TWENTY-FIRST EVENING "I saw a little girl weeping," said the Moon; "she was weeping over the depravity of the world. She had received a most beautiful doll as a present. Oh, that was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate! She did not seem created for the sorrows of this world. But the brothers of the little girl, those great naughty boys, had set the doll high up in the branches of a tree and had run away. "The little girl could not reach up to the doll, and could not help her down, and that is why she was crying. The doll must certainly have been crying too, for she stretched out her arms among the green branches, and looked quite mournful. Yes, these are the troubles of life of which the little girl had often heard tell. Alas, poor doll! it began to grow dark already; and suppose night were to come on completely! Was she to be left sitting on the bough all night long? No, the little maid could not make up her mind to that. 'I'll stay with you,' she said, although she felt anything but happy in her mind. She could almost fancy she distinctly saw little gnomes, with their high-crowned hats, sitting in the bushes; and further back in the long walk, tall spectres appeared to be dancing. They came nearer and nearer, and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the doll sat; they laughed scornfully, and pointed at her with their fingers. Oh, how frightened the little maid was! 'But if one has not done anything wrong,' she thought, 'nothing evil can harm one. I wonder if I have done anything wrong?' And she considered. 'Oh, yes! I laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg; she limped along so funnily, I could not help laughing; but it's a sin to laugh at animals.' And she looked up at the doll. 'Did you laugh at the duck too?' she asked; and it seemed as if the doll shook her head." TWENTY-SECOND EVENING "I looked down upon Tyrol," said the Moon, "and my beams caused the dark pines to throw long shadows upon the rocks. I looked at the pictures of St. Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus that are painted there upon the walls of the houses, colossal figures reaching from the ground to the roof. St. Florian was represented pouring water on the burning house, and the Lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the wayside. To the present generation these are old pictures, but I saw when they were put up, and marked how one followed the other. On the brow of the mountain yonder is perched, like a swallow's nest, a lonely convent of nuns. Two of the sisters stood up in the tower tolling the bell; they were both young, and therefore their glances flew over the mountain out into the world. A travelling coach passed by below, the postillion wound his horn, and the poor nuns looked after the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance, and a tear gleamed in the eyes of the younger one. And the horn sounded faint and more faintly, and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes." TWENTY-THIRD EVENING Hear what the Moon told me. "Some years ago, here in Copenhagen, I looked through the window of a mean little room. The father and mother slept, but the little son was not asleep. I saw the flowered cotton curtains of the bed move, and the child peep forth. At first I thought he was looking at the great clock, which was gaily painted in red and green. At the top sat a cuckoo, below hung the heavy leaden weights, and the pendulum with the polished disc of metal went to and fro, and said 'tick, tick.' But no, he was not looking at the clock, but at his mother's spinning wheel, that stood just underneath it. That was the boy's favourite piece of furniture, but he dared not touch it, for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the knuckles. For hours together, when his mother was spinning, he would sit quietly by her side, watching the murmuring spindle and the revolving wheel, and as he sat he thought of many things. Oh, if he might only turn the wheel himself! Father and mother were asleep; he looked at them, and looked at the spinning wheel, and presently a little naked foot peered out of the bed, and then a second foot, and then two little white legs. There he stood. He looked round once more, to see if father and mother were still asleep- yes, they slept; and now he crept softly, softly, in his short little nightgown, to the spinning wheel, and began to spin. The thread flew from the wheel, and the wheel whirled faster and faster. I kissed his fair hair and his blue eyes, it was such a pretty picture. "At that moment the mother awoke. The curtain shook, she looked forth, and fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little spectre. 'In Heaven's name!' she cried, and aroused her husband in a frightened way. He opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and looked at the brisk little lad. 'Why, that is Bertel,' said he. And my eye quitted the poor room, for I have so much to see. At the same moment I looked at the halls of the Vatican, where the marble gods are enthroned. I shone upon the group of the Laocoon; the stone seemed to sigh. I pressed a silent kiss on the lips of the Muses, and they seemed to stir and move. But my rays lingered longest about the Nile group with the colossal god. Leaning against the Sphinx, he lies there thoughtful and meditative, as if he were thinking on the rolling centuries; and little love-gods sport with him and with the crocodiles. In the horn of plenty sat with folded arms a little tiny love-god, contemplating the great solemn river-god, a true picture of the boy at the spinning wheel- the features were exactly the same. Charming and life-like stood the little marble form, and yet the wheel of the year has turned more than a thousand times since the time when it sprang forth from the stone. Just as often as the boy in the little room turned the spinning wheel had the great wheel murmured, before the age could again call forth marble gods equal to those he afterwards formed. "Years have passed since all this happened," the Moon went on to say. "Yesterday I looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of Denmark. Glorious woods are there, and high trees, an old knightly castle with red walls, swans floating in the ponds, and in the background appears, among orchards, a little town with a church. Many boats, the crews all furnished with torches, glided over the silent expanse- but these fires had not been kindled for catching fish, for everything had a festive look. Music sounded, a song was sung, and in one of the boats the man stood erect to whom homage was paid by the rest, a tall sturdy man, wrapped in a cloak. He had blue eyes and long white hair. I knew him, and thought of the Vatican, and of the group of the Nile, and the old marble gods. I thought of the simple little room where little Bertel sat in his night-shirt by the spinning wheel. The wheel of time has turned, and new gods have come forth from the stone. From the boats there arose a shout: 'Hurrah, hurrah for Bertel Thorwaldsen!'" TWENTY-FOURTH EVENING "I will now give you a picture from Frankfort," said the Moon. "I especially noticed one building there. It was not the house in which Goethe was born, nor the old Council House, through whose grated windows peered the horns of the oxen that were roasted and given to the people when the emperors were crowned. No, it was a private house, plain in appearance, and painted green. It stood near the old Jews' Street. It was Rothschild's house. "I looked through the open door. The staircase was brilliantly lighted: servants carrying wax candles in massive silver candlesticks stood there, and bowed low before an old woman, who was being brought downstairs in a litter. The proprietor of the house stood bare-headed, and respectfully imprinted a kiss on the hand of the old woman. She was his mother. She nodded in a friendly manner to him and to the servants, and they carried her into the dark narrow street, into a little house, that was her dwelling. Here her children had been born, from hence the fortune of the family had arisen. If she deserted the despised street and the little house, fortune would also desert her children. That was her firm belief." The Moon told me no more; his visit this evening was far too short. But I thought of the old woman in the narrow despised street. It would have cost her but a word, and a brilliant house would have arisen for her on the banks of the Thames- a word, and a villa would have been prepared in the Bay of Naples. "If I deserted the lowly house, where the fortunes of my sons first began to bloom, fortune would desert them!" It was a superstition, but a superstition of such a class, that he who knows the story and has seen this picture, need have only two words placed under the picture to make him understand it; and these two words are: "A mother." TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING "It was yesterday, in the morning twilight"- these are the words the Moon told me- "in the great city no chimney was yet smoking- and it was just at the chimneys that I was looking. Suddenly a little head emerged from one of them, and then half a body, the arms resting on the rim of the chimney-pot. 'Ya-hip! ya-hip!' cried a voice. It was the little chimney-sweeper, who had for the first time in his life crept through a chimney, and stuck out his head at the top. 'Ya-hip! ya-hip' Yes, certainly that was a very different thing to creeping about in the dark narrow chimneys! the air blew so fresh, and he could look over the whole city towards the green wood. The sun was just rising. It shone round and great, just in his face, that beamed with triumph, though it was very prettily blacked with soot. "'The whole town can see me now,' he exclaimed, 'and the moon can see me now, and the sun too. Ya-hip! ya-hip!' And he flourished his broom in triumph." TWENTY-SIXTH EVENING "Last night I looked down upon a town in China," said the Moon. "My beams irradiated the naked walls that form the streets there. Now and then, certainly, a door is seen; but it is locked, for what does the Chinaman care about the outer world? Close wooden shutters covered the windows behind the walls of the houses; but through the windows of the temple a faint light glimmered. I looked in, and saw the quaint decorations within. From the floor to the ceiling pictures are painted, in the most glaring colours, and richly gilt- pictures representing the deeds of the gods here on earth. In each niche statues are placed, but they are almost entirely hidden by the coloured drapery and the banners that hang down. Before each idol (and they are all made of tin) stood a little altar of holy water, with flowers and burning wax lights on it. Above all the rest stood Fo, the chief deity, clad in a garment of yellow silk, for yellow is here the sacred colour. At the foot of the altar sat a living being, a young priest. He appeared to be praying, but in the midst of his prayer he seemed to fall into deep thought, and this must have been wrong, for his cheeks glowed and he held down his head. Poor Soui-Hong! Was he, perhaps, dreaming of working in the little flower garden behind the high street wall? And did that occupation seem more agreeable to him than watching the wax lights in the temple? Or did he wish to sit at the rich feast, wiping his mouth with silver paper between each course? Or was his sin so great that, if he dared utter it, the Celestial Empire would punish it with death? Had his thoughts ventured to fly with the ships of the barbarians, to their homes in far distant England? No, his thoughts did not fly so far, and yet they were sinful, sinful as thoughts born of young hearts, sinful here in the temple, in the presence of Fo and the other holy gods. "I know whither his thoughts had strayed. At the farther end of the city, on the flat roof paved with porcelain, on which stood the handsome vases covered with painted flowers, sat the beauteous Pu, of the little roguish eyes, of the full lips, and of the tiny feet. The tight shoe pained her, but her heart pained her still more. She lifted her graceful round arm, and her satin dress rustled. Before her stood a glass bowl containing four gold-fish. She stirred the bowl carefully with a slender lacquered stick, very slowly, for she, too, was lost in thought. Was she thinking, perchance, how the fishes were richly clothed in gold, how they lived calmly and peacefully in their crystal world, how they were regularly fed, and yet how much happier they might be if they were free? Yes, that she could well understand, the beautiful Pu. Her thoughts wandered away from her home, wandered to the temple, but not for the sake of holy things. Poor Pu! Poor Soui-hong! "Their earthly thoughts met, but my cold beam lay between the two, like the sword of the cherub." TWENTY-SEVENTH EVENING "The air was calm," said the Moon; "the water was transparent as the purest ether through which I was gliding, and deep below the surface I could see the strange plants that stretched up their long arms towards me like the gigantic trees of the forest. The fishes swam to and fro above their tops. High in the air a flight of wild swans were winging their way, one of which sank lower and lower, with wearied pinions, his eyes following the airy caravan, that melted farther and farther into the distance. With outspread wings he sank slowly, as a soap bubble sinks in the still air, till he touched the water. At length his head lay back between his wings, and silently he lay there, like a white lotus flower upon the quiet lake. And a gentle wind arose, and crisped the quiet surface, which gleamed like the clouds that poured along in great broad waves; and the swan raised his head, and the glowing water splashed like blue fire over his breast and back. The morning dawn illuminated the red clouds, the swan rose strengthened, and flew towards the rising sun, towards the bluish coast whither the caravan had gone; but he flew alone, with a longing in his breast. Lonely he flew over the blue swelling billows." TWENTY-EIGHTH EVENING "I will give you another picture of Sweden," said the Moon. "Among dark pine woods, near the melancholy banks of the Stoxen, lies the old convent church of Wreta. My rays glided through the grating into the roomy vaults, where kings sleep tranquilly in great stone coffins. On the wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem of earthly grandeur, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted and gilt, and is hung on a wooden peg driven into the wall. The worms have gnawed the gilded wood, the spider has spun her web from the crown down to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail and transient as the grief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can remember them quite plainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips, that so strongly and plainly expressed joy or grief. When the steamboat winds along like a magic snail over the lakes, a stranger often comes to the church, and visits the burial vault; he asks the names of the kings, and they have a dead and forgotten sound. He glances with a smile at the worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be a pious, thoughtful man, something of melancholy mingles with the smile. Slumber on, ye dead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at night sends down his rays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs the crown of pine wood." TWENTY-NINTH EVENING "Close by the high-road," said the Moon, "is an inn, and opposite to it is a great waggon-shed, whose straw roof was just being re-thatched. I looked down between the bare rafters and through the open loft into the comfortless space below. The turkey-cock slept on the beam, and the saddle rested in the empty crib. In the middle of the shed stood a travelling carriage; the proprietor was inside, fast asleep, while the horses were being watered. The coachman stretched himself, though I am very sure that he had been most comfortably asleep half the last stage. The door of the servants' room stood open, and the bed looked as if it had been turned over and over; the candle stood on the floor, and had burnt deep down into the socket. The wind blew cold through the shed: it was nearer to the dawn than to midnight. In the wooden frame on the ground slept a wandering family of musicians. The father and mother seemed to be dreaming of the burning liquor that remained in the bottle. The little pale daughter was dreaming too, for her eyes were wet with tears. The harp stood at their heads, and the dog lay stretched at their feet." THIRTIETH EVENING "It was in a little provincial town," the Moon said; "it certainly happened last year, but that has nothing to do with the matter. I saw it quite plainly. To-day I read about it in the papers, but there it was not half so clearly expressed. In the taproom of the little inn sat the bear leader, eating his supper; the bear was tied up outside, behind the wood pile- poor Bruin, who did nobody any harm, though he looked grim enough. Up in the garret three little children were playing by the light of my beams; the eldest was perhaps six years old, the youngest certainly not more than two. 'Tramp, tramp'- somebody was coming upstairs: who might it be? The door was thrust open- it was Bruin, the great, shaggy Bruin! He had got tired of waiting down in the courtyard, and had found his way to the stairs. I saw it all," said the Moon. "The children were very much frightened at first at the great shaggy animal; each of them crept into a corner, but he found them all out, and smelt at them, but did them no harm. 'This must be a great dog,' they said, and began to stroke him. He lay down upon the ground, the youngest boy clambered on his back, and bending down a little head of golden curls, played at hiding in the beast's shaggy skin. Presently the eldest boy took his drum, and beat upon it till it rattled again; the bear rose upon his hind legs, and began to dance. It was a charming sight to behold. Each boy now took his gun, and the bear was obliged to have one too, and he held it up quite properly. Here was a capital playmate they had found; and they began marching- one, two; one, two. "Suddenly some one came to the door, which opened, and the mother of the children appeared. You should have seen her in her dumb terror, with her face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and her eyes fixed in a horrified stare. But the youngest boy nodded to her in great glee, and called out in his infantile prattle, 'We're playing at soldiers.' And then the bear leader came running up." THIRTY-FIRST EVENING The wind blew stormy and cold, the clouds flew hurriedly past; only 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 his face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was closed, the whip cracked, and the horses gallopped 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 UGLY DUCKLING



