Chapter II: Part 2

And then the tree told the little mice all about its youth. The mice had never heard anything like that before, and they listened with all their ears, and said: “How much you have seen! How happy you must have been!”

“Happy!” exclaimed the fir tree; and then, as it thought over what it had been telling them, it added, “Ah, yes, those were happy days.”

But when it went on and told them about Christmas Eve, and how it had been adorned with sweetmeats and candles, the mice repeated once more, “How happy, how very fortunate you have been, you old fir tree!”

“I am not old at all,” replied the tree. “I only came from the forest this winter. I am now checked in my growth.”

“What splendid stories you do know!” said the little mice. And the next night they came with four others, to have them hear what the tree had to tell. The more it talked, the more it remembered, and then it thought to itself: “Yes, those were happy days, but they may come again. Humpty Dumpty fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess. Perhaps I, too, may marry a princess.” And the tree thought of a pretty little birch tree that grew in the forest; she was a princess, a real princess, to the fir tree.

“Who is Humpty Dumpty?” asked the little mice. And then the tree told the whole story; it could remember every single word. And the little mice were so delighted with it that they were ready to jump with joy up to the very top of the tree. The next night a great many more mice made their appearance, and on Sunday two rats came; but they did not care about the story at all, and that troubled the mice, for it made them also think less of it.

“Is that the only story you know?” asked the rats.

“The only one,” answered the tree. “I heard it on the happiest evening of my life; but I did not know I was so happy at the time.”

“We think it is a very poor story,” said the rats. “Don’t you know any story about bacon or tallow candles in the storeroom?”

“No,” replied the tree.

“Then we are much obliged to you,” said the rats, and they went their way.

The little mice also kept away after this, and the tree sighed and said, “Really, it was very pleasant when the lively little mice sat around me and listened, while I told them stories. Now that is all past, too. However, I shall consider myself happy when some one comes to take me out of this place.”

But would this ever happen? Yes; one morning people came to clear up the garret; the boxes were moved aside and the tree was pulled out of the corner and thrown roughly on the floor; then the servants dragged it out to the stairs, where the daylight shone.

“Now life is beginning again,” thought the tree, rejoicing in the sunshine and fresh air.

It was carried downstairs and out into the yard so quickly that it forgot to look at itself, and gazed about it, for there was so much to be seen.

The yard opened into a garden where everything was blooming. Fresh and sweet roses hung over a little trellis; the linden trees were in blossom; and swallows flew here and there, calling, “Twit, twit, twit, my mate is coming”; but it was not the fir tree they meant.

“Now I shall live,” thought the tree joyfully, stretching out its branches; but alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it was lying in a corner among weeds and nettles.

The star of gold paper still stuck in the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine. In the yard two of the merry children who had danced round the tree at Christmas were playing. One of them saw the gilded star, and ran up and tore it off.

“See what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree,” he cried, and stamped on the boughs till they crackled under his boots.

And the tree saw all the fresh, bright flowers in the garden, and looked at itself, and wished it had been left lying in the dark corner of the garret. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice that had listened so happily to the tale of Humpty Dumpty.

“Past! past!” said the poor tree. “O had I only enjoyed myself while I could! But now it is too late,—it is all past.”

Then a lad came and chopped the tree into small pieces, till a large pile lay heaped on the ground. The pieces were placed in a fire, where they blazed up brightly, and the tree sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a pistol shot. Then the children who were at play came and sat in front of the fire and looked at it, and cried, “Piff! puff! bang!” But at each “bang,” which was a deep sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in the forest, or of some winter night out there, when the stars were shining brightly, or of Christmas Eve, or of Humpty Dumpty, the only story it had ever heard or could tell,—till at last the tree burned away.

The children played on in the garden, and the youngest wore on his breast the golden star which the tree had worn on the happiest evening of its life. Now that was past,—all was past; the tree’s life was past, and this story, too, is past, for all stories must come to an end some time or other.

PLEIADES, OR THE SEVEN STARS

There was once a man who had six sons. He did not give them names like other people, but only called them according to their ages,—Eldest, Next-Eldest, Third-Eldest, Third-Youngest, Next-Youngest, and Youngest. They had no other names.

When Eldest was eighteen, and Youngest twelve, their father told them that they must all go out into the world, and each must learn a trade.

They set out together, but when they came to a place where there were six roads, all leading different ways, they agreed to part company, and each chose a road. But they promised one another that just two years from that day they would meet there again, and go home together to their father.

On the appointed day they met, and went home together. Their father questioned each of them as to what trade he had learned. Eldest said he had learned to be a shipbuilder; he could build ships that went of themselves. Next-Eldest had been to sea; he was a helmsman, and could steer a ship as easily on the land as on the sea. Third-Eldest had only learned the art of listening, but now he could hear in one country what was going on in another. Third-Youngest had learned to shoot, and he had become a crack shot. Next-Youngest had learned to climb; he could go up and down a wall like a fly,—there was nothing too steep for him.

Now when their father had listened to what these five had to tell about what they could do, he said that although upon the whole they had done fairly well, yet he had expected something more of them. What they had learned to do most people could do also. Now he must hear what Youngest could do.

