him for whose sake security was dear to her. Pearson made a silent
appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task
assigned him.
"Sister," he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, "thou tellest
us of His love, manifested in temporal good; and now must we speak to
thee of that selfsame love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto,
Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult
path, and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked
heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child have
drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. Sister! go on
rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede thine own no more."
But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled; she shook like a
leaf, she turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into her hair.
The firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye upon
hers, as if to repress any outbreak of passion.
"I am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try me above my strength?" said
Catharine very quickly, and almost in a whisper. "I have been wounded
sore; I have suffered much; many things in the body, many in the mind;
crucified in myself, and in them that were dearest to me. Surely," added
she, with a long shudder, "He hath spared me in this one thing." She
broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence, "Tell me, man of
cold heart, what has God done to me? Hath he cast me down, never to rise
again? Hath he crushed my very heart in his hand? And thou, to whom I
committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the
boy, well, sound, alive, alive; or earth and Heaven shall avenge me!"
The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by the faint, the very
faint voice of a child.
On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his aged guest, and to
Dorothy that Ilbrahim's brief and troubled pilgrimage drew near its
close. The two former would willingly have remained by him, to make use
of the prayers and pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to the
time, and which, if they be impotent as to the departing traveller's
reception in the world whither it goes, may at least sustain him in
bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrahim uttered no complaint, he was
disturbed by the faces that looked upon him; so that Dorothy's
entreaties, and their own conviction that the child's feet might tread
heaven's pavement and not soil it, had induced the two Quakers to
remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew calm, and, except for now
and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been thought to
slumber. As nightfall came on, however, and the storm began to rise,
something seemed to trouble the repose of the boy's mind, and to render
his sense of hearing active and acute. If a passing wind lingered to
shake the casement, he strove to turn his head toward it; if the door
jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously
thitherward; if the heavy voice of the old man, as he read the
Scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child almost held his dying
breath to listen; if a snowdrift swept by the cottage, with a sound like
the trailing of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant
should enter.
But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever secret hope had
agitated him, and, with one low, complaining whisper, turned his cheek
upon the pillow. He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness, and
besought her to draw near him; she did so, and Ilbrahim took her hand in
both of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself
that he retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the repose of
his countenance, a very faint trembling passed over him from head to
foot, as if a mild but somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him, and
made him shiver. As the boy thus led her by the hand, in his quiet
progress over the borders of eternity, Dorothy almost imagined that she
could discern the near, though dim delightfulness of the home he was
about to reach; she would not have enticed the little wanderer back,
though she bemoaned herself that she must leave him and return. But just
when Ilbrahim's feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise, he heard a
voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path
which he had travelled. As Dorothy looked upon his features, she
perceived that their placid expression was again disturbed; her own
thoughts had been so wrapped in him, that all sounds of the storm, and
of human speech, were lost to her; but when Catharine's shriek pierced
through the room, the boy strove to raise himself.
"Friend, she is come! Open unto her!" cried he.
In a moment, his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew Ilbrahim
to her bosom, and he nestled there, with no violence of joy, but
contentedly, as if he were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her
face, and, reading its agony, said, with feeble earnestness, "Mourn not,
dearest mother. I am happy now." And with these words, the gentle boy
was dead.
* * * * *
The king's mandate to stay the New England persecutors was effectual in
preventing further martyrdoms; but the colonial authorities, trusting in
the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed
instability of the royal government, shortly renewed their severities in
all other respects. Catharine's fanaticism had become wilder by the
sundering of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted, there
was she to receive the blow; and whenever a dungeon was unbarred,
thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor. But in process of
time, a more Christian spirit--a spirit of forbearance, though not of
cordiality or approbation--began to pervade the land in regard to the
persecuted sect. And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her rather
in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with the fragments of
their children's food, and offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly
bed; when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports to cast stones
after the roving enthusiast--then did Catharine return to Pearson's
dwelling, and made that her home.
As if Ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his ashes, as if his
gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true religion,
her fierce and vindictive nature was softened by the same griefs which
had once irritated it. When the course of years had made the features of
the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the settlement, she became a subject
of not deep, but general interest; a being on whom the otherwise
superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. Every one spoke of her
with that degree of pity which it is pleasant to experience, every one
was ready to do her the little kindnesses, which are not costly, yet
manifest good-will; and when at last she died, a long train of her once
bitter persecutors followed her, with decent sadness and tears that were
not painful, to her place by Ilbrahim's green and sunken grave.
