.

"Thou art a merry lad," said the poet; "what is thy name?"

"They call me Love," replied the boy; "dost thou not know me? There
lies my bow; I shoot with it, thou mayst believe! See, now, the weather
clears up; the moon shines!"

"But thy bow is spoiled," said the old poet.

"That would be sad!" said the little boy, and took it up to see if
it were. "Oh, it is quite dry," said he; "it is not hurt at all! The
string is quite firm: now I will try it!"

And with that he strung it, laid an arrow upon it, took his aim, and
shot the good old poet right through the heart!

"Thou canst now see that my bow is not spoiled!" said he; and laughing
as loud as he could, ran away. What a naughty boy! to shoot the good
old poet who had taken him into the warm room; who had been so kind to
him, and given him nice wine to drink, and the very best of his roasted
apples!

The poor poet lay upon the floor and wept, for he was actually shot
through the heart, and he said, "Fy! what a naughty boy that Love is! I
will tell all good little children about him, that they may drive him
away before he makes them some bad return!"

All good children, boys and girls, to whom he told this, drove away
that naughty little lad; but for all that he has made fools of them
all, for he is so artful! When students go from their lectures, he
walks by their side with a book under his arm, and they fancy that he
too is a student, and so he runs an arrow into their breasts. When
young girls go to church, and when they stand in the aisle of the
church, he too has followed them. Yes, he is always following people!

He sits in the great chandelier in the theatre, and burns with a
bright flame, and so people think he is a lamp, but afterwards they
find something else! He runs about the king's garden, and on the
bowling-green! Yes! he once shot thy father and mother through the
heart! Ask them about it, and then thou wilt hear what they say. Yes,
indeed, he is a bad boy, that Love; do thou never have any thing to do
with him!--he is always running after people! Only think! once upon a
time, he even shot an arrow at thy good old grandmother!--but that is a
long time ago, and it is past. But thus it is, he never forgets anybody!

Fy, for shame, naughty Love! But now thou knowest him, and knowest what
a bad boy he is!

TOMMELISE.

Once upon a time, a beggar woman went to the house of a poor peasant,
and asked for something to eat. The peasant's wife gave her some bread
and milk. When she had eaten it, she took a barley-corn out of her
pocket, and said--"This will I give thee; set it in a flower-pot, and
see what will come out of it."

The woman set the barley-corn in an old flower-pot, and the next day
the most beautiful plant had shot up, which looked just like a tulip,
but the leaves were shut close together, as if it still were in bud.

"What a pretty flower it is!" said the woman, and kissed the small
red and yellow leaves; and just as she had kissed them, the flower
gave a great crack, and opened itself. It was a real tulip, only one
could see that in the middle of the flower there sat upon the pintail
a little tiny girl, so delicate and lovely, and not half so big as my
thumb, and, therefore, woman called her Tommelise.

A pretty polished walnut-shell was her cradle, blue violet leaves
were her mattress, and a rose leaf was her coverlet; here she slept
at night, but in the day she played upon the table, where the woman
had set a plate, around which she placed quite a garland of flowers,
the stalks of which were put in water. A large tulip-leaf floated on
the water. Tommelise seated herself on this, and sailed from one end
of the plate to the other; she had two white horse-hairs to row her
little boat with. It looked quite lovely; and then she sang--Oh! so
beautifully, as nobody ever had heard!

One night, as she lay in her nice little bed, there came a fat, yellow
frog hopping in at the window, in which there was a broken pane. The
frog was very large and heavy, but it hopped easily on the table where
Tommelise lay and slept under the red rose leaf.

"This would be a beautiful wife for my son!" said the frog; and so she
took up the walnut-shell in which Tommelise lay, and hopped away with
it, through the broken pane, down into the garden.

Here there ran a large, broad river; but just at its banks it was
marshy and muddy: the frog lived here, with her son. Uh! he also was
all spotted with green and yellow, and was very like his mother. "Koax,
koax, brekke-ke-kex!" that was all that he could say when he saw the
pretty little maiden in the walnut-shell.

"Don't make such a noise, or else you will waken her," said the old
frog; "and if you frighten her, she may run away from us, for she is as
light as swan's down! We will take her out on the river, and set her on
a waterlily leaf; to her who is so light, it will be like an island;
she cannot get away from us there, and we will then go and get ready
the house in the mud, where you two shall live together."

There grew a great many waterlilies in the river, with their broad
green leaves, which seemed to float upon the water. The old frog swam
to the leaf which was the farthest out in the river, and which was the
largest also, and there she set the walnut-shell, with little Tommelise.

The poor little tiny thing awoke quite early in the morning, and when
she saw where she was she began to cry bitterly, for there was water on
every side of the large green leaf, and she could not get to land.

The old frog sat down in the mud, and decked her house with sedge and
yellow water-reeds, that it might be regularly beautiful when her new
daughter-in-law came. After this was done, she and her fat son swam
away to the lily leaf, where Tommelise stood, that they might fetch her
pretty little bed, and so have every thing ready before she herself
came to the house.

The old frog courtesied to her in the water, and said,--"Allow me to
introduce my son to you, who is to be your husband, and you shall live
together, so charmingly, down in the mud!"

"Koax, koax, brekke-ke-kex!" that was all that the son could say.

So they took the pretty little bed, and swam away with it; but
Tommelise sat, quite alone, and wept, upon the green leaf, for she did
not wish to live with the queer-looking, yellow frog, nor to have her
ugly son for her husband. The little fishes which swam down in the
water had seen the frog, and had heard what she said; they put up,
therefore, their heads, to look at the little girl. The moment they
saw her they thought her very pretty; and they felt very sorry that
she should have to go down into the mud and live with the frog. No,
never should it be! They therefore went down into the water in a great
shoal, and gathered round the green stalk of the leaf upon which she
stood; they gnawed the stalk in two with their teeth, and thus the leaf
floated down the river. Slowly and quietly it floated away, a long way
off, where the frog could not come to it.

Tommelise sailed past a great many places, and the little birds sat in
the bushes, looked at her, and sang,--"What a pretty little maiden!"
The leaf on which she stood floated away farther and farther, and, at
last, she came to a foreign land.

A pretty little white butterfly stayed with her, and flew round about
her, and, at length, seated itself upon the leaf; for it knew little
Tommelise so well and she was so pleased, for she knew that now the
frog could not come near her, and the land to which she had come was
very beautiful. The sun shone upon the water, and it was like the most
lovely gold. She took off her girdle, therefore, and bound one end of
it to the butterfly, and the other end of it to the leaf, and thus she
glided on more swiftly than ever, and she stood upon the leaf as it
went.

As she was thus sailing on charmingly, a large stag-beetle came flying
towards her; it paused for a moment to look at her, then clasped its
claws around her slender waist, and flew up into a tree with her, but
the green lily leaf floated down the stream, and the white butterfly
with it, because it was fastened to it, and could not get loose.

Poor Tommelise! how frightened she was when the stag-beetle flew away
with her up into the tree! but she was most of all distressed for the
lovely white butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf. But that did
not trouble the stag-beetle at all. It seated itself upon one of the
largest green leaves of the tree, gave her the honey of the flowers
to eat, and said that she was very pretty, although she was not at
all like a stag-beetle. Before long, all the other stag-beetles that
lived in the tree came to pay her a visit; they looked at Tommelise;
and the misses stag-beetle, they examined her with their antennæ, and
said,--"Why, she has only two legs, that is very extraordinary!" "She
has no antennæ!" said the others. "She has such a thin body! Why she
looks just like a human being!" "How ugly she is!" said all the lady
stag-beetles; and yet Tommelise was exceedingly pretty.

The stag-beetle which had carried her away had thought so himself, at
first; but now, as all the others said that she was ugly, he fancied,
at last, that she was so, and would not have her, and she could now
go where she would. They flew down with her out of the tree, and set
her upon a daisy. Here she wept, because she was so ugly, and the
stag-beetles would have nothing to do with her; and yet she really was
so very lovely as nobody could imagine, as delicate and bright as the
most beautiful rose leaf!

Poor Tommelise lived all that long summer, though quite alone, in
the great wood. She wove herself a bed of grass, and hung it under a
large plantain leaf, so that the rain could not come to her; she fed
from the honey of the flowers, and drank of the dew which stood in
glittering drops every morning on the grass. Thus passed the summer
and the autumn; but now came winter, the cold, long winter. All the
birds which had sung so sweetly to her were flown away; the trees and
the flowers withered; the large plantain leaf under which she had
dwelt shrunk together, and became nothing but a dry, yellow stalk; and
she was so cold, for her clothes were in rags; and she herself was so
delicate and small!--poor Tommelise, she was almost frozen to death! It
began to snow, and every snow-flake which fell upon her was just as if
a whole drawer-full had been thrown upon us, for we are strong, and she
was so very, very small! She crept, therefore, into a withered leaf,
but that could not keep her warm; she shook with the cold.

Close beside the wood in which she now was, lay a large cornfield;
but the corn had long been carried; nothing remained but dry stubble,
which stood up on the frozen ground. It was, to her, like going into
a bare wood--Oh! how she shivered with cold! Before long she came to
the fieldmouse's door. The fieldmouse had a little cave down below the
roots of the corn-stubble, and here she dwelt warm and comfortable,
and had whole rooms full of corn, and a beautiful kitchen and a
store-closet. Poor Tommelise stood before the door, like any other
little beggar-child, and prayed for a little bit of a barley-corn, for
she had now been two whole days without having eaten the least morsel.

"Thou poor little thing!" said the fieldmouse, for she was at heart
a good old fieldmouse; "come into my warm parlor, and have a bit of
dinner with me."

How kind that seemed to Tommelise!

"Thou canst stop with me the whole winter," said the old fieldmouse;
"but then thou must be my little maid, and keep my parlor neat and
clean, and tell me tales to amuse me, for I am very fond of them!" And
Tommelise did all that the good old fieldmouse desired of her, and was
very comfortable.

