12. The Pink Fairy Book. One day he was in capital spirits because he had made a looking-glass which reflected everything that was good and beautiful in such a way that it dwindled almost to nothing, but anything that was bad and ugly stood out very clearly and looked much worse. The most beautiful landscapes looked like boiled spinach, and the best people looked repulsive or seemed to stand on their heads with no bodies. Their faces were so changed that they could not be recognized, and if anyone had a freckle you might be sure it would be spread over the nose and mouth. That was the best part of it, said the Hobgoblin. But one day the looking-glass was dropped and it broke into a million, billion, and more pieces. And now came the greatest misfortune of all, for each of the pieces was hardly as large as a grain of sand, and they flew about all over the world, and if anyone had a bit in his eye there it stayed, and then he would see everything awry, or else could only see the bad sides of a case. For every tiny splinter of the glass possessed the same power that the whole glass had. Some people got a splinter in their hearts, and that was dreadful, for then it began to turn into a lump of ice. The Hobgoblin laughed till his sides ached, but still the tiny bits of glass flew about, and now we will hear all about it. In a large town where there were so many people and houses that there was not room enough for everybody to have gardens, lived two poor children. They were not brother and sister, but they loved each other just as much as if they were. Their parents lived opposite one another in two attics, and out on the leads they had put two boxes filled with flowers. There were sweet peas in it, and two rose-trees which grew beautifully, and in summer the two children were allowed to take their little chairs and sit out under the roses. Then they had splendid games. In the winter they could not do this, but then they put hot pennies against the frozen window-pains and made round holes to look at each other through. His name was Kay, and hers was Gerda. Outside it was snowing fast. Those are white bees swarming, said the old grandmother. Have they also a queen bee? asked the little boy, for he knew that the real bees have one. To be sure, said the grandmother. She flies wherever they swarm the thickest. She is larger than any of them, and never stays upon the earth, but flies again up into the black clouds. Often at midnight she flies through the streets and peeps in at all the windows, and then they freeze in such pretty patterns and look like flowers. Yes, we have seen that, said both children. They knew that it was true. Can the snow queen come in here? asked the little girl. Just let her, cried the boy. I would put her on a stove and melt her. But the grandmother stroked his hair and told some more stories. In the evening when little Kay was going to bed he jumped on the chair by the window and looked through the little hole. A few snowflakes were falling outside, and one of the largest lay on the edge of one of the window-boxes. The snowflake grew larger and larger till it took the form of a maiden, dressed in finest white gauze. She was so beautiful and dainty, but all of ice, hard bright ice. Still, she was alive. Her eyes glittered like two clear stars, but there was no rest or peace in them. She nodded at the window and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened, and sprang down from the chair. It seemed as if a great white bird had flown past the window. The next day there was a harder frost than before. Then came the spring, then the summer, when the roses grew and smelt more beautifully than ever. Kay and Gerda were looking at one of their picture books. The clock in the great church tower had just struck five when Kay exclaimed, Oh! Something has stung my heart, and I've got something in my eye! The little girl threw her arms round his neck. He winked hard with both his eyes. No, she could see nothing in them. I think it's gone now, said he, but it had not gone. It was one of the tiny splinters of the glass of the magic mirror which we have heard about. That turned everything great and good reflected in its small and ugly. And poor Kay had also a splinter in his heart, and it began to change into a lump of ice. It did not hurt him at all, but the splinter was there all the same. Why are you crying? he asked. It makes you look so ugly. There's nothing to matter with me. Just look! That rose is all slug-eaten, and this one is stunted.  And it began to pull them to pieces. Kay, what are you doing? cried the little girl. And when he saw how frightened she was, he pulled off another rose, and ran in at his window away from dear little Gerda. When she came later on with the picture book, he said that it was only fit for babies. And when his grandmother told them stories, he was always interrupting with, but—and then he would get behind her and put on her spectacles, and speak just as she did. This he did very well, and everybody laughed. Very soon he could imitate the way all the people in the street walked and talked. His games were now quite different. On a winter's day he would take a burning glass and hold it out of his blue coat, and let the snowflakes fall on it. Look at the glass, Gerda. Just see how regular they are. They are much more interesting than real flowers. Each is perfect. They are all made according to rule. If only they did not melt.  He shouted to Gerda, I am going to the marketplace to play with the other boys, and away he went. In the marketplace the boldest boys often used to fasten their sledges to the carts of the farmers, and then they got a good ride. When they were in the middle of their games they drove into the square a large sledge, all white, and in it sat a figure dressed in a rough white fur police with a white fur cap on.  It went quicker and quicker into the next street. The driver turned round and nodded to Kay in a friendly way, as if they had known each other before. Every time that Kay tried to unfasten his sledge the driver nodded again, and Kay sat still once more. Then they drove out of the town, and the snow began to fall so thickly that the little boy could not see his hand before him, and on and on they went. He quickly unfastened the cord to get loose from the big sledge, but it was no use. His little sledge hung on fast, and it went on like the wind. Then he cried out, but nobody heard him. He was dreadfully frightened. The snowflakes grew larger and larger till they looked like great white birds. All at once they flew aside. The large sledge stood still, and the figure who was driving stood up. The fur, cloak, and cap were all of snow. It was a lady, tall and slim and glittering. It was the snow queen. We have come at a good rate, she said. But you are almost frozen. Creep in under my cloak. And she set him close to her in the sledge and drew the cloak over him. He felt as though he were sinking into a snow-drift. Are you cold now? she asked, and kissed his forehead. The kiss was cold as ice and reached down to his heart, which was already half a lump of ice. My sledge—don't forget my sledge! He thought of that first, and it was fastened to one of the great white birds who flew behind with the sledge on its back. The snow queen kissed Kay again, and then he forgot all about little Gerda, his grandmother, and everybody at home.  Then away they flew over forests and lakes, over sea and land, round them whistled a cold wind, the wolves howled, and the snow hissed. Over them flew the black shrieking crows, but high up in the moon, shone large and bright, and thus Kay passed the long winter night. In the day he slept at the snow queen's feet. But what happened to little Gerda when Kay did not come back? What had become of him? Nobody knew. The other boys told how they had seen him fasten his sledge onto a large one which had driven out of the town gate. Gerda cried a great deal, the winter was long and dark to her. Then the spring came with warm sunshine. I will go and look for Kay, said Gerda. So she went down to the river and got into a little boat that was there. Presently the stream began to carry it away. Perhaps the river will take me to Kay, thought Gerda. She glided down past trees and fields till she came to a large cherry garden, in which stood a little house with strange red and blue windows and a straw roof, before the doors stood two wooden soldiers who were shouldering arms. Gerda called to them, but they naturally did not answer. The river carried the boat on to the land. Gerda called out still louder, and there came out of the house a very old woman.   And then she stepped into the water, brought the boat in close with her crutch, and lifted little Gerda out. And now come and tell me who you are and how you came here, she said. Then Gerda told her everything, and asked her if she had seen Kay. But she said he had not passed that way yet. But he would soon come. She told Gerda not to be sad, and that she should stay with her and take of the cherry trees and flowers, which were better than any picture book, as they could each tell a story.  The windows were very high, and the panes were red, blue, and yellow, so that the light came through in curious colors. On the table were the most delicious cherries, and the old woman let Gerda eat as many as she liked, while she combed her hair with a gold comb as she ate. The beautiful sunny hair rippled and shone round the dear little face, which was so soft and sweet.  And, as she combed Gerda's hair, Gerda thought less and less about Kay, for the old woman was a witch, but not a wicked witch, for she only enchanted now and then to amuse herself, and she did not want to keep little Gerda very much. So she went into the garden and waved her stick over all the rose bushes and blossoms and all. They sank down into the black earth, and no one could see where they had been. The old woman was afraid that if Gerda saw the roses she would begin to think about her own, and then would remember Kay and run away. Then she let Gerda out into the garden, how glorious it was, and what lovely sense filled the air, all the flowers you can think of blossomed there all the year round. Gerda jumped for joy and played there till the sun set behind the tall cherry trees, and then she slept in a beautiful bed with red silk pillows filled with violets, and she slept soundly and dreamed as a queen does on her wedding day. The next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine, and so many days passed by. Gerda knew every flower, but although there were so many, it seemed to her as if one was not there, though she could not remember which. She was looking one day at the old woman's sun hat, which had painted flowers on it, and there she saw a rose. The witch had forgotten to make that vanish when she had made the other roses disappear under the earth. It was so difficult to think of everything. Why, there are no roses here, cried Gerda. And she hunted amongst all the flowers, but not one was to be found. Then she sat down and cried, but her tears fell just on the spot where a rose bush had sunk, and when her warm tears watered the earth the bush came up in full bloom just as it had been before. Gerda kissed the roses and thought of the lovely roses at home, and with them came the thought of little Kay. Oh, what have I been doing, said the little girl. I wanted to look for Kay. She ran to the end of the garden. The gate was shut, but she pushed against the busty lock so that it came open.  No one came after her. At last she could not run any longer, and she sat down on a large stone. When she looked round she saw that the summer was over. It was late autumn. It had not changed in the beautiful garden, where were sunshine and flowers all the year round. Oh, dear, how late I have made myself, said Gerda. It's autumn already. I cannot rest, and she sprang up to run on. Oh, how tired and sore her little feet grew, and it became colder and colder.  