IT was lovely summer weather in the country, and the
golden corn, the green oats, and the haystacks piled up in the
meadows looked beautiful. The stork walking about on his long
red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had
learnt from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were
surrounded by large forests, in the midst of which were deep
pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about in the
country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close
by a deep river, and from the house down to the water side
grew great burdock leaves, so high, that under the tallest of
them a little child could stand upright. The spot was as wild
as the centre of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck
on her nest, watching for her young brood to hatch; she was
beginning to get tired of her task, for the little ones were a
long time coming out of their shells, and she seldom had any
visitors. The other ducks liked much better to swim about in
the river than to climb the slippery banks, and sit under a
burdock leaf, to have a gossip with her. At length one shell
cracked, and then another, and from each egg came a living
creature that lifted its head and cried, "Peep, peep." "Quack,
quack," said the mother, and then they all quacked as well as
they could, and looked about them on every side at the large
green leaves. Their mother allowed them to look as much as
they liked, because green is good for the eyes. "How large the
world is," said the young ducks, when they found how much more
room they now had than while they were inside the egg-shell.
"Do you imagine this is the whole world?" asked the mother;
"Wait till you have seen the garden; it stretches far beyond
that to the parson's field, but I have never ventured to such
a distance. Are you all out?" she continued, rising; "No, I
declare, the largest egg lies there still. I wonder how long
this is to last, I am quite tired of it;" and she seated
herself again on the nest.

"Well, how are you getting on?" asked an old duck, who
paid her a visit.

"One egg is not hatched yet," said the duck, "it will not
break. But just look at all the others, are they not the
prettiest little ducklings you ever saw? They are the image of
their father, who is so unkind, he never comes to see."

