knew not on which side to fall, and therefore remained standing. The
wind blew violently, so that our poor little Duckling was obliged to
support himself on his tail, in order to stand against it; but it
became worse and worse. He then remarked that the door had lost one of
its hinges, and hung so much awry that he could creep through the
crevice into the room, which he did.
In this room lived an old woman, with her Tom-cat and her Hen; and the
Cat, whom she called her little son, knew how to set up his back and
purr; indeed, he could even emit sparks when stroked the wrong way.
The Hen had very short legs, and was therefore called "Cuckoo
Short-legs"; she laid very good eggs, and the old woman loved her as
her own child.
The next morning the new guest was perceived. The Cat began to mew and
the Hen to cackle.
"What is the matter?" asked the old woman, looking round; however, her
eyes were not good, so she took the young Duckling to be a fat Duck
who had lost her way. "This is a capital catch," said she; "I shall
now have ducks' eggs, if it be not a drake: we must try."
And so the Duckling was put to the proof for three weeks, but no eggs
made their appearance.
Now the Cat was the master of the house, and the Hen was the mistress,
and they used always to say, "We and the world," for they imagined
themselves to be not only the half of the world, but also by far the
better half. The Duckling thought it was possible to be of a different
opinion, but that the Hen would not allow.
"Can you lay eggs?" asked she.
"No."
[Illustration]
"Well, then, hold your tongue."
And the Cat said, "Can you set up your back? can you purr?"
"No."
"Well, then, you should have no opinion when reasonable persons are
speaking."
So the Duckling sat alone in a corner, and was in a very bad humor;
however, he happened to think of the fresh air and bright sunshine,
and these thoughts gave him such a strong desire to swim again, that
he could not help telling it to the Hen.
"What ails you?" said the Hen. "You have nothing to do, and therefore
brood over these fancies; either lay eggs or purr, then you will
forget them."
"But it is so delicious to swim!" said the Duckling; "so delicious
when the waters close over your head, and you plunge to the bottom!"
"Well, that is a queer sort of pleasure," said the Hen; "I think you
must be crazy. Not to speak of myself, ask the Cat--he is the most
sensible animal I know--whether he would like to swim, or to plunge to
the bottom of the water. Ask our mistress, the old woman,--there is no
one in the world wiser than she; do you think she would take pleasure
in swimming, and in the waters closing over her head?"
"You do not understand me," said the Duckling.
"What, we do not understand you! So you think yourself wiser than the
Cat and the old woman, not to speak of myself. Do not fancy any such
thing, child, but be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown
you. Are you not lodged in a warm room, and have you not the advantage
of society from which you can learn something? But you are a
simpleton, and it is wearisome to have anything to do with you.
Believe me, I wish you well. I tell you unpleasant truths, but it is
thus that real friendship is shown. Come, for once give yourself the
trouble to learn to purr, or to lay eggs."
"I think I will go out into the wide world again," said the Duckling.
"Well, go," answered the Hen.
So the Duckling went. He swam on the surface of the water, he plunged
beneath, but all animals passed him by on account of his ugliness.
And the autumn came, the leaves turned yellow and brown, the wind
caught them and danced them about, the air was very cold, the clouds
were heavy with hail or snow, and the raven sat on the hedge and
croaked, the poor Duckling was certainly not very comfortable!
One evening, just as the sun was setting with unusual brilliancy, a
flock of large, beautiful birds rose from out the brushwood; the
Duckling had never seen anything so beautiful before; their plumage
was of a dazzling white, and they had long slender necks. They were
swans; they uttered a singular cry, spread out their long, splendid
wings, and flew away from these cold regions to warmer countries,
across the open sea. They flew so high, so very high! and the little
Ugly Duckling's feelings were so strange; he turned round and round in
the water like a mill-wheel, strained his neck to look after them, and
sent forth such a loud and strange cry that it almost frightened
himself. Ah! he could not forget them, those noble birds! those happy
birds! When he could see them no longer, he plunged to the bottom of
the water, and when he rose again was almost beside himself. The
Duckling knew not what the birds were called, knew not whither they
were flying, yet he loved them as he had never before loved anything;
he envied them not, it would never have occurred to him to wish such
beauty for himself; he would have been quite contented if the ducks in
the duck-yard had but endured his company,--the poor, ugly animal!
