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1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENLITTLE TINY OR THUMBELINAby Hans Christian AndersenTHERE was once a woman who wished very much to have a littlechild, but she could not obtain her wish. At last she went to a fairy,and said, “I should so very much like to have a little child; canyou tell me where I can find one?”"Oh, that can be easily managed,” said the fairy. “Here is abarleycorn of a different kind to those which grow in the farmer’sfields, and which the chickens eat; put it into a flower-pot, andsee what will happen.”"Thank you,” said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelveshillings, which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went homeand planted it, and immediately there grew up a large handsome flower, something like a tulip in appearance, but with its leaves tightlyclosed as if it were still a bud. “It is a beautiful flower,” said thewoman, and she kissed the red and golden-colored leaves, and while she did so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a realtulip. Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a verydelicate and graceful little maiden. She was scarcely half as longas a thumb, and they gave her the name of “Thumbelina,” or Tiny,because she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly polished, servedher for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet-leaves, with arose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during theday she amused herself on a table, where the woman had placed aplateful of water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with theirstems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, whichserved Tiny for a boat. Here the little maiden sat and rowed herselffrom side to side, with two oars made of white horse-hair. It reallywas a very pretty sight. Tiny could, also, sing so softly andsweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard.One night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toadcrept through a broken pane of glass in the window, and leaped rightupon the table where Tiny lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt.”What a pretty little wife this would make for my son, said thetoad, and she took up the walnut-shell in which little Tiny layasleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden.In the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived thetoad, with her son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when hesaw the pretty little maiden in her elegant bed, he could only cry,”Croak, croak, croak.”"Don’t speak so loud, or she will wake,” said the toad, “andthen she might run away, for she is as light as swan’s down. We willplace her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream; it willbe like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then shecannot escape; and, while she is away, we will make haste andprepare the state-room under the marsh, in which you are to livewhen you are married.”Far out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broadgreen leaves, which seemed to float on the top of the water. Thelargest of these leaves appeared farther off than the rest, and theold toad swam out to it with the walnut-shell, in which little Tinylay still asleep. The tiny little creature woke very early in themorning, and began to cry bitterly when she found where she was, forshe could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf,and no way of reaching the land. Meanwhile the old toad was verybusy under the marsh, decking her room with rushes and wild yellowflowers, to make it look pretty for her new daughter-in-law. Thenshe swam out with her ugly son to the leaf on which she had placedpoor little Tiny. She wanted to fetch the pretty bed, that she mightput it in the bridal chamber to be ready for her. The old toad bowedlow to her in the water, and said, “Here is my son, he will be yourhusband, and you will live happily in the marsh by the stream.”"Croak, croak, croak,” was all her son could say for himself; sothe toad took up the elegant little bed, and swam away with it,leaving Tiny all alone on the green leaf, where she sat and wept.She could not bear to think of living with the old toad, and havingher ugly son for a husband. The little fishes, who swam about in thewater beneath, had seen the toad, and heard what she said, so theylifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden. Assoon as they caught sight of her, they saw she was very pretty, and itmade them very sorry to think that she must go and live with theugly toads. “No, it must never be!” so they assembled together inthe water, round the green stalk which held the leaf on which thelittle maiden stood, and gnawed it away at the root with theirteeth. Then the leaf floated down the stream, carrying Tiny far awayout of reach of land.Tiny sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushessaw her, and sang, “What a lovely little creature;” so the leaf swamaway with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands.A graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her,and at last alighted on the leaf. Tiny pleased him, and she was gladof it, for now the toad could not possibly reach her, and thecountry through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon the water, till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdleand tied one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of theribbon she fastened to the leaf, which now glided on much fasterthan ever, taking little Tiny with it as she stood. Presently alarge cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught sight of her, he seized her round her delicate waist with his claws, and flew with her into a tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterflyflew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away.Oh, how frightened little Tiny felt when the cockchafer flewwith her to the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautifulwhite butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he couldnot free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did nottrouble himself at all about the matter. He seated himself by her sideon a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat,and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like acockchafer. After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers,and said, “She has only two legs! how ugly that looks.” “She has nofeelers,” said another. “Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is likea human being.”"Oh! she is ugly,” said all the lady cockchafers, although Tinywas very pretty. Then the cockchafer who had run away with her,believed all the others when they said she was ugly, and would havenothing more to say to her, and told her she might go where she liked.Then he flew down with her from the tree, and placed her on a daisy,and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even thecockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while shewas really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and astender and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf. During the wholesummer poor little Tiny lived quite alone in the wide forest. She woveherself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf,to protect herself from the rain. She sucked the honey from theflowers for food, and drank the dew from their leaves every morning.So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter,- the long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly were flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large clover leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolled together and shrivelled up, nothing remained but a yellow withered stalk. She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and she was herself so frail and delicate, that poor little Tiny was nearlyfrozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes, as theyfell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, forwe are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herselfup in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keepher warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she had been living lay a corn-field, but the corn had been cut a long time;nothing remained but the bare dry stubble standing up out of thefrozen ground. It was to her like struggling through a large wood. Oh!how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of afield-mouse, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. Theredwelt the field-mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of corn, a kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor little Tiny stoodbefore the door just like a little beggar-girl, and begged for a smallpiece of barley-corn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for twodays.”You poor little creature,” said the field-mouse, who was really agood old field-mouse, “come into my warm room and dine with me.” She was very pleased with Tiny, so she said, “You are quite welcome to stay with me all the winter, if you like; but you must keep my rooms clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear themvery much.” And Tiny did all the field-mouse asked her, and foundherself very comfortable.”We shall have a visitor soon,” said the field-mouse one day;”my neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than Iam; he has large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. Ifyou could only have him for a husband, you would be well providedfor indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him some of yourprettiest stories.But Tiny did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, forhe was a mole. However, he came and paid his visit dressed in hisblack velvet coat.”He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times largerthan mine,” said the field-mouse.He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightinglyof the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them.Tiny was obliged to sing to him, “Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly awayhome,” and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her because she had such a sweet voice; but he said nothing yet, for he was very cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a longpassage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of thefield-mouse to his own, and here she had permission to walk withTiny whenever she liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at thesight of a dead bird which lay in the passage. It was a perfectbird, with a beak and feathers, and could not have been dead long, and was lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took a piece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth, and it glittered like fire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through thelong, dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the deadbird, the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, the earthgave way, so that there was a large hole, and the daylight shoneinto the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, hisbeautiful wings pulled close to his sides, his feet and his head drawnup under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of the cold.It made little Tiny very sad to see it, she did so love the littlebirds; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her sobeautifully. But the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs, andsaid, “He will sing no more now. How miserable it must be to be born a little bird! I am thankful that none of my children will ever bebirds, for they can do nothing but cry, ‘Tweet, tweet,’ and always dieof hunger in the winter.”"Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!” exclaimed thefield-mouse, “What is the use of his twittering, for when winter comeshe must either starve or be frozen to death. Still birds are very highbred.”Tiny said nothing; but when the two others had turned theirbacks on the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the softfeathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids.”Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer,”she said; “and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird.”The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone,and then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny couldnot sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet ofhay; then she carried it to the dead bird, and spread it over him;with some down from the flowers which she had found in thefield-mouse’s room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread some ofit on each side of the bird, so that he might lie warmly in the coldearth. “Farewell, you pretty little bird,” said she, “farewell;thank you for your delightful singing during the summer, when allthe trees were green, and the warm sun shone upon us. Then she laidher head on the bird’s breast, but she was alarmed immediately, for itseemed as if something inside the bird went “thump, thump.” It was the bird’s heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, and the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the swallows fly away into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the coldseizes it, it becomes frozen, and falls down as if dead; it remainswhere it fell, and the cold snow covers it. Tiny trembled very much;she was quite frightened, for the bird was large, a great deallarger than herself,- she was only an inch high. But she took courage,laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow, and then took a leafwhich she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it over thehead of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to seehim. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for amoment to look at Tiny, who stood by holding a piece of decayed wood in her hand, for she had no other lantern. “Thank you, pretty little maiden,” said the sick swallow; “I have been so nicely warmed, that I shall soon regain my strength, and be able to fly about again in the warm sunshine.”"Oh,” said she, “it is cold out of doors now; it snows andfreezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you.”Then she brought the swallow some water in a flower-leaf, andafter he had drank, he told her that he had wounded one of his wingsin a thorn-bush, and could not fly as fast as the others, who weresoon far away on their journey to warm countries. Then at last hehad fallen to the earth, and could remember no more, nor how he came to be where she had found him. The whole winter the swallow remained underground, and Tiny nursed him with care and love. Neither the mole nor the field-mouse knew anything about it, for they did not like swallows. Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed the earth. Then the swallow bade farewell to Tiny, and she opened the hole in the ceiling which the mole had made. The sun shone in upon them so beautifully, that the swallow asked her if she would go with him; she could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with her into the green woods. But Tiny knew it would make the field-mouse very grieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, “No, I cannot.” “Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden,” said the swallow; and he flew out into the sunshine.Tiny looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She wasvery fond of the poor swallow.”Tweet, tweet,” sang the bird, as he flew out into the greenwoods, and Tiny felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out intothe warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field overthe house of the field-mouse had grown up high into the air, andformed a thick wood to Tiny, who was only an inch in height.”You are going to be married, Tiny,” said the field-mouse. “Myneighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child likeyou. Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be bothwoollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the mole’swife.”Tiny had to turn the spindle, and the field-mouse hired fourspiders, who were to weave day and night. Every evening the molevisited her, and was continually speaking of the time when thesummer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day with Tiny; but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth, and made it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, the wedding should take place. But Tiny was not at all pleased; for she did not like the tiresome mole. Every morning when the sun rose, and every evening when it went down, she would creep out at the door, and as the wind blew aside the ears of corn, so that she could see the blue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there, and wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he never returned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green forest.When autumn arrived, Tiny had her outfit quite ready; and thefield-mouse said to her, “In four weeks the wedding must take place.”Then Tiny wept, and said she would not marry the disagreeablemole.”Nonsense,” replied the field-mouse. “Now don’t be obstinate, or Ishall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome mole; thequeen herself does not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. Hiskitchen and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankfulfor such good fortune.”So the wedding-day was fixed, on which the mole was to fetchTiny away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again tosee the warm sun, because he did not like it. The poor child wasvery unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun,and as the field-mouse had given her permission to stand at thedoor, she went to look at it once more.”Farewell bright sun,” she cried, stretching out her arm towardsit; and then she walked a short distance from the house; for thecorn had been cut, and only the dry stubble remained in the fields.”Farewell, farewell,” she repeated, twining her arm round a little redflower that grew just by her side. “Greet the little swallow fromme, if you should see him again.”"Tweet, tweet,” sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, andthere was the swallow himself flying close by. As soon as he spiedTiny, he was delighted; and then she told him how unwilling she feltto marry the ugly mole, and to live always beneath the earth, andnever to see the bright sun any more. And as she told him she wept.”Cold winter is coming,” said the swallow, “and I am going tofly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my back, and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away from the ugly mole and his gloomy rooms,- far away, over the mountains, into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly- than here; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greater beauty. Fly now with me, dear little Tiny; you saved my life when I lay frozen in that dark passage.”"Yes, I will go with you,” said Tiny; and she seated herself onthe bird’s back, with her feet on his outstretched wings, and tied hergirdle to one of his strongest feathers.Then the swallow rose in the air, and flew over forest and oversea, high above the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Tiny would have been frozen in the cold air, but she crept under the bird’s warm feathers, keeping her little head uncovered, so that she might admire the beautiful lands over which they passed. At length they reached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly, and the sky seems so much higher above the earth. Here, on the hedges, and by the wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons and oranges hung from trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant with myrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along thecountry lanes, playing with large gay butterflies; and as theswallow flew farther and farther, every place appeared still morelovely.At last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded bytrees of the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble,built in the olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, andat the top were many swallows’ nests, and one of these was the home of the swallow who carried Tiny.”This is my house,” said the swallow; “but it would not do for youto live there- you would not be comfortable. You must choose foryourself one of those lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it,and then you shall have everything that you can wish to make youhappy.”"That will be delightful,” she said, and clapped her little hands for joy.A large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, hadbeen broken into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the mostbeautiful large white flowers; so the swallow flew down with Tiny, and placed her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised she was to see in the middle of the flower, a tiny little man, as white andtransparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had a gold crownon his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was not muchlarger than Tiny herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a tinyman and a tiny woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king ofthem all.”Oh, how beautiful he is!” whispered Tiny to the swallow.The little prince was at first quite frightened at the bird, whowas like a giant, compared to such a delicate little creature ashimself; but when he saw Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her theprettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crownfrom his head, and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if shewould be his wife, and queen over all the flowers.This certainly was a very different sort of husband to the sonof a toad, or the mole, with my black velvet and fur; so she said,”Yes,” to the handsome prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out of each came a little lady or a tiny lord, all so pretty it was quite apleasure to look at them. Each of them brought Tiny a present; but the best gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which had belonged to a large white fly and they fastened them to Tiny’s shoulders, so that shemight fly from flower to flower. Then there was much rejoicing, andthe little swallow who sat above them, in his nest, was asked tosing a wedding song, which he did as well as he could; but in hisheart he felt sad for he was very fond of Tiny, and would have likednever to part from her again.”You must not be called Tiny any more,” said the spirit of theflowers to her. “It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. Wewill call you Maia.”"Farewell, farewell,” said the swallow, with a heavy heart as heleft the warm countries to fly back into Denmark. There he had anest over the window of a house in which dwelt the writer of fairytales. The swallow sang, “Tweet, tweet,” and from his song came thewhole story.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENDELAYING IS NOT FORGETTINGby Hans Christian AndersenTHERE was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with adrawbridge which was but seldom let down:- not all guests are goodpeople. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pourdown boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should heapproach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilingsof beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood smouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and proud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house, to her belonged the castle.Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of herpeople and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennelby the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall anddrank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was nowon the chain, she could not even bark.But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;they must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.”Mrs. Meta Mogen,” said the fellow, “do you still remember howmy father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on thewooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as Isteal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of hisfeet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretendednot to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. Myfather has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I willfree you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!”Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rainand wind to obtain the assistance of friends.”Thus the small service done to the old man was richly rewarded!” said Meta Mogen.”Delaying is not forgetting,” said the fellow.The robbers were hanged.There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belongto Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the giltknob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on thewater, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden growroses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, shebeams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wideworld, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.Delaying is not forgetting!Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in thefield. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her littleroom looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can onlysee a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. Butto-day the sun shines here- the warm, beautiful sun of God is withinthe little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where formerly the wall was.The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see thewood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, andonly through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.”The word was so easy, the deed so small,” she said, “the joy itafforded me was infinitely great and sweet!”And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in thehumble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are alsoafflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forgetit. Delayed is not forgotten!An old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busytraffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, weremain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; thecopper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a singleservant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to goto church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifiesmourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day shewas engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.One day he came to her and said:”We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basementhas made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in myheart; what do you advise me to do?”"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to yourhappiness,” said the girl. “Be kind and good to her, but rememberthis; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again.”Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheartin the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not helpasking him, “How are you?”"Rich and prospering in every respect,” he said; “the woman isbrave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,it will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now untilwe meet before God!”A week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,that is the reason of the girl’s mourning! Her old sweetheart isdead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;it sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.The black bow signifies mourning, the girl’s face points to thesame in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and willnever be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbookare many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENA GREAT GRIEFby Hans Christian AndersenTHIS story really consists of two parts. The first part might be left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful We were staying in the country at a gentleman’s seat, where it happened that the master was absent for a few days. In the meantime, there arrived from the next town a lady; she had a pug dog with her, and came, she said, to dispose of shares in her tan-yard. She had her papers with her, and we advised her to put them in an envelope, and to write thereon the address of the proprietor of the estate,”General War-Commissary Knight,” &c.She listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused, and begged us to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and she wrote; but in the midst of the “General War-” she struck fast, sighed deeply, and said, “I am only a woman!” Her Puggie had seated itself on the ground while she wrote, and growled; for the dog had come with her for amusement and for the sake of its health; and then the bare floor ought not to be offered to a visitor. His outward appearance was characterized by a snub nose and a very fat back.”He doesn’t bite,” said the lady; “he has no teeth. He is like one of the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is my grandchildren’s fault, for they have teased him; they play at wedding, and want to give him the part of the bridesmaid, and that’s too much for him, poor old fellow.” And she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her arm. And this is the first part of the story which might have been left out.PUGGIE DIED!! That’s the second part. It was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and put up at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which was divided into two parts by a partition of planks; in one half were many skins and hides, raw and tanned. Here was all the apparatus necessary to carry on a tannery, and it belonged to the widow. Puggie had died in the morning, and was to be buried in this part of the yard; the grandchildren of the widow (that is, of the tanner’s widow, for Puggie had never been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful grave- it must have been quite pleasant to lie there. The grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and strewn over with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half a beer bottle, with the neck upwards, and that was not at all allegorical. The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys among them, a practical youngster of seven years, made the proposition that there should be an exhibition of Puggie’s burial-place for all who lived in the lane; the price of admission was to be a trouser button, for every boy would be sure to have one, and each might also give one for a little girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.And all the children out of the lane- yes, even out of the little lane at the back- flocked to the place, and each gave a button.Many were noticed to go about on that afternoon with only one suspender; but then they had seen Puggie’s grave, and the sight was worth much more.But in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood a little girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with curly hair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure to look into them. The child said not a word, nor did she cry; but each time the little door was opened she gave a long, long look into the yard. She had not a button- that she knew right well, and therefore she remained standing sorrowfully outside, till all the others had seen the grave and had gone away; then she sat down, held her little brown hands before her eyes, and burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen Puggie’s grave. It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can experience.We saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many a grief of our own and of others can make us smile! That is the story, and whoever does not understand it may go and purchase a share in the tan-yard from the window.