"Let me see the egg that will not break," said the duck;
"I have no doubt it is a turkey's egg. I was persuaded to
hatch some once, and after all my care and trouble with the
young ones, they were afraid of the water. I quacked and
clucked, but all to no purpose. I could not get them to
venture in. Let me look at the egg. Yes, that is a turkey's
egg; take my advice, leave it where it is and teach the other
children to swim."

"I think I will sit on it a little while longer," said the
duck; "as I have sat so long already, a few days will be
nothing."

"Please yourself," said the old duck, and she went away.

At last the large egg broke, and a young one crept forth
crying, "Peep, peep." It was very large and ugly. The duck
stared at it and exclaimed, "It is very large and not at all
like the others. I wonder if it really is a turkey. We shall
soon find it out, however when we go to the water. It must go
in, if I have to push it myself."

On the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun
shone brightly on the green burdock leaves, so the mother duck
took her young brood down to the water, and jumped in with a
splash. "Quack, quack," cried she, and one after another the
little ducklings jumped in. The water closed over their heads,
but they came up again in an instant, and swam about quite
prettily with their legs paddling under them as easily as
possible, and the ugly duckling was also in the water swimming
with them.

"Oh," said the mother, "that is not a turkey; how well he
uses his legs, and how upright he holds himself! He is my own
child, and he is not so very ugly after all if you look at him
properly. Quack, quack! come with me now, I will take you into
grand society, and introduce you to the farmyard, but you must
keep close to me or you may be trodden upon; and, above all,
beware of the cat."

When they reached the farmyard, there was a great
disturbance, two families were fighting for an eel's head,
which, after all, was carried off by the cat. "See, children,
that is the way of the world," said the mother duck, whetting
her beak, for she would have liked the eel's head herself.
"Come, now, use your legs, and let me see how well you can
behave. You must bow your heads prettily to that old duck
yonder; she is the highest born of them all, and has Spanish
blood, therefore, she is well off. Don't you see she has a red
flag tied to her leg, which is something very grand, and a
great honor for a duck; it shows that every one is anxious not
to lose her, as she can be recognized both by man and beast.
Come, now, don't turn your toes, a well-bred duckling spreads
his feet wide apart, just like his father and mother, in this
way; now bend your neck, and say 'quack.'"

The ducklings did as they were bid, but the other duck
stared, and said, "Look, here comes another brood, as if there
were not enough of us already! and what a queer looking object
one of them is; we don't want him here," and then one flew out
and bit him in the neck.

"Let him alone," said the mother; "he is not doing any
harm."

"Yes, but he is so big and ugly," said the spiteful duck
"and therefore he must be turned out."

"The others are very pretty children," said the old duck,
with the rag on her leg, "all but that one; I wish his mother
could improve him a little."

"That is impossible, your grace," replied the mother; "he
is not pretty; but he has a very good disposition, and swims
as well or even better than the others. I think he will grow
up pretty, and perhaps be smaller; he has remained too long in
the egg, and therefore his figure is not properly formed;" and
then she stroked his neck and smoothed the feathers, saying,
"It is a drake, and therefore not of so much consequence. I
think he will grow up strong, and able to take care of
himself."

"The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old
duck. "Now make yourself at home, and if you can find an eel's
head, you can bring it to me."

And so they made themselves comfortable; but the poor
duckling, who had crept out of his shell last of all, and
looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and made fun of, not
only by the ducks, but by all the poultry. "He is too big,"
they all said, and the turkey cock, who had been born into the
world with spurs, and fancied himself really an emperor,
puffed himself out like a vessel in full sail, and flew at the
duckling, and became quite red in the head with passion, so
that the poor little thing did not know where to go, and was
quite miserable because he was so ugly and laughed at by the
whole farmyard. So it went on from day to day till it got
worse and worse. The poor duckling was driven about by every
one; even his brothers and sisters were unkind to him, and
would say, "Ah, you ugly creature, I wish the cat would get
you," and his mother said she wished he had never been born.
The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him, and the girl who
fed the poultry kicked him with her feet. So at last he ran
away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew
over the palings.

"They are afraid of me because I am ugly," he said. So he
closed his eyes, and flew still farther, until he came out on
a large moor, inhabited by wild ducks. Here he remained the
whole night, feeling very tired and sorrowful.

In the morning, when the wild ducks rose in the air, they
stared at their new comrade. "What sort of a duck are you?"
they all said, coming round him.

He bowed to them, and was as polite as he could be, but he
did not reply to their question. "You are exceedingly ugly,"
said the wild ducks, "but that will not matter if you do not
want to marry one of our family."

Poor thing! he had no thoughts of marriage; all he wanted
was permission to lie among the rushes, and drink some of the
water on the moor. After he had been on the moor two days,
there came two wild geese, or rather goslings, for they had
not been out of the egg long, and were very saucy. "Listen,
friend," said one of them to the duckling, "you are so ugly,
that we like you very well. Will you go with us, and become a
bird of passage? Not far from here is another moor, in which
there are some pretty wild geese, all unmarried. It is a
chance for you to get a wife; you may be lucky, ugly as you
are."

"Pop, pop," sounded in the air, and the two wild geese
fell dead among the rushes, and the water was tinged with
blood. "Pop, pop," echoed far and wide in the distance, and
whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the rushes. The sound
continued from every direction, for the sportsmen surrounded
the moor, and some were even seated on branches of trees,
overlooking the rushes. The blue smoke from the guns rose like
clouds over the dark trees, and as it floated away across the
water, a number of sporting dogs bounded in among the rushes,
which bent beneath them wherever they went. How they terrified
the poor duckling! He turned away his head to hide it under
his wing, and at the same moment a large terrible dog passed
quite near him. His jaws were open, his tongue hung from his
mouth, and his eyes glared fearfully. He thrust his nose close
to the duckling, showing his sharp teeth, and then, "splash,
splash," he went into the water without touching him, "Oh,"
sighed the duckling, "how thankful I am for being so ugly;
even a dog will not bite me." And so he lay quite still, while
the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was
fired over him. It was late in the day before all became
quiet, but even then the poor young thing did not dare to
move. He waited quietly for several hours, and then, after
looking carefully around him, hastened away from the moor as
fast as he could. He ran over field and meadow till a storm
arose, and he could hardly struggle against it. Towards
evening, he reached a poor little cottage that seemed ready to
fall, and only remained standing because it could not decide
on which side to fall first. The storm continued so violent,
that the duckling could go no farther; he sat down by the
cottage, and then he noticed that the door was not quite
closed in consequence of one of the hinges having given way.
There was therefore a narrow opening near the bottom large
enough for him to slip through, which he did very quietly, and
got a shelter for the night. A woman, a tom cat, and a hen
lived in this cottage. The tom cat, whom the mistress called,
"My little son," was a great favorite; he could raise his
back, and purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur
if it were stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs,
so she was called "Chickie short legs." She laid good eggs,
and her mistress loved her as if she had been her own child.
In the morning, the strange visitor was discovered, and the
tom cat began to purr, and the hen to cluck.

"What is that noise about?" said the old woman, looking
round the room, but her sight was not very good; therefore,
when she saw the duckling she thought it must be a fat duck,
that had strayed from home. "Oh what a prize!" she exclaimed,
"I hope it is not a drake, for then I shall have some duck's
eggs. I must wait and see." So the duckling was allowed to
remain on trial for three weeks, but there were no eggs. Now
the tom cat was the master of the house, and the hen was
mistress, and they always said, "We and the world," for they
believed themselves to be half the world, and the better half
too. The duckling thought that others might hold a different
opinion on the subject, but the hen would not listen to such
doubts. "Can you lay eggs?" she asked. "No." "Then have the
goodness to hold your tongue." "Can you raise your back, or
purr, or throw out sparks?" said the tom cat. "No." "Then you
have no right to express an opinion when sensible people are
speaking." So the duckling sat in a corner, feeling very low
spirited, till the sunshine and the fresh air came into the
room through the open door, and then he began to feel such a
great longing for a swim on the water, that he could not help
telling the hen.

"What an absurd idea," said the hen. "You have nothing
else to do, therefore you have foolish fancies. If you could
purr or lay eggs, they would pass away."

"But it is so delightful to swim about on the water," said
the duckling, "and so refreshing to feel it close over your
head, while you dive down to the bottom."

"Delightful, indeed!" said the hen, "why you must be
crazy! Ask the cat, he is the cleverest animal I know, ask him
how he would like to swim about on the water, or to dive under
it, for I will not speak of my own opinion; ask our mistress,
the old woman- there is no one in the world more clever than
she is. Do you think she would like to swim, or to let the
water close over her head?"

"You don't understand me," said the duckling.

"We don't understand you? Who can understand you, I
wonder? Do you consider yourself more clever than the cat, or
the old woman? I will say nothing of myself. Don't imagine
such nonsense, child, and thank your good fortune that you
have been received here. Are you not in a warm room, and in
society from which you may learn something. But you are a
chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable. Believe me,
I speak only for your own good. I may tell you unpleasant
truths, but that is a proof of my friendship. I advise you,
therefore, to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as
possible."

"I believe I must go out into the world again," said the
duckling.

"Yes, do," said the hen. So the duckling left the cottage,
and soon found water on which it could swim and dive, but was
avoided by all other animals, because of its ugly appearance.
Autumn came, and the leaves in the forest turned to orange and
gold. then, as winter approached, the wind caught them as they
fell and whirled them in the cold air. The clouds, heavy with
hail and snow-flakes, hung low in the sky, and the raven stood
on the ferns crying, "Croak, croak." It made one shiver with
cold to look at him. All this was very sad for the poor little
duckling. One evening, just as the sun set amid radiant
clouds, there came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the
bushes. The duckling had never seen any like them before. They
were swans, and they curved their graceful necks, while their
soft plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a
singular cry, as they spread their glorious wings and flew
away from those cold regions to warmer countries across the
sea. As they mounted higher and higher in the air, the ugly
little duckling felt quite a strange sensation as he watched
them. He whirled himself in the water like a wheel, stretched
out his neck towards them, and uttered a cry so strange that
it frightened himself. Could he ever forget those beautiful,
happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight, he
dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself
with excitement. He knew not the names of these birds, nor
where they had flown, but he felt towards them as he had never
felt for any other bird in the world. He was not envious of
these beautiful creatures, but wished to be as lovely as they.
Poor ugly creature, how gladly he would have lived even with
the ducks had they only given him encouragement. The winter
grew colder and colder; he was obliged to swim about on the
water to keep it from freezing, but every night the space on
which he swam became smaller and smaller. At length it froze
so hard that the ice in the water crackled as he moved, and
the duckling had to paddle with his legs as well as he could,
to keep the space from closing up. He became exhausted at
last, and lay still and helpless, frozen fast in the ice.

Early in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw
what had happened. He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden
shoe, and carried the duckling home to his wife. The warmth
revived the poor little creature; but when the children wanted
to play with him, the duckling thought they would do him some
harm; so he started up in terror, fluttered into the milk-pan,
and splashed the milk about the room. Then the woman clapped
her hands, which frightened him still more. He flew first into
the butter-cask, then into the meal-tub, and out again. What a
condition he was in! The woman screamed, and struck at him
with the tongs; the children laughed and screamed, and tumbled
over each other, in their efforts to catch him; but luckily he
escaped. The door stood open; the poor creature could just
manage to slip out among the bushes, and lie down quite
exhausted in the newly fallen snow.

It would be very sad, were I to relate all the misery and
privations which the poor little duckling endured during the
hard winter; but when it had passed, he found himself lying
one morning in a moor, amongst the rushes. He felt the warm
sun shining, and heard the lark singing, and saw that all
around was beautiful spring. Then the young bird felt that his
wings were strong, as he flapped them against his sides, and
rose high into the air. They bore him onwards, until he found
himself in a large garden, before he well knew how it had
happened. The apple-trees were in full blossom, and the
fragrant elders bent their long green branches down to the
stream which wound round a smooth lawn. Everything looked
beautiful, in the freshness of early spring. From a thicket
close by came three beautiful white swans, rustling their
feathers, and swimming lightly over the smooth water. The
duckling remembered the lovely birds, and felt more strangely
unhappy than ever.

"I will fly to those royal birds," he exclaimed, "and they
will kill me, because I am so ugly, and dare to approach them;
but it does not matter: better be killed by them than pecked
by the ducks, beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden
who feeds the poultry, or starved with hunger in the winter."

Then he flew to the water, and swam towards the beautiful
swans. The moment they espied the stranger, they rushed to
meet him with outstretched wings.

"Kill me," said the poor bird; and he bent his head down
to the surface of the water, and awaited death.

But what did he see in the clear stream below? His own
image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to
look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a
duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if
it is hatched from a swan's egg. He now felt glad at having
suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy
so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for
the great swans swam round the new-comer, and stroked his neck
with their beaks, as a welcome.

Into the garden presently came some little children, and
threw bread and cake into the water.

"See," cried the youngest, "there is a new one;" and the
rest were delighted, and ran to their father and mother,
dancing and clapping their hands, and shouting joyously,
"There is another swan come; a new one has arrived."

Then they threw more bread and cake into the water, and
said, "The new one is the most beautiful of all; he is so
young and pretty." And the old swans bowed their heads before
him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his
wing; for he did not know what to do, he was so happy, and yet
not at all proud. He had been persecuted and despised for his
ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful
of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into
the water before him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then
he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried
joyfully, from the depths of his heart, "I never dreamed of
such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling."




THE END

THE SNOW QUEEN
IN SEVEN STORIES

STORY THE FIRST


WHICH describes a looking-glass and the broken fragments.

You must attend to the commencement of this story, for
when we get to the end we shall know more than we do now about
a very wicked hobgoblin; he was one of the very worst, for he
was a real demon. One day, when he was in a merry mood, he
made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything
good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to
nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked
increased in size and worse than ever. The most lovely
landscapes appeared like boiled spinach, and the people became
hideous, and looked as if they stood on their heads and had no
bodies. Their countenances were so distorted that no one could
recognize them, and even one freckle on the face appeared to
spread over the whole of the nose and mouth. The demon said
this was very amusing. When a good or pious thought passed
through the mind of any one it was misrepresented in the
glass; and then how the demon laughed at his cunning
invention. All who went to the demon's school- for he kept a
school- talked everywhere of the wonders they had seen, and
declared that people could now, for the first time, see what
the world and mankind were really like. They carried the glass
about everywhere, till at last there was not a land nor a
people who had not been looked at through this distorted
mirror. They wanted even to fly with it up to heaven to see
the angels, but the higher they flew the more slippery the
glass became, and they could scarcely hold it, till at last it
slipped from their hands, fell to the earth, and was broken
into millions of pieces. But now the looking-glass caused more
unhappiness than ever, for some of the fragments were not so
large as a grain of sand, and they flew about the world into
every country. When one of these tiny atoms flew into a
person's eye, it stuck there unknown to him, and from that
moment he saw everything through a distorted medium, or could
see only the worst side of what he looked at, for even the
smallest fragment retained the same power which had belonged
to the whole mirror. Some few persons even got a fragment of
the looking-glass in their hearts, and this was very terrible,
for their hearts became cold like a lump of ice. A few of the
pieces were so large that they could be used as window-panes;
it would have been a sad thing to look at our friends through
them. Other pieces were made into spectacles; this was
dreadful for those who wore them, for they could see nothing
either rightly or justly. At all this the wicked demon laughed
till his sides shook- it tickled him so to see the mischief he
had done. There were still a number of these little fragments
of glass floating about in the air, and now you shall hear
what happened with one of them.

