Next year he had grown bigger, and the following year he was taller still.

"Oh, if I were only as tall as the others!" sighed the little Fir. "Then I would spread my branches far around and look out from my crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my boughs, and when the wind blew I would nod grandly."

It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, or in the red clouds that went sailing over it morning and evening.



When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a hare would often come jumping along and spring right over the little Fir Tree. O, that made him so angry! But two winters went by, and when the third came, the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run around it.

"Oh, to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the world," thought the Tree.

In the autumn the woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest trees; that was done this year, too, and the little Fir Tree, that was now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the stately trees fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so that the trees looked quite naked, long and slender, and could hardly he recognized. Then they were laid upon wagons, and the horses dragged them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited them?

In the spring, when the Swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked them, "Do you know where the big firs were taken? Did you meet them?"

The Swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful, nodded his head and said: "Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the ships were tall masts; I fancy these were the trees. They smelt like fir. I can assure you they're stately—very stately."

"Oh, that I were big enough to go over the sea. What kind of a thing is this sea, and how does it look?"

"It would take long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he went away.

"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth, and in the young life that is within thee."

And the wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears upon it; but the Fir Tree did not understand.

When Christmas time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that never rested, but always wanted to go away. These beautiful young trees kept all their branches; they were put upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.

"Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater than I—indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their branches? Whither are they taken?"

"We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the town we looked in at the windows. We know where the fir trees go. We have looked in at the windows and have seen that they are planted in the middle of a warm room and dressed up in the greatest splendor with the most beautiful things—gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundreds of candles."

"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, trembling through all its branches. "And then? what happens then?" "Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was wonderful!"

"Perhaps I may be destined to this glorious end one day!" cried the Fir Tree, rejoicing. "That is even better than traveling across the sea. How I long for it! If it were only Christmas! Now I am great and grown up like the rest who were led away last year. Oh, if I were only on the wagon! If I were only in the warm room amidst all the pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something even better will come, something far more charming, else why should they adorn me so? There must be something grander, something greater still to come; but what? Oh! I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know myself what is the matter with me!"

"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine. "Rejoice in thy fresh youth here in the woodland."

The Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter and summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it said, "That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas time it was felled before any of the others. The axe cut deep into its marrow, and the tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation of faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up; it knew that it should never again see the dear old companions, the little bushes and the flowers all around, perhaps not even the birds. The Tree came to itself only when it was unloaded in a yard, with other trees, and heard a man say:

"This one is famous; we want only this one!"

Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a large, beautiful room. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there were rocking chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars; at least, the children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored carpet. Oh, how the Tree trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the young ladies also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little bags cut out of colored paper, and every bag was filled with sweetmeats. Golden apples and walnuts hung down as if they grew there, and more than a hundred little candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different boughs. Dolls that looked exactly like real people—the Tree had never seen such before—swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the Tree was fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid.

"This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."

"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh that the lights may be soon lit! When will that be done? I wonder if trees will come out of the forest to look at me? Will the Sparrows fly against the panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?"

But the Tree had a backache from mere longing, and the backache is just as bad for a tree as the headache for a person.

At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to a green twig, and it was scorched, but one of the young ladies hastily put the fire out.

Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have overturned the whole Tree, while the older people followed more deliberately. The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they shouted till the room rang; they danced gleefully round the Tree; and one present after another was plucked from it.

"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What's going to be done?"

And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they were extinguished, and then the children were given permission to plunder the Tree. They rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked again; if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to the ceiling, the Tree certainly would have fallen down.

The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but only to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten.

"A story! A story!" shouted the children, as they drew a little fat man toward the Tree. He sat down just beneath it—"for then we shall be in the green wood," said he, "and the Tree may have the advantage of listening to my tale. But I can tell only one. Will you hear the story of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and still was raised up to honor and married the princess?"

"Ivede-Avede," cried some; "Klumpey-Dumpey," cried others, and there was a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was silent, and thought, "Shall I not be in it? Shall I have nothing to do in it?" But he had been in the evening's amusement and had done what was required of him.

And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and yet was raised to honor and married the princess. And the children clapped their hands, and cried, "Tell another, tell another!" for they wanted to hear about Ivede-Avede; but they got only the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet came to honor and married the princess!

"Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well, who can know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a princess!" And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I shall not tremble," it thought. "I shall rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I shall hear the story of Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps that of Ivede- Avede, too."

And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.

In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.

"Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree.

But they dragged him out of the room and up-stairs to the garret, and there they put him in a dark corner where no daylight shone.

"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What is to happen?"

And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when at length some one came, it was only to put some great boxes in a corner. Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is that it was quite forgotten.



"Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly solitary! Not even a little hare! It was pretty out there in the wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when he jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up here!"

"Piep! Piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among the branches.

"It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?"

"I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than I."

"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They were dreadfully inquisitive.

"Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth. Have you been there? Have you been in the storeroom, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling; where one dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?"

"I don't know that," replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the sun shines and the birds sing." And then it told all about its youth.

And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they listened, and said:

"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. "Yes, those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the Christmas Eve, when he had been hung with sweatmeats and candles.

"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!"

"I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I came out of the wood only this winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth."

"What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice.

And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days. But they may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess. Perhaps I may marry a princess, too!" And then the Fir Tree thought of a pretty little Birch Tree that grew out in the forest; for the Fir Tree, that Birch was a real princess.

"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice.

And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every single word; and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did not like it so much as before.

"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.

"Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest evening of my life; I did not think then how happy I was."

"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and tallow candles—a storeroom story?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats. And they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last also stayed away; and then the Tree sighed and said, "It was very nice when they sat around me, the merry little Mice, and listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past, too. But I shall remember to be pleased when they take me out."

But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and rummaged in the garret; the boxes were put away, and the Tree was brought out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone.

"Now life is beginning again," thought the Tree.

It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and then it was out in the courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to look at itself, there was so much to look at all around. The courtyard was close to a garden, and there everything was blooming; the roses hung fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.

"Now I shall live!" cried the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it lay in the corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and shone in the bright sunshine.

In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had danced round the Tree at Christmas time, and had rejoiced over it. One of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.

"Look what is sticking to the ugly old Fir Tree!" said the child, and he trod on the branches till they cracked under his boots.

And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the garden, then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.

"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have done so! Past! past!"

And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the children, who were at play there, ran up, seated themselves by the fire, looked into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was a deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas Eve and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell; and thus the Tree was burned.

The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past, too: past! past!—and that's the way with all stories.



HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

When a man writes as beautiful and as interesting stories as Hans Christian Andersen has written for children, we like to know something about him; and we find that nothing that he ever wrote was much more interesting than his own life. Certainly no one who knew him while he was a child could have thought that he would ever have much chance of becoming a famous man.

He was born on April 2nd, 1805, in the city of Odense, in Denmark. The room in which he was born was kitchen, parlor, bedroom and workshop for the whole family, for the family of Andersen had little to do with, and little knowledge of how to make the best of what they had. The father was a cobbler, but a cobbler who was much more interested in other things than he was in his trade, into which he had been forced quite contrary to his own wishes. The mother was a careless, easy-going person, who was kind to her child, but had not the slightest idea of training him, or of restraining any of his odd tastes. These tastes were determined more or less by his father, who was a great reader, particularly of plays; and we see the results of this early introduction to the drama in Hans Christian Andersen throughout his life.

Little Hans Christian was a most extraordinary child. He was ugly, as he remained all his life; for his body and neck were too long and too thin, his feet and his hands were too large and too bony, his nose was large and hooked, and his eyes were small and set like a Chinaman's. However, it was not his looks, but his oddity, which cut him off from other children. He would sit all day and make doll clothes, or cut dolls and animals out of paper; and these were not things which would be likely to make other boys like him and admire him. He had little schooling, and even when he was a grown man he knew none too much of the grammar of his own language.

After his father's death, when he himself was about eleven, little Hans Christian was more solitary than before, and shut himself up still more with his doll's clothes, his toy theaters, and his books, for he was, like his father, very fond of reading. Especially did he like those books which had anything about ghosts or witches or fairies in them. While he was but a child, he wrote a play of his own, in which most of the characters were kings and queens and princesses; and because he felt that it could not be possible that such lofty personages would talk the same language as ordinary people, he picked out from a dictionary, which he managed somehow to get hold of, French words, German words, English words, and high-sounding Danish words, and strung them all together to make up the conversation of his characters.

