for a moment now and then did the Moon become visible. He said, "I
looked down from the silent sky upon the driving clouds, and saw the
great shadows chasing each other across the earth. I looked upon a
prison. A closed carriage stood before it; a prisoner was to be
carried away. My rays pierced through the grated window towards the
wall: the prisoner was scratching a few lines upon it, as a parting
token; but he did not write words, but a melody, the outpouring of his
heart. The door was opened, and he was led forth, and fixed his eyes
upon my round disc. Clouds passed between us, as if he were not to see
my face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was closed,
the whip cracked, and the horses galloped off into the thick forest,
whither my rays were not able to follow him; but as I glanced through
the grated window, my rays glided over the notes, his last farewell
engraved on the prison wall--where words fail, sounds can often speak.
My rays could only light up isolated notes, so the greater part of
what was written there will ever remain dark to me. Was it the
death-hymn he wrote there? Were these the glad notes of joy? Did he
drive away to meet death, or hasten to the embraces of his beloved?
The rays of the Moon do not read all that is written by mortals."
THIRTY-SECOND EVENING.
"I love the children," said the Moon, "especially the quite little
ones--they are so droll. Sometimes I peep into the room, between the
curtain and the window frame, when they are not thinking of me. It
gives me pleasure to see them dressing and undressing. First, the
little round naked shoulder comes creeping out of the frock, then the
arm; or I see how the stocking is drawn off, and a plump little white
leg makes its appearance, and a white little foot that is fit to be
kissed, and I kiss it too.
"But about what I was going to tell you. This evening I looked through
a window, before which no curtain was drawn, for nobody lives
opposite. I saw a whole troop of little ones, all of one family, and
among them was a little sister. She is only four years old, but can
say her prayers as well as any of the rest. The mother sits by her bed
every evening, and hears her say her prayers; and then she has a kiss,
and the mother sits by the bed till the little one has gone to sleep,
which generally happens as soon as ever she can close her eyes.
"This evening the two elder children were a little boisterous. One of
them hopped about on one leg in his long white nightgown, and the
other stood on a chair surrounded by the clothes of all the children,
and declared he was acting Grecian statues. The third and fourth laid
the clean linen carefully in the box, for that is a thing that has to
be done; and the mother sat by the bed of the youngest, and announced
to all the rest that they were to be quiet, for little sister was
going to say her prayers.
"I looked in, over the lamp, into the little maiden's bed, where she
lay under the neat white coverlet, her hands folded demurely and her
little face quite grave and serious. She was praying the Lord's prayer
aloud. But her mother interrupted her in the middle of her prayer.
'How is it,' she asked, 'that when you have prayed for daily bread,
you always add something I cannot understand? You must tell me what
that is.' The little one lay silent, and looked at her mother in
embarrassment. 'What is it you say after _our daily bread_?' 'Dear
mother, don't be angry: I only said, _and plenty of butter on it_.'"
THE STORY OF THE YEAR.
It was far in January, and a terrible fall of snow was pelting down.
The snow eddied through the streets and lanes; the window-panes seemed
plastered with snow on the outside; snow plumped down in masses from
the roofs: and a sudden hurry had seized on the people, for they ran,
and flew, and fell into each others' arms, and as they clutched each
other fast for a moment, they felt that they were safe at least for
that length of time. Coaches and horses seemed frosted with sugar. The
footmen stood with their backs against the carriages, so as to turn
their faces from the wind. The foot passengers kept in the shelter of
the carriages, which could only move slowly on in the deep snow; and
when the storm at last abated, and a narrow path was swept clean
alongside the houses, the people stood still in this path when they
met, for none liked to take the first step aside into the deep snow to
let the other pass him. Thus they stood silent and motionless, till,
as if by tacit consent, each sacrificed one leg, and stepping aside,
buried it in the deep snow-heap.
Towards evening it grew calm. The sky looked as if it had been swept,
and had become more lofty and transparent. The stars looked as if they
were quite new, and some of them were amazingly bright and pure. It
froze so hard that the snow creaked, and the upper rind of snow might
well have grown hard enough to bear the sparrows in the morning dawn.
These little birds hopped up and down where the sweeping had been
done; but they found very little food, and were not a little cold.
"Piep!" said one of them to another; "they call this a new year, and
it is worse than the last! We might just as well have kept the old
one. I'm dissatisfied, and I've a right to be so."