SECOND STORY
A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL

In a large town, full of houses and people, there is not
room for everybody to have even a little garden, therefore
they are obliged to be satisfied with a few flowers in
flower-pots. In one of these large towns lived two poor
children who had a garden something larger and better than a
few flower-pots. They were not brother and sister, but they
loved each other almost as much as if they had been. Their
parents lived opposite to each other in two garrets, where the
roofs of neighboring houses projected out towards each other
and the water-pipe ran between them. In each house was a
little window, so that any one could step across the gutter
from one window to the other. The parents of these children
had each a large wooden box in which they cultivated kitchen
herbs for their own use, and a little rose-bush in each box,
which grew splendidly. Now after a while the parents decided
to place these two boxes across the water-pipe, so that they
reached from one window to the other and looked like two banks
of flowers. Sweet-peas drooped over the boxes, and the
rose-bushes shot forth long branches, which were trained round
the windows and clustered together almost like a triumphal
arch of leaves and flowers. The boxes were very high, and the
children knew they must not climb upon them, without
permission, but they were often, however, allowed to step out
together and sit upon their little stools under the
rose-bushes, or play quietly. In winter all this pleasure came
to an end, for the windows were sometimes quite frozen over.
But then they would warm copper pennies on the stove, and hold
the warm pennies against the frozen pane; there would be very
soon a little round hole through which they could peep, and
the soft bright eyes of the little boy and girl would beam
through the hole at each window as they looked at each other.
Their names were Kay and Gerda. In summer they could be
together with one jump from the window, but in winter they had
to go up and down the long staircase, and out through the snow
before they could meet.

"See there are the white bees swarming," said Kay's old
grandmother one day when it was snowing.

"Have they a queen bee?" asked the little boy, for he knew
that the real bees had a queen.

"To be sure they have," said the grandmother. "She is
flying there where the swarm is thickest. She is the largest
of them all, and never remains on the earth, but flies up to
the dark clouds. Often at midnight she flies through the
streets of the town, and looks in at the windows, then the ice
freezes on the panes into wonderful shapes, that look like
flowers and castles."

"Yes, I have seen them," said both the children, and they
knew it must be true.

"Can the Snow Queen come in here?" asked the little girl.

"Only let her come," said the boy, "I'll set her on the
stove and then she'll melt."

Then the grandmother smoothed his hair and told him some
more tales. One evening, when little Kay was at home, half
undressed, he climbed on a chair by the window and peeped out
through the little hole. A few flakes of snow were falling,
and one of them, rather larger than the rest, alighted on the
edge of one of the flower boxes. This snow-flake grew larger
and larger, till at last it became the figure of a woman,
dressed in garments of white gauze, which looked like millions
of starry snow-flakes linked together. She was fair and
beautiful, but made of ice- shining and glittering ice. Still
she was alive and her eyes sparkled like bright stars, but
there was neither peace nor rest in their glance. She nodded
towards the window and waved her hand. The little boy was
frightened and sprang from the chair; at the same moment it
seemed as if a large bird flew by the window. On the following
day there was a clear frost, and very soon came the spring.
The sun shone; the young green leaves burst forth; the
swallows built their nests; windows were opened, and the
children sat once more in the garden on the roof, high above
all the other rooms. How beautiful the roses blossomed this
summer. The little girl had learnt a hymn in which roses were
spoken of, and then she thought of their own roses, and she
sang the hymn to the little boy, and he sang too:-

"Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see."

Then the little ones held each other by the hand, and kissed
the roses, and looked at the bright sunshine, and spoke to it
as if the Christ-child were there. Those were splendid summer
days. How beautiful and fresh it was out among the
rose-bushes, which seemed as if they would never leave off
blooming. One day Kay and Gerda sat looking at a book full of
pictures of animals and birds, and then just as the clock in
the church tower struck twelve, Kay said, "Oh, something has
struck my heart!" and soon after, "There is something in my
eye."

The little girl put her arm round his neck, and looked
into his eye, but she could see nothing.

"I think it is gone," he said. But it was not gone; it was
one of those bits of the looking-glass- that magic mirror, of
which we have spoken- the ugly glass which made everything
great and good appear small and ugly, while all that was
wicked and bad became more visible, and every little fault
could be plainly seen. Poor little Kay had also received a
small grain in his heart, which very quickly turned to a lump
of ice. He felt no more pain, but the glass was there still.
"Why do you cry?" said he at last; "it makes you look ugly.
There is nothing the matter with me now. Oh, see!" he cried
suddenly, "that rose is worm-eaten, and this one is quite
crooked. After all they are ugly roses, just like the box in
which they stand," and then he kicked the boxes with his foot,
and pulled off the two roses.

"Kay, what are you doing?" cried the little girl; and
then, when he saw how frightened she was, he tore off another
rose, and jumped through his own window away from little
Gerda.

When she afterwards brought out the picture book, he said,
"It was only fit for babies in long clothes," and when
grandmother told any stories, he would interrupt her with
"but;" or, when he could manage it, he would get behind her
chair, put on a pair of spectacles, and imitate her very
cleverly, to make people laugh. By-and-by he began to mimic
the speech and gait of persons in the street. All that was
peculiar or disagreeable in a person he would imitate
directly, and people said, "That boy will be very clever; he
has a remarkable genius." But it was the piece of glass in his
eye, and the coldness in his heart, that made him act like
this. He would even tease little Gerda, who loved him with all
her heart. His games, too, were quite different; they were not
so childish. One winter's day, when it snowed, he brought out
a burning-glass, then he held out the tail of his blue coat,
and let the snow-flakes fall upon it. "Look in this glass,
Gerda," said he; and she saw how every flake of snow was
magnified, and looked like a beautiful flower or a glittering
star. "Is it not clever?" said Kay, "and much more interesting
than looking at real flowers. There is not a single fault in
it, and the snow-flakes are quite perfect till they begin to
melt."

Soon after Kay made his appearance in large thick gloves,
and with his sledge at his back. He called up stairs to Gerda,
"I've got to leave to go into the great square, where the
other boys play and ride." And away he went.

In the great square, the boldest among the boys would
often tie their sledges to the country people's carts, and go
with them a good way. This was capital. But while they were
all amusing themselves, and Kay with them, a great sledge came
by; it was painted white, and in it sat some one wrapped in a
rough white fur, and wearing a white cap. The sledge drove
twice round the square, and Kay fastened his own little sledge
to it, so that when it went away, he followed with it. It went
faster and faster right through the next street, and then the
person who drove turned round and nodded pleasantly to Kay,
just as if they were acquainted with each other, but whenever
Kay wished to loosen his little sledge the driver nodded
again, so Kay sat still, and they drove out through the town
gate. Then the snow began to fall so heavily that the little
boy could not see a hand's breadth before him, but still they
drove on; then he suddenly loosened the cord so that the large
sled might go on without him, but it was of no use, his little
carriage held fast, and away they went like the wind. Then he
called out loudly, but nobody heard him, while the snow beat
upon him, and the sledge flew onwards. Every now and then it
gave a jump as if it were going over hedges and ditches. The
boy was frightened, and tried to say a prayer, but he could
remember nothing but the multiplication table.

The snow-flakes became larger and larger, till they
appeared like great white chickens. All at once they sprang on
one side, the great sledge stopped, and the person who had
driven it rose up. The fur and the cap, which were made
entirely of snow, fell off, and he saw a lady, tall and white,
it was the Snow Queen.

"We have driven well," said she, "but why do you tremble?
here, creep into my warm fur." Then she seated him beside her
in the sledge, and as she wrapped the fur round him he felt as
if he were sinking into a snow drift.

"Are you still cold," she asked, as she kissed him on the
forehead. The kiss was colder than ice; it went quite through
to his heart, which was already almost a lump of ice; he felt
as if he were going to die, but only for a moment; he soon
seemed quite well again, and did not notice the cold around
him.

"My sledge! don't forget my sledge," was his first
thought, and then he looked and saw that it was bound fast to
one of the white chickens, which flew behind him with the
sledge at its back. The Snow Queen kissed little Kay again,
and by this time he had forgotten little Gerda, his
grandmother, and all at home.

"Now you must have no more kisses," she said, "or I should
kiss you to death."

Kay looked at her, and saw that she was so beautiful, he
could not imagine a more lovely and intelligent face; she did
not now seem to be made of ice, as when he had seen her
through his window, and she had nodded to him. In his eyes she
was perfect, and she did not feel at all afraid. He told her
he could do mental arithmetic, as far as fractions, and that
he knew the number of square miles and the number of
inhabitants in the country. And she always smiled so that he
thought he did not know enough yet, and she looked round the
vast expanse as she flew higher and higher with him upon a
black cloud, while the storm blew and howled as if it were
singing old songs. They flew over woods and lakes, over sea
and land; below them roared the wild wind; the wolves howled
and the snow crackled; over them flew the black screaming
crows, and above all shone the moon, clear and bright,- and so
Kay passed through the long winter's night, and by day he
slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<

A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE


ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the
nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The
winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded
camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey
beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of
roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall
trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened
as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a
flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the
nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent,
not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves.
At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said,
"Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb
will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves
fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became
earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the
grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale." Then
the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by,
with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son
found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the
grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.

