And now we can converse with pleasure, we can understand one another, although the beaks of birds are so different in shape. It is very fortunate that you came to-night. To-morrow we should have been gone. The mother, myself and the little ones, we're about to fly to the south. Look at me now: I am an old friend from the Nile, and a mother's heart contains more than her beak. She always said that the princess would know how to help herself. I and the young ones carried the swan's feathers over here, and I am glad of it now, and how lucky it is that I am here still. When the day dawns we shall start with a great company of other storks. We'll fly first, and you can follow in our track, so that you cannot miss your way. I and the young ones will have an eye upon you.


And the lotus-flower which I was to take with me, is flying here by my side, clothed in swan's feathers. The flower of my heart will travel with me; and so the riddle is solved. Now for home! now for home!


Yes, we must go to the Viking's castle, mother and the young ones are waiting for me there. How they will open their eyes and flap their wings! My wife, you see, does not say much; she is short and abrupt in her manner; but she means well, for all that. I will flap my wings at once, that they may hear us coming.


Ragnorock,


White Christian!


We will not wait for the swans, if they want to go with us, let them come now; we can't sit here till the plovers start. It is a fine thing after all to travel in families, not like the finches and the partridges. There the male and the female birds fly in separate flocks, which, to speak candidly, I consider very unbecoming.


What are those swans flapping their wings for?


Well, every one flies in his own fashion. The swans fly in an oblique line; the cranes, in the form of a triangle; and the plovers, in a curved line like a snake.


Don't talk about snakes while we are flying up here. It puts ideas into the children's heads that can not be realized.


Are those the high mountains I have heard spoken of?


They are storm-clouds driving along beneath us,


What are yonder white clouds that rise so high?


Those are mountains covered with perpetual snows, that you see yonder,


Africa's land! Egyptia's strand!


I can smell the Nile mud and the wet frogs, and I begin to feel quite hungry. Yes, now you shall taste something nice, and you will see the marabout bird, and the ibis, and the crane. They all belong to our family, but they are not nearly so handsome as we are. They give themselves great airs, especially the ibis. The Egyptians have spoilt him. They make a mummy of him, and stuff him with spices. I would rather be stuffed with live frogs, and so would you, and so you shall. Better have something in your inside while you are alive, than to be made a parade of after you are dead. That is my opinion, and I am always right.


The storks are come,


Well, you will be made something of at last; I suppose they can do nothing less.


What could I be made? what have I done?--just nothing.


You have done more than all the rest. But for you and the youngsters the two young princesses would never have seen Egypt again, and the recovery of the old man would not have been effected. You will become something. They must certainly give you a doctor's hood, and our young ones will inherit it, and their children after them, and so on. You already look like an Egyptian doctor, at least in my eyes.


I cannot quite remember the words I heard when I listened on the roof, all I know is, that what the wise men said was so complicated and so learned, that they received not only rank, but presents; even the head cook at the great house was honored with a mark of distinction, most likely for the soup.


And what did you receive? They certainly ought not to forget the most important person in the affair, as you really are. The learned men have done nothing at all but use their tongues. Surely they will not overlook you.


Brother, shall we fly to the river to-morrow morning to drink, God willing?


I will.


if God will.


It is rather heavy to carry, but gold and honor are not to be flung into the street. The stork brings good fortune--they'll be obliged to acknowledge that at last.


You lay gold, and I lay eggs, with you it is only once in a way, I lay eggs every year But no one appreciates what we do; I call it very mortifying.


But then we have a consciousness of our own worth, mother,


What good will that do you? it will neither bring you a fair wind, nor a good meal.


The little nightingale, who is singing yonder in the tamarind grove, will soon be going north, too.


The storks are coming home; and the old stork pair, although tired with the journey and requiring rest, did not fail to fly down at once to the balustrades of the verandah, for they knew already what feast was being celebrated.


I call that very sensible and pretty,


Yes, but it is very little, they could not possibly have done less.


The glory and brightness, yonder, outshines all that is known on earth. Now we must return; you will be missed.


Only one more look, but one short moment more.


We must return to earth; the guests will have all departed. Only one more look!--the last!


You speak our language, what do you wish? Why do you appear,--you--a strange woman?


It is I--it is Helga! Dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we were speaking together yonder in the verandah.


That is a mistake, you must have dreamed all this.


No, no,


Why that's an old story which happened in the time of my grandfather. There certainly was a princess of that kind here in Egypt once, who came from the Danish land, but she vanished on the evening of her wedding day, many hundred years ago, and never came back. You may read about it yourself yonder, on a monument in the garden. There you will find swans and storks sculptured, and on the top is a figure of the princess Helga, in marble. Now that is a new ending to the story. I really never expected it would end in this way, but it seems a very good ending.


And what will the young ones say to it, I wonder?


Ah, that is a very important question,


Hold tight, little boy, for I am going to run;


Hold fast, hold fast, for I am going up stairs.


I am going to heaven.


Thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal,


Thanks to yourself also. I have helped you and you have helped me, for it is only when I have an innocent child on my back that I receive the power to run. Yes; as you see, I can even venture under the rays of the lamp, in front of the picture of the Madonna, but I may not enter the church; still from without, and while you are upon my back, I may look in through the open door. Do not get down yet, for if you do, then I shall be lifeless, as you have seen me in the Porta Rosa.


I will stay with you, my dear creature,


What have you brought home?


Don't be angry. I received nothing, I have nothing at all;


Certainly you must have some money. Will you be quiet? or I'll break your screaming head;


Felicita, what are you doing to the child?


The child is mine. I can murder him if I like, and you too, Giannina.


Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?


Innocent souls are soon intimate,


He is a good lad, he shall stay with us, he may become a clever glovemaker, like you. Look what delicate fingers he has got; Madonna intended him for a glovemaker.


Help the gentleman to carry his box of colors,


You may go home now,


May I see you paint? may I see you put the picture on this white canvas?


I am not going to paint yet. Why don't you go?


You happy creature, how I have longed for you! we must take a ride to-night.


Here I am too; why are you sitting there?


Bellissima in the street, and not dressed! what would be the end of this?


What are you running away with there? Where have you stolen that pretty dog?


Oh, I have not stolen it; do give it to me back again,


If you have not stolen it, you may say at home that they can send to the watch-house for the dog.


Well, I would gladly be killed, for then I shall die, and go to heaven:


Who is there?


It is I. Bellissima is gone. Open the door, and then kill me.


Bellissima in the watch-house! You bad boy! how did you entice her out? Poor little delicate thing, with those rough policemen! and she'll be frozen with cold.


Stand still, and I will draw you beautifully, to put amongst my collection.


You wicked boy! the poor little creature!


In the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts at Florence. Two pictures, placed side by side, attracted a large number of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little boy sitting at a table, drawing; before him was a little white poodle, curiously shaven; but as the animal would not stand still, it had been fastened with a string to its head and tail, to keep it in one position. The truthfulness and life in this picture interested every one. The painter was said to be a young Florentine, who had been found in the streets, when a child, by an old glovemaker, who had brought him up. The boy had taught himself to draw: it was also said that a young artist, now famous, had discovered talent in the child just as he was about to be sent away for having tied up madame's favorite little dog, and using it as a model. The glovemaker's boy had also become a great painter, as the picture proved; but the larger picture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent. It represented a handsome boy, clothed in rags, lying asleep, and leaning against the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa. All the spectators knew the spot well. The child's arms were round the neck of the Pig, and he was in a deep sleep. The lamp before the picture of the Madonna threw a strong, effective light on the pale, delicate face of the child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame surrounded it, and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been hung; but a black band, twined unseen among the green leaves, and a streamer of crape, hung down from it; for within the last few days the young artist had--died.


Let us have a game at being men and women, that is something worth playing at.


Each has its own value, we cannot all be noblemen; there must be some to do the work.


if he had to take a part, he must enjoy the sport from his own home; they were to arrange for him to do so;


tick, tick;


I never cracked for old people, only for the young who were not yet married.


I crack for everybody,


Yes, and a fine noise you make,


he must do something for one of the players, as they had all pleased him so much.


Just paint the scenes I describe to you and you will have a very pretty picture-book.