It had been looking at her for some time, and it knotted its head and said, Caw, caw, good day. Then it asked the little girl why she was alone in the world. She told the crow her story, and asked if it had seen Kay. The crow knotted very thoughtfully and said, It might be, it might be. What? Do you think you have? cried the little girl, and she almost squeezed the crow to death as she kissed him. Gently, gently, said the crow. I think, I know I think it might be, little Kay, but now he has forgotten you for the princess. Does he live with a princess? asked Gerda. Yes, listen, said the crow. Then he told her all he knew. In the kingdom in which we are now sitting lives a princess who is dreadfully clever. She has read all the newspapers in the world, and has forgotten them again. She is as clever as that. The other day she came to the throne, and that is not so pleasant as people think. Then she began to say, Why should I not marry? But she wanted a husband who could answer when he was spoken to. Not one who would stand up stiffly and look respectable. That would be too dull. When she told all the court-ladies they were delighted. You can believe every word I say, said the crow. I have a tame sweetheart in the palace, and she tells me everything. Of course, his sweetheart was a crow. The newspapers came out next morning with a border of hearts rounded, and the princess monogram on it. And inside you could read that every good-looking young man might come into the palace and speak to the princess, and whoever should speak loud enough to be heard would be well fed and looked after. And the one who spoke best should become the princess's husband. Indeed, said the crow, you can quite believe me. It is as true as that I am sitting here. Young men came in streams, and there was such a crowding and mixing together, but nothing came of it on the first nor the second day. They could all speak quite well when they were in the street. But as soon as they came inside the palace door and saw the guards in silver and upstairs the footmen in gold and the great hall all lighted up, then their wits left them, and when they stood in front of the throne where the princess was sitting, then they could not think of anything to say except to repeat the last word she had spoken. And she did not much care to hear of that again. It seemed as if they were walking in their sleep until they came out into the street again, when they could speak once more. There was a row stretching from the gate of the town up to the castle. They were hungry and thirsty, but in the palace they did not even get a glass of water. A few of the clevers had brought some slices of bread and butter with them, but they did not share them with their neighbor, for they thought if he looks hungry the princess will not take him. But what about Kay, asked Gerda. When did he come? Was he in a crowd? Wait a bit, we're coming on him. On the third day a little figure came without horse or carriage and walked jointly up to the palace.  He had lovely curling hair, but quite poor clothes. That was Kay, cried Gerda with delight. Oh, then I have found him, and she clapped her hands. He had a little bundle on his back, said the crow. No, it must have been his skates, for he went away with his skates. Very likely, said the crow, I did not see for certain, but I know this from my sweetheart, that when he came to the palace door and saw the royal guards in Suver, and on the stairs the footmen in gold he was not the least bit put out. He nodded to them, saying, It must be rather dull standing on the stairs, I would rather go inside. The halls blazed with lights. Counselors and ambassadors were walking about in noiseless shoes carrying gold dishes. It was enough to make one nervous. His boots creaked dreadfully loud, but he was not frightened. That must be Kay, said Gerda. I know he had new boots on. I have heard them creaking in his grandmother's room. They did creak certainly, said the crow, and now one bit afraid up he went to the princess, who was sitting on a large pearl as round as a spinning wheel. All the ladies in waiting were standing round, each with their attendance, and the lords in waiting with their attendance. The nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they were. It must have been dreadful, said little Gerda. And Kay did win the princess? I heard from my tame sweetheart that he was merry and quick-witted. He had not come to woo, he said, but to listen to the princess's wisdom. And the end of it was that they fell in love with each other. Oh, yes, that was Kay, said Gerda. He was so clever, he could do sums with fractions. Oh, do lead me to the palace. It's easily said, answered the crow, but how are we to manage that? I must talk it over with my tame sweetheart. She may be able to advise us, for I must tell you that a little girl like you could never get permission to enter it. Yes, I will get it, said Gerda. When Kay hears that I am there, he will come out at once and fetch me. Wait for me by the railings, said the crow, and he nodded his head and flew away. It was late in the evening when he came back. He said, I am to give you her love, and here is a little roll for you. She took it out of the kitchen. There's plenty there, and you must be hungry. You cannot come into the palace. The guards in silver and footmen in gold would not allow it. But don't cry. You shall get in all right. My sweetheart knows a little back stairs which leads to the sleeping room, and she knows where to find the key. They went into the garden, and when the lights in the palace were put out, one after the other, the crow led Gerda to a back door. Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with anxiety and longing. It seemed if she were going to do something wrong, but she only wanted to know if it were little Kay. Yes, it must be he. She remembered so well his clever eyes, his curly hair. She could see him smiling as he did when they were at home under the rose-trees. He would be so pleased to see her, and to hear how they all were at home. Now they were on the stairs. A little lamp was burning, and on the landing stood the tame crow. She put her head on one side and looked at Gerda, who bowed as her grandmother had taught her. My betrothed told me many nice things about you, my dear young lady, she said. Will you take the lamp while I go in front? We go this way so as to meet no one. Through beautiful rooms they came to the sleeping room. In the middle of it hung on a thick rod of gold were two beds, shaped like lilies, one all white, in which lay the princess, and the other red, in which Gerda hoped to find Kay. She pushed aside the curtain and saw a brown neck. Oh, it was Kay. She called his name out loud, holding the lamp toward him. He woke up, turned his head, and—it was not Kay. It was only his neck that was like Kay's, but he was young and handsome. The princess set up in her lily bed and asked who was there. Then Gerda cried and told her story and all that the crows had done. You poor child said the prince and princess, and they praised the crows, and said that they were not angry with them, but that they must not do it again. Now they should have a reward. Would you like to fly away free, said the princess? Or will you have a permanent place as court crows with what you can get in the kitchen? And both crows bowed and asked for a permanent appointment, for they thought of their old age. And they put Gerda to bed, and she folded her hands thinking as she fell asleep, how good people and animals are to me. The next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and satin. They wanted her to stay on in the palace, but she begged for a little carriage and a horse, and a pair of shoes so that she might go out again into the world to look for Kay. They gave her a muff as well as some shoes. She was warmly dressed, and when she was ready, there in front of the doors stood a coach of pure gold, with the coachmen, footmen, and pastillions with gold crowns on. The prince and princess helped her into the carriage and wished her good luck. The wild crow who was now married drove with her for the first three miles. The other crow could not come because she had a bad headache. Good-bye, good-bye, called the prince and princess, and little Gerda cried, and the crow cried. When he said good-bye he flew on to a tree and waved with his black wings as long as the carriage, which shone like the sun was in sight. They came at last to a dark wood, but the coach lit up like a torch. When the robbers saw it, they rushed out, exclaiming, gold, gold! They seized the horses, killed the coachmen, footmen, and pastillions, and dragged Gerda out of the carriage. She is plump and tender. I will eat her, said the old robber queen, and she drew her long knife, which glittered horribly.  She shall play with me. She shall give me muff and her beautiful dress, and she shall sleep in my bed. The little robber girl was as big as Gerda, but was stronger, broader with dark hair and black eyes. She threw her arms round Gerda and said, They shall not kill you, so long as you are not naughty. Aren't you a princess? No, said Gerda, and she told all that had happened to her, and how dearly she loved little Kay.  And she dried Gerda's eyes and stuck both her hands in the beautiful warm muff. The little robber girl took Gerda to a corner of the robber's camp where she slept. All round were more than a hundred wood pigeons, which seemed to be asleep, but they moved a little when the two girls came up. There was also, nearby, a reindeer, which the robber girl teased by tickling it with her long, sharp knife. Gerda lay awake for some time. Coo, coo, said the wood pigeons. We have seen little Kay. A white bird carried his sledge. He was sitting in the Snow Queen's carriage which strove over the forest when our little ones were in the nest. She breathed on them, and all except two died. Coo, coo. What are you saying over there? cried Gerda. Where was the Snow Queen going to? Do you know it all? She was probably travelling to Lapland, where there is always ice and snow. Asked the reindeer. There is capital ice and snow there, said the reindeer. One can jump about there in great sparkling valleys. There the Snow Queen has her summer palace, but her best palace is up by the North Pole, on the island called Spitzbergen. Okay, my little Kay, sobbed Gerda.  In the morning Gerda told her all that the wood pigeons had said. She nodded. Do you know where Lapland is? she asked the reindeer. Who should know better than I, said the beast, and his eyes sparkled. I was born and bred there on the snow fields. Listen, said the robber girl to Gerda. You see that all the robbers have gone, only my mother is left, and she will fall asleep in the afternoon. Then I will do something for you. When her mother had fallen asleep but the robber girl went up to the ranger and said, I am going to set you free so that you can run to Lapland, but you must go quickly and carry this little girl to the Snow Queen's palace, where her play-fellow is. You must have heard all that she told about it, for she spoke loud enough. The reindeer sprang high for joy. The robber girl lifted little Gerda up, and had the foresight to tie her on firmly, and even gave her a little pillow for a saddle. You must have your fur boots, she said, for it will be cold, but I shall keep your muff for it is so cozy. But so that you may not freeze, here are my mother's great fur gloves. They will come up to your elbows, creep into them, and Gerda cried for joy. Don't make such faces, said the little robber girl.  Now you won't be hungry. They were tied to the reindeer. The little robber girl opened the door, made all the big dogs come away, cut through the halter with her sharp knife, and said to the reindeer, run now, but take great care of the little girl. And Gerda stretched out her hands with the large fur gloves toward the little robber girl, and said, good-bye. Then the reindeer flew over the ground, through the great forest, as fast as he could. The wolves howled, the raven screamed, the sky seemed on fire. Those are my dear old northern lights, said the reindeer. See how they shine? And then he ran faster still, day and night. The loaves were eaten in the sausage also, and then they came to Lapland.  The roof almost touched the ground, and the door was so low that you had to creep in and out. There was no one in the house except an old Lapland woman who was cooking fish over an oil lamp. The reindeer told Gerda's whole history, but first he told his own, for that seemed to him much more important, and Gerda was so cold that she could not speak. Ah, ye poor creatures, said the Lapland woman. Ye have still further to go. You must go over a hundred miles into Finland, for there the Snow Queen lives, and every night she burns bengalights. I will write some words on a dried stockfish, for I have no paper, and ye must give it to the Finland woman, for she can give you better advice than I can. And when Gerda was warmed and had something to eat and drink, the Lapland woman wrote on a dried stockfish, and begged Gerda to take care of it. Tied Gerda securely on the reindeer's back, and away they went again. The whole night was ablaze with northern lights, and then they came to Finland and knocked at the Finland woman's chimney. For door she had none. Inside it was so hot that the Finland woman wore very few clothes. She loosened Gerda's clothes and drew off her fur gloves and boots. She laid a piece of ice on the reindeer's head, and then read what was written on the stockfish. She read it over three times till she knew it by heart, and then put the fish in a saucepan, for she never wasted anything.  You are very clever, said the reindeer. I know, cannot you give the little girl a drink, so that she may have the strength of twelve men and overcome the Snow Queen? The strength of twelve men, said the Finland woman, that would not help much. Little K is with the Snow Queen, and he likes everything there very much, and thinks it the best place in the world. But that is because he has a splinter of glass in his heart and a bit in his eye. If these do not come out, he will never be free, and the Snow Queen will keep her power over him. But cannot you give little Gerda something so that she can have power over her? I can give her no greater power than she has already. Don't you see how great it is? Don't you see how men and beasts must help her when she wanders into the wide world with her bare feet?  If she cannot by herself conquer the Snow Queen and take away the glass splinters from Little K, we cannot help her. The Snow Queen's garden begins two miles from here. You can carry the little maiden so far, put her down by the large bush with red berries growing in the snow, then you must come back here as fast as you can. Then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda on the reindeer, and away he sped. Oh, I left my gloves and boots behind, cried Gerda. She missed them in the piercing cold, but the reindeer did not dare to stop. On he ran till he came to the bush with red berries. Then he set Gerda down and kissed her mouth, and great big tears ran down his cheeks, and then he ran back. There stood poor Gerda, without shoes or gloves in the middle of the bitter cold of Finland. She ran on as fast as she could. A regimen of gigantic snowflakes came against her, but they melted when they touched her, and she went on with fresh courage. And now we must see what Kay was doing. He was not thinking of Gerda, and never dreamt that she was standing outside the palace. The walls of the palace were built of driven snow and the doors and windows of piercing winds. There were more than a hundred halls in it all of frozen snow. The largest was several miles long, the bright northern lights lit them up, and very large and empty and cold and glittering they were. In the middle of the great hall was a frozen lake which had cracked in a thousand pieces. Each piece was exactly like the other. Here the snow queen used to sit when she was at home. Little Kay was almost blue and black with cold, but he did not feel it, for she had kissed away his feelings and his heart was a lump of ice. He was pulling about some sharp flat pieces of ice and trying to fit one into the other. He thought each was most beautiful, but that was because of the splinter of glass in his eye. He fitted them into a great many shapes, but he wanted to make them spell the word love. The snow queen had said, If you can spell out that word you shall be your own master. I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates. But he could not do it. Now I must fly to warmer countries, said the snow queen.  That was what she called Mount Etna and Mount Vesuvius. It does the leavens and grapes good. And off she flew and Kay sat alone in the great hall trying to do his puzzle. He sat so still that you would have thought he was frozen. Then it happened that little Gerta stepped into the hall. The biting cold winds became quiet as if they had fallen asleep when she appeared in the great empty freezing hall. She caught sight of Kay. She recognized him and ran and put her arms round his neck, crying, Kay, dear little Kay, I have found you at last. But he sat quite still and cold. Then Gerta wept hot tears which fell on his neck and thawed his heart and swept away the bit of looking glass. He looked at her and then he burst into tears. He cried so much that the glass splinter swam out of his eye. Then he knew her and cried out, Gerta, dear little Gerta, where have you been so long and where have I been? And he looked round him. How cold it is here, how wide and empty. And he threw himself on Gerta and she laughed and wept for joy. It was such a happy time that the pieces of ice even danced round them for joy. And when they were tired and lay down again, they formed themselves into the letters that the Snow Queen had said he must spell in order to become his own master and have the whole world and a new pair of skates. And Gerta kissed his cheeks and they grew rosy.  She kissed his hands and feet and he became warm and glowing. The Snow Queen might come home now. His release, the word love, stood written in sparkling ice. They took each other's hands and wandered out of the great palace. They talked about the grandmother and the roses on the leads. Wherever they came the winds hushed and the sun came out. When they reached the bush with red berries there stood the reindeer waiting for them. He carried Kay and Gerta first to the Finland woman, who warmed them in her hot room and gave them advice for their journey home. Then they went to the Lapland woman, who gave them new clothes and mended their sleigh. The reindeer ran with them until they came to the green fields fresh with the spring green. Here, he said good-bye. They came to the forest which was bursting into bud and out of it came a splendid horse which Gerta knew. It was the one which had drawn the gold coach written by a young girl with a red cap and pistols in her belt. It was the little robber girl who was tired of being at home and wanted to go out into the world. She and Gerta knew each other at once.  I should like to know if you deserve to be run all over the world. But Gerta patted her cheeks and asked after the prince and princess. They are traveling about, said the robber girl. And the crow, asked Gerta. Oh, the crow is dead, answered the robber girl. His tame sweetheart is a widow and hops about with a bit of black crepe round her leg. She makes a great fuss, but that's all nonsense. But tell me what happened to you and how you caught him. And Kay and Gerta told her all. Dear, dear, said the robber girl, shook both their hands and promised that if she came to their town she would come to see them. Then she rode on. But Gerta and Kay went home hand in hand. There they found the grandmother and everything just as it had been. But when they went to the doorway they found that they were grown up. There were roses on the leaves. It was summer, warm, glorious summer. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. There was once a pretty little fir tree in a wood. It was in a capital position, for it could get sun and there was enough air, and all around grew many tall companions, both pines and firs. It did not heed the warm sun and the fresh air, or notice the little peasant children who ran about chattering when they came out to gather wild strawberries and raspberries. Often they found a whole basket full and strung strawberries on a straw. They would sit down by the little fir tree and say, What a pretty little one this is. The tree did not like that at all. By the next year it had grown a whole ring taller, and the year after that another ring more, for you can always tell a fir tree's age from its rings. Oh, if I were only a great tree like the others, sighed the little fir tree. Then I could stretch out my branches far and wide and look out into the great world. The birds would build their nests in my branches, and when the wind blew I would bow to it politely just like the others. It took no pleasure in the sunshine, nor in the birds, nor in the rose-colored clouds that sailed over it at dawn and at sunset. Then the winter came, and the snow lay white and sparkling all around, and a hair would come and spring right over the little fir tree, which annoyed it very much. But when two more winters had passed, the fir tree was so tall that the hair had to run around it. Ah, to grow and grow, and become great and old, that is the only pleasure in life, thought the tree. In the autumn the woodcutters used to come and hew some of the tallest trees. This happened every year, and the young fir tree would shiver as the magnificent trees fell crashing and crackling to the ground. Their branches hewn off, and their great trunks left bare, so that they were almost unrecognizable. But then they were laid on wagons and dragged out of the wood by horses. Where are they going? What will happen to them? In spring, when the swallows and storks came, the fir tree asked them, Do you know where they were taken? Have you met them? The swallows knew nothing of them, but the stork nodded his head, thoughtfully saying, I think I know. I met many new ships as I flew from Egypt. There were splendid masts on these ships. I'll wager those were they. They had the scent of fir trees. Ah, those are grand, grand. Oh, if only I were big enough to sail away over the sea, too. What sort of thing is the sea? What does it look like? Oh, it would take much too long to tell you all that, said the stork, and off he went. Rejoice in your youth, said the sunbeams. Rejoice in the sweet growing time, in the young life within you. And the wind kissed it and the dew wept tears over it, but the fir tree did not understand. Towards Christmas time quite little trees were cut down, some not as big as the young fir tree, or just the same age, and now it had no peace of rest for longing to be away. These little trees, which were chosen for their beauty, capped all of their branches. They were put in carts and drawn out of the wood by horses. Where are those going? asked the fir tree. They are no bigger than I. And one there was much smaller even. Why do they keep their branches? Where they taken to? We know, we know, twittered the sparrows. Down there in the city, we have peeped in the windows. We know where they go. They attain to have the greatest splendour and magnificence you can imagine. We have looked in at the windows and seen them planted in the middle of the warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful things, golden apples, sweet meats, toys, and hundreds of candles. And then, asked the fir tree, trembling in every limb with eagerness, and then what happens then? We haven't seen anything more than that. That was simply matchless. Am I too destined to the same brilliant career? wondered the fir tree excitedly, that is even better than sailing over the sea. I am sick with longing. If it were only Christmas, now I am tall and grown up like those which were taken away last year. Ah, if I were only in the cart, if I were only in the warm room with all the splendour and magnificence. And then, then comes something better, something still more beautiful. Else why should they dress us up? There must be something greater, something grander to come. But what? Oh, I am pining away. I really don't know what's the matter with me. Rejoice in us, said the air and sunshine. Rejoice in your fresh youth in the free air. But it took no notice, and just grew and grew. There it stood fresh and green in winter and summer, and all who saw it said, What a beautiful tree! And at Christmas time it was the first to be cut down. The axe went deep into the pith. The tree fell to the ground with a groan. It felt bruised and faint. It could not think of happiness. It was sad at leaving its home. The spot where it had sprung up. It knew, too, that it would never see again its dear old companions, or the little shrubs and flowers. Perhaps not even the birds. All together the parting was not pleasant. When the tree came to itself again it was packed in a yard with other trees, and a man was saying, This is a splendid one. We shall only want this. Then came two footmen in livery and carried the fir tree to a large and beautiful room. There were pictures hanging on the walls, and near the Dutch stoves stood great Chinese vases with lions on their lids. There were armchairs, silk-covered sofas, big tables laden with picture books and toys, worth hundreds of pounds at least, so the children said. The fir tree was placed in a great tub filled with sand, but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was all hung with greenery and stood on a gay carpet. How the tree trembled! What was coming now?  