And the winter was so cold, so cold! The Duckling was obliged to swim
round and round in the water, to keep it from freezing; but every
night the opening in which he swam became smaller and smaller; it
froze so that the crust of ice crackled; the Duckling was obliged to
make good use of his legs to prevent the water from freezing entirely;
at last, wearied out, he lay stiff and cold in the ice.
Early in the morning there passed by a peasant, who saw him, broke the
ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and brought him home to his wife.
He now revived; the children would have played with him, but our
Duckling thought they wished to tease him, and in his terror jumped
into the milk-pail, so that the milk was spilled about the room; the
good woman screamed and clapped her hands; he flew thence into the pan
where the butter was kept, and thence into the meal-barrel, and out
again, and then how strange he looked!
The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs, the children ran
races with each other trying to catch him, and laughed and screamed
likewise. It was well for him that the door stood open; he jumped out
among the bushes into the new-fallen snow,--he lay there as in a
dream.
But it would be too melancholy to relate all the trouble and misery
that he was obliged to suffer during the severity of the winter. He
was lying on a moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine
warmly again, the larks sang, and beautiful spring had returned.
And once more he shook his wings. They were stronger than formerly,
and bore him forwards quickly, and, before he was well aware of it, he
was in a large garden where the apple-trees stood in full bloom, where
the syringas sent forth their fragrance, and hung their long green
branches down into the winding canal. O, everything was so lovely, so
full of the freshness of spring! And out of the thicket came three
beautiful white Swans. They displayed their feathers so proudly, and
swam so lightly, so lightly! The Duckling knew the glorious creatures,
and was seized with a strange melancholy.
"I will fly to them, those kingly birds!" said he. "They will kill me,
because I, ugly as I am, have presumed to approach them. But it
matters not; better to be killed by them than to be bitten by the
ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the girl who feeds the poultry,
and to have so much to suffer during the winter!" He flew into the
water, and swam towards the beautiful creatures; they saw him and shot
forward to meet him. "Only kill me," said the poor animal, and he
bowed his head low, expecting death; but what did he see in the
water? He saw beneath him his own form, no longer that of a plump,
ugly, gray bird,--it was that of a Swan.
It matters not to have been born in a duck-yard, if one has been
hatched from a Swan's egg.
The good creature felt himself really elevated by all the troubles and
adversities he had experienced. He could now rightly estimate his own
happiness, and the larger Swans swam around him, and stroked him with
their beaks.
Some little children were running about in the garden; they threw
grain and bread into the water, and the youngest exclaimed, "There is
a new one!" the others also cried out, "Yes, there is a new Swan
come!" and they clapped their hands, and danced around. They ran to
their father and mother, bread and cake were thrown into the water,
and every one said, "The new one is the best, so young and so
beautiful!" and the old Swans bowed before him. The young Swan felt
quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings; he scarcely knew what
to do, he was all too happy, but still not proud, for a good heart is
never proud.
He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided, and he now heard
every one say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. The
syringas bent down their branches towards him low into the water, and
the sun shone so warmly and brightly,--he shook his feathers,
stretched his slender neck, and in the joy of his heart said, "How
little did I dream of so much happiness when I was the ugly, despised
Duckling!"
_Hans Christian Andersen._
THE POET AND HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER.
It was a June morning. Roses and yellow jasmine covered the old wall
in the Poet's garden. The little brown mason bees flew in and out of
their holds beneath the pink and white and yellow flowers.
Peacock-butterflies, with large blue eyes on their crimson velvet
wings, fluttered about and settled on the orange-brown wall-flowers.
Aloft, in the broad-leaved sycamore-tree, the blackbird was singing as
if he were out of his senses for joy; his song was as loud as any
nightingale, and his heart was glad, because his young brood was
hatched, and he knew that they now sat with their little yellow beaks
poking out of the nest, and thinking what a famous bird their father
was. All the robins and tomtits and linnets and redstarts that sat in
the trees of the garden den shouted vivas and bravuras, and encored
him delightfully.