Last night


Last night I was gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in the waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the thick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like the tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid, light as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision, and yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this daughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought that had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her sandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that had come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a startled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I could see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them for a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream, and set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame flickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp burned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind their long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest intensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as she could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if the lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned bravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the grass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not--she thought only of Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he lives!' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he lives! He lives! he lives! Yesterday. I looked down upon a small courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed, and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the matter. But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into the same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the bolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was angry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly by the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears.


What are you about here?


I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.


And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed her on the mouth and eyes. In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow that my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the house, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made of--in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that woman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in the country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were faded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches grew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few roses still in bloom--not so fair as the queen of flowers generally appears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's little daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on her stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll with the battered pasteboard cheeks. Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a splendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I rejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah, nobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my rose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage. There are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last act of one. She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was sick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the thin coverlet, her only protection against the cold.


Get up! your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself, give me money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick--get up!


Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest.


But he forced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of roses in her hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with a candle burning beside her, and went away. I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands in her lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a crash, so that a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she never moved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about her face; and I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat the dead woman, preaching a sermon against sin--my poor faded rose out of the parsonage garden! This evening I saw a German play acted. It was in a little town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is to say, the stable had been left standing, and had been turned into private boxes, and all the timber work had been covered with coloured paper. A little iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and that it might be made to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in great theatres, when the ting-ting of the prompter's bell is heard, a great inverted tub has been placed just above it.


Ting-ting!


and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at least half a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign that the play was going to begin. A young nobleman and his lady, who happened to be passing through the little town, were present at the performance, and consequently the house was crowded. But under the chandelier was a vacant space like a little crater: not a single soul sat there, for the tallow was dropping, drip, drip! I saw everything, for it was so warm in there that every loophole had been opened. The male and female servants stood outside, peeping through the chinks, although a real policeman was inside, threatening them with a stick. Close by the orchestra could be seen the noble young couple in two old arm-chairs, which were usually occupied by his worship the mayor and his lady; but these latter were to-day obliged to content themselves with wooden forms, just as if they had been ordinary citizens; and the lady observed quietly to herself,


One sees, now, that there is rank above rank; and this incident gave an an air of extra festivity to the whole proceedings. The chandelier gave little leaps, the crowd got their knuckles rapped, and I, the Moon, was present at the performance from beginning to end.


Yesterday. I looked down upon the turmoil of Paris. My eye penetrated into an apartment of the Louvre. An old grandmother, poorly clad--she belonged to the working class--was following one of the under-servants into the great empty throne-room, for this was the apartment she wanted to see--that she was resolved to see; it had cost her many a little sacrifice, and many a coaxing word, to penetrate thus far. She folded her thin hands, and looked round with an air of reverence, as if she had been in a church.


Here it was! here! There, there!


But it was not this very velvet!


True, but it was this very place, and it must have looked just like this.


It looked so, and yet it did not, the windows were beaten in, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood upon the floor.


But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon the throne of France. Died!


I've been in Upsala. I looked down upon the great plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the scanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut. There is no monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name carved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so visitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth peers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a network over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts till the fresh turf grows! Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with the broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not to betray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet sparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled, for I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of Eleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know where the Rose of Beauty blooms! Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing sea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage after another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true poetry in nature. And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell you what I heard there last evening and during the night.


Those are glorious trees!


Certainly; there are ten loads of firewood in each, it will be a hard winter, and last year we got fourteen dollars a load


The road here is wretched,


That's the fault of those horrible trees, there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the sea


No, it's only a heap of stones; but the trees are remarkable. How so? Why I'll tell you how they are very remarkable. You see, in winter, when the snow lies very deep, and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is to be seen, those trees serve me for a landmark. I steer by them, so as not to drive into the sea; and you see that is why the trees are remarkable.


Hold your tongues! That will make a beautiful picture,


I have followed the polar bird and the swimming whale to the eastern coast of Greenland. Gaunt ice-covered rocks and dark clouds hung over a valley, where dwarf willows and barberry bushes stood clothed in green. The blooming lychnis exhaled sweet odours. My light was faint, my face pale as the water lily that, torn from its stem, has been drifting for weeks with the tide. The crown-shaped Northern Light burned fiercely in the sky. Its ring was broad, and from its circumference the rays shot like whirling shafts of fire across the whole sky, flashing in changing radiance from green to red. The inhabitants of that icy region were assembling for dance and festivity; but, accustomed to this glorious spectacle, they scarcely deigned to glance at it. 'Let us leave the soul of the dead to their ball-play with the heads of the walruses,' they thought in their superstition, and they turned their whole attention to the song and dance. In the midst of the circle, and divested of his furry cloak, stood a Greenlander, with a small pipe, and he played and sang a song about catching the seal, and the chorus around chimed in with, 'Eia, Eia, Ah.' And in their white furs they danced about in the circle, till you might fancy it was a polar bear's ball. And now a Court of Judgment was opened. Those Greenlanders who had quarrelled stepped forward, and the offended person chanted forth the faults of his adversary in an extempore song, turning them sharply into ridicule, to the sound of the pipe and the measure of the dance. The defendant replied with satire as keen, while the audience laughed, and gave their verdict. The rocks heaved, the glaciers melted, and great masses of ice and snow came crashing down, shivering to fragments as they fall; it was a glorious Greenland summer night. A hundred paces away, under the open tent of hides, lay a sick man. Life still flowed through his warm blood, but still he was to die--he himself felt it, and all who stood round him knew it also; therefore his wife was already sewing round him the shroud of furs, that she might not afterwards be obliged to touch the dead body. And she asked, 'Wilt thou be buried on the rock, in the firm snow? I will deck the spot with thy kayak, and thy arrows, and the angekokk shall dance over it. Or wouldst thou rather be buried in the sea?' 'In the sea,' he whispered, and nodded with a mournful smile. 'Yes, it is a pleasant summer tent, the sea,' observed the wife. 'Thousands of seals sport there, the walrus shall lie at thy feet, and the hunt will be safe and merry!' And the yelling children tore the outspread hide from the window-hole, that the dead man might be carried to the ocean, the billowy ocean, that had given him food in life, and that now, in death, was to afford him a place of rest. For his monument, he had the floating, ever-changing icebergs, whereon the seal sleeps, while the storm bird flies round their gleaming summits! I knew an old maid. Every winter she wore a wrapper of yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the only fashion she followed. In summer she always wore the same straw hat, and I verily believe the very same gray-blue dress. Yes, yes, when I come to die I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole life long. Our family vault is six miles from here. I shall be carried there, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives.


I will give you a picture of Pompeii. I was in the suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair monuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths, their temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of Lais. Now, the stillness of death reigned around. German mercenaries, in the Neapolitan service, kept guard, played cards, and diced; and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came into the town, accompanied by a sentry. They wanted to see the city that had risen from the grave illumined by my beams; and I showed them the wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs; I showed them the names on the doors, and the signs that hung there yet: they saw in the little courtyard the basins of the fountains, ornamented with shells; but no jet of water gushed upwards, no songs sounded forth from the richly-painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept the door. It was the City of the Dead; only Vesuvius thundered forth his everlasting hymn, each separate verse of which is called by men an eruption. We went to the temple of Venus, built of snow-white marble, with its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the weeping willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The air was transparent and blue, and black Vesuvius formed the background, with fire ever shooting forth from it, like the stem of the pine tree. Above it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night, like the crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination. Among the company was a lady singer, a real and great singer. I have witnessed the homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe. When they came to the tragic theatre, they all sat down on the amphitheatre steps, and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience, as it had been many centuries ago. The stage still stood unchanged, with its walled side-scenes, and the two arches in the background, through which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited in the old times--a scene painted by nature herself, namely, the mountains between Sorento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the ancient stage, and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me of a wild Arab horse, that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils and flying mane--her song was so light and yet so firm. Anon I thought of the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, so deep was the expression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years ago, the sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre. 'Happy, gifted creature!' all the hearers exclaimed. Five minutes more, and the stage was empty, the company had vanished, and not a sound more was heard--all were gone. But the ruins stood unchanged, as they will stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know of the momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress; when all will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be but a dream of the past. I looked through the windows of an editor's house. This one has been sent to me,


it is good enough; a little broad, certainly; but, you see, the author is still young. The verses might be better, to be sure; the thoughts are sound, though there is certainly a good deal of common-place among them. But what will you have? You can't be always getting something new. That he'll turn out anything great I don't believe, but you may safely praise him. He is well read, a remarkable Oriental scholar, and has a good judgment. It was he who wrote that nice review of my 'Reflections on Domestic Life.' We must be lenient towards the young man.


But he is a complete hack! Nothing worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not go beyond this.


Poor fellow, and his aunt is so happy about him. It was she, Mr. Editor, who got together so many subscribers for your last translation.


Ah, the good woman! Well, I have noticed the book briefly. Undoubted talent--a welcome offering--a flower in the garden of poetry--prettily brought out--and so on. But this other book--I suppose the author expects me to purchase it? I hear it is praised. He has genius, certainly: don't you think so?


Yes, all the world declares as much, but it has turned out rather wildly. The punctuation of the book, in particular, is very eccentric.


It will be good for him if we pull him to pieces, and anger him a little, otherwise he will get too good an opinion of himself.


But that would be unfair. Let us not carp at little faults, but rejoice over the real and abundant good that we find here: he surpasses all the rest.


Not so. If he is a true genius, he can bear the sharp voice of censure. There are people enough to praise him. Don't let us quite turn his head.


Decided talent, with the usual carelessness. that he can write incorrect verses may be seen in page 25, where there are two false quantities. We recommend him to study the ancients, etc.


I shall read yours also, but to speak honestly--you know I never hide my opinion from you--I don't expect much from it, for you are much too wild, too fantastic. But it must be allowed that, as a man, you are highly respectable.


In the dust lies genius and glory, But ev'ry-day talent will pay. It's only the old, old story, But the piece is repeated each day.


What are you looking at?


I'm watching the stork, our neighbors told me that he would bring us a little brother or sister to-day; let us watch to see it come!


The stork brings no such things, you may be sure of that. Our neighbor told me the same thing, but she laughed when she said it, and so I asked her if she could say 'On my honor,' and she could not; and I know by that the story about the storks is not true, and that they only tell it to us children for fun.


But where do babies come from, then?


Why, an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak, but no man can see him; and that's why we never know when he brings them.


Come in, you two. See what the stork has brought. It is a little brother.


Fare away over the sea! Thou hast paid the long passage with all that was thine, and poor and helpless shalt thou enter Canaan. Thou must sell thyself, thy wife, and thy children. But your griefs shall not last long. Behind the broad fragrant leaves lurks the goddess of Death, and her welcome kiss shall breathe fever into thy blood. Fare away, fare away, over the heaving billows.


I know very well what is the matter with you, yes, you're in love!


I and Love, that would have an absurd look. How the public would shout!


Certainly, you are in love, and I am the person you are in love with.


Bravo, Pulcinella; bravo, bravissimo!


To-morrow you shall go out in your new clothes,


Mother, what will the little dogs think, when they see me in these splendid new things?


From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan. On the margin of the sandy desert, in a salt plain, that shone like a frozen lake, and was only covered in spots with light drifting sand, a halt was made. The eldest of the company--the water gourd hung at his girdle, and on his head was a little bag of unleavened bread--drew a square in the sand with his staff, and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran, and then the whole caravan passed over the consecrated spot. A young merchant, a child of the East, as I could tell by his eye and his figure, rode pensively forward on his white snorting steed. Was he thinking, perchance, of his fair young wife? It was only two days ago that the camel, adorned with furs and with costly shawls, had carried her, the beauteous bride, round the walls of the city, while drums and cymbals had sounded, the women sang, and festive shots, of which the bridegroom fired the greatest number, resounded round the camel; and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.


Are they dead? Are they dead?


I saw a little girl weeping, she was weeping over the depravity of the world. She had received a most beautiful doll as a present. Oh, that was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate! She did not seem created for the sorrows of this world. But the brothers of the little girl, those great naughty boys, had set the doll high up in the branches of a tree and had run away.


I'll stay with you. But if one has not done anything wrong, nothing evil can harm one. I wonder if I have done anything wrong? Oh, yes! I laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg; she limped along so funnily, I could not help laughing; but it's a sin to laugh at animals. Did you laugh at the duck too?


I looked down upon Tyrol, and my beams caused the dark pines to throw long shadows upon the rocks. I looked at the pictures of St. Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus that are painted there upon the walls of the houses, colossal figures reaching from the ground to the roof. St. Florian was represented pouring water on the burning house, and the Lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the wayside. To the present generation these are old pictures, but I saw when they were put up, and marked how one followed the other. On the brow of the mountain yonder is perched, like a swallow's nest, a lonely convent of nuns. Two of the sisters stood up in the tower tolling the bell; they were both young, and therefore their glances flew over the mountain out into the world. A travelling coach passed by below, the postillion wound his horn, and the poor nuns looked after the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance, and a tear gleamed in the eyes of the younger one. And the horn sounded faint and more faintly, and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes. Hear what the Moon told me. Some years ago, here in Copenhagen, I looked through the window of a mean little room. The father and mother slept, but the little son was not asleep. I saw the flowered cotton curtains of the bed move, and the child peep forth. At first I thought he was looking at the great clock, which was gaily painted in red and green. At the top sat a cuckoo, below hung the heavy leaden weights, and the pendulum with the polished disc of metal went to and fro, and said 'tick, tick.' But no, he was not looking at the clock, but at his mother's spinning wheel, that stood just underneath it. That was the boy's favourite piece of furniture, but he dared not touch it, for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the knuckles. For hours together, when his mother was spinning, he would sit quietly by her side, watching the murmuring spindle and the revolving wheel, and as he sat he thought of many things. Oh, if he might only turn the wheel himself! Father and mother were asleep; he looked at them, and looked at the spinning wheel, and presently a little naked foot peered out of the bed, and then a second foot, and then two little white legs. There he stood. He looked round once more, to see if father and mother were still asleep--yes, they slept; and now he crept softly, softly, in his short little nightgown, to the spinning wheel, and began to spin. The thread flew from the wheel, and the wheel whirled faster and faster. I kissed his fair hair and his blue eyes, it was such a pretty picture.


In Heaven's name!


Why, that is Bertel,


Years have passed since all this happened,


Hurrah, hurrah for Bertel Thorwaldsen!


I will now give you a picture from Frankfort. I especially noticed one building there. It was not the house in which Goethe was born, nor the old Council House, through whose grated windows peered the horns of the oxen that were roasted and given to the people when the emperors were crowned. No, it was a private house, plain in appearance, and painted green. It stood near the old Jews' Street. It was Rothschild's house.


If I deserted the lowly house, where the fortunes of my sons first began to bloom, fortune would desert them!


A mother.


It was yesterday, in the morning twilight


Ya-hip! ya-hip! Ya-hip! ya-hip The whole town can see me now, and the moon can see me now, and the sun too. Ya-hip! ya-hip!


Last night I looked down upon a town in China. My beams irradiated the naked walls that form the streets there. Now and then, certainly, a door is seen; but it is locked, for what does the Chinaman care about the outer world? Close wooden shutters covered the windows behind the walls of the houses; but through the windows of the temple a faint light glimmered. I looked in, and saw the quaint decorations within. From the floor to the ceiling pictures are painted, in the most glaring colours, and richly gilt--pictures representing the deeds of the gods here on earth. In each niche statues are placed, but they are almost entirely hidden by the coloured drapery and the banners that hang down. Before each idol (and they are all made of tin) stood a little altar of holy water, with flowers and burning wax lights on it. Above all the rest stood Fo, the chief deity, clad in a garment of yellow silk, for yellow is here the sacred colour. At the foot of the altar sat a living being, a young priest. He appeared to be praying, but in the midst of his prayer he seemed to fall into deep thought, and this must have been wrong, for his cheeks glowed and he held down his head. Poor Soui-Hong! Was he, perhaps, dreaming of working in the little flower garden behind the high street wall? And did that occupation seem more agreeable to him than watching the wax lights in the temple? Or did he wish to sit at the rich feast, wiping his mouth with silver paper between each course? Or was his sin so great that, if he dared utter it, the Celestial Empire would punish it with death? Had his thoughts ventured to fly with the ships of the barbarians, to their homes in far distant England? No, his thoughts did not fly so far, and yet they were sinful, sinful as thoughts born of young hearts, sinful here in the temple, in the presence of Fo and the other holy gods. I know whither his thoughts had strayed.