Youngest had always been his darling, and in him he had the greatest confidence. Youngest was delighted that at last it was his turn to speak, and said in the most cheerful manner that he had become a master thief. When his father heard that, he was so angry that he gave Youngest a sound box on the ear, saying, “Fie! for shame! You are a disgrace to me and to all your family.”

Now it so happened that just at this very time the King’s fair young daughter had been stolen away by a dwarf, and the King had promised that whoever should find her and deliver her from the dwarfs power should have her for his wife, and half the kingdom with her as her marriage portion.

The six brothers determined to try their luck. The shipbuilder built a ship that would go of itself. Then they all went on board, and the helmsman steered the ship over the land and over the sea. The listener kept on listening all the time, and at last he could hear the Princess inside a glass mountain. So they sailed up to the glass mountain.

The climber climbed immediately to the top, and looking down he saw the dwarf lying asleep with his ugly head on the Princess’s lap. Then he ran down again, took the little master thief on his back, and climbed right down inside the mountain with him. The master thief stole away the Princess without waking the dwarf, and the climber helped them both back to the ship. They got on board and sailed away.

The listener kept a strict watch on the dwarf all the time, and when they had gone some little way he called to the others, “Now the dwarf is waking; now he is stretching himself; now he misses the Princess; and now he is coming!”

The Princess was dreadfully frightened, and said it was all over with them now, unless they had some one on board who was a crack shot. The dwarf could fly through the air, so that he would overtake them directly; but he was shot-proof, except in one little black spot about the size of a pin’s head, which was just in the middle of his chest.

Then came the dwarf, whirling and rushing through the air. But the marksman was ready for him; he took aim and hit him right in the center of the little black spot. Instantly the dwarf fell into the water dead.

So the six brothers came sailing home with the Princess, and took her to her father’s palace. They were all in love with her, and each one of them could say with truth that without him she could not have been set free. The King was in a great strait. He could not tell to which of the brothers he ought to give his daughter, and the Princess herself was greatly troubled, for she did not know which one of them she liked best.

But now it did not please the good God that there should be any quarreling amongst them; so he made all six brothers and the Princess die on the selfsame night, and he turned them all seven into stars, and fixed them in the sky. And now people call them Pleiades, or the Seven Stars. And the star that shines brightest of all the seven is the Princess, but the palest is the master thief.

BLUEBEARD

Once upon a time there was a man who was very rich. He had fine houses, both in town and in the country; in them he had a great deal of gold and silver plate; his furniture was richly embroidered and his coaches were all gilded over. But this man had the misfortune to have a blue beard, which made him so ugly and terrible that there was not a woman nor a girl who did not shun and avoid him.

One of his neighbors, a lady of quality, had two daughters who were perfect beauties. He asked her for one of them in marriage, leaving to her the choice of which she would bestow on him. They would neither of them have him, but sent him backwards and forwards from one to the other, for neither could make up her mind to marry a man who had a blue beard. Another thing which made them object to him was that he had been married several times already, and nobody knew what had ever become of his wives.

As Bluebeard was very anxious to become better acquainted with them, he took them, with their mother and three or four of their best friends, and some other young people of the neighborhood, to one of his country seats, where they spent a week. The whole time was given up to pleasure parties,—to excursions, to hunting and fishing, to dancing, banqueting, and feasting. No one even thought of going to bed, but the nights were passed in merrymaking of all kinds. In short, all went off so well that the younger daughter began to think that the beard of the master of the house was not so very blue, after all, and that he was a very civil gentleman. So as soon as they returned home the marriage was concluded.

About a month afterward Bluebeard told his wife that he was obliged to take a journey into the country, for six weeks at least, upon business of importance. He desired her to amuse herself and have a good time in his absence, to send for her friends, to take them into the country if she wished, and to live bountifully wherever she was.

“Here,” he said, “are the keys of the two great storerooms for furniture; these smaller ones are for the chests which contain my silver and gold plate which is not in everyday use; these open my strong boxes which hold my money, both gold and silver; these, my caskets of jewels; and this is the master key to all the rooms. But this little one here is the key of the closet at the end of the great gallery on the ground floor. Open them all; go everywhere else; but into this little closet I forbid you to enter, and I forbid you so strictly that if you do open it, there is nothing you may not expect from my anger.”

She promised to obey all his orders exactly; and Bluebeard, after having embraced her, got into his coach and set out on his journey.

The neighbors and friends of the young wife did not wait to be sent for, so eager were they to see all the riches of her house; for they had not dared to come while her husband was there because of his blue beard, which frightened them. As soon as they were inside the house they ran about from room to room, and even through all the closets and wardrobes, saying that each one seemed finer and richer than the last. They went up into the storerooms, where they could not say enough in admiration of the number and beauty of the tapestry, beds, couches, cabinets, stands, tables, and looking-glasses in which you might see yourself from head to foot.

Some of these mirrors were framed with glass, others with silver, plain and gilded; they were the most beautiful and most magnificent ever seen.