"Before long we shall have a visitor," said the fieldmouse, soon after
Tommelise was settled in her place; "my neighbor is accustomed to
visit me once a week. He is much better off in the world than I am; he
has a large house, and always wears such a splendid velvet dress! If
thou couldst only manage to get him for thy husband, thou wouldst be
lucky,--but then he is blind. Thou canst tell him the very prettiest
story thou knowest."

But Tommelise gave herself no trouble about him; she did not wish to
have the neighbor, for he was only a mole. He came and paid his visits
in his black velvet dress; he was very rich and learned, the fieldmouse
said, and his dwelling-house was twenty times larger than hers; and he
had such a deal of earning, although he made but little of the sum and
the beautiful flowers; he laughed at them; but then he had never seen
them!

The fieldmouse insisted on Tommelise singing, so she sang. She sang
both "Fly, stag-beetle, fly!" and "The green moss grows by the water
side;" and the mole fell deeply in love with her, for the sake of her
sweet voice, but he did not say any thing, for he was a very discreet
gentleman.

He had lately dug a long passage through the earth, between his house
and theirs; and in this he gave Tommelise and the fieldmouse leave
to walk whenever they liked. But he told them not to be afraid of a
dead bird which lay in the passage, for it was an entire bird, with
feathers and a beak; which certainly was dead just lately, at the
beginning of winter, and had been buried exactly where he began his
passage.

The mole took a piece of touchwood in his mouth, for it shines just
like fire in the dark, and went before them, to light them in the long,
dark passage. When they were come where the dead bird lay, the mole
set his broad nose to the ground, and ploughed up the earth, so that
there was a large hole, through which the daylight could shine. In
the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, with its beautiful wings
pressed close to its sides. Its legs and head were drawn up under the
feathers; the poor bird had certainly died of cold. Tommelise was very
sorry for it, for she was so fond of little birds; they had, through
the whole summer, sung and twittered so beautifully to her; but the
mole stood beside it, with his short legs, and said,--"Now it will
tweedle no more! It must be a shocking thing to be born a little bird;
thank goodness that none of my children have been such; for a bird
has nothing at all but its singing; and it may be starved to death in
winter!"

"Yes, that you, who are a sensible man, may well say," said the
fieldmouse; "what has the bird, with all its piping and singing, when
winter comes? It may be famished or frozen!"

Tommelise said nothing; but when the two others had turned their backs,
she bent over it, stroked aside the feathers which lay over its head,
and kissed its closed eyes.

"Perhaps it was that same swallow which sang so sweetly to me in
summer," thought she; "what a deal of pleasure it caused me, the dear,
beautiful bird!"

The mole stopped up the opening which it had made for the daylight
to come in, and accompanied the ladies home. Tommelise, however,
could not sleep in the night; so she got up out of bed, and wove a
small, beautiful mat of hay; and that she carried down and spread
over the dead bird; laid soft cotton-wool, which she had found in the
fieldmouse's parlor, around the bird, that it might lie warm in the
cold earth.

"Farewell, thou pretty little bird," said she; "farewell, and thanks
for thy beautiful song, in summer, when all the trees were green, and
the sun shone so warmly upon us!"

With this she laid her head upon the bird's breast, and the same moment
was quite amazed, for it seemed to her as if there were a slight
movement within it. It was the bird's heart. The bird was not dead; it
lay in a swoon, and now being warmed, it was reanimated.

In the autumn all the swallows fly away to the warm countries; but if
there be one which tarries behind, it becomes stiff with cold, so that
it falls down as if dead, and the winter's snow covers it.

Tommelise was quite terrified, for in comparison with her the bird
was a very large creature; but she took courage, however, laid the
cotton-wool closer around the poor swallow, and fetched a coverlet of
chrysanthemum leaves, which she had for her bed, and laid it over its
head.

Next night she listened again, and it was quite living, but so weak
that it could only open its eyes a very little, and see Tommelise, who
stood with a piece of touchwood in her hand, for other light she had
none.

"Thanks thou shalt have, thou pretty little child!" said the sick
swallow to her; "I have been beautifully revived! I shall soon recover
my strength, and be able to fly again out into the warm sunshine!"

"O," said she, "it is so cold out-of-doors! it snows and freezes! stop
in thy warm bed, and I will nurse thee!"

She brought the swallow water, in a flower-leaf, and it drank it, and
related to her how it had torn one of its wings upon a thorn-bush, and,
therefore, had not been able to fly so well as the other swallows, who
had flown far, far away, into the warm countries. It had, at last,
fallen down upon the ground; but more than that it knew not, nor how it
had come there.

During the whole winter it continued down here, and Tommelise was very
kind to it, and became very fond of it; but neither the mole nor the
fieldmouse knew any thing about it, for they could not endure swallows.

As soon as ever spring came, and the sun shone warm into the earth,
the swallow bade farewell to Tommelise, who opened the hole which the
mole had covered up. The sun shone so delightfully down into it, and
the swallow asked whether she would not go with him; she might sit upon
his back, and he would fly out with her far into the green-wood. But
Tommelise knew that it would distress the old fieldmouse if she thus
left her.

"No, I cannot," said Tommelise.

"Farewell, farewell, thou good, sweet little maiden!" said the swallow,
and flew out into the sunshine. Tommelise looked after it, and the
tears came into her eyes, for she was very fond of the swallow, and she
felt quite forlorn now it was gone.

"Quivit! quivit!" sung the bird, and flew into the green-wood.

Tommelise was very sorrowful. She could not obtain leave to go out into
the warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field above the
mouse's dwelling, had grown so high that it was now like a thick wood
to her.

"Now, during this summer, thou shalt get thy wedding clothes ready,"
said the fieldmouse to her; for the old neighbor, the wealthy mole, had
presented himself as a wooer.

"Thou shalt have both woollen and linen clothes; thou shalt have both
table and body linen, if thou wilt be the mole's wife," said the old
fieldmouse.

Tommelise was obliged to sit down and spin; and the fieldmouse hired
six spiders to spin and weave both night and day. Every evening the
mole came to pay a visit, and always said that when the summer was
ended, and the sun did not shine so hotly as to bake the earth to a
stone,--yes, when the summer was over, then he and Tommelise would have
a grand wedding; but this never gave her any pleasure, for she did not
like the wealthy old gentleman. Every morning, when the sun rose, and
every evening, when it set, she stole out to the door; and if the wind
blew the ears of corn aside so that she could see the blue sky, she
thought how bright and beautiful it was out there, and she wished so
much that she could, just once more, see the dear swallow. But he never
came; he certainly had flown far, far away from the lovely green-wood.

It was now autumn, and all Tommelise's wedding things were ready.

"In four weeks thou shalt be married," said the old fieldmouse to her.
But Tommelise cried, and said that she would not have the rich mole.

"Snick, snack!" said the fieldmouse; "do not go and be obstinate, else
I shall bite thee with my white teeth! He is, indeed, a very fine
gentleman! The queen herself has not got a dress equal to his black
velvet! He has riches both in kitchen and coffer. Be thankful that thou
canst get such a one!"

So the wedding was fixed. The bridegroom was already come, in his best
black velvet suit, to fetch away Tommelise. She was to live with him
deep under ground, never to come out into the warm sunshine, for that
he could not bear. The poor child was full of sorrow; she must once
more say farewell to the beautiful sun; and she begged so hard, that
the fieldmouse gave her leave to go to the door to do so.

"Farewell, thou bright sun!" said she, and stretched forth her arms,
and went a few paces from the fieldmouse's door, for the corn was now
cut, and again there was nothing but the dry stubble.

"Farewell! farewell!" said she, and threw her small arms around a
little red flower which grew there; "greet the little swallow for me,
if thou chance to see him!"

"Quivit! quivit!" said the swallow, that very moment, above her head;
she looked up, there was the little swallow, which had just come by. As
soon as Tommelise saw it, she was very glad; she told it how unwilling
she was to marry the rich old mole, and live so deep underground, where
the sun never shone. She could not help weeping as she told him.

"The cold winter is just at hand," said the little swallow; "I am
going far away to the warm countries, wilt thou go with me? Thou canst
sit upon my back; bind thyself fast with thy girdle, and so we will
fly away from the rich mole and his dark parlor, far away over the
mountains, to the warm countries, where the sun shines more beautifully
than here, and where there always is summer, and where the beautiful
flowers are always in bloom. Only fly away with me, thou sweet little
Tommelise, who didst save my life when I lay frozen in the dark prison
of the earth!"

"Yes, I will go with thee!" said Tommelise, and seated herself upon
the bird's back, with her feet upon one of his outspread wings. She
bound her girdle to one of the strongest of his feathers, and thus
the swallow flew aloft into the air, over wood and over sea, high up
above the great mountains, where lies the perpetual snow, and Tommelise
shivered with the intensely cold air; but she then crept among the
bird's warm feathers, and only put out her little head, that she might
look at all the magnificent prospect that lay below her.

Thus they came to the warm countries. There the sun shone much brighter
than it does here; the heavens were twice as high, and upon trellis
and hedge grew the most splendid purple and green grapes. Oranges and
lemons hung golden in the woods, and myrtle and wild thyme sent forth
their fragrance; the most beautiful children, on the highways, ran
after and played with large, brilliantly-colored butterflies. But the
swallow still flew onward, and it became more and more beautiful. Among
lovely green trees, and beside a beautiful blue lake, stood a palace,
built of the shining white marble of antiquity. Vines clambered up the
tall pillars; on the topmost of these were many swallow nests, and in
one of these dwelt the very swallow which carried Tommelise.

"Here is my home!" said the swallow; "but wilt thou now seek out for
thyself one of the lovely flowers which grow below, and then I will
place thee there, and thou shalt make thyself as comfortable as thou
pleasest?"

"That is charming!" said she, and clapped her small hands.