"Yes; and the people ran about and fired off shots to celebrate the
new year," said a little shivering sparrow; "and they threw pans and
pots against the doors, and were quite boisterous with joy, because
the old year was gone. I was glad of it too, because I hoped we should
have had warm days; but that has come to nothing--it freezes much
harder than before. People have made a mistake in reckoning the time!"
"That they have!" a third put in, who was old, and had a white poll;
"they've something they call the calendar--it's an invention of their
own--and everything is to be arranged according to that; but it won't
do. When spring comes, then the year begins, and I reckon according to
that."
"But when will spring come?" the others inquired.
"It will come when the stork comes back. But his movements are very
uncertain, and here in town no one knows anything about it: in the
country they are better informed. Shall we fly out there and wait?
There, at any rate, we shall be nearer to spring."
"Yes, that may be all very well," observed one of the sparrows, who
had been hopping about for a long time, chirping, without saying
anything decided. "I've found a few comforts here in town, which I am
afraid I should miss out in the country. Near this neighbourhood, in a
courtyard, there lives a family of people, who have taken the very
sensible notion of placing three or four flower-pots against the wall,
with their mouths all turned inwards, and the bottom of each pointing
outwards. In each flower-pot a hole has been cut, big enough for me to
fly in and out at it. I and my husband have built a nest in one of
those pots, and have brought up our young family there. The family of
people of course made the whole arrangement that they might have the
pleasure of seeing us, or else they would not have done it. To please
themselves they also strew crumbs of bread; and so we have food, and
are in a manner provided for. So I think my husband and I will stay
where we are, although we are very dissatisfied--but we shall stay."
"And we will fly into the country to see if spring is not coming!" And
away they flew.
Out in the country it was hard winter, and the glass was a few degrees
lower than in the town. The sharp winds swept across the snow-covered
fields. The farmer, muffled in warm mittens, sat in his sledge, and
beat his arms across his breast to warm himself, and the whip lay
across his knees. The horses ran till they smoked again. The snow
creaked, and the sparrows hopped about in the ruts, and shivered,
"Piep! when will spring come? it is very long in coming!"
"Very long," sounded from the next snow-covered hill, far over the
field. It might be the echo which was heard; or perhaps the words were
spoken by yonder wonderful old man, who sat in wind and weather high
on the heap of snow. He was quite white, attired like a peasant in a
coarse white coat of frieze; he had long white hair, and was quite
pale, with big blue eyes.
"Who is that old man yonder?" asked the sparrows.
"I know who he is," quoth an old raven, who sat on the fence-rail, and
was condescending enough to acknowledge that we are all like little
birds in the sight of Heaven, and therefore was not above speaking to
the sparrows, and giving them information. "I know who the old man is.
It is Winter, the old man of last year. He is not dead, as the
calendar says, but is guardian to little Prince Spring, who is to
come. Yes, Winter bears sway here. Ugh! the cold makes you shiver,
does it not, you little ones?"
"Yes. Did I not tell the truth?" said the smallest sparrow: "the
calendar is only an invention of man, and is not arranged according to
nature! They ought to leave these things to us, who are born cleverer
than they."
And one week passed away, and two passed away. The frozen lake lay
hard and stiff, looking like a sheet of lead, and damp icy mists lay
brooding over the land; the great black crows flew about in long rows,
but silently; and it seemed as if nature slept. Then a sunbeam glided
along over the lake, and made it shine like burnished tin. The snowy
covering on the field and on the hill did not glitter as it had done;
but the white form, Winter himself, still sat there, his gaze fixed
unswervingly upon the south. He did not notice that the snowy carpet
seemed to sink as it were into the earth, and that here and there a
little grass-green patch appeared, and that all these patches were
crowded with sparrows.
"Kee-wit! kee-wit! Is spring coming now?"
"Spring!" The cry resounded over field and meadow, and through the
black-brown woods, where the moss still glimmered in bright green upon
the tree trunks; and from the south the first two storks came flying
through the air. On the back of each sat a pretty little child--one
was a girl and the other a boy. They greeted the earth with a kiss,
and wherever they set their feet, white flowers grew up from beneath
the snow. Then they went hand in hand to the old ice man, Winter,
clung to his breast embracing him, and in a moment they, and he, and
all the region around were hidden in a thick damp mist, dark and
heavy, that closed over all like a veil. Gradually the wind rose, and
now it rushed roaring along, and drove away the mist with heavy blows,
so that the sun shone warmly forth, and Winter himself vanished, and
the beautiful children of Spring sat on the throne of the year.
