storks were strutting about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across
the foaming sea with the clear, blue sky above, or at night the
glittering stars. "What powers I possess!" said the lamp, awaking from
his dream; "I could almost wish to be melted down; but no, that must
not be while the old people live. They love me for myself alone,
they keep me bright, and supply me with oil. I am as well off as the
picture of the congress, in which they take so much pleasure." And
from that time he felt at rest in himself, and not more so than such
an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PEA BLOSSOM
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE were once five peas in one shell, they were green, the shell
was green, and so they believed that the whole world must be green
also, which was a very natural conclusion. The shell grew, and the
peas grew, they accommodated themselves to their position, and sat all
in a row. The sun shone without and warmed the shell, and the rain
made it clear and transparent; it was mild and agreeable in broad
daylight, and dark at night, as it generally is; and the peas as
they sat there grew bigger and bigger, and more thoughtful as they
mused, for they felt there must be something else for them to do.
"Are we to sit here forever?" asked one; "shall we not become hard
by sitting so long? It seems to me there must be something outside,
and I feel sure of it."
And as weeks passed by, the peas became yellow, and the shell
became yellow.
"All the world is turning yellow, I suppose," said they,- and
perhaps they were right.
Suddenly they felt a pull at the shell; it was torn off, and
held in human hands, then slipped into the pocket of a jacket in
company with other full pods.
"Now we shall soon be opened," said one,- just what they all
wanted.
"I should like to know which of us will travel furthest," said the
smallest of the five; "we shall soon see now."
"What is to happen will happen," said the largest pea.
"Crack" went the shell as it burst, and the five peas rolled out
into the bright sunshine. There they lay in a child's hand. A little
boy was holding them tightly, and said they were fine peas for his
pea-shooter. And immediately he put one in and shot it out.
"Now I am flying out into the wide world," said he; "catch me if
you can;" and he was gone in a moment.
"I," said the second, "intend to fly straight to the sun, that
is a shell that lets itself be seen, and it will suit me exactly;" and
away he went.
"We will go to sleep wherever we find ourselves," said the two
next, "we shall still be rolling onwards;" and they did certainly fall
on the floor, and roll about before they got into the pea-shooter; but
they were put in for all that. "We shall go farther than the
others," said they.
"What is to happen will happen," exclaimed the last, as he was
shot out of the pea-shooter; and as he spoke he flew up against an old
board under a garret-window, and fell into a little crevice, which was
almost filled up with moss and soft earth. The moss closed itself
round him, and there he lay, a captive indeed, but not unnoticed by
God.
"What is to happen will happen," said he to himself.
Within the little garret lived a poor woman, who went out to clean
stoves, chop wood into small pieces and perform such-like hard work,
for she was strong and industrious. Yet she remained always poor,
and at home in the garret lay her only daughter, not quite grown up,
and very delicate and weak. For a whole year she had kept her bed, and
it seemed as if she could neither live nor die.
"She is going to her little sister," said the woman; "I had but
the two children, and it was not an easy thing to support both of
them; but the good God helped me in my work, and took one of them to
Himself and provided for her. Now I would gladly keep the other that
was left to me, but I suppose they are not to be separated, and my
sick girl will very soon go to her sister above." But the sick girl
still remained where she was, quietly and patiently she lay all the
day long, while her mother was away from home at her work.
Spring came, and one morning early the sun shone brightly
through the little window, and threw its rays over the floor of the
room. just as the mother was going to her work, the sick girl fixed
her gaze on the lowest pane of the window- "Mother," she exclaimed,
"what can that little green thing be that peeps in at the window? It
is moving in the wind."
The mother stepped to the window and half opened it. "Oh!" she
said, there is actually a little pea which has taken root and is
putting out its green leaves. How could it have got into this crack?
Well now, here is a little garden for you to amuse yourself with."
So the bed of the sick girl was drawn nearer to the window, that she
might see the budding plant; and the mother went out to her work.
"Mother, I believe I shall get well," said the sick child in the
evening, "the sun has shone in here so brightly and warmly to-day, and
the little pea is thriving so well: I shall get on better, too, and go
out into the warm sunshine again."
"God grant it!" said the mother, but she did not believe it
would be so. But she propped up with the little stick the green
plant which had given her child such pleasant hopes of life, so that
it might not be broken by the winds; she tied the piece of string to
the window-sill and to the upper part of the frame, so that the
pea-tendrils might twine round it when it shot up. And it did shoot
up, indeed it might almost be seen to grow from day to day.