Just by there lay a large white marble pillar, which had fallen down,
and broken into three pieces, but amongst these grew the most exquisite
large white flowers.

The swallow flew down with Tommelise, and seated her upon one of the
broad leaves,--but how amazed she was! There sat a little man in the
middle of the flower, as white and transparent as if he were of glass;
the most lovely crown of gold was upon his head, and the most beautiful
bright wings upon his shoulders; and he, too, was no larger than
Tommelise. He was the angel of the flower. In every flower lived such a
little man or woman, but this was the king of them all.

"Good heavens! how small he is!" whispered Tommelise to the swallow.
The little prince was as much frightened at the swallow, for it was,
indeed, a great, gigantic bird in comparison of him, who was so very
small and delicate; but when he saw Tommelise he was very glad, for
she was the prettiest little maiden that ever he had seen. He took,
therefore, the golden crown from off his head, and set it upon hers,
and asked her what was her name, and whether she would be his wife, and
be the queen of all the flowers? Yes, he was really and truly a little
man, quite different to the frog's son, and to the mole, with his black
velvet dress; she therefore said, Yes, to the pretty prince; and so
there came out of every flower a lady or a gentleman, so lovely that
it was quite a pleasure to see them, and brought, every one of them,
a present to Tommelise; but the best of all was a pair of beautiful
wings, of fine white pearl, and these were fastened on Tommelise's
shoulders, and thus she also could fly from flower to flower,--that was
such a delight! And the little swallow sat up in its nest and sang to
them as well as it could, but still it was a little bit sad at heart,
for it was very fond of Tommelise, and wished never to have parted
from her.

"Thou shalt not be called Tommelise!" said the angel of the flowers to
her; "it is an ugly name, and thou art so beautiful. We will call thee
Maia!"

"Farewell, farewell!" said the little swallow, and flew again forth
from the warm countries, far, far away, to Denmark. There it had a
little nest above the window of a room in which dwelt a poet, who can
tell beautiful tales; for him it sang,--"Quivit, quivit!" and from the
swallow, therefore, have we this history.

THE ROSE-ELF.

There grew a rose-tree in the middle of a garden; it was quite full of
roses; and in one of these, the prettiest of them all, dwelt an elf. He
was so very, very small, that no human eye could see him; behind every
leaf in the rose he had a sleeping-room; he was as well-formed and as
pretty as any child could be, and had wings, which reached from his
shoulders down to his feet. O, how fragrant were his chambers, and how
bright and beautiful the walls were! They were, indeed, the pale pink,
delicate rose leaves.

All day long he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew from flower
to flower, danced upon the wings of the fluttering butterfly, or
counted how many paces it was from one footpath to another, upon one
single lime leaf. What he considered as footpaths, were what we call
veins in the leaf; yes, it was an immense way for him! Before he had
finished, the sun had set; thus, he had begun too late.

It became very cold; the dew fell, and the wind blew; the best thing he
could do was to get home as fast as he could. He made as much haste as
was possible, but all the roses had closed--he could not get in; there
was not one single rose open; the poor little elf was quite terrified,
he had never been out in the night before; he always had slept in the
snug little rose leaf. Now, he certainly would get his death of cold!

At the other end of the garden he knew that there was an arbor, all
covered with beautiful honeysuckle. The flowers looked like exquisitely
painted horns; he determined to creep down into one of these, and sleep
there till morning.

He flew thither. Listen! There are two people within the bower; the
one, a handsome young man, and the other, the loveliest young lady that
ever was seen; they sat side by side, and wished that they never might
be parted, through all eternity. They loved each other very dearly,
more dearly than the best child can love either its father or mother.

They kissed each other; and the young lady wept, and gave him a rose;
but before she gave it to him she pressed it to her lips, and that with
such a deep tenderness, that the rose opened, and the little elf flew
into it, and nestled down into its fragrant chamber. As he lay there,
he could very plainly hear that they said,--Farewell! farewell! to each
other; and then he felt that the rose had its place on the young man's
breast. Oh! how his heart beat!--the little elf could not go to sleep
because the young man's heart beat so much.

The rose lay there; the young man took it forth whilst he went through
a dark wood, and kissed it with such vehemence that the little elf was
almost crushed to death; he could feel, through the leaves, how warm
were the young man's lips, and the rose gave forth its odor, as if to
the noon-day's sun.

Then came another man through the wood; he was dark and wrathful, and
was the handsome young lady's cruel brother. He drew forth from its
sheath a long and sharp dagger, and whilst the young man kissed the
rose, the wicked man stabbed him to death, and then buried him in the
bloody earth, under a lime tree.

"Now he is gone and forgotten!" thought the wicked man; "he will never
come back again. He is gone a long journey over mountains and seas; it
would be an easy thing for him to lose his life,--and he has done so!
He will never come back again, and I fancy my sister will never ask
after him."

He covered the troubled earth, in which he had laid the dead body, with
withered leaves, and then set off home again, through the dark night;
but he went not alone, as he fancied; the little elf went with him; it
sat in a withered, curled-up lime leaf, which had fallen upon the hair
of the cruel man as he dug the grave. He had now put his hat on, and,
within, it was very dark; and the little elf trembled with horror and
anger over the wicked deed.

In the early hour of morning he came home; he took off his hat, and
went into his sister's chamber; there lay the beautiful, blooming
maiden, and dreamed about the handsome young man. She loved him very
dearly, and thought that now he went over mountains and through woods.
The cruel brother bent over her; what were his thoughts we know not,
but they must have been evil. The withered lime leaf fell from his hair
down upon the bed cover, but he did not notice it; and so he went out,
that he, too, might sleep a little in the morning hour.

But the elf crept out of the withered leaf, crept to the ear of the
sleeping maiden, and told her, as if in a dream, of the fearful murder;
described to her the very place where he had been stabbed, and where
his body lay; it told about the blossoming lime tree close beside, and
said,--"And that thou mayest not fancy that this is a dream which I
tell thee, thou wilt find a withered lime leaf upon thy bed!"

And she found it when she woke.

Oh! what salt tears she wept, and she did not dare to tell her sorrow
to any one. The window stood open all day, and the little elf could
easily go out into the garden, to the roses and all the other flowers;
but for all that, he resolved not to leave the sorrowful maiden.

In the window there stood a monthly rose, and he placed himself in one
of its flowers, and there could be near the poor young lady who was so
unhappy. Her brother came often into her room, but she could not say
one word about the great sorrow of her heart.

As soon as it was night she stole out of the house, went to the wood,
and to the very place where the lime tree stood; tore away the dead
leaves from the sod, dug down, and found him who was dead! Oh! how she
wept and prayed our Lord, that she, too, might soon die!

Gladly would she have taken the body home with her,--but that she could
not; so she cut away a beautiful lock of his hair, and laid it near her
heart!

Not a word she said; and when she had laid earth and leaves again upon
the dead body, she went home; and took with her a little jasmine tree,
which grew, full of blossoms, in the wood where he had met with his
death.

As soon as she returned to her chamber, she took a very pretty
flower-pot, and, filling it with mould, laid in it the beautiful
curling hair, and planted in it the jasmine tree.

"Farewell, farewell!" whispered the little elf; he could no longer bear
to see her grief, so he flew out into the garden, to his rose; but its
leaves had fallen; nothing remained of it but the four green calix
leaves.

"Ah! how soon it is over with all that is good and beautiful!" sighed
he. At last he found a rose,--which became his house; he crept among
its fragrant leaves, and dwelt there.

Every morning he flew to the poor young lady's window, and there she
always stood by the flower-pot, and wept. Her salt tears fell upon the
jasmine twigs, and every day, as she grew paler and paler, they became
more fresh and green; one cluster of flower-buds grew after another;
and then the small white buds opened into flowers, and she kissed them.
Her cruel brother scolded her, and asked her whether she had lost her
senses. He could not imagine why she always wept over that flower-pot,
but he did not know what secret lay within its dark mould. But she knew
it; she bowed her head over the jasmine bloom, and sank exhausted on
her couch. The little rose-elf found her thus, and, stealing to her
ear he whispered to her about the evening in the honeysuckle arbor,
about the rose's fragrance, and the love which he, the little elf, had
for her. She dreamed so sweetly, and while she dreamed, the beautiful
angel of death conveyed her spirit away from this world, and she was in
heaven with him who was so dear to her.

The jasmine buds opened their large white flowers; their fragrance was
wondrously sweet.

When the cruel brother saw the beautiful blossoming tree, he took it,
as an heir-loom of his sister, and set it in his sleeping-room, just
beside his bed, for it was pleasant to look at, and the fragrance was
so rich and uncommon. The little rose-elf went with it, and flew from
blossom to blossom. In every blossom there dwelt a little spirit, and
to it he told about the murdered young man, whose beautiful curling
locks lay under their roots; told about the cruel brother, and the
heart-broken sister.

"We know all about it," said the little spirit of each flower; "we know
it! we know it! we know it!" and with that they nodded very knowingly.

The rose-elf could not understand them, nor why they seemed so merry,
so he flew out to the bees which collected honey, and told them all the
story. The bees told it to their queen, who gave orders that, the next
morning, they should all go and stab the murderer to death with their
sharp little daggers; for that seemed the right thing to the queen-bee.

But that very night, which was the first night after the sister's
death, as the brother slept in his bed, beside the fragrant jasmine
tree, every little flower opened itself, and all invisibly came forth
the spirits of the flower, each with a poisoned arrow; first of all
they seated themselves by his ear, and sent such awful dreams to his
brain as made him, for the first time, tremble at the deed he had done.
They then shot at him with their invisible poisoned arrows.

"Now we have avenged the dead!" said they, and flew back to the white
cups of the jasmine-flowers.

As soon as it was morning, the window of the chamber was opened, and in
came the rose-elf, with the queen of the bees and all her swarm.

But he was already dead; there stood the people round about his bed,
and they said--"That the strong-scented jasmine had been the death of
him!"