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENLITTLE TUKby Hans Christian AndersenYES, they called him Little Tuk, but it was not his real name;he had called himself so before he could speak plainly, and he meantit for Charles. It was all very well for those who knew him, but notfor strangers.Little Tuk was left at home to take care of his little sister, Gustava, who was much younger than himself, and he had to learn his lessons at the same time, and the two things could not very well be performed together. The poor boy sat there with his sister on his lap, and sung to her all the songs he knew, and now and then he looked intohis geography lesson that lay open before him. By the next morninghe had to learn by heart all the towns in Zealand, and all that could be described of them.His mother came home at last, and took little Gustava in her arms.Then Tuk ran to the window, and read so eagerly that he nearly readhis eyes out; for it had become darker and darker every minute, andhis mother had no money to buy a light.”There goes the old washerwoman up the lane,” said the mother,as she looked out of the window; “the poor woman can hardly dragherself along, and now she had to drag a pail of water from thewell. Be a good boy, Tuk, and run across and help the old woman, won’t you?”So Tuk ran across quickly, and helped her, but when he came backinto the room it was quite dark, and there was not a word said about alight, so he was obliged to go to bed on his little truckle bedstead, and there he lay and thought of his geography lesson, and of Zealand, and of all the master had told him. He ought really to have read it over again, but he could not for want of light. So he put the geography book under his pillow, for he had heard that this was a great help towards learning a lesson, but not always to be depended upon. He still lay thinking and thinking, when all at once it seemed as if some one kissed him on his eyes and mouth. He slept andyet he did not sleep; and it appeared as if the old washerwoman looked at him with kind eyes and said, “It would be a great pity if you did not know your lesson to-morrow morning; you helped me, and now I will help you, and Providence will always keep those who helpthemselves;” and at the same time the book under Tuk’s pillow began to move about. “Cluck, cluck, cluck,” cried a hen as she crept towards him. “I am a hen from Kjoge,” and then she told him how many inhabitants the town contained, and about a battle that had beenfought there, which really was not worth speaking of. “Crack, crack,” down fell something. It was a wooden bird, the parrot which is used as a target as Prastoe. He said there were as many inhabitants in that town as he had nails in his body. He was very proud, and said, “Thorwalsden lived close to me, and here I am now, quite comfortable.”But now little Tuk was no longer in bed; all in a moment hefound himself on horseback. Gallop, gallop, away he went, seated infront of a richly-attired knight, with a waving plume, who held him onthe saddle, and so they rode through the wood by the old town ofWordingburg, which was very large and busy. The king’s castle wassurrounded by lofty towers, and radiant light streamed from all thewindows. Within there were songs and dancing; King Waldemar and the young gayly-dressed ladies of the court were dancing together. Morning dawned, and as the sun rose, the whole city and the king’s castle sank suddenly down together. One tower after another fell, till at last only one remained standing on the hill where the castle had formerly been.The town now appeared small and poor, and the school-boys readin their books, which they carried under their arms, that it containedtwo thousand inhabitants; but this was a mere boast, for it did notcontain so many.And again little Tuk lay in his bed, scarcely knowing whether hewas dreaming or not, for some one stood by him.”Tuk! little Tuk!” said a voice. It was a very little person whospoke. He was dressed as a sailor, and looked small enough to be amiddy, but he was not one. “I bring you many greetings from Corsor. It is a rising town, full of life. It has steamships and mail-coaches. Intimes past they used to call it ugly, but that is no longer true. Ilie on the sea-shore,” said Corsor; “I have high-roads andpleasure-gardens; I have given birth to a poet who was witty andentertaining, which they are not all. I once wanted to fit out aship to sail round the world, but I did not accomplish it, though mostlikely I might have done so. But I am fragrant with perfume, for closeto my gates most lovely roses bloom.”Then before the eyes of little Tuk appeared a confusion of colors,red and green; but it cleared off, and he could distinguish a cliffclose to the bay, the slopes of which were quite overgrown withverdure, and on its summit stood a fine old church with pointedtowers. Springs of water flowed out of the cliff in thick waterspouts,so that there was a continual splashing. Close by sat an old king witha golden crown on his white head. This was King Hroar of the Springs and near the springs stood the town of Roeskilde, as it is called.Then all the kings and queens of Denmark went up the ascent to the old church, hand in hand, with golden crowns on their heads, while the organ played and the fountains sent forth jets of water.Little Tuk saw and heard it all. “Don’t forget the names of these towns,” said King Hroar.All at once everything vanished; but where! It seemed to himlike turning over the leaves of a book. And now there stood before him an old peasant woman, who had come from Soroe where the grass grows in the market-place. She had a green linen apron thrown over her head and shoulders, and it was quite wet, as if it had been raining heavily.”Yes, that it has,” said she, and then, just as she was going totell him a great many pretty stories from Holberg’s comedies, andabout Waldemar and Absalom, she suddenly shrunk up together, andwagged her head as if she were a frog about to spring. “Croak,” shecried; “it is always wet, and as quiet as death in Soroe.” Then littleTuk saw she was changed into a frog. “Croak,” and again she was an old woman. “One must dress according to the weather,” said she. “It is wet, and my town is just like a bottle. By the cork we must go in, and by the cork we must come out again. In olden times I had beautiful fish, and now I have fresh, rosy-cheeked boys in the bottom of the bottle, and they learn wisdom, Hebrew and Greek.”"Croak.” How it sounded like the cry of the frogs on the moor,or like the creaking of great boots when some one is marching,- always the same tone, so monotonous and wearing, that little Tuk at length fell fast asleep, and then the sound could not annoy him. But even in this sleep came a dream or something like it. His little sisterGustava, with her blue eyes, and fair curly hair, had grown up abeautiful maiden all at once, and without having wings she couldfly. And they flew together over Zealand, over green forests andblue lakes.”Hark, so you hear the cock crow, little Tuk. ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’The fowls are flying out of Kjoge. You shall have a large farm-yard.You shall never suffer hunger or want. The bird of good omen shallbe yours, and you shall become a rich and happy man; your houseshall rise up like King Waldemar’s towers, and shall be richly adornedwith marble statues, like those at Prastoe. Understand me well; yourname shall travel with fame round the world like the ship that wasto sail from Corsor, and at Roeskilde,- Don’t forget the names ofthe towns, as King Hroar said,- you shall speak well and clearlylittle Tuk, and when at last you lie in your grave you shall sleeppeacefully, as-”"As if I lay in Soroe,” said little Tuk awaking. It was brightdaylight, and he could not remember his dream, but that was notnecessary, for we are not to know what will happen to us in thefuture. Then he sprang out of bed quickly, and read over his lesson inthe book, and knew it all at once quite correctly. The old washerwoman put her head in at the door, and nodded to him quite kindly, and said, “Many thanks, you good child, for your help yesterday. I hope all your beautiful dreams will come true.”Little Tuk did not at all know what he had dreamt, but One abovedid.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENEVERYTHING IN THE RIGHT PLACEby Hans Christian AndersenIT is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood,near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded iton every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by thedrawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bentover the reeds.From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling ofhorses’ feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geesehastened to drive them away from the bridge, before the wholehunting party came galloping up; they came, however, so quickly,that the girl, in order to avoid being run over, placed herself on oneof the high corner-stones of the bridge. She was still half a childand very delicately built; she had bright blue eyes, and a gentle,sweet expression. But such things the baron did not notice; while hewas riding past the little goose-girl, he reversed his hunting crop,and in rough play gave her such a push with it that she fellbackward into the ditch.”Everything in the right place!” he cried. “Into the ditch withyou.”Then he burst out laughing, for that he called fun; the othersjoined in- the whole party shouted and cried, while the hounds barked.While the poor girl was falling she happily caught one of thebranches of the willow tree, by the help of which she held herselfover the water, and as soon as the baron with his company and the dogs had disappeared through the gate, the girl endeavoured to scramble up, but the branch broke off, and she would have fallen backward among the rushes, had not a strong hand from above seized her at this moment. It was the hand of a pedlar; he had witnessed what had happened from a short distance, and now hastened to assist her.”Everything in the right place,” he said, imitating the noblebaron, and pulling the little maid up to the dry ground. He wishedto put the branch back in the place it had been broken off, but itis not possible to put everything in the right place;” therefore hestuck the branch into the soft ground.”Grow and thrive if you can, and produce a good flute for themyonder at the mansion,” he said; it would have given him greatpleasure to see the noble baron and his companions well thrashed. Then he entered the castle- but not the banqueting hall; he was toohumble for that. No; he went to the servants’ hall. The men-servantsand maids looked over his stock of articles and bargained with him;loud crying and screaming were heard from the master’s table above:they called it singing- indeed, they did their best. Laughter andthe howls of dogs were heard through the open windows: there they were feasting and revelling; wine and strong old ale were foaming in the glasses and jugs; the favourite dogs ate with their masters; now and then the squires kissed one of these animals, after having wiped its mouth first with the tablecloth. They ordered the pedlar to come up, but only to make fun of him. The wine had got into their heads, and reason had left them. They poured beer into a stocking that he could drink with them, but quick. That’s what they called fun, and it made them laugh. Then meadows, peasants, and farmyards were staked on one card and lost.”Everything in the right place!” the pedlar said when he had atlast safely got out of Sodom and Gomorrah, as he called it. “Theopen high road is my right place; up there I did not feel at ease.”The little maid, who was still watching the geese, nodded kindlyto him as he passed through the gate.Days and weeks passed, and it was seen that the brokenwillow-branch which the peddlar had stuck into the ground near theditch remained fresh and green- nay, it even put forth fresh twigs;the little goose-girl saw that the branch had taken root, and was verypleased; the tree, so she said, was now her tree. While the tree wasadvancing, everything else at the castle was going backward, throughfeasting and gambling, for these are two rollers upon which nobodystands safely. Less than six years afterwards the baron passed outof his castle-gate a poor beggar, while the baronial seat had beenbought by a rich tradesman. He was the very pedlar they had made fun of and poured beer into a stocking for him to drink; but honesty and industry bring one forward, and now the pedlar was the possessor of the baronial estate. From that time forward no card-playing was permitted there.”That’s a bad pastime,” he said; “when the devil saw the Bible forthe first time he wanted to produce a caricature in opposition toit, and invented card-playing.”The new proprietor of the estate took a wife, and whom did hetake?