The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more
closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near
who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among
the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the
clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He
plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away
into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose
faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book,
which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose from
the grave of Homer."

Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the
wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's
grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful
than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm
Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose
had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from
the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh
mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the
northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his
"Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens
the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."


THE END

THE PSYCHE


IN the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great
Star, the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on
the white wall, as if he wished to write down on it what he
can tell, what he has seen there and elsewhere during
thousands of years in our rolling world. Let us hear one of
his stories.

"A short time ago"- the Star's "short time ago" is called
among men "centuries ago"- "my rays followed a young artist.
It was in the city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much
has been changed there in the course of time, but the changes
have not come so quickly as the change from youth to old age.
Then already the palace of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is
now; fig trees and laurels grew among the fallen marble
columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls, where the gilding
still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a gigantic ruin;
the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its fragrant
cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there,
and art was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the
greatest painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the
first of sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage
to these two, and honored them with a visit. Art was
recognized and honored, and was rewarded also. But, for all
that, everything great and splendid was not seen and known.

"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a
temple; a young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and
quite unknown. He certainly had friends, young artists, like
himself, young in spirit, young in hopes and thoughts; they
told him he was rich in talent, and an artist, but that he was
foolish for having no faith in his own power; for he always
broke what he had fashioned out of clay, and never completed
anything; and a work must be completed if it is to be seen and
to bring money.

"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and
that's your misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you
have never lived, you have never tasted life, you have never
enjoyed it in great wholesome draughts, as it ought to be
enjoyed. In youth one must mingle one's own personality with
life, that they may become one. Look at the great master
Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world admires. He's no
despiser of wine and bread.'

"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young
friends.

"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according
to their age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young
artist out with them into the merry wild life, the mad life as
it might also be called; and at certain times he felt an
inclination for it. He had warm blood, a strong imagination,
and could take part in the merry chat, and laugh aloud with
the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's merry life'
disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great
master; and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of
beauty which the masters had hewn out of marble thousands of
years since, his breast swelled, and he felt within himself
something high, something holy, something elevating, great and
good, and he wished that he could produce similar forms from
the blocks of marble. He wished to make a picture of that
which was within him, stirring upward from his heart to the
realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but
the next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his
wont.

"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which
Rome has many to show. He stopped before the great open
portal, and beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks.
The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses.
Great white lilies with green juicy leaves shot upward from
the marble basin in which the clear water was splashing; and a
form glided past, the daughter of the princely house,
graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a form of
female loveliness he had never before beheld- yet stay: he had
seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of
the Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it
passed by him in living reality.

"The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He
went home to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay.
It was the rich young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for
the first time he looked at his work with satisfaction. It had
a meaning for him, for it was she. And the friends who saw his
work shouted aloud for joy; they declared that this work was a
manifestation of his artistic power, of which they had long
been aware, and that now the world should be made aware of it
too.

"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had
not the whiteness or the durability of marble. So they
declared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He
already possessed a costly block of that stone. It had been
lying for years, the property of his parents, in the
courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and remains of
artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity; but
under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow;
and from this block the Psyche was to arise."

Now, it happened one morning- the bright Star tells
nothing about this, but we know it occurred- that a noble
Roman company came into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped
at the top of the lane, and the company proceeded on foot
towards the house, to inspect the young sculptor's work, for
they had heard him spoken of by chance. And who were these
distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate young man
he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room and
smiled radiantly when her father said to her, "It is your
living image." That smile could not be copied, any more than
the look could be reproduced, the wonderful look which she
cast upon the young artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed
at once to elevate and to crush him.

"The Psyche must be executed in marble," said the wealthy
patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and
the heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the
deeply-moved artist. "When the work is finished I will
purchase it," continued the rich noble.

A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life
and cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its
work. The beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed.
The clay itself seemed inspired since she had been there, and
moulded itself, in heightened beauty, to a likeness of the
well-known features.

"Now I know what life is," cried the artist rejoicingly;
"it is Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the
dawning of the beautiful in the soul! What my friends call
life and enjoyment is a passing shadow; it is like bubbles
among seething dregs, not the pure heavenly wine that
consecrates us to life."

The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel
struck great fragments from it; the measurements were taken,
points and lines were made, the mechanical part was executed,
till gradually the stone assumed a human female form, a shape
of beauty, and became converted into the Psyche, fair and
glorious- a divine being in human shape. The heavy stone
appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy Psyche, with the heavenly
innocent smile- the smile that had mirrored itself in the soul
of the young artist.

The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what
was stirring within the young man, and could read the meaning
of the changing color of his cheek, of the light that flashed
from his eye, as he stood busily working, reproducing what had
been put into his soul from above.

"Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient
Greeks," exclaimed his delighted friends; "soon shall the
whole world admire thy Psyche."

"My Psyche!" he repeated. "Yes, mine. She must be mine. I,
too, am an artist, like those great men who are gone.
Providence has granted me the boon, and has made me the equal
of that lady of noble birth."

And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss
to Heaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake- for the
sake of her picture in stone- for her Psyche which stood there
as if formed of snow, blushing in the morning dawn.

He was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche,
whose words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry
the news into the rich palace that the marble Psyche was
finished. He betook himself thither, strode through the open
courtyard where the waters ran splashing from the dolphin's
jaws into the marble basins, where the snowy lilies and the
fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into the great
lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding and
bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men,
adorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro,
and some reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as
if they were the masters of the house. He told them what had
brought him to the palace, and was conducted up the shining
marble staircase, covered with soft carpets and adorned with
many a statue. Then he went on through richly-furnished
chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous pictures. All this
pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he felt
relieved, for the princely old master of the house received
him most graciously,, almost heartily; and when he took his
leave he was requested to step into the Signora's apartment,
for she, too, wished to see him. The servants led him through
more luxurious halls and chambers into her room, where she
appeared the chief and leading ornament.

She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant,
could melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her
hand and lifted it to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire
thrilled through him from this rose- a feeling of power came
upon him, and words poured from his tongue- he knew not what
he said. Does the crater of the volcano know that the glowing
lava is pouring from it? He confessed what he felt for her.
She stood before him astonished, offended, proud, with
contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if she had
suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks reddened,
her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though they
were dark as the blackness of night.

"Madman!" she cried, "away! begone!"

And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore
an expression like that of the stony countenance with the
snaky locks.

Like a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the
staircase and out into the street. Like a man walking in his
sleep, he found his way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up
to madness and agony, and seized his hammer, swung it high in
the air, and rushed forward to shatter the beautiful marble
image. But, in his pain, he had not noticed that his friend
Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held back his arm with a
strong grasp, crying,

"Are you mad? What are you about?"

They struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and,
with a deep sigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself
into a chair.

"What has happened?" asked Angelo. "Command yourself.
Speak!"

But what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo
could make no sense of his friend's incoherent words, he
forbore to question him further, and merely said,

"Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a
man, as all others are, and don't go on living in ideals, for
that is what drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you
sleep quietly and happily. Believe me, the time will come when
you will be old, and your sinews will shrink, and then, on
some fine sunshiny day, when everything is laughing and
rejoicing, you will lie there a faded plant, that will grow no
more. I do not live in dreams, but in reality. Come with me.
Be a man!"

And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he
was able to do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young
sculptor; a change had taken place in his soul; he felt a
longing to tear from the old, the accustomed- to forget, if
possible, his own individuality; and therefore it was that he
followed Angelo.

In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much
visited by artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient
baths. The great yellow citrons hung down among the dark
shining leaves, and covered a part of the old reddish-yellow
walls. The tavern consisted of a vaulted chamber, almost like
a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned there before the picture
of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the hearth, and
roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under the
citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.

The two artists were received by their friends with shouts
of welcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the
spirits of the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were
played on the guitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and
the merry dance began. Two young Roman girls, who sat as
models to the artists, took part in the dance and in the
festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were they; certainly not
Psyches- not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh, hearty,
glowing carnations.

How hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot.
There was fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire
everywhere. The air gleamed with gold and roses, and life
seemed like gold and roses.

"At last you have joined us, for once," said his friends.
"Now let yourself be carried by the waves within and around
you."

"Never yet have I felt so well, so merry!" cried the young
artist. "You are right- you are all of you right. I was a
fool- a dreamer. Man belongs to reality, and not to fancy."

With songs and with sounding guitars the young people
returned that evening from the tavern, through the narrow
streets; the two glowing carnations, daughters of the
Campagna, went with them.

In Angelo's room, among a litter of colored sketches
(studies) and glowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower,
but not less merrily. On the ground lay many a sketch that
resembled the daughters of the Campagna, in their fresh,
hearty comeliness, but the two originals were far handsomer
than their portraits. All the burners of the six-armed lamp
flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within, and
appeared in the glare as if it were divine.

"Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven- to
your glory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding
itself in my veins at this moment!"

Yes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell,
and an evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading
astray the fancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it
became dark.

He was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed
and collected his thoughts.

"Fie on thee!" these were the words that sounded out of
his mouth from the depths of his heart. "Wretched man, go,
begone!" And a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.

"Away! begone!" These, her words, the words of the living
Psyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He
buried his head in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused,
and he fell asleep.

<<<<<<<<<<<

"Old time and new time," said the Count, "here they run
well into one another. In two years the building itself will
put on a proper appearance, there will be a complete
metamorphosis in beauty and improvement. I shall show you the
drawings, and I shall show you the architect, for he is to
dine here to-day."

"Charming!" said the General.

"'Tis like Paradise here," said the General's lady, "and
yonder you have a knight's castle!"

"That's my poultry-house," observed the Count. "The
pigeons live in the tower, the turkeys in the first floor, but
old Elsie rules in the ground floor. She has apartments on all
sides of her. The sitting hens have their own room, and the
hens with chickens have theirs; and the ducks have their own
particular door leading to the water."

"Charming!" repeated the General.

And all sailed forth to see these wonderful things. Old
Elsie stood in the room on the ground floor, and by her side
stood Architect George. He and Emily now met for the first
time after several years, and they met in the poultry-house.

Yes, there he stood, and was handsome enough to be looked
at. His face was frank and energetic; he had black shining
hair, and a smile about his mouth, which said, "I have a
brownie that sits in my ear, and knows every one of you,
inside and out." Old Elsie had pulled off her wooden shoes,
and stood there in her stockings, to do honor to the noble
guests. The hens clucked, and the cocks crowed, and the ducks
waddled to and fro, and said, "Quack, quack!" But the fair,
pale girl, the friend of his childhood, the daughter of the
General, stood there with a rosy blush on her usually pale
cheeks, and her eyes opened wide, and her mouth seemed to
speak without uttering a word, and the greeting he received
from her was the most beautiful greeting a young man can
desire from a young lady, if they are not related, or have not
danced many times together, and she and the architect had
never danced together.

The Count shook hands with him, and introduced him.

"He is not altogether a stranger, our young friend
George."

The General's lady bowed to him, and the General's
daughter was very nearly giving him her hand; but she did not
give it to him.

"Our little Master George!" said the General. "Old
friends! Charming!"

"You have become quite an Italian," said the General's
lady, "and I presume you speak the language like a native?"

"My wife sings the language, but she does not speak it,"
observed the General.

At dinner, George sat at the right hand of Emily, whom the
General had taken down, while the Count led in the General's
lady.

Mr. George talked and told of his travels; and he could
talk well, and was the life and soul of the table, though the
old Count could have been it too. Emily sat silent, but she
listened, and her eyes gleamed, but she said nothing.

In the verandah, among the flowers, she and George stood
together; the rose-bushes concealed them. And George was
speaking again, for he took the lead now.

"Many thanks for the kind consideration you showed my old
mother," he said. "I know that you went down to her on the
night when my father died, and you stayed with her till his
eyes were closed. My heartiest thanks!"

He took Emily's hand and kissed it- he might do so on such
an occasion. She blushed deeply, but pressed his hand, and
looked at him with her dear blue eyes.

"Your mother was a dear soul!" she said. "How fond she was
of her son! And she let me read all your letters, so that I
almost believe I know you. How kind you were to me when I was
little girl! You used to give me pictures."

"Which you tore in two," said George.

"No, I have still your drawing of the castle."

"I must build the castle in reality now," said George; and
he became quite warm at his own words.

The General and the General's lady talked to each other in
their room about the porter's son- how he knew how to behave,
and to express himself with the greatest propriety.

"He might be a tutor," said the General.

"Intellect!" said the General's lady; but she did not say
anything more.

During the beautiful summer-time Mr. George several times
visited the Count at his castle; and he was missed when he did
not come.

"How much the good God has given you that he has not given
to us poor mortals," said Emily to him. "Are you sure you are
very grateful for it?"

It flattered George that the lovely young girl should look
up to him, and he thought then that Emily had unusually good
abilities. And the General felt more and more convinced that
George was no cellar-child.

"His mother was a very good woman," he observed. "It is
only right I should do her that justice now she is in her
grave."


The summer passed away, and the winter came; again there
was talk about Mr. George. He was highly respected, and was
received in the first circles. The General had met him at a
court ball.

And now there was a ball to be given in the General's
house for Emily, and could Mr. George be invited to it?

"He whom the King invites can be invited by the General
also," said the General, and drew himself up till he stood
quite an inch higher than before.

Mr. George was invited, and he came; princes and counts
came, and they danced, one better than the other. But Emily
could only dance one dance- the first; for she made a false
step- nothing of consequence; but her foot hurt her, so that
she had to be careful, and leave off dancing, and look at the
others. So she sat and looked on, and the architect stood by
her side.

"I suppose you are giving her the whole history of St.
Peter's," said the General, as he passed by; and smiled, like
the personification of patronage.

With the same patronizing smile he received Mr. George a
few days afterwards. The young man came, no doubt, to return
thanks for the invitation to the ball. What else could it be?
But indeed there was something else, something very
astonishing and startling. He spoke words of sheer lunacy, so
that the General could hardly believe his own ears. It was
"the height of rhodomontade," an offer, quite an inconceivable
offer- Mr. George came to ask the hand of Emily in marriage!

"Man!" cried the General, and his brain seemed to be
boiling. "I don't understand you at all. What is it you say?
What is it you want? I don't know you. Sir! Man! What
possesses you to break into my house? And am I to stand here
and listen to you?" He stepped backwards into his bed-room,
locked the door behind him, and left Mr. George standing
alone. George stood still for a few minutes, and then turned
round and left the room. Emily was standing in the corridor.

"My father has answered?" she said, and her voice
trembled.

George pressed her hand.

"He has escaped me," he replied; "but a better time will
come."

There were tears in Emily's eyes, but in the young man's
eyes shone courage and confidence; and the sun shone through
the window, and cast his beams on the pair, and gave them his
blessing.

The General sat in his room, bursting hot. Yes, he was
still boiling, until he boiled over in the exclamation,
"Lunacy! porter! madness!"

Not an hour was over before the General's lady knew it out
of the General's own mouth. She called Emily, and remained
alone with her.

"You poor child," she said; "to insult you so! to insult
us so! There are tears in your eyes, too, but they become you
well. You look beautiful in tears. You look as I looked on my
wedding-day. Weep on, my sweet Emily."

"Yes, that I must," said Emily, "if you and my father do
not say 'yes.'"

"Child!" screamed the General's lady; "you are ill! You
are talking wildly, and I shall have a most terrible headache!
Oh, what a misfortune is coming upon our house! Don't make
your mother die, Emily, or you will have no mother."

And the eyes of the General's lady were wet, for she could
not bear to think of her own death.


In the newspapers there was an announcement. "Mr. George
has been elected Professor of the Fifth Class, number Eight."

"It's a pity that his parents are dead and cannot read
it," said the new porter people, who now lived in the cellar
under the General's apartments. They knew that the Professor
had been born and grown up within their four walls.