The air was calm, the water was transparent as the purest ether through which I was gliding, and deep below the surface I could see the strange plants that stretched up their long arms towards me like the gigantic trees of the forest. The fishes swam to and fro above their tops. High in the air a flight of wild swans were winging their way, one of which sank lower and lower, with wearied pinions, his eyes following the airy caravan, that melted farther and farther into the distance. With outspread wings he sank slowly, as a soap bubble sinks in the still air, till he touched the water. At length his head lay back between his wings, and silently he lay there, like a white lotus flower upon the quiet lake. And a gentle wind arose, and crisped the quiet surface, which gleamed like the clouds that poured along in great broad waves; and the swan raised his head, and the glowing water splashed like blue fire over his breast and back. The morning dawn illuminated the red clouds, the swan rose strengthened, and flew towards the rising sun, towards the bluish coast whither the caravan had gone; but he flew alone, with a longing in his breast. Lonely he flew over the blue swelling billows. I will give you another picture of Sweden. Among dark pine woods, near the melancholy banks of the Stoxen, lies the old convent church of Wreta. My rays glided through the grating into the roomy vaults, where kings sleep tranquilly in great stone coffins. On the wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem of earthly grandeur, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted and gilt, and is hung on a wooden peg driven into the wall. The worms have gnawed the gilded wood, the spider has spun her web from the crown down to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail and transient as the grief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can remember them quite plainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips, that so strongly and plainly expressed joy or grief. When the steamboat winds along like a magic snail over the lakes, a stranger often comes to the church, and visits the burial vault; he asks the names of the kings, and they have a dead and forgotten sound. He glances with a smile at the worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be a pious, thoughtful man, something of melancholy mingles with the smile. Slumber on, ye dead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at night sends down his rays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs the crown of pine wood. Close by the high-road, is an inn, and opposite to it is a great waggon-shed, whose straw roof was just being re-thatched. I looked down between the bare rafters and through the open loft into the comfortless space below. The turkey-cock slept on the beam, and the saddle rested in the empty crib. In the middle of the shed stood a travelling carriage; the proprietor was inside, fast asleep, while the horses were being watered. The coachman stretched himself, though I am very sure that he had been most comfortably asleep half the last stage. The door of the servants' room stood open, and the bed looked as if it had been turned over and over; the candle stood on the floor, and had burnt deep down into the socket. The wind blew cold through the shed: it was nearer to the dawn than to midnight. In the wooden frame on the ground slept a wandering family of musicians. The father and mother seemed to be dreaming of the burning liquor that remained in the bottle. The little pale daughter was dreaming too, for her eyes were wet with tears. The harp stood at their heads, and the dog lay stretched at their feet. It was in a little provincial town, it certainly happened last year, but that has nothing to do with the matter. I saw it quite plainly. To-day I read about it in the papers, but there it was not half so clearly expressed. In the taproom of the little inn sat the bear leader, eating his supper; the bear was tied up outside, behind the wood pile--poor Bruin, who did nobody any harm, though he looked grim enough. Up in the garret three little children were playing by the light of my beams; the eldest was perhaps six years old, the youngest certainly not more than two. 'Tramp, tramp'--somebody was coming upstairs: who might it be? The door was thrust open--it was Bruin, the great, shaggy Bruin! He had got tired of waiting down in the courtyard, and had found his way to the stairs. I saw it all. The children were very much frightened at first at the great shaggy animal; each of them crept into a corner, but he found them all out, and smelt at them, but did them no harm. 'This must be a great dog,' they said, and began to stroke him. He lay down upon the ground, the youngest boy clambered on his back, and bending down a little head of golden curls, played at hiding in the beast's shaggy skin. Presently the eldest boy took his drum, and beat upon it till it rattled again; the bear rose upon his hind legs, and began to dance. It was a charming sight to behold. Each boy now took his gun, and the bear was obliged to have one too, and he held it up quite properly. Here was a capital playmate they had found; and they began marching--one, two; one, two. Suddenly some one came to the door, which opened, and the mother of the children appeared. You should have seen her in her dumb terror, with her face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and her eyes fixed in a horrified stare. But the youngest boy nodded to her in great glee, and called out in his infantile prattle, 'We're playing at soldiers.' And then the bear leader came running up. I looked down from the silent sky upon the driving clouds, and saw the great shadows chasing each other across the earth. I looked upon a prison. A closed carriage stood before it; a prisoner was to be carried away. My rays pierced through the grated window towards the wall; the prisoner was scratching a few lines upon it, as a parting token; but he did not write words, but a melody, the outpouring of his heart. The door was opened, and he was led forth, and fixed his eyes upon my round disc. Clouds passed between us, as if he were not to see his face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was closed, the whip cracked, and the horses gallopped off into the thick forest, whither my rays were not able to follow him; but as I glanced through the grated window, my rays glided over the notes, his last farewell engraved on the prison wall--where words fail, sounds can often speak. My rays could only light up isolated notes, so the greater part of what was written there will ever remain dark to me. Was it the death-hymn he wrote there? Were these the glad notes of joy? Did he drive away to meet death, or hasten to the embraces of his beloved? The rays of the Moon do not read all that is written by mortals. I love the children,


How beautiful existence is! The only thing that I wish for is to be able to kiss the sun, because it is so warm and bright. I should also like to kiss those roses down in the water, which are so much like us, and the pretty little birds down in the nest. There are some up above too; they put out their heads and pipe softly; they have no feathers like their father and mother. We have good neighbours, both below and above. How beautiful existence is! Are those the duck's children swimming here?


If you must ask questions, ask sensible ones. Don't you see that they are feathers, such as I wear and you will wear too? But ours are finer. Still, I should like to have them up in the nest, for they keep one warm. I am very curious to know what the ducks were so startled about; not about us, certainly, although I did say 'peep' to you pretty loudly. The thick-headed roses ought to know why, but they know nothing at all; they only look at themselves and smell. I am heartily tired of such neighbours.


Listen to the dear little birds up there, they begin to want to sing too, but are not able to manage it yet. But it will soon come. What a pleasure that must be! It is fine to have such cheerful neighbours.


We make it lively about the house, and people say that a swallows' nest brings luck; so they are glad of us. But such neighbours as ours! A rose-bush on the wall like that causes damp. I daresay it will be taken away; then we shall, perhaps, have some corn growing here. The roses are good for nothing but to be looked at and to be smelt, or at most to be stuck in a hat. Every year, as I have been told by my mother, they fall off. The farmer's wife preserves them and strews salt among them; then they get a French name which I neither can pronounce nor care to, and are put into the fire to make a nice smell. You see, that's their life; they exist only for the eye and the nose. Now you know.


the beautiful was like sunshine to the world, and that the beautiful lived for ever.


There was only one word that was not clear to me. What does 'the beautiful' mean?


Nothing at all, that's only something external. Up at the Hall, where the pigeons have their own house, and corn and peas are strewn before them every day--I have dined with them myself, and that you shall do in time, too; for tell me what company you keep and I'll tell you who you are--up at the Hall they have two birds with green necks and a crest upon their heads; they can spread out their tails like a great wheel, and these are so bright with various colours that it makes one's eyes ache. These birds are called peacocks, and that is 'the beautiful.' If they were only plucked a little they would look no better than the rest of us. I would have plucked them already if they had not been so big.


I'll pluck them,


Now I see that it is Sunday,


Look at her! Look at her That is certainly a young peacock, for it glitters in all colours; it makes one's eyes ache, as mother told us. Peep! that's 'the beautiful'. Peep!


Peep! I am your own mother!


Poor creature! only be still, and we will hide you. Lean your little head against us.


Peep! Where can mother be so long? It's more than I can understand. It cannot be a trick of hers, and mean that we are now to take care of ourselves. She has left us the house as an inheritance; but to which of us is it to belong when we have families of our own?


Yes, it won't do for you to stay with me when I increase my household with a wife and children,


I daresay I shall have more wives and children than you,


But I am the eldest!


How beautifully the roses bloom before the ruined house. A pleasanter picture cannot be imagined. I must have that.


Where is the house? Where is the nest? Peep! All is burned and our strong brother too. That's what he has now for keeping the nest. The roses got off very well; there they still stand with their red cheeks. They certainly do not mourn at their neighbours' misfortunes. I don't want to talk to them, and it looks miserable here--that's my opinion.


Stand in groups, stand in groups! for that looks much better.


What kind of creatures are those little grey ones that run about behind us? Little grey ones! Little grey ones!


They are sparrows, and good creatures. We have always had the reputation of being pious, so we will allow them to pick up the corn with us; they don't interrupt our talk, and they scrape so prettily when they bow.


Peep! Here is excellent fare!


Do you see that pouter pigeon? Do you see how she swallows the peas? She eats too many, and the best ones too. Curoo! Curoo! How she lifts her crest, the ugly, spiteful creature! Curoo! Curoo!


Stand in groups! Stand in groups! Little grey ones, little grey ones! Curoo, curoo, curoo!


Peep! I may venture that.


Peep! so may I, and something more too!


All or nothing! It is a curious man's nest all the same; and what have they put up here? What is it?


Do tell me what this is. How comes this in a room at the Hall? Peep! it's nothing. It only looks like something. Peep! that is 'the beautiful.' Do you understand it? I don't.


How it shines! how it shines! I suppose that is 'the beautiful.' Peep! But here it is larger than a peacock.


Ah! Good-day! good-day! Do we meet here? It's a grand place, but there's not much to eat. This is 'the beautiful.' Peep!


Have you obtained an appointment here in the city?


How glorious it is to live and to bloom, to see old friends again, and happy faces every day. It is as if every day were a festival.


Peep!


Yes, they are really our old neighbours; we remember their origin near the pond. Peep! how they have got on. Yes, some succeed while they are asleep. Ah! there's a faded leaf; I can see that quite plainly.


Oh, is not that beautiful? Oh, how beautiful is the nightingale's song!


What is this? I know nothing of any nightingale. Is there such a bird in my empire? and even in my garden? I have never heard of it. Something, it appears, may be learnt from books.


Pooh,


There is a very wonderful bird mentioned here, called a nightingale, they say it is the best thing in my large kingdom. Why have I not been told of it?


I have never heard the name, she has not been presented at court.


It is my pleasure that she shall appear this evening. the whole world knows what I possess better than I do myself.


I have never heard of her, yet I will endeavor to find her.


Your imperial majesty, cannot believe everything contained in books; sometimes they are only fiction, or what is called the black art.


But the book in which I have read this account, was sent to me by the great and mighty emperor of Japan, and therefore it cannot contain a falsehood. I will hear the nightingale, she must be here this evening; she has my highest favor; and if she does not come, the whole court shall be trampled upon after supper is ended.


Tsing-pe!


Oh, yes, I know the nightingale quite well; indeed, she can sing. Every evening I have permission to take home to my poor sick mother the scraps from the table; she lives down by the sea-shore, and as I come back I feel tired, and I sit down in the wood to rest, and listen to the nightingale's song. Then the tears come into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me.


Little maiden. I will obtain for you constant employment in the kitchen, and you shall have permission to see the emperor dine, if you will lead us to the nightingale; for she is invited for this evening to the palace.


Oh, now we have found her; what wonderful power for such a small creature; I have certainly heard it before.


No, that is only a cow lowing, we are a long way from the place yet.


Beautiful. Now I hear it, tinkling like little church bells.


No, those are frogs, but I think we shall soon hear her now:


Hark, hark! there she is, and there she sits,


Is it possible? I never imagined it would be a little, plain, simple thing like that. She has certainly changed color at seeing so many grand people around her.


Little nightingale, our most gracious emperor wishes you to sing before him.


With the greatest pleasure,


It sounds like tiny glass bells, and see how her little throat works. It is surprising that we have never heard this before; she will be a great success at court.


Shall I sing once more before the emperor?


My excellent little nightingale. I have the great pleasure of inviting you to a court festival this evening, where you will gain imperial favor by your charming song.


My song sounds best in the green wood,


I have seen tears in an emperor's eyes, that is my richest reward. An emperor's tears have wonderful power, and are quite sufficient honor for me;


That singing is a lovely gift;


nightin,


gale,


Here is no doubt a new book about our celebrated bird,


This is very beautiful,


Now they must sing together, and what a duet it will be.


That is not a fault, it is quite perfect to my taste,


What strange conduct,


But we have the best bird after all,


For you must perceive, my chief lord and emperor, that with a real nightingale we can never tell what is going to be sung, but with this bird everything is settled. It can be opened and explained, so that people may understand how the waltzes are formed, and why one note follows upon another.


This is exactly what we think. Oh!


it sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell what.


Pooh!


Do you remember this? Do you recollect that?


I know nothing about it. Music! music! the large Chinese drum! that I may not hear what they say. Music! music! You little precious golden bird, sing, pray sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my golden slipper round your neck. Sing! sing!


Go on, little nightingale, go on.


Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich banner? and will you give me the emperor's crown?


Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I banished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your sweet song. How can I reward you?


You have already rewarded me. I shall never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now sleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you again.


You must always remain with me. You shall sing only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.


No; do not do that, the bird did very well as long as it could. Keep it here still. I cannot live in the palace, and build my nest; but let me come when I like. I will sit on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you, so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant's cot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you; but you must promise me one thing.


Everything,


I only ask one thing, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be best to conceal it.


Good morning.


That was a terrible affair! That was a terrible affair in a hen-roost. I cannot sleep alone to-night. It is a good thing that many of us sit on the roost together.


There it goes, the more I pluck, the more beautiful do I get.


Did you hear what was said? I mention no names, but there is a hen here who intends to pluck herself in order to look well. If I were a cock, I should despise her.


Don't listen to her! But I suppose you heard what was said? I heard it with my own ears, and one has to hear a great deal before they fall off. There is one among the fowls who has so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen that she plucks out all her feathers and lets the cock see it.


Prenez garde aux enfants! children should not hear such things.


But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an estimable owl to talk to.


Too-whoo! Too-whoo! Have you heard? Have you heard? Too-whoo! There is a hen who has plucked out all her feathers for the sake of the cock; she will freeze to death, if she is not frozen already. Too-whoo!


Where? where?


In the neighbour's yard. I have as good as seen it myself. It is almost unbecoming to tell the story, but there is no doubt about it.


Believe every word of what we tell you. There is a hen--nay, some say that there are two--who have plucked out all their feathers, in order not to look like the others, and to attract the attention of the cock. It is a dangerous game, for one can easily catch cold and die from fever, and both of these are dead already.


Wake up! wake up! Three hens have died of their unfortunate love for a cock. They had plucked out all their feathers. It is a horrible story: I will not keep it to myself, but let it go farther.


Let it go farther,


Let it go farther!


Five hens, have plucked out all their feathers to show which of them had grown leanest for love of the cock, and then they all pecked at each other till the blood ran down and they fell down dead, to the derision and shame of their family, and to the great loss of their owner.


the hen who had lost the loose little feather

I despise those fowls; but there are more of that kind. Such things ought not to be concealed, and I will do my best to get the story into the papers, so that it becomes known throughout the land; the hens have richly deserved it, and their family too.


We'll have a play too, and it may begin immediately.


But we have no theatre, and we have no one to act for us; my old doll cannot, for she is a fright, and my new one cannot, for she must not rumple her new clothes.


One can always get actors if one makes use of what one has. Now we'll go into the theatre. Here we will put up a book, there another, and there a third, in a sloping row. Now three on the other side; so, now we have the side scenes. The old box that lies yonder may be the back stairs; and we'll lay the flooring on top of it. The stage represents a room, as every one may see. Now we want the actors. Let us see what we can find in the plaything-box. First the personages, and then we will get the play ready. One after the other; that will be capital! Here's a pipe-head, and yonder an odd glove; they will do very well for father and daughter.


But those are only two characters. Here's my brother's old waistcoat--could not that play in our piece, too?


It's big enough, certainly. It shall be the lover. There's nothing in the pockets, and that's very interesting, for that's half of an unfortunate attachment. And here we have the nut-cracker's boots, with spurs to them. Row, dow, dow! how they can stamp and strut! They shall represent the unwelcome wooer, whom the lady does not like. What kind of a play will you have now? Shall it be a tragedy, or a domestic drama?


A domestic drama, please, for the others are so fond of that. Do you know one?