THE ANGEL
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Whenever a good child dies, an angel from heaven comes down to earth,
and takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings,
and flies away over all the places the child has loved, and picks quite
a handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may
bloom in heaven more brightly than on earth. And the Father presses all
the flowers to His heart; but He kisses the flower that pleases him
best, and the flower is then endowed with a voice, and can join in the
great chorus of praise!
"See"--this is what an angel said, as he carried a dead child up to
heaven, and the child heard, as if in a dream, and they went on over the
regions of home where the little child had played, and they came through
gardens with beautiful flowers--"which of these shall we take with us to
plant in heaven?" asked the angel.
Now there stood near them a slender, beautiful rose bush; but a wicked
hand had broken the stem, so that all the branches, covered with
half-opened buds, were hanging drooping around, quite withered.
"The poor rose bush!" said the child. "Take it, that it may bloom up
yonder."
And the angel took it, and kissed the child, and the little one half
opened his eyes. They plucked some of the rich flowers, but also took
with them the despised buttercup and the wild pansy.
"Now we have flowers," said the child.
And the angel nodded, but he did not yet fly upward to heaven. It was
night and quite silent. They remained in the great city; they floated
about there in a small street, where lay whole heaps of straw, ashes,
and sweepings, for it had been removal-day. There lay fragments of
plates, bits of plaster, rags, and old hats, and all this did not look
well. And the angel pointed amid all this confusion to a few fragments
of a flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out, and which
was kept together by the roots of a great dried field flower, which was
of no use, and had therefore been thrown out into the street.
"We will take that with us," said the angel. "I will tell you why, as we
fly onward.
"Down yonder in the narrow lane, in the low cellar, lived a poor sick
boy; from his childhood he had been bedridden. When he was at his best
he could go up and down the room a few times, leaning on crutches; that
was the utmost he could do. For a few days in summer the sunbeams would
penetrate for a few hours to the ground of the cellar, and when the poor
boy sat there and the sun shone on him, and he looked at the red blood
in his three fingers, as he held them up before his face, he would say,
'Yes, to-day he has been out.' He knew the forest with its beautiful
vernal green only from the fact that the neighbor's son brought him the
first green branch of a beech-tree, and he held that up over his head,
and dreamed he was in the beech wood where the sun shone and the birds
sang. On a spring day the neighbor's boy also brought him field flowers,
and among these was, by chance, one to which the root was hanging; and
so it was planted in a flower-pot, and placed by the bed, close to the
window. And the flower had been planted by a fortunate hand; and it
grew, threw out new shoots, and bore flowers every year. It became as a
splendid flower-garden to the sickly boy--his little treasure here on
earth. He watered it, and tended it, and took care that it had the
benefit of every ray of sunlight, down to the last that struggled in
through the narrow window; and the flower itself was woven into his
dreams, for it grew for him and gladdened his eyes, and spread its
fragrance about him; and toward it he turned in death when the Father
called him. He has now been with the Almighty for a year; for a year the
flower has stood forgotten in the window, and is withered; and thus, at
the removal, it has been thrown out into the dust of the street. And
this is the flower, the poor withered flower, which we have taken into
our nosegay; for this flower has given more joy than the richest flower
in a Queen's garden!"
"But how do you know all this?" asked the child which the angel was
carrying to heaven.
"I know it," said the angel, "for I myself was that little boy who
walked on crutches! I know my flower well!"
And the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious, happy face
of the angel; and at the same moment they entered the regions where
there is peace and joy. And the Father pressed the dead child to His
bosom, and then it received wings like the angel, and flew hand in hand
with him. And the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He
kissed the dry withered field flower, and it received a voice and sang
with all the angels hovering around--some near, and some in wider
circles, and some in infinite distance, but all equally happy. And they
all sang, little and great, the good happy child, and the poor field
flower that had lain there withered, thrown among the dust, in the
rubbish of the removal-day, in the narrow, dark lane.
THE RED SHOES
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
There once was a little girl; a very nice pretty little girl. But in
summer she had to go barefoot, because she was poor, and in winter she
wore thick wooden shoes, so that her little instep became quite red,
altogether red.
In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker's wife; she sat, and
sewed, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes, of old strips of
red cloth; they were clumsy enough, but well meant, and the little girl
was to have them. The little girl's name was Karen.
On the day when her mother was buried she received the red shoes and
wore them for the first time. They were certainly not suited for
mourning; but she had no others, and therefore thrust her little bare
feet into them and walked behind the plain deal coffin.
Suddenly a great carriage came by, and in the carriage sat an old lady;
she looked at the little girl and felt pity for her and said to the
clergyman:
"Give me the little girl and I will provide for her."
Karen thought this was for the sake of the shoes; but the old lady
declared they were hideous; and they were burned. But Karen herself was
clothed neatly and properly: she was taught to read and to sew, and the
people said she was agreeable. But her mirror said, "You are much more
than agreeable; you are beautiful."