"Now he'll get a salary," said the man.

"Yes, that's not much for a poor child," said the woman.

"Eighteen dollars a year," said the man. "Why, it's a good
deal of money."

"No, I mean the honor of it," replied the wife. "Do you
think he cares for the money? Those few dollars he can earn a
hundred times over, and most likely he'll get a rich wife into
the bargain. If we had children of our own, husband, our child
should be an architect and a professor too."

George was spoken well of in the cellar, and he was spoken
well of in the first floor. The old Count took upon himself to
do that.

The pictures he had drawn in his childhood gave occasion
for it. But how did the conversation come to turn on these
pictures? Why, they had been talking of Russia and of Moscow,
and thus mention was made of the Kremlin, which little George
had once drawn for Miss Emily. He had drawn many pictures, but
the Count especially remembered one, "Emily's Castle," where
she was to sleep, and to dance, and to play at receiving
guests.

"The Professor was a true man," said the Count, "and would
be a privy councillor before he died, it was not at all
unlikely; and he might build a real castle for the young lady
before that time came: why not?"

"That was a strange jest," remarked the General's lady,
when the Count had gone away. The General shook his head
thoughtfully, and went out for a ride, with his groom behind
him at a proper distance, and he sat more stiffly than ever on
his high horse.

It was Emily's birthday. Flowers, books, letters, and
visiting cards came pouring in. The General's lady kissed her
on the mouth, and the General kissed her on the forehead; they
were affectionate parents, and they and Emily had to receive
grand visitors, two of the Princes. They talked of balls and
theatres, of diplomatic missions, of the government of empires
and nations; and then they spoke of talent, native talent; and
so the discourse turned upon the young architect.

"He is building up an immortality for himself," said one,
"and he will certainly build his way into one of our first
families".

"One of our first families!" repeated the General and
afterwards the General's lady; "what is meant by one of our
first families?"

"I know for whom it was intended," said the General's
lady, "but I shall not say it. I don't think it. Heaven
disposes, but I shall be astonished."

"I am astonished also!" said the General. "I haven't an
idea in my head!" And he fell into a reverie, waiting for
ideas.

There is a power, a nameless power, in the possession of
favor from above, the favor of Providence, and this favor
little George had. But we are forgetting the birthday.

Emily's room was fragrant with flowers, sent by male and
female friends; on the table lay beautiful presents for
greeting and remembrance, but none could come from George-
none could come from him; but it was not necessary, for the
whole house was full of remembrances of him. Even out of the
ash-bin the blossom of memory peeped forth, for Emily had sat
whimpering there on the day when the window-curtain caught
fire, and George arrived in the character of fire engine. A
glance out of the window, and the acacia tree reminded of the
days of childhood. Flowers and leaves had fallen, but there
stood the tree covered with hoar frost, looking like a single
huge branch of coral, and the moon shone clear and large among
the twigs, unchanged in its changings, as it was when George
divided his bread and butter with little Emily.

Out of a box the girl took the drawings of the Czar's
palace and of her own castle- remembrances of George. The
drawings were looked at, and many thoughts came. She
remembered the day when, unobserved by her father and mother,
she had gone down to the porter's wife who lay dying. Once
again she seemed to sit beside her, holding the dying woman's
hand in hers, hearing the dying woman's last words: "Blessing
George!" The mother was thinking of her son, and now Emily
gave her own interpretation to those words. Yes, George was
certainly with her on her birthday.

It happened that the next day was another birthday in that
house, the General's birthday. He had been born the day after
his daughter, but before her of course- many years before her.
Many presents arrived, and among them came a saddle of
exquisite workmanship, a comfortable and costly saddle- one of
the Princes had just such another. Now, from whom might this
saddle come? The General was delighted. There was a little
note with the saddle. Now if the words on the note had been
"many thanks for yesterday's reception," we might easily have
guessed from whom it came. But the words were "From somebody
whom the General does not know."

"Whom in the world do I not know?" exclaimed the General.
"I know everybody;" and his thoughts wandered all through
society, for he knew everybody there. "That saddle comes from
my wife!" he said at last. "She is teasing me- charming!"

But she was not teasing him; those times were past.


Again there was a feast, but it was not in the General's
house, it was a fancy ball at the Prince's, and masks were
allowed too.

The General went as Rubens, in a Spanish costume, with a
little ruff round his neck, a sword by his side, and a stately
manner. The General's lady was Madame Rubens, in black velvet
made high round the neck, exceedingly warm, and with a
mill-stone round her neck in the shape of a great ruff-
accurately dressed after a Dutch picture in the possession of
the General, in which the hands were especially admired. They
were just like the hands of the General's lady.

Emily was Psyche. In white crape and lace she was like a
floating swan. She did not want wings at all. She only wore
them as emblematic of Psyche.

Brightness, splendor, light and flowers, wealth and taste
appeared at the ball; there was so much to see, that the
beautiful hands of Madame Rubens made no sensation at all.

A black domino, with an acacia blossom in his cap, danced
with Psyche.

"Who is that?" asked the General's lady.

"His Royal Highness," replied the General. "I am quite
sure of it. I knew him directly by the pressure of his hand."

The General's lady doubted it.

General Rubens had no doubts about it. He went up to the
black domino and wrote the royal letters in the mask's hand.
These were denied, but the mask gave him a hint.

The words that came with the saddle: "One whom you do not
know, General."

"But I do know you," said the General. "It was you who
sent me the saddle."

The domino raised his hand, and disappeared among the
other guests.

"Who is that black domino with whom you were dancing,
Emily?" asked the General's lady.

"I did not ask his name," she replied, "because you knew
it. It is the Professor. Your protege is here, Count!" she
continued, turning to that nobleman, who stood close by. "A
black domino with acacia blossoms in his cap."

"Very likely, my dear lady," replied the Count. "But one
of the Princes wears just the same costume."

"I knew the pressure of the hand," said the General. "The
saddle came from the Prince. I am so certain of it that I
could invite that domino to dinner."

"Do so. If it be the Prince he will certainly come,"
replied the Count.

"And if it is the other he will not come," said the
General, and approached the black domino, who was just
speaking with the King. The General gave a very respectful
invitation "that they might make each other's acquaintance,"
and he smiled in his certainty concerning the person he was
inviting. He spoke loud and distinctly.

The domino raised his mask, and it was George. "Do you
repeat your invitation, General?" he asked.

The General certainly seemed to grow an inch taller,
assumed a more stately demeanor, and took two steps backward
and one step forward, as if he were dancing a minuet, and then
came as much gravity and expression into the face of the
General as the General could contrive to infuse into it; but
he replied,

"I never retract my words! You are invited, Professor!"
and he bowed with a glance at the King, who must have heard
the whole dialogue.


Now, there was a company to dinner at the General's, but
only the old Count and his protege were invited.

"I have my foot under his table," thought George. "That's
laying the foundation stone."

And the foundation stone was really laid, with great
ceremony, at the house of the General and of the General's
lady.

The man had come, and had spoken quite like a person in
good society, and had made himself very agreeable, so that the
General had often to repeat his "Charming!" The General talked
of this dinner, talked of it even to a court lady; and this
lady, one of the most intellectual persons about the court,
asked to be invited to meet the Professor the next time he
should come. So he had to be invited again; and he was
invited, and came, and was charming again; he could even play
chess.

"He's not out of the cellar," said the General; "he's
quite a distinguished person. There are many distinguished
persons of that kind, and it's no fault of his."

The Professor, who was received in the King's palace,
might very well be received by the General; but that he could
ever belong to the house was out of the question, only the
whole town was talking of it.


He grew and grew. The dew of favor fell from above, so no
one was surprised after all that he should become a Privy
Councillor, and Emily a Privy Councillor's lady.

"Life is either a tragedy or a comedy," said the General.
"In tragedies they die, in comedies they marry one another."

In this case they married. And they had three clever boys-
but not all at once.

The sweet children rode on their hobby-horses through all
the rooms when they came to see the grandparents. And the
General also rode on his stick; he rode behind them in the
character of groom to the little Privy Councillors.

And the General's lady sat on her sofa and smiled at them,
even when she had her severest headache.


So far did George get, and much further; else it had not
been
worth while to tell the story of THE PORTER'S SON.


THE END

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