The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as
delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and
the showers watered it; and this was just as good for the flax as it is
for little children to be washed and then kissed by their mother. They
look much prettier for it, and so did the flax.
“People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax, “and that I
am so fine and long, that I shall make a beautiful piece of linen. How
fortunate I am! it makes me so happy; it is such a pleasant thing to
know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine cheers me, and
how sweet and refreshing is the rain! my happiness overpowers me; no
one in the world can feel happier than I do.”
One day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up
by the roots; this was painful. Then it was laid in water as if they
intended to drown it; and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were
to be roasted; all this was very shocking.
“We cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “by experiencing
evil as well as good we become wise.” And certainly there was plenty of
evil in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken,
and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.
At last it was put on the spinning-wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the
wheel so quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts.
“Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain,
“and must be contented with the past;” and contented he remained till
he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen.
All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one
piece. “How wonderful it is that, after all I have suffered, I am made
something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world--so strong
and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different
from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. Then I had no attention,
nor any water unless it rained. Now I am watched and taken care of.
Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a shower-bath from the
watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the clergyman’s wife noticed me,
and said I was the best piece of linen in the whole parish. I cannot be
happier than I am now.”
After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the
scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles.
This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into garments.
“See, now, then,” said the flax, “I have become something of
importance. This was my destiny; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be
of some use in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way
to be happy.”
Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely
hold together.
“It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other. “We would
gladly have held together a little longer, but it is useless to expect
impossibilities.”
And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all
over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water, and
made into a pulp, and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all
at once they found themselves beautiful white paper.
“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise too,” said the
paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who
can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful
luck!”
And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were written
upon it, and only once was there a blot, which was very fortunate.
Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser
and better; for all that was written had a good and sensible meaning,
and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.
“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was
only a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I fancy
that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I
cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. Heaven knows that
I have done nothing myself, but what I was obliged to do with my weak
powers for my own preservation; and yet I have been promoted from one
joy and honor to another. Each time I think that the song is ended; and
then something higher and better begins for me. I suppose now I shall
be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It
cannot be otherwise; indeed it is more than probable; for I have more
splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden
times. I am happier than ever.”
But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer,
and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book,
or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could derive
pleasure and profit from a printed book than from the written paper;
and if the paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn
out before it had got half through its journey.
“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really
did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor,
like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They
will do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he
who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen
upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”
Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into
a tub that stood in the washhouse.
“After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper, “and a very good
opportunity this is to collect one’s thoughts. Now I am able, for the
first time, to think of my real condition; and to know one’s self is
true progress. What will be done with me now I wonder? No doubt I shall
still go forward.”
Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out,
and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold
at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written
upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they
wanted to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and
afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running
one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind. They called
it “seeing the children come out of school,” and the last spark was
the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had come; and one
would cry, “There goes the schoolmaster;” but the next moment another
spark would appear, shining so beautifully. How they would like to know
where the sparks all went to! Perhaps we shall find out some day, but
we don’t know now.
The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon
alight. “Ugh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame; “ugh!”
It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole
was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher
than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and
they glistened as the white linen never could have glistened. All the
written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and
thoughts turned into fire.
“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames;
and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames
darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Then a number
of tiny beings, as many in number as the flowers on the flax had been,
and invisible to mortal eyes, floated above them. They were even
lighter and more delicate than the flowers from which they were born;
and as the flames were extinguished, and nothing remained of the paper
but black ashes, these little things danced upon it; and whenever they
touched it, bright red sparks appeared.