Still he must obey his Emperor, so he made ready to start. His wife was

very sorry that he must go, and yet a little proud, too, for no one else

in the village had ever taken so long a journey.

She and the baby walked with him down to the turn in the road. There

they stood and watched him through their tears, as he followed the path

up through the pines on the mountain side. At last, no larger than a

speck, he disappeared behind the hills. Then they went home to await his

return.

For three long weeks they waited. Each day they spoke of him, and

counted the days until they should see his dear face again. At last the

time came. They walked down to the turn in the road to wait for his

coming. Up on the mountain side some one was walking toward them. As he

came nearer they could see that it was the one for whom they waited.

The good wife could scarcely believe that her husband was indeed safe

home again. The baby girl laughed and clapped her hands to see the toys

he brought her.

There was a tiny image of Uzume, the laughter-loving goddess. Next came

a little red monkey of cotton, with a blue head. When she pressed the

spring he ran to the top of the rod. Oh, how wonderful was the third

gift! It was a _tombo_, or dragon fly. When she first looked at it she

saw only a piece of wood shaped like a T. The cross piece was painted

with different bright colors. But the queer thing, when her father

twirled it between his fingers, would rise in the air, dipping and

hovering like a real dragon fly.

Last, of course, there was a _ninghio_, or doll, with a sweet face,

slanting eyes, and such wonderful hair. Her name was O-Hina-San.

He told of the Feast of the Dead which he had seen in Tokio. He told of

the beautiful lanterns, the Lanterns of the Dead; and the pine torches

burning before each house. He told of the tiny boats made of barley

straw and filled with food that are set floating away on the river,

bearing two tiny lanterns to guide them to the Land of the Dead.

At last her husband handed the wife a small white box. "Tell me what you

see inside," he said. She opened it and took out something round and

bright.

On one side were buds and flowers of frosted silver. The other side at

first looked as clear and bright as a pool of water. When she moved it a

little she saw in it a most beautiful woman.

"Oh, what a beautiful picture!" she cried. "It is of a woman and she

seems to be smiling and talking just as I am. She has on a blue dress

just like mine, too! How strange!"

Then her husband laughed and said: "That is a mirror. It is yourself you

see reflected in it. All the women in Tokio have them."

The wife was delighted with her present, and looked at it very often.

She liked to see the smiling red lips, the laughing eyes, and beautiful

dark hair.

After a while she said to herself: "How foolish this is of me to sit and

gaze at myself in this mirror! I am not more beautiful than other women.

How much better for me to enjoy others' beauty, and forget my own face.

I shall only remember that it must always be happy and smiling or it

will make no one else happy. I do not wish any cross or angry look of

mine to make any one sad."

She put the mirror carefully away in its box. Only twice in a year she

looked at it. Then it was to see if her face was still such as would

make others happy.

The years passed by in their sweet and simple life until the baby had

grown to be a big girl. Her _ninghio_, her _tombo_, the image of Uzume,

even the cotton monkey, were put carefully away for her own children.

This girl was the very image of her mother. She was just as sweet and

loving, just as kind and helpful.

One day her mother became very ill. Although the girl and her father did

all they could for her, she grew worse and worse.

At last she knew that she must die, so she called her daughter to her

and said: "My child, I know that I must soon leave you, but I wish to

leave something with you in my place. Open this box and see what you

find in it."

The girl opened the box and looked for the first time in a mirror. "Oh,

mother dear!" she cried. "I see you here. Not thin and pale as you are

now, but happy and smiling, as you have always been."

Then her mother said: "When I am gone, will you look in this every

morning and every night? If anything troubles you, tell me about it.

Always try to do right, so that you will see only happiness here."

Every morning when the sun rose and the birds began to twitter and sing,

the girl rose and looked in her mirror. There she saw the bright, happy

face that she remembered as her mother's.

Every evening when the shadows fell and the birds were asleep, she

looked again. She told it all that had happened during the day. When it

had been a happy day the face smiled back at her. When she was sad the

face looked sad, too. She was very careful not to do anything unkind,

for she knew how sad the face would be then.

So each day she grew more kind and loving, and more like the mother

whose face she saw each day and loved.

185

This favorite story of "The Tongue-Cut Sparrow"

is from Mrs. Williston's _Japanese Fairy

Tales_. (Copyrighted. Used by permission.)

THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON

In a little old house in a little old village in Japan lived a little

old man and his little old wife.

One morning when the old woman slid open the screens which form the

sides of all Japanese houses, she saw, on the doorstep, a poor little

sparrow. She took him up gently and fed him. Then she held him in the

bright morning sunshine until the cold dew was dried from his wings.

Afterward she let him go, so that he might fly home to his nest, but he

stayed to thank her with his songs.

Each morning, when the pink on the mountain tops told that the sun was

near, the sparrow perched on the roof of the house and sang out his joy.

The old man and woman thanked the sparrow for this, for they liked to be

up early and at work. But near them there lived a cross old woman who

did not like to be awakened so early. At last she became so angry that

she caught the sparrow and cut his tongue. Then the poor little sparrow

flew away to his home, but he could never sing again.

When the kind woman knew what had happened to her pet she was very sad.

She said to her husband, "Let us go and find our poor little sparrow."

So they started together, and asked of each bird by the wayside: "Do you

know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow lives? Do you know where the

Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?"

In this way they followed until they came to a bridge. They did not know

which way to turn, and at first could see no one to ask.

At last they saw a Bat hanging head downward, taking his daytime nap.

"Oh, friend Bat, do you know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?" they

asked.

"Yes. Over the bridge and up the mountain," said the Bat. Then he

blinked his sleepy eyes and was fast asleep again.

They went over the bridge and up the mountain, but again they found two

roads and did not know which one to take. A little Field Mouse peeped

through the leaves and grass, so they asked him, "Do you know where the

Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?"

"Yes. Down the mountain and through the woods," said the Field Mouse.

Down the mountain and through the woods they went, and at last came to

the home of their little friend.

When he saw them coming the poor little sparrow was very happy indeed.

He and his wife and children all came and bowed their heads down to the

ground to show their respect. Then the Sparrow rose and led the old man

and the old woman into his house, while his wife and children hastened

to bring them boiled rice, fish, cress, and sake.

After they had feasted, the Sparrow wished to please them still more, so

he danced for them what is called the "sparrow-dance."

When the sun began to sink, the old man and woman started for home. The

Sparrow brought out two baskets. "I would like to give you one of

these," he said. "Which will you take?" One basket was large and looked

very full, while the other one seemed very small and light. The old

people thought they would not take the large basket, for that might have

all the Sparrow's treasure in it, so they said, "The way is long and we

are very old, so please let us take the smaller one."

They took it and walked home over the mountain and across the bridge,

happy and contented.

When they reached their own home they decided to open the basket and see

what the Sparrow had given them. Within the basket they found many rolls

of silk and piles of gold, enough to make them rich, so they were more

grateful than ever to the Sparrow.

The cross old woman who had cut the Sparrow's tongue was peering in

through the screen when they opened their basket. She saw the rolls of

silk and the piles of gold, and planned how she might get some for

herself.

The next morning she went to the kind woman and said: "I am so sorry

that I cut the tongue of your Sparrow. Please tell me the way to his

home so that I may go to him and tell him I am sorry."

The kind woman told her the way and she set out. She went across the

bridge, over the mountain, and through the woods. At last she came to

the home of the little Sparrow.

He was not so glad to see this old woman, yet he was very kind to her

and did everything to make her feel welcome. They made a feast for her,

and when she started home the Sparrow brought out two baskets as before.

Of course the woman chose the large basket, for she thought that would

have even more wealth than the other one.

It was very heavy, and caught on the trees as she was going through the

wood. She could hardly pull it up the mountain with her, and she was all

out of breath when she reached the top. She did not get to the bridge

until it was dark. Then she was so afraid of dropping the basket into

the river that she scarcely dared to step.

When at last she reached home she was so tired that she was half dead,

but she pulled the screens close shut, so that no one could look in, and

opened her treasure.

Treasure indeed! A whole swarm of horrible creatures burst from the

basket the moment she opened it. They stung her and bit her, they pushed

her and pulled her, they scratched her and laughed at her screams.

At last she crawled to the edge of the room and slid aside the screen to

get away from the pests. The moment the door was opened they swooped

down upon her, picked her up, and flew away with her. Since then nothing

has ever been heard of the old woman.

186

The tale of "The Straw Ox" as given in _Cossack

Fairy Tales_, by R. Nesbit Bain, is one of the

masterpieces among folk stories. It is of the

accumulative type, winding up rapidly to the

point where the old couple have secured,

through the straw ox, all the raw material

needed for comfortable clothing. Then comes the

surprising release of the captured animals

under promise to make contributions, each in

his own way, to the welfare of the

poverty-stricken couple. And then, the greatest

surprise of all, the quick unwinding of the

plot with the return of the grateful animals

according to promise. "And the old man was

glad, and the old woman was glad," and we are

glad for their sake, and also for the sake of

the bear and the wolf and the fox and the hare.

THE STRAW OX

There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman. The old man

worked in the fields as a pitch-burner, while the old woman sat at home

and spun flax. They were so poor that they could save nothing at all;

all their earnings went in bare food, and when that was gone there was

nothing left. At last the old woman had a good idea: "Look now,

husband," cried she, "make me a straw ox, and smear it all over with

tar."

"Why, you foolish woman!" said he, "what's the good of an ox of that

sort?"

"Never mind," said she, "you just make it. I know what I am about."

What was the poor man to do? He set to work and made the ox of straw,

and smeared it all over with tar.

The night passed away, and at early dawn the old woman took her distaff,

and drove the straw ox out into the steppe to graze, and she herself sat

down behind a hillock, and began spinning her flax, and cried: "Graze

away, little ox, while I spin my flax. Graze away, little ox, while I

spin my flax!"

And while she spun, her head drooped down and she began to doze, and

while she was dozing, from behind the dark wood and from the back of the

huge pines a bear came rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who are you?

Speak, and tell me!"

And the ox said: "A three-year-old heifer am I, made of straw and

smeared with tar."

"Oh!" said the bear, "stuffed with straw and trimmed with tar, are you?

Then give me your straw and tar, that I may patch up my ragged fur

again!"

"Take some," said the ox, and the bear fell upon him and began to tear

away at the tar.

He tore and tore, and buried his teeth in it till he found he couldn't

let go again. He tugged and he tugged but it was no good, and the ox

dragged him gradually off, goodness knows where.

Then the old woman awoke, and there was no ox to be seen. "Alas! old

fool that I am!" cried she, "perchance it has gone home." Then she

quickly caught up her distaff and spinning board, threw them over her

shoulders, and hastened off home, and she saw that the ox had dragged

the bear up to the fence, and in she went to her old man.

"Dad, dad," she cried, "look, look! The ox has brought us a bear. Come

out and kill it!" Then the old man jumped up, tore off the bear, tied

him up, and threw him in the cellar.

Next morning, between dark and dawn, the old woman took her distaff and

drove the ox into the steppe to graze. She herself sat down by a mound,

began spinning, and said: "Graze, graze away, little ox, while I spin

my flax! Graze, graze away, little ox, while I spin my flax!"