The visitors never stopped admiring and envying the happiness of their friend, who meanwhile was not at all entertained in looking at all these rich things because of her impatience to go and open the closet on the ground floor. She was so beside herself with curiosity that, without once thinking that it was rude to leave her guests, she slipped away down a little back staircase with such excessive haste that two or three times she came near falling and breaking her neck. When she reached the closet door she stood still for some moments, thinking of her husband’s orders and considering how unhappiness might come upon her if she were disobedient; but the temptation was so strong that she could not overcome it. She took the little key and, trembling, opened the door.

At first she could not see anything because the windows were shut. After some moments she began to see that there was blood on the floor, and that the bodies of several dead women were lying there. (These were the wives whom Bluebeard had married and murdered one after another.) She thought she would surely die of fear, and the key, which she had pulled out of the lock, fell from her hand.

When she had recovered a little from the shock she picked up the key, locked the door, and went upstairs into her chamber to compose herself; but she could not do it, for she was too much upset by her fright.

As she noticed that the key of the closet was stained with blood, she tried two or three times to wipe it off, but the stain remained. It did no good to wash it, or even to rub it with soap and sand. The stain was still there, for the key was a magic key, and she could never make it quite clean; when the stain was gone from one side, it came on the other.

Bluebeard returned from his journey that same evening, and said that he had received letters upon the road, which told him that the business on which he was called away had been settled to his advantage. His wife did all she could to convince him that she was overjoyed at his speedy return.

Next morning he asked her for the keys. She gave them to him, but with such a trembling hand that he easily guessed what had happened.

“How is it,” said he, “that the key of my closet is not here with the rest?”

“I must,” she said, “have left it upstairs on my table.”

“Do not fail,” said Bluebeard, “to bring it to me presently.”

After putting it off several times she was forced to bring him the key. Bluebeard examined it closely, and then said to his wife, “How comes this stain upon the key?”

“I do not know,” cried the poor woman, turning paler than death.

“You do not know!” replied Bluebeard. “Well, I know very well. You wanted to go into the closet, did you? Very well, madam; you shall go in and take your place among the ladies you saw there.”

She threw herself weeping at her husband’s feet, and begged his pardon with all the signs of true repentance for her disobedience. She would have melted a stone, so beautiful and sorrowful was she; but Bluebeard had a heart harder than any stone.

“You must die, madam,” said he, “and that at once.”

“Since I must die,” she answered, looking up at him through her tears, “give me a little time to say my prayers.”

“I give you,” replied Bluebeard, “half a quarter of an hour, but not one moment more.”

When she was alone she called her sister, and said: “Sister Anne,”—for that was her name,—“go up, I beg you, to the top of the tower, and see if my brothers are not coming. They promised me they would come to-day; and if you see them, give them a sign to make haste.”

Her sister Anne went up to the top of the tower, and the poor wife cried out from time to time, “Anne, sister Anne, do you see no one coming?”

And sister Anne said, “I see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass, which looks green.”

In the meantime Bluebeard, holding a great cutlass in his hand, cried out to his wife as loud as he could, “Come down quickly, or I shall come up to you.”

“One moment longer, if you please,” said his wife; and she cried out very softly, “Anne, sister Anne, do you see no one coming?”

And sister Anne answered, “I see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass, which looks green.”

“Come down at once,” cried Bluebeard, “or I shall come up to you.”

“I am coming,” answered his wife; and she cried, “Anne, sister Anne, do you see no one coming?”

“I see,” replied sister Anne, “a great dust, that comes from this side.”

“Is it my brothers?”

“Alas, no, my sister! I see a flock of sheep.”

“Will you not come down?” cried Bluebeard.

“One moment longer,” said his wife; and then she cried out, “Anne, sister Anne, do you see no one coming?”

“I see,” she said, “two horsemen coming, but they are yet a great way off.”

“God be praised,” replied the poor wife joyfully; “they are my brothers. I will make them a sign, as well as I can, for them to make haste.”

Then Bluebeard bawled out so loud that he made the whole house tremble. The poor wife came down and threw herself at his feet, all in tears, with her hair about her shoulders.

“All this does not help you,” said Bluebeard; “you must die.” Then, taking hold of her hair with one hand, and raising his cutlass with the other, he was going to strike off her head. The poor lady, turning toward him and looking at him with dying eyes, begged him to give her one little moment to collect her thoughts.

“No, no,” said he, “commend thyself to God,” and again lifting his arm....

At this moment there was such a loud knocking at the gate that Bluebeard stopped suddenly. The gate was opened and presently two horsemen entered, who with their swords in their hands ran straight to Bluebeard. He saw they were his wife’s brothers, one a dragoon, the other a musketeer. He fled immediately to save himself, but the two brothers pursued so closely that they overtook him before he could gain the steps of the porch. There they ran their swords through his body, and left him dead. The poor wife was so overcome that she had not strength to rise and welcome her brothers.

Bluebeard had no heirs, and so his wife became mistress of all his estate. She made use of one portion of it to marry her sister Anne to a young gentleman who had loved her for a long while; another portion to buy captains’ commissions for her brothers; and the rest to marry herself to a very worthy gentleman who made her forget the distressing time she had passed with Bluebeard.

THUMBELINA

There was once a woman who wