a bounce, up sprang the lid of the snuff-box; but, instead of snuff,
there jumped up a little black goblin; for the snuff-box was a toy
puzzle.
"Tin soldier," said the goblin, "don't wish for what does not
belong to you.
But the tin soldier pretended not to hear.
"Very well; wait till to-morrow, then," said the goblin.
When the children came in the next morning, they placed the tin
soldier in the window. Now, whether it was the goblin who did it, or
the draught, is not known, but the window flew open, and out fell
the tin soldier, heels over head, from the third story, into the
street beneath. It was a terrible fall; for he came head downwards,
his helmet and his bayonet stuck in between the flagstones, and his
one leg up in the air. The servant maid and the little boy went down
stairs directly to look for him; but he was nowhere to be seen,
although once they nearly trod upon him. If he had called out, "Here I
am," it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out for
help while he wore a uniform.
Presently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and
faster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two boys
happened to pass by, and one of them said, "Look, there is a tin
soldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in."
So they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin soldier
in it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while the two boys ran by
the side of it, and clapped their hands. Good gracious, what large
waves arose in that gutter! and how fast the stream rolled on! for the
rain had been very heavy. The paper boat rocked up and down, and
turned itself round sometimes so quickly that the tin soldier
trembled; yet he remained firm; his countenance did not change; he
looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket. Suddenly the
boat shot under a bridge which formed a part of a drain, and then it
was as dark as the tin soldier's box.
"Where am I going now?" thought he. "This is the black goblin's
fault, I am sure. Ah, well, if the little lady were only here with
me in the boat, I should not care for any darkness."
Suddenly there appeared a great water-rat, who lived in the drain.
"Have you a passport?" asked the rat, "give it to me at once." But
the tin soldier remained silent and held his musket tighter than ever.
The boat sailed on and the rat followed it. How he did gnash his teeth
and cry out to the bits of wood and straw, "Stop him, stop him; he has
not paid toll, and has not shown his pass." But the stream rushed on
stronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already see daylight
shining where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound quite
terrible enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the
tunnel the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place, which
made it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to us. He was too
close to it to stop, so the boat rushed on, and the poor tin soldier
could only hold himself as stiffly as possible, without moving an
eyelid, to show that he was not afraid. The boat whirled round three
or four times, and then filled with water to the very edge; nothing
could save it from sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water,
while deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and
loose with the wet, till at last the water closed over the soldier's
head. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should never see
again, and the words of the song sounded in his ears-
"Farewell, warrior! ever brave,
Drifting onward to thy grave."
Then the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank into
the water and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by a great fish.
Oh how dark it was inside the fish! A great deal darker than in the
tunnel, and narrower too, but the tin soldier continued firm, and
lay at full length shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro,
making the most wonderful movements, but at last he became quite
still. After a while, a flash of lightning seemed to pass through him,
and then the daylight approached, and a voice cried out, "I declare
here is the tin soldier." The fish had been caught, taken to the
market and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen and cut him
open with a large knife. She picked up the soldier and held him by the
waist between her finger and thumb, and carried him into the room.
They were all anxious to see this wonderful soldier who had
travelled about inside a fish; but he was not at all proud. They
placed him on the table, and- how many curious things do happen in the
world!- there he was in the very same room from the window of which he
had fallen, there were the same children, the same playthings,
standing on the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little
dancer at the door; she still balanced herself on one leg, and held up
the other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched the tin soldier
so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them
back. He only looked at her and they both remained silent. Presently
one of the little boys took up the tin soldier, and threw him into the
stove. He had no reason for doing so, therefore it must have been
the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuff-box. The flames
lighted up the tin soldier, as he stood, the heat was very terrible,
but whether it proceeded from the real fire or from the fire of love
he could not tell. Then he could see that the bright colors were faded
from his uniform, but whether they had been washed off during his
journey or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say. He looked
at the little lady, and she looked at him. He felt himself melting
away, but he still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder.