Then did the rose-elf understand the revenge which the flowers had
taken, and he told it to the queen-bee, and she came buzzing, with all
her swarm, around the jasmine-pot.

The bees were not to be driven away; so one of the servants took up the
pot to carry it out, and one of the bees stung him, and he let the pot
fall, and it was broken in two.

Then they all saw the beautiful hair of the murdered young man; and so
they knew that he who lay in the bed was the murderer.

The queen-bee went out humming into the sunshine, and she sung about
how the flowers had avenged the young man's death; and that behind
every little flower-leaf is an eye which can see every wicked deed.

Old and young, think on this! and so, Fare ye well.

THE GARDEN OF PARADISE.

There was a king's son: nobody had so many, or such beautiful books
as he had. Every thing which had been done in this world he could
read about, and see represented in splendid pictures. He could give
a description of every people and every country; but--where was the
Garden of Paradise?--of that he could not learn one word; and that it
was of which he thought most.

His grandmother had told him, when he was quite a little boy, and first
began to go to school, that every flower in the Garden of Paradise
was the most delicious cake; one was history, another geography, a
third, tables, and it was only needful to eat one of these cakes, and
so the lesson was learned; and the more was eaten of them, the better
acquainted they were with history, geography, and tables.

At that time he believed all this; but when he grew a bigger boy, and
had learned more, and was wiser, he was quite sure that there must be
some other very different delight in this Garden of Paradise.

"Oh! why did Eve gather of the tree of knowledge? why did Adam eat the
forbidden fruit? If it had been me, I never would have done so! If it
had been me, sin should never have entered into the world!"

So said he, many a time, when he was young; so said he when he was much
older! The Garden of Paradise filled his whole thoughts.

One day he went into the wood; he went alone, for that was his greatest
delight.

The evening came. The clouds drew together; it began to rain as if
the whole heavens were one single sluice, of which the gate was open;
it was quite dark, or like night in the deepest well. Now, he slipped
in the wet grass; now, he tumbled over the bare stones, which were
scattered over the rocky ground. Every thing streamed with water; not a
dry thread remained upon the prince. He was obliged to crawl up over
the great blocks of stone, where the water poured out of the wet moss.
He was ready to faint. At that moment he heard a remarkable sound, and
before him he saw a large, illuminated cave. In the middle of it burned
a fire, so large that a stag might have been roasted at it,--and so it
was; the most magnificent stag, with his tall antlers, was placed upon
a spit, and was slowly turning round between two fir trees, which had
been hewn down. A very ancient woman, tall and strong, as if she had
been a man dressed up in woman's clothes, sat by the fire, and threw
one stick after another upon it.

"Come nearer!" said she, seeing the prince; "sit down by the fire, and
dry thy clothes."

"It is bad travelling to-night," said the prince; and seated himself on
the floor of the cave.

"It will be worse yet, when my sons come home!" replied the woman.
"Thou art in the cave of the winds; my sons are the four winds of the
earth; canst thou understand?"

"Where are thy sons?" asked the prince.

"Yes, it is not well to ask questions, when the questions are
foolish," said the woman. "My sons are queer fellows; they play at
bowls with the clouds, up in the big room there;" and with that she
pointed up into the air.

"Indeed!" said the prince, "and you talk somewhat gruffly, and are not
as gentle as the ladies whom I am accustomed to see around me."

"Yes, yes, they have nothing else to do!" said she; "I must be gruff
if I would keep my lads in order! But I can do it, although they have
stiff necks. Dost thou see the four sacks which hang on the wall; they
are just as much afraid of them, as thou art of the birch-rod behind
the looking-glass! I can double up the lads, as I shall, perhaps, have
to show thee, and so put them into the bags; I make no difficulties
about that; and so I fasten them in, and don't let them go running
about, for I do not find that desirable. But here we have one of them."

With that in came the northwind; he came tramping in with an icy
coldness; great, round hail-stones hopped upon the floor, and
snow-flakes flew round about. He was dressed in a bear's-skin jerkin
and hose; a hat of seal's-skin was pulled over his ears; long icicles
hung from his beard, and one hail-stone after another fell down upon
his jerkin-collar.

"Do not directly go to the fire!" said the prince, "else thou wilt have
the frost in thy hands and face!"

"Frost!" said the northwind, and laughed aloud. "Frost! that is
precisely my greatest delight! What sort of a little dandified chap art
thou? What made thee come into the winds' cave?"

"He is my guest!" said the old woman; "and if that explanation does not
please thee, thou canst get into the bag!--now thou knowest my mind!"

This had the desired effect; and the northwind sat down, and began to
tell where he was come from, and where he had been for the greater part
of the last month.

"I come from the Arctic Sea; I have been upon Bear Island with the
Russian walrus-hunters. I lay and slept whilst they sailed up to the
North Cape. When I now and then woke up a little, how the storm-birds
flew about my legs! They are ridiculous birds! they make a quick stroke
with their wings, and then keep them immoveably expanded, and yet they
get on."

"Don't be so diffuse!" said the winds' mother; "and so you came to Bear
Island."

"That is a charming place; that is a floor to dance upon!" roared the
northwind, "as flat as a pan-cake! Half covered with snow and dwarfish
mosses, sharp stones and leg-bones of walruses and ice-bears lie
scattered about, looking like the arms and legs of giants. One would
think that the sun never had shone upon them. I blew the mist aside a
little, that one might see the erection there; it was a house, built
of pieces of wrecks, covered with the skin of the walrus, the fleshy
side turned outward; upon the roof sat a living ice-bear, and growled.
I went down to the shore, and looked at the birds' nests, in which were
the unfledged young ones, which screamed, and held up their gaping
beaks; with that I blew down a thousand throats, and they learned to
shut their mouths. Down below tumbled about the walruses, like gigantic
ascarides, with pigs' heads and teeth an ell long!"

"Thou tell'st it very well, my lad!" said the mother; "it makes my
mouth water to hear thee!"

"So the hunting began," continued the northwind. "The harpoons were
struck into the breast of the walrus, so that the smoking blood started
like a fountain over the iron. I then thought of having some fun! I
blew, and let my great ships, the mountain-like fields of ice, shut in
the boats. How the people shrieked and cried; but I cried louder than
they! The dead bodies of their fish, their chests and cordage, were
they obliged to throw out upon the ice! I showered snow-flakes upon
them, and left them, in their imprisoned ship, to drive southward with
their prey, there to taste salt-water. They will never again come to
Bear Island!"

"It was very wrong of thee!" said the winds' mother.

"The others can tell what good I have done!" said he! "And there we
have my brother from the west; I like him the best of them all; he
smacks of the sea, and has a blessed coldness about him!"

"Is it the little zephyr?" inquired the prince.

"Yes, certainly, it is the zephyr!" said the old woman; "but he is not
so little now. In old times he was a very pretty lad, but that is all
over now."

He looked like a wild man, but he had one of those pads round his
head, which children used to wear formerly, to prevent them from being
hurt. He held in his hand a mahogany club, which had been cut in the
mahogany woods of America.

"Where dost thou come from?" asked the mother.

"From the forest-wilderness," said he, "where the prickly lianas makes
a fence around every tree; where the water-snakes lie in the wet grass,
and man seems superfluous!"

"What didst thou do there?"

"I looked at the vast river, saw how it was hurled from the cliffs,
became mist, and was thrown back into the clouds, to become rainbows. I
saw the wild buffalo swim in the river; but the stream bore him along
with it; madly did it bear him onward, faster and faster, to where the
river was hurled down the cliffs--down, also, must he go! I bethought
myself, and blew a hurricane, so the old trees of the forest were torn
up, and carried down, too, and became splinters!"

"And didst thou do any thing else?" asked the old woman.

"I tumbled head-over-heels in the Savannas; I have patted the wild
horses, and shook down cocoa-nuts! Yes, yes, I could tell tales, if
I would! But one must not tell all one knows, that thou know'st, old
lady!" said he, and kissed his mother so roughly that he nearly knocked
her backward from her chair; he was a regularly wild fellow.

Now came in the southwind, with a turban on his head, and a flying
Bedouin-cloak.

"It is dreadfully cold out here!" said he, and threw more wood on the
fire; "one can very well tell that the northwind has come first!"

"Here it is so hot, that one might roast an ice-bear!" said the
northwind.

"You are an ice-bear, yourself!" replied the southwind.

"Do you want to go in the bags?" asked the old woman; "sit down on the
stone, and tell us where thou hast been."

"In Africa, mother," said he; "I have been lion-hunting, with the
Hottentots, in Caffreland. What grass grows in the fields there, as
green as the olive! There dances the gnu; and the ostrich ran races
with me, but my legs were the nimblest. I came to the deserts of yellow
sand, which look like the surface of the ocean. There I met a caravan!
They had killed their last camel to get water to drink, but they only
found a little. The sun burned above them, and the sand beneath their
feet. There was no limit to the vast desert. I then rolled myself in
the fine, loose sand, and whirled it up in great pillars--that was a
dance! You should have seen how close the dromedaries stood together,
and the merchants pulled their kaftans over their heads. They threw
themselves down before me, as if before Allah, their god. They are now
buried; a pyramid of sand lies heaped above them; I shall, some day,
blow it away, and then the sun will bleach their white bones, and so
travellers can see that there have been human beings before them in the
desert; without this it were hard to believe it!"

"Thou, also, hast done badly!" said the mother. "March into the bag!"
and before the southwind knew what she would be at, she had seized him
by the body, and thrust him into the bag. The bag, with him in it,
rolled about on the floor; but she seized it, held it fast, and sat
down upon it; so he was forced to lie still.

"They are rough fellows!" said the prince.

"So they are!" returned she; "but I can chastise them! But here we have
the fourth!"

This was the eastwind, and he was dressed like a Chinese.

"Indeed! so thou comest from that corner, dost thou?" asked the mother;
"I fancied that thou hadst been to the Garden of Paradise."