And while she spun, her head drooped down and she dozed. And lo! from

behind the dark wood, from the back of the huge pines, a gray wolf came

rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who are you? Come, tell me!"

"I am a three-year-old heifer, stuffed with straw and trimmed with tar,"

said the ox.

"Oh! trimmed with tar, are you? Then give me of your tar to tar my

sides, that the dogs and the sons of dogs tear me not!"

"Take some," said the ox. And with that the wolf fell upon him and tried

to tear the tar off. He tugged and tugged, and tore with his teeth, but

could get none off. Then he tried to let go, and couldn't; tug and worry

as he might, it was no good.

When the old woman woke, there was no heifer in sight. "Maybe my heifer

has gone home!" she cried. "I'll go home and see." When she got there

she was astonished for by the paling stood the ox with the wolf still

tugging at it. She ran and told her old man, and her old man came and

threw the wolf into the cellar also.

On the third day the old woman again drove her ox into the pastures to

graze, and sat down by a mound and dozed off. Then a fox came running

up. "Who are you?" it asked the ox.

"I'm a three-year-old heifer, stuffed with straw and daubed with tar."

"Then give me some of your tar to smear my sides with, when those dogs

and sons of dogs tear my hide!"

"Take some," said the ox. Then the fox fastened her teeth in him and

couldn't draw them out again. The old woman told her old man, and he

took and cast the fox into the cellar in the same way. And after that

they caught Pussy Swiftfoot likewise.

So when he had got them all safely the old man sat down on a bench

before the cellar and began sharpening a knife. And the bear said to

him: "Tell me, daddy, what are you sharpening your knife for?"

"To flay your skin off, that I may make a leather jacket for myself and

a pelisse for my old woman."

"Oh! Don't flay me, daddy dear! Rather let me go, and I'll bring you a

lot of honey."

"Very well, see you do it," and he unbound and let the bear go.

Then he sat down on the bench and again began sharpening his knife. And

the wolf asked him: "Daddy, what are you sharpening your knife for?"

"To flay off your skin, that I may make me a warm cap against the

winter."

"Oh! Don't flay me, daddy dear, and I'll bring you a whole herd of

little sheep."

"Well, see that you do it," and he let the wolf go.

Then he sat down, and began sharpening his knife again. The fox put out

her little snout, and asked him: "Be so kind, dear daddy, and tell me

why you are sharpening your knife!"

"Little foxes," said the old man, "have nice skins that do capitally for

collars and trimmings, and I want to skin you!"

"Oh! Don't take my skin away, daddy dear, and I will bring you hens and

geese."

"Very well, see that you do it," and he let the fox go.

The hare now alone remained, and the old man began sharpening his knife

on the hare's account.

"Why do you do that?" asked Puss. He replied: "Little hares have nice

little, soft, warm skins, which will make me nice gloves and mittens

against the winter!"

"Oh! daddy dear! Don't flay me, and I'll bring you kale and good

cauliflower, if only you let me go!"

Then he let the hare go also.

Then they went to bed; but very early in the morning, when it was

neither dusk nor dawn, there was a noise in the doorway like "Durrrrrr!"

"Daddy!" cried the old woman, "there's some one scratching at the door;

go and see who it is!"

The old man went out, and there was the bear carrying a whole hive full

of honey. The old man took the honey from the bear; but no sooner did he

lie down again than there was another "Durrrrr!" at the door. The old

man looked out and saw the wolf driving a whole flock of sheep into the

court-yard. Close on his heels came the fox, driving before him the

geese and hens, and all manner of fowls; and last of all came the hare,

bringing cabbage and kale, and all manner of good food.

And the old man was glad, and the old woman was glad. And the old man

sold the sheep and oxen, and got so rich that he needed nothing more.

As for the straw-stuffed ox, it stood in the sun till it fell to pieces.

187

"The Adventures of Connla the Comely" is one of

the romances in _The Book of the Dun Cow_, the

oldest manuscript of miscellaneous Gaelic

literature in existence. It was made about 1100

A.D. and is now preserved in the Royal Irish

Academy at Dublin. The contents were

transcribed from older books, some of the

stories being older by many centuries. The

story of Connla is "one of the many tales that

illustrate the ancient and widespread

superstition that fairies sometimes take away

mortals to their palaces in the fairy forts and

pleasant green hills." This conception is often

referred to as the Earthly Paradise or the Isle

of Youth. It is represented in the King Arthur

stories by the Vale of Avalon to which the

weeping queens carried the king after his

mortal wound in "that last weird battle in the

west." Conn the Hundred-fighter reigned in the

second century of the Christian era (123-157

A.D.), and this story of his son must have

sprung up soon after. According to Jacobs, it

is the oldest fairy tale of modern Europe.

The following version of the tale is from

Joseph Jacobs' _Celtic Fairy Tales_, which with

its companion volume, _More Celtic Fairy

Tales_, forms a standard source book for the

usable stories in that field. Mr. Jacobs, as

always, keeps to the authoritative versions

while reducing them to forms at once available

for educational purposes.

CONNLA AND THE FAIRY MAIDEN

Connla of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day

as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a

maiden clad in strange attire towards him coming.

"Whence comest thou, maiden?" said Connla.

"I come from the Plains of the Ever Living," she said, "there where is

neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday alway, nor need we help

from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no strife. And

because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the Hill

Folk."

The king and all with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no

one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden.

"To whom art thou talking, my son?" said Conn the king.

Then the maiden answered, "Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom

neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away

to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for aye, nor

has there been sorrow or complaint in that land since he held the

kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy as the dawn,

with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy comely face

and royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy

youth, till the last awful day of judgment."

The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he could

not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name. "O Coran of the

many spells," he said, "and of the cunning magic, I call upon thy aid. A

task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any

laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen has met us,

and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help

not, he will be taken from thy king by woman's wiles and witchery."

Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot

where the maiden's voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again,

nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished before the Druid's

mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla.

For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to eat

or to drink, save only from that apple.

But as he ate, it grew again and always kept whole. And all the while

there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he

had seen.

But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the

side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again he saw

the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him. "'Tis a

glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among shortlived mortals

awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living

ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they

have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones."

When Conn the king heard the maiden's voice he called to his men aloud

and said: "Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day

the power of speech."

Then the maiden said: "O mighty Conn, Fighter of a Hundred Fights, the

Druid's power is little loved; it has little honor in the mighty land,

peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law comes, it will do away

with the Druid's magic spells that issue from the lips of the false

black demon."

Then Conn the king observed that since the coming of the maiden Connla

his son spoke to none that spake to him. So Conn of the Hundred Fights

said to him, "Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?"

"'Tis hard upon me," said Connla; "I love my own folk above all things;

but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden."

When the maiden heard this, she answered and said: "The ocean is not so

strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh, the

gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon can we reach Boadag's

realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it

before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land

joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens dwell there. If thou

wilt, we can seek it and live there alone together in joy."

When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away

from his kinsmen and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming,

straight-gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw

it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun, away and

away, till eye could see it no longer. So Connla and the Fairy Maiden

went forth on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any know whither

they went.

188

One of the best of the volumes of Irish tales

is Lady Wilde's _Ancient Legends of Ireland_,

and one of the best stories in that volume is

her version of the witch story of "The Horned

Women." The story is compact and restrained in

the telling, and carries effectively to the

listener the "creepy" spell of the witches. The

way in which the house was prepared against the

enchantments of the returning witches furnishes

a good illustration of some of the deep-seated

superstitions of the folk.

THE HORNED WOMEN

A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all

the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the

door, and a voice called, "Open! Open!"

"Who is there?" said the woman of the house.

"I am the Witch of the one Horn," was answered.

The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbors had called and

required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her

hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if

growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card

the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: "Where

are the women; they delay too long."

Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before,

"Open! Open!"

The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and

immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead,

and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.

"Give me place," she said, "I am the Witch of the two Horns"; and she

began to spin as quick as lightning.

And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches

entered, until at last, twelve women sat round the fire--the first with

one horn, the last with twelve horns.

And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound

and wove.

All were singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak

to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon

were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the

mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call

for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry,

for the spell of the witches was upon her.

Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and

make us a cake." Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water

from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she

could find none.

And they said to her, "Take a sieve, and bring water in it." And she

took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and

she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and

wept.

Then came a voice by her, and said, "Take yellow clay and moss and bind

them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold."

This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice

said again: "Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the

house cry aloud three times, and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women

and the sky over it is all on fire.'"

And she did so.

When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke

from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and

shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But

the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and

prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they

returned again.

And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she

had washed her child's feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the

threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her

absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family,

and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each

sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven,

and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and,

lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the

jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she

waited.

Not long were the witches in coming, and they raged and called for

vengeance.

"Open! Open!" they screamed. "Open, feet-water!"

"I cannot," said the feet-water; "I am scattered on the ground, and my

path is down to the Lough."

"Open, open, wood and trees and beam!" they cried to the door.

"I cannot," said the door, "for the beam is fixed in the jambs, and I

have no power to move."

"Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!" they cried

again.

"I cannot," said the cake, "for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is

on the lips of the sleeping children."

Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back

to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who

had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace,

and a mantle dropped by one of the witches was kept hung up by the

mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest; and this mantle was in

possession of the same family from generation to generation for five

hundred years after.

189

The story of "King O'Toole and His Goose" is

from Samuel Lover's _Stories and Legends of the

Irish Peasantry_, as reprinted in slightly

abridged form in William Butler Yeats's _Irish

Fairy Tales_. The extreme form of the dialect

is kept as in the original, since the humor is

largely dependent on the language of the

peasant who tells the story. It will serve as a

good illustration for practice work for the

amateur story-teller. Probably most teachers

would find it necessary to "reduce" this

dialect or to eliminate it altogether. Mr.

Jacobs, who includes this story in his _Celtic

Fairy Tales_, reduces the dialect very

materially, keeping just enough to remind one

that it is Irish. He also says the final word

as to the moral of the story: "This is a moral

apologue on the benefits of keeping your word.

Yet it is told with such humor and vigor, that

the moral glides insensibly into the heart."

KING O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE

"By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o' King

O'Toole--well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well,

sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a king,

called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times,

long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The

king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and loved sport

as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o'

the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther

the deer; and the fine times them wor.

"Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but,

you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was stiff in

his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart failed him, and

he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a

huntin' no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for

to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it's

truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose divarted him was

this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim across the lake, and go

divin' for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew

every other day round about the lake, divartin' the poor king. All went

on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthriken in years like her

master, and couldn't divart him no longer, and then it was that the poor

king was lost complate. The king was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of

the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinkin' o' drownin' himself,

that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint, turnin'

round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young

man comin' up to him.

"'God save you,' says the king to the young man.

"'God save you kindly, King O'Toole,' says the young man. 'Thrue for

you,' says the king. 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and

plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to know

that?' says he. 'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kavin.

"You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in disguise,

and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,' says he, 'I know more than that. May

I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he.

'Bluran-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?' says the king. 'Oh,

no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint Kavin. After some

more talk the king says, 'What are you?' 'I'm an honest man,' says Saint

Kavin. 'Well, honest man,' says the king, 'and how is it you make your

money so aisy?' 'By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint

Kavin. 'Is it a tinker you are?' says the king. 'No,' says the saint;

'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a

tinker,' says he--'what would you say,' says he, 'if I made your ould

goose as good as new?'

"My dear, at the word o' makin' his goose as good as new, you'd think

the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that

the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound,

waddlin' up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two

pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the job

for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.' 'By _Jaminee_!' says King O'Toole,

'if you do, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin

parishes.' 'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor

that--my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould

goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's

the chat,' says Saint Kavin. 'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the

king; 'isn't that fair?' 'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the

way to do business. Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with

you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over,

the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?' 'I will,' says the

king, 'You won't go back o' your word?' says Saint Kavin. 'Honor

bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist. 'Honor bright!' says

Saint Kavin, back agin, 'it's a bargain. Come here!' says he to the poor

ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple, and it's I that'll

make you the sportin' bird.' With that, my dear, he took up the goose by

the two wings--'Criss o' my crass and you,' says he, markin' her to

grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwin' her up in

the air, 'whew,' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with

that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles

themselves and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of

rain.

"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with

his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a

lark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut, patter

her an the head, and, '_Ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the

_darlint_ o' the world.' 'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin,

'for makin' her the like?' 'By gor,' says the king, 'I say nothin' bates

the art o' man, barrin' the bees.' 'And do you say no more nor that?'

says Saint Kavin. 'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. 'But

will you give me all the ground the goose flew over?' says Saint Kavin.

'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though

it's the last acre I have to give.' 'But you'll keep your word thrue?'

says the saint. 'As thrue as the sun,' says the king. 'It's well for

you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't

say that word, _the devil receave the bit o' your goose id ever fly

agin_.'

"Whin the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with

him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. 'And,' says

he, 'King O'Toole, you're a dacent man, for I only kem here to _thry

you_. You don't know me,' says he, 'bekase I'm disguised.' 'Musha!

thin,' says the king, 'who are you?' 'I'm Saint Kavin,' said the Saint,

blessin' himself. 'Oh, queen iv heaven!' says the king makin' the sign

o' the crass betune his eyes, and fallin' down on his knees before the

saint; 'is it the great Saint Kavin,' says he, 'that I've been

discoorsin' all this time without knowin' it,' says he, 'all as one as

if he was a lump iv a _gosson_?--and so you're a saint?' says the king.

'I am,' says Saint Kavin. 'By gor, I thought I was only talking to a

dacent boy,' says the king. 'Well, you know the differ now,' says the

saint. 'I'm Saint Kavin,' says he, 'the greatest of all the saints.'

"And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as

he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property,

as I tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther;

for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my

jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a

thievin' horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut

for the king's supper,--by dad, the eel killed the king's goose--and

small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what

Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on."

SECTION IV

FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Alden, Raymond Macdonald, _Why the Chimes Rang, and Other

Stories_.

Andersen, Hans Christian, _Fairy Tales_.

Barrie, Sir James Matthew, _The Little White Bird_. [Peter Pan.]

Baum, L. Frank, _The Wizard of Oz_.

Benson, A. C., _David Blaize and the Blue Door_.

Beston, H. B., _The Firelight Fairy Book_.

Brown, Abbie Farwell, _The Lonesomest Doll_.

Browne, Frances, _Granny's Wonderful Chair_.

Carryl, Charles E., _Davy and the Goblin_.

"Carroll, Lewis," _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.

"Carroll, Lewis," _Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice

Found There_.

Chamisso, Adelbert von, _The Wonderful History of Peter

Schlemihl_.

"Collodi, C.," _The Adventures of Pinocchio_.

Cox, Palmer, _The Brownies: Their Book_.

Craik, Dinah Mulock, _Adventures of a Brownie_.

Craik, Dinah Mulock, _The Little Lame Prince and His

Traveling-Cloak_.

Crothers, Samuel McChord, _Miss Muffet's Christmas Party_.

Dickens, Charles, _A Christmas Carol_.

Ewald, Carl, _Two-Legs, and Other Stories_.

Grahame, Kenneth, _The Wind in the Willows_.

Harris, Joel Chandler, _Nights with Uncle Remus_.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, "The Snow Image," "Little Daffydowndilly,"

"A Rill from the Town Pump."

Ingelow, Jean, _Mopsa the Fairy_.

Ingelow, Jean, _Stories Told to a Child_. 2 vols.

Jordan, David Starr, _The Book of Knight and Barbara_.

Lagerlof, Selma, _The Wonderful Adventures of Nils_.

La Motte-Fouque, F. de, _Undine_.

Lang, Andrew, _Prince Prigio_.

Kingsley, Charles, _The Water Babies_.

Maeterlinck, Maurice, _The Blue Bird_.

Macdonald, George, _The Princess and the Goblin_.

Macdonald, George, _At the Back of the North Wind_.

Pyle, Katherine, _In the Green Forest_.

Raspe, Rudolph Erich, _Baron Munchausen's Narrative_.

Richards, Laura E., _The Story of Toto_.

Richards, Laura E., _The Pig Brother_.

Ruskin, John, _The King of the Golden River_.

Stockton, Frank R., _Fanciful Tales_.

Swift, Jonathan, _Gulliver's Travels_.

Thackeray, William Makepeace, _The Rose and the Ring_.

Wilde, Oscar, _The Happy Prince, and Other Stories_.

Wilkins, Mary E., _The Pot of Gold_.

SECTION IV: FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES

INTRODUCTORY

The difficulties of classification are very apparent here, and once more

it must be noted that illustrative and practical purposes rather than

logical ones are served by the arrangement adopted. The modern fanciful

story is here placed next to the real folk story instead of after all

the groups of folk products. The Hebrew stories at the beginning belong

quite as well, perhaps even better, in Section V, while the stories at

the end of Section VI shade off into the more modern types of short

tales. Then the fact that other groups of modern stories are to follow

later, illustrating more realistic studies of life and the very recent

and remarkably numerous writings centering around animal life, limits

the list here. Many of the animal stories might, with equal propriety,

be placed under the head of the fantastic.

_The child's natural literature._ The world has lost certain secrets as

the price of an advancing civilization. It is a commonplace of

observation that no one can duplicate the success of Mother Goose,

whether she be thought of as the maker of jingles or the teller of

tales. The conditions of modern life preclude the generally naive

attitude that produced the folk rhymes, ballads, tales, proverbs,

fables, and myths. The folk saw things simply and directly. The complex,

analytic, questioning mind is not yet, either in or out of stories. The

motives from which people act are to them plain and not mixed.

Characters are good or bad. They feel no need of elaborately explaining

their joys and sorrows. Such experiences come with the day's work.

"To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." The zest of life with them

is emphatic. Their humor is fresh, unbounded, sincere; there is no trace

of cynicism. In folk literature we do not feel the presence of a

"writer" who is mightily concerned about maintaining his reputation for

wisdom, originality, or style. Hence the freedom from any note of

straining after effect, of artificiality. In the midst of a life limited

to fundamental needs, their literature deals with fundamentals. On the

whole, it was a literature for entertainment. A more learned upper class

may have concerned itself then about "problems" and "purposes," as the

whole world does now, but the literature of the folk had no such

interests.

Without discussing the limits of the culture-epoch theory of human

development as a complete guide in education, it is clear that the young

child passes through a period when his mind looks out upon the world in

a manner analogous to that of the folk as expressed in their literature.

Quarrel with the fact as we may, it still remains a fact that his nature

craves these old stories and will not be satisfied with something "just

as good."

_The modern fairy story._ The advance of civilization has been

accompanied by a wistful longing for the simplicities left by the way.

In some periods this interest in the past has been more marked than in

others. When the machinery of life has weighed too heavily on the human

spirit, men have turned for relief to a contemplation of the "good old

times" and have preached crusades of a "return to nature." Many modern

writers have tried to recapture some of the power of the folk tale by

imitating its method. In many cases they have had a fair degree of

success: in one case, that of Hans Christian Andersen, the success is

admittedly very complete. As a rule, however, the sharpness of the sense

of wonder has been blunted, and many imitators of the old fairy tale

succeed in keeping only the shell. Another class of modern fantastic

tale is that of the _pourquoi_ story, which has the explanation of

something as its object. Such tales grow out of the attempt to use the

charm of old stories as a means of conveying instruction, somewhat after

the method of those parents who covered up our bitter medicine with some

of our favorite jam. Even "Little Red Riding Hood," as we saw, has been

turned into a flower myth. So compelling is this pedagogical motive that

so-called nature myths have been invented or made from existing stories

in great numbers. The practical results please many teachers, but it may

be questioned whether the gain is sufficient to compensate children for

the distorting results upon masterpieces.

_Wide range of the modern fairy tale._ The bibliography will suggest

something of the treasures in the field of the modern fanciful story.

From the delightful nonsense of _Alice in Wonderland_ and the

"travelers' tales" of _Baron Munchausen_ to the profound seriousness of

_The King of the Golden River_ and _Why the Chimes Rang_ is a far cry.

There are the rich fancies of Barrie and Maeterlinck, at the same time

delicate as the promises of spring and brilliant as the fruitions of

summer. One may be blown away to the land of Oz, he may lose his shadow

with Peter Schlemihl, he may outdo the magic carpet with his

Traveling-Cloak, he may visit the courts of kings with his Wonderful

Chair; Miss Muffet will invite us to her Christmas party, Lemuel

Gulliver will lead us to lands not marked in the school atlas; on every

side is a world of wonder.

_Some qualities of these modern tales._ Every age produces after its own

fashion, and we must expect to find the modern user of the fairy-story

method expressing through it the qualities of his own outlook upon the

world. Interest in the picturesque aspects of landscape will be

emphasized, as in the early portions of "The Story of Fairyfoot" and,

with especial magnificence of style, throughout _The King of the Golden

River_. There will appear the saddened mood of the modern in the face of

the human miseries that make happiness a mockery, as in "The Happy

Prince." The destructive effects of the possessive instinct upon all

that is finest in human nature is reflected in "The Prince's Dream."

That the most valuable efforts are often those performed with least

spectacular settings may be discerned in "The Knights of the Silver

Shield," while the lesson of kindly helpfulness is the burden of "Old

Pipes and the Dryad." In many modern stories the reader is too much

aware of the conscious efforts of style and structure. The thoughtful

child will sometimes be too much distressed by the more somber modern

story, and should not hear too many of the gloomy type.

_Andersen the consummate master._ Hans Christian Andersen is the

acknowledged master of the modern story for children. What are the

sources of his success? Genius is always unexplainable except in terms

of itself, but some things are clear. To begin, he makes a mark--drives

down a peg: "There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one,

two! one, two!_" and you are off. No backing and filling, no jockeying

for position, no elaborate setting of the stage. The story's the thing!

Next, the language is the language of common oral speech, free and

unrestrained. The rigid forms of the grammar are eschewed. There is no

beating around the bush. Seeing through the eyes of the child, he uses

the language that is natural to such sight: "Aha! there sat the dog with

eyes as big as mill-wheels." In quick dramatic fashion the story unrolls

before your vision: "So the soldier cut the witch's head off. There she

lay!" No agonizing over the cruelty of it, the lack of sympathy. It is a

joke after the child's own heart, and with a hearty laugh at this end to

an impostor, the listener is on with the story. The logic is the logic

of childhood: "And everyone could see she was a real princess, for she

was so lovely." When Andersen deals with some of the deeper truths of

existence, as in "The Nightingale" or "The Ugly Duckling," he still

manages to throw it all into the form that is natural and convincing and

simple to the child. He never mounts a pedestal and becomes a grown-up

philosopher. Perhaps Andersen's secret lay in the fact that some fairy

godmother invested him at birth with a power to see things so completely

as a child sees them that he never questioned the dignity of the method.

In few of his stories is there any evidence of a constraint due to a

conscious attempt to write down to the understandings of children.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

The most valuable discussion of the

difficulties to be mastered in writing the

literary fairy tale, and the story of the only

very complete mastery yet made, will be found

in the account of Hans Christian Andersen in

_Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century_, by

Georg Brandes. Now and then hints of importance

on such stories and their value for children

may be found in biographies of the more

prominent writers represented in the section

and mentioned in the bibliography, and in

magazine articles and reviews. These latter may

be located by use of the periodical indexes

found in most libraries. For the proper

attitude which the schools should have toward

fiction and fanciful writing in general,

nothing could be better than two lectures on

"Children's Reading," in _On the Art of

Reading_, by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch.

190

The rabbis of old were good story-tellers. They

were essentially teachers and they understood

that the best sermon is a story. "They were

fond of the parable, the anecdote, the apt

illustration, and their legends that have been

transmitted to us, all aglow with the light and

life of the Orient, possess perennial charm."

It is possible to find in rabbinical sources a

large number of brief stories that have the

power of entertaining as well as of emphasizing

some qualities of character that are important

in all ages. The plan of this book does not

include the wonderful stories of the Old

Testament, which are easy of access to any

teacher and may be used as experience directs.

The Hebrew stories following correspond very

nearly to the folk anecdote and are placed in

this section because of their literary form.

Dr. Abram S. Isaacs (1851--) is a professor in

New York University and is also a rabbi. The

selection that follows is from his _Stories

from the Rabbis_. (Copyrighted. Used by special

permission of The Bloch Publishing Company, New

York.) Taking advantage of the popular

superstition that a four-leaved clover is a

sign of good luck, Dr. Isaacs has grouped

together four parable-like stories, each of

which deals with wealth as a subject. The

editors are responsible for the special titles

given. The messages of these stories might be

summarized as follows: If you would be lucky,

(1) be honest because it is right to be honest,

(2) value good friends more highly than gold,

(3) let love accompany each gift of charity,

and (4) use common sense in your business

ventures.

A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER

ABRAM S. ISAACS

1. THE RABBI AND THE DIADEM

Great was the alarm in the palace of Rome, which soon spread throughout

the entire city. The Empress had lost her costly diadem, and it could

not be found. They searched in every direction, but it was all in vain.

Half distracted, for the mishap boded no good to her or her house, the

Empress redoubled her exertions to regain her precious possession, but

without result. As a last resource it was proclaimed in the public

streets:

"The Empress has lost a priceless diadem. Whoever restores it within

thirty days shall receive a princely reward. But he who delays, and

brings it after thirty days, shall lose his head."

In those times all nationalities flocked toward Rome; all classes and

creeds could be met in its stately halls and crowded thoroughfares.

Among the rest was a rabbi, a learned sage from the East, who loved

goodness and lived a righteous life, in the stir and turmoil of the

Western world. It chanced one night as he was strolling up and down, in

busy meditation, beneath the clear, moonlit sky, he saw the diadem

sparkling at his feet. He seized it quickly, brought it to his dwelling,

where he guarded it carefully until the thirty days had expired, when he

resolved to return it to the owner.

He proceeded to the palace, and, undismayed at sight of long lines of

soldiery and officials, asked for an audience with the Empress.

"What dost thou mean by this?" she inquired, when he told her his story

and gave her the diadem. "Why didst thou delay until this hour? Dost

thou know the penalty? Thy head must be forfeited."

"I delayed until now," the rabbi answered calmly, "so that thou mightst

know that I return thy diadem, not for the sake of the reward, still

less out of fear of punishment; but solely to comply with the Divine

command not to withhold from another the property which belongs to him."

"Blessed be thy God!" the Empress answered, and dismissed the rabbi

without further reproof; for had he not done right for right's sake?

2. FRIENDSHIP

A certain father was doubly blessed--he had reached a good old age, and

had ten sons. One day he called them to his side, and after repeated

expressions of affection, told them that he had acquired a fortune by

industry and economy, and would give them one hundred gold pieces each

before his death, so that they might begin business for themselves, and

not be obliged to wait until he had passed away. It happened, however,

that, soon after, he lost a portion of his property, much to his regret,

and had only nine hundred and fifty gold pieces left. So he gave one

hundred to each of his nine sons. When his youngest son, whom he loved

most of all, asked naturally what was to be his share, the father

replied:

"My son, I promised to give each of thy brothers one hundred gold

pieces. I shall keep my word to them. I have fifty left. Thirty I shall

reserve for my funeral expenses, and twenty will be thy portion. But

understand this--I possess, in addition, ten friends, whom I give over

to thee as compensation for the loss of the eighty gold pieces. Believe

me, they are worth more than all the gold and silver."

The youth tenderly embraced his parent, and assured him that he was

content, such was his confidence and affection. In a few days the father

died, and the nine sons took their money, and without a thought of their

youngest brother and the small amount he had received, followed each his

own fancy. But the youngest son, although his portion was the least,

resolved to heed his father's words, and hold fast to the ten friends.

When a short time had elapsed he prepared a simple feast, went to the

ten friends of his father, and said to them: "My father, almost in his

last words, asked me to keep you, his friends, in honor. Before I leave

this place to seek my fortune elsewhere, will you not share with me a

farewell meal, and aid me thus to comply with his dying request?"

The ten friends, stirred by his earnestness and cordiality, accepted his

invitation with pleasure, and enjoyed the repast, although they were

used to richer fare. When the moment for parting arrived, however, one

of them rose and spoke: "My friends, it seems to me that of all the sons

of our dear friend that has gone, the youngest alone is mindful of his

father's friendship for us, and reverences his memory. Let us, then, be

true friends to him, for his own sake as well, and provide for him a

generous sum, that he may begin business here, and not be forced to live

among strangers."

The proposal, so unexpected and yet so merited, was received with

applause. The youth, proud of their friendship, soon became a prosperous

merchant, who never forgot that faithful friends were more valuable than

gold or silver, and left an honored name to his descendants.

3. TRUE CHARITY

There lived once a very wealthy man, who cared little for money, except

as a means for helping others. He used to adopt a peculiar plan in his

method of charitable relief. He had three boxes made for the three

different classes of people whom he desired to assist. In one box he put

gold pieces, which he distributed among artists and scholars, for he

honored knowledge and learning as the highest possession. In the second

box he placed silver pieces for widows and orphans, for whom his

sympathies were readily awakened. In the third were copper coins for the

general poor and beggars--no one was turned away from his dwelling

without some gift, however small.

That the man was beloved by all, need hardly be said. He rejoiced that

he was enabled to do so much good, retained his modest bearing, and

continued to regard his wealth as only an incentive to promote the

happiness of mankind, without distinction of creed or nationality.

Unhappily, his wife was just the opposite. She rarely gave food or

raiment to the poor, and felt angry at her husband's liberality, which

she considered shameless extravagance.

The day came when in the pressure of various duties he had to leave his

house, and could not return until the morrow. Unaware of his sudden

departure, the poor knocked at the door as usual for his kind gifts; but

when they found him absent, they were about to go away or remain in the

street, being terrified at the thought of asking his wife for alms.

Vexed at their conduct, she exclaimed impetuously: "I will give to the

poor according to my husband's method."

She seized the keys of the boxes, and first opened the box of gold. But

how great was her terror when she gazed at its contents--frogs jumping

here and there. Then she went to the silver box, and it was full of

ants. With troubled heart, she opened the copper box, and it was crowded

with creeping bugs. Loud then were her complaints, and bitter her tears,

at the deception, and she kept her room until her husband returned.

No sooner did the man enter the room, annoyed that so many poor people

were kept waiting outside, than she asked him: "Why did you give me keys

to boxes of frogs, ants, and bugs, instead of gold, silver, and copper?

Was it right thus to deceive your wife, and disappoint the poor?"

"Not so," rejoined her husband. "The mistake must be yours, not mine. I

have given you the right keys. I do not know what you have done with

them. Come, let me have them. I am guiltless of any deception." He took

the keys, quickly opened the boxes, and found the coins as he had left

them. "Ah, dear wife," said he, when she had regained her composure,

"your heart, I fear, was not in the gift, when you wished to give to the

poor. It is the feeling that prompts us to aid, not the mere money,

which is the chief thing after all."

And ever after, her heart was changed. Her gifts blessed the poor of the

land, and aroused their love and reverence.

4. AN EASTERN GARDEN

In an Eastern city a lovely garden flourished, whose beauty and

luxuriance awakened much admiration. It was the owner's greatest

pleasure to watch its growth, as leaf, flower, and tree seemed daily to

unfold to brighter bloom. One morning, while taking his usual stroll

through the well-kept paths, he was surprised to find that some

blossoms were picked to pieces. The next day he noticed more signs of

mischief, and rendered thus more observant he gave himself no rest until

he had discovered the culprit. It was a little trembling bird, whom he

managed to capture, and was about to kill in his anger, when it

exclaimed: "Do not kill me, I beg you, kind sir. I am only a wee, tiny

bird. My flesh is too little to satisfy you. I would not furnish

one-hundredth of a meal to a man of your size. Let me free without any

hesitation, and I shall teach you something that will be of much use to

you and your friends."

"I would dearly like to put an end to you," replied the man, "for you

were rapidly putting an end to my garden. It is a good thing to rid the

world of such annoyances. But as I am not revengeful, and am always glad

to learn something useful, I shall set you free this time." And he

opened his hand to give the bird more air.

"Attention!" cried the bird. "Here are three rules which should guide

you through life, and if you observe them you will find your path made

easier: Do not cry over spilt milk; do not desire what is unattainable,

and do not believe what is impossible."

The man was satisfied with the advice, and let the bird escape; but it

had scarcely regained its liberty, when, from a high tree opposite, it

exclaimed:

"What a silly man! The idea of letting me escape! If you only knew what

you have lost! But it is too late now."

"What have I lost?" the man asked, angrily.

"Why, if you had killed me, as you intended, you would have found inside

of me a huge pearl, as large as a goose's egg, and you would have been a

wealthy man forever."

"Dear little bird," the man said in his blandest tones; "sweet little

bird, I will not harm you. Only come down to me, and I will treat you as

if you were my own child, and give you fruit and flowers all day. I

assure you of this most sacredly."

But the bird shook its head sagely, and replied: "What a silly man, to

forget so soon the advice which was given him in all seriousness. I told

you not to cry over spilt milk, and here you are, worrying over what has

happened. I urged you not to desire the unattainable, and now you wish

to capture me again. And, finally, I asked you not to believe what is

impossible, and you are rashly imagining that I have a huge pearl inside

of me, when a goose's egg is larger than my whole body. You ought to

learn your lessons better in the future, if you would become wise,"

added the bird, as with another twist of its head it flew away, and was

lost in the distance.

191

A classic collection of short stories from the

ancient Hebrew sages is the little book,

_Hebrew Tales_, published in London in 1826 by

the noted Jewish scholar Hyman Hurwitz

(1770-1844). A modern handy edition of this

book (about sixty tales) is published as Vol.

II of the Library of Jewish Classics. Of

special interest is the fact that it contained

three stories by the poet Samuel Taylor

Coleridge, who had published them first in his

periodical, _The Friend_. Coleridge was much

interested in Hebrew literature, and especially

fond of speaking in parables, as those who know

"The Ancient Mariner" will readily recall. The

following is one of the three stories referred

to, and it had prefixed to it the significant

text, "The Lord helpeth man and beast." (Psalm

XXXVI, 6.)

THE LORD HELPETH MAN AND BEAST

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

During his march to conquer the world, Alexander, the Macedonian, came

to a people in Africa who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in

peaceful huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. They led him to the

hut of their chief, who received him hospitably, and placed before him

golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold.

"Do you eat gold in this country?" said Alexander.

"I take it for granted," replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find

eatable food in thine own country. For what reason, then, art thou come

amongst us?"

"Your gold has not tempted me hither," said Alexander, "but I would

become acquainted with your manners and customs."

"So be it," rejoined the other: "sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth

thee."

At the close of this conversation, two citizens entered, as into their

court of justice. The plaintiff said, "I bought of this man a piece of

land, and as I was making a deep drain through it, I found a treasure.

This is not mine, for I only bargained for the land, and not for any

treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and yet the former owner of

the land will not receive it." The defendant answered, "I hope I have a

conscience, as well as my fellow citizen. I sold him the land with all

its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and consequently, the

treasure inclusively."

The chief, who was at the same time their supreme judge, recapitulated

their words, in order that the parties might see whether or not he

understood them aright. Then, after some reflection, said: "Thou hast a

son, friend, I believe?"

"Yes."

"And thou," addressing the other, "a daughter?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, let thy son marry _thy_ daughter, and bestow the treasure

on the young couple for a marriage portion." Alexander seemed surprised

and perplexed. "Think you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him.

"Oh, no!" replied Alexander; "but it astonishes me."

"And how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the case have been decided

in your country?"

"To confess the truth," said Alexander, "we should have taken both

parties into custody, and have seized the treasure for the king's use."

"For the king's use!" exclaimed the chief; "does the sun shine on that

country?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Does it rain there?"

"Assuredly."

"Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country, that live on the

grass and green herbs?"

"Very many, and of many kinds."

"Ay, that must, then, be the cause," said the chief: "for the sake of

those innocent animals the All-gracious Being continues to let the sun

shine, and the rain drop down on your country; since its inhabitants are

unworthy of such blessings."

192

By almost common consent Hans Christian

Andersen (1805-1875), the Danish author, is the

acknowledged master of all modern writers of

fairy tales. He was born in poverty, the son of

a poor shoemaker. With a naturally keen

dramatic sense, his imagination was stirred by

stories from the _Arabian Nights_ and La

Fontaine's _Fables_, by French and Spanish

soldiers marching through his native city, and

by listening to the wonderful folk tales of his

country. On a toy stage and with toy actors,

these vivid impressions took actual form. The

world continued a dramatic spectacle to him

throughout his existence. His consuming

ambition was for the stage, but he had none of

the personal graces so necessary for success.

He was ungainly and awkward, like his "ugly

duckling." But when at last he began to write,

he had the power to transfer to the page the

vivid dramas in his mind, and this power

culminated in the creation of fairy stories for

children which he began to publish in 1835. It

is usual to say that Andersen, like Peter Pan,

"never grew up," and it is certain that he

never lost the power of seeing things as

children see them. Like many great writers

whose fame now rests on the suffrages of child

readers, Andersen seems at first to have felt

that the _Tales_ were slight and beneath his

dignity. They are not all of the same high

quality. Occasionally one of them becomes "too

sentimental and sickly sweet," but the best of

them have a sturdiness that is thoroughly

refreshing.

The most acute analysis of the elements of

Andersen's greatness as the ideal writer for

children is that made by his fellow-countryman

Georg Brandes in _Eminent Authors of the

Nineteenth Century_. A briefer account on

similar lines will be found in H. J. Boyesen's

_Scandinavian Literature_. A still briefer

account, eminently satisfactory for an

introduction to Andersen, by Benjamin W. Wells,

is in Warner's _Library of the World's Best

Literature_. The interested student cannot, of

course, afford to neglect Andersen's own _The

Story of My Life_. Among the more elaborate

biographies the _Life of Hans Christian

Andersen_ by R. Nisbet Bain is probably the

best. The first translation of the _Tales_ into

English was made by Mary Howitt in 1846 and, as

far as it goes, is still regarded as one of the

finest. However, Andersen has been very

fortunate in his many translators. The version

by H. W. Dulcken has been published in many

cheap forms and perhaps more widely read than

any other. In addition to the stories in the

following pages, some of those most suitable

for use are "The Little Match Girl," "The

Silver Shilling," "Five Peas in the Pod," "Hans

Clodhopper," and "The Snow Queen." The latter

is one of the longest and an undoubted

masterpiece.

The first two stories following are taken from

Mrs. Henderson's _Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_.

(Copyright. Rand McNally & Co.) This little

book contains thirteen stories in a very simple

translation and also an excellent story of

Andersen's life in a form most attractive to

children. "The Princess and the Pea" is a story

for the story's sake. The humor, perhaps

slightly satirical, is based upon the notion so

common in the old folk tales that royal

personages are decidedly more delicate than the

person of low degree. However, the tendency to

think oneself of more consequence than another

is not confined to any one class.

THE REAL PRINCESS

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

There was once a Prince who wanted to marry a Princess. But it was only

a _real_ Princess that he wanted to marry.

He traveled all over the world to find a real one. But, although there

were plenty of princesses, whether they were _real_ princesses he could

never discover. There was always something that did not seem quite right

about them.

At last he had to come home again. But he was very sad, because he

wanted to marry a _real_ Princess.

One night there was a terrible storm. It thundered and lightened and the

rain poured down in torrents. In the middle of the storm there came a

knocking, knocking, knocking at the castle gate. The kind old King

himself went down to open the castle gate.

It was a young Princess that stood outside the gate. The wind and the

rain had almost blown her to pieces. Water streamed out of her hair and

out of her clothes. Water ran in at the points of her shoes and out

again at the heels. Yet she said that she was a _real_ Princess.

"Well, we will soon find out about that!" thought the Queen.

She said nothing, but went into the bedroom, took off all the bedding,

and put a small dried pea on the bottom of the bedstead. Then she piled

twenty mattresses on top of the pea, and on top of these she put twenty

feather beds. This was where the Princess had to sleep that night.

In the morning they asked her how she had slept through the night.

"Oh, miserably!" said the Princess. "I hardly closed my eyes the whole

night long! Goodness only knows what was in my bed! I slept upon

something so hard that I am black and blue all over. It was dreadful!"

So then they knew that she was a _real_ Princess. For, through the

twenty mattresses and the twenty feather beds, she had still felt the

pea. No one but a _real_ Princess could have had such a tender skin.

So the Prince took her for his wife. He knew now that he had a _real_

Princess.

As for the pea, it was put in a museum where it may still be seen if no

one has carried it away.

Now this is a true story!

193

With some dozen exceptions, all of Andersen's

_Tales_ are based upon older stories, either

upon some old folk tale or upon something that

he ran across in his reading. Dr. Brandes, in

his _Eminent Authors_, shows in detail how "The

Emperor's New Clothes" came into being. "One

day in turning over the leaves of Don Manuel's

_Count Lucanor_, Andersen became charmed by the

homely wisdom of the old Spanish story, with

the delicate flavor of the Middle Ages

pervading it, and he lingered over chapter vii,

which treats of how a king was served by three

rogues." But Andersen's story is a very

different one in many ways from his Spanish

original. For one thing, the meaning is so

universal that no one can miss it. Most of us

have, in all likelihood, at some time pretended

to know what we do not know or to be what we

are not in order to save our face, to avoid the

censure or ridicule of others. "There is much

concerning which people dare not speak the

truth, through cowardice, through fear of

acting otherwise than 'all the world,' through

anxiety lest they should appear stupid. And the

story is eternally new and it never ends. It

has its grave side, but just because of its

endlessness it has also its humorous side."

When the absurd bubble of the grand procession

is punctured by the child, whose mental honesty

has not yet been spoiled by the pressure of

convention, the Emperor "held himself stiffer

than ever, and the chamberlains carried the

invisible train." For it would never do to hold

up the procession!

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

Many years ago there lived an Emperor who thought so much of new clothes

that he spent all his money on them. He did not care for his soldiers;

he did not care to go to the theater. He liked to drive out in the park

only that he might show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every

hour of the day. They usually say of a king, "He is in the council

chamber." But of the Emperor they said, "He is in the clothes closet!"

It was a gay city in which the Emperor lived. And many strangers came to

visit it every day. Among these, one day, there came two rogues who set

themselves up as weavers. They said they knew how to weave the most

beautiful cloths imaginable. And not only were the colors and patterns

used remarkably beautiful, but clothes made from this cloth could not be

seen by any one who was unfit for the office he held or was too stupid

for any use.

"Those would be fine clothes!" thought the Emperor. "If I wore those I

could find out what men in my empire were not fit for the places they

held. I could tell the clever men from the dunces! I must have some

clothes woven for me at once!"

So he gave the two rogues a great deal of money that they might begin

their work at once.

The rogues immediately put up two looms and pretended to be working. But

there was nothing at all on their looms. They called for the finest

silks and the brightest gold, but this they put into their pockets. At

the empty looms they worked steadily until late into the night.

"I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my clothes,"

thought the Emperor.

But he felt a little uneasy when he thought that any one who was stupid

or was not fit for his office would be unable to see the cloth. Of

course he had no fears for himself; but still he thought he would send

some one else first, just to see how matters stood.

"I will send my faithful old Minister to the weavers," thought the

Emperor. "He can see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man, and no

one is so careful in fulfilling duties as he is!"

So the good old Minister went into the room where the two rogues sat

working at the empty looms.

"Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister, opening his eyes wide, "I can't

see a thing!" But he didn't care to say so.

Both the rascals begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer.

They pointed to the empty looms and asked him if he did not think the

pattern and the coloring wonderful. The poor old Minister stared and

stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for, of

course, there was nothing to see!

"Mercy!" he said to himself. "Is it possible that I am a dunce? I never

thought so! Certainly no one must know it. Am I unfit for office? It

will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff!"

"Well, sir, why do you say nothing of it?" asked the rogue who was

pretending to weave.

"Oh, it is beautiful--charming!" said the old Minister, peering through

his spectacles. "What a fine pattern, and what wonderful colors! I shall

tell the Emperor that I am very much pleased with it."

"Well, we are glad to hear you say so," answered the two swindlers.

Then they named all the colors of the invisible cloth upon the looms,

and described the peculiar pattern. The old Minister listened intently,

so that he could repeat all that was said of it to the Emperor.

The rogues now began to demand more money, more silk, and more gold

thread in order to proceed with the weaving. All of this, of course,

went into their pockets. Not a single strand was ever put on the empty

looms at which they went on working.

The Emperor soon sent another faithful friend to see how soon the new

clothes would be ready. But he fared no better than the Minister. He

looked and looked and looked, but still saw nothing but the empty looms.

"Isn't that a pretty piece of stuff?" asked both rogues, showing and

explaining the handsome pattern which was not there at all.

"I am not stupid!" thought the man. "It must be that I am not worthy of

my good position. That is, indeed, strange. But I must not let it be

known!"

So he praised the cloth he did not see, and expressed his approval of

the color and the design that were not there. To the Emperor he said,

"It is charming!"

Soon everybody in town was talking about the wonderful cloth that the

two rogues were weaving.

The Emperor began to think now that he himself would like to see the

wonderful cloth while it was still on the looms. Accompanied by a number

of his friends, among whom were the two faithful officers who had

already beheld the imaginary stuff, he went to visit the two men who

were weaving, might and main, without any fiber and without any thread.

"Isn't it splendid!" cried the two statesmen who had already been there,

and who thought the others would see something upon the empty looms.

"Look, your Majesty! What colors! And what a design!"

"What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I see nothing at all! Am I a dunce?

Am I not fit to be Emperor? That would be the worst thing that could

happen to me, if it were true."

"Oh, it is very pretty!" said the Emperor aloud. "It has my highest

approval!"

He nodded his head happily, and stared at the empty looms. Never would

he say that he could see nothing!

His friends, too, gazed and gazed, but saw no more than had the others.

Yet they all cried out, "It is beautiful!" and advised the Emperor to

wear a suit made of this cloth in a great procession that was soon to

take place.

"It is magnificent, gorgeous!" was the cry that went from mouth to

mouth. The Emperor gave each of the rogues a royal ribbon to wear in his

buttonhole, and called them the Imperial Court Weavers.

The rogues were up the whole night before the morning of the procession.

They kept more than sixteen candles burning. The people could see them

hard at work, completing the new clothes of the Emperor. They took yards

of stuff down from the empty looms; they made cuts in the air with big

scissors; they sewed with needles without thread; and, at last, they

said, "The clothes are ready!"

The Emperor himself, with his grandest courtiers, went to put on his new

suit.

"See!" said the rogues, lifting their arms as if holding something.

"Here are the trousers! Here is the coat! Here is the cape!" and so on.

"It is as light as a spider's web. One might think one had nothing on.

But that is just the beauty of it!"

"Very nice," said the courtiers. But they could see nothing; for there

_was_ nothing!

"Will your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off your

clothes," asked the rogues, "so that we may put on the new ones before

this long mirror?"

The Emperor took off all his own clothes, and the two rogues pretended

to put on each new garment as it was ready. They wrapped him about, and

they tied and they buttoned. The Emperor turned round and round before

the mirror.

"How well his Majesty looks in his new clothes!" said the people. "How

becoming they are! What a pattern! What colors! It is a beautiful

dress!"

"They are waiting outside with the canopy which is to be carried over

your Majesty in the procession," said the master of ceremonies.

"I am ready," said the Emperor. "Don't the clothes fit well?" he asked,

giving a last glance into the mirror as though he were looking at all

his new finery.

The men who were to carry the train of the Emperor's cloak stooped down

to the floor as if picking up the train, and then held it high in the

air. They did not dare let it be known that they could see nothing.

So the Emperor marched along under the bright canopy. Everybody in the

streets and at the windows cried out: "How beautiful the Emperor's new

clothes are! What a fine train! And they fit to perfection!"

No one would let it be known that he could see nothing, for that would

have proved that he was unfit for office or that he was very, very

stupid. None of the Emperor's clothes had ever been as successful as

these.

"But he has nothing on!" said a little child.

"Just listen to the innocent!" said its father.

But one person whispered to another what the child had said. "He has

nothing on! A child says he has nothing on!"

"But he has nothing on!" at last cried all the people.

The Emperor writhed, for he knew that this was true. But he realized

that it would never do to stop the procession. So he held himself

stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains carried the invisible train.

194

In his story "The Nightingale," Andersen

suggests that the so-called upper class of

society may become so conventionalized as to be

unable to appreciate true beauty. Poor

fishermen and the little kitchen girl in the

story recognize the beauty of the exquisite

song of the nightingale, and Andersen shows his

regard for royalty by having the emperor

appreciate it twice. The last part of the story

is especially impressive. When Death approached

the emperor and took from him the symbols that

had made him rank above his fellows, the

emperor saw the realities of life and again

perceived the beauty of the nightingale's song.

This contact with real life made Death shrink

away. Then the emperor learned Andersen's

message to artificial society: If you would

behold true beauty, you must have it in your

own heart.

THE NIGHTINGALE

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has

about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but

that's just why it's worth while to hear the story before it is

forgotten. The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world; it

was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and brittle

that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be

seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the costliest of them silver

bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody should pass by without

noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was

admirably arranged. And it extended so far that the gardener himself did

not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a

glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended

straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could

sail, too, beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a

Nightingale, which sang so splendidly that even the poor fisherman, who

had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had

gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale.

"How beautiful that is!" he said; but he was obliged to attend to his

property, and thus forgot the bird. But when the next night the bird

sang again, and the fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, "How

beautiful that is!"

From all the countries of the world travelers came to the city of the

Emperor, and admired it, and the palace and the garden, but when they

heard the Nightingale, they said, "That is the best of all!"

And the travelers told of it when they came home; and the learned men

wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they

did not forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and

those who were poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale

in the wood by the deep lake.

The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the

Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he

nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions

of the city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is the

best of all," it stood written there.

"What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "I don't know the Nightingale at

all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I've

never heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing

for the first time from books!"

And hereupon he called his cavalier. This cavalier was so grand that if

anyone lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him

any question, he answered nothing but "P!"--and that meant nothing.

"There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale," said

the Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why

have I never heard anything about it?"

"I have never heard him named," replied the cavalier. "He has never been

introduced at Court."

"I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me," said

the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it

myself!"

"I have never heard him mentioned," said the cavalier. "I will seek for

him. I will find him."

But where was he to be found? The cavalier ran up and down all the

staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom

he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the cavalier ran back to

the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of

books.

"Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is

fiction, besides something that they call the black art."

"But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me

by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan and therefore it cannot be a

falsehood. I _will_ hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening!

It has my imperial favor; and if it does not come, all the Court shall

be trampled upon after the Court has supped!"

"Tsing-pe!" said the cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the

staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the Court

ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon.

Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which

all the world knew excepting the people at Court.

At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said:

"The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every

evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the

table. She lives down by the strand; and when I get back and am tired,

and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the

water comes into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me."

"Little kitchen girl," said the cavalier, "I will get you a place in the

Court kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will but

lead us to the Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening."

So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed

to sing; half the Court went forth. When they were in the midst of their

journey a cow began to low.

"Oh!" cried the Court pages, "now we have it! That shows a wonderful

power in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before."

"No, those are cows lowing," said the little kitchen girl. "We are a

long way from the place yet."

Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.

"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court preacher. "Now I hear it--it sounds

just like little church bells."

"No, those are frogs," said the little kitchen maid. "But now I think we

shall soon hear it."

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

"That is it!" exclaimed the little girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it

sits."

And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.

"Is it possible?" cried the cavalier. "I should never have thought it

looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its

color at seeing such grand people around."

"Little Nightingale!" called the little kitchen maid, quite loudly, "our

gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him."

"With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and began to sing

most delightfully.

"It sounds just like glass bells!" said the cavalier. "And look at its

little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never

have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at Court."

"Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" inquired the Nightingale,

for it thought the Emperor was present.

"My excellent little Nightingale," said the cavalier, "I have great

pleasure in inviting you to a Court festival this evening, when you

shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing."

"My song sounds best in the green wood," replied the Nightingale; still

it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.

The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were

of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most

glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the

passages. There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and

all the bells rang so loudly that one could not hear one's self speak.

In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch

had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole Court

was there, and the little cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the

door, as she had now received the title of a real Court cook. All were

in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the

Emperor nodded.

And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the

Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; then the

Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart.

The Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have

his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined

this with thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward.

"I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes--that is the real treasure to

me. An Emperor's tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!" And

then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.

"That's the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!" said the ladies who stood

round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when

anyone spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And

the lackeys and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied also; and

that was saying a good deal, for they are the most difficult to please.

In short, the Nightingale achieved a real success.

It was now to remain at Court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go

out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed

when the Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened

to the bird's legs, which they held very tight. There was really no

pleasure in an excursion of that kind.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and whenever two people met,

one said nothing but "Nightin," and the other said "gale"; and then they

both sighed, and understood one another. Eleven pedlars' children were

named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note.

One day the Emperor received a large parcel, on which was written, "The

Nightingale."

"There we have a new book about this celebrated bird," said the

Emperor.

But it was not a book, but a little work of art, contained in a box--an

artificial nightingale, which was to sing like a natural one, and was

brilliantly ornamented with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. So soon as

the artificial bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that

he really sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with

silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was

written, "The Emperor of China's nightingale is poor compared to that of

the Emperor of Japan."

"That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the artificial

bird immediately received the title, Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.

"Now they must sing together; what a duet that will be!" cried the

courtiers.

And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for

the real Nightingale sang its own way, and the artificial bird sang

waltzes.

"That's not his fault," said the playmaster; "he's quite perfect, and

very much in my style."

Now the artificial bird was to sing alone. It had just as much success

as the real one, and then it was much handsomer to look at--it shone

like bracelets and breastpins.

Three and thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not

tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said

that the living Nightingale ought to sing something now. But where was

it? No one had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window,

back to the green wood.

"But what has become of that?" asked the Emperor.

And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale, and declared that it was a

very ungrateful creature.

"We have the best bird after all," said they.

And so the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the

thirty-fourth time that they listened to the same piece. For all that

they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And

the playmaster praised the bird particularly; yes, he declared that it

was better than a nightingale, not only with regard to its plumage and

the many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.

"For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial

Majesty, with a real nightingale one can never calculate what is coming,

but in this artificial bird, everything is settled. One can explain it;

one can open it and make people understand where the waltzes come from,

how they go, and how one follows up another."

"Those are quite our own ideas," they all said.

And the speaker received permission to show the bird to the people on

the next Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, the Emperor

commanded: and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had

all got tipsy upon tea, for that's quite the Chinese fashion, and they

all said, "Oh!" and held up their forefingers and nodded. But the poor

fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said:

"It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies resemble each other, but

there's something wanting, though I know not what!"

The real Nightingale was banished from the country and empire. The

artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the

Emperor's bed; all the presents it had received, gold and precious

stones, were ranged about it; in title it had advanced to be the High

Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank to Number One on the left

hand; for the Emperor considered that side the most important on which

the heart is placed, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left

side; and the playmaster wrote a work of five and twenty volumes about

the artificial bird; it was very learned and very long, full of the most

difficult Chinese words; but yet all the people declared that they had

read it and understood it, for fear of being considered stupid, and

having their bodies trampled on.

So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the Court, and all the other

Chinese knew every little twitter in the artificial bird's song by

heart. But just for that reason it pleased them best--they could sing

with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang,

"Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!" and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that

was certainly famous.

But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the

Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird said,

"Whizz!" Something cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the wheels ran round, and

then the music stopped.

The Emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and caused his body physician

to be called; but what could _he_ do? Then they sent for a watchmaker,

and after a good deal of talking and investigation, the bird was put

into something like order, but the watchmaker said that the bird must be

carefully treated, for the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible

to put new ones in in such a manner that the music would go. There was a

great lamentation; only once in the year was it permitted to let the

bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the playmaster made a

little speech full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as

before--and so of course it was as good as before.

Now five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation.

The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was ill, and

could not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been

chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the cavalier

how the Emperor did.

"P!" said he, and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed; the whole

Court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay homage to the new ruler.

The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies' maids had a

great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had

been laid down so that no footstep could be heard, and therefore it was

quiet there, quite quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet; stiff and

pale he lay on the gorgeous bed, with the long velvet curtains and the

heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in

upon the Emperor and the artificial bird.

The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay

upon his chest; he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death

who sat upon his chest, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one

hand the Emperor's sword, in the other his beautiful banner. And all

around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange

heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild.

These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood before him

now that Death sat upon his heart.

"Do you remember this?" whispered one to the other. "Do you remember

that?" and then they told him so much that the perspiration ran from his

forehead.

"I did not know that!" said the Emperor. "Music! music! the great

Chinese drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they say!"

And they continued speaking, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all

they said.

"Music! music!" cried the Emperor. "You little precious golden bird,

sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung

my golden slipper around your neck--sing now, sing!"

But the bird stood still; no one was there to wind him up, and he could

not sing without that; but Death continued to stare at the Emperor with

his great, hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.

Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It

was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It had

heard of the Emperor's sad plight, and had come to sing to him of

comfort and hope. As it sang the specters grew paler and paler; the

blood ran quicker and more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs; and

even Death listened, and said:

"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"

"But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that

rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's crown?"

And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the

Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet churchyard where

the white roses grow, where the elder blossoms smell sweet, and where

the fresh grass is moistened by the tears of survivors. Then Death felt

a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form

of a cold white mist.

"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird; I know

you well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have

charmed away the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my

heart! How can I reward you?"

"You have rewarded me!" replied the Nightingale. "I have drawn tears

from your eyes, when I sang the first time--I shall never forget that.

Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now sleep, and

grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you something."

And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and

refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows

when he awoke refreshed and restored: not one of his servants had yet

returned, for they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still

sat beside him and sang.

"You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you

please; and I'll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces."

"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could;

keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace

to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in

the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something,

so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who

are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that

remains hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far

around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to everyone who

dwells far away from you and from your Court. I love your heart more

than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I

will come and sing to you--but one thing you must promise me."

"Every thing!" said the Emperor; and he stood there in his imperial

robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was

heavy with gold to his heart.

"One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who

tells you everything. Then it will go all the better."

And the Nightingale flew away.

The servants came in to look at their dead Emperor, and--yes, there he

stood, and the Emperor said, "Good-morning!"

195

This story is a favorite for the Christmas

season. It is loosely constructed, and rambles

along for some time after it might have been

expected to finish. Such rambling is often very

attractive to childish listeners, as it allows

the introduction of unexpected incidents. Miss

Kready has some interesting suggestions about

dramatizing this story in her _Study of Fairy

Tales_, pp. 151-153. The translation is

Dulcken's.

THE FIR TREE

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place;

it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew

many larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree

wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and

the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about

talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and

raspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung

berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and

say, "How pretty and small that one is!" and the Fir Tree did not like

to hear that at all.

Next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was

longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of

rings they have how many years they have been growing.

"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the other!" sighed the little

Fir, "then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from my

crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my

boughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the others

yonder."

It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds

that went sailing over him morning and evening.

When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a

hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little

Fir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by, and when

the third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was

obliged to run round it.

"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the

world," thought the Tree.

In the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest

trees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was

now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees

fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so

that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender--they could hardly

be recognized. But then they were laid upon wagons, and horses dragged

them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited

them?

In the spring, when the Swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked

them, "Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?"

The Swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful,

nodded his head, and said:

"Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the

ships were stately masts; I fancy these were the trees. They smelt like

fir. I can assure you they're stately--very stately."

"Oh that I were only big enough to go over the sea! What kind of thing

is this sea, and how does it look?"

"It would take too long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he

went away.

"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth,

and in the young life that is within thee."

And the wind kissed the Tree, and the dew wept tears upon it; but the

Fir Tree did not understand that.

When Christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes

trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that

never rested, but always wanted to go away. These young trees, which

were always the most beautiful, kept all their branches; they were put

upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.

"Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater

than I--indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their

branches? Whither are they taken?"

"We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the town

we looked in at the windows. We know where they go. Oh! they are dressed

up in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined. We have

looked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are planted in

the middle of a warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful

things--gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundred candles."

"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, and trembled through all its branches.

"And then? What happens then?"

"Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was incomparable."

"Perhaps I may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!" cried

the Fir Tree, rejoicingly. "That is even better than traveling across

the sea. How painfully I long for it! If it were only Christmas now! Now

I am great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last year. Oh,

if I were only on the carriage! If I were only in the warm room, among

all the pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something even better

will come, something far more charming, or else why should they adorn me

so? There must be something grander, something greater still to come;

but what? Oh! I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know myself what is

the matter with me!"

"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine. "Rejoice in thy fresh youth here

in the woodland."

But the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter

and summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it

said, "That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas time it was felled

before any one of the others. The ax cut deep into its marrow, and the

tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation of

faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at

parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up; it knew

that it should never again see the dear old companions, the little

bushes and flowers all around--perhaps not even the birds. The parting

was not at all agreeable.

The Tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with other

trees, and heard a man say:

"This one is famous; we want only this one!"

Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a

large, beautiful saloon. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the

great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there

were rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture

books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at least the

children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub filled with

sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with

green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored carpet. Oh, how the Tree

trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the young ladies

also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little nets, cut out of

colored paper; every net was filled with sweetmeats; golden apples and

walnuts hung down, as if they grew there, and more than a hundred little

candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different boughs.

Dolls that looked exactly like real people--the tree had never seen such

before--swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the Tree was

fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid, particularly splendid.

"This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."

"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh, that the

lights may be soon lit up! When may that be done? I wonder if trees will

come out of the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly against the

panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?"

Yes, he did not guess badly. But he had a complete backache from mere

longing, and the backache is just as bad for a Tree as the headache for

a person.

At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The

Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to

a green twig, and it was scorched.

"Heaven preserve us!" cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the

fire out.

Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so

afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite

bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were

thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have

overturned the whole Tree; the older people followed more deliberately.

The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they

shouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully round the Tree, and

one present after another was plucked from it.

"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What's going to be done?"

And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they

were extinguished, and then the children received permission to plunder

the Tree. Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked

again: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to

the ceiling, it would have fallen down.

The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the

Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but

only to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten.

"A story! A story!" shouted the children; and they drew a little fat man

toward the tree; and he sat down just beneath it--"for then we shall be

in the green wood," said he, "and the tree may have the advantage of

listening to my tale. But I can only tell one. Will you hear the story

of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and still was

raised up to honor and married the Princess?"

"Ivede-Avede!" cried some, "Klumpey-Dumpey!" cried others, and there was

a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was quite silent, and

thought, "Shall I not be in it? Shall I have nothing to do in it?" But

he had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was required

of him.

And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey who fell downstairs, and yet

was raised to honor and married the Princess. And the children clapped

their hands, and cried, "Tell another! tell another!" for they wanted to

hear about Ivede-Avede; but they only got the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in

the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and

yet came to honor and married the Princess!

"Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it

must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well, who

can know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a Princess!"

And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next

evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I shall not

tremble," it thought.

"I will rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I shall hear the story of

Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps that of Ivede-Avede, too."

And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.

In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.

"Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree. But they dragged

him out of the room, and upstairs to the garret, and here they put him

in a dark corner where no daylight shone.

"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here?

What is to happen?"

And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had

time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when

at length someone came, it was only to put some great boxes in a corner.

Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is that it was

quite forgotten.

"Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and

covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm

to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How

good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly

solitary!--not even a little hare? That was pretty out there in the

wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when

he jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up

here!"

"Piep! piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came

another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among

the branches.

"It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be

comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?"

"I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than

I."

"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They

were dreadfully inquisitive. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on

earth. Have you been there? Have you been in the store room, where

cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one

dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?"

"I don't know that," replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the

sun shines and the birds sing."

And then it told all about its youth.

And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they

listened and said:

"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. "Yes,

those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the Christmas

Eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles.

"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!"

"I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I only came out of the wood this

winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth."

"What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice.

And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the

Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it

remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days! But they

may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet he married the

Princess. Perhaps I may marry a Princess too!" And the Fir Tree thought

of a pretty little Birch Tree that grew out in the forest; for the Fir

Tree, that Birch was a real Princess.

"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice.

And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every

single word; and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of

the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on

Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not

pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did

not like it so much as before.

"Do you only know one story?" asked the Rats.

"Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest evening

of my life; I did not think then how happy I was."

"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and

tallow candles--a store-room story?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats.

And they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last stayed

away also; and then the Tree sighed and said:

"It was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little Mice, and

listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall remember

to be pleased when they take me out."

But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and

rummaged in the garret: the boxes were put away, and the Tree brought

out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant

dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone.

"Now life is beginning again!" thought the Tree.

It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in the

courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to

look at itself, there was so much to look at all round. The courtyard

was close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the roses hung

fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in

blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's

come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.

"Now I shall live!" said the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches

far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it lay in the

corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and

shone in the bright sunshine.

In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had

danced round the tree at Christmas time, and had rejoiced over it. One

of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.

"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree!" said the child, and he

trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.

And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the

garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the

dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of

the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so

pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have

done so! Past! past!"

And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole

bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and

it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the children

who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked

into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was a deep

sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter

night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas Eve and of

Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell;

and then the Tree was burned.

The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a

golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that

was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too: past!

past!--and that's the way with all stories.

196

The tale that follows was one of the author's

earliest stories, published in 1835. It is

clearly based upon an old folk tale, one

variant of which is "The Blue Light" from the

Grimm collection (No. 174). "It was a lucky

stroke," says Brandes, "that made Andersen the

poet of children. After long fumbling, after

unsuccessful efforts, which must necessarily

throw a false and ironic light on the

self-consciousness of a poet whose pride based

its justification mainly on the expectancy of a

future which he felt slumbering within his

soul, after wandering about for long years,

Andersen . . . one evening found himself in front

of a little insignificant yet mysterious door,

the door of the nursery story. He touched it,

it yielded, and he saw, burning in the

obscurity within, the little 'Tinder-Box' that

became his Aladdin's lamp. He struck fire with

it, and the spirits of the lamp--the dogs with

eyes as large as tea-cups, as mill-wheels, as

the round tower in Copenhagen--stood before him

and brought him the three giant chests,

containing all the copper, silver, and gold

treasure stories of the nursery story. The

first story had sprung into existence, and the

'Tinder-Box' drew all the others onward in its

train. Happy is he who has found his

'tinder-box.'" The translation is by H. W.