It was no more than natural that such a strange, unattractive-looking child should be made fun of by the prosaic, commonplace people of his neighborhood, and this was untold pain to the sensitive boy. There were, however, in the town, people of a higher class, who perceived in the boy something beyond the ordinary, and who interested themselves in his behalf. They had him sent to school, but he preferred to dream away his time rather than to study, and his short period of schooling really taught him nothing.

His mother, careless as she was, began to see that matters must change— that the boy could not go on all his life in this aimless fashion; but since he steadily declined to be a tailor or a cobbler, or indeed to take up any trade, it seemed no easy question to settle. However, in 1818, there came to Odense a troupe of actors who gave plays and operas. Young Andersen, who by making acquaintance with the billposter was allowed to witness the performances from behind the scenes, decided at once that he was cut out to be an actor. There was no demand for actors in his native town, and he therefore decided to go to Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark, there to seek his fortune.

With about five dollars in his pocket, Andersen reached Copenhagen in September, 1819, but he found that a fortune was by no means as easily made as he had fancied. He himself felt convinced that he should be a famous actor, but how was he to convince any one else of this fact? From one actor to another, from one theater manager to another he went, but all told him that for one reason or another he was not fitted for the stage. Particularly did Andersen resent the excuse of one manager, who told him that he was too thin. This fault Andersen assured him that he was only too willing to remedy, if he would only give him a chance and a salary; but still the manager refused.

Finally the boy was destitute of money and knew not where to turn for more, for he was too proud to go back to his native town. However, an Italian singing teacher, Siboni, into whose home Andersen had almost forced himself while a dinner party was in progress, became interested in him, and with some friends provided him with enough to live on. He also gave him singing lessons until the boy's voice gave out. Other influential people gradually became interested in the strange creature, who certainly did appear to have some talent, but who had even more obvious defects; and so he lived on, supported in the most meager fashion.

Determined to write plays if he could not play them, Andersen composed drama after drama. He would rush into the house of a total stranger, of whom perhaps he had heard as a patron of genius, declaim some scenes from his plays, and then rush out, leaving his auditor in gasping amazement. Finally he made the acquaintance of one of the directors of the Royal Theatre, Jonas Collin, who was ever afterward his best friend. Through the influence of this kindly man, Anderson was sent to school at Slagelse, and as he said later, the days of his degradation were over once and for all.

Andersen did not have an entirely pleasant time at school. He loved systematic study no more than he had early in his life, and he did not fall in very readily with his young companions. However, he persisted, for he was ashamed to disappoint his patron, Collin, and by the time he left school in 1827, he had an education of which he needed not to be ashamed. After his return to Copenhagen, he was able to pass his examinations satisfactorily.



From this time on, Andersen's life was in the main happy, although he was so sensitive and so sentimental that he was constantly fancying grievances where none existed, and making himself miserable over imaginary snubs. It is true that his dramatic works were not well received, but this was because there was no real merit in them, and not, as Andersen persisted in believing, because the critics to whom they were submitted had grudges against him. His first works that made a distinctly favorable impression were travel sketches, for Andersen was all his life a great traveler, and knew how to write most charmingly and humorously of all that he saw. His trips to other countries were all treated most delightfully, and every book that appeared increased the author's fame. His visit to Italy, the country which all his life he loved above any other, also resulted in a novel, THE IMPROVISATORE, which became immensely popular and caused Andersen to be hailed as a future great novelist.

However, it was neither for travel sketches nor for novels that he was to be best known, but for something entirely different, which he himself was inclined at first to look down upon, and which many of his critics at the outset regarded as mere child's play. These were the fairy tales which he began in 1835, and which he published at intervals from that time until his death. The children loved The Ugly Duckling, The Fir Tree and The Snow Queen; but it was not only the children who loved them. Gradually people all over the world began to realize that here was a man who knew how to tell tales to children in so masterly a manner that even grown folks would do well to listen to him.

Now that Andersen was at the height of his fame, he had no lack of friends; for whether he was in Germany, or Spain, or England, he was everywhere given ovations that were fit for a king, and was everywhere entertained by the best people in the most sumptuous manner. At one time he stayed for five weeks with Charles Dickens in his home at Gad's Hill, and the two were ever afterward firm friends. All of these people loved Andersen, not because of his fame, but because of the stories which had brought him fame, and because he was distinctly lovable in spite of his oddity; for Andersen was still odd. He was ugly and ungainly, and, owing to his fondness for decoration, often dressed in the most peculiar fashion. Then, too, he was so childishly vain of the fame which had come to him that he was at any time quite likely to stop in a crowded street and call across to a friend on the other side about some favorable notice which he had just received. After people became accustomed to this trait, however, they saw that it was but another phase of the childlikeness which made Andersen so charming and so unlike many other famous men.

Despite his intimate knowledge of children, Andersen was never really fond of them. They worried him, and he, for some reason or other, never seemed very attractive to them. But if he could be induced to tell them or read them one of his stories, illustrating it with the queer antics and faces which he alone knew how to make, he was certain of an intensely interested audience.

Andersen's fame and the love felt for him at home and abroad grew with his every year, and when he died, in 1875, his death was looked upon as a more than national calamity. The highest people in Denmark, including the king and queen, who had come to look upon Andersen's friendship as a great honor, followed him to his grave; and children all over the world sorrowed when they were told that the author of the beloved Fairy Tales would never write them another story.



PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER

By Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes— Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by Wait upon the children's eye— Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books.

We may see now all things are— Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks— In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books!

What we like about so fine a little poem as this is that it sets our thoughts to flying. As we read it, we see autumn coming on, with the red and the gold and the orange tinting the leaves. We can hear the last notes of the birds as they wing their way through the soft blue sky to gayer places in the warm southland. The cold comes fast, and in the morning, as we try to play ball or gather the ripe nuts from the hazel bushes, our thumbs tingle with the frost.

The little Scotch boy sees his robin, a little bird with a reddish- yellow breast, come to his window, and hears the cawing of the rooks. We in the United States can hear the rough voice of the blue-jay, or perhaps see the busy downy woodpecker tapping industriously at the suet we have hung in the tree for him.

A few days later the water in the pond becomes hard as stone, and we can walk over its smooth, glittering surface, or, if we are old enough, can make our way back and forth in widening circles to the music of our ringing skates. When the cold grows too severe and our cheeks burn in the wind, we can run inside, curl up in a big chair where it is warm and cheery, and, burying our faces in our favorite books, can see once more the little waves dancing on the pebbly shore of the pond, and hear the babble of the brook.

What can we find in the books? Everything that makes life merry, and everything that helps us to be true and manly. Out in the pasture the sheep are grazing, and among them walk the shepherds, singing gaily to the wide sky and the bright sun. When, perchance, a frisking lamb strays near the woods where perils lie, the shepherd follows, and with the crook at the end of his staff draws the wanderer back to safety.

These wonderful books of ours will carry us across the seas, even. We, for instance, might go to Scotland and play with the boy Stevenson. What a delight it would be; for the man who can write so charmingly about children must have been a wonderfully interesting boy to play with. And the cities we should see—quaint old Edinburgh, with its big, frowning castle on the top of that high rugged hill, and in the castle yard, old Mons Meg, the big cannon that every Scotch lad feels that he must crawl into.

If that is too far away from us, we will come back to Boston, and walk through the Common, and hear again the Yankee boys bravely complaining to General Gage because the British soldiers have trampled down the snow fort the youngsters have built.

But those are only real things; the more wonderful things are the flying fairies whose deeds we may read in this very book.

But how can we write in prose the praise of the picture story-books when Stevenson thinks he cannot do it in his pretty rhymes? Moreover, we have just found out that the poet's chimney corner is filled with the little ones who can read only the simplest things, and need big, fine pictures and easy words. He was not writing for us at all—but that does not matter. His little poem pleases us just the same.

Let us turn back and read it again—I suspect that, after all, we are all of us small enough to sit in a chimney corner; and perhaps every book is but a picture story-book to the man or woman who is old enough and big enough to read it rightly.



HOW THE WOLF WAS BOUND

Adapted by Anna McCaleb

It seems strange that any one who might have lived with the gods in their beautiful city of Asgard [Footnote: The Norse peoples believed that their gods lived above the earth in a wonderful city named Asgard. From this city they crossed to the earth on a bridge, which by people on earth was known as the rainbow.] and have shared in their joys and their good works should have preferred to associate with the ugly, wicked giants. But that was the case with Loki—Red Loki, as he was called, because of his red hair. He was handsome like a god; he was wise and clever like a god—more clever than any of the other gods. In one way, however, he differed from the others; he had a bad heart, and liked much better to use his cleverness in getting gods and men into trouble than in making them happy. Besides this, he was very proud, and could not bear to submit even to Odin, the king of the gods.

"Who is Odin," [Footnote: Odin, chief of the Norse gods, had been induced to part with one eye in exchange for wisdom.] he muttered, "that he should be set over me? Is he more clever than I am? Is he more handsome, with his one eye and his gray beard?" And Loki held his handsome head high.

Proud as he was, however, he was not too proud to do a disgraceful thing. He went off to the home of the giants and married the ugliest and fiercest of all the giantesses. Just why he did it does not seem very clear, for he certainly could not have loved her. Perhaps he did it just to spite the other gods and to show them that he cared nothing for what they thought.

But he must have repented of his act when he saw the children which the giantess bore him, for they were certainly the most hideous and frightful children that were ever born into the world. The daughter, Hela, was the least awful, but even she was by no means a person one would care to meet. She was half white and half blue, and she had such gloomy, angry eyes that any one who looked at her sank into unconquerable sadness and finally into death. But the other two! One was a huge, glistening, scaly serpent, with a mouth that dripped poison, and glaring, beady eyes; and the other was a white-fanged, red-eyed wolf.

These two monsters grew so rapidly that the king of the gods, looking down from his throne in the heavens, was struck with fear.

"The gods themselves will not be safe if those monsters are allowed to go unchecked," he said. "Down there in the home of the giants they will be taught to hate the gods, and at the rate they're growing, they'll soon be strong enough to shake our very palaces."

He sent, therefore, the strongest of his sons to fetch the children of Loki before him. Well was it for those gathered about Odin's throne that they were gods and goddesses, else would the eyes of Hela have sent them to their death. Upon her, Odin looked more in pity than in anger—she was not all bad.

"You, Hela," he said, "although it is not safe to allow you to remain above ground, where you may do great harm to men, are not all wicked. Honor, therefore, shall be yours, and ease; but happiness shall be far from you. I shall make you queen over the regions of the dead—that kingdom which is as large as nine worlds."

Then it was believed that the only honorable form of death was death in battle; and the bravest of the heroes who died in battle were brought by Odin's messengers, the Valkyries, who always hovered on their cloud- horses above battlefields, to the great palace of Valhalla. Therefore only the cowards or the weak, who died in their beds, went to the underground realm, and Hela knew that they were not subjects of whom she could be proud. Nevertheless, she went without a word.

Odin, then, without speaking, suddenly stooped and seized in his strong arms the wriggling, slippery serpent. Over the wall of the city he threw it, and the gods watched it as it fell down, down, down, until at last it sank from sight into the sea. This was by no means the last of the serpent, however; under the water it grew and grew until it was so large that it formed a girdle about the whole earth, and could hold its tail in its mouth.

The question as to what should be done with the great wolf, Fenris, was not so easily answered. It seemed to all the gods that he had grown larger and fiercer in the brief time he had stood before them, and none of them dared touch him. At length some one whispered, "Let us kill him," and the wolf turned and showed his teeth at the speaker; for as he was the son of Loki, he could understand and speak the language of the gods.

"That cannot be," said Odin. "Have we not sworn that the streets of our city shall never be stained with blood? Let us leave the matter until another time."

So the wolf was permitted to roam about Asgard, and the gods all tried to be kind to him, for they thought that by their kindness they might tame him. However, he grew stronger and stronger and more and more vicious, until only Tyr, [Footnote: Tyr was the Norse war-god.] the bravest of all the gods, dared go near him to give him food. One day, as the gods sat in their council hall, they heard the wolf howling through the streets.

"How long," said Odin, "is our city to be made hideous by such noises? We must bind Fenris the wolf."

Silence followed his words, for all knew what a serious thing it was that Odin proposed. Fenris must be bound—that was true; but who would dare attempt the task? And what chain could ever hold him? At length Thor [Footnote: Thor, god of thunder, was the strongest of all the gods] arose, and all sighed with relief; for if any one could bind the wolf, it was Thor. "I will make a chain," he said, "stronger than ever chain was before, and then we shall find some way to fasten it upon him."

Thor strode to his smithy, and heaped his fire high. All night he worked at his anvil; whenever any of the gods awakened they could hear the clank! clank! clank! of his great hammer, and could see from their windows the sparks from his smithy shining through the gloom. In the morning the chain was finished, and all wondered at its strength, Then Thor called to the huge wolf and said:

"Fenris, you are stronger than any of the gods. We cannot break this chain, but for you it will be mere child's play. Let yourself be bound with it, that we may see how great your strength really is."

Now the wolf knew his might better than any of them did, and he suffered himself to be bound fast. Then he arose, stretched himself as if he were just waking from a nap, and calmly walked off, leaving the fragments of the chain on the ground. The amazed gods looked at each other with fright in their eyes—what could they do?

"I will make a stronger chain," said Thor, undiscouraged. And again he went to his smithy, where he worked all day and all night.

"This is the strongest chain that can ever be made," he said, when he presented it to the gods. "If this will not hold him, nothing can."

Calling the wolf, they flattered him and praised his strength, and finally persuaded him to let himself be bound with this chain, "just for a joke." You may be sure, however, that they said nothing about its being the strongest chain that could ever be made.

Fenris pretended to lie helpless for a time; then he struggled to his feet, shook his mighty limbs, tossed his hideous head—and the chain snapped, and fell into a hundred pieces! Then indeed there was consternation among the gods; but Odin, the all-wise, had a sudden helpful thought. Calling his swiftest messenger, he said:

"Go to the dwarfs in their underground smithy. Tell them to forge for us a chain which cannot be broken; and do you make all haste, for the wolf grows stronger each moment."



Off hastened the messenger, and in less time than it takes to tell it he was with the dwarfs, giving them the message from Odin. The little men bustled about here and there, gathering up the materials of which the chain was to be made; and when these were all collected and piled in a heap, you might have looked and looked, and you would have seen nothing! For this extraordinary chain was made of such things as the roots of mountains, the sound of a cat's footsteps, a woman's beard, the spittle of birds and the voice of fishes. When it was finished the messenger hurried back to Asgard and displayed it proudly to the anxious gods. It was as fine and soft as a silken string, but the gods knew the workmanship of the dwarfs, and had no fear.

"It will be easy," they said, "to persuade Fenris to let himself be bound with this."

But they were mistaken. The wolf looked at the soft, shining cord suspiciously, and said:

"If that is what it looks to be, I shall gain no honor from breaking it; if it has been made by magic, I shall never free myself."

"But we will free you," cried the gods. "This is but a game to test your strength."

"Not you," growled the wolf. "I've lived here long enough to know that if I don't look out for myself, no one else will look out for me."

"All right, if you are afraid," said Thor, with a shrug of his shoulders. And the wolf replied, "To show that I am no more cowardly than the gods, I will suffer myself to be bound if one of you will put his hand into my mouth."

To refuse to do this was, as the gods knew, to admit that they had meant trickery, and thus to make Fenris hate them worse than ever. But what one of them was willing to sacrifice his hand? Thor was no coward, but he knew that he was the chief defender of the gods, and he could not let himself be maimed. However, they did not have to wait long, for Tyr came forward, and thrust his hand into the wolf's mouth.

The wolf, his suspicions quieted, let himself be wrapped and bound with the cord; and then, as he had done with the other chains, he stretched himself—or tried to. For the magic rope but drew tighter and tighter for all his struggling, until it cut into his very skin. Enraged, he brought his great teeth sharply together, and bit off Tyr's hand at the wrist. Then he howled and snapped and growled, until the gods, unwilling to have their peace disturbed, thrust a sword into his mouth, so that the hilt rested upon his lower jaw and the point pierced the roof of his mouth. They next fastened the cord to a rock, and left the wolf to writhe and struggle and shake the earth. So they were freed for a time from their enemy, but at the cost of Tyr's hand.



THE DEATH OF BALDER

Adapted by Anna McCaleb

Of all the gods in Asgard, Balder was most beloved; for no one had ever seen him frown, and his smile and the light of his eyes made all happy who looked at him. And of all who dwelt in Asgard or ever gained admission there, Loki was most hated. Clever as he was, he used his cleverness to harass the other gods and to make them wretched, and often he attempted real crimes against them. It was natural enough that Loki, slighted and frowned upon, should hate Balder the beautiful, even though Balder himself had never spoken an unkind word to him.

"I cannot bear the sight of his shining hair and happy eyes," muttered Loki to himself. "If I could just blot them out of Asgard I should be revenging myself upon the gods for their bitterness toward me, for harm to Balder would hurt them more than harm to themselves."

One morning the assembled gods noticed that when Balder came among them he looked less radiant than usual, and they gathered about him, begging that he tell them what was wrong.

"It's nothing! It's nothing!" said Balder; and he forced a smile, but it was not his old smile. It reminded them all of the faint light the sun sheds when a thin cloud has drifted before it.

All day long, as they went about their tasks and their pleasures, the gods were conscious of a feeling of gloom; and when they stopped and questioned themselves, they found that the cause lay in the diminished brightness of Balder's smile. When, the next morning, Balder again came slowly to the great hall of the gods and showed a careworn face, Odin and Frigga, his father and mother, drew him apart and implored him to tell them the cause of his grief.

"My son," spoke Odin, "it is not well that this gloom should rest on all the gods, and they not know the cause. Perhaps we, your father and your mother, may help you."

At last Balder told them that for two nights he had had strange, haunting dreams; what they were he could not remember clearly when he awoke, but he could not shake off their depressing effect.

"I only know," he said, "that there was ever a thick cloud, which drifted between me and the sun, and there were confused sounds of woe, and travelings in dark, difficult places."

Now the gods knew well that their dreams were messages given them by the Norns, or Fates, and not for a moment did Odin and Frigga venture to laugh at Balder's fears. They soothed him, however, by promising to find some means of warding off any danger that might be threatening him. Somewhat cheered, Balder went home to his palace to comfort his distressed wife, Nanna, while Odin and Frigga discussed measures for their son's safety.

"I," said Odin, "shall ride to the domains of Hela, queen of the dead, and question the great prophetess who lies buried there, as to what Balder's dream may mean." And mounting Sleipnir, his eight-footed steed, he rode away.

Across the rainbow bridge he passed, out of the light, and down, down, down into the dark, hopeless realm of Hela. As he rode by the gate he saw that preparations for a feast were being made within. A gloomy feast it would have to be in those drear regions, but evidently it was being spread for some honored guest, for rich tapestries and rings of gold covered the couches, and vessels of gold graced the tables. Past the gate rode Odin, to a grave without the wall, where for ages long the greatest of all prophetesses had lain buried. Here, in this dark, chill place, was to be spoken the fate of Balder, bringer of light.

Solemnly Odin chanted the awful charms that had power to raise the dead, and king of gods as he was, he started when the grave opened, and the prophetess, veiled in mist, rose before him.

"Who art thou?" she demanded in hollow, ghost-like tones. "And what canst thou wish to know so weighty that only I, long dead, can answer thee?"

Knowing that she would refuse to answer him should she know who he really was, Odin concealed his identity, and simply asked for whom the feast was preparing in Hela's realm.

"For Balder, light of gods and men," replied the prophetess.

"And who shall dare to strike him down?" cried Odin.

"By the hand of his blind brother Hoder shall he fall. And now let me rest." And the prophetess sank again into her tomb, leaving Odin with a heart more heavy and chill than the darkness which closed round him.

Meanwhile Frigga had busied herself with a plan which her mother love had suggested. First to all the gods in Asgard, then through all the earth did she go, saying, "Promise me—swear to me—that you will never hurt Balder." Every bird, every beast, every creeping thing; all plants, stones and metals; all diseases and poisons known to gods and men; fire, water, earth, air—all things gladly took oath to do Balder no harm.

"For do not we," they cried to Frigga, "love him even as you do? And why then should we harm him?"

Gladly Frigga took her way toward home, feeling certain that she had saved Balder forever. As she was about to enter Odin's palace, Valhalla, she noticed on a branch of an oak that grew there, a tiny, weak-looking shrub. "That mistletoe is too young to promise, and too weak to do any harm," said Frigga; and she passed it by.

All the gods rejoiced with her when she told of her success; even Odin partially shook off his fears, as he told the younger gods and the heroes who dwelt with him in his palace to go and seek enjoyment after their period of gloom. To the great playground of the gods they hastened, and there they invented a new game. Balder, smiling as of old, took his stand in the midst, and all the others hurled at him weapons, stones and sticks, and even hit at him with their battle-axes. They grew very merry over this pastime, for do what they would, none of them could harm Balder; the missiles either fell short, or dropped to his feet harmless.

Loki, passing by, was at first amazed when he saw Balder being used as a target; then, when he saw that Balder remained unhurt through all, he became angry—he could not bear this proof of the fact that all things loved Balder. Hastening away, he disguised himself as an old woman and hobbled off to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga.

"Do you know," said this old woman, entering the room where Frigga sat spinning, "that the gods and heroes are playing a very dangerous game? They are hurling all sorts of things at your son Balder, who stands in their midst."

"That is not a dangerous game," replied Frigga, smiling serenely. "Last year it might have been, but now all things have given me their solemn oath not to harm Balder."

"Well, well, well," said the old woman, "isn't that wonderful? To think that any being should be so much beloved that everything should promise not to hurt him! You said EVERYTHING, did you not?"

"Yes," replied Frigga. "That is, it really amounts to everything. There is one tiny parasite, the mistletoe, which grows on the Valhalla oak, which I did not bother with."

Once out of sight of Frigga, Loki moved rapidly enough; and shortly he appeared, in his own form, among the gods, who were still shouting with joy over their game. In his hand he carried a dart; but who could have guessed, to look at it, that it had been fashioned from the mistletoe on the Valhalla oak?

Outside of the circle of the gods stood Hoder, Balder's blind brother, and there was no smile on his face. Loki approached him and asked craftily:

"Why do you not join in the game? Are you not afraid that Balder will think you are jealous of his good fortune if you take no part in this sport they have invented in his honor?"



"Alas!" said poor Hoder, "I am left out of all the sports of the gods. How can I, with my sightless eyes, tell where Balder is? And you see that I have nothing in my hand. What, then, could I throw?"

"I have here a little dart that I will give you," replied Loki. "And since you cannot direct your aim, I will guide your arm."

Joyfully Hoder thanked him, and when Loki indicated the direction in which he was to throw, he hurled the dart with all his might. Unswervingly flew the mistletoe dart, and instead of falling at Balder's feet, it lodged in his heart, so that he fell dead on the grass.

Then, instead of the laughter which Hoder waited to hear, there went up a shuddering wail of terror; and angry hands seized Hoder and angry voices were in his ear.

"What have I done?" he pleaded. "I but wished to show honor to Balder as the rest have done."

"And you have killed him!" they cried. "You shall die yourself."

"Peace! Peace!" said Heimdal. "Such a deed of violence must not stain the home of the gods. Moreover, Hoder did it all unwittingly. It was Loki who directed his aim, and we are all to blame that we allowed him to set foot on our playground."

Bitter indeed was Hoder's grief, and he implored his heart-broken mother, Frigga, that he might be allowed to take Balder's place in dark Hela's realm.

"Not you alone," she replied, "but any of the gods, would willingly die for Balder. But not in that way can he be brought back to Asgard. There is one chance—speak to Hermod, fleetest of the gods; tell him to take Odin's horse, Sleipnir, and ride to Hela's abode. Perchance, if he entreat her, she may give Balder up." Hermod, at the word of the despairing Hoder, mounted the eight-footed steed, and set off on the perilous journey.

Meanwhile, the other gods prepared the funeral pyre for Balder, determined that it should be worthy of the beloved and honored god. Great pine trees were felled and piled upon the deck of Ringhorn, Balder's ship; tapestry hangings, garlands of flowers and ornaments of gold and silver were heaped upon the pyre.

And finally, in sad procession, came the gods, bearing Balder's body, which they placed upon the flowers. His horse and his dogs were killed and placed beside him, that they might be with him to serve him in the underworld. Then one after one of the gods stepped forward and chanted their farewells; but when Nanna's turn came, she was unable to speak. Her heart broke, and her spirit fled to join that of her husband. The gods could not sorrow for her death; they knew that the abode of the dead would have less terrors for the loving pair if they could be together there, so without tears they laid her beside her husband.

Last of all, Odin advanced and cast upon the pyre his treasured ring, Draupnir, gift of the dwarfs, as an offering to his dead son. Then Thor, with a touch of his hammer, which caused the lightning, set fire to the pile, and the ship, with sails set, was launched.

In solemn silence the gods watched the ship float out upon the sea.