- The little goose-girl, who had always remained good and kind,and who looked as beautiful in her new clothes as if she had been alady of high birth. And how did all this come about? That would be too long a tale to tell in our busy time, but it really happened, andthe most important events have yet to be told.It was pleasant and cheerful to live in the old place now: themother superintended the household, and the father looked after things out-of-doors, and they were indeed very prosperous.Where honesty leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow. The oldmansion was repaired and painted, the ditches were cleaned andfruit-trees planted; all was homely and pleasant, and the floorswere as white and shining as a pasteboard. In the long winter eveningsthe mistress and her maids sat at the spinning-wheel in the largehall; every Sunday the counsellor- this title the pedlar had obtained,although only in his old days- read aloud a portion from the Bible.The children (for they had children) all received the best education, but they were not all equally clever, as is the case in all families.In the meantime the willow tree near the drawbridge had grown upinto a splendid tree, and stood there, free, and was never clipped.”It is our genealogical tree,” said the old people to theirchildren, “and therefore it must be honoured.”A hundred years had elapsed. It was in our own days; the lakehad been transformed into marsh land; the whole baronial seat had,as it were, disappeared. A pool of water near some ruined walls wasthe only remainder of the deep ditches; and here stood a magnificentold tree with overhanging branches- that was the genealogical tree.Here it stood, and showed how beautiful a willow can look if onedoes not interfere with it. The trunk, it is true, was cleft in themiddle from the root to the crown; the storms had bent it a little,but it still stood there, and out of every crevice and cleft, in whichwind and weather had carried mould, blades of grass and flowers sprang forth. Especially above, where the large boughs parted, there was quite a hanging garden, in which wild raspberries and hart’s-tongue ferns throve, and even a little mistletoe had taken root, and grew gracefully in the old willow branches, which were reflected in thedark water beneath when the wind blew the chickweed into the corner of the pool. A footpath which led across the fields passed close by the old tree. High up, on the woody hillside, stood the new mansion. It had a splendid view, and was large and magnificent; its window panes were so clear that one might have thought there were none there at all. The large flight of steps which led to the entrance looked like abower covered with roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn was asgreen as if each blade of grass was cleaned separately morning andevening. Inside, in the hall, valuable oil paintings were hanging onthe walls. Here stood chairs and sofas covered with silk and velvet,which could be easily rolled about on castors; there were tableswith polished marble tops, and books bound in morocco with gilt edges.Indeed, well-to-do and distinguished people lived here; it was thedwelling of the baron and his family. Each article was in keeping withits surroundings. “Everything in the right place” was the mottoaccording to which they also acted here, and therefore all thepaintings which had once been the honour and glory of the oldmansion were now hung up in the passage which led to the servants’rooms. It was all old lumber, especially two portraits- onerepresenting a man in a scarlet coat with a wig, and the other alady with powdered and curled hair holding a rose in her hand, each of them being surrounded by a large wreath of willow branches. Bothportraits had many holes in them, because the baron’s sons used thetwo old people as targets for their crossbows. They represented thecounsellor and his wife, from whom the whole family descended. “But they did not properly belong to our family,” said one of the boys; “he was a pedlar and she kept the geese. They were not like papa and mamma.” The portraits were old lumber, and “everything in its right place.” That was why the great-grandparents had been hung up in the passage leading to the servants’ rooms.The son of the village pastor was tutor at the mansion. One day hewent for a walk across the fields with his young pupils and theirelder sister, who had lately been confirmed. They walked along theroad which passed by the old willow tree, and while they were on theroad she picked a bunch of field-flowers. “Everything in the rightplace,” and indeed the bunch looked very beautiful. At the same timeshe listened to all that was said, and she very much liked to hear thepastor’s son speak about the elements and of the great men and women in history. She had a healthy mind, noble in thought and deed, and with a heart full of love for everything that God had created. Theystopped at the old willow tree, as the youngest of the baron’s sonswished very much to have a flute from it, such as had been cut for him from other willow trees; the pastor’s son broke a branch off. “Oh, pray do not do it!” said the young lady; but it was already done.”That is our famous old tree. I love it very much. They often laugh atme at home about it, but that does not matter. There is a storyattached to this tree.” And now she told him all that we alreadyknow about the tree- the old mansion, the pedlar and the goose-girlwho had met there for the first time, and had become the ancestorsof the noble family to which the young lady belonged.”They did not like to be knighted, the good old people,” she said;”their motto was ‘everything in the right place,’ and it would notbe right, they thought, to purchase a title for money. My grandfather,the first baron, was their son. They say he was a very learned man,a great favourite with the princes and princesses, and was invitedto all court festivities. The others at home love him best; but, Ido not know why, there seemed to me to be something about the oldcouple that attracts my heart! How homely, how patriarchal, it musthave been in the old mansion, where the mistress sat at thespinning-wheel with her maids, while her husband read aloud out of the Bible!”"They must have been excellent, sensible people,” said thepastor’s son. And with this the conversation turned naturally tonoblemen and commoners; from the manner in which the tutor spoke about the significance of being noble, it seemed almost as if he did not belong to a commoner’s family.”It is good fortune to be of a family who have distinguishedthemselves, and to possess as it were a spur in oneself to advanceto all that is good. It is a splendid thing to belong to a noblefamily, whose name serves as a card of admission to the highestcircles. Nobility is a distinction; it is a gold coin that bears thestamp of its own value. It is the fallacy of the time, and manypoets express it, to say that all that is noble is bad and stupid, andthat, on the contrary, the lower one goes among the poor, the morebrilliant virtues one finds. I do not share this opinion, for it iswrong. In the upper classes one sees many touchingly beautiful traits;my own mother has told me of such, and I could mention several. One day she was visiting a nobleman’s house in town; my grandmother, I believe, had been the lady’s nurse when she was a child. My mother and the nobleman were alone in the room, when he suddenly noticed an old woman on crutches come limping into the courtyard; she came every Sunday to carry a gift away with her.”‘There is the poor old woman,’ said the nobleman; ‘it is sodifficult for her to walk.’”My mother had hardly understood what he said before hedisappeared from the room, and went downstairs, in order to save herthe troublesome walk for the gift she came to fetch. Of course this isonly a little incident, but it has its good sound like the poorwidow’s two mites in the Bible, the sound which echoes in the depth of every human heart; and this is what the poet ought to show and point out- more especially in our own time he ought to sing of this; it does good, it mitigates and reconciles! But when a man, simply because he is of noble birth and possesses a genealogy, stands on his hind legs and neighs in the street like an Arabian horse, and says when a commoner has been in a room: ‘Some people from the street have been here,’ there nobility is decaying; it has become a mask of the kind that Thespis created, and it is amusing when such a person isexposed in satire.”Such was the tutor’s speech; it was a little long, but while hedelivered it he had finished cutting the flute.There was a large party at the mansion; many guests from theneighbourhood and from the capital had arrived. There were ladies with tasteful and with tasteless dresses; the big hall was quite crowded with people. The clergymen stood humbly together in a corner, and looked as if they were preparing for a funeral, but it was a festival-only the amusement had not yet begun. A great concert was to take place, and that is why the baron’s young son had brought his willowflute with him; but he could not make it sound, nor could hisfather, and therefore the flute was good for nothing.There was music and songs of the kind which delight most thosethat perform them; otherwise quite charming!”Are you an artist?” said a cavalier, the son of his father;”you play on the flute, you have made it yourself; it is genius thatrules- the place of honour is due to you.”"Certainly not! I only advance with the time, and that of cour搜刮引擎优化ne can’t help.”"I hope you will delight us all with the little instrument- willyou not?” Thus saying he handed to the tutor the flute which hadbeen cut from the willow tree by the pool; and then announced in aloud voice that the tutor wished to perform a solo on the flute.They wished to tease him- that was evident, and therefore the tutordeclined to play, although he could do so very well. They urged andrequested him, however, so long, that at last he took up the flute andplaced it to his lips.That was a marvellous flute! Its sound was as thrilling as thewhistle of a steam engine; in fact it was much stronger, for itsounded and was heard in the yard, in the garden, in the wood, andmany miles round in the country; at the same time a storm rose androared; “Everything in the right place.” And with this the baron, asif carried by the wind, flew out of the hall straight into theshepherd’s cottage, and the shepherd flew- not into the hall,thither he could not come- but into the servants’ hall, among thesmart footmen who were striding about in silk stockings; these haughty menials looked horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at table with them. But in the hall the baron’s daughter flew to theplace of honour at the end of the table- she was worthy to sitthere; the pastor’s son had the seat next to her; the two sat there asif they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging to one of theoldest families of the country, remained untouched in his place ofhonour; the flute was just, and it is one’s duty to be so. Thesharp-tongued cavalier who had caused the flute to be played, andwho was the child of his parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house,but not he alone.The flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strangeevents took place. A rich banker’s family, who were driving in a coach and four, were blown out of it, and could not even find room behind it with their footmen. Two rich farmers who had in our days shot up higher than their own corn-fields, were flung into the ditch; it was a dangerous flute. Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was a good thing, for then it was put back into its owner’s pocket- “its right place.”The next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken place; thusoriginated the phrase, “to pocket the flute.” Everything was againin its usual order, except that the two old pictures of the peddlarand the goose-girl were hanging in the banqueting-hall. There theywere on the wall as if blown up there; and as a real expert saidthat they were painted by a master’s hand, they remained there andwere restored. “Everything in the right place,” and to this it willcome. Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENA LEAF FROM HEAVENby Hans Christian AndersenHIGH up in the clear, pure air flew an angel, with a flowerplucked from the garden of heaven. As he was kissing the flower a very little leaf fell from it and sunk down into the soft earth in themiddle of a wood. It immediately took root, sprouted, and sent outshoots among the other plants. “What a ridiculous little shoot!” said one. “No one will recognize it; not even the thistle nor the stinging-nettle.” “It must be a kind of garden plant,” said another; and so theysneered and despised the plant as a thing from a garden. “Where are you coming?” said the tall thistles whose leaves were all armed with thorns. “It is stupid nonsense to allow yourself to shoot out in this way; we are not here to support you.”Winter came, and the plant was covered with snow, but the snowglittered over it as if it had sunshine beneath as well as above.When spring came, the plant appeared in full bloom: a morebeautiful object than any other plant in the forest. And now theprofessor of botany presented himself, one who could explain hisknowledge in black and white. He examined and tested the plant, but it did not belong to his system of botany, nor could he possibly find out to what class it did belong. “It must be some degenerate species,”said he; “I do not know it, and it is not mentioned in any system.”"Not known in any system!” repeated the thistles and the nettles.The large trees which grew round it saw the plant and heard theremarks, but they said not a word either good or bad, which is thewisest plan for those who are ignorant.There passed through the forest a poor innocent girl; her heartwas pure, and her understanding increased by her faith. Her chiefinheritance had been an old Bible, which she read and valued. From its pages she heard the voice of God speaking to her, and telling her to remember what was said of Joseph’s brethren when persons wished to injure her. “They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it to good.” If we suffer wrongfully, if we are misunderstood or despised, we must think of Him who was pure and holy, and who prayed for those who nailed Him to the cross, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.”The girl stood still before the wonderful plant, for the greenleaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and the flowersglittered and sparkled in the sunshine like colored flames, and theharmony of sweet sounds lingered round them as if each concealedwithin itself a deep fount of melody, which thousands of years couldnot exhaust. With pious gratitude the girl looked upon this gloriouswork of God, and bent down over one of the branches, that she might examine the flower and inhale the sweet perfume. Then a light broke in on her mind, and her heart expanded. Gladly would she have plucked a flower, but she could not overcome her reluctance to break one off.She knew it would so soon fade; so she took only a single greenleaf, carried it home, and laid it in her Bible, where it remainedever green, fresh, and unfading. Between the pages of the Bible itstill lay when, a few weeks afterwards, that Bible was