"I shall go there to-morrow," said the eastwind. "It will be a hundred
years, to-morrow, since I was there. I am now come from China, where
I have been dancing around the porcelain tower, till all the bells
have rung. Down in the street the royal officers were beating people;
bamboos were busy with their shoulders, and from the first, down to the
ninth rank, they cried out--'Thanks, my fatherly benefactor!' but they
did not mean any thing by it; and I rung the bells, and sang--'Tsing,
tsang, tsu! Tsing, tsang, tsu!'"

"Thou art merry about it," said the old woman; "it is a good thing that
to-morrow morning thou art going to the Garden of Paradise; that always
mends thy manners! Drink deeply of wisdom's well, and bring a little
bottleful home with thee, for me!"

"That I will!" said the eastwind; "but why hast thou put my brother
from the south down in the bag? Let him come out! I want him to tell
me about the phoenix; the princess of the Garden of Paradise always
likes to hear about it, when I go, every hundred years, to see her.
Open the bag! and so thou shalt be my sweetest mother, and I will give
thee a pocketful of tea, very fresh and green, which I myself gathered,
on the spot!"

"Nay, for the sake of the tea, and because thou art my darling, I will
open the bag!"

She did so, and the southwind crept out, and looked so ashamed, because
the foreign prince had seen him.

"There hast thou a palm leaf for the princess," said the southwind;
"that leaf was given to me by the phoenix bird, the only one in the
whole world. He has written upon it, with his beak, the whole history
of his life during the hundred years that he lived; now she can read it
herself. I saw how the phoenix himself set fire to his nest, and sat
in it and burned like a Hindoo widow. How the dry branches crackled!
There was a smoke and an odor. At length it flamed up into a blaze; the
old phoenix was burned to ashes, but its egg lay glowingly red in the
fire; then it burst open with a great report, and the young one flew
out; now it is the regent of all birds, and the only phoenix in the
whole world. He has bitten a hole in the palm leaf which I gave thee;
it is his greeting to the princess."

"Let us now have something to strengthen us!" said the mother of the
winds; and with that they all seated themselves, and ate of the roasted
stag; and the prince sat at the side of the eastwind, and therefore
they soon became good friends.

"Listen, and tell me," said the prince, "what sort of a princess is
that of which thou hast said so much, and who lives in the Garden of
Paradise?"

"Ho! ho!" said the eastwind, "if you wish to go there, you can fly with
me there to-morrow morning. This, however, I must tell you, there has
been no human being there since Adam and Eve's time. You have heard of
them, no doubt, in the Bible."

"Yes, to be sure!" said the prince.

"At the time when they were driven out," said the eastwind, "the
Garden of Paradise sank down into the earth; but it still preserved its
warm sunshine, its gentle air, and its wonderful beauty. The queen of
the fairies lives there; there lies the Island of Bliss, where sorrow
never comes, and where it is felicity to be. Seat thyself on my back
to-morrow morning, and so I will take thee with me. I think that will
be permitted. But now thou must not talk any more, for I want to go to
sleep!"

And so they all slept together.

Early the next morning the prince awoke, and was not a little amazed to
find himself already high above the clouds. He sat upon the back of the
eastwind, which kept firm hold of him. They were so high in the air,
that the woods and fields, the rivers and sea, showed themselves as if
upon a large illustrated map.

"Good-morning," said the eastwind; "thou mightest have slept a little
bit longer, for there is not much to see upon the flat country below
us, unless thou hast any pleasure in counting the churches, which stand
like dots of chalk upon the green board."

They were the fields and meadows which he called the green board.

"It was very ill-mannered that I did not say good-by to thy mother and
brothers," said the prince.

"There is no blame when people are asleep!" said the eastwind; and with
that flew away faster than ever. One could have heard, as they went
over the woods, how the trees shook their leaves and branches; one
could have heard, on lakes and seas that they were passing over, for
the billows heaved up more loftily, and the great ships bowed down into
the water like sailing swans.

Towards evening, when it grew dusk, it was curious to look down to
the great cities; the lights burned within them, now here, now there;
it was exactly like the piece of paper which children burn to see the
multitude of little stars in it, which they call people coming out of
church. The prince clapped his hands, but the eastwind told him not
to do so, but much better to keep fast hold; or else he might let him
fall, and then, perhaps, he would pitch upon a church spire.

The eagle flew lightly through the dark wood, but the eastwind flew
still lighter; the Cossack on his little horse sped away over the
plain, but the prince sped on more rapidly by another mode.

"Now thou canst see the Himalaya," said the eastwind; "they are the
highest mountains in Asia; we shall not be long before we come to the
Garden of Paradise!"

With that they turned more southward, and perceived the fragrance of
spice and flowers. Figs and pomegranates grew wild, and the wild vine
hung with its clusters of blue and red grapes. There they both of them
alighted, stretched themselves on the tender grass, where the flowers
nodded, as if they would say,--"Welcome back again!"

"Are we now in the Garden of Paradise?" asked the prince.

"No, certainly not," replied the eastwind; "but we shall soon come
there. Dost thou see the winding field-path there, and the great cavern
where the vine leaves hang like rich green curtains? We shall go
through there. Wrap thee in thy cloak; here the sun burns, but one step
more and it is icy cold! The birds which fly past the cavern have the
one, outer wing, in the warm summer, and the other, inner one, in the
cold winter!"

"Really! And that is the way to the Garden of Paradise!" said the
prince.

They now went into the cave. Ha! how ice-cold it was; but that did
not last long, for the southwind spread out his wings, and they gave
the warmth of the brightest fire. Nay, what a cavern it was! The huge
masses of stone, from which the water dripped, hung above them in the
most extraordinary shapes; before long it grew so narrow that they were
obliged to creep upon hands and feet; again, and it expanded itself
high and wide, like the free air. It looked like a chapel of the dead,
with its silent organ pipes and organ turned to stone!

"Then we go the way of the dead to the Garden of Paradise," said the
prince; but the eastwind replied not a word, but pointed onward, and
the most lovely blue light beamed towards them. The masses of stone
above them became more and more like a chiselled ceiling, and at last
were bright, like a white cloud in the moonshine. They now breathed the
most deliciously mild atmosphere, as if fresh from the mountains, and
as fragrant as the roses of the valley.

A river flowed on as clear as the air itself, and the fishes were of
gold and silver; crimson eels, whose every movement seemed to emit blue
sparks of fire, played down in the water, and the broad leaf of the
waterlily had all the colors of the rainbow; the flower itself was an
orange-colored burning flame, to which the water gave nourishment, in
the same manner as the oil keeps the lamp continually burning. A firm
bridge of marble, as artistically and as exquisitely built as if it had
been of pearl and glass, led across the water to the Island of Bliss,
where the Garden of Paradise bloomed.

The eastwind took the prince in his arms and carried him over. The
flowers and the leaves began the most exquisite song about his youth,
so incomparably beautiful as no human voice could sing.

Were they palm trees or gigantic water plants which grew there? Trees
so large and succulent the prince had never seen. Long garlands of the
most wondrously formed twining plants, such as one only sees painted
in rich colors and gold upon the margins of old missals, or which
twined themselves through their initial letters, were thrown from tree
to tree. It was altogether the most lovely and fantastic assemblage of
birds, flowers, and graceful sweeping branches. In the grass just by
them was a flock of peacocks, with outspread glittering tails. Yes, it
was really so!--No, when the prince touched them he observed that they
were not animals, but plants; it was the large plantain, which has the
dazzling hues of the peacock's tail! Lions and tigers gambolled about,
like playful cats, between the green hedges, which sent forth an odor
like the blossom of the olive; and the lions and tigers were tame; the
wild wood-dove glittered like the most beautiful pearl, and with its
wings playfully struck the lion on the cheek; and the antelope, which
usually is so timid, stood and nodded with its head, as if it too
should like to join in the sport.

Now came the Fairy of Paradise; her garments shone like the sun,
and her countenance was as gentle as that of a glad mother when she
rejoices over her child. She was youthful; and the most beautiful
girls attended her, each of whom had a beaming star in her hair.

The eastwind gave her a written leaf from the phoenix, and her eyes
sparkled with joy; she took the prince by the hand, and led him into
her castle, the walls of which were colored like the most splendid leaf
of the tulip when held against the sun. The ceiling itself was a large
glittering flower, and the longer one gazed into it the deeper seemed
its cup. The prince stepped up to the window and looked through one of
the panes; there he saw the Tree of Knowledge, with the snake and Adam
and Eve standing close beside it.

"Are they not driven out?" asked he; and the Fairy smiled, and
explained to him that upon every pane of glass had time burned in its
picture, but not as we are accustomed to see it,--no, here all was
living; the trees moved their leaves, and people came and went as in
reality. He looked through another pane, and there was Jacob's dream,
where the ladder reached up to heaven, and the angels with their large
wings ascended and descended upon it. Yes, every thing which had been
done in this world lived and moved in these panes of glass. Such
pictures as these could only be burnt in by time.

The Fairy smiled, and led him into a large and lofty hall, the walls
of which seemed transparent, and were covered with pictures, the one
more lovely than the other. These were the millions of the blessed,
and they smiled and sang so that all flowed together into one melody.
The uppermost were so small that they seemed less than the smallest
rosebud, when it looks like a pin-prick on paper. In the middle of
the hall stood a great tree with drooping luxuriant branches; golden
apples, large and small, hung like oranges among the green leaves.
It was the Tree of Knowledge; of the fruit of which Adam and Eve had
eaten. On every leaf hung a crimson drop of dew; it was as if the tree
wept tears of blood.

"Let us now go into the boat," said the Fairy; "it will be refreshing
to us out upon the heaving water. The boat rocks, but does not move
from the place, and all the regions of the world pass before our eyes."