Once the Queen travelled through the country, and had her little
daughter with her; and the daughter was a Princess. And the people
flocked toward the castle, and Karen too was among them; and the little
Princess stood in a fine white dress at a window, and let herself be
gazed at. She had neither train nor golden crown, but she wore splendid
red morocco shoes; they were certainly far handsomer than those the
shoemaker's wife had made for little Karen. Nothing in the world can
compare with red shoes!
Now Karen was old enough to be confirmed: new clothes were made for her,
and she was to have new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the
measure of her little feet; this was done in his own house, in his
little room, and there stood great glass cases with neat shoes and
shining boots. It had quite a charming appearance, but the old lady
could not see well, and therefore took no pleasure in it. Among the
shoes stood a red pair, just like those which the princess had worn. How
beautiful they were! The shoemaker also said they had been made for a
Count's child, but they had not fitted.
"That must be patent leather," observed the old lady, "the shoes shine
so!"
"Yes, they shine!" replied Karen; and they fitted her, and were bought.
But the old lady did not know that they were red; for she would never
have allowed Karen to go to the confirmation in red shoes; and that is
what Karen did.
Every one was looking at her shoes. And when she went across the church
porch, toward the door of the choir, it seemed to her as if the old
pictures on the tombstones, the portraits of clergymen and clergymen's
wives, in their stiff collars and long black garments, fixed their eyes
upon her red shoes. And she thought of her shoes only, when the priest
laid his hand upon her head and spoke holy words. And the organ pealed
solemnly, the children sang with their fresh sweet voices, and the old
preceptor sang too; but Karen thought only of her red shoes.
In the afternoon the old lady was informed by everyone that the shoes
were red; and she said it was naughty and unsuitable, and that when
Karen went to church in future, she should always go in black shoes,
even if they were old.
Next Sunday was sacrament Sunday. And Karen looked at the black shoes,
and looked at the red ones--looked at them again--and put on the red
ones.
The sun shone gloriously; Karen and the old lady went along the footpath
through the fields, and it was rather dusty.
By the church door stood an old invalid soldier with a crutch and a long
beard; the beard was rather red than white, for it was red altogether;
and he bowed down almost to the ground, and asked the old lady if he
might dust her shoes. And Karen also stretched out her little foot.
"Look, what pretty dancing shoes!" said the old soldier. "Fit so
tightly when you dance!"
And he tapped the soles with his hand. And the old lady gave the soldier
an alms, and went into the church with Karen.
And every one in the church looked at Karen's red shoes, and all the
pictures looked at them. And while Karen knelt in the church she only
thought of her red shoes; and she forgot to sing her psalm, and forgot
to say her prayer.
Now all the people went out of church, and the old lady stepped into her
carriage. Karen lifted up her foot to step in too; then the old soldier
said:
"Look, what beautiful dancing shoes!"
And Karen could not resist: she was obliged to dance a few steps; and
when she once began, her legs went on dancing. It was just as though the
shoes had obtained power over her. She danced round the corner of the
church--she could not help it; the coachman was obliged to run behind
her and seize her; he lifted her into the carriage, but her feet went on
dancing, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they
took off her shoes, and her legs became quiet.
At home the shoes were put away in a cupboard; but Karen could not
resist looking at them.
Now the old lady became very ill, and it was said she would not recover.
She had to be nursed, and waited on: and this was no one's duty so much
as Karen's. But there was to be a great ball in the town, and Karen was
invited. She looked at the old lady who could not recover; she looked
at the red shoes, and thought there would be no harm in it. She put on
the shoes, and that she might very well do; but they went to the ball
and began to dance.
But when she wished to go to the right hand, the shoes danced to the
left, and when she wanted to go upstairs the shoes danced downward, down
into the street and out at the town gate. She danced, and was obliged to
dance, till she danced straight out into the dark wood.
There was something glistening up among the trees, and she thought it
was the moon, for she saw a face. But it was the old soldier with the
red beard: he sat and nodded, and said:
"Look, what beautiful dancing-shoes!"
Then she was frightened, and wanted to throw away the red shoes; but
they clung fast to her. And she tore off her stockings; but the shoes
had grown fast to her feet. And she danced and was compelled to go
dancing over field and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by
day; but it was most dreadful at night.
She danced out into the open churchyard; but the dead there do not
dance; they have far better things to do. She wished to sit down on the
poor man's grave, where the bitter fern grows; but there was no peace
nor rest for her. And when she danced toward the open church door, she
saw there an angel in long white garments, with wings that reached from
his shoulders to his feet; his countenance was serious and stern, and
in his hand he held a sword that was broad and gleaming.