The Poet himself sat under the double-flowering hawthorn, which was
then all in blossom. He sat on a rustic seat, and his best friend sat
beside him. Beneath the lower branches of the tree was hung the
canary-bird's cage, which the children had brought out because the day
was so fine, and the little canary loved fresh air and the smell of
flowers. It never troubled him that other birds flew about from one
end of the garden to the other, or sat and sung on the leafy branches,
for he loved his cage; and when the old blackbird poured forth his
grand melodies, the little canary sat like a prince in a stage-box,
and nodded his head, and sang an accompaniment.
One of the Poet's children, his little daughter, sat in her own little
garden, which was full of flowers, while bees and butterflies flitted
about in the sunshine. The child, however, was not noticing them; she
was thinking only of one thing, and that was the large daisy-root
which was all in flower; it was the largest daisy-root in the whole
garden, and two-and-fifty double pink-and-white daisies were crowded
upon it. They were, however, no longer daisies to the child's eyes,
but two-and-fifty little charity children in green stuff gowns, and
white tippets, and white linen caps, that had a holiday given them.
She saw them all, with their pink cheeks and bright eyes, running in a
group and talking as they went; the hum of the bees around seeming to
be the pleasant sound of their voices. The child was happy to think
that two-and-fifty charity children were let loose from school to run
about in the sunshine. Her heart went with them, and she was so full
of joy that she started up to tell her father, who was sitting with
his best friend under the hawthorn-tree.
[Illustration]
Sad and bitter thoughts, however, just then oppressed the Poet's
heart. He had been disappointed where he had hoped for good; his soul
was under a cloud; and as the child ran up to tell him about the
little charity children in whose joy she thought he would sympathize,
she heard him say to his friend, "I have no longer any hope of human
nature now. It is a poor miserable thing, and is not worth working
for. My best endeavors have been spent in its service,--my youth and
my manhood's strength, my very life,--and this is my reward! I will
no longer strive to do good. I will write for money alone, as others
do, and not for the good of mankind!"
The Poet's words were bitter, and tears came into the eyes of his best
friend. Never had the child heard such words from her father before,
for he had always been to her as a great and good angel.
"I will write," said he, "henceforth for money, as others do, and not
for the good of mankind."
"My father, if you do," said the child, in a tone of mournful
indignation, "I will never read what you write! I will trample your
writings under my feet!"
Large tears rolled down her cheeks, and her eyes were fixed on her
father's face.
The Poet took the child in his arms and kissed her. An angel touched
his heart, and he now felt that he could forgive his bitterest
enemies.
"I will tell you a story, my child," he said, in his usually mild
voice.
The child leaned her head against his breast, and listened.
"Once upon a time," he began, "there was a man who dwelt in a great,
wide wilderness. He was a poor man, and worked very hard for his
bread. He lived in a cave of a rock, and because the sun shone burning
hot into the cave, he twined roses and jessamines and honeysuckles all
around it; and in front of it, and on the ledges of the rock, he
planted ferns and sweet shrubs, and made it very pleasant. Water ran
gurgling from a fissure in the rock into a little basin, whence it
poured in gentle streams through the garden, in which grew all kinds
of delicious fruits. Birds sang in the tall trees which Nature herself
had planted; and little squirrels, and lovely green lizards, with
bright, intelligent eyes, lived in the branches and among the flowers.
"All would have gone well with the man, had not evil spirits taken
possession of his cave. They troubled him night and day. They dropped
canker-blight upon his roses, nipped off his jasmine and
honeysuckle-flowers, and, in the form of caterpillars and blight, ate
his beautiful fruits.
"It made the man angry and bitter in his feelings. The flowers were no
longer beautiful to him, and when he looked on them he thought only of
the canker and the caterpillar.
"'I can no longer take pleasure in them,' he said; 'I will leave the
cave, and go elsewhere.'