Guilt apples and nuts hung down as if they were growing. Over a hundred red blue and white tapers were fastened among the branches. Dolls, as lifelike as human beings, the fir tree had never seen any before, were suspended among the green, and right up at the top was a fixed gold tinsel star. It was gorgeous, quite unusually gorgeous. Tonight, they all said, tonight it will be lighted. Ah! thought the tree. If it were only evening, then the tapers would soon be lighted. What will happen then? I wonder whether the trees will come from wood to see me, or if the sparrows will fly against the window-pains. Am I to stand here decked out thus through winter and summer? It was not a bad guess, but the fir tree had real bark-ache from the sheer longing, and bark-ache in trees is just as bad as a headache in human beings. Now the tapers were lighted. What a glitter! What splendor! The tree quivered in all its branches so much that one of the candles caught the green and singed it. Take care, cried the young ladies, and they extinguished it. Now the tree did not even dare to quiver. It was really terrible. It was so afraid of losing any of its ornaments, and it was quite bewildered by all the radiance. And then the folding doors were opened, and a crowd of children rushed in, as though they wanted to knock down the whole tree, whilst the older people followed soberly. The children stood quite silent, but only for a moment, and then they shouted again and danced round the tree, and snatched off one present after another. What are they doing, thought the tree? What is going to happen? And the tapers burnt low on the branches, and were put out one by one, and then the children were given permission to plunder the tree. They rushed at it so that it all its bowels creaked. If it had not been fastened by the gold star at the top of the ceiling it would have been overthrown. The children danced about with their splendid toys, and no one looked at the tree, except the old nurse, who came and peeped amongst the bows just to see if a fig or an apple had been forgotten. A story! A story! cried the children, and dragged a little stout man to the tree. He sat down beneath it, saying, Here we are in the green wood, and the tree will be delighted to listen. But I am only going to tell one story. Shall it be Henny Penny or Humpty Dumpty who fell downstairs, and yet gained great honour and married a princess? Henny Penny cried some. Humpty Dumpty cried others. There was a perfect babel of voices. Only the fir tree kept silent, and thought, Am I not to be in it? Am I to have nothing to do with it? But it had already been in it, and played out its part. And the man told them about Humpty Dumpty who fell downstairs and married a princess. The children clapped their hands and cried, Another, another! They wanted the story of Henny Penny also, but they only got Humpty Dumpty. The fir tree stood quite astonished and thoughtful. The birds in the wood had never related anything like that. Humpty Dumpty fell downstairs and yet married a princess? Yes, that is the way of the world, thought the tree, and it was sure it must be true, because such a nice man had told the story. Well, who knows. Perhaps I shall fall downstairs and marry a princess, and it rejoice to think that the next day it would be decked out again with candles, toys, glittering ornaments, and fruits. Tomorrow I shall quiver again with excitement. I shall enjoy to the full all my splendour. Tomorrow I shall hear Humpty Dumpty again, and perhaps Henny Penny too. And the tree stood silent and lost and thought all through the night. Next morning the servants came in. Now the dressing will begin again, thought the tree. But they dragged it out of the room and up the stairs to the lumber room, and put it in a dark corner where no ray of light could penetrate. What does this mean? thought the tree. What am I to do here? What is there for me to hear? And it leaned against the wall and thought and thought. And there was time enough for that, for days and nights went by and no one came. At last, when someone did come, it was only to put some great boxes into the corner. Now the tree was quite covered. It seemed as if it had been quite forgotten. Now it is winter outdoors, thought the fir tree. The ground is hard and covered with snow. They can't plant me yet. And that is why I am staying here under cover till the spring comes. How thoughtful they are! Oh, I wish it were not so terribly dark and lonely here. Not even a little hair. It was so nice out in the wood, when the snow lay all around and the hair leapt past me. Yes, even when he leapt over me. But I didn't like it then. It's so dreadfully lonely up here. Squeak, squeak! said a little mouse, stealing out, followed by a second. They sniffed at the fir tree and then crept between its boughs. It's frightfully cold, said the little mouse. How nice it is to be here! Don't you think so too, you old fir tree? I'm not at all old, said the tree. There are many much older than I am. Where do you come from? asked the mice. And what do you know? They were extremely inquisitive. Do tell us about the most beautiful place in the world. Is that where you come from? Have you been in the storeroom where cheeses lie on the shelves and hams hang from the ceiling? Where one dances on talocandles and where one goes and thin and comes out fat? I know nothing about that, said the tree. But I know the wood, where the sun shines and the birds sing. And then I told them all about its young days. And the little mice had never heard anything like that before.  How lucky you have been! I, said the fir tree, and then I thought over what it had told them. Yes, on the whole those were very happy times. But then it went on to tell them about Christmas Eve, when it had been adorned with sweet needs and tapers.  I'm not at all old, said the tree. I only came from the wood this winter. I'm only a little backwards, perhaps, in my growth. How beautiful you tell stories, said the little mice. And next evening they came with four others, who wanted to hear the tree's story. And it told still more, for it remembered everything so clearly and thought, Those were happy times. But they may come again. Humpty-dumpty fell downstairs, and yet he married a princess. Perhaps I shall also marry a princess. And then it thought of a pretty little birch tree that grew out in the wood, and seemed to the fir a real princess, and a very beautiful one too. Who is Humpty-dumpty? asked the little mice. And then the tree told them the whole story. It could remember every single word, and the little mice were ready to leap on to the topmost branch out of sheer joy. Next night many more mice came, and on Sunday even two rats. But they did not care about the story, and that troubled the little mice, for now they thought less of it too. Is that the only story you know? asked the rats. The only one answered the tree. I heard that on my happiest evening, but I did not realize then how happy I was. It's a very poor story. Don't you know one about bacon or tallow candles? A storeroom story? No, said the tree. Then we are much obliged to you, said the rats, and they went back to their friends.  Really, it was very pleasant when the lively little mice sat round and listened whilst I told them stories. But now that's over too. But now I will think of the time when I shall be brought out again to keep up my spirits. But when did that happen? Well, it was one morning when they came to tidy up the lumber room. They threw it really rather roughly on the floor. But a servant dragged it off at once downstairs, where there was daylight once more. Now life begins again, thought the tree. It felt the fresh air, the first rays of the sun. And there it was, out in the yard. Everything passed so quickly. The tree quite forgot to notice itself. There was so much to look at all around. The yard opened on a garden full of flowers. The roses were so fresh and sweet, hanging over the little trellis. The lime trees were in blossom, and the swallows flew about, saying, Quiri, quiri, vil, my husband has come home. But it was not the fir tree they meant. Now I shall live, thought the tree joyfully, stretching out its branches wide. But alas they were all withered in yellow, and it was lying in a corner among weeds and nettles. The golden star was still on its highest bow, and it glittered in the bright sunlight. In the yard some of the merry children were playing, who had danced so gaily round the tree at Christmas. One of the little ones ran up and tore off the gold star.  And the tree looked at all the splendor and freshness of the flowers in the garden, and then looked at itself and wished that he had been left lying in the dark corner of the lumber room, and thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had listened so happily to the story of Humpty Dumpty. Too late, too late, thought the old tree. If only I had enjoyed myself whilst I could. Now all is over and gone. And a servant came out and cut the tree into small pieces. There was quite a bundle of them. They flickered brightly under the great copper in the brew-house. The tree sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a pistol shot. So the children who were playing there ran up and sat in front of the fire, gazing at it, and crying, piff, puff, bang! But for each report, which was really a sigh, the tree was thinking of the summer's day in the wood, or of a winter's night out there, when the stars were shining. It thought of Christmas Eve and of Humpty Dumpty, which was the only story it had heard or could tell, and then the tree had burnt away. The children played on in the garden, and the youngest had the golden star on his breast, which the tree had worn on the happiest evening of its life. And now that was passed, and the tree had passed away, and the story, too, all ended and done with. And that's the way with all stories. Here our Danish author ends. This is what people call sentiment, and I hope you enjoy it. In a village there once lived a smith called Bazmus, who was in a very poor way. He was still a young man, and a strong handsome fellow to boot, but he had many little children, and there was little to be earned by his trade. He was, however, a diligent and hard-working man, and when he had no work in the smithy, he was out at sea fishing, or gathering wreckage on the shore. It happened one time that he had gone out to fish in good weather. All alone in a little boat, but he did not come home that day, nor the following one, so that all believed he had perished out at sea.  There was nothing to matter with him, and he complained neither of hunger nor of thirst. He had got into a fog, he said, and could not find land again. What he did not tell, however, was where he had been all the time. That only came out six years later, when people got to know that he had been caught by a mermaid out on the deep sea, and had been her guest during the three days that he was missing. From that time forth he went out no more to fish, nor indeed did he require to do so, for whenever he went down to the shore it never failed that some wreckage was washed up, and in it all kinds of valuable things. In those days everyone took what they found and got leave to keep it, so that the smith grew more prosperous day by day. When seven years had passed since the smith went out to sea, it happened one morning as he stood in the smithy, mending a plow that a handsome young lad came into him and said, Good day, Father! My mother the mermaid sends for greetings, and says that she has had me for six years now, and you can keep me for as long. He was a strange enough boy to be six years old, for he looked as if he had were 18, and was even bigger and stronger than lads commonly are at that age. Will you have a bite of bread? said the smith. Oh yes, said Hans, for that was his name. The smith then told his wife to cut a piece of bread for him. She did so, and the boy swallowed it at one mouthful and went out again to the smithy to his father. Have you got all you can eat? said the smith. No, said Hans, that was just a little bit. The smith went into the house and took a whole loaf, which he cut into two slices and put butter and cheese between them. And this he gave to Hans. In a while the boy came out to the smithy again. Well, have you got as much as you can eat? said the smith. No, not nearly, said Hans. I must try to find a better place than this, for I can see that I shall never get my fill here. Hans wished to set off at once, as soon as his father would make a staff for him of such a kind as he wanted. It must be of iron, said he, and one that can hold out. The smith brought him an iron rod as thick as an ordinary staff, but Hans took it and twisted it round his finger so that wouldn't do. Then the smith came dragging one as thick as a wagon pole, but Hans bent it over his knee and broke it like a straw. The smith then had to collect all the iron he had, and Hans held it while his father forged for him a staff which was heavier than the anvil. When Hans had got this he said, Many thanks, father. Now I have got my inheritance. With this he set off into the country, and the smith was very pleased to be rid of that son, before he ate him out of house and home. Hans first arrived at a large estate, and it so happened that the squire himself was