I know a hundred. Those that are most in favor are from the French, but they are not good for little girls. In the meantime, we may take one of the prettiest, for inside they're all very much alike. Now I shake the pen! Cock-a-lorum! So now, here's the play, brin-bran-span new! Now listen to the play-bill. THE PIPE-HEAD AND THE GOOD HEAD A Family Drama in One Act CHARACTERS MR. PIPE-HEAD, a father. MR. WAISTCOAT, a lover. MISS GLOVE, a daughter. MR. DE BOOTS, a suitor. And now we're going to begin. The curtain rises. We have no curtain, so it has risen already. All the characters are there, and so we have them at hand. Now I speak as Papa Pipe-head! He's angry to-day. One can see that he's a colored meerschaum. 'Snik, snak, snurre, bassellurre! I'm master of this house! I'm the father of my daughter! Will you hear what I have to say? Mr. de Boots is a person in whom one may see one's face; his upper part is of morocco, and he has spurs into the bargain. Snikke, snakke, snak! He shall have my daughter! Now listen to what the Waistcoat says, little Anna. Now the Waistcoat's speaking. The Waistcoat has a laydown collar, and is very modest; but he knows his own value, and has quite a right to say what he says: 'I haven't a spot on me! Goodness of material ought to be appreciated. I am of real silk, and have strings to me.' --On the wedding day, but no longer; you don't keep your color in the wash.' This is Mr. Pipe-head who is speaking. 'Mr. de Boots is water-tight, of strong leather, and yet very delicate; he can creak, and clank with his spurs, and has an Italian physiognomy-


But they ought to speak in verses, for I've heard that's the most charming way of all.


They can do that too, and if the public demands it, they will talk in that way. Just look at little Miss Glove, how she's pointing her fingers! 'Could I but have my love, Who then so happy as Glove! Ah! If I from him must part, I'm sure 'twill break my heart!' Bah! O Glove, my own dear, Though it cost thee a tear, Thou must be mine, For Holger Danske has sworn it!


That's exceedingly charming!


Silence! silence! Silent approbation will show that you are the educated public in the stalls. Now Miss Glove sings her great song with startling effects: 'I can't see, heigho! And therefore I'll crow! Kikkeriki, in the lofty hall!' Now comes the exciting part, little Anna. This is the most important in all the play. Mr. Waistcoat undoes himself, and addresses his speech to you, that you may applaud; but leave it alone,--that's considered more genteel. 'I am driven to extremities! Take care of yourself! Now comes the plot! You are the Pipe-head, and I am the good head--snap! there you go! Do you notice this, little Anna? That's a most charming comedy. Mr. Waistcoat seized the old Pipe-head and put him in his pocket; there he lies, and the Waistcoat says: 'You are in my pocket; you can't come out till you promise to unite me to your daughter Glove on the left. I hold out my right hand.'


That's awfully pretty,


And now the old Pipe-head replies: 'Though I'm all ear, Very stupid I appear: Where's my humor? Gone, I fear, And I feel my hollow stick's not here, Ah! never, my dear, Did I feel so queer. Oh! pray let me out, And like a lamb led to slaughter I'll betroth you, no doubt, To my daughter.'


Is the play over already?


By no means. It's only all over with Mr. de Boots. Now the lovers kneel down, and one of them sings: 'Father!' Come, do as you ought to do,-- Bless your son and daughter.' Klink! clanks! A thousand thanks; And now the play is over!' And now we'll applaud. We'll call them all out, and the pieces of furniture too, for they are of mahogany.


And is not our play just as good as those which the others have in the real theatre?


Our play is much better. It is shorter, the performers are natural, and it has passed away the interval before tea-time.


Poor old bachelor, cut your wood, Such a nightcap was never seen; Who would think it was ever clean? Go to sleep, it will do you good.


You will see what will come out, something you don't expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly. Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken root, no one ever should do that. I did so with my flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I didn't know any better then, and the flowers all died.


They are Molly and me. How wonderful they are, and so beautiful!


Who does that stand for?


Do you dare to knock and say, 'Lady Halle, Lady Halle, open the door: Tannhauser is here!' Lady Halle, Lady Halle. I may kiss him,


I am a straightforward girl, and I will tell you myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to this. Farewell, Anthony.


Farewell. What matters it? I am ruined also. I will destroy everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus, the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by the roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit.


God's will is the best. It was well that I was not allowed to keep my power over Molly's heart, and that she did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune has deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my circumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could not help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against her.


Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain remain here always in my native soil.


That flourishes still. The blossoms are often plucked, the fruit is stolen and the branches broken without a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might be said of a tree, as it has been said of some men--it was not predicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be over. Marry! ha, ha!


Roses, which I have plucked from the garden.


I shall sleep now. Sleep will do me good. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well. Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears before me in heavenly beauty.


Hallo! how the nightcap burns! What can this be? Is it paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes?


And what became of the little lad?--the poor boy of the humble town of Marbach?


Ah, indeed, there was no one who thought or supposed, not even the old church bell which had been the first to sound and chime for him, that he would be the first to sing the beautiful song of "The Bell."


Yes. I believe the stone came from the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled down, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold. My father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used for paving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and laid in the courtyard.


Any one can see that it is a grave-stone, the representation of an hour-glass and part of the figure of an angel can still be traced, but the inscription beneath is quite worn out, excepting the name 'Preben,' and a large 'S' close by it, and a little farther down the name of 'Martha' can be easily read. But nothing more, and even that cannot be seen unless it has been raining, or when we have washed the stone.


Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben Schwane and his wife. Yes, these people were among the last who were buried in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy old couple, I can remember them well in the days of my boyhood. Every one knew them, and they were esteemed by all. They were the oldest residents in the town, and people said they possessed a ton of gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed, in the coarsest stuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben and Martha were a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the bench, at the top of the steep stone steps, in front of their house, with the branches of the linden-tree waving above them, and nodded in a gentle, friendly way to passers by, it really made one feel quite happy. They were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them, and in their benevolence there was judgment as well as true Christianity. The old woman died first; that day is still quite vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my father to the old man's house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of death just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a bedroom, near to the one in which we sat, and the old man was in great distress and weeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and to a few neighbors who were there, of how lonely he should feel now she was gone, and how good and true she, his dead wife, had been during the number of years that they had passed through life together, and how they had become acquainted, and learnt to love each other. I was, as I have said, a boy, and only stood by and listened to what the others said; but it filled me with a strange emotion to listen to the old man, and to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spoke of the days of their courtship, of how beautiful she was, and how many little tricks he had been guilty of, that he might meet her. And then he talked of his wedding-day; and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to be carried back, by his words, to that joyful time. And yet there she was, lying in the next room, dead--an old woman, and he was an old man, speaking of the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it is; then I was but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane then was. Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember quite well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben walked close behind the coffin.


A few years before this time the old couple had had their grave-stone prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the date. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and laid on the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben might be laid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth, they left behind them far less than people had believed they possessed; what there was went to families distantly related to them, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old house, with its balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of the high steps, under the lime-tree, was considered, by the road-inspectors, too old and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate befell the convent church, and the graveyard was destroyed, the grave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything else, was sold to whoever would buy it. And so it happened that this stone was not cut in two as many others had been, but now lies in the courtyard below, a scouring block for the maids, and a playground for the children. The paved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his wife; no one thinks of them any more now.


Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be forgotten!


Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!


Preserve carefully the seed that has been entrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Through thee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old, weather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear, golden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the streets arm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the bench under the lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this hour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful poem. The beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in story or in song.


How long will that heap of rubbish remain here to be a disgrace to the whole street. The parapet projects so far forward that no one can see out of our windows what is going on in that direction. The stairs are as broad as the staircase of a castle, and as steep as if they led to a church-tower. The iron railing looks like the gate of a cemetery, and there are brass knobs upon it. It is really too ridiculous.


The old man opposite is very well off, but is terribly lonely.


Will you please give this from me to the gentleman who lives here; I have two tin soldiers, and this is one of them, and he shall have it, because I know he is terribly lonely.


Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming.


The air has fanned me, the sun has kissed me, and I am promised a little flower for next Sunday--really for next Sunday.


Gilding will fade in damp weather, To endure, there is nothing like leather,


Sit down. Oh dear, how I am creaking. I shall certainly have the gout like the old cupboard. Gout in my back, ugh.


Thank you for the tin soldier my little friend, and thank you also for coming to see me.