"He did so; and travelled on and on, a long way. But it was a vast
wilderness in which he dwelt, and thus it was many and many a weary
day before he came to a place of rest; nor did he know that all this
time the evil spirits who had plagued him so in his own cave were
still going with him.
"But so they were. And they made every place he came to seem worse
than the last. Their very breath cast a blight upon everything.
"He was footsore and weary, and very miserable. A feeling like despair
was in his heart, and he said that he might as well die as live. He
lay down in the wilderness, so unhappy was he, and scarcely had he
done so, when he heard behind him the pleasantest sound in the
world,--a little child singing like a bird, because her heart was
innocent and full of joy; and the next moment she was at his side.
"The evil spirits that were about him drew back a little when they saw
her coming, because she brought with her a beautiful company of angels
and bright spirits,--little cherubs with round, rosy cheeks, golden
hair, and laughing eyes between two dove's wings as white as snow. The
child had not the least idea that these beautiful spirits were always
about her; all she knew was that she was full of joy, and that she
loved above all things to do good. When she saw the poor man lying
there, she went up to him, and talked to him so pityingly, and yet so
cheerfully, that he felt as if her words would cure him. She told him
that she lived just by, and that he should go with her, and rest and
get well in her cave.
"He went with her, and found that her cave was just such a one as his
own, only much smaller. Roses and honeysuckles and jasmine grew all
around it; and birds were singing, and goldfish were sporting about
in the water; and there were beds of strawberries, all red and
luscious, that filled the air with fragrance.
"It was a beautiful place. There seemed to be no canker nor blight on
anything. And yet the man saw how spiders had woven webs like the most
beautiful lace from one vine-branch to another; and butterflies that
once had been devouring caterpillars were flitting about. Just as in
his own garden, yellow frogs were squatted under the cool green
strawberry leaves. But the child loved both the frogs and the green
lizards, and said that they did her no harm, and that there were
plenty of strawberries both for them and for her.
"The evil spirits that had troubled the man, and followed him, could
not get into the child's garden. It was impossible, because all those
rosy-cheeked cherubs and white-robed angels lived there; and that
which is good, be it ever so small, is a great deal stronger than that
which is evil, be it ever so large. They therefore sat outside and bit
their nails for vexation; and as the man stayed a long time with the
child, they got so tired of waiting that a good number of them flew
away forever.
"At length the man kissed the child and went back to his own place;
and when he got there he had the pleasure of finding that, owing to
the evil spirits having been so long away, the flowers and fruits had,
in great measure, recovered themselves. There was hardly any canker or
blight left. And as the child came now very often to see him,--for,
after all, they did not live so very far apart, only that the man had
wandered a long way round in the wilderness,--and brought with her all
the bright company that dwelt with her, the place was freed, at least
while she stayed, from the evil ones.
"This is a true story, a perfectly true story," added the Poet, when
he had brought his little narrative to an end; "and there are many men
who live like him in a wilderness, and who go a long way round about
before they can find a resting-place. And happy is it for such when
they can have a child for their neighbor; for our Divine Master has
himself told us that blessed are little children, and that of such is
the kingdom of heaven!"
The Poet was silent. His little daughter kissed him, and then, without
saying a word about the little charity children, ran off to sit down
beside them again, and perhaps to tell them the story which her father
had just related to her.
_Mary Howitt._
[Illustration]
THE RED FLOWER.
What it was, where it grew, I should find it difficult to tell you. I
had seen it once, when a little child, in a stony road, among the
thorns of a hedge; and I had gathered it. Ah! that was certain! It
waved at the end of a long stalk; its petals were of a flame-like red;
its form was unlike anything known, resembling somewhat a censer, from
which issued golden stamens.
Since those earliest days, I had often sought it, often asked for it.
When I mentioned it, people laughed at me. I spoke of the flower no
more, but I sought for it still.
"Impossible!" Experience writes the word in the dictionary of the man.
In the child's vocabulary, it has no existence. The marvellous to him
is perfectly natural. Things which he sees to be beautiful arrange
themselves along his path; why should he have a doubt of this or of
that? By and by, exact bounds will limit his domain. A faint line,
then a barrier, then a wall: erelong the wall will rise and surround
the man,--a dungeon from which he must have wings to escape.