standing outside the farmyard. Where are you going? said the squire. I am looking for a place, said Hans, where they have need of strong fellows, and can give them plenty to eat. Well, said the squire, I generally have twenty-four men at this time of the year, but I only have twelve just now, so I can easily take you on. Very well, said Hans, I shall easily do twelve men's work, but then I must also have as much to eat as the twelve would. All this was agreed to, and the squire took Hans into the kitchen, and told the servant girls that the new man was to have as much food as the other twelve. It was arranged that he should have a pot to himself, and he could then use the ladle to take his food with. It was in the evening that Hans arrived there, so he did nothing more that day than eat his supper, a big pot of buckwheat porridge, which he cleaned to the bottom, and was then so far satisfied that he said he could sleep on that, and so he went off to bed. He slept both well and long, and all the rest were up and at their work while he was still sleeping soundly. The squire was also on foot, for he was curious to see how the new man would behave, who was both to eat and work for twelve. But as yet there was no Hans to be seen, and the sun was already high in the heavens, so the squire himself went and called on him. Get up, Hans, he cried. You are sleeping too long. Hans woke up and rubbed his eyes. Yes, that's true, he said. I must get up and have my breakfast. So he rose and dressed himself, and went into the kitchen, where he got his pot of porridge. He swallowed all of this, and then asked what work he was to have. He was to thresh that day, said the squire. The other twelve men were already busy at it. There were twelve threshing floors, and the twelve men were already at work on six of them, two on each. Hans was thresh by himself all that was lying upon the other six floors. He went out to the barn and got hold of a flail. Then he looked to see how the others did it, and did the same. But at the first stroke he smashed the flail in pieces. There were several flails hanging there, and Hans took the one after the other. But they all went the same way, everyone flying in splinters at the first stroke. He then looked round for something else to work with, and found a pair of strong beams lying near. Next he caught sight of a horse hide nailed up on the barn door. With the beams he made a flail, using the skin to tie them together. The one beam he used as a handle, the other to strike with. And now that was all right. But the barn was too low. There was no room to swing the flail, and the floors were too small. Hans, however, found a remedy for this. He simply lifted the whole roof off the barn, and set it down in the field beside. He then emptied down all the corn that he could lay his hands on and threshed away. He went through one lot after another, and it was all the same to him what he got hold of. So before midday he had threshed all the squire's grain, his rye and wheat and barley and oats, all mixed through each other. When he was finished with this he lifted the roof up on the barn again, like setting a lid on a box, and went in and told the squire that the job was done. The squire opened his eyes at this announcement, and came out to see if it was really true. It was true, sure enough, but he was scarcely delighted with the mixed grain that he got from all his crops. However, when he saw the flail that Hans had used, and learned how he had made room for himself to swing it, he was so afraid of the strong fellow that he dared not say anything, except that it was a good thing he had got it threshed, but it had still to be cleaned. What does that mean? asked Hans. It was explained to him that the corn and the chaff had to be separated, as yet both were lying in one heap, right up to the roof. Hans began to take up a little and sifted in his hands, but he soon saw that this would never do. He soon thought of a plan, however. He opened both barn doors and then lay down at one end and blue, so that all the chaff flew out and lay like a sandbank at the other end of the barn. And the grain was as clean as it could be. Then he reported to the squire that that job was also done. The squire said that that was well. There was nothing more for him to do that day. Off went Hans to the kitchen, and got as much as he could eat. Then he went and took a midday nap which lasted till supper time. Meanwhile the squire was quite miserable, and made his moan to his wife, saying that she must help him to find some means to getting rid of this strong fellow, for he durst not give him his leave. She sent for the steward, and it was of range that the next day all the men should go to the forest for firewood, and that they should make a bargain among them.  They thought that they could easily manage that it would be Hans who would lose his life, for the others would be early on the road while Hans would certainly oversleep himself. In the evening, therefore, the men sat and talked together, saying that next morning they must set out early to the forest, and as they had a hard day's work and a long journey before them, they would for their amusement make a compact, that whichever of them came home last with his load should lose his life on the gallows. So Hans had no objections to make. Long before the sun was up next morning, all the twelve men were on foot. They took all the best horses and carts, and drove off to the forest. Hans, however, lay and slept on, and the squire said, just let him lie. At last Hans thought it was time to have his breakfast, so he got up and put on his clothes. He took plenty of time to his breakfast, and then went out to get his horse and cart ready. The others had taken everything that was any good, so that he had a difficulty in scraping together four wheels of different sizes and fixing them to an old cart. And he could find no other horses than a pair of old hacks. He did not know where it lay, but he followed the track of the other carts, and in that way came to it all right. On coming to the gate leading into the forest, he was unfortunate enough to break it in pieces. So he took a huge stone that was lying on the field, seven L's long and seven L's broad, and set this in the gap. Then he went on and joined the others. These laughed at him heartily, for they had labored as hard as they could since daybreak, and had helped each other to fell trees and put them on the carts, so that all of these were now loaded, except one. Hans got hold of a woodman's axe and proceeded to fell a tree, but he destroyed the edge and broke the shaft at the first blow. He therefore laid down the axe, put his arms round the tree, and pulled it up by the roots. This he threw upon his cart, and then another and another, and thus he went on while all the others forgot their work, and stood with open mouths gazing at this strange woodcraft. All at once they began to hurry, the last cart was loaded and they whipped up their horses, so as to be the first to arrive home. When Hans had finished his work, he again put his old hacks into the cart, but they could not move it from the spot. He was annoyed at this, and took them out again, twisted a rope round the cart, and all the trees, lifted the whole affair on his back and set off home, leading the horses behind him by the rain. When he reached the gate, he found the whole row of carts standing there, unable to get any further for the stone which lay in the gap. What! said Hans, can twelve men not move that stone? With that he lifted it and threw it out of the way, and went on with his burden on his back, and the horses behind him, and arrived at the farm long before any of the others. The squire was walking about there, looking and looking, for he was very curious to know what had happened. Finally he caught sight of Hans coming along in this fashion, and was so frightened that he did not know what to do.  When Hans reached the gate of the courtyard, he laid down the trees and hammered at it, but no one came to open it. He then took the trees and tossed them over the barn into the yard, and the cart after them so that every wheel flew off in a different direction. When the squire saw this he thought to himself, the horses will come the same way if I don't open the door. So he did this. Good day, master! said Hans, and put the horses into the stable, and went into the kitchen to get something to eat. At length the other men came home with their loads. When they came in, Hans said to them, Do you remember the bargain we made last night? Which of you is it that's going to be hanged? Oh, said they. That was only a joke. It didn't mean anything. Oh, well, it doesn't matter, said Hans, and there was no more about it. The squire, however, and his wife and the steward had much to say to each other about the terrible man they had got, and all were agreed that they must get rid of him in some way or other. The steward said that he would manage this all right. The next morning they were to clean the well, and they would use of that opportunity. They would get him down into the well, and then have a big millstone ready to throw down on top of him. That would settle him. After that they could just fill in the well, and then escape being at any expense for his funeral. Both the squire and his wife thought this a splendid idea, and went about rejoicing at the thought that now they would get rid of Hans. But Hans was hard to kill, as we shall see. He slept long next morning, as he always did, and finally, as he would not waken by himself, the squire had to go and call him. Get up, Hans, you are sleeping too long, he cried. Hans woke up and rubbed his eyes. That so, said he, I shall rise and have my breakfast. He got up then and dressed himself, while the breakfast stood waiting for him. When he had finished the whole of this, he asked what he was to do that day. He was told to help the other men to clean out the well. That was all right, and he went out and found the other men waiting for him. To this he said that they could choose whichever task they liked, either to go down into the well and fill the buckets while he pulled them up, or pulled them up, and he alone would go down to the bottom of the well. They answered that they would rather stay above ground, as there would be no room for so many of them down in the well. Hans, therefore, went down alone, and began to clean out the well. But the men had arranged how they were to act, and immediately each of them seized a stone from the heap of huge blocks and threw them down above him, thinking to kill him with these. Hans, however, gave no more heat to this than to shout up to them, to keep the hands away from the well, for they were scraping gravel down on top of them. They then saw that they could not kill him with little stones, but they had still the big one left. The whole twelve of them set to work with poles and rollers, and rolled a big millstone to the brink of the well. It was with the greatest difficulty that they got it thrown down there, and now they had no doubt that he had got all that he wanted. But the stone happened to fall so luckily that his head went right through the hole in the middle of the millstone, so that it sat round his neck like a priest's collar. At this Hans would stay down no longer. He came out of the well with the millstone round his neck, and went straight to the squire and complained that the other men were trying to make a fool of him. He would not be their priest, he said. He had too little learning for that.  The squire went limping into his wife, and the steward was sent for. He was told that he must devise some plan for getting rid of this terrible person. The scheme he had devised before had been of no use, and now good counsel was scarce. A hone knows, said the steward, there are good enough ways yet. The squire can send him this evening to fish in the Devil Moss Lake. He will never escape alive from there, for no one can go there by night for old Eric. That was a grand idea, both the squire and his wife thought, and so he limped out again to Hans, and said that he would punish his men for having tried to make a fool of him. Meanwhile, Hans could do a little job where he would be free from these rascals. He should go out on the lake and fish there that night, and would then be free from all work on the following day. All right, said Hans. I am well content with that, but I must have something with me to eat, a baking of bread, a cask of butter, a barrel of ale, and a keg of brandy. I can't do with less than that. The squire said that he could easily get all that. So Hans got all of these tied up together, hung them over his shoulder on his good staff, and tramped away to Devil Moss Lake. There he got into his boat, rode out upon the lake, and got everything ready to fish. As he now lay out there in the middle of the lake, and it was pretty late in the evening, he thought he would have something to eat first, before starting to work. Just as he was at his busiest with this, just as he was at his busiest with this, old Eric rose out of the lake, caught him by the cuff of the neck, whipped him out of the boat, and dragged him down to the bottom. It was a lucky thing that Hans had his walking stick with him that day, and had just time to catch hold of it when he felt old Eric's claws in his neck, so that when they got down to the bottom he said, Stop now, just wait a little. Here is solid ground. With that he caught old Eric by the back of the neck with one hand, and hammered away on his back with the staff, till he beat him out as flat as a pancake. Old Eric then began to lament and howl, begging him just to let him go, and he would never come back to the lake again. No, my good fellow, said Hans, you won't get off until you promise to bring all the fish in the lake up to the squire's courtyard, before tomorrow morning. Old Eric eagerly promised this, if Hans would only let him go, so Hans rode ashore, ate up the rest of his provisions, and went home to bed. Next morning when the squire rose and opened his front door, the fish came tumbling into the porch, and the whole yard was crammed full of them. He ran in again to his wife, for he could never devise anything himself, and said to her, What shall we do with him now? Old Eric hasn't taken him. I am certain that all the fish are out of the lake, for the yard is just filled with them. Yes, that's a bad business, said she. You must see if you can't get him sent to purgatory, to demand tribute. The squire therefore made his way to the men's quarters to speak to Hans, and it took him all of his time to push his way along the walls, under the eaves, on account of the fish that filled the yard. He thanked Hans for having fished so well, and said that now he had an errand for him, for which he could only give to a trusty servant, and that was to journey to purgatory, and demand three years' tribute, which he said was owing to him from that quarter. Willingly said Hans, But what road do I go to get there? The squire stood and did not know what to say.  Can't you direct him straight forward south through the wood, whether he gets there or not we shall be quit of him. Out goes the squire again to Hans. The way lies straight forward south through the wood, said he. Hans then must have his provisions for the journey, two bakings of bread, two casks of butter, two barrels of ale, and two kegs of brandy. He tied all these up together, and got them on his shoulder hanging on his good walking stick, and off he tramped southward. After he had got through the wood there was more than one road, and he was in doubt which of them was the right one. So he sat down and opened up his bundle of provisions. He found that he had left his knife at home, but by good chance there was a plow lying close at hand. So he took the colter of this to cut the bread with. As he sat there and took his bite a man came riding past him. Where are you from? said Hans. From Burgatory, said the man. Then stop and wait a little, said Hans, but the man was in a hurry, and would not stop. So Hans ran after him and caught the horse by the tail. This brought it down on its hind legs, and the man went flying over its head into a ditch. Just wait a little, said Hans. I am going the same way. He got his provisions tied up again, and laid them on the horse's back. Then he took hold of the reins and said to the man, We too can go together on foot. As they went on their way Hans told the stranger both about the errand he had on hand and the fun he had had with old Eric. The other said but little, but was well acquainted with the way. And it was no long time before they arrived at the gate. There both horse and rider disappeared and Hans was left alone outside. They will come and let me in presently, he thought to himself, but no one came. He hammered at the gate, still no one appeared. Then he got tired of waiting and smashed at the gate with his staff until he knocked it in pieces and got inside. A whole troop of little demons came down upon him and asked what he wanted. His master's compliments, said Hans, and he wanted three years tribute. At this they howled at him, and they were about to lay hold of him and drag him off, but when they had got some wraps from his walking stick they let go again, howled still louder than before, and ran into old Eric, who was still in bed after his adventure in the lake. They told him that a messenger had come from the Squire at Devil Moss to demand three years tribute. He had knocked the gate to pieces and bruised their arms and legs with his iron staff. Give him three years, give him ten, shouted old Eric, only don't let him come near me. So all the little demons came dragging so much silver and gold that it was something awful. Hans filled his bundle with gold and silver coins, put it on his neck, and tramped back to his master, who was scared beyond all measure at seeing him again. But Hans was also tired of service now. Of all the gold and silver he brought with him he let the Squire keep one half, and he was glad enough, both for the money ended getting rid of Hans. The other half he took home to his father, the Smith and Furby. To him he said, farewell, he was now tired of living on shore among mortal men, and had preferred to go home again to his mother. Since that time no one has ever seen Hans, the Mermaid's son. And of Hans, the Mermaid's son. They often lamented to each other that they had no one of their own to inherit all the wealth that they possessed. They continued to prosper and became rich people, but there was no heir to it all. One year it happened that they owned a pretty little bull calf, which they called Peter. It was the prettiest little creature they had ever seen, so beautiful and so wise that it understood everything that was said to it, and so gentle and so full of play that both the man and his wife came to be as fond of it as if it had been their own child. One day the man said to his wife, I wonder now whether our parish clerk could teach Peter to talk. In that case we could not do better than adopt him as our son, and let him inherit all that we possess. Well, I don't know, said his wife. Our clerk is tremendously learned, and knows much more than his pattern-oster, and I could almost believe that he might be able to teach Peter to talk, for Peter has a wonderfully good head, too. You might at least ask him about it. Off went the man to the clerk and asked him whether he thought he could teach a bull calf that they had to speak, for they wished so much to have it as their heir.  He looked round about to see that no one could overhear them and said, Oh, yes, I can easily do that, but you must not speak to anyone about it. It must be done in all secrecy, and the priests must not know of it, otherwise I shall get into trouble as it is forbidden. It will also cost you something, as some very expensive books are required. That did not matter at all, the man said. They would not care so very much what it cost. The clerk could have a hundred dollars to begin with to buy the books. He also promised to tell no one about it, and to bring the calf round in the evening. He gave the clerk a hundred dollars on the spot, and in the evening took the calf round to him, and the clerk promised to do his best with it. In a week's time he came back to the clerk to hear about the calf and see how it was thriving. The clerk, however, said that he could not get a sight of it. For then Peter would long after him and forget all that he had already learned. He was getting on well with his learning, but another hundred dollars were needed, as they must have more books. The peasant had the money with him, so he gave it to the clerk and went home again with high hopes. In another week the man came again to learn what progress Peter had made now. He is getting on very well, said the clerk. I suppose he can't say anything yet, said the man. Oh yes, said the clerk. He can say moo now. Do you think he will get on with his learning? asked the peasant. Oh yes, said the clerk. But I shall want another hundred dollars for books. Peter can't learn well out of the ones that he has got. Well well, said the man. What must be spent shall be spent. So he gave the clerk the third hundred dollars for books, and a cask of good old ale for Peter. The clerk drank the ale himself and gave the calf milk, which he thought would be better for it. Some weeks passed, during which the peasant did not come round to ask after the calf. Being frightened lest it should cost him another hundred dollars, for he had begun to squirm a bit at having to part with so much money. Meanwhile, the clerk decided that the calf was as fat as it could be, so he killed it. After he had got all the beef out of the way, he went inside, put on his black clothes, and made his way to the peasant's house. As soon as he had said, Good day, he asked, Has Peter come home here? No indeed he hasn't, said the man. Surely he hasn't run away. I hope, said the clerk, that he would not behave so contemptibly after all the trouble I have had to teach him, and all that I have spent upon him. I have had to spend at least a hundred dollars of my own money to buy books for him before I got him so far on. He could say anything he liked now, so he said today that he longed to see his parents again. I was willing to give him that pleasure, but I was afraid that he wouldn't be able to find the way here by himself, so I made myself ready to go with him. When he had got outside the house, I remembered that I had left my stick inside and went in again to get it. When I came out again, Peter had gone off on his own account. I thought he would be here, and if he isn't, I don't know where he is. The peasant and his wife began to lament bitterly that Peter had run away in this fashion, just when they were to have so much joy of him, and after they had spent so much on his education. The worst of it was that now they had no heir after all. The clerk comforted them as best he could. He also was greatly distressed that Peter should have behaved in such a way, just when he should have gained honour from his people. Perhaps he had only gone astray, and he would advertise him at church next Sunday, and find out where anyone had seen him. Then he bade them good-bye, and went home and dined on a good, fat, veal roast. Now it so happened that the clerk took in a newspaper, and one day he chanced to read in its columns of a new merchant who had settled in a town at some distance, and whose name was Peter Bull. He put the newspaper in his pocket and went round to the souring couple who had lost their heir. He read the paragraph to them and added, I wondered now whether that he could be your bull calf Peter. Yes, of course it is, said the man. Who else would it be? His wife then spoke up and said, You must set out, good man, and see about him, for it is him I am perfectly certain. Take a good sum of money with you too, for who knows but what he may have want some cash now that he has turned a merchant. Next day the man got a bag of money on his back and a sandwich in his pocket, and his pipe in his mouth, and set out for the town where the new merchant lived. It was no short way, and he travelled for many days before he finally arrived there. He reached it one morning, just at daybreak, found out the right place, and asked if the merchant was at home. Yes, he was, said the people, but he was not up yet. That doesn't matter, said the peasant, for I am his father. Just show me up to his bedroom. He was shown up to the room, and as soon as he entered it, had caught sight of the merchant. He recognized him at once. He had the same broad forehead, the same thick neck, the same red hair, but in other respects he was now like a human being. The peasant rushed straight up to him and took a firm hold of him.  Get up now, so that I can see you properly and have a talk with you. The merchant thought that it was a lunatic who had made his way into him, and thought it best to take things quietly. All right, said he, I shall do so at once. He got out of bed and made haste to dress himself. I said the peasant, now I can see how clever our clerk is. He has done well by you, for now you look just like a human being. If one didn't know it, one would never think that it was you we got from the red cow. Will you come home with me now? No, said the merchant, I can't find time just now. I have a big business to look after. You could have the farm at once, you know, said the peasant, and we old people would retire. But if you would rather stay in business, of course you may do so. Are you in want of anything? Oh yes, said the merchant, I want nothing so much as money. A merchant has always a use for that. I can well believe that, said the peasant, for you had nothing at all to start with. I have brought some with me for that very end.  When the merchant saw what kind of man he had before him, he began to speak him fair, and invited him to stay with him for some days, so that they might have some more talk together. Very well, said the peasant, but you must call me father. I have neither father nor mother alive, said Peter Bull. I know that, said the man.  But my wife and I have adopted you as our son, and you are our only heir, so you must call me father. Peter Bull was quite willing to do so, and it was settled that he should keep the money, while the peasant made his will and left to him all that he had, before he went home to his wife and told her the whole story. She was delighted to hear that it was true enough about Peter Bull, that he was no other than their own bull calf. You must go at once until the clerk, said she, and pay him the hundred dollars of his own money that he spent upon our son. He has earned them well, and more besides, for all the joys he has given us in having such a son and heir. The man agreed with this, and thanked the clerk for all he had done, and gave him two hundred dollars. Then he sold the farm and removed with his wife to the town where their dear son and heir was living. To him they gave all their wealth, and lived with him till their dying day. The Pink Fairy Book by Andrew Lang The Bird Grip Translated from the Swedish It happened once that a king, who had a great kingdom and three sons, became blind, and no human skill or art could restore to him his sight. At last there came to the palace an old woman, who told him that in the whole world there was only one thing that could give him back his sight, and that was to get the bird grip. His song would open the king's eye. When the king's eldest son heard this he offered to bring the bird grip, which was kept in a cage by a king in another country, and carefully guarded as his greatest treasure. The blind king was greatly rejoiced at his son's resolve, fitted him out in the best way he could, and let him go. When the prince had ridden some distance he came to an inn, in which there were many guests, all of whom were merry, and drank and sang and played at dice. This joyous life pleased the prince so well that he stayed at the inn, took part in the playing and drinking, and forgot both his blind father and the bird grip. Meanwhile the king waited with both hope and anxiety for his son's return. But as time went on and nothing was heard of him, the second prince asked leave to go in search of his brother, as well as to bring the bird grip. The king granted his request, and fitted him out in the finest fashion. But when the prince came to the inn and found his brother among his merry companions, he also remained there and forgot both the bird grip and his blind father. When the king noticed that neither of his sons returned, although a long time had passed since the second one set out, he was greatly distressed. For not only had he lost all hope of getting back his sight, but he had also lost his two eldest sons. The youngest now came to him and offered to go in search of his brothers and to bring the bird grip. He was quite certain that he would succeed in this. The king was unwilling to risk his third son on such an errand, but he begged so long that his father had at last a consent. This prince also was fitted out in the finest manner, like his brothers, and so rode away. He also turned into the same inn as his brothers, and when they saw him they assailed him with many entreaties to remain with them and share their merry life. But he answered that now, when he had found them, his next task was to get the bird grip, for which his blind father was longing, and so he had not a single hour to spare with them in the inn. He then said farewell to his brothers and rode on to find another inn in which to pass the night. When he had ridden a long way and it began to grow dark, he came to a house which laid deep in the forest. Here he was received in a very friendly manner by the host, who put his horse into the stable and led the prince himself into the guest chamber, where he ordered a maid servant to lay the cloth and set down the supper. It was now dark, and while the girl was laying the cloth and setting down the dishes, and the prince had begun to appease his hunger, he heard the most piteous shrieks and cries from the next room. He sprang up from the table and asked the girl what those cries were, and whether he had fallen into a den of robbers. The girl answered that these shrieks were heard every night, but it was no living being who uttered them. It was a dead man, who life the host had taken because he could not pay for the meals he had had in the inn. The host further refused to bury the dead man, as he had left nothing to pay the expenses of the funeral, and every night he went and scourged the dead body of his victim. When she had said this she lifted the cover off one of the dishes, and the prince saw that there lay on it a knife and an axe. He understood then that the host meant to ask him by this what kind of death he preferred to die, unless he was willing to advance him his life with his money. He then summoned the host, gave him a large sum for his own life, and paid the dead man's debt as well, besides paying him for burying the body, which the murderer now promised to attend to. The prince, however, felt that his life was not safe in this murderer's den, and asked the maid to help him escape that night. She replied that the attempt to do so might cost her her own life, as the key of the stable in which the prince's horse stood lay under the host's pillow. But, as she herself was a prisoner there, she would help him to escape if he would take her along with him. He promised to do so, and they succeeded in getting away from the inn, and rode on until they came to another far away from it, where the prince got a good place for the girl before proceeding on his journey. As he now rode all alone through a forest there met him a fox, who greeted him in a friendly fashion, and asked him where he was going, and on what errand he was bent. The prince answered that his errand was too important to be confided to everyone that he met. You are right in that, said the fox, for it relates to the bird grip, which you will want to take and bring home to your blind father. I could help you in this, but in that case you must follow my counsel. The prince thought that this was a good offer, especially as the fox was ready to go with them and show him the way to the castle, where the bird grip sat in his cage, and so he promised to obey the fox's instructions. When they had reversed the forest together they saw the castle at some distance. Then the fox gave the prince three grains of gold, one of which he was to throw into the guard room, another into the room where the bird grip sat, and the third into its cage. He could then take the bird, but he must be aware of stroking it, otherwise it will go ill with him. The prince took the grains of gold and promised to follow the fox's directions faithfully. When he came to the guard room of the castle he threw one of the grains in there, and the guards at once fell asleep. The same thing happened with those who kept watching the room beside the bird grip. And when he threw the third grain into the cage the bird also fell asleep. When the prince got the beautiful bird into his hand he could not resist the temptation to stroke it, whereupon it awoke and began to scream. At this the whole castle woke up and the prince was taken prisoner. As he now sat in his prison and bitterly lamented that his own disobedience had brought himself into trouble and deprived his father of the chance of recovering his sight, the fox suddenly stood in front of him. The prince was very pleased to see it again and received with great meekness all its reproaches, as well as promised to be more obedient in the future, if the fox would only help him get out of his fix. The fox said that he had come to assist him, but he could do no more than advise the prince. When he was brought up for trial, to answer yes to all the judge's questions and everything would go well. The prince faithfully followed his instructions so that when the judge asked him whether he had meant to steal the bird-grip he said yes, and when the judge asked him if he was a master thief he again answered yes. When the king heard that he admitted being a master thief he said that he would forgive him the attempt to steal the bird if he would go to the next kingdom and carry off the world's most beautiful princess and bring her to him. To this also the prince said yes. When he left the castle he met the fox, who went along with him to the next kingdom, and when they came near the castle there gave him three grains of gold, one to throw into the guard room, another into the princess's chamber, and the third into her bed. At the same time he strictly warned him not to kiss the princess. The prince went into the castle and did with the grains of gold as the fox had told him, so that sleep fell upon everyone there. But when he had taken the princess into his arms he forgot the fox's warning. At the sight of her beauty and kissed her. Then both she and all the others in the castle woke. The prince was taken prisoner and put into a strong dungeon. Here the fox again came to him and reproached him with his disobedience, but promised to help him out of this trouble also if he would answer yes to everything they asked him at his trial. The prince willingly agreed to this and admitted to the judge that he had meant to steal the princess, and that he was a master thief. When the king learned this he said he would forgive his offenses if he would go to the next kingdom and steal the horse with the four golden shoes. Do this also the prince said yes. When he had gone a little away from the castle he met the fox, and they continued on their journey together. When they reached the end of it the prince for the third time received three grains of gold from the fox, with directions to throw one into the guard chamber, another into the stable, and the third into the horse's stall. But the fox told him that above the horse's stall hung a beautiful golden saddle, which he must not touch. If he did not want to bring himself into new troubles worse than those he had escaped from, for then the fox could help him no longer. The prince promised to be firm this time. He threw the grains of gold in the proper places and untied the horses. But with that he got side of the golden saddle and thought that none but it could suit so beautiful a horse, especially as it had golden shoes. But just as he stretched out his hand to take it he received from some invisible being so hard to blow on the arm that it was made quite numb. This recalled to him his promise and his danger, so he let out the horse without looking at the golden saddle again. The fox was waiting for him outside the castle and the prince confessed to him that he had barely nearly given way to temptation this time as well. I know that, said the fox, for it was I who struck you over the arm. As they now went on together the prince said that he could not forget the beautiful princess and asked the fox whether he did not think that she ought to ride home to his father's palace on this horse with the golden shoes. The fox agreed that this would be excellent. If the prince would now go and carry her off he would give him the three grains of gold for that purpose. The prince was quite ready and promised to keep better command of himself this time and not kiss her. He got the grains of gold and entered the castle, where he carried off the princess, set her on the beautiful horse, and held her on his way. When they came near to the castle where the bird-grip sat in his cage he again asked the fox for three grains of gold. These he got and with them he was successful in carrying off the bird. He was now full of joy for his blind father would now recover his sight while he himself owned the world's most beautiful princess and the horse with the golden shoes. The prince and princess travelled on together with mirth and happiness and the fox followed them until they came to the forest where the prince first met with him. Here always part, said the fox. You have now got all your hearts desired and you will have a prosperous journey to your father's palace if only you do not ransom anyone's life with money. The prince thanked the fox for all his help, promised to give heed to his warning and said farewell to him, and rode on with the princess by his side in the bird-grip on his wrist. They soon arrived at the inn where the two eldest brothers had stayed, forgetting their errand. But now no merry song or noise of mirth was heard from it. When the prince came nearer he saw two gallows erected, and when he entered the inn along with the princess he saw that all the rooms were hung with black, and that everything inside foreboded sorrow and death. He asked the reason of this and was told that two princes were to be hanged that day for debt. They had spent all their money in feasting and playing, and were now deeply in debt to the host. And as no one could be found to ransom their lives they were about to be hanged according to the law. The prince knew that was his two brothers who had thus forfeited their lives, and it cut him to the heart to think that two princes should suffer such a shameful death.  