laid underthe young girl’s head in her coffin. A holy calm rested on her face,as if the earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she nowstood in the presence of God.In the forest the wonderful plant still continued to bloom till itgrew and became almost a tree, and all the birds of passage bowedthemselves before it.”That plant is a foreigner, no doubt,” said the thistles and theburdocks. “We can never conduct ourselves like that in thiscountry.” And the black forest snails actually spat at the flower.Then came the swineherd; he was collecting thistles and shrubsto burn them for the ashes. He pulled up the wonderful plant, rootsand all, and placed it in his bundle. “This will be as useful as any,”he said; so the plant was carried away.Not long after, the king of the country suffered from thedeepest melancholy. He was diligent and industrious, but employmentdid him no good. They read deep and learned books to him, and then the lightest and most trifling that could be found, but all to no purpose.Then they applied for advice to one of the wise men of the world,and he sent them a message to say that there was one remedy whichwould relieve and cure him, and that it was a plant of heavenly originwhich grew in the forest in the king’s own dominions. The messengerdescribed the flower so that is appearance could not be mistaken.Then said the swineherd, “I am afraid I carried this plant awayfrom the forest in my bundle, and it has been burnt to ashes long ago.But I did not know any better.”"You did not know, any better! Ignorance upon ignorance indeed!”The poor swineherd took these words to heart, for they wereaddressed to him; he knew not that there were others who wereequally ignorant. Not even a leaf of the plant could be found. Therewas one, but it lay in the coffin of the dead; no one knew anythingabout it.Then the king, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot inthe wood. “Here is where the plant stood,” he said; “it is a sacredplace.” Then he ordered that the place should be surrounded with agolden railing, and a sentry stationed near it.The botanical professor wrote a long treatise about the heavenlyplant, and for this he was loaded with gold, which improved theposition of himself and his family.And this part is really the most pleasant part of the story. Forthe plant had disappeared, and the king remained as melancholy and sad as ever, but the sentry said he had always been so.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENOLE THE TOWER-KEEPERby Hans Christian Andersen”IN the world it’s always going up and down; and now I can’t go upany higher!” So said Ole the tower-keeper. “Most people have to tryboth the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get tobe watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height.”Such was the speech of Ole, my friend, the old tower-keeper, astrange, talkative old fellow, who seemed to speak out everything thatcame into his head, and who for all that had many a serious thoughtdeep in his heart. Yes, he was the child of respectable people, andthere were even some who said that he was the son of a privycouncillor, or that he might have been. He had studied, too, and hadbeen assistant teacher and deputy clerk; but of what service was allthat to him? In those days he lived in the clerk’s house, and was tohave everything in the house- to be at free quarters, as the sayingis; but he was still, so to speak, a fine young gentleman. He wantedto have his boots cleaned with patent blacking, and the clerk couldonly afford ordinary grease; and upon that point they split. One spokeof stinginess, the other of vanity, and the blacking became theblack cause of enmity between them, and at last they parted.This is what he demanded of the world in general, namely, patentblacking, and he got nothing but grease. Accordingly, he at lastdrew back from all men, and became a hermit; but the church tower isthe only place in a great city where hermitage, office and bread canbe found together. So he betook himself up thither, and smoked hispipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward, and had his own thoughts, and told in his own way of what he read in books and in himself. I often lent him books- good books; and you may know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the English governess novels nor the French ones, which he called a mixture of empty wind and raisin-stalks: he wanted biographies, and descriptions of the wonders of, the world. I visited him at least once a year, generally directly after New Year’s day, and then he always spoke of this and that which the change of the year had put into his head.I will tell the story of three of these visits, and will reproducehis own words whenever I can remember them.FIRST VISITAmong the books which I had lately lent Ole, was one which hadgreatly rejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book,containing an account of the boulders.”Yes, they’re rare old fellows, those boulders!” he said; “andto think that we should pass them without noticing them! And overthe street pavement, the paving stones, those fragments of theoldest remains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking aboutthem. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfullyat every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me withthought, and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance of the earth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It’s a pity one can’t read the first volume of it, because it is written in alanguage that we don’t understand. One must read in the differentstrata, in the pebble-stones, for each separate period. Yes, it is aromance, a very wonderful romance, and we all have our place in it. We grope and ferret about, and yet remain where we are; but the ballkeeps turning, without emptying the ocean over us; the clod on whichwe move about, holds, and does not let us through. And then it’s astory that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years andis still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders.Those are fellows indeed! They could tell us something worthhearing, if they only knew how to talk. It’s really a pleasure now andthen to become a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highlyplaced as I am. And then to think that we all, even with patentlacquer, are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hillthe earth, though we may be insects with stars and garters, places andoffices! One feels quite a novice beside these venerablemillion-year-old boulders. On last New Year’s eve I was reading thebook, and had lost myself in it so completely, that I forgot myusual New Year’s diversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amack. Ah, youdon’t know what that is!”The journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known-that journey is taken on St. John’s eve, to the Brocken; but we have awild journey, also which is national and modern, and that is thejourney to Amack on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poetsand poetesses, musicians, newspaper writers, and artisticnotabilities,- I mean those who are no good,- ride in the New Year’snight through the air to Amack. They sit backwards on their paintingbrushes or quill pens, for steel pens won’t bear them- they’re toostiff. As I told you, I see that every New Year’s night, and couldmention the majority of the riders by name, but I should not like todraw their enmity upon myself, for they don’t like people to talkabout their ride to Amack on quill pens. I’ve a kind of niece, whois a fishwife, and who, as she tells me, supplies three respectablenewspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use, andshe has herself been at Amack as an invited guest; but she was carriedout thither, for she does not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. Shehas told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true, but theother half gives us information enough. When she was out there, thefestivities began with a song; each of the guests had written hisown song, and each one sang his own song, for he thought that thebest, and it was all one, all the same melody. Then those camemarching up, in little bands, who are only busy with their mouths.There were ringing bells that rang alternately; and then came thelittle drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle; andacquaintance was made with those who write without putting theirnames, which here means as much as using grease instead of patentblacking; and then there was the beadle with his boy, and the boywas worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then,too, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns overthe dust-bin, and calls it ‘good, very good, remarkably good.’ Andin the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meetingof these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amack astem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof,which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in ithung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Outof the tree poured sparks like flames of fire; these were the ideasand thoughts, borrowed from others, which they had used, and which now got free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at ‘the stick burns,’ and the young poets played at ‘heart-burns,’ and thewitlings played off their jests, and the jests rolled away with athundering sound, as if empty pots were being shattered against doors.’It was very amusing!’ my niece said; in fact, she said many thingsthat were very malicious but very amusing, but I won’t mention them,for a man must be good-natured, and not a carping critic. But you willeasily perceive that when a man once knows the rights of the journeyto Amack, as I know them, it’s quite natural that on the New Year’snight one should look out to see the wild chase go by. If in the NewYear I miss certain persons who used to be there, I am sure tonotice others who are new arrivals; but this year I omitted takingmy look at the guests, I bowled away on the boulders, rolled backthrough millions of years, and saw the stones break loose high up inthe north, saw them drifting about on icebergs, long before Noah’s ark was constructed, saw them sink down to the bottom of the sea, and re-appear with a sand-bank, with that one that peered forth from the flood and said, ‘This shall be Zealand!’ I saw them become thedwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us, and then become theseat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing, until with their axesthey cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones, which then cameinto the calendar of time. But as for me, I had gone quite beyondall lapse of time, and had become a cipher and a nothing. Then threeor four beautiful falling stars came down, which cleared the air,and gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a falling staris, do you not? The learned men are not at all clear about it. Ihave my own ideas about shooting stars, as the common people in many parts call them, and my idea is this: How often are silentthanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble action!The thanks are often speechless, but they are not lost for all that. Ithink these thanks are caught up, and the sunbeams bring the silent,hidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor; and if it be awhole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a longlapse of time, the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers, andat length falls in the form of a shooting star over the good man’sgrave. I am always very much pleased when I see a shooting star,especially in the New Year’s night, and then find out for whom thegift of gratitude was intended. Lately a gleaming star fell in thesouthwest, as a tribute of thanksgiving to many- many! ‘For whom was that star intended?’ thought I. It fell, no doubt, on the hill bythe Bay of Plensberg, where the Danebrog waves over the graves ofSchleppegrell, Lasloes, and their comrades. One star also fell inthe midst of the land, fell upon Soro, a flower on the grave ofHolberg, the thanks of the year from a great many – thanks for hischarming plays!”It is a great and pleasant thought to know that a shooting starfalls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall- no sunbeambrings thanks to me, for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. Ishall not get the patent lacquer,” said Ole, “for my fate on earthis only grease, after all.”SECOND VISITIt was New Year’s day, and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke ofthe toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year intothe New- from one grave into the other, as he said. And he told me astory about the glasses, and this story had a very deep meaning. Itwas this:”When on the New Year’s night the clock strikes twelve, the peopleat the table rise up with full glasses in their hands, and drain theseglasses, and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year withthe glass in their hands; that is a good beginning for drunkards. Theybegin the New Year by going to bed, and that’s a good beginning fordrones. Sleep is sure to play a great part in the New Year, and theglass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass?” asked Ole. “Iwill tell you. There dwell in the glass, first, health, and thenpleasure, then the most complete sensual delight; and misfortune andthe bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now, suppose we count theglasses- of course I count the different degrees in the glasses fordifferent people.”You see, the first glass, that’s the glass of health, and in thatthe herb of health is found growing. Put it up on the beam in theceiling, and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbor ofhealth.”If you take the second glass- from this a little bird soarsupward, twittering in guileless cheerfulness, so that a man may listento his song, and perhaps join in ‘Fair is life! no downcast looks!Take courage, and march onward!’”Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin, who cannotcertainly be called an angel child, for there is goblin blood in hisveins, and he has the spirit of a goblin- not wishing to hurt orharm you, indeed, but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He’llsit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you; he’ll creep intoyour heart and warm you, so that you grow very merry, and become a wit, so far as the wits of the others can judge.”In the fourth glass is neither herb, bird, nor urchin. In thatglass is the pause drawn by reason, and one may never go beyond that sign.”Take the fifth glass, and you will weep at yourself, you willfeel such a deep emotion; or it will affect you in a different way.Out of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival, ninetimes and extravagantly merry. He’ll draw you away with him; you’llforget your dignity, if you have any, and you’ll forget more thanyou should or ought to forget. All is dance, song and sound: the masks will carry you away with them, and the daughters of vanity, clad in silk and satin, will come with loose hair and alluring charms; but tear yourself away if you can!”The sixth glass! Yes, in that glass sits a demon, in the formof a little, well dressed, attractive and very fascinating man, whothoroughly understands you, agrees with you in everything, and becomes quite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him, to give you light as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint who was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins, and who accordingly chose drunkenness, which appeared to him the least, but which led him to commit all the other six. The man’s blood ismingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass, and with thatthe germ of all evil shoots up within us; and each one grows up with astrength like that of the grains of mustard-seed, and shoots up into atree, and spreads over the whole world: and most people have no choice but to go into the oven, to be re-cast in a new form.”That’s the history of the glasses,” said the tower-keeper Ole,”and it can be told with lacquer or only with grease; but I give ityou with both!”THIRD VISITOn this occasion I chose the general “moving-day” for my visitto Ole, for on that day it is anything but agreeable down in thestreets in the town; for they are full of sweepings, shreds, andremnants of all sorts, to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in whichone has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two childrenplaying in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at “goingto bed,” for the occasion seemed especially favorable for thissport. They crept under the straw, and drew an old bit of raggedcurtain over themselves by way of coverlet. “It was splendid!” theysaid; but it was a little too strong for me, and besides, I wasobliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.”It’s moving-day to day,” he said; “streets and houses are likea dust-bin- a large dust-bin; but I’m content with a cartload. I mayget something good out of that, and I really did get something goodout of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street;it was rough weather, wet and dirty- the right kind of weather tocatch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart, which was full,and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back ofthe cart stood a fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on itstwigs; it had been used on Christmas eve, and now it was thrown outinto the street, and the dustman had stood it up at the back of hiscart. It was droll to look at, or you may say it was mournful- alldepends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought aboutit, and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart: orI might have done so, and that comes to the same thing. There was anold lady’s glove, too: I wonder what that was thinking of? Shall Itell you? The glove was lying there, pointing with its little fingerat the tree. ‘I’m sorry for the tree,’ it thought; ‘and I was alsoat the feast, where the chandeliers glittered. My life was, so tospeak, a ball night- a pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memorykeeps dwelling upon that, and I have really nothing else to live for!’This is what the glove thought, or what it might have thought. ‘That’sa stupid affair with yonder fir tree,’ said the potsherds. You see,potsherds think everything is stupid. ‘When one is in thedust-cart,’ they said, ‘one ought not to give one’s self airs and weartinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world- far more usefulthan such a green stick.’ This was a view that might be taken, and Idon’t think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that, the fir treelooked very well: it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap; andtruly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way isdifficult and troublesome then, and I feel obliged to run away outof the confusion; or, if I am on the tower, I stay there and lookdown, and it is amusing enough.”There are the good people below, playing at ‘changing houses.’They toil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and thehousehold goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All thelittle griefs of the lodging and the family, and the real cares andsorrows, move with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and what gain is there for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there was written long ago the good old maxim: ‘Think on the great moving-day of death!’ That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable to you that I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certain messenger, after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes, Death is the omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, and he countersigns our service-book, and he is director of the savings bank of life. Do you understand me? All the deeds of our life, the great and the little alike, we put into this savings bank; and whenDeath calls with his omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive withhim into the land of eternity, then on the frontier he gives us ourservice-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey, he takesthis or that good deed we have done, and lets it accompany us; andthis may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escapedthe omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was notallowed to go- they call him the Wandering Jew: he has to ridebehind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in, he would haveescaped the clutches of the poets.”Just cast your mind’s eye into that great omnibus. The society ismixed, for king and beggar, genius and idiot, sit side by side. Theymust go without their property and money; they have only theservice-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But which of our deeds is selected and given to us? Perhaps quite a littleone, one that we have forgotten, but which has been recorded- small as a pea, but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin who sat on a low stool in the corner, and was jeered at and flouted, will perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision; and the stool may become a litter in the land of eternity, and rise up then as a throne, gleaming like gold and blooming as an arbor. He who always lounged about, and drank the spiced draught of pleasure, that he might forget the wild things he had done here, will have his barrel given to him on the journey, and will have to drink from it as they go on; and the drink is bright and clear, so that the thoughts remain pure, and all good and noble feelings are awakened, and he sees and feels what in life he could not or would not see; and then he has within him the punishment, the gnawing worm, which will not die through time incalculable. If on the glasses there stood written ‘oblivion,’ on the barrel ‘remembrance’ is inscribed.”When I read a good book, an historical work, I always think atlast of the poetry of what I am reading, and of the omnibus ofdeath, and wonder, which of the hero’s deeds Death took out of thesavings bank for him, and what provisions he got on the journey intoeternity. There was once a French king- I have forgotten his name, forthe names of good people are sometimes forgotten, even by me, but it will come back some day;- there was a king who, during a famine,became the benefactor of his people; and the people raised up to hismemory a monument of snow, with the inscription, ‘Quicker than thismelts didst thou bring help!’ I fancy that Death, looking back uponthe monument, gave him a single snow-flake as provision, asnow-flake that never melts, and this flake floated over his royalhead, like a white butterfly, into the land of eternity. Thus, too,there was Louis XI. I have remembered his name, for one remembers what is bad- a trait of him often comes into my thoughts, and I wish one could say the story is not true. He had his lord high constableexecuted, and he could execute him, right or wrong; but he had theinnocent children of the constable, one seven and the other eightyears old, placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of theirfather spurted over them, and then he had them sent to the Bastille,and shut up in iron cages, where not even a coverlet was given them to protect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner to them every week, and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each,that they might not be too comfortable; and the elder of the boyssaid, ‘My mother would die of grief if she knew that my youngerbrother had to suffer so cruelly; therefore pull out two of myteeth, and spare him.’ The tears came into the hangman’s eyes, but theking’s will was stronger than the tears; and every week two littleteeth were brought to him on a silver plate; he had demanded them, and he had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of thesavings bank of life, and gave them to Louis XI, to carry with himon the great journey into the land of immortality; they fly before himlike two flames of fire; they shine and burn, and they bite him, theinnocent children’s teeth.”Yes, that’s a serious journey, the omnibus ride on the greatmoving-day! And when is it to be undertaken? That’s just the seriouspart of it. Any day, any hour, any minute, the omnibus may draw up.Which of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank, and giveto us as provision? Let us think of the moving-day that is notmarked in the calendar.”THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

1872FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENHOLGER DANSKEby Hans Christian AndersenIN Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close bythe Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, andPrussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castlewith cannons, “Boom, boom,” which is as if they said, “Good-day.”And the cannons of the old castle answer “Boom,” which means “Many thanks.” In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered with ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance of a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes and Swedes say, “Good-day,” and “Thank you” to each other, not with cannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchange white bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articles taste the best.But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of Kronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, into which no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head on his strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table, into which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but in his dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On each Christmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he has dreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, as Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come, then Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst asunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his strength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries of the world.An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this aboutHolger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told himmust be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving animage in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prow of a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,one who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to thenames given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood there erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his broad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danishmen and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so that he fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, after all, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, he thought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against the counterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had become rooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and carving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. And when he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of all he had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to his little grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and put them on, and said, “Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my lifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live to see him when the event really comes to pass.” And the old grandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the more satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It seemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like iron and steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; while the lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up. “That is the most beautiful coat of arms in the world,” said the old man.”The lions represent strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love.”And as he gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute,who chained great England to Denmark’s throne; and he looked at thesecond lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conquered the Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who united Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts, their colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memory followed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison, in which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christian the Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her bosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this noblest and best of all Danish women. “Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble heart in the Danish arms,” said the grandfather. and his spiritfollowed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannons roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heart attached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbonof an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in orderto save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland’s wretchedhuts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every wordand action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added anotherheart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather’s spirit followedthe next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In apeasant woman’s humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing hisname with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and inhis heart, and it was in the peasant’s room that his heart becameone for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for hehad known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blueeyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remainedfor some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it wasgetting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supperwas on the table.”What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,”said she. “Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me asif I have seen the face somewhere.”"No, that is impossible,” replied the old grandfather; “but I haveseen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained itin my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay inthe roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true, ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille’s squadron; I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He sung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were something more than a man. I still remember his face, but from whence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I have often thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swam down to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. That was my idea, and there stands his likeness.”The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even onpart of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stoodbehind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by the flame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-lawkissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by thetable; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man andthe father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper withhim. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish hearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quite clearly that there is another strength than that which lies in asword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,and amongst them a collection of Holberg’s plays, which are muchread and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we haveknown the people of those days, who are described in them.”He knew how to fight also,” said the old man; “for he lashedthe follies and prejudices of people during his whole life.”Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,where hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower upon it, and said “Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, but not one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of the stars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whose father belonged to my calling,- yes, he, the son of the old image-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks and his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;- yes, he was a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear in marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear of the strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel.”But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of Kronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far down in the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming of everything that was passing above him.And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which theimage-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded inhis dream, saying, “Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep me in your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need.”The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the windbrought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboringshores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom ofthe cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, “Boom, boom.” Butthe roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only “Good morning,” and “Thank you.” They must fire in another fashion before he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet inHolger Danske.THE ENDLastIndexNextWritten By Anderson

T was lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden corn, the green oats, and the haystacks piled up in the meadows looked beautiful. The stork walking about on his long red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the midst of which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about in the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of them a little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild as the centre of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on her nest, watching for her young brood to hatch; she was beginning to get tired of her task, for the little ones were a long time coming out of their shells, and she seldom had any visitors. The other ducks liked much better to swim about in the river than to climb the slippery banks, and sit under a burdock leaf, to have a gossip with her. At length one shell cracked, and then another, and from each egg came a living creature that lifted its head and cried, “Peep, peep.” “Quack, quack,” said the mother, and then they all quacked as well as they could, and looked about them on every side at the large green leaves. Their mother allowed them to look as much as they liked, because green is good for the eyes. “How large the world is,” said the young ducks, when they found how much more room they now had than while they were inside the egg-shell. “Do you imagine this is the whole world?” asked the mother; “Wait till you have seen the garden; it stretches far beyond that to the parson’s field, but I have never ventured to such a distance. Are you all out?” she continued, rising; “No, I declare, the largest egg lies there still. I wonder how long this is to last, I am quite tired of it;” and she seated herself again on the nest. 　　“Well, how are you getting on?” asked an old duck, who paid her a visit. 　　“One egg is not hatched yet,” said the duck, “it will not break. But just look at all the others, are they not the prettiest little ducklings you ever saw? They are the image of their father, who is so unkind, he never comes to see.” 　　“Let me see the egg that will not break,” said the duck; “I have no doubt it is a turkey’s egg. I was persuaded to hatch some once, and after all my care and trouble with the young ones, they were afraid of the water. I quacked and clucked, but all to no purpose. I could not get them to venture in. Let me look at the egg. Yes, that is a turkey’s egg; take my advice, leave it where it is and teach the other children to swim.” 　　“I think I will sit on it a little while longer,” said the duck; “as I have sat so long already, a few days will be nothing.” 　　“Please yourself,” said the old duck, and she went away. 　　At last the large egg broke, and a young one crept forth crying, “Peep, peep.” It was very large and ugly. The duck stared at it and exclaimed, “It is very large and not at all like the others. I wonder if it really is a turkey. We shall soon find it out, however when we go to the water. It must go in, if I have to push it myself.” 　　On the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun shone brightly on the green burdock leaves, so the mother duck took her young brood down to the water, and jumped in with a splash. “Quack, quack,” cried she, and one after another the little ducklings jumped in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up again in an instant, and swam about quite prettily with their legs paddling under them as easily as possible, and the ugly duckling was also in the water swimming with them. 　　“Oh,” said the mother, “that is not a turkey; how well he uses his legs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he is not so very ugly after all if you look at him properly. Quack, quack! come with me now, I will take you into grand society, and introduce you to the farmyard, but you must keep close to me or you may be trodden upon; and, above all, beware of the cat.” 　　When they reached the farmyard, there was a great disturbance, two families were fighting for an eel’s head, which, after all, was carried off by the cat. “See, children, that is the way of the world,” said the mother duck, whetting her beak, for she would have liked the eel’s head herself. “Come, now, use your legs, and let me see how well you can behave. You must bow your heads prettily to that old duck yonder; she is the highest born of them all, and has Spanish blood, therefore, she is well off. Don’t you see she has a red flag tied to her leg, which is something very grand, and a great honor for a duck; it shows that every one is anxious not to lose her, as she can be recognized both by man and beast. Come, now, don’t turn your toes, a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart, just like his father and mother, in this way; now bend your neck, and say ‘quack.’” 　　The ducklings did as they were bid, but the other duck stared, and said, “Look, here comes another brood, as if there were not enough of us already! and what a queer looking object one of them is; we don’t want him here,” and then one flew out and bit him in the neck. 　　“Let him alone,” said the mother; “he is not doing any harm.” 　　“Yes, but he is so big and ugly,” said the spiteful duck “and therefore he must be turned out.” 　　“The others are very pretty children,” said the old duck, with the rag on her leg, “all but that one; I wish his mother could improve him a little.” 　　“That is impossible, your grace,” replied the mother; “he is not pretty; but he has a very good disposition, and swims as well or even better than the others. I think he will grow up pretty, and perhaps be smaller; he has remained too long in the egg, and therefore his figure is not properly formed;” and then she stroked his neck and smoothed the feathers, saying, “It is a drake, and therefore not of so much consequence. I think he will grow up strong, and able to take care of himself.”　　“The other ducklings are graceful enough,” said the old duck. “Now make yourself at home, and if you can find an eel’s head, you can bring it to me.” And so they made themselves comfortable; but the poor duckling, who had crept out of his shell last of all, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and made fun of, not only by the ducks, but by all the poultry. “He is too big,” they all said, and the turkey cock, who had been born into the world with spurs, and fancied himself really an emperor, puffed himself out like a vessel in full sail, and flew at the duckling, and became quite red in the head with passion, so that the poor little thing did not know where to go, and was quite miserable because he was so ugly and laughed at by the whole farmyard. So it went on from day to day till it got worse and worse. The poor duckling was driven about by every one; even his brothers and sisters were unkind to him, and would say, “Ah, you ugly creature, I wish the cat would get you,” and his mother said she wished he had never been born. The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him, and the girl who fed the poultry kicked him with her feet. So at last he ran away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over the palings. 　　“They are afraid of me because I am ugly,” he said. So he closed his eyes, and flew still farther, until he came out on a large moor, inhabited by wild ducks. Here he remained the whole night, feeling very tired and sorrowful. 　　In the morning, when the wild ducks rose in the air, they stared at their new comrade. “What sort of a duck are you?” they all said, coming round him. 　　He bowed to them, and was as polite as he could be, but he did not reply to their question. “You are exceedingly ugly,” said the wild ducks, “but that will not matter if you do not want to marry one of our family.” 　　Poor thing! he had no thoughts of marriage; all he wanted was permission to lie among the rushes, and drink some of the water on the moor. After he had been on the moor two days, there came two wild geese, or rather goslings, for they had not been out of the egg long, and were very saucy. “Listen, friend,” said one of them to the duckling, “you are so ugly, that we like you very well. Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Not far from here is another moor, in which there are some pretty wild geese, all unmarried. It is a chance for you to get a wife; you may be lucky, ugly as you are.” 　　“Pop, pop,” sounded in the air, and the two wild geese fell dead among the rushes, and the water was tinged with blood. “Pop, pop,” echoed far and wide in the distance, and whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the rushes. The sound continued from every direction, for the sportsmen surrounded the moor, and some were even seated on branches of trees, overlooking the rushes. The blue smoke from the guns rose like clouds over the dark trees, and as it floated away across the water, a number of sporting dogs bounded in among the rushes, which bent beneath them wherever they went. How they terrified the poor duckling! He turned away his head to hide it under his wing, and at the same moment a large terrible dog passed quite near him. His jaws were open, his tongue hung from his mouth, and his eyes glared fearfully. He thrust his nose close to the duckling, showing his sharp teeth, and then, “splash, splash,” he went into the water without touching him, “Oh,” sighed the duckling, “how thankful I am for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me.” And so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over him. It was late in the day before all became quiet, but even then the poor young thing did not dare to move. He waited quietly for several hours, and then, after looking carefully around him, hastened away from the moor as fast as he could. He ran over field and meadow till a storm arose, and he could hardly struggle against it. Towards evening, he reached a poor little cottage that seemed ready to fall, and only remained standing because it could not decide on which side to fall first. The storm continued so violent, that the duckling could go no farther; he sat down by the cottage, and then he noticed that the door was not quite closed in consequence of one of the hinges having given way. There was therefore a narrow opening near the bottom large enough for him to slip through, which he did very quietly, and got a shelter for the night. A woman, a tom cat, and a hen lived in this cottage. The tom cat, whom the mistress called, “My little son,” was a great favorite; he could raise his back, and purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur if it were stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs, so she was called “Chickie short legs.” She laid good eggs, and her mistress loved her as if she had been her own child. In the morning, the strange visitor was discovered, and the tom cat began to purr, and the hen to cluck. 　　