"Now really here is a flower coming," said the old woman one
morning, and now at last she began to encourage the hope that her sick
daughter might really recover. She remembered that for some time the
child had spoken more cheerfully, and during the last few days had
raised herself in bed in the morning to look with sparkling eyes at
her little garden which contained only a single pea-plant. A week
after, the invalid sat up for the first time a whole hour, feeling
quite happy by the open window in the warm sunshine, while outside
grew the little plant, and on it a pink pea-blossom in full bloom. The
little maiden bent down and gently kissed the delicate leaves. This
day was to her like a festival.
"Our heavenly Father Himself has planted that pea, and made it
grow and flourish, to bring joy to you and hope to me, my blessed
child," said the happy mother, and she smiled at the flower, as if
it had been an angel from God.
But what became of the other peas? Why the one who flew out into
the wide world, and said, "Catch me if you can," fell into a gutter
on the roof of a house, and ended his travels in the crop of a
pigeon. The two lazy ones were carried quite as far, for they also
were eaten by pigeons, so they were at least of some use; but the
fourth, who wanted to reach the sun, fell into a sink and lay there
in the dirty water for days and weeks, till he had swelled to a great
size.
"I am getting beautifully fat," said the pea, "I expect I shall
burst at last; no pea could do more that that, I think; I am the
most remarkable of all the five which were in the shell." And the sink
confirmed the opinion.
But the young maiden stood at the open garret window, with
sparkling eyes and the rosy hue of health on her cheeks, she folded
her thin hands over the pea-blossom, and thanked God for what He had
done.
"I," said the sink, "shall stand up for my pea."
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN a poet's room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the
remark was once made, "It is wonderful what can be brought out of an
inkstand. What will come next? It is indeed wonderful."
"Yes, certainly," said the inkstand to the pen, and to the other
articles that stood on the table; "that's what I always say. It is
wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me.
It's quite incredible, and I really don't know what is coming next
when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for
half a page of paper, and what cannot half a page contain? From me,
all the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginary characters
whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling, the
humor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how
it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me.
From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of
troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds;
of the halt and the blind, and I know not what more, for I assure
you I never think of these things."
"There you are right," said the pen, "for you don't think at
all; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means.
You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in
me, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes: no
man doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as much about
poetry as an old inkstand."
"You have had very little experience," replied the inkstand.
"You have hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn
out. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and before
you came I had many like you, some of the goose family, and others
of English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel
one. I have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more
when he comes- the man who performs the mechanical part- and writes
down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the
next thing he gets out of me."
"Inkpot!" exclaimed the pen contemptuously.
Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a
concert, and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance
of a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer had
produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded
like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birds
twittering in chorus, and then rising and swelling in sound like the
wind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart were
weeping, but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice.
It seemed not only the strings, but every part of the instrument
from which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderful
performance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to glide
across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who
tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently
of their master who guided them; it was as if soul and spirit had been
breathed into the instrument, so the audience forgot the performer
in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he remembered
him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. "How
foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their
performance, and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet, the
artist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general,- we all
do it; and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; to
Him alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we
should be proud." Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it
in the form of a parable, and called it "The Master and the
Instruments."
"That is what you have got, madam," said the pen to the
inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you hear him read
aloud what I had written down?"
"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the inkstand. "That
was a cut at you because of your conceit. To think that you could
not understand that you were being quizzed. I gave you a cut from
within me. Surely I must know my own satire."
"Ink-pitcher!" cried the pen.
"Writing-stick!" retorted the inkstand. And each of them felt
satisfied that he had given a good answer. It is pleasing to be
convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is
something to make you sleep well, and they both slept well upon it.
But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the
tones of the violin, falling like pearls, or rushing like the strong
wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these
thoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all
minds.
"To Him be all the honor."
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE
by Hans Christian Andersen
FAR away towards the east, in India, which seemed in those days
the world's end, stood the Tree of the Sun; a noble tree, such as we
have never seen, and perhaps never may see.
The summit of this tree spread itself for miles like an entire
forest, each of its smaller branches forming a complete tree. Palms,
beech-trees, pines, plane-trees, and various other kinds, which are
found in all parts of the world, were here like small branches,
shooting forth from the great tree; while the larger boughs, with
their knots and curves, formed valleys and hills, clothed with velvety