Thanks, thanks. Creak, creak,


Where did you get that picture?


From the shop opposite. Many portraits hang there that none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent have been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many years ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century.


They say at home, that you are very lonely.


Oh. I have pleasant thoughts of all that has passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me, and that is very pleasant.


This is a pair.


I cannot endure it, it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to live in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear it. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not here like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother talked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but the grave. Oh, I cannot bear it.


You must not look only on the sorrowful side. I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits.


Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them, and I cannot bear it.


You must bear it,


Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra.


Creak;


I cannot bear it any longer. I have wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the wars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot bear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old recollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from mine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite, as if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children stood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and mother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and mother were looking just as serious, when the door opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was brought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music and singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although she ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right time because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and then on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit the music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from the table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen, keeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that bring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on Sundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old comrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I cannot endure this life.


You are given away, you must stay. Don't you see that?


Ah, she could sing that tune.


I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!


I shall find him again,


What a good riddance,


Oh dear, what was that?


Let me see him. It can scarcely be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my tin soldiers when I was a little boy.


It is very likely that this is really the same soldier, and I will take care of him, and always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me the old man's grave.


I don't know where it is, no one knows. All his friends are dead; no one took care of him, and I was only a little boy.


Oh, how dreadfully lonely he must have been,


Yes, terribly lonely, still it is delightful not to be forgotten.


Delightful indeed. Gilding will fade in damp weather, To endure, there is nothing like leather.


You'll know best, old man. It is fair-day to-day; so ride into town, and get rid of the horse for money, or make a good exchange; whichever you do will be right to me, so ride to the fair.


She gives good milk, I am certain. That would be a very good exchange: the cow for the horse. Hallo there! you with the cow. I tell you what; I dare say a horse is of more value than a cow; but I don't care for that,--a cow will be more useful to me; so, if you like, we'll exchange.


To be sure I will,


I should like to have that fellow. There is plenty of grass for him by our palings, and in the winter we could keep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would be more profitable to have a sheep than a cow. Shall I exchange? What a heavy creature you have there! it has plenty of feathers and plenty of fat, and would look well tied to a string, or paddling in the water at our place. That would be very useful to my old woman; she could make all sorts of profits out of it. How often she has said, 'If now we only had a goose!' Now here is an opportunity, and, if possible, I will get it for her. Shall we exchange? I will give you my sheep for your goose, and thanks into the bargain.


Cluck, cluck.


Why that's the finest fowl I ever saw in my life; it's finer than our parson's brood hen, upon my word. I should like to have that fowl. Fowls can always pick up a few grains that lie about, and almost keep themselves. I think it would be a good exchange if I could get it for my goose. Shall we exchange?


Exchange, well, it would not be a bad thing.


What have you in that sack?


Rotten apples, a whole sackful of them. They will do to feed the pigs with.


Why that will be terrible waste. I should like to take them home to my old woman. Last year the old apple-tree by the grass-plot only bore one apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it was quite withered and rotten. It was always property, my old woman said; and here she would see a great deal of property--a whole sackful; I should like to show them to her.


What will you give me for the sackful?


What will I give? Well, I will give you my fowl in exchange.


Hiss-s-s, hiss-s-s.


What is that?


Why, do you know


Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home. Won't there be a noise?


What! Give me what? Why, she will kiss me, and say, 'what the old man does is always right.'


Let us lay a wager on it. We'll wager you a ton of coined gold, a hundred pounds to the hundred-weight.


No; a bushel will be enough. I can only set a bushel of apples against it, and I'll throw myself and my old woman into the bargain; that will pile up the measure, I fancy.


Done! taken!


Good evening, old woman.


Good evening, old man.


I've made the exchange.


Ah, well, you understand what you're about,


I got a cow in exchange for the horse.


Thank Heaven. Now we shall have plenty of milk, and butter, and cheese on the table. That was a capital exchange.


Yes, but I changed the cow for a sheep.


Ah, better still! You always think of everything; we have just enough pasture for a sheep. Ewe's milk and cheese, woollen jackets and stockings! The cow could not give all these, and her hair only falls off. How you think of everything!


But I changed away the sheep for a goose.


Then we shall have roast goose to eat this year. You dear old man, you are always thinking of something to please me. This is delightful. We can let the goose walk about with a string tied to her leg, so she will be fatter still before we roast her.


But I gave away the goose for a fowl.


A fowl! Well, that was a good exchange. The fowl will lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens; we shall soon have a poultry-yard. Oh, this is just what I was wishing for.


Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shrivelled apples.


What! I really must give you a kiss for that! My dear, good husband, now I'll tell you something. Do you know, almost as soon as you left me this morning, I began to think of what I could give you nice for supper this evening, and then I thought of fried eggs and bacon, with sweet herbs; I had eggs and bacon, but I wanted the herbs; so I went over to the schoolmaster's: I knew they had plenty of herbs, but the schoolmistress is very mean, although she can smile so sweetly. I begged her to lend me a handful of herbs. 'Lend!' she exclaimed, 'I have nothing to lend; nothing at all grows in our garden, not even a shrivelled apple; I could not even lend you a shrivelled apple, my dear woman. But now I can lend her ten, or a whole sackful, which I'm very glad of; it makes me laugh to think about it;


Well, I like all this, always going down the hill, and yet always merry; it's worth the money to see it.


There was a handsome young man once, it is certainly a long while ago, but I remember he had a little note, written on pink paper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant, evidently a lady's hand: twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at me, with eyes that said quite plainly, 'I am the happiest of men!' Only he and I know what was written on this his first letter from his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I remember,--it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing to another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and beautiful woman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and attended by torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the street stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the procession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I could look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my post, and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked up at me.


What is this I hear? that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening the last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell gift. I will blow into your brain, so that in future you shall not only be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the past, but your light within shall be so bright, that you shall be able to understand all that is said or done in your presence.


Oh, that is really a very, very great gift. I thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down.


That is not likely to happen yet, and I will also blow a memory into you, so that should you receive other similar presents your old age will pass very pleasantly.


That is if I am not melted down. But should I in that case still retain my memory?


Do be reasonable, old lamp. What will you give the old lamp?


I can give nothing. I am on the wane, and no lamps have ever given me light while I have frequently shone upon them.


I shall penetrate you so thoroughly, that you will have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, to crumble into dust in one night.


Does no one give any more? Will no one give any more?


What was that? Did not a star fall? I really believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born personages try for the office, we may as well say 'Good-night,' and go home.


This is a glorious gift, the bright stars have always been a joy to me, and have always shone more brilliantly than I ever could shine, though I have tried with my whole might; and now they have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that will enable me to see clearly everything that I remember, as if it still stood before me, and to be seen by all those who love me. And herein lies the truest pleasure, for joy which we cannot share with others is only half enjoyed.


That sentiment does you honor, but for this purpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you, your particular faculties will not benefit others in the least. The stars have not thought of this; they suppose that you and every other light must be a wax taper: but I must go down now.


Wax tapers, indeed! I have never yet had these, nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not being melted down!


I can almost imagine I am seeing it all,


What is the use of all my capabilities, when I cannot obtain any wax lights; they have only oil and tallow here, and these will not do. Here I am now with my rare powers. I have faculties within me, but I cannot share them; they do not know that I could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change them into noble forests, or, indeed, to anything else they might wish for.


I will have an illumination to-day in honor of my old man.


Now at last I shall have a light within me,


What powers I possess! 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.


Now pay attention, and I will decorate the room.


What can that be now?


See, this is the way you should hold yourselves. Look here, you should slope thus, with a graceful curve.


Oh, we are very willing to do so, but we cannot, we are so wretchedly made.


You must be scratched out, then,


Oh, no!


Now we must give up our stories, and exercise these letters. One, two--one, two--


How oft my memory turns to thee, My own Hjalmar, ever dear! When I could watch thy infant glee, Or kiss away a pearly tear. 'Twas in my arms thy lisping tongue First spoke the half-remembered word, While o'er thy tottering steps I hung, My fond protection to afford. Farewell! I pray the Heavenly Power To keep thee till thy dying hour.


Wilt thou sail with me to-night, little Hjalmar? then we shall see foreign countries, and thou shalt return here in the morning.


Just look at that fellow,


Quack, quack. We are all of the same opinion; namely, that he is stupid.