"That's what I call spring," cried each of the sparrows. "Now we shall
get our rights, and have amends for the stern winter."
Wherever the two children turned, green buds burst forth on bushes and
trees, the grass shot upwards, and the corn-fields turned green and
became more and more lovely. And the little maiden strewed flowers all
around. Her apron, which she held up before her, was always full of
them; they seemed to spring up there, for her lap continued full,
however zealously she strewed the blossoms around; and in her
eagerness she scattered a snow of blossoms over apple trees and peach
trees, so that they stood in full beauty before their green leaves had
fairly come forth.
And she clapped her hands, and the boy clapped his, and then flocks of
birds came flying up, nobody knew whence, and they all twittered and
sang, "Spring has come."
[Illustration: THE STORKS BRINGING BACK THE SPRING.]
That was beautiful to behold. Many an old granny crept forth over the
threshold into the sunshine, and tripped gleefully about, casting a
glance at the yellow flowers which shone everywhere in the fields,
just as they used to do when she was young. The world grew young again
to her, and she said, "It is a blessed day out here to-day!"
The forest still wore its brown-green dress, made of buds; but the
thyme was already there, fresh and fragrant; there were violets in
plenty, anemones and primroses came forth, and there was sap and
strength in every blade of grass. That was certainly a beautiful
carpet on which no one could resist sitting down, and there
accordingly the young spring pair sat hand in hand, and sang and
smiled, and grew on.
A mild rain fell down upon them from the sky, but they did not notice
it, for the rain-drops were mingled with their own tears of joy. They
kissed each other, and were betrothed as people that should marry, and
in the same moment the verdure of the woods was unfolded, and when the
sun rose, the forest stood there arrayed in green.
And hand in hand the betrothed pair wandered under the fresh pendent
ocean of leaves, where the rays of the sun gleamed through the
interstices in lovely, changing hues. What virgin purity, what
refreshing balm in the delicate leaves! The brooks and streams rippled
clearly and merrily among the green velvety rushes and over the
coloured pebbles. All nature seemed to say, "There is plenty, and
there shall be plenty always!" And the cuckoo sang and the lark
carolled: it was a charming spring; but the willows had woolly gloves
over their blossoms: they were desperately careful, and that is
wearisome.
And days went by and weeks went by, and the heat came as it were
whirling down. Hot waves of air came through the corn, that became
yellower and yellower. The white water-lily of the north spread its
great green leaves over the glassy mirror of the woodland lakes, and
the fishes sought out the shady spots beneath; and at the sheltered
side of the wood, where the sun shone down upon the walls of the
farmhouse, warming the blooming roses, and the cherry trees, which
hung full of juicy black berries, almost hot with the fierce beams,
there sat the lovely wife of Summer, the same being whom we have seen
as a child and as a bride; and her glance was fixed upon the black
gathering clouds, which in wavy outlines--blue-black and heavy--were
piling themselves up, like mountains, higher and higher. They came
from three sides, and growing like a petrified sea, they came swooping
towards the forest, where every sound had been silenced as if by
magic. Every breath of air was hushed, every bird was mute. There was
a seriousness--a suspense throughout all nature; but in the highways
and lanes, foot passengers, and riders, and men in carriages were
hurrying on to get under shelter. Then suddenly there was a flashing
of light, as if the sun were burst forth--flaming, burning,
all-devouring! And the darkness returned amid a rolling crash. The
rain poured down in streams, and there was alternate darkness and
blinding light; alternate silence and deafening clamour. The young,
brown, feathery reeds on the moor moved to and fro in long waves, the
twigs of the woods were hidden in a mist of waters, and still came
darkness and light, and still silence and roaring followed one
another; grass and corn lay beaten down and swamped, looking as though
they could never raise themselves again. But soon the rain fell only
in gentle drops, the sun peered through the clouds, the water-drops
glittered like pearls on the leaves, the birds sang, the fishes leaped
up from the surface of the lake, the gnats danced in the sunshine, and
yonder on the rock, in the salt, heaving sea water, sat Summer
himself--a strong man with sturdy limbs and long dripping hair--there
he sat, strengthened by the cool bath, in the warm sunshine. All
nature round about was renewed, everything stood luxuriant, strong and
beautiful; it was summer, warm, lovely summer.