Around the child are neither walls nor boundary lines, but a limitless
expanse, everywhere glowing with beautiful colors. In the far-off
depths, reality mingles with revery. It is like an ocean whose blue
waves glimmer and sparkle on the horizon, where they kiss the shores
of enchanted isles.
I sought the red flower. Have you never searched for it too?
This morning, in the spring atmosphere, its memory came back to my
heart. It seemed to me that I should find it; and I walked on at
random.
I went through solitary footpaths. The laborers had gone to their
noonday repose. The meadows were all in bloom. Weeds, growing in spite
of wind and tide spread a golden carpet beside the rose-colored
meadow-grass. In the wet places were tangles of pale blue
forget-me-nots; beyond them, tufts of the azure veronica, and over the
stream hung the straw-colored lotus. Under the grain, yet green,
corn-poppies were waving. With every breeze a scarlet wave arose,
swelled, and vanished.
[Illustration]
Blue butterflies danced before me, mingling and dispersing like
floating flower-petals in the air. Under the umbelled plants was a
pavement of beetles, of black and purple mosaic. On the tufts of the
verbena gathered insects with shells blazoned like the escutcheons of
the knights of the Middle Ages. The quail was calling in the thickets;
three notes here, and three there. I found myself on the skirt of a
pine forest, and I seated myself on the grass.
The red flower! I thought of it no longer. The butterflies had carried
it away. I thought how beautiful life is on a spring morning; what
happiness it is to open the lips and inhale the fresh air; what joy to
open the eyes and behold the earth in her bridal robes; what delight
to open the hands and gather the sweet-smelling blossoms. Then I
thought of the God of the heavens, that, arching above me, spoke of
his power. I thought of the Lord of the little ones,--of the insects
that, flitting about me, spoke of his goodness. All these accents
awoke a chord in harmony with that which burst forth from the
blossoming meadows.
I arose, and came to a recess in the shadowy edge of the forest.
As I walked, something glowed in the grass; something dazzled me;
something made my heart throb. It was the red flower!
I seized it. I held it tightly in my hand. It was the flower; yes, it
was the same, but with a strange, new splendor. I possessed it, yet I
dared not look upon it.
Suddenly I felt the blossom tremble in my fingers. They loosened their
grasp. The flower dilated. It expanded its carnation petals, slightly
tinged with green; it spread out a purple calyx; two stamens, two
antennæ, vibrated a moment. The blossom quivered; some breath had made
it shudder; its wings unfolded. As I gazed, it fluttered a little,
then rose in a golden sunbeam; its colors played in the different
strata of the air, the roseate, the azure, the ether; it disappeared.
O my flower! I know whither thou goest and whence thou comest! I know
the hidden sources of thine eternal bloom. I know the Word that
created thee; I know the Eden where thou growest!
Winged flower! he who falters in his search for thee will never find
thee. He who seeks thee on earth may grasp thee, but will surely lose
thee again. Flower of Paradise, thou belongest only to him who
searches for thee where thou hast been planted by the hand of the
Lord.
_Madame De Gasparin._
[Illustration]
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END.
I.
There was once a child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there
was nothing but a little bed, and a looking-glass which hung in a dark
corner. Now the child cared nothing at all about the looking-glass,
but as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through the casement
and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him
merrily with their morning songs, he arose and went out into the green
meadow. And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet,
and butter of the buttercup; he shook dew-drops from the cowslip into
the cup of a harebell; spread out a large lime-leaf, set his little
breakfast upon it, and feasted daintily. Sometimes he invited a
humming-bee, oftener a gay butterfly, to partake of his feast; but his
favorite guest was the blue dragon-fly. The bee murmured a good deal,
in a solemn tone, about his riches; but the child thought that if _he_
were a bee, heaps of treasure would not make him gay and happy; and
that it must be much more delightful and glorious to float about in
the free and fresh breezes of spring, and to hum joyously in the web
of the sunbeams, than, with heavy feet and heavy heart, to stow the
silver wax and the golden honey into cells.