still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and
then they buried grandmother.
On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among
the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church
sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were
written in the old book under the head of the dead one.
The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;
every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from
the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are
living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange
thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.
They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth
has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within
it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh
roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there
still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,
gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will
once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for
the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in
the grave.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
HOLGER DANSKE
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close by
the Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, and
Prussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castle
with cannons, "Boom, boom," which is as if they said, "Good-day."
And the cannons of the old castle answer "Boom," which means "Many
thanks." In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered
with ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance
of a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes and
Swedes say, "Good-day," and "Thank you" to each other, not with
cannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchange
white bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articles
taste the best.
But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of
Kronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, into
which no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head on
his strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table,
into which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but in
his dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On each
Christmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he has
dreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, as
Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come,
then Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst
asunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his
strength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries of
the world.
An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this about
Holger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told him
must be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving an
image in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prow
of a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,
one who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to the
names given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood
there erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his
broad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.
The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danish
men and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so that
he fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, after
all, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, he
thought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against the
counterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had become
rooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and
carving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. And
when he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of all
he had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to his
little grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and put
them on, and said, "Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my
lifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live to
see him when the event really comes to pass." And the old
grandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the
more satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It
seemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like iron
and steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; while
the lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up. "That
is the most beautiful coat of arms in the world," said the old man.
"The lions represent strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love."
And as he gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute,
who chained great England to Denmark's throne; and he looked at the
second lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conquered
the Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who united
Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts,
their colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memory
followed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison,
in which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christian
the Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her
bosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this
noblest and best of all Danish women. "Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble
heart in the Danish arms," said the grandfather. and his spirit
followed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannons
roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heart
attached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbon
of an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in order
to save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland's wretched
huts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every word
and action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added another
heart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather's spirit followed
the next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In a
peasant woman's humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing his
name with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and in
his heart, and it was in the peasant's room that his heart became
one for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he
had known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blue
eyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remained
for some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it was
getting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supper
was on the table.
"What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,"
said she. "Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me as
if I have seen the face somewhere."
"No, that is impossible," replied the old grandfather; "but I have
seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained it
in my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay in
the roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true,
ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron;
I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He
sung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were
something more than a man. I still remember his face, but from
whence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I have
often thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swam
down to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. That
was my idea, and there stands his likeness."
The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even on
part of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stood
behind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by the
flame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-law
kissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by the
table; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man and
the father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper with
him. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish
hearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quite
clearly that there is another strength than that which lies in a
sword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,
and amongst them a collection of Holberg's plays, which are much
read and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we have
known the people of those days, who are described in them.
"He knew how to fight also," said the old man; "for he lashed
the follies and prejudices of people during his whole life."
Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,
where hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower upon
it, and said "Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, but
not one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of the
stars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whose
father belonged to my calling,- yes, he, the son of the old
image-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks
and his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;- yes, he
was a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear
in marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear of
the strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel."
But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of
Kronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far down
in the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming of
everything that was passing above him.
And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which the
image-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded in
his dream, saying, "Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep me
in your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need."
The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the wind
brought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboring
shores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom of
the cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, "Boom, boom." But
the roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only
"Good morning," and "Thank you." They must fire in another fashion
before he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet in
Holger Danske.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
IB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North
Jutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clear
stream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through the
wood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and not far from the
river, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that the sandy
soil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat which
grow in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived here
cultivated these fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen;
in fact they maintained themselves very well, they had quite enough to
live upon, as people generally have who are content with their lot.
They even could have afforded to keep two horses, but it was a
saying among the farmers in those parts, "The horse eats himself
up;" that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Jans
cultivated his fields in summer, and in the winter he made wooden
shoes. He also had an assistant, a lad who understood as well as he
himself did how to make wooden shoes strong, but light, and in the
fashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well; therefore no
one could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. Little
Ib, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by,
watching the workmen, or cutting a stick, and sometimes his finger
instead of the stick. But one day Ib succeeded so well in his
carving that he made two pieces of wood look really like two little
wooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to Little
Christina.
"And who was Little Christina?" She was the boatman's daughter,
graceful and delicate as the child of a gentleman; had she been
dressed differently, no one would have believed that she lived in a
hut on the neighboring heath with her father. He was a widower, and
earned his living by carrying firewood in his large boat from the
forest to the eel-pond and eel-weir, on the estate of Silkborg, and
sometimes even to the distant town of Randers. There was no one
under whose care he could leave Little Christina; so she was almost
always with him in his boat, or playing in the wood among the
blossoming heath, or picking the ripe wild berries. Sometimes, when
her father had to go as far as the town, he would take Little
Christina, who was a year younger than Ib, across the heath to the
cottage of Jeppe Jans, and leave her there. Ib and Christina agreed
together in everything; they divided their bread and berries when they
were hungry; they were partners in digging their little gardens;
they ran, and crept, and played about everywhere. Once they wandered a