At first the brothers were grateful for their liberty, but when they saw the youngest brothers' treasures they became jealous of his good fortune and planned how to bring him to destruction, and then take the bird-grip, the princess AND the horse with the golden shoes, and convey them to their blind father. After they had agreed on how to carry out their treachery they enticed the prince to a den of lions and threw him down among them. Then they set the princess on horseback, took the bird-grip, and rode homeward. The princess wept bitterly, but they told her that it would cost her her life if she did not say that the two brothers had won all the treasures. When they arrived at their father's palace there was great rejoicing, and everyone praised the two princes for their courage and bravery. When the king inquired after the youngest brother they answered that he had led such a life in the inn that he had been hanged for debt. The king sorrowed bitterly over this, because the youngest prince was his dearest son, and the joy over the treasures soon died away. But the bird-grip would not sing so that the king might recover his sight. The princess wept night and day, and no one dared to venture so close to the horse as to have a look at his golden shoes. Now, when the youngest prince was thrown into the lions' den, he found the fox sitting there, and the lions, instead of tearing him to pieces, showed him the greatest friendliness. Nora was the fox angry with him for having forgot his last warning. He only said that sons who could so forget their old father and disgrace their royal birth as those, had done, would not hesitate to betray their brother either. Then he took the prince up out of the lions' den and gave him directions what to do now, so as to come by his rights again. The prince thanked the fox with all his heart for his true friendship, but the fox answered that if he had been of any use to him, he would now, for his own part, ask a service of him. The prince replied that he would do him any service that was in his power. I have only one thing to ask of you, said the fox, and that is, that you should cut off my head with your sword. The prince was astonished, and said that he could not bring himself to cut the head off as true as friend, and to this he struck in spite of all the fox's declarations that it was the greatest service he could do him. At this the fox became very sorrowful, and declared that the prince's refusal to grant his request now compelled him to do a deed which he was very unwilling to do. If the prince would not cut off his head, then he must kill the prince himself. Then at last the prince drew his good sword and cut off the fox's head. And the next moment a youth stood before him. Thanks, said he, for this service, which has freed me from a spell that not even death itself could loosen. I am the dead man who lay unburied in the robbers inn, where you ransomed me and gave me an honourable burial, and therefore I have helped you in your journey. With this they parted, and the prince, disguising himself as a horse-shoer, went up to his father's palace and offered his services there. The king's men told him that a horse-shoer was indeed wanted at the palace, but he must be one who could lift up the feet of the horse with the golden shoes, and such a one they had not yet been able to find. The prince asked to see the horse, and as soon as he entered the stable the steed began to neigh in a friendly fashion, and stood as quiet and still as a lamb while the prince lifted up his hoofs, one after the other, and showed the king's men the famous golden shoes. After this the king's men began to talk about the bird-grip, and how strange it was that he would not sing, however well he was attended to. The horse-shoer then said that he knew the bird very well, and had seen it when it sat in its cage in another king's palace, and if it did not sing now it must be because it did not have all that it wanted. He himself knew so much about the bird's ways that if he only got to see it he could tell at once what it lacked. The king's men now took counsel whether they ought to take the stranger in before the king, for in his chamber sat the bird-grip along with the weeping princess. It was decided to risk doing so, and the horse-shoer was led into the king's chamber, where he had no sooner called the bird by its name than it began to sing and the princess to smile. Then the darkness cleared away from the king's eyes, and the more the bird sang, the more clearly did he see. Till at last in the strange horse-shoer he recognized his youngest son. Then the princess told the king how treacherously his eldest sons had acted, and he had had them banished from his kingdom. But the youngest prince married the princess and got the horse with the golden shoes and half the kingdom from his father, who kept for himself so long as he lived the bird-grip, which now sang with all its heart to the king and all his court. THE PINK FAIRY BOOK by Andrew Lang Snowflake Slavonic Story Contest Popularist Slaves Treduit's Par-Louis Ledger Paris Leroux Editor Once upon a time there lived a peasant called Ivan, and he had a wife whose name was Marie. They would have been quite happy except for one thing. They had no children to play with, and, as they were now old people, they did not find that watching the children of their neighbors at all made up to them for having one of their own. One winter, which nobody living will ever forget, the snow lay so deep that it came up to the knees of even the tallest man. When it had all fallen and the sun was shining again, the children ran out into the street to play, and the old man and his wife sat at their window and gazed at them. The children first made a sort of little terrace, and stamped it hard and firm, and then they began to make a snowwoman. Ivan and Marie watched them, the while thinking about many things. Suddenly Ivan's face brightened, and looking at his wife he said, Wife, why shouldn't we make a snowwoman too? Why not? replied Marie, who happened to be in a very good temper. It might amuse us a little, but there is no use making a woman. Let us make a little snow child, and pretend it is a living one. Yes, let's do that, said Ivan, and he took down his cap and went into the garden with his old wife. Then the two set to work with all their might to make a doll out of the snow.  On top of all they placed a ball of snow, out of which the head was to be. What in the world are you doing? asked the passerby. Can't you guess? returned Ivan. Making a snow child, replied Marie. They had finished the nose and the chin. Two holes were left for the eyes and Ivan carefully shaped out the mouth. No sooner had he done so than he felt a warm breath upon his cheek. He started back in surprise and looked, and behold the eyes of the child met his, and its lips, which were as red as raspberry, smiled at him. What is it? cried Ivan, crossing himself. Am I mad, or is the thing bewitched? The snow child bent its head as if it had been really alive. It moved its little arms and its little legs in the snow that lay about it just as the living children did theirs. Ah, Ivan, Ivan, exclaimed Marie, trembling with joy. Heaven has sent us a child at last, and she threw herself upon Snowflake, for that was the snow child's name, and covered her with kisses, and the loose snow fell away from Snowflake as an eggshell does from an egg, and it was a little girl whom Marie held in her arms. Ah, my darling Snowflake, cried the old woman, and led her into the cottage. And Snowflake grew fast, each hour as well as each day made a difference, and every day she became more and more beautiful. The old couple hardly knew how to contain themselves for joy, and thought of nothing else. The cottage was always full of village children, for they amused Snowflake, and there was nothing in the world they would not have done to amuse her. She was their doll, and they were continually inventing new dresses for her, and teaching her songs, or playing with her. Nobody knew how clever she was, she noticed everything, and could learn a lesson in a moment. Anyone would have taken her for thirteen, at least, and besides all that, she was so good and obedient, and so pretty too. Her skin was as white as snow, and her eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and her hair was long and golden. Only her cheeks had no color in them, but were as fair as her forehead. So the winter went on, till at last the spring sun mounted higher in the heavens, and began to warm the earth. The grass grew green in the fields, and high in the air the larks were heard singing. The village girls met and danced in the ring, singing, Beautiful spring, how came you here? How came you here? Did you come on a plow, or was it a harrow? Only snowflake sat quite still by the window of the cottage. What is the matter, dear child? asked Marie. Why are you so sad?  No, replied snowflake. It is nothing, mother. No one has hurt me. I am well. The spring sun had chased away the last snow from its hiding place under the hedges.  But the gare grew the birds, and the flowers the sadder became snowflake. She hid herself from her playmates and curled herself up where the shadows were deepest, like a lily amongst its leaves. Her only pleasure was to lie amid the green willows near some sparkling stream. At the dawn and at twilight only she seemed happy. When a great storm broke and the earth was white with hail, she became bright and joyous as the snowflake of old. But when the clouds passed and the hail melted beneath the sun, snowflake would burst into tears and weep as a sister would weep over her brother. The spring passed, and it was the eve of St. John or Midsummer Day. This was the greatest holiday of the year, when the young girls met in the woods to dance and play. They went to fetch snowflake and said to Marie, let her come and dance with us. But Marie was afraid. She could not tell why, only she could not bear the child to go. Snowflake did not wish to go either, but they had no excuse ready. So Marie kissed the girl and said, go, my snowflake, and be happy with your friends. And you, dear children, be careful of her. You know she is the light of my eyes to me. Oh, we will take care of her, cried the girls gaily, and they ran off to the woods. There they wore reeds, gathered nosegaze and sang songs, some sang, some married, and whatever they did snowflake did too. When the sun set they lit a fire of dry grass and placed themselves in a row, snowflake being the last of all. Now watch us, they said, and run just as we do. And they all began to sing and to jump one after another across the fire. Suddenly, close behind them, they heard a sigh, then a groan. Ah! They turned hastily and looked at each other. There was nothing. They looked again. Where was snowflake? She has hidden herself for fun, they thought, and searched for her everywhere. Snowflake, snowflake! But there was no answer. Where can she be? Oh, she must have gone home. They returned to the village, but there was no snowflake. For days after that they sought her high and low. They examined every bush and every hedge, but there was no snowflake. And long after everyone else had given up hope, Ivan and Marie would wander through the woods crying, Snowflake, my dove, come back, come back! And sometimes they thought they heard a call. But it was never the voice of snowflake. And what had become of her? Had a fierce wild beast seized her and dragged her into his lair in the forest? Had some bird carried her off across the wide blue sea? No. No beast had touched her. No bird had borne her away. With the first breath of flame that swept over her when she ran with her friends, snowflake had melted away. And a little soft haze floating upwards was all that remained of her. End of Snowflake, Recording by Elliot Miller.