"And wreathed in smoke, the ship stood out to sea. Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire, And the pile crackled; and between the logs Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt, Curling and darting, higher, till they lick'd The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast, And ate the shriveling sails; but still the ship Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire. And the gods stood upon the beach and gazed, And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on. Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm; But through the night they watched the burning ship Still carried o'er the distant waters on, Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder's pile; But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared; The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile. And as, in a decaying winter fire, A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of sparks— So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in, Reddening the sea around; and all was dark." [Footnote: The poetic quotations in this story are from Matthew Arnold's Balder Dead.]

Then, when all was over, the gods went mournfully back to their homes, there to await the return of Hermod. Their palaces were brightly illuminated, but no lights shone from the windows of Breidablik, Balder's palace; and as long as that was dark, the gods cared little for the brilliance of their own dwellings.

Hermod, in the meantime, had journeyed across the rainbow bridge, and on and on toward the north until he reached the Giall river, which runs between the regions of Hela and the upper world. Well the guard of the bridge knew, when she heard on the bridge the noise of the horse's feet, that it was no shade who was crossing; but when Hermod told his errand, he was allowed to go on. And now his way led over trackless, slippery ice, on which scarce any other horse could have kept his footing; and surely no other horse could have leapt, as did Sleipnir, the gate to Hela's own realm. Once within, Hermod came rapidly into the presence of the queen, and on his knees before her implored her to allow Balder to return to the light and the upper air.

"'For Heaven was Balder born, the city of gods And heroes, where they live in light and joy. Thither restore him, for his place is there!'"

Hela remained unmoved by his pleadings; and what wonder? For she was Loki's daughter, and knew by whose act Balder had been sent below. Finally she said:

"Hermod, I shall try whether the protestations that all things lament Balder are indeed true. Return to Asgard; and if, through all the earth, all things, living and dead, weep for Balder, he shall return. But if one thing in all the world refuses to shed tears, here he shall stay."

Cheered by this promise, Hermod turned to depart, but before he left he talked with Balder and with Nanna, his wife. They told him that all honor which could be paid to any one in the realms of the dead was paid to them; that Balder was made the judge in disputes between the shades. But despite that, the days were weary, hopeless; no joy was there, nothing substantial—just days and nights of unvarying twilight, with never a gleam of real brightness. Nor would Balder admit that there was cause for rejoicing in the promise of Hela. "Well we know the family of Loki. Were there not some trick, Hela would never have spoken that word."

Nevertheless, it was with a heart lighter than at his coming that Hermod set out on his return journey. And when he reached Asgard there was rejoicing among the gods. For the first time since Balder's death, there were the sounds of cheerful hurryings to and fro and of gods calling each to each as they set out upon their tasks; for all the gods wanted a part in the work of bringing Balder back to life.

In twos and threes they rode throughout all the world, and soon "all that lived, and all without life, wept." Trees, stones, flowers, metals joined willingly in grief for Balder the beautiful; and most of the gods speedily returned in joy. But Hermod, as he rode, came to the mouth of a dark cave where sat an old hag named Thok. Years long she had sat there, and the gods knew her well, for she always cried out mockingly to all who passed by; but Hermod could not know that to-day Loki had changed forms with the old hag, and that it was really that enemy of the gods who sat before him. Dismounting, he besought the old woman to weep for Balder, as all things in heaven and earth had promised to do. But in a shrill voice she cried:

"With dry tears will Thok weep for Balder. Let Hela keep her prey."

And as she fled, with harsh laughter, to the cave's depth, Hermod knew that it was Loki who had this second time stolen life from Balder.

Sadly he rode back to Asgard, and in silent grief the gods heard his tale; for they knew that brightness was gone forever from the abode of the gods—that Balder the beautiful should return no more.

This story of Balder is one of those myths which were invented to explain natural happenings. The ancient peoples, knowing nothing about science, could not account for such things as the rising and setting of the sun and the change from summer to winter; and they made up explanations which in time grew into interesting stories.

Some students believe that in this story the death of Balder (the sun) by the hand of Hoder (darkness) represents the going down of the sun at each day's close.

Another explanation, and a more probable one, is that the death of Balder represents the close of the short northern summer and the coming on of the long winter. That is, the dreary winter, with its darkness, is represented by Hoder, who had strength, but could not make use of it to aid men or gods; who could, however, with his blind strength, slay Balder, who stood for the blessed, life-giving qualities of the summer sun.

Loki represented fire. He had in him elements of good, but because of the fact that he had used his power often to harm, as does fire, instead of to bless, he was feared and hated and avoided; and thus he became jealous of Balder.

For a myth which the Greeks and Romans invented about the sun, see the story of Phaethon, in this volume.



THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI

Adapted by Anna McCaleb

After Balder's death the gods felt that they had little to make them happy. Their thoughts dwelt always on their loss, or on their desire to punish Loki; and in neither of these thoughts was there any joy, for to the pure minds of the gods, the thought of violence could bring nothing but pain.

One day the sea-god Aegir sent to the dwellers in Asgard an invitation to a banquet in his sea caverns, and all accepted except Thor, who had business that called him elsewhere. On the appointed morning they appeared at Aegir's palace, and while at first they forced themselves to smile and appear cheerful, in compliment to their host, they soon found themselves, because of the novelty of all about them, becoming genuinely interested. The palace was of coral, pink and white—rough on the outside, but smooth and polished within; and the floors were strewn with sand so fine and white that it looked like marble. Draperies of bright- colored seaweed hung everywhere, and the gay sea flowers met their eyes at every turn, while the dishes and cups in which the feast was served were the most delicate pearl-tinted shells. Strange opal lights filtered through the water and into the banqueting hall, and great whales and sea snakes looked in through the windows on the gods as they sat at table.

All was cheerfulness and merriment, but suddenly the gods felt a chill come over them, as if a wind from Hela's ice-bound realm had rushed past. Turning, they saw Loki on the threshold. With a muttered excuse for his lateness he slipped into his seat; and then, since none except his host greeted him, and since the merry talk was not resumed, he glanced about the table and said:

"Pretty manners are these! Does no one pledge me in wine? Does no one have a word for me?"

Painfully the gods forced themselves to take up their conversation, though all avoided talking directly to Loki, whose expression became more lowering every moment. At length Odin turned to his host.

"This servant, Funfeng, is deft and skilful. Even in my palace I have not his superior."

Aegir bowed. "Since the king of the gods is pleased with Funfeng, Funfeng is no longer my servant, but the servant of Odin. He shall wait upon the heroes in Valhalla."

With a cry of jealous rage Loki sprang to his feet. "Never!" he cried, and he struck Funfeng so violently that he fell dead.

All the gods leaped up, and they drove Loki from the palace, commanding him never to appear in their presence again; but scarcely had they seated themselves to resume their interrupted feast, when the crafty god again entered the room. Not waiting for them to speak, he began to revile them. His words came in a rapid stream; he stopped not to draw breath. Beginning with Odin, he attacked the gods in turn, mocking their physical peculiarities, recounting every deed which they had done that was not to their credit, shaming them because he had always been able to elude them easily, and because only he could help them out of their difficulties. Finally he came to Sif, Thor's golden-haired wife, whom long before he had robbed of her tresses.

"As for Sif," he began, "I could tell a tale of her that—"

But he went no further, for a peal of thunder drowned his words, and a blinding flash of lightning made him cover his eyes with his hands. The gods sighed in relief, for Thor stood among them, his eyes shooting fire.

"Already," he cried, "has Aegir's palace been stained with blood to-day. I will not, therefore, kill you here. But if ever you appear before my eyes again, I shall smite you; and if ever you dare to speak Sif's name, I shall hear it though I am in the uttermost parts of the earth, and I shall have vengeance."

"Well spoken, son Thor," said Odin. "But I too have something to say to Loki. We shall permit you to go unharmed to-day, but if you care for your life, hide yourself. We shall seek you; and the gods have keen eyes. And if we find you out, you shall die."

Sullen, frightened, Loki withdrew. He wandered about long in the most barren, desolate parts of the earth, cursing the gods and hating himself. At length he found a spot which he felt sure would be hidden even from Odin's eyes. It was in a steep, rocky valley, where nothing grew, and where no sound ever came except the weird noise of the wind as it swept through the narrow passes, and the chatter of a mountain stream as it leapt down the rocks.

Here, in this solitary place, Loki built himself a hut of piled-up rocks. Four walls had the hut, and in each wall was a door, for Loki wished to be able to see the gods, from whatever direction they approached, and to make his escape. He had always been a famous fisherman, and now the fish which he took from the stream formed his only food.

Sometimes he changed himself into a salmon and floated about in the quieter places of the stream. He never talked with the other fish who lived in the stream, but somehow he felt less lonely with those living things about him than he did in his solitary hut on the mountain side.