Yes, to be sure, he is stupid. Those are handsome thin legs of yours. What do they cost a yard?


Quack, quack, quack,


You may as well laugh, for that remark was rather witty, or perhaps it was above you. Ah, ah, is he not clever? He will be a great amusement to us while he remains here.


Gobble, gobble; Quack, quack.


To-morrow you shall be made into soup,


What do you think I have got here? Do not be frightened, and you shall see a little mouse. It has come to invite you to a wedding. Two little mice are going to enter into the marriage state tonight. They reside under the floor of your mother's store-room, and that must be a fine dwelling-place.


But how can I get through the little mouse-hole in the floor?


Leave me to manage that. I will soon make you small enough. Now you can borrow the dress of the tin soldier. I think it will just fit you. It looks well to wear a uniform when you go into company.


Yes, certainly,


Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mamma's thimble, that I may have the pleasure of drawing you to the wedding.


Will you really take so much trouble, young lady?


Does it not smell delicious? The wall and the floor have been smeared with bacon-rind; nothing can be nicer.


It is incredible how many old people there are who would be glad to have me at night, especially those who have done something wrong. 'Good little Ole,' say they to me, 'we cannot close our eyes, and we lie awake the whole night and see all our evil deeds sitting on our beds like little imps, and sprinkling us with hot water. Will you come and drive them away, that we may have a good night's rest?' and then they sigh so deeply and say, 'We would gladly pay you for it. Good-night, Ole-Luk, the money lies on the window.' But I never do anything for gold.


What shall we do to-night?


I do not know whether you would care to go to another wedding, although it is quite a different affair to the one we saw last night. Your sister's large doll, that is dressed like a man, and is called Herman, intends to marry the doll Bertha. It is also the dolls' birthday, and they will receive many presents.


Yes, I know that already, my sister always allows her dolls to keep their birthdays or to have a wedding when they require new clothes; that has happened already a hundred times, I am quite sure.


Yes, so it may; but to-night is the hundred and first wedding, and when that has taken place it must be the last, therefore this is to be extremely beautiful. Only look.


What merry sounds are on the wind, As marriage rites together bind A quiet and a loving pair, Though formed of kid, yet smooth and fair! Hurrah! If they are deaf and blind, We'll sing, though weather prove unkind.


Shall we go to a country house, or travel?


I was once in the country with my chickens for a whole summer, there was a large sand-pit, in which we could walk about and scratch as we liked. Then we got into a garden in which grew red cabbage; oh, how nice it was, I cannot think of anything more delicious.


But one cabbage stalk is exactly like another; and here we have often bad weather.


Yes, but we are accustomed to it,


But it is so cold here, and freezes sometimes.


Cold weather is good for cabbages, besides we do have it warm here sometimes. Four years ago, we had a summer that lasted more than five weeks, and it was so hot one could scarcely breathe. And then in this country we have no poisonous animals, and we are free from robbers. He must be wicked who does not consider our country the finest of all lands. He ought not to be allowed to live here. I have also travelled. I once went twelve miles in a coop, and it was not pleasant travelling at all.


The hen is a sensible woman. I don't care for travelling over mountains, just to go up and come down again. No, let us go to the sand-pit in front of the gate, and then take a walk in the cabbage garden.


Am I to hear any more stories?


We shall have no time this evening. Look at these Chinese, for it will be a holiday, it is Sunday. I must now go to the church steeple and see if the little sprites who live there have polished the bells, so that they may sound sweetly. Then I must go into the fields and see if the wind has blown the dust from the grass and the leaves, and the most difficult task of all which I have to do, is to take down all the stars and brighten them up. I have to number them first before I put them in my apron, and also to number the places from which I take them, so that they may go back into the right holes, or else they would not remain, and we should have a number of falling stars, for they would all tumble down one after the other.


Hark ye! Mr. Luk-Oie. Do you know me? I am Hjalmar's great-grandfather. I thank you for telling the boy stories, but you must not confuse his ideas. The stars cannot be taken down from the sky and polished; they are spheres like our earth, which is a good thing for them.


Thank you, old great-grandfather. I thank you; you may be the head of the family, as no doubt you are, but I am older than you. I am an ancient heathen. The old Romans and Greeks named me the Dream-god. I have visited the noblest houses, and continue to do so; still I know how to conduct myself both to high and low, and now you may tell the stories yourself:


Well, well, one is never to give an opinion, I suppose,


Good evening. Now, you must tell me some stories about five green peas that lived in one pod; or of the chickseed that courted the chickweed; or of the darning needle, who acted so proudly because she fancied herself an embroidery needle.


You may have too much of a good thing. You know that I like best to show you something, so I will show you my brother. He is also called Ole-Luk-Oie but he never visits any one but once, and when he does come, he takes him away on his horse, and tells him stories as they ride along. He knows only two stories. One of these is so wonderfully beautiful, that no one in the world can imagine anything at all like it; but the other is just as ugly and frightful, so that it would be impossible to describe it. There now, you can see my brother, the other Ole-Luk-Oie; he is also called Death. You perceive he is not so bad as they represent him in picture books; there he is a skeleton, but now his coat is embroidered with silver, and he wears the splendid uniform of a hussar, and a mantle of black velvet flies behind him, over the horse. Look, how he gallops along.


How stands the mark-book?


Good. Yes, but let me see for myself,


Why, Death is a most splendid Luk-Oie. I am not in the least afraid of him.


You need have no fear of him, if you take care and keep a good conduct book.


In the world it's always going up and down; and now I can't go up any higher! Most people have to try both the ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get to be watchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height.


Yes, they're rare old fellows, those boulders! and to think that we should pass them without noticing them! And over the street pavement, the paving stones, those fragments of the oldest remains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking about them. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfully at every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me with thought, and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance of the earth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It's a pity one can't read the first volume of it, because it is written in a language that we don't understand. One must read in the different strata, in the pebble-stones, for each separate period. Yes, it is a romance, a very wonderful romance, and we all have our place in it. We grope and ferret about, and yet remain where we are; but the ball keeps turning, without emptying the ocean over us; the clod on which we move about, holds, and does not let us through. And then it's a story that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years and is still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders. Those are fellows indeed! They could tell us something worth hearing, if they only knew how to talk. It's really a pleasure now and then to become a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highly placed as I am. And then to think that we all, even with patent lacquer, are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hill the earth, though we may be insects with stars and garters, places and offices! One feels quite a novice beside these venerable million-year-old boulders. On last New Year's eve I was reading the book, and had lost myself in it so completely, that I forgot my usual New Year's diversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amack. Ah, you don't know what that is!


The journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known--that journey is taken on St. John's eve, to the Brocken; but we have a wild journey, also which is national and modern, and that is the journey to Amack on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poets and poetesses, musicians, newspaper writers, and artistic notabilities,--I mean those who are no good,--ride in the New Year's night through the air to Amack. They sit backwards on their painting brushes or quill pens, for steel pens won't bear them--they're too stiff. As I told you, I see that every New Year's night, and could mention the majority of the riders by name, but I should not like to draw their enmity upon myself, for they don't like people to talk about their ride to Amack on quill pens. I've a kind of niece, who is a fishwife, and who, as she tells me, supplies three respectable newspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use, and she has herself been at Amack as an invited guest; but she was carried out thither, for she does not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. She has told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true, but the other half gives us information enough. When she was out there, the festivities began with a song; each of the guests had written his own song, and each one sang his own song, for he thought that the best, and it was all one, all the same melody. Then those came marching up, in little bands, who are only busy with their mouths. There were ringing bells that rang alternately; and then came the little drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle; and acquaintance was made with those who write without putting their names, which here means as much as using grease instead of patent blacking; and then there was the beadle with his boy, and the boy was worst off, for in general he gets no notice taken of him; then, too, there was the good street sweeper with his cart, who turns over the dust-bin, and calls it 'good, very good, remarkably good.' And in the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meeting of these folks, there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amack a stem, a tree, an immense flower, a great mushroom, a perfect roof, which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company, for in it hung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Out of the tree poured sparks like flames of fire; these were the ideas and thoughts, borrowed from others, which they had used, and which now got free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at 'the stick burns,' and the young poets played at 'heart-burns,' and the witlings played off their jests, and the jests rolled away with a thundering sound, as if empty pots were being shattered against doors.


It was very amusing!