"Thou shalt dance!" he said--"dance on thy red shoes, till thou art pale
and cold, and till thy body shrivels to a skeleton. Thou shalt dance
from door to door, and where proud, haughty children dwell, shalt thou
knock, that they may hear thee, and be afraid of thee! Thou shalt dance,
dance!"
"Mercy!" cried Karen.
But she did not hear what the angel answered, for the shoes carried her
away--carried her through the door on to the field, over stock and
stone, and she was always obliged to dance.
One morning she danced past a door which she knew well. There was a
sound of psalm-singing within, and a coffin was carried out, adorned
with flowers. Then she knew that the old lady was dead, and she felt
that she was deserted by all, and condemned by the angel of heaven.
She danced, and was compelled to dance--to dance in the dark night. The
shoes carried her on over thorn and brier; she scratched herself till
she bled; she danced away across the heath to a little lonely house.
Here she knew the executioner dwelt; and she tapped with her fingers on
the panes, and called:
"Come out, come out! I cannot come in for I must dance!"
And the executioner said:
"You probably don't know who I am? I cut off the bad people's heads
with my axe, and mark how my axe rings!"
"Do not strike off my head," said Karen, "for if you do I cannot repent
of my sin. But strike off my feet with the red shoes!"
And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner cut off her feet
with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet over
the fields and into the deep forest.
And he cut her a pair of wooden feet, with crutches, and taught her a
psalm, which the criminals always sing; and she kissed the hand that had
held the axe, and went away across the heath.
"Now I have suffered pain enough for the red shoes," said she. "Now I
will go into the church, that they may see me."
And she went quickly toward the church door, but when she came there the
red shoes danced before her, so that she was frightened, and turned
back.
The whole week through she was sorrowful, and wept many bitter tears;
but when Sunday came she said:
"Now I have suffered and striven enough! I think that I am just as good
as many of those who sit in the church and carry their heads high."
And then she went boldly on; but she did not get further than the
churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes dancing along before her;
then she was seized with terror, and turned back, and repented of her
sin right heartily.
And she went to the parsonage, and begged to be taken there as a
servant. She promised to be industrious, and to do all she could; she
did not care for wages, and only wished to be under a roof and with good
people. The clergyman's wife pitied her, and took her into her service.
And she was industrious and thoughtful. Silently she sat and listened
when in the evening the pastor read the Bible aloud. All the little ones
were very fond of her; but when they spoke of dress and splendor and
beauty, she would shake her head.
Next Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked if she wished to
go too, but she looked sadly, with tears in her eyes, at her crutches.
And then the others went to hear God's word; but she went alone into her
little room, which was only large enough to contain her bed and a chair.
And here she sat with her hymn-book; and as she read it with a pious
mind, the wind bore the notes of the organ over to her from the church;
and she lifted up her face, wet with tears, and said:
"O Lord, help me!"
Then the sun shone so brightly; and before her stood the angel in the
white garments, the same as she had seen that night at the church door.
But he no longer grasped the sharp sword; he held a green branch covered
with roses; and he touched the ceiling, and it rose up high, and
wherever he touched it a golden star gleamed forth; and he touched the
walls, and they spread forth widely, and she saw the organ which was
pealing its rich sounds; and she saw the old pictures of clergymen and
their wives; and the congregation sat in the decorated seats, and sang
from their hymn-books. The church had come to the poor girl in her
narrow room, or her chamber had become a church. She sat in the chair
with the rest of the clergyman's people; and when they had finished the
psalm, and looked up, they nodded and said:
"That was right that you came here, Karen."
"It was mercy!" said she.
And the organ sounded its glorious notes; and the children's voices
singing in the chorus sounded sweet and lovely; the clear sunshine
streamed so warm through the window upon the chair in which Karen sat;
and her heart became so filled with sunshine, peace, and joy, that it
broke. Her soul flew on the sunbeams to heaven; and there was nobody who
asked after the RED SHOES.
THE LOVLIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Once there reigned a Queen, in whose garden were found the most glorious
flowers at all seasons and from all the lands in the world; but
especially she loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most various
kinds of this flower, from the wild dog-rose, with the apple-scented
green leaves, to the most splendid Provence rose. They grew against the
earth walls, wound themselves round pillars and window-frames, into the
passages, and all along the ceiling in all the halls. And the roses were
various in fragrance, form, and color.
But care and sorrow dwelt in these halls: the Queen lay upon a sick-bed,
and the doctors declared that she must die.
"There is still one thing that can serve her," said the wisest of them.
"Bring her the loveliest rose in the world, the one which is the
expression of the brightest and purest love; for if that is brought
before her eyes ere they close, she will not die."