One day (for Loki was a very clever workman) he began to fashion something, the like of which there had not been in the world before. This was a net for fishing; and so interested did Loki become in twisting and knotting the cords, that he almost forgot to keep watch for his enemies, the gods. The net was almost finished, when one afternoon Loki raised his head and saw through one of his doors three gods approaching—Odin, Thor and Heimdal, wisest of the gods. With a curse he tossed his net upon the fire—"THEY shall never have it!"—and slipped from his hut. Splash! And there was a huge salmon deep down in the stream, while Loki was nowhere to be seen.

The gods were greatly disappointed when they entered the hut; they had been so sure that at last they had found the hiding place of the wicked one, and it seemed they had missed him again. However, they knew his power of disguising himself, and they were not utterly discouraged.

"He has not been gone long," said Heimdal, "for look—the fire still burns. And what is this upon the fire?" And he drew out the partly burned fish net.

"What can it be?" asked Odin. "It is too coarse for any sort of covering for the body, and not strong enough to use in entangling an enemy."

"Wait!" said Heimdal. "I have it—I have it! It's a net for fishing— Loki was always a fisherman. See," he exclaimed excitedly, "you take it SO," thrusting one end into Thor's hand, "and you drag it through the water SO. The water runs through and the fish are held. O, clever Loki!"

"But why," asked Thor, "should he burn it up, when he has spent so much work upon it?"

"I don't know," said Heimdal musingly, "unless—unless. Where could he hide except in that stream, and how could he conceal himself there without changing himself to a fish? Mark my words. Loki is there, and he feared we might catch him with his own net."

"That," said Odin, "would be a form of justice for which one would scarcely dare hope. I fear the net is too badly burned for use."

"Not so," replied Heimdal. "Here is more flax, and we can easily repair the damage the fire has done."

So the three gods sat upon the floor of the hut and mended the burned net, keeping an eye always on the stream, that Loki might not make his escape. And when the net was ready they went forth, and with it dragged the stream. Not a fish did they catch, for Loki had frightened the real fish away, and he himself was hiding between two big stones, so that the net passed over him.

"The thing is too light," said Thor. "It does not touch the bottom."

"That we can soon change," replied Heimdal, and he set about fastening stones to the lower edge of the net.

Again they began to drag the river, and this time Loki feared that he could not escape. But just as the net almost touched him, he gave a mighty leap and sprang clear of the net. The silvery flash, the sudden splash, startled the gods, so that they almost dropped the net; but it told them what they wanted to know—Loki WAS in the stream. Turning, they dragged the net down the stream, driving Loki nearer and nearer to the sheer drop of the waterfall, down which he dared not plunge. Desperate, he made another leap, and again he almost escaped; but Thor's quick eyes saw him, Thor's strong, iron-gloved hand gripped him. The great salmon struggled, but Thor held it fast by the tail, and finally flung it out upon the bank.



Loki, within the fish, vowed to himself that he would not return to his own shape; but the fish's body could not live long out of the water, and soon he found himself growing weak and faint. At length, therefore, he was obliged to assume his own form, and there he stood, handsome, but evil-looking, before the waiting gods.

"It hurts us," said Odin, "that we should be forced to treat one of our own kind in this way. Perhaps even now—tell us that you do regret your past wickedness, that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused the gods, that you grieve sometimes for Balder's death."

"I grieve," said Loki, "only that I have caused so little trouble among the gods; I regret only that the days for pitting my cleverness against your stupidity are at an end—for I ask for no mercy. As for Balder's death, it has been my chief cause for rejoicing as I have dwelt here in this solitary place."

Shocked by his hardness, the gods led him away to the punishment which they had planned for him. The other gods met them by the way, and troops of dwarfs and elves and human beings and animals sprang up on every side, and followed them. And in the hearts of all these followers there was joy, for Loki had never done them anything but harm; and besides, had he not slain Balder, the beautiful, the beloved?

But in the hearts of the gods there was pain, for Loki was of their own number, and far back in the beginnings of time, before he had become wicked, he had been their great pride, by reason of his cleverness.

They passed, a noisy procession, to a dark, underground cavern, a damp, slimy place, where snakes looked out from their holes, and toads sat upon the stones. Here were three sharp-pointed rocks, which Thor pierced with holes; and to these rocks they bound the wretched Loki with chains of adamant.

"Here he shall stay," said Odin, "until the last great day shall come for gods and men."

A giantess, whose son Loki had killed, came with a great serpent, which she fastened directly over Loki's head; and from the serpent's mouth dripped poison, which fell, drop by drop, upon Loki's upturned face. His wife, Sigyn, could not bear to see her husband in such agony, so she took her stand beside him, cup in hand, and caught the poison as it fell. There through the ages on ages she stood, relieving Loki's pain, and trying to cheer him, for whom there was no cheer. When the cup was filled and she had to go to the cavern's mouth to empty it, then the venom fell on Loki's face, and in his terrible pain he struggled and writhed until the earth shook. And all the people, startled at their work or from their sleep, cried, "Loki's earthquake!"



SEVEN TIMES ONE

By Jean Ingelow

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my "seven times" over and over— Seven times one are seven.

I am so old, so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing— You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtledoves dwell! O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet— I am seven times one to-day.



SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS [Footnote: From 'Love Songs of Childhood'. Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.]

By Eugene Field

Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks Sit together, building blocks; Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray, Amber-Locks a little child.

But together at their play Age and Youth are reconciled, And with sympathetic glee Build their castles fair to see.

"When I grow to be a man," (So the wee one's prattle ran), "I shall build a castle so— With a gateway broad and grand; Here a pretty vine shall grow, There a soldier guard shall stand; And the tower shall be so high, Folks will wonder, by and by!"

Shuffle-Shoon quoth: "Yes, I know; Thus I builded long ago! Here a gate and there a wall, Here a window, there a door; Here a steeple wondrous tall Riseth ever more and more! But the years have leveled low What I builded long ago!"

So they gossip at their play, Heedless of the fleeting day; One speaks of the Long Ago Where his dead hopes buried lie; One with chubby cheeks aglow Prattleth of the By-and-By; Side by side, they build their blocks— Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks.



AFTERWHILE [Footnote: From the poem to Afterwhiles by James Whitcomb Riley. Used by special permission of the publishers—The Bobbs-Merrill Company.]

By James Whitcomb Riley

Afterwhile we have in view The old home to journey to: Where the Mother is, and where Her sweet welcome waits us there. How we'll click the latch that locks In the pinks and hollyhocks, And leap up the path once more Where she waits us at the door; How we'll greet the dear old smile And the warm tears—afterwhile.



WINDY NIGHTS

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about? Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again.



THE SNOW QUEEN

By Hans Christian Andersen

THE FIRST STORY

WHICH TREATS OF THE MIRROR AND FRAGMENTS

Look you, now we're going to begin. When we are at the end of the story we shall know more than we do now, for he was a bad goblin. He was one of the very worst, for he was a demon. One day he was in very good spirits, for he had made a mirror which had this peculiarity, that everything good and beautiful that was reflected in it shrank together into almost nothing, but that whatever was worthless and looked ugly became prominent and looked worse than ever. The most lovely landscapes seen in this mirror looked like boiled spinach, and the best people became hideous, or stood on their heads and had no bodies; their faces were so distorted as to be unrecognizable, and a single freckle was shown spread out over nose and mouth. That was very amusing, the demon said. When good, pious thoughts passed through any person's mind these were again shown in the mirror, so that the demon chuckled at his artistic invention.

Those who visited the goblin school—for he kept a goblin school— declared everywhere that a wonder had been wrought. For now, they asserted, one could see, for the first time, how the world and the people in it really looked. Now they wanted to fly up to heaven, to sneer and scoff at the angels themselves. The higher they flew with the mirror, the more it grinned; they could scarcely hold it fast. They flew higher and higher, and then the mirror trembled so terribly amid its grinning that it fell down out of their hands to the earth, where it was shattered into a hundred million million and more fragments.