And it was wonderful to see how the coast moved! There came the lofty,
snow-covered Alps, with clouds and dark pine trees; horns resounded
with such a deep melancholy, and peasants _jodelled_ sweetly in the
valleys. Now the banyan tree bowed its long depending branches over the
boat; black swans swam upon the water, and the strangest animals and
flowers showed themselves along the shores: this was Australia, the
fifth quarter of the world, which glided past, with its horizon bounded
by blue mountains. They heard the song of the priests, and saw the
savages dancing to the sound of the drum and bone-tubes. The pyramids
of Egypt now rose into the clouds; overturned pillars and sphinxes,
half buried in sand, sailed past them. The northern lights flamed above
the Hecla of the north; they were such magnificent fireworks as no one
could imitate. The prince was delighted, and in fact, he saw a hundred
times more than what we have related.

"And may I always remain here?" asked he.

"That depends upon thyself," replied the Fairy. "If thou do not, like
Adam, take of the forbidden thing, then thou mayest always remain here."

"I shall not touch the apples upon the Tree of Knowledge," said the
prince; "here are a thousand fruits more beautiful than that. I should
never do as Adam did!"

"Prove thyself, and if thou be not strong enough, then return with the
eastwind which brought thee; he is about to go back again, and will
not return here for a whole century. That time will pass to thee in
this place as if it were only a hundred minutes, but it is time enough
for temptation and sin. Every evening when I am about to leave thee,
I shall say to thee, 'Follow me!' and beckon to thee. But follow me
not, for with every step would the temptation become stronger, and thou
wouldst come into the hall where grows the Tree of Knowledge. I sleep
beneath its fragrant depending branches; if thou follow me, if thou
impress a kiss upon me, then will Paradise sink deep in the earth, and
it will be lost to thee. The sharp winds of the desert will howl around
thee, cold rain will fall upon thy hair, and sorrow and remorse will be
thy punishment!"

"I will remain here!" said the prince; so the eastwind kissed his brow,
and said, "Be strong! and then we shall meet again here in a hundred
years!"

The eastwind spread out his large wings, which shone like the harvest
moon in autumn, or the northern lights in the cold winter.

"Farewell! farewell!" resounded from the flowers and the trees. The
storks and the pelicans flew after, in a line like a waving riband, and
accompanied him to the boundary of the Garden.

"Now we begin our dance!" said the Fairy; "at the conclusion, when I
have danced with thee, thou wilt see that when the sun sets I shall
beckon to thee, and thou wilt hear me say, 'Follow me!' But do it not!
That is thy temptation--that is sin to thee! During a hundred years
I shall every evening repeat it. Every time that thou resistest the
temptation wilt thou gain more strength, till at length it will cease
to tempt thee. This evening is the first trial! Remember that I have
warned thee!"

The Fairy led him into a great hall of white transparent lilies; in
each one the yellow stamina was a little golden harp, which rung with
clear and flute-like tones. The most beautiful maidens floated in the
dance, and sung how glorious was the gift of life; that they who were
purified by trial should never die, and that the Garden of Paradise
for them should bloom forever!

The sun went down, the whole heaven became of gold, which gave to
the lilies the splendor of the most beautiful roses. The prince felt
a bliss within his heart such as he had never experienced before.
He looked, and the background of the hall opened, and the Tree of
Knowledge stood there with a splendor which dazzled his eyes. A song
resounded from it, low and delicious as the voice of his mother, and it
seemed as if she sung, "My child! my beloved child!"

Then beckoned the Fairy, and said, "Follow, follow me!"

He started towards her--he forgot his promise--forgot it all the first
evening! "Follow, follow me!" alone sounded in his heart. He paused
not--he hastened after her.

"I will," said he; "there is really no sin in it! Why should I not do
so? I will see her! There is nothing lost if I only do not kiss her,
and that I will not do--for I have a firm will!"

The Fairy put aside the green, depending branches of the Tree of
Knowledge, and the next moment was hidden from sight.

"I have not sinned," said the prince, "and I will not!" He also put
aside the green, depending branches of the Tree of Knowledge, and
there sat the Fairy with her hands clasped, and the tears on her dark
eyelashes!

"Weep not for me!" said he passionately. "There can be no sin in what
I have done; weep not!" and he kissed away her tears, and his lips
touched hers!

At once a thunder crash was heard--a loud and deep thunder crash, and
all seemed hurled together! The beautiful, weeping Fairy, the Garden of
Paradise, sunk--sunk so deep--so deep!--and the prince saw it sink in
the deep night! Like a little gleaming star he saw it shining a long
way off! The coldness of death went through his limbs; he closed his
eyes, and lay long as if dead!

The cold rain fell upon his face; the keen wind blew around his head;
his thoughts turned to the past.

"What have I done!" sighed he; "I have sinned like Adam! Sinned, and I
have forfeited Paradise!"

He opened his eyes; the star so far off, which had shone to him like
the sunken Paradise, he now saw was the morning star in heaven.

He raised himself up, and was in the great wood near to the cave of the
winds; the old woman sat by his side, she looked angrily at him, and
lifted up her arm.

"Already! the first time of trial!" said she: "I expected as much! Yes,
if thou wast a lad of mine, I would punish thee!"

"Punishment will come!" said a strong old man, with a scythe in his
hand, and with large, black wings!--"I shall lay him in his coffin, but
not now. Let him return to the world, atone for his sin, and become
good in deed, and not alone in word. I shall come again; if he be then
good and pious, I will take him above the stars, where blooms the
Garden of Paradise; and he shall enter in at its beautiful pearl gates,
and be a dweller in it forever and ever; but if then his thoughts are
evil, and his heart full of sin, he will sink deeper than Paradise
seemed to sink--sink deeper, and that forever!--Farewell!"

The prince arose--the old woman was gone--the cave of the winds was
nothing now but a hollow in the rock; he wondered how it had seemed so
large the night before; the morning star had set, and the sun shone
with a clear and cheerful light upon the little flowers and blades of
grass, which were heavy with the last night's rain; the birds sang, and
the bees hummed in the blossoms of the lime tree. The prince walked
home to his castle. He told his grandmother how he had been to the
Garden of Paradise, and what had happened to him there, and what the
old man with the black wings had said.

"This will do thee more good than many book-lessons," said the old
grandmother; "never let it go out of thy memory!"--and the prince never
did.

A NIGHT IN THE KITCHEN.

Once upon a time, there was a bunch of brimstone matches, which were
exceedingly proud, because they were of high descent; their ancestral
tree, that is to say, the great fir tree, of which they were little
bits of chips, had been a great, old tree in the forest. The brimstone
matches now lay beside the kitchen fender, together with the tinder and
an old iron pot, and were speaking of their youth.

"Yes, we were then on the green branch," said they; "then we were
really and truly on a green branch; every morning and evening we
drank diamond tea, that was the dew; every day we had sunshine, if
the sun shone, and all the little birds told us tales. We could very
well observe also, that we were rich; for the common trees were only
dressed in summer, but our family had a good stock of green clothing
both winter and summer. But then came the wood-cutters--that was a
great revolution, and our family was cut up root and branch; the main
head of the family, he took a place as mainmast in a magnificent ship,
which sailed round the world wherever it would; the other branches,
some took one place, and some took another; and we have now the post of
giving light to the common herd; and, therefore, high-born as we are,
are we now in the kitchen."

"Yes, it was different with me," said the iron pot, when the matches
were silent; "as soon as ever I came into the world I was cleaned and
boiled many a time! I care for the solid, and am properly spoken of as
first in the house. My only pleasure is, as soon as dinner is over, to
lie clean and bright upon the shelf, and head a long row of comrades.
If I except the water-bucket, which now and then goes down in the yard,
we always live in-doors. Our only newsmonger is the coal-box; but it
talks so violently about government and the people!--yes, lately there
was an old pot, which, out of horror of it, fell down and broke to
pieces!"

"Thou chatterest too much!" interrupted the tinder, and the steel
struck the flint until sparks came out. "Should we not have a merry
evening?"

"Yes; let us talk about who is the most well-bred among us," said the
brimstone matches.

"No, I don't think it right to talk about ourselves," said an earthen
jug; "let us have an evening's entertainment. I will begin; I will
tell something which everybody has experienced; people can do that so
seldom, and it is so pleasant. By the Baltic sea--"

"That is a beautiful beginning!" said all the talkers; "it will
certainly be a history which we shall like."

"Yes, then I passed my youth in a quiet family; the furniture was of
wood; the floors were scoured; they had clean curtains every fortnight."

"How interestingly you tell it!" said the dusting-brush; "one can
immediately tell that the narrator is a lady, such a thread of purity
always runs through their relations."

"Yes, that one can feel!" said the water-bucket, and made a little skip
of pleasure on the floor.

And the earthen jug continued her story, and the end of it was like the
beginning.

All the talkers shook for pleasure; and the dusting-brush took green
parsley leaves from the dust-heap, and crowned the jug; for he knew
that it would vex the others; and thinks he to himself, "If I crown her
to-day, she will crown me to-morrow!"

"Now we will dance," said the fire-tongs; and began dancing. Yes,
indeed! and it is wonderful how he set one leg before the other; the
old shoehorn, which hung on a hook, jumped up to see it. "Perhaps I,
too, may get crowned," said the fire-tongs; and it was crowned.

"They are only the rabble!" thought the brimstone matches.

The tea-urn was then asked to sing; but it said it had got a cold,
and it could not sing unless it was boiling; but it was nothing but
an excuse, because it did not like to sing, unless it stood upon the
table, in grand company.

In the window there sat an old pen, which the servant-girl was
accustomed to write with: there was nothing remarkable about it; it was
dipped deep into the ink-stand. "If the tea-urn will not sing," said
the pen, "then she can let it alone! Outside there hangs a nightingale
in a cage, which can sing, and which has not regularly learned any
thing; but we will not talk scandal this evening!"

"I think it highly unbecoming," said the tea-kettle, which was the
kitchen singer, and half-sister to the tea-urn, "that such a foreign
bird should be listened to! Is it patriotic? I will let the coal-box
judge."