[Illustration: SUMMER TIME.]
And pleasant and sweet was the fragrance that streamed upwards from
the rich clover-field, where the bees swarmed round the old ruined
place of meeting: the bramble wound itself around the altar stone,
which, washed by the rain, glittered in the sunshine; and thither flew
the queen-bee with her swarm, and prepared wax and honey. Only Summer
saw it, he and his strong wife; for them the altar table stood covered
with the offerings of nature.
And the evening sky shone like gold, shone as no church dome can
shine; and in the interval between the evening and the morning red,
there was moonlight: it was summer.
And days went by, and weeks went by. The bright scythes of the reapers
gleamed in the corn-fields; the branches of the apple trees bent down,
heavy with red-and-yellow fruit. The hops smelt sweetly, hanging in
large clusters; and under the hazel bushes where hung great bunches of
nuts, rested a man and woman--Summer and his quiet consort.
"What wealth!" exclaimed the woman: "all around a blessing is
diffused, everywhere the scene looks homelike and good; and yet--I
know not why--I long for peace and rest--I know not how to express it.
Now they are already ploughing again in the field. The people want to
gain more and more. See, the storks flock together, and follow at a
little distance behind the plough--the bird of Egypt that carried us
through the air. Do you remember how we came as children to this land
of the North? We brought with us flowers, and pleasant sunshine, and
green to the woods; the wind has treated them roughly, and they have
become dark and brown like the trees of the South, but they do not,
like them, bear fruit."
"Do you wish to see the golden fruit?" said the man: "then rejoice."
And he lifted his arm, and the leaves of the forest put on hues of red
and gold, and beauteous tints spread over all the woodland. The rose
bush gleamed with scarlet hips; the elder branches hung down with
great heavy bunches of dark berries; the wild chestnuts fell ripe from
their dark husks; and in the depths of the forests the violets bloomed
for the second time.
But the Queen of the Year became more and more silent, and paler and
paler. "It blows cold," she said, "and night brings damp mists. I long
for the land of my childhood."
And she saw the storks fly away, one and all; and she stretched forth
her hands towards them. She looked up at the nests, which stood empty.
In one of them the long-stalked cornflower was growing; in another,
the yellow mustard-seed, as if the nest were only there for its
protection and comfort; and the sparrows were flying up into the
storks' nests.
"Piep! where has the master gone? I suppose he can't bear it when the
wind blows, and that therefore he has left the country. I wish him a
pleasant journey!"
The forest leaves became more and more yellow, leaf fell down upon
leaf, and the stormy winds of autumn howled. The year was far
advanced, and the Queen of the Year reclined upon the fallen yellow
leaves, and looked with mild eyes at the gleaming star, and her
husband stood by her. A gust swept through the leaves; they fell again
in a shower, and the Queen was gone, but a butterfly, the last of the
season, flew through the cold air.
The wet fogs came, an icy wind blew, and the long dark nights drew on
apace. The Ruler of the Year stood there with locks white as snow, but
he knew not it was his hair that gleamed so white--he thought
snow-flakes were falling from the clouds; and soon a thin covering of
snow was spread over the fields.
And then the church bells rang for the Christmas time.
"The bells ring for the new-born," said the Ruler of the Year. "Soon
the new king and queen will be born; and I shall go to rest, as my
wife has done--to rest in the gleaming star."
And in the fresh green fir wood, where the snow lay, stood the Angel
of Christmas, and consecrated the young trees that were to adorn his
feast.
"May there be joy in the room, and under the green boughs," said the
Ruler of the Year. In a few weeks he had become a very old man, white
as snow. "My time for rest draws near, and the young pair of the year
shall now receive my crown and sceptre."
"But the might is still thine," said the Angel of Christmas; "the
might and not the rest. Let the snow lie warmly upon the young seed.
Learn to bear it, that another receives homage while thou yet
reignest. Learn to bear being forgotten while thou art yet alive. The
hour of thy release will come when spring appears."
"And when will spring come?" asked Winter.
"It will come when the stork returns."