And now this mirror occasioned much more unhappiness than before; for some of the fragments were scarcely as large as a barleycorn, and these flew about in the world, and whenever they flew into any one's eye they stuck there, and that person saw everything wrongly, or had only eyes for the bad side of a thing, for every little fragment of the mirror had retained the power which the whole glass possessed. A few persons even got a fragment of the mirror into their hearts, and that was terrible indeed, for such a heart became a block of ice. A few fragments of the mirror were so large that they were used as window panes, but it was a bad thing to look at one's friends through these panes: other pieces were made into spectacles, and then it went badly when people put on these spectacles to see rightly, and to be just; and then the demon laughed till his paunch shook, for it tickled him so. But without, some little fragments of glass still floated about in the air—and now we shall hear



THE SECOND STORY

A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL

In the great town, where there are many houses, and so many people that there is not room enough for every one to have a little garden, and where consequently most persons are compelled to be content with flowers in pots, were two poor children who possessed a garden somewhat larger than a flowerpot. They were not brother and sister, but they loved each other quite as much as if they had been. Their parents lived just opposite each other in two garrets, there where the roof of one neighbor's house joined that of another. And where the water pipe ran between the two houses was a little window; one had only to step across the pipe to get from one window to the other.

The parents of each child had a great box, in which grew kitchen herbs that they used, and a little rosebush; there was one in each box, and they grew famously. Now, it occurred to the parents to place the boxes across the pipe, so that they reached from one window to another, and looked quite like two embankments of flowers. Pea plants hung down over the boxes, and the rosebushes shot forth long twigs, which clustered round the windows and bent down toward each other; it was almost like a triumphal arch of flowers and leaves. As the boxes were very high, and the children knew that they might not creep upon them, they often obtained permission to step out upon the roof behind the boxes, and to sit upon their little stools under the roses, and there they could play capitally.

In the winter time there was an end of this amusement. The windows were sometimes quite frozen over. But then they warmed copper shillings on the stove, and held the warm coins against the frozen pane; and this made a capital peep-hole, so round! so round! and behind it gleamed a pretty mild eye at each window; and these eyes belonged to the little boy and the little girl. His name was Kay and the little girl's was Gerda.

In the summer they could get to one another at one bound; but in the winter they had to go down and up the long staircase, while the snow was pelting without.

"Those are the white bees swarming," said the old grandmother.

"Have they a queen bee?" asked the little boy. For he knew that there is one among the real bees.

"Yes, they have one," replied grandmamma. "She always flies where they swarm thickest. She is the largest of them all, and never remains quiet upon the earth; she flies up again into the black cloud. Many a midnight she is flying through the streets of the town, and looks in at the windows, and then they freeze in such a strange way, and look like flowers."

"Yes, I've seen that!" cried both the children; and now they knew that it was true.



"Can the Snow Queen come in here?" asked the little girl.

"Only let her come," cried the boy; "I'll set her upon the warm stove, and then she'll melt."

But grandmother smoothed his hair, and told some other tales. In the evening, when little Kay was at home and half undressed, he clambered upon the chair by the window, and looked through the little hole. A few flakes of snow were falling outside, and one of them, the largest of them all, remained lying on the edge of one of the flower boxes.

The snowflake grew larger and larger, and at last became a maiden clothed in the finest white gauze, put together of millions of starry flakes. She was beautiful and delicate, but of ice—of shining, glittering ice. Yet she was alive; her eyes flashed like two clear stars, but there was no peace or rest in them. She nodded toward the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened, and sprang down from the chair; then it seemed as if a great bird flew by outside, in front of the window.

Next day there was a clear frost, and then the spring came; the sun shone, the green sprouted forth, the swallows built nests, the windows were opened, and the little children again sat in their garden high up in the roof, over all the floors.

How splendidly the roses bloomed this summer! The little girl had learned a psalm, in which mention was made of roses; and, in speaking of roses, she thought of her own; and she sang it to the little boy, and he sang, too:

"The roses will fade and pass away, But we the Christ-child shall see one day."

And the little ones held each other by the hand, kissed the roses, looked at God's bright sunshine, and spoke to it, as if the Christ-child were there. What splendid summer days those were! How beautiful it was without, among the fresh rosebushes!

Kay and Gerda sat and looked at the picture book of beasts and birds. Then it was, while the clock was just striking twelve on the church tower, that Kay said:

"Oh! something struck my heart and pricked me in the eye." The little girl fell upon his neck; he blinked his eyes. No, there was nothing at all to be seen.

"I think it is gone," said he; but it was not gone. It was just one of those glass fragments which sprang from the mirror—the magic mirror that we remember well, the ugly glass that made every great and good thing which was mirrored in it to seem small and mean, but in which the mean and the wicked things were brought out in relief, and every fault was noticeable at once. Poor little Kay had also received a splinter just in his heart, and that will now soon become like a lump of ice. It did not hurt him now, but the splinter was still there.

"Why do you cry?" he asked. "You look ugly like that. There's nothing the matter with me. Oh, fie!" he suddenly exclaimed, "that rose is worm- eaten, and this one is quite crooked. After all, they're ugly roses. They're like the box in they stand."

And then he kicked the box with his foot, and tore both the roses off.

"Kay, what are you about?" cried the little girl.

And when he noticed her fright he tore off another rose, and then sprang in at his own window, away from pretty little Gerda.

When she afterward came with her picture book, he said it was only fit for babies in arms; and when his grandmother told stories he always came in with a BUT; and when he could manage it, he would get behind her, put on a pair of spectacles, and talk just as she did; he could do that very cleverly, and the people laughed at him. Soon he could mimic the speech and the gait of everybody in the street. Everything that was peculiar or ugly about people, Kay would imitate; and every one said, "That boy must certainly have a remarkable genius." But it was the glass that struck deep in his heart; so it happened that he even teased little Gerda, who loved him with all her heart.

His games now became quite different from what they were before; they became quite sensible. One winter's day when it snowed he came out with a great burning glass, held up the blue tail of his coat, and let the snowflakes fall upon it.

"Now look at the glass, Gerda," said he.

And every flake of snow was magnified, and looked like a splendid flower, or a star with ten points—it was beautiful to behold.

"See how clever that is," said Kay. "That's much more interesting than real flowers; and there's not a single fault in it—they're quite regular until they begin to melt."

Soon after, Kay came in thick gloves, and with his sledge upon his back. He called up to Gerda. "I've got leave to go into the great square, where the other boys play;" and he was gone.

In the great square the boldest among the boys often tied their sledges to the country people's carts, and thus rode with them a good way. They went capitally. When they were in the midst of their playing there came a great sledge. It was painted quite white, and in it sat somebody wrapped in a rough, white fur, with a white, rough cap on his head. The sledge drove twice round the square, and Kay bound his little sledge to it, and so he drove on with it. It went faster and faster, straight into the next street. The man who drove turned round and nodded in a familiar way to Kay; it was as if they knew one another. Each time when Kay wanted to cast loose his little sledge, the stranger nodded again, and then Kay remained where he was, and thus they drove out at the town gate. Then the snow began to fall so rapidly that the boy could not see a hand's breadth before him; but still he drove on. Now he hastily dropped the cord, so as to get loose from the great sledge; but that was no use, for his sledge was fast bound to the other, and they went on like the wind. Then he called out quite loudly, but nobody heard him; and the snow beat down, and the sledge flew onward. Every now and then it gave a jump, and they seemed to be flying over hedges and ditches. The boy was quite frightened. He wanted to say his prayer, but could remember nothing but the multiplication table.

The snowflakes became larger and larger; at last they looked like white fowls. All at once they sprang aside, the great sledge stopped, and the person who had driven it rose up. The fur and the cap were made altogether of ice. It was A LADY, tall and slender, and brilliantly white: it was the Snow Queen!

"We have driven well!" said she. "But why do you tremble with cold? Creep into my fur."

And she seated him beside her in her own sledge, and wrapped the fur round him, and he felt as if he sank into a snowdrift.

"Are you still cold?" asked she, and then she kissed him on the forehead.

Oh, that was colder than ice; it went quite through to his heart, half of which was already a lump of ice. He felt as if he were going to die, but only for a moment; for then he seemed quite well, and he did not notice the cold all about him.

"My sledge! Don't forget my sledge."

That was the first thing he thought of; and it was bound fast to one of the white chickens, and this chicken flew behind him with the sledge upon its back. The Snow Queen kissed Kay again, and then he had forgotten little Gerda, his grandmother, and all at home.

"Now you shall have no more kisses," said she, "for if you did I should kiss you to death."

Kay looked at her. She was so beautiful, he could not imagine a more sensible or lovely face; she did not appear to him to be made of ice now, as she did when she sat at the window and beckoned to him. In his eyes she was perfect; he did not feel at all afraid. He told her that he could do mental arithmetic as far as fractions; that he knew the number of square miles and the number of inhabitants in the country. And she always smiled, and then it seemed to him that what he knew was not enough. And he looked up into the wide sky, and she flew with him high up upon the black cloud, and the storm blew and whistled; it seemed as though the wind sang old songs. They flew over woods and lakes, over sea and land; below them the cold wind roared, the wolves howled, the snow crackled; over them flew the black, screaming crows; but above all the moon shone bright and clear, and Kay looked at the long, long winter night; by day he slept at the feet of the Queen.



THE THIRD STORY

THE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN WHO COULD CONJURE

But how did it fare with little Gerda when Kay did not return? What could have become of him? No one knew, no one could give information. The boys only told that they had seen him bind his sledge to another very large one, which had driven along the street and out at the town gate. Nobody knew what had become of him; many tears were shed, and little Gerda especially wept long and bitterly. Then she said he was dead—he had been drowned in the river which flowed close by their school. Oh, those were very dark, long winter days! But now spring came, with warmer sunshine.

"Kay is dead and gone," said little Gerda.

"I don't believe it," said the Sunshine.

"He is dead and gone," said she to the Sparrows. "We don't believe it," they replied; and at last little Gerda did not believe it herself.

"I will put on my new red shoes," she said one morning—"those that Kay has never seen; and then I will go down to the river, and ask for him."

It was still very early; she kissed the old grandmother, who was still asleep, put on her red shoes, and went quite alone out of the town gate toward the river.

"Is it true that you have taken my little playmate from me? I will give you my red shoes if you will give him back to me."

And it seemed to her as if the waves nodded quite strangely; and then she took her red shoes, which she liked best of anything she possessed, and threw them both into the river; but they fell close to the shore, and the little wavelets carried them back to her, to the land. It seemed as if the river would not take from her the dearest things she possessed because he had not her little Kay. But she thought she had not thrown the shoes far enough out, so she crept into a boat that lay among the reeds, went to the other end of the boat, and threw the shoes from thence into the water; but the boat was not bound fast, and at the movement she made it glided away from the shore. She noticed it, and hurried to get back; but before she reached the other end, the boat was a yard from the bank, and it drifted away faster than before.

Then little Gerda was very much frightened, and began to cry; but no one heard her except the Sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but they flew along the shore, and sang, as if to console her, "Here we are! here we are!" The boat drove on with the stream, and little Gerda sat quite still, with only her stockings on her feet; her little red shoes floated along behind her, but they could not come up to the boat, for that made more way.

It was very pretty on both shores. There were beautiful flowers, old trees, and slopes with sheep and cows; but not ONE person was to be seen.

"Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay," thought Gerda.

And then she became more cheerful, and rose up, and for many hours she watched the charming green banks; then she came to a great cherry orchard, in which stood a little house with remarkable blue and red windows; it had a thatched roof, and without stood two wooden soldiers, who presented arms to those who sailed past.



Gerda called to them, for she thought they were alive, but of course they did not answer. She came quite close to them. The river carried the boat toward the shore.

Gerda called still louder, and then there came out of the house an old woman leaning on a crutch; she had on a great velvet hat, painted over with the finest flowers.

"You poor little child!" said the old woman. "How did you manage to come on the great rolling river, and to float thus far out into the world?"

And then the old woman went quite into the water, seized the boat with her crutch stick, drew it to land, and lifted little Gerda out. And Gerda was glad to be on dry land again, though she felt a little afraid of the strange old woman.

"Come and tell me who you are, and how you came here," said the old lady. And Gerda told her everything; and the old woman shook her head, and said, "Hem! hem!" And when Gerda had told everything, and asked if she had not seen little Kay, the woman said that he had not yet come by, but that he probably would soon come. Gerda was not to be sorrowful, but to look at the flowers and taste the cherries, for they were better than any picture book, for each one of them could tell a story. Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into the little house, and locked the door.

The windows were very high, and the panes were red, blue and yellow; the daylight shone in a remarkable way, with different colors. On the table stood the finest cherries, and Gerda ate as many of them as she liked, for she had leave to do so. While she was eating them, the old lady combed Gerda's hair with a golden comb, and the yellow hair hung softly round the friendly little face, which looked as blooming as a rose.

"I have long wished for such a dear little girl as you," said the old lady. "Now you shall see how well we shall live with one another."

And as the ancient dame combed her hair, Gerda forgot her adopted brother Kay more and more; for this old woman could conjure, but she was not a wicked witch. She only practiced a little magic for her own amusement, and wanted to keep little Gerda. Therefore she went into the garden, stretched out her crutch toward all the rosebushes, and, beautiful as they were, they all sank into the earth, and one could not tell where they had stood. The old woman was afraid that, if the little girl saw roses, she would think of her own, and remember little Kay, and run away.

Now Gerda was led out into the flower garden. What fragrance was there, and what loveliness! Every conceivable flower was there in full bloom; there were some for every season; no picture book could be gayer and prettier. Gerda jumped high for joy, and played till the sun went down behind the high cherry trees; then she was put into a lovely bed, with red silk pillows stuffed with blue violets, and she slept there, and dreamed as gloriously as a queen on her wedding day.

Next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine; and thus many days went by. Gerda knew every flower; but, many as there were of them, it still seemed to her as if one were wanting, but which one she did not know. One day she sat looking at the old lady's hat with the painted flowers, and the prettiest of them all was a rose. The old lady had forgotten to efface it from her hat when she caused the others to disappear. But so it always is when one does not keep one's wits about one.

"What, are there no roses here?" cried Gerda.

And she went among the beds, and searched and searched, but there was not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept; her tears fell just upon a spot where a rosebush lay buried, and when the warm tears moistened the earth, the tree at once sprouted up as blooming as when it had sunk; and Gerda embraced it, kissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful roses at home, and also of little Kay.

"Oh, how I have been detained!" said the little girl. "I wanted to seek for little Kay! Do you not know where he is?" she asked the roses. "Do you think he is dead?"

"He is not dead," the roses answered. "We have been in the ground. All the dead people are there, but Kay is not there."

"Thank you," said little Gerda, and she went to the other flowers, looked into their cups, and asked, "Do you know where little Kay is?"

But every flower stood in the sun thinking only of her own story, or fancy tale. Gerda heard many, many, of them; but not one knew anything of Kay.

And what did the Tiger Lily say?

"Do you hear the drum, 'Rub-dub'? There are only two notes, always 'rub- dub'! Hear the mourning song of the women; hear the call of the priests. The Hindoo widow stands in her long red mantle on the funeral pile; the flames rise up around her and her dead husband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking of the living one here in the circle, of him whose eyes burn hotter than flames, whose fiery glances have burned into her soul more ardently than the flames themselves, which are soon to burn her body to ashes. Can the flame of the heart die in the flame of the funeral pile?"

"I don't understand that at all!" said little Gerda.

"That's my story," said the Lily.

What says the Convolvulus?

"Over the narrow road looms an old knightly castle; thickly the ivy grows over the crumbling red walls, leaf by leaf up to the balcony, where stands a beautiful girl; she bends over the balustrade and glances up the road. No rose on its branch is fresher than she; no apple blossom wafted onward by the wind floats more lightly along. How her costly silks rustle! 'Comes he not yet?'"

"Is it Kay whom you mean?" asked little Gerda.

"I'm only speaking of a story—my dream," replied the Convolvulus.

What said the little Snowdrop?

"Between the trees a long board hangs by ropes; that is a swing. Two pretty little girls, with clothes white as snow and long green silk ribbons on their hats, are sitting upon it, swinging. Their brother, who is greater than they, stands in the swing, and has slung his arm round the rope to hold himself, for in one hand he has a little saucer, and in the other a clay pipe. He is blowing bubbles. The swing flies, and the bubbles rise with beautiful, changing colors; the last still hangs from the pipe bowl, swaying in the wind. The swing flies on; the little black dog, light as the bubbles, stands up on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into the swing: it flies on, and the dog falls, barks, and grows angry, for he is teased, and the bubble bursts. A swinging board and a bursting bubble—that is my song."

"It may be very pretty, what you're telling, but you speak it so mournfully, and you don't mention little Kay at all."



What do the Hyacinths say?

"There were three beautiful sisters, transparent and delicate. The dress of one was red, that of the second blue, and that of the third quite white; hand in hand they danced by the calm lake in the bright moonlight. They were not elves; they were human beings. It was so sweet and fragrant there! The girls disappeared in the forest, and the sweet fragrance became stronger: three coffins, with three beautiful maidens lying in them, glided from the wood-thicket across the lake; the glowworms flew gleaming about them like little hovering lights. Are the dancing girls sleeping, or are they dead? The flower scent says they are dead, and the evening bell tolls their knell."