Dulcken.

THE TINDER-BOX

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one, two! one, two!_

He had his knapsack on his back and a saber by his side, for he had been

in the wars, and now he wanted to go home. And on the way he met with an

old witch; she was very hideous, and her under lip hung down upon her

breast. She said, "Good evening, soldier. What a fine sword you have,

and what a big knapsack! You're a proper soldier! Now you shall have as

much money as you like to have."

"I thank you, you old witch!" said the soldier.

"Do you see that great tree?" quoth the witch; and she pointed to a tree

which stood beside them. "It's quite hollow inside. You must climb to

the top, and then you'll see a hole, through which you can let yourself

down and get deep into the tree. I'll tie a rope round your body, so

that I can pull you up again when you call me."

"What am I to do down in the tree?" asked the soldier.

"Get money," replied the witch. "Listen to me. When you come down to the

earth under the tree, you will find yourself in a great hall: it is

quite light, for above three hundred lamps are burning there. Then you

will see three doors; those you can open, for the keys are hanging

there. If you go into the first chamber, you'll see a great chest in the

middle of the floor; on this chest sits a dog, and he's got a pair of

eyes as big as two tea-cups. But you need not care for that. I'll give

you my blue-checked apron, and you can spread it out upon the floor;

then go up quickly and take the dog, and set him on my apron; then open

the chest, and take as many shillings as you like. They are of copper:

if you prefer silver, you must go into the second chamber. But there

sits a dog with a pair of eyes as big as mill-wheels. But do not you

care for that. Set him upon my apron, and take some of the money. And if

you want gold, you can have that too--in fact, as much as you can

carry--if you go into the third chamber. But the dog that sits on the

money-chest there has two eyes as big as round towers. He is a fierce

dog, you may be sure; but you needn't be afraid, for all that. Only set

him on my apron, and he won't hurt you; and take out of the chest as

much gold as you like."

"That's not so bad," said the soldier. "But what am I to give you, old

witch? for you will not do it for nothing, I fancy."

"No," replied the witch, "not a single shilling will I have. You shall

only bring me an old tinder-box which my grandmother forgot when she was

down there last."

"Then tie the rope round my body," cried the soldier.

"Here it is," said the witch, "and here's my blue-checked apron."

Then the soldier climbed up into the tree, let himself slip down into

the hole, and stood, as the witch had said, in the great hall where the

three hundred lamps were burning.

Now he opened the first door. Ugh! there sat the dog with eyes as big as

tea-cups, staring at him. "You're a nice fellow!" exclaimed the soldier;

and he set him on the witch's apron, and took as many copper shillings

as his pockets would hold, and then locked the chest, set the dog on it

again, and went into the second chamber. Aha! there sat the dog with

eyes as big as mill-wheels.

"You should not stare so hard at me," said the soldier; "you might

strain your eyes." And he set the dog upon the witch's apron. And when

he saw the silver money in the chest, he threw away all the copper money

he had, and filled his pocket and his knapsack with silver only. Then he

went into the third chamber. Oh, but that was horrid! The dog there

really had eyes as big as towers, and they turned round and round in his

head like wheels.

"Good evening!" said the soldier; and he touched his cap, for he had

never seen such a dog as that before. When he had looked at him a little

more closely, he thought, "That will do," and lifted him down to the

floor, and opened the chest. Mercy! what a quantity of gold was there!

He could buy with it the whole town, and the sugar sucking-pigs of the

cake woman, and all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking-horses in the

whole world. Yes, that was a quantity of money! Now the soldier threw

away all the silver coin with which he had filled his pockets and his

knapsack, and took gold instead: yes, all his pockets, his knapsack, his

boots, and his cap were filled, so that he could scarcely walk. Now

indeed he had plenty of money. He put the dog on the chest, shut the

door, and then called up through the tree, "Now pull me up, you old

witch."

"Have you the tinder-box?" asked the witch.

"Plague on it!" exclaimed the soldier, "I had clean forgotten that." And

he went and brought it.

The witch drew him up, and he stood on the high road again, with

pockets, boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold.

"What are you going to do with the tinder-box?" asked the soldier.

"That's nothing to you," retorted the witch. "You've had your

money--just give me the tinder-box."

"Nonsense!" said the soldier. "Tell me directly what you're going to do

with it, or I'll draw my sword and cut off your head."

"No!" cried the witch.

So the soldier cut off her head. There she lay! But he tied up all his

money in her apron, took it on his back like a bundle, put the

tinder-box in his pocket, and went straight off toward the town.

That was a splendid town! And he put up at the very best inn and asked

for the finest rooms, and ordered his favorite dishes, for now he was

rich, as he had so much money. The servant who had to clean his boots

certainly thought them a remarkably old pair for such a rich gentleman;

but he had not bought any new ones yet. The next day he procured proper

boots and handsome clothes. Now our soldier had become a fine gentleman;

and the people told him of all the splendid things which were in their

city, and about the King, and what a pretty Princess the King's daughter

was.

"Where can one get to see her?" asked the soldier.

"She is not to be seen at all," said they, all together; "she lives in a

great copper castle, with a great many walls and towers round about it;

no one but the King may go in and out there, for it has been prophesied

that she shall marry a common soldier, and the King can't bear that."

"I should like to see her," thought the soldier; but he could not get

leave to do so. Now he lived merrily, went to the theater, drove in the

King's garden, and gave much money to the poor; and this was very kind

of him, for he knew from old times how hard it is when one has not a

shilling. Now he was rich, had fine clothes, and gained many friends,

who all said he was a rare one, a true cavalier; and that pleased the

soldier well. But as he spent money every day and never earned any, he

had at last only two shillings left; and he was obliged to turn out of

the fine rooms in which he had dwelt, and had to live in a little garret

under the roof, and clean his boots for himself, and mend them with a

darning-needle. None of his friends came to see him, for there were too

many stairs to climb.

It was quite dark one evening, and he could not even buy himself a

candle, when it occurred to him that there was a candle-end in the

tinder-box which he had taken out of the hollow tree into which the

witch had helped him. He brought out the tinder-box and the candle-end;

but as soon as he struck fire and the sparks rose up from the flint, the

door flew open, and the dog who had eyes as big as a couple of tea-cups,

and whom he had seen in the tree, stood before him, and said:

"What are my lord's commands?"

"What is this?" said the soldier. "That's a famous tinder-box, if I can

get everything with it that I want! Bring me some money," said he to the

dog: and _whisk!_ the dog was gone, and _whisk!_ he was back again, with

a great bag full of shillings in his mouth.

Now the soldier knew what a capital tinder-box this was. If he struck it

once, the dog came who sat upon the chest of copper money; if he struck

it twice, the dog came who had the silver; and if he struck it three

times, then appeared the dog who had the gold. Now the soldier moved

back into the fine rooms, and appeared again in handsome clothes; and

all his friends knew him again, and cared very much for him indeed.

Once he thought to himself, "It is a very strange thing that one cannot

get to see the Princess. They all say she is very beautiful; but what is

the use of that, if she has always to sit in the great copper castle

with the many towers? Can I not get to see her at all? Where is my

tinder-box?" And so he struck a light, and _whisk!_ came the dog with

eyes as big as tea-cups.

"It is midnight, certainly," said the soldier, "but I should very much

like to see the Princess, only for one little moment."

And the dog was outside the door directly, and, before the soldier

thought it, came back with the Princess. She sat upon the dog's back and

slept; and everyone could see she was a real Princess, for she was so

lovely. The soldier could not refrain from kissing her, for he was a

thorough soldier. Then the dog ran back again with the Princess. But

when morning came, and the King and Queen were drinking tea, the

Princess said she had had a strange dream, the night before, about a dog

and a soldier--that she had ridden upon the dog, and the soldier had

kissed her.

"That would be a fine history!" said the Queen.

So one of the old Court ladies had to watch the next night by the

Princess's bed, to see if this was really a dream, or what it might be.

The soldier had a great longing to see the lovely Princess again; so the

dog came in the night, took her away, and ran as fast as he could. But

the old lady put on water-boots, and ran just as fast after him. When

she saw that they both entered a great house, she thought, "Now I know

where it is"; and with a bit of chalk she drew a great cross on the

door. Then she went home and lay down, and the dog came up with the

Princess; but when he saw that there was a cross drawn on the door where

the soldier lived, he took a piece of chalk too, and drew crosses on all

the doors in the town. And that was cleverly done, for now the lady

could not find the right door, because all the doors had crosses upon

them.

In the morning early came the King and the Queen, the old Court lady and

all the officers, to see where it was the Princess had been. "Here it

is!" said the King, when he saw the first door with a cross upon it.

"No, my dear husband, it is there!" said the Queen, who descried another

door which also showed a cross. "But there is one, and there is one!"

said all, for wherever they looked there were crosses on the doors. So

they saw that it would avail them nothing if they searched on.

But the Queen was an exceedingly clever woman, who could do more than

ride in a coach. She took her great gold scissors, cut a piece of silk

into pieces, and made a neat little bag: this bag she filled with fine

wheat flour, and tied it on the Princess's back; and when that was done,

she cut a little hole in the bag, so that the flour would be scattered

along all the way which the Princess should take.

In the night the dog came again, took the Princess on his back, and ran

with her to the soldier, who loved her very much, and would gladly have

been a prince, so that he might have her for his wife. The dog did not

notice at all how the flour ran out in a stream from the castle to the

windows of the soldier's house, where he ran up the wall with the

Princess. In the morning the King and Queen saw well enough where their

daughter had been, and they took the soldier and put him in prison.

There he sat. Oh, but it was dark and disagreeable there! And they said

to him, "To-morrow you shall be hanged." That was not amusing to hear,

and he had left his tinder-box at the inn. In the morning he could see,

through the iron grating of the little window, how the people were

hurrying out of the town to see him hanged. He heard the drums beat and

saw the soldiers marching. All the people were running out, and among

them was a shoemaker's boy with leather apron and slippers, and he

galloped so fast that one of his slippers flew off, and came right

against the wall where the soldier sat looking through the iron grating.

"Halloo, you shoemaker's boy! you needn't be in such a hurry," cried the

soldier to him: "it will not begin till I come. But if you will run to

where I lived, and bring me my tinder-box, you shall have four

shillings; but you must put your best leg foremost."

The shoemaker's boy wanted to get the four shillings, so he went and

brought the tinder-box, and--well, we shall hear now what happened.

Outside the town a great gallows had been built, and around it stood the

soldiers and many hundred thousand people. The King and Queen sat on a

splendid throne, opposite to the Judges and the whole Council. The

soldier already stood upon the ladder; but as they were about to put the

rope round his neck, he said that before a poor criminal suffered his

punishment an innocent request was always granted to him. He wanted very

much to smoke a pipe of tobacco, as it would be the last pipe he should

smoke in this world. The King would not say "No" to this; so the soldier

took his tinder-box and struck fire. One--two--three--! and there

suddenly stood all the dogs--the one with eyes as big as tea-cups, the

one with eyes as large as mill-wheels, and the one whose eyes were as

big as round towers.