"It only vexes me," said the coal-box; "it vexes me so much, that no
one can think! Is this a proper way to spend an evening? Would it not
be much better to put the house to rights? Every one go to his place,
and I will rule; that will produce a change!"

"Yes, let us do something out of the common way!" said all the things
together.

At that very moment the door opened. It was the servant-girl, and so
they all stood stock still; not a sound was heard; but there was not a
pot among them that did not know what they might have done, and how
genteel they were.

"If I might have had my way," thought they, "then it would have been a
regularly merry evening!"

The servant-girl took the brimstone matches, and put fire to them.
Bless us! how they sputtered and burst into a flame!

"Now every one can see," thought they, "that we take the first rank!
What splendor we have! what brilliancy!"--and with that they were burnt
out.

LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS.

"My poor flowers are quite dead," said little Ida. "They were so
beautiful last evening, and now all their leaves hang withered. How can
that be?" asked she from the student who sat on the sofa. She was very
fond of him, for he knew the most beautiful tales, and could cut out
such wonderful pictures; he could cut out hearts with little dancing
ladies in them; flowers he could cut out, and castles with doors that
would open. He was a very charming student.

"Why do the flowers look so miserably to-day?" again asked she, and
showed him a whole bouquet of withered flowers.

"Dost thou not know what ails them?" said the student; "the flowers
have been to a ball last night, and therefore they droop so."

"But flowers cannot dance," said little Ida.

"Yes, when it is dark, and we are all asleep, then they dance about
merrily; nearly every night they have a ball!" said the student.

"Can no child go to the ball?" inquired Ida.

"Yes," said the student, "little tiny daisies and lilies of the valley."

"Where do the prettiest flowers dance?" asked little Ida.

"Hast thou not," said the student, "gone out of the city gate to the
great castle where the king lives in summer, where there is a beautiful
garden, with a great many flowers in it? Thou hast certainly seen the
swans which come sailing to thee for little bits of bread. There is a
regular ball, thou mayst believe!"

"I was in the garden yesterday with my mother," said Ida, "but all the
leaves were off the trees, and there were hardly any flowers at all!
Where are they? In summer I saw such a many."

"They are gone into the castle," said the student. "Thou seest, as
soon as the king and all his court go away to the city, the flowers go
directly out of the garden into the castle, and are very merry. Thou
shouldst see them! The two most beautiful roses sit upon the throne,
and are king and queen; all the red cockscombs place themselves on
each side, and stand and bow, they are the chamberlains. Then all the
prettiest flowers come, and so there is a great ball; the blue violets
represent young midshipmen and cadets, they dance with hyacinths and
crocuses, which they call young ladies. The tulips and the great yellow
lilies, they are old ladies who look on, and see that the dancing goes
on properly, and that every thing is beautiful."

"But is there nobody who gives the flowers any thing while they dance
in the king's castle?" asked little Ida.

"There is nobody who rightly knows about it," said the student. "In the
summer season at night the old castle-steward goes regularly through
the castle; he has a great bunch of keys with him, but as soon as
ever the flowers hear the jingling of his keys, they are quite still,
hide themselves behind the long curtains, and peep out with their
little heads. 'I can smell flowers somewhere about,' says the old
castle-steward, 'but I cannot see them!'"

"That is charming!" said little Ida, and clapped her hands; "but could
not I see the flowers?"

"Yes," said the student, "only remember the next time thou art there to
peep in at the window, and then thou wilt see them. I did so one day;
there lay a tall yellow Turk's-cap lily on a sofa; that was a court
lady."

"And can the flowers in the botanic garden go out there? Can they come
such a long way?" asked Ida.

"Yes, that thou mayst believe," said the student; "for if they like
they can fly. Hast thou not seen the pretty butterflies, the red, and
yellow, and white ones, they look almost like flowers,--and so they
have been; they have grown on stalks high up in the air, and have shot
out leaves as if they were small wings, and so they fly, and when they
can support them well, then they have leave given them to fly about by
day. That thou must have seen thyself! But it is very possible that the
flowers in the botanic garden never have been into the king's castle,
nor know how merry they are there at night. And now, therefore, I will
tell thee something that will put the professor of botany who lives
beside the garden into a perplexity. Thou knowest him, dost thou not?
Next time thou goest into his garden, do thou tell one of the flowers
that there will be a great ball at the castle; it will tell it to its
neighbor, and it to the next, and so on till they all know, and then
they will all fly away. Then the professor will come into the garden,
and will not find a single flower, and he will not be able to imagine
what can have become of them."

"But how can one flower tell another? flowers cannot talk," said little
Ida.

"No, they cannot properly talk," replied the student, "and so they have
pantomime. Hast not thou seen when it blows a little the flowers nod
and move all their green leaves; that is just as intelligible as if
they talked."

"Can the professor understand pantomime?" inquired Ida.

"Yes, that thou mayst believe! He came one morning down into his
garden, and saw a tall yellow nettle pantomiming to a beautiful red
carnation, and it was all the same as if it had said, 'Thou art
so handsome, that I am very fond of thee!' The professor was not
pleased with that, and struck the nettle upon its leaves, which are
its fingers; but they stung him so, that from that time he has never
meddled with a nettle again."

"That is delightful!" said little Ida, and laughed.

"Is that the stuff to fill a child's mind with!" exclaimed the tiresome
chancellor, who was come in on a visit, and now sat on the sofa. He
could not bear the student, and always grumbled when he saw him cutting
out the beautiful and funny pictures,--now a man hanging on a gallows,
with a heart in his hand, because he had stolen hearts; and now an
old lady riding on a horse, with her husband sitting on her nose. The
cross old chancellor could not bear any of these, and always said as he
did now, "Is that the stuff to cram a child's head with! It is stupid
fancy!"

But for all that, little Ida thought that what the student had told her
about the flowers was so charming, that she could not help thinking
of it. The flowers hung down their heads, because they had been at the
ball, and were quite worn out. So she took them away with her, to her
other playthings, which lay upon a pretty little table, the drawers of
which were all full of her fine things. In the doll's bed lay her doll,
Sophie, asleep; but for all that little Ida said to her, "Thou must
actually get up, Sophie, and be thankful to lie in the drawer to-night,
for the poor flowers are ill, and so they must lie in thy bed, and,
perhaps, they will then get well."

With this she took up the doll, but it looked so cross, and did not say
a single word; for it was angry that it must be turned out of its bed.

So Ida laid the flowers in the doll's bed, tucked them in very nicely,
and said, that now they must lie quite still, and she would go and get
tea ready for them, and they should get quite well again by to-morrow
morning; and then she drew the little curtains close round the bed,
that the sun might not blind them.

All the evening long she could not help thinking about what the
student had told her; and then when she went to bed herself, she drew
back the curtains from the windows where her mother's beautiful flowers
stood, both hyacinths and tulips, and she whispered quite softly to
them, "I know that you will go to the ball to-night!" but the flowers
looked as if they did not understand a word which she said, and did not
move a leaf--but little Ida knew what she knew.

When she was in bed, she lay for a long time thinking how delightful it
would be to see the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's castle.

"Can my flowers actually have been there?" and with these words she
fell asleep. In the night she woke; she had been dreaming about the
flowers, and the student, who the chancellor said stuffed her head
with nonsense. It was quite silent in the chamber where Ida lay; the
night lamp was burning on the table, and her father and her mother were
asleep.

"Are my flowers now lying in Sophie's bed?" said she to herself; "how
I should like to know!" She lifted herself up a little in bed, and
looked through the door, which stood ajar, and in that room lay the
flowers, and all her playthings. She listened, and it seemed to her as
if some one was playing on the piano, which stood in that room, but so
softly and so sweetly as she had never heard before.

"Now, certainly, all the flowers are dancing in there," said she; "O,
how I should like to go and see!" but she did not dare to get up, lest
she should wake her father and mother. "If they would only just come in
here!" said she; but the flowers did not come, and the music continued
to play so sweetly. She could not resist it any longer, for it was so
delightful; so she crept out of her little bed, and went, quite softly,
to the door, and peeped into the room. Nay! what a charming sight she
beheld!

There was not any night lamp in that room, and yet it was quite light;
the moon shone through the window into the middle of the floor, and
it was almost as light as day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood
in two long rows along the floor; they were not any longer in the
window, where stood the empty pots. All the flowers were dancing so
beautifully, one round another, on the floor; they made a regular
chain, and took hold of one another's green leaves when they swung
round. But there sat at the piano a great yellow lily, which little Ida
had certainly seen in the summer, for she remembered very well that the
student had said, "Nay, how like Miss Lina it is!" and they had all
laughed at him. But now it seemed really to Ida as if the tall yellow
lily resembled the young lady, and that she, also, really did just as
if she were playing; now she laid her long yellow face on one side, now
on the other, and nodded the time to the charming music. Not one of
them observed little Ida.

She now saw a large blue crocus spring upon the middle of the table
where the playthings lay, go straight to the doll's bed, and draw aside
the curtains, where lay the sick flowers; but they raised themselves up
immediately, and nodded one to another, as much as to say, that they
also would go with them and dance. The old snapdragon, whose under lip
was broken off, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers, which did not
look poorly at all, and they hopped down among the others, and were
very merry.

All at once it seemed as if something had fallen down from the table.
Ida looked towards it; it was the Easter-wand, which had heard the
flowers. It was also very pretty; upon the top of it was set a little
wax-doll, which had just such a broad hat upon its head as that which
the chancellor wore. The Easter-wand hopped about upon its three wooden
legs, and stamped quite loud, for it danced the mazurka; and there was
not one of the flowers which could dance that dance, because they were
so light and could not stamp.