Suddenly the door of the room flew open and the draught of air
caught up the little dancer, she fluttered like a sylph right into the
stove by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in flames
and was gone. The tin soldier melted down into a lump, and the next
morning, when the maid servant took the ashes out of the stove, she
found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer
nothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a
cinder.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE BUCKWHEAT
by Hans Christian Andersen
VERY often, after a violent thunder-storm, a field of buckwheat
appears blackened and singed, as if a flame of fire had passed over
it. The country people say that this appearance is caused by
lightning; but I will tell you what the sparrow says, and the
sparrow heard it from an old willow-tree which grew near a field of
buckwheat, and is there still. It is a large venerable tree, though
a little crippled by age. The trunk has been split, and out of the
crevice grass and brambles grow. The tree bends for-ward slightly, and
the branches hang quite down to the ground just like green hair.
Corn grows in the surrounding fields, not only rye and barley, but
oats,-pretty oats that, when ripe, look like a number of little golden
canary-birds sitting on a bough. The corn has a smiling look and the
heaviest and richest ears bend their heads low as if in pious
humility. Once there was also a field of buckwheat, and this field was
exactly opposite to old willow-tree. The buckwheat did not bend like
the other grain, but erected its head proudly and stiffly on the stem.
"I am as valuable as any other corn," said he, "and I am much
handsomer; my flowers are as beautiful as the bloom of the apple
blossom, and it is a pleasure to look at us. Do you know of anything
prettier than we are, you old willow-tree?"
And the willow-tree nodded his head, as if he would say, "Indeed I
do."
But the buckwheat spread itself out with pride, and said,
"Stupid tree; he is so old that grass grows out of his body."
There arose a very terrible storm. All the field-flowers folded
their leaves together, or bowed their little heads, while the storm
passed over them, but the buckwheat stood erect in its pride. "Bend
your head as we do," said the flowers.
"I have no occasion to do so," replied the buckwheat.
"Bend your head as we do," cried the ears of corn; "the angel of
the storm is coming; his wings spread from the sky above to the
earth beneath. He will strike you down before you can cry for mercy."
"But I will not bend my head," said the buckwheat.
"Close your flowers and bend your leaves," said the old
willow-tree. "Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts; even
men cannot do that. In a flash of lightning heaven opens, and we can
look in; but the sight will strike even human beings blind. What
then must happen to us, who only grow out of the earth, and are so
inferior to them, if we venture to do so?"
"Inferior, indeed!" said the buckwheat. "Now I intend to have a
peep into heaven." Proudly and boldly he looked up, while the
lightning flashed across the sky as if the whole world were in flames.
When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the corn
raised their drooping heads in the pure still air, refreshed by the
rain, but the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, burnt to
blackness by the lightning. The branches of the old willow-tree
rustled in the wind, and large water-drops fell from his green leaves
as if the old willow were weeping. Then the sparrows asked why he was
weeping, when all around him seemed so cheerful. "See," they said,
how the sun shines, and the clouds float in the blue sky. Do you not
smell the sweet perfume from flower and bush? Wherefore do you weep,
old willow-tree?" Then the willow told them of the haughty pride of
the buckwheat, and of the punishment which followed in consequence.
This is the story told me by the sparrows one evening when I
begged them to relate some tale to me.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE BUTTERFLY
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may
be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the
flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds,
and found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their
stalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; but
there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search
would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too
much trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French
call this flower "Marguerite," and they say that the little daisy
can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each
leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: "Does he or she
love me?- Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?"
and so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The
butterfly came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off
her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there
was always more to be done by kindness.
"Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the wisest
woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall
choose for my wife. Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly
directly to her, and propose."
But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should
call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great
difference. He asked her a second time, and then a third; but she
remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he would wait no
longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in the
early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.
"They are very pretty," thought the butterfly; "charming little
lasses; but they are rather formal."
Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder
girls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his
taste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too
small, and besides, there was such a large family of them. The
apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but
might fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he
thought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a
time. The pea-blossom pleased him most of all; she was white and
red, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens
who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He
was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw
a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"That is my sister," replied the pea-blossom.
"Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day," said he; and he
flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.
A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but
there were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow
complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did he like?
Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came;
but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most
gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant
air of youth. For the heart asks for fragrance, even when it is no
longer young; and there is very little of that to be found in the
dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to
the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is
sweetness all over,- full of fragrance from head to foot, with the