“What is that noise about?” said the old woman, looking round the room, but her sight was not very good; therefore, when she saw the duckling she thought it must be a fat duck, that had strayed from home. “Oh what a prize!” she exclaimed, “I hope it is not a drake, for then I shall have some duck’s eggs. I must wait and see.” So the duckling was allowed to remain on trial for three weeks, but there were no eggs. Now the tom cat was the master of the house, and the hen was mistress, and they always said, “We and the world,” for they believed themselves to be half the world, and the better half too. The duckling thought that others might hold a different opinion on the subject, but the hen would not listen to such doubts. “Can you lay eggs?” she asked. “No.” “Then have the goodness to hold your tongue.” “Can you raise your back, or purr, or throw out sparks?” said the tom cat. “No.” “Then you have no right to express an opinion when sensible people are speaking.” So the duckling sat in a corner, feeling very low spirited, till the sunshine and the fresh air came into the room through the open door, and then he began to feel such a great longing for a swim on the water, that he could not help telling the hen. 　　“What an absurd idea,” said the hen. “You have nothing else to do, therefore you have foolish fancies. If you could purr or lay eggs, they would pass away.” 　　“But it is so delightful to swim about on the water,” said the duckling, “and so refreshing to feel it close over your head, while you dive down to the bottom.”　　“Delightful, indeed!” said the hen, “why you must be crazy! Ask the cat, he is the cleverest animal I know, ask him how he would like to swim about on the water, or to dive under it, for I will not speak of my own opinion; ask our mistress, the old woman— there is no one in the world more clever than she is. Do you think she would like to swim, or to let the water close over her head?” 　　“You don’t understand me,” said the duckling. 　　“We don’t understand you? Who can understand you, I wonder? Do you consider yourself more clever than the cat, or the old woman? I will say nothing of myself. Don’t imagine such nonsense, child, and thank your good fortune that you have been received here. Are you not in a warm room, and in society from which you may learn something. But you are a chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable. Believe me, I speak only for your own good. I may tell you unpleasant truths, but that is a proof of my friendship. I advise you, therefore, to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible.” 　　“I believe I must go out into the world again,” said the duckling.　　“Yes, do,” said the hen. So the duckling left the cottage, and soon found water on which it could swim and dive, but was avoided by all other animals, because of its ugly appearance. Autumn came, and the leaves in the forest turned to orange and gold. then, as winter approached, the wind caught them as they fell and whirled them in the cold air. The clouds, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, hung low in the sky, and the raven stood on the ferns crying, “Croak, croak.” It made one shiver with cold to look at him. All this was very sad for the poor little duckling. One evening, just as the sun set amid radiant clouds, there came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the bushes. The duckling had never seen any like them before. They were swans, and they curved their graceful necks, while their soft plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a singular cry, as they spread their glorious wings and flew away from those cold regions to warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher and higher in the air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange sensation as he watched them. He whirled himself in the water like a wheel, stretched out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so strange that it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those beautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight, he dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself with excitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they had flown, but he felt towards them as he had never felt for any other bird in the world. He was not envious of these beautiful creatures, but wished to be as lovely as they. Poor ugly creature, how gladly he would have lived even with the ducks had they only given him encouragement. The winter grew colder and colder; he was obliged to swim about on the water to keep it from freezing, but every night the space on which he swam became smaller and smaller. At length it froze so hard that the ice in the water crackled as he moved, and the duckling had to paddle with his legs as well as he could, to keep the space from closing up. He became exhausted at last, and lay still and helpless, frozen fast in the ice. 　　Early in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw what had happened. He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried the duckling home to his wife. The warmth revived the poor little creature; but when the children wanted to play with him, the duckling thought they would do him some harm; so he started up in terror, fluttered into the milk-pan, and splashed the milk about the room. Then the woman clapped her hands, which frightened him still more. He flew first into the butter-cask, then into the meal-tub, and out again. What a condition he was in! The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs; the children laughed and screamed, and tumbled over each other, in their efforts to catch him; but luckily he escaped. The door stood open; the poor creature could just manage to slip out among the bushes, and lie down quite exhausted in the newly fallen snow. 　　It would be very sad, were I to relate all the misery and privations which the poor little duckling endured during the hard winter; but when it had passed, he found himself lying one morning in a moor, amongst the rushes. He felt the warm sun shining, and heard the lark singing, and saw that all around was beautiful spring. Then the young bird felt that his wings were strong, as he flapped them against his sides, and rose high into the air. They bore him onwards, until he found himself in a large garden, before he well knew how it had happened. The apple-trees were in full blossom, and the fragrant elders bent their long green branches down to the stream which wound round a smooth lawn. Everything looked beautiful, in the freshness of early spring. From a thicket close by came three beautiful white swans, rustling their feathers, and swimming lightly over the smooth water. The duckling remembered the lovely birds, and felt more strangely unhappy than ever. 　　“I will fly to those royal birds,” he exclaimed, “and they will kill me, because I am so ugly, and dare to approach them; but it does not matter: better be killed by them than pecked by the ducks, beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden who feeds the poultry, or starved with hunger in the winter.” 　　Then he flew to the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans. The moment they espied the stranger, they rushed to meet him with outstretched wings. 　　“Kill me,” said the poor bird; and he bent his head down to the surface of the water, and awaited death. 　　But what did he see in the clear stream below? His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck’s nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a swan’s egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the new-comer, and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome. 　　Into the garden presently came some little children, and threw bread and cake into the water. 　　“See,” cried the youngest, “there is a new one;” and the rest were delighted, and ran to their father and mother, dancing and clapping their hands, and shouting joyously, “There is another swan come; a new one has arrived.” 　　Then they threw more bread and cake into the water, and said, “The new one is the most beautiful of all; he is so young and pretty.” And the old swans bowed their heads before him. Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing; for he did not know what to do, he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, “I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.”　　乡间真是很是斑斓。这恰是夏天！小麦是金黄的，燕麦是绿油油的。干草在绿色的牧场上堆成垛，鹳鸟用它又长又红的腿子在散着步，噜嗦地讲着埃及话。（注：因为据丹麦的平易近间传说，鹳鸟是从埃及飞来的。）这是它从妈妈那儿学到的一种说话。郊野和牧场的四周有些大丛林，丛林里有些很深的水池。的确，乡间是很是斑斓的，太阳光正照着一幢老式的屋子，它四周流着几条很深的小溪。从墙角那儿一向到水里，全盖满了牛蒡的大叶子。最大的叶子长得很是高，小孩子的确可以直着腰站鄙人面。像在最稠密的丛林里一样，这儿也是很萧瑟的。这儿有一只母鸭坐在窠里，她得把她的几个小鸭都孵出来。不过这时候她已累坏了。很少有客人来看她。别的鸭子都愿意在溪流里游来游往，而不肯意跑到牛蒡下面来和她聊天。　　最后，那些鸭蛋一个接着一个地崩开了。“噼！噼！”蛋壳响起来。所有的蛋黄此刻都变成了小动物。他们把小头都伸出来。 　　“嘎！嘎！”母鸭说。他们也就跟着嘎嘎地大声叫起来。他们在绿叶子下面向四周看。妈妈让他们尽可能地东张西看，因为绿色对他们的眼睛是有好处的。　　“这个世界真够大！”这些年青的小家伙说。的确，比起他们在蛋壳里的时辰，他们此刻的六合真是大不不异了。　　“你们觉得这就是全部世界！”妈妈说。“这处所伸展到花圃的另外一边，一向伸展到牧师的田里往，才远呢！连我本身都没有往过！我想你们都在这儿吧？”她站起来。“没有，我还没有把你们都生出来呢！这只顶大的蛋还躺着没有动静。它还得躺多久呢？我真是有些烦了。”因而她又坐下来。　　“唔，景象如何？”一只来拜访她的老鸭子问。 　　“这个蛋费的时候真久！”坐着的母鸭说。“它老是不裂开。请你看看别的吧。他们真是一些最逗人爱的小鸭儿！都像他们的爸爸— — 这个坏东西历来没有来看过我一次！”　　“让我瞧瞧这个老是不裂开的蛋吧，”这位大哥的客人说，“请相信我，这是一只吐绶鸡的蛋。有一次我也一样受过骗，你知道，那些小家伙不知道给了我多少麻烦和忧?，因为他们都不敢下水。我的确没有编制叫他们在水里试一试。我说好说歹，一点用也没有！— — 让我来瞧瞧这只蛋吧。哎呀！这是一只吐绶鸡的蛋！让他躺着吧，你固然叫别的孩子往泅水好了。”　　“我还是在它上面多坐一会儿吧，”鸭妈妈说，“我已坐了这么久，就是再坐它一个礼拜也没有关系。” 　　“那么就请便吧，”老鸭子说。因而她就告辞了。　　最后这只大蛋裂开了。“噼！噼！”新生的这个小家伙叫着向外面爬。他是又大又丑。鸭妈妈把他瞧了一眼。“这个小鸭子大得怕人，”她说，“别的没有一个像他；可是他一点也不像小吐绶鸡！好吧，我们顿时就来尝尝看吧。他获得水里往，我踢也要把他踢下水往。”　　第二天的气候是又晴和，又斑斓。太阳照在绿牛蒡上。鸭妈妈带着她所有的孩子走到溪边来。通俗！她跳进水里往了。“呱！呱！”她叫着，因而小鸭子就一个接着一个跳下往。水淹到他们头上，可是他们顿时又冒出来了，游得很是标致。他们的小腿很矫捷地划着。他们全都在水里，连阿谁丑恶的灰色小家伙也跟他们在一路游。 　　“唔，他不是一个吐绶鸡，”她说，“你看他的腿划很多矫捷，他浮很多么稳！他是我亲生的孩子！若是你把他细心看一看，他还算长得蛮标致呢。嘎！嘎！跟我一路来吧，我把你们带到泛博的世界上往，把阿谁养鸡场先容给你们看看。不过，你们得紧贴着我，免得他人踩着你们。你们还得把稳猫儿呢！”　　如许，他们就到养鸡场里来了。场里响起了一阵可骇的闹热热烈繁华声，因为有两个家族正在争夺一个鳝鱼头，而成果猫儿却把它抢走了。 　　“你们瞧，世界就是这个模样！”鸭妈妈说。她的嘴流了一点涎水，因为她也想吃阿谁鳝鱼头。“此刻利用你们的腿吧！”她说。“你们拿出精力来。你们若是看到那儿的一个老母鸭，你们就得把头低下来，因为她是这儿最驰名誉的人物。她有西班牙的血统— — 因为她长得很是胖。你们看，她的腿上有一块红布条。这是一件很是超卓的东西，也是一个鸭子可能获得的最大名看：它的意义很大，申明人们不肯意掉往她，动物和人十足都得熟谙她。打起精力来吧— — 不要把腿子缩进往。一个有很好教化的鸭子老是把腿摆开的，像爸爸和妈妈一样。好吧，低下头来，说：‘嘎’呀！”　　他们如许做了。别的鸭子站在旁边看着，同时用相当大的声音说：　　“瞧！此刻又来了一批找东西吃的客人，仿佛我们的人数还不敷多似的！呸！瞧那只小鸭的一副丑相！我们真看不惯！” 　　因而顿时有一只鸭子飞畴昔，在他的脖颈上啄了一下。　　“请你们不要管他吧，”妈妈说，“他实在不危险谁呀！”　　“对，不过他长得太大、太出格了，”啄过他的那只鸭子说，“是以他必须挨打！”　　“阿谁母鸭的孩子都很标致，”腿上有一条红布的阿谁母鸭说，“他们都很标致，只有一只是例外。这真是可惜。我但愿能把他再孵一次。”　　“那可不克不及，太太，”鸭妈妈答复说，“他欠都雅，可是他的脾性很是好。他游起水来也不比他人差— — 我还可以说，游得比他人好呢。我想他会渐渐长得标致的，或到恰当的时辰，他也可能缩小一点。他在蛋里躺得太久了，是以他的模样有点不太天然。”她说着，同时在他的脖颈上啄了一下，把他的羽毛理了一理。“别的，他还是一只公鸭呢，”她说，　　“所以关系也不太大。我想他的身体很健壮，将来总会本身找到前程的。”　　“别的小鸭倒很可爱，”老母鸭说，“你在这儿不要客套。若是你找到鳝鱼头，请把它送给我好了。”　　他们此刻在这儿，就像在本身家里一样。不过从蛋壳里爬出的那只小鸭太丑了，处处挨打，被架空，被耻笑，不但在鸭群中是如许，连在鸡群中也是如许。　　“他真是又粗又大！”大师都说。有一只雄吐绶鸡生下来脚上就有距，是以他自发得是一个天子。他把本身吹得像一条鼓满了风的帆船，来势汹汹地向他走来，瞪着一双大眼睛，脸上涨得通红。这只可怜的小鸭不知道站在甚么处所，或走到甚么处所往好。他感觉很是哀思，因为本身长得那么丑恶，并且成了全部鸡鸭的一个嘲笑对象。 　　这是头一天的景象。后来一天比一天糟。大师都要赶走这只可怜的小鸭；连他本身的兄弟姊妹也对他生气起来。他们老是说：“你这个丑魔鬼，但愿猫儿把你抓往才好！”因而妈妈也说起来：“我但愿你走远些！”鸭儿们啄他。小鸡打他，喂鸡鸭的阿谁女佣人用脚来踢他。　　因而他飞过篱笆逃脱了；灌木林里的小鸟一见到他，就惶恐地向空中飞往。“这是因为我太丑了！”小鸭想。因而他闭起眼睛，继续往前跑。他一口气跑到一块住着野鸭的池沼地里。他在这儿躺了一整夜，因为他太累了，太丧气了。 　　天亮的时辰，野鸭都飞起来了。他们瞧了瞧这位新来的伴侣。　　“你是谁呀？”他们问。小鸭一下转向这边，一下转向何处，尽可能对大师必恭必敬地施礼。　　你真是丑得短长，”野鸭们说，“不过只要你不跟我们族里任何鸭子成婚，对我们倒也没有甚么大的关系。”可怜的小东西！他底子没有想到甚么成婚；他只但愿人家准予他躺在芦苇里，喝点池沼的水就够了。　　他在那儿躺了两个成天。后来有两只雁— — 严格地讲，应当说是两只公雁，因为他们是两个男的— — 飞来了。他们从娘的蛋壳里爬出来还没有多久，是以很是玩皮。　　“听着，伴侣，”他们说，“你丑得可爱，连我（注：这儿的“我”（ｊｅｇ）是单数，跟前面的“他们说”不一致，但原文如此。）都禁不住要喜好你了。你做一个候鸟，跟我们一路飞走好吗？别的有一块池沼地离这儿很近，那边有好几只活跃可爱的雁儿。她们都是蜜斯，城市说：‘嘎！’你是那么丑，可以在她们那儿碰碰你的命运！” 　　“噼！啪！”天空中发出一阵响声。这两只公雁落到芦苇里，死了，把水染得鲜红。“噼！啪！”又是一阵响声。整群的雁儿都从芦苇里飞起来，因而又是一阵枪声响起来了。本来有人在大范围地打猎。猎人都埋伏在这池沼地的四周，有几小我乃至坐在伸到芦苇上空的树枝上。蓝色的烟雾像云块似地覆盖着这些黑树，渐渐地在水面上向远方漂往。这时候，猎狗都通俗通俗地在泥泞里跑过来，灯芯草和芦苇向两边倒往。这对可怜的小鸭说来真是可骇的工作！他把头掉落过来，躲在同党里。不过，正在这时候辰，一只骇人的大猎狗紧紧地站在小鸭的身边。的舌头从嘴里伸出很长，眼睛发出丑恶和可骇的光。它把鼻子顶到这小鸭的身上，露出了尖牙齿，可是— — 通俗！通俗！— — 它跑开了，没有把他抓走。　　“啊，感谢老天爷！”小鸭叹了一口气，“我丑得连猎狗也不要咬我了！”　　他舒适地躺下来。枪声还在芦苇里响着，枪弹一发接着一发地射出来。　　天将近暗的时辰，四周才静下来。可是这只可怜的小鸭还不敢站起来。他等了好几个钟头，才敢向四周看一眼，因而他仓猝跑出这块池沼地，拼命地跑，向郊野上跑，向牧场上跑。这时候吹起一阵暴风，他跑起来很是坚苦。 　　到进夜的时辰，他来到一个简陋的农家小屋。它是那么残破，乃至不知道应当向哪一边倒才好— — 是以它也就没有倒。暴风在小鸭身边号叫得很是短长，他只好面对着它坐下来。它越吹越凶。因而他看到那门上的搭钮有一个已松了，门也歪了，他可以从空地钻进屋子里往，他便钻进往了。　　屋子里有一个老妇人和她的猫儿，还有一只母鸡住在一路。她把这只猫儿叫“小儿子”。他能把背拱得很高，发出咪咪的叫声来；他的身上还能迸出火花，不过要他如许做，你就得倒摸他的毛。母鸡的腿又短又小，是以她叫“短腿鸡儿”。她生下的蛋很好，所以老妇人把她爱得像本身的亲生孩子一样。　　第二天凌晨，人们顿时重视到了这只来历不明的小鸭。那只猫儿开端咪咪地叫，那只母鸡也咯咯地喊起来。 　　“这是如何一回事儿？”老妇人说，同时朝四周看。不过她的眼睛有点花，所以她觉得小鸭是一只肥鸭，走错了路，才跑到这儿来了。“这真是少有的命运！”她说，“此刻我可以有鸭蛋了。我只但愿他不是一只公鸭才好！我们得弄个清楚！”　　如许，小鸭就在这里受了三个礼拜的考验，可是他甚么蛋也没有生下来。那只猫儿是这家的名流，那只母鸡是这家的太太，所以他们一开口就说：“我们和这世界！”因为他们觉得他们就是半个世界，并且还是最好的那一半呢。小鸭感觉本身可以有分歧的观点，可是他的这类态度，母鸡却忍耐不了。　　“你可以或许生蛋吗？”她问。 　　“不克不及！” 　　“那么就请你不要颁发定见。”　　因而雄猫说：“你能拱起背，发出咪咪的叫声和迸出火花吗？”　　“不克不及！” 　　“那么，当有理智的人在讲话的时辰，你就没有颁发定见的需要！” 　　小鸭坐在一个墙角里，表情很是不好。这时候他想起了新奇空气和太阳光。他感觉有一种奇特的巴看：他想到水里往泅水。最后他实在不由得了，就不克不及不把苦衷对母鸡说出来。　　“你在起甚么动机？”母鸡问。“你没有工作可干，所以你才有这些怪想头。你只要生几个蛋，或咪咪地叫几声，那么你这些怪想头也就会没有了。”　　“不过，在水里泅水是多么利落索性呀！”小鸭说。“让水淹在你的头上，往水底一钻，那是多么利落索性呀！”　　“是的，那必然很利落索性！”母鸡说，“你的确在发疯。你往问问猫儿吧— — 在我所熟谙的一切伴侣傍边，他是最聪明的— — 你往问问他喜好不喜好在水里泅水，或钻进水里往。我先不讲我本身。你往问问你的主人— — 阿谁老妇人— — 吧，世界上再也没有比她更聪明的人了！你觉得她想往泅水，让水淹在她的头顶上吗？” 　　“你们不体味我，”小鸭说。 　　“我们不体味你？那么请问谁体味你呢？你决不会比猫儿和女主人更聪明吧— — 我先不提我本身。孩子，你不要自发得了不得吧！你此刻获得这些赐顾帮衬，你应当感激上帝。你此刻到一个热和的屋子里来，有了一些伴侣，并且还可以向他们进修很多的东西，不是吗？不过你是一个废料，跟你在一路真不利落索性。你可以相信我，我对你说这些不好听的话，美满是为了帮忙你呀。只有如许，你才知道谁是你的真正伴侣！请你重视进修生蛋，或咪咪地叫，或迸出火花吧！”　　“我想我还是走到泛博的世界上往好，”小鸭说。 　　“好吧，你往吧！”母鸡说。 　　因而小鸭就走了。他一会儿在水上游，一会儿钻进水里往；不过，因为他的模样丑，所有的动物都瞧不其他。秋季到来了。树林里的叶子变成了黄色和棕色。风卷起它们，把它们带到空中飞舞，而空中是很冷的。云块沉重地载着冰雹和雪花，低低地悬着。乌鸦站在篱笆上，冻得尽管叫：“呱！呱！”是的，你只要想想这景象，就会感觉冷了。这只可怜的小鸭的确没有一个舒畅的时辰。　　一天晚上，当太阳正在斑斓地落下往的时辰，有一群标致的大鸟从灌木林里飞出来，小鸭历来没有看到过如许斑斓的东西。他们白得发亮，颈项又长又柔嫩。这就是天鹅。他们发出一种奇特的叫声，展开斑斓的长同党，从酷冷的地带飞向热和的国度，飞向不结冰的湖上往。　　他们飞得很高— — 那么高，丑小鸭不由感应一种说不出的兴奋。他在水上像一个车轮似地不断地扭转着，同时，把本身的颈项高高地向他们伸着，发出一种清脆的怪叫声，连他本身也惊骇起来。啊！他再也健忘不了这些斑斓的鸟儿，这些幸福的鸟儿。当他看不见他们的时辰，就沉进水底；可是当他再冒到水面上来的时辰，却感应很是空虚。他不知道这些鸟儿的名字，也不知道他们要向甚么处所飞往。不过他爱他们，仿佛他历来还没有爱过甚么东西似的。他实在不妒忌他们。他怎能胡想有他们那样斑斓呢？只要别的鸭儿准予他跟他们糊口在一路，他就已很对劲了— — 可怜的丑东西。　　冬季变得很冷，很是的冷！小鸭不克不及不在水上游来游往，免得水面完全冻结成冰。不过他游动的这个小范围，一晚比一晚缩小。水冻得短长，人们可以听到冰块的碎裂声。小鸭只好用他的一双腿不断地游动，免得水完全被冰封闭。最后，他终究昏倒了，躺着动也不动，跟冰块结在一路。　　大朝晨，有一个农平易近在这儿颠末。他看到了这只小鸭，就走畴昔用木屐把冰块踏破，然后把他抱回来，送给他的女人。他这时候才垂垂地恢复了知觉。　　小孩子们都想要跟他玩，不太小鸭觉得他们想要危险他。他一惊骇就跳到牛奶盘里往了，把牛奶溅得满屋子都是。女人惊叫起来，拍着双手。这么一来，小鸭就飞到黄油盆里往了，然后就飞进面粉桶里往了，最后才爬出来。这时候他的模样才都雅呢！女人尖声地叫起来，拿着火钳要他。小孩们挤做一团，想抓住这小鸭。他们又是笑，又是叫！— — 好在大门是开着的。他钻进灌木林中新下的雪里面往。他躺在那边，几近像昏倒了一样。 　　如果只讲他在这严冬所遭到困苦和灾害，那么这个故事也就太悲惨了。当太阳又开端热和地照着的时辰，他正躺在池沼地的芦苇里。百灵鸟唱起歌来了— — 这是一个斑斓的春季。　　俄然间他举起同党：同党拍起来比之前有力很多，顿时就把他托起来飞走了。他不知不觉地已飞进了一座大花圃。这儿苹果树正开开花；紫丁喷鼻在披发着喷鼻气，它又长又绿的枝条垂到弯曲折曲的溪流上。啊，这儿斑斓极了，布满了春季的气味！三只斑斓的白日鹅从树荫里一向游到他面前来。他们轻飘飘地浮在水上，羽毛发出飕飕的响声。小鸭认出这些斑斓的动物，因而心里感应一种说不出的难熬。　　“我要飞向他们，飞向这些崇高的鸟儿！可是他们会把我弄死的，因为我是如许丑，竟然敢接近他们。不过这没有甚么关系！被他们杀死，要比被鸭子咬、被鸡群啄，被把守养鸡场的阿谁女佣人踢和在冬季刻苦好很多！”因而他飞到水里，向这些斑斓的天鹅游往：这些动物看到他，顿时就竖起羽毛向他游来。“请你们弄死我吧！”这只可怜的动物说。他把头低低地垂到水上，只等候着死。可是他在这清澈的水上看到了甚么呢？他看到了本身的倒影。但那不再是一只粗笨的、深灰色的、又丑又令人讨厌的鸭子，而倒是— — 一只天鹅！　　只要你曾在一只天鹅蛋里待过，就算你是生在养鸭场里也没有甚么关系。　　对他畴昔所受的不幸和忧?，他此刻感应很是欢畅。他此刻清楚地熟谙到幸福和美正在向他招手。— — 很多大天鹅在他四周泅水，用嘴来亲他。　　花圃里来了几个小孩子。他们向水上抛来很多面包片和麦粒。最小的阿谁孩子喊道：　　“你们看那只新天鹅！”别的孩子也欢欣鼓舞地叫起来：“是的，又来了一只新的天鹅！”因而他们拍着手，跳起舞来，向他们的爸爸和妈妈跑往。他们抛了更多的面包和糕饼到水里，同时大师都说：“这新来的一只最美！那么年青，那么都雅！”那些老天鹅不由在他面前低下头来。　　他感应很是难为情。他把头躲到同党里面往，不知道如何办才好。他感应太幸福了，但他一点也不高傲，因为一颗好的心是永久不会高傲的。他想其他曾如何被人毒害和耻笑过，而他此刻却听到大师说他是斑斓的鸟中最斑斓的一只鸟儿。紫丁喷鼻在他面前把枝条垂到水里往。太阳照得很热和，很兴奋。他扇动同党，伸直颀长的颈项，从心里里发出一个欢愉的声音： 　　“当我还是一只丑小鸭的时辰，我做梦也没有想到会有这么多的幸福！” （１８４４年）　　这篇童话也汇集在《新的童话》里。它是在安徒生表情不太好的时辰写的。那时他有一个脚本《梨树上的雀子》在上演，像他那时写的很多其他的作品一样，它遭到了不公道的攻讦。他在日记上说：“写这个故事多少可使我的表情好转一点。”这个故事的主人公是一只“丑小鸭”— — 事实上是一只斑斓的天鹅，但因为他生在一个鸭场里，鸭子感觉它与本身分歧，就以为他很“丑”。其他的动物，如鸡、狗、猫也随声拥戴，都鄙夷他。它们都按照本身的人生哲学来对他评头论足，说：“你真丑得短长，不过只要你不跟我们族里任何鸭子成婚，对我们倒也没有甚么大的关系。”它们都以为本身家世崇高，了不得，实在俗气不堪。相反，“丑小鸭”倒是很是谦善，“底子没有想到甚么成婚”。他感觉“我还是走到泛博的世界上往好。”就在“泛博的世界”里有天晚上他看见了“一群标致的大鸟从灌木林里飞出来……他们飞得很高— — 那么高，丑小鸭不由感应说不出的兴奋。”这就是天鹅，后来天鹅发现“丑小鸭”是他们的同类，就“向他游来……用嘴来亲他。”本来“丑小鸭”本身也是一只斑斓的天鹅，即便他“生在养鸭场里也没有甚么关系。”这篇童话一般都以为是安徒生的一路自传，描述他童年和青年期间所蒙受的患难，他对美的追乞降神驰，和他通太重重患难后所获得的艺术创作上的成绩和精力上的安抚。