The wax-doll upon the Easter-wand seemed to become taller and stouter,
and whirled itself round above the paper flowers on the wand, and
exclaimed, quite loud, "Is that the nonsense to stuff a child's mind
with! It is stupid fancy!"--And the wax-doll was precisely like the
cross old chancellor with the broad hat, and looked just as yellow
and ill-tempered as he did; but the paper flowers knocked him on the
thin legs, and with that he shrunk together again, and became a little
tiny wax-doll. It was charming to see it! little Ida could hardly help
laughing. The Easter-wand continued to dance, and the chancellor was
obliged to dance too; it mattered not whether he made himself so tall
and big, or whether he were the little yellow wax-doll, with the great
black hat. Then came up the other flowers, especially those which had
lain in Sophie's bed, and so the Easter-rod left off dancing.

At that very moment a great noise was heard within the drawer where
Ida's doll, Sophie, lay, with so many of her playthings; and with this
the snapdragon ran up to the corner of the table, lay down upon his
stomach, and opened the drawer a little bit. With this Sophie raised
herself up, and looked round her in astonishment.

"There is a ball here!" said she, "and why has not anybody told me of
it?"

"Wilt thou dance with me?" said the snapdragon.

"Yes, thou art a fine one to dance with!" said she, and turned her back
upon him. So she seated herself upon the drawer, and thought that to
be sure some one of the flowers would come and engage her, but not one
came; so she coughed a little, hem! hem! hem! but for all that not one
came. The snapdragon danced alone, and that was not so very bad either!

As now none of the flowers seemed to see Sophie, she let herself
drop heavily out of the drawer down upon the floor,--and that gave a
great alarum; all the flowers at once came running up and gathered
around her, inquiring if she had hurt herself; and they were all so
exceedingly kind to her, especially those which had lain in her bed.
But she had not hurt herself at all, and all Ida's flowers thanked her
for the beautiful bed, and they paid her so much attention, and took
her into the middle of the floor, where the moon shone, and danced with
her, while all the other flowers made a circle around them. Sophie was
now very much delighted; and she said they would be very welcome to her
bed, for that she had not the least objection to lie in the drawer.

But the flowers said, "Thou shalt have as many thanks as if we used it,
but we cannot live so long! To-morrow we shall be quite dead; but now
tell little Ida," said they, "that she must bury us down in the garden,
where the canary-bird lies, and so we shall grow up again next summer,
and be much prettier than ever!"

"No, you shall not die," said Sophie, and the flowers kissed her. At
that very moment the room door opened, and a great crowd of beautiful
flowers came dancing in. Ida could not conceive where they came from;
they must certainly have been all the flowers out of the king's castle.
First of all went two most magnificent roses, and they had little gold
crowns on; they were a king and a queen; then came the most lovely
gilliflowers and carnations, and they bowed first on this side and
then on that. They had brought music with them; great big poppies
and pionies blew upon peapods till they were red in the face. The
blue-bells and the little white convolvuluses rung as if they were
musical bells. It was charming music. Then there came in a many other
flowers, and they danced all together; the blue violets and the red
daisies, the anemones and the lilies of the valley; and all the flowers
kissed one another: it was delightful to see it!

At last they all bade one another good-night, and little Ida also went
to her bed, where she dreamed about every thing that she had seen.

The next morning, when she got up, she went as quickly as she could
to her little table, to see whether the flowers were there still;
she drew aside the curtains from the little bed;--yes, there they all
lay together, but they were quite withered, much more than yesterday.
Sophie lay in the drawer, where she had put her; she looked very sleepy.

"Canst thou remember what thou hast to tell me?" said little Ida; but
Sophie looked quite stupid, and did not say one single word.

"Thou art not at all good," said Ida, "and yet they all danced with
thee."

So she took a little paper box, on which were painted beautiful birds,
and this she opened, and laid in it the dead flowers.

"This shall be your pretty coffin," said she, "and when my Norwegian
cousins come, they shall go with me and bury you, down in the garden,
that next summer you may grow up again, and be lovelier than ever!"

The Norwegian cousins were two lively boys, who were called Jonas and
Adolph; their father had given them two new cross-bows, and these they
brought with them to show to Ida. She told them about the poor flowers
which were dead, and so they got leave to bury them. The two boys went
first, with their cross-bows on their shoulders; and little Ida came
after, with the dead flowers in the pretty little box. Down in the
garden they dug a little grave. Ida kissed the flowers, and then put
them in their box, down into the earth, and Jonas and Adolph stood with
their cross-bows above the grave, for they had neither arms nor cannon.

THE CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER.

There were, once upon a time, five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were
all brothers, for they were born of an old tin spoon. They held their
arms in their hands, and their faces were all alike; their uniform was
red and blue, and very beautiful. The very first word which they heard
in this world, when the lid was taken off the box in which they lay,
was, "Tin soldiers!" This was the exclamation of a little boy, who
clapped his hands as he said it. They had been given to him, for it was
his birthday, and he now set them out on the table. The one soldier was
just exactly like another; there was only one of them that was a little
different; he had only one leg, for he had been the last that was made,
and there was not quite tin enough; yet he stood just as firmly upon
his one leg as they did upon their two, and he was exactly the one who
became remarkable.

Upon the table on which he had set them out, there stood many other
playthings; but that which was most attractive to the eye, was a pretty
little castle of pasteboard. One could look through the little windows
as if into the rooms. Outside stood little trees, and round about it a
little mirror, which was to look like a lake; swans of wax swam upon
this, and were reflected in it. It was altogether very pretty; but the
prettiest thing of all was the little young lady who stood at the open
castle door, for she was a dancer; and she lifted one of her legs so
high in the air, that the tin soldier might almost have fancied that
she had only one leg, like himself.

"That is a wife for me!" thought he, "but she is a great lady;
she lives in a castle, I in nothing but a box; and then we are
five-and-twenty of us, there is no room for her! Yet I must make her
acquaintance!"

And so he set himself behind a snuff-box, which stood on the table, and
from thence he could very plainly see the pretty little lady, which
remained standing upon one leg, without ever losing her balance.

That continued all the evening, and then the other tin soldiers were
put into their box, and the people of the house went to bed. The
playthings now began to amuse themselves; they played at company
coming, at fighting, and at having a ball. The tin soldiers rattled
about in their box, for they wanted to be with the rest of the things,
but they could not get the box lid off. The nutcrackers knocked about
the gingerbread nuts, and the slate-pencil laughed with the slate; it
was so entertaining that the canary-bird awoke, and began to chatter
with them also, but she chattered in verse. The only two which did not
move from their place were the tin soldier and the little dancing lady.
She kept herself so upright, standing on the point of her toe, with
both her arms extended; and he stood just as steadily upon his one leg,
and his eyes did not move from her for one moment.

It now struck twelve o'clock, and crash! up sprang the lid of the
snuff-box, but there was no snuff in it; no, there was a little black
imp--it was a jack-in-the-box.

"Tin soldier!" said the imp, "keep thy eyes to thyself!"

But the tin soldier pretended that he did not hear.

"Yes, we shall see in the morning!" said the imp.

And now it was the next morning, and the children got up, and they set
the tin soldier in the window,--and either it was the imp, or else it
was a sudden gust of wind, but the casement burst open, and out went
the tin soldier, head foremost, down from the third story! It was a
horrible fall, he turned head over heels, and remained standing with
his one leg up in the air, and with his bayonet down among the stones
of a sink.

The maid-servant and the little boy went down directly to seek for him,
but although they almost trod upon him, still they could not see him.
If the tin soldier had only shouted out, "Here I am!" they would have
found him; but he did not think it would be becoming in him to shout
out when he had his uniform on.

It now began to rain; one drop fell heavier than another; it was a
regular shower. When it was over there came up two street boys.

"Look here!" said one of them, "here lies a tin soldier. He shall have
a sail!"

So they made a boat of a newspaper, and set the tin soldier in it, and
now he sailed down the kennel; the two lads ran, one on each side, and
clapped their hands. Dear me! what billows there were in the uneven
kennel, and what a torrent there was, for it had poured down with rain!
The paper boat rocked up and down, and whirled round so fast! The tin
soldier must have trembled, but he showed no fear at all, he never
changed his countenance, and stood holding his weapon in his hand.

Just then the boat was driven under a large arch of the kennel, and it
was as dark to the tin soldier as if he had been in his box.

"Where am I now come to?" thought he; "yes, yes, it is all that imp's
doing! Ah! if the little dancing lady were only in the boat, I would
not mind if it were twice as dark!"

At that moment up came a great big water-rat, which lived under the
kennel's archway.

"Have you a passport?" asked the rat. "Out with your passport!"

But the tin soldier said not a word, and stood stock still, shouldering
his arms. The boat shot past, and the rat came after. Ha! how he set
his teeth, and cried to the sticks and the straws,--

"Stop him! stop him! he has not paid the toll! He has not shown his
passport!"

But the stream got stronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already
see daylight at the end of the tunnel, but at the same time he heard a
roaring sound, which might well have made a bolder man than he tremble.
Only think! where the tunnel ended, the water of the kennel was poured
down into a great canal; which would be, for him, just as dangerous as
for us to sail down a great waterfall!

He was now come so near to it that he could no longer stand upright.
The boat drove on; the tin soldier held himself as stiff as he could;
nobody could have said of him that he winked with an eye. The boat
whirled round three times, and filled with water to the very edge--it
must sink! The tin soldier stood up to his neck in water! Deeper and
deeper sank the boat, the paper grew softer and softer! Now went the
water above the soldier's head!--he thought of the little dancing lady,
whom he should never see more, and it rung in the tin soldier's ear,--

    "Fare thee well, thou man of war!
    Death with thee is dealing!"

The paper now went in two, and the tin soldier fell through; and at
that moment was swallowed by a large fish!

Nay, how dark it was now in there! It was darker than in the kennel
archway, and much narrower. But the tin soldier was steadfast to his
duty; and he lay there, shouldering his arms. The fish twisted about,
and made the most horrible sort of movements; at last it became quite
still; a flash of lightning seemed to go through it. Light shone quite