newspaper, much less could they write in one; and worse than all,
his father's name, and of course his own, ended in "sen," and
therefore he could never turn out well, which was a very sad
thought. But after all, he had been born into the world, and the
station of life had been chosen for him, therefore he must be content.
And this is what happened on that evening.
Many years passed, and most of the children became grown-up
persons.
There stood a splendid house in the town, filled with all kinds of
beautiful and valuable objects. Everybody wished to see it, and people
even came in from the country round to be permitted to view the
treasures it contained.
Which of the children whose prattle we have described, could
call this house his own? One would suppose it very easy to guess.
No, no; it is not so very easy. The house belonged to the poor
little boy who had stood on that night behind the door. He had
really become something great, although his name ended in "sen,"-
for it was Thorwaldsen.
And the three other children- the children of good birth, of
money, and of intellectual pride,- well, they were respected and
honored in the world, for they had been well provided for by birth and
position, and they had no cause to reproach themselves with what
they had thought and spoken on that evening long ago, for, after
all, it was mere "children's prattle."
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a
drawbridge which was but seldom let down:- not all guests are good
people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour
down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he
approach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings
of beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke
which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood
smouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and
proud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about
alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house,
to her belonged the castle.
Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her
people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennel
by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and
drank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was now
on the chain, she could not even bark.
But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;
they must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.
"Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember how
my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on the
wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride
until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as I
steal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of his
feet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretended
not to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. My
father has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will
free you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!"
Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain
and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.
"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly
rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.
"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.
The robbers were hanged.
There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.
We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt
knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the
water, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow
roses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she
beams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide
world, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.
Delaying is not forgetting!
Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the
field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little
room looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only
see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But
to-day the sun shines here- the warm, beautiful sun of God is within
the little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where
formerly the wall was.
The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the
wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and
only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.
"The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the joy it
afforded me was infinitely great and sweet!"
And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in the
humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are also
afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forget
it. Delayed is not forgotten!
An old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busy
traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, we
remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; the
copper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;
the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single
servant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go
to church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifies
mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,
neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day she
was engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.
One day he came to her and said:
"We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basement
has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in my
heart; what do you advise me to do?"
"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your
happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but remember
this; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again."
Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart
in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not help
asking him, "How are you?"
"Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the woman is
brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,
it will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now until
we meet before God!"
A week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,
that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old sweetheart is
dead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;
it sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.
The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points to the
same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and will
never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!
These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.
Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbook
are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
EVERYTHING IN THE RIGHT PLACE
by Hans Christian Andersen
IT is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood,
near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded it
on every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by the
drawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bent
over the reeds.
From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling of
horses' feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geese
hastened to drive them away from the bridge, before the whole
hunting party came galloping up; they came, however, so quickly,
that the girl, in order to avoid being run over, placed herself on one
of the high corner-stones of the bridge. She was still half a child
and very delicately built; she had bright blue eyes, and a gentle,
sweet expression. But such things the baron did not notice; while he
was riding past the little goose-girl, he reversed his hunting crop,
and in rough play gave her such a push with it that she fell
backward into the ditch.
"Everything in the right place!" he cried. "Into the ditch with
you."
Then he burst out laughing, for that he called fun; the others
joined in- the whole party shouted and cried, while the hounds barked.
While the poor girl was falling she happily caught one of the
branches of the willow tree, by the help of which she held herself
over the water, and as soon as the baron with his company and the dogs
had disappeared through the gate, the girl endeavoured to scramble up,
but the branch broke off, and she would have fallen backward among the
rushes, had not a strong hand from above seized her at this moment. It
was the hand of a pedlar; he had witnessed what had happened from a
short distance, and now hastened to assist her.
"Everything in the right place," he said, imitating the noble
baron, and pulling the little maid up to the dry ground. He wished
to put the branch back in the place it had been broken off, but it
is not possible to put everything in the right place;" therefore he
stuck the branch into the soft ground.
"Grow and thrive if you can, and produce a good flute for them
yonder at the mansion," he said; it would have given him great
pleasure to see the noble baron and his companions well thrashed. Then
he entered the castle- but not the banqueting hall; he was too
humble for that. No; he went to the servants' hall. The men-servants
and maids looked over his stock of articles and bargained with him;
loud crying and screaming were heard from the master's table above:
they called it singing- indeed, they did their best. Laughter and
the howls of dogs were heard through the open windows: there they were
feasting and revelling; wine and strong old ale were foaming in the
glasses and jugs; the favourite dogs ate with their masters; now and
then the squires kissed one of these animals, after having wiped its
mouth first with the tablecloth. They ordered the pedlar to come up,
but only to make fun of him. The wine had got into their heads, and
reason had left them. They poured beer into a stocking that he could
drink with them, but quick. That's what they called fun, and it made
them laugh. Then meadows, peasants, and farmyards were staked on one
card and lost.
"Everything in the right place!" the pedlar said when he had at
last safely got out of Sodom and Gomorrah, as he called it. "The
open high road is my right place; up there I did not feel at ease."
The little maid, who was still watching the geese, nodded kindly
to him as he passed through the gate.
Days and weeks passed, and it was seen that the broken
willow-branch which the peddlar had stuck into the ground near the
ditch remained fresh and green- nay, it even put forth fresh twigs;
the little goose-girl saw that the branch had taken root, and was very
pleased; the tree, so she said, was now her tree. While the tree was
advancing, everything else at the castle was going backward, through
feasting and gambling, for these are two rollers upon which nobody
stands safely. Less than six years afterwards the baron passed out
of his castle-gate a poor beggar, while the baronial seat had been
bought by a rich tradesman. He was the very pedlar they had made fun
of and poured beer into a stocking for him to drink; but honesty and
industry bring one forward, and now the pedlar was the possessor of
the baronial estate. From that time forward no card-playing was
permitted there.
"That's a bad pastime," he said; "when the devil saw the Bible for
the first time he wanted to produce a caricature in opposition to
it, and invented card-playing."
The new proprietor of the estate took a wife, and whom did he
take?- The little goose-girl, who had always remained good and kind,
and who looked as beautiful in her new clothes as if she had been a
lady of high birth. And how did all this come about? That would be too
long a tale to tell in our busy time, but it really happened, and
the most important events have yet to be told.
It was pleasant and cheerful to live in the old place now: the
mother superintended the household, and the father looked after things
out-of-doors, and they were indeed very prosperous.
Where honesty leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow. The old
mansion was repaired and painted, the ditches were cleaned and
fruit-trees planted; all was homely and pleasant, and the floors
were as white and shining as a pasteboard. In the long winter evenings
the mistress and her maids sat at the spinning-wheel in the large
hall; every Sunday the counsellor- this title the pedlar had obtained,
although only in his old days- read aloud a portion from the Bible.
The children (for they had children) all received the best
education, but they were not all equally clever, as is the case in all
families.
In the meantime the willow tree near the drawbridge had grown up
into a splendid tree, and stood there, free, and was never clipped.
"It is our genealogical tree," said the old people to their
children, "and therefore it must be honoured."
A hundred years had elapsed. It was in our own days; the lake
had been transformed into marsh land; the whole baronial seat had,
as it were, disappeared. A pool of water near some ruined walls was