And with white locks and snowy beard, cold, bent, and hoary, but
strong as the wintry storm, and firm as ice, old Winter sat on the
snowy drift on the hill, looking towards the south, where he had
before sat and gazed. The ice cracked, the snow creaked, the skaters
skimmed to and fro on the smooth lakes, ravens and crows contrasted
picturesquely with the white ground, and not a breath of wind stirred.
And in the quiet air old Winter clenched his fists, and the ice was
fathoms thick between land and land.
Then the sparrows came again out of the town, and asked, "Who is that
old man yonder?" And the raven sat there again, or a son of his, which
comes to quite the same thing, and answered them and said, "It is
Winter, the old man of last year. He is not dead, as the almanack
says, but he is the guardian of Spring, who is coming."
"When will spring come?" asked the sparrows. "Then we shall have good
times, and a better rule. The old one was worth nothing."
And Winter nodded in quiet thought at the leafless forest, where every
tree showed the graceful form and bend of its twigs; and during the
winter sleep the icy mists of the clouds came down, and the ruler
dreamed of his youthful days, and of the time of his manhood; and
towards the morning dawn the whole wood was clothed in glittering hoar
frost. That was the summer dream of winter, and the sun scattered the
hoar frost from the boughs.
"When will spring come?" asked the sparrows.
"The spring!" sounded like an echo from the hills on which the snow
lay. The sun shone warmer, the snow melted, and the birds twittered,
"Spring is coming!"
And aloft through the air came the first stork, and the second
followed him. A lovely child sat on the back of each, and they
alighted on the field, kissed the earth, and kissed the old silent
man, and he disappeared, shrouded in the cloudy mist. And the story of
the year was done.
"That is all very well," said the sparrows; "it is very beautiful too,
but it is not according to the almanack, and therefore it is
irregular."
SHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING.
The mayor stood at the open window. His shirt-frill was very fine, and
so were his ruffles; he had a breast-pin stuck in his frill, and was
uncommonly smooth-shaven--all his own work; certainly he had given
himself a slight cut, but he had stuck a bit of newspaper on the
place. "Hark 'ee, youngster!" he cried.
The youngster in question was no other than the son of the poor
washerwoman, who was just going past the house; and he pulled off his
cap respectfully. The peak of the said cap was broken in the middle,
for the cap was arranged so that it could be rolled up and crammed
into his pocket. In his poor, but clean and well-mended attire, with
heavy wooden shoes on his feet, the boy stood there, as humble and
abashed as if he stood opposite the king himself.
[Illustration: THE MAYOR AND THE WASHERWOMAN'S SON.]
"You're a good boy," said Mr. Mayor. "You're a civil boy. I suppose
your mother is rinsing clothes down yonder in the river? I suppose you
are to carry that thing to your mother that you have in your pocket?
That's a bad affair with your mother. How much have you got in it?"
"Half a quartern," stammered the boy, in a frightened voice.
"And this morning she had just as much," the mayor continued.
"No," replied the boy, "it was yesterday."
"Two halves make a whole. She's good for nothing! It's a sad thing
with that kind of people! Tell your mother that she ought to be
ashamed of herself; and mind you don't become a drunkard--but you will
become one, though. Poor child--there, go!"
Accordingly the boy went on his way. He kept his cap in his hand, and
the wind played with his yellow hair, so that great locks of it stood
up straight. He turned down by the street corner, into the little lane
that led to the river, where his mother stood by the washing bench,
beating the heavy linen with the mallet. The water rolled quickly
along, for the flood-gates at the mill had been drawn up, and the
sheets were caught by the stream, and threatened to overturn the
bench. The washerwoman was obliged to lean against the bench, to
support it.
"I was very nearly sailing away," she said. "It is a good thing that
you are come, for I have need to recruit my strength a little. For six
hours I've been standing in the water. Have you brought anything for
me?"
The boy produced the bottle, and the mother put it to her mouth, and
took a little.
"Ah, how that revives one!" she said: "how it warms! It is as good as
a hot meal, and not so dear. And you, my boy! you look quite pale. You
are shivering in your thin clothes--to be sure it is autumn. Ugh! how
cold the water is! I hope I shall not be ill. But no, I shall not be
that! Give me a little more, and you may have a sip too, but only a
little sip, for you must not accustom yourself to it, my poor dear
child!"
And she stepped up to the bridge on which the boy stood, and came
ashore. The water dripped from the straw matting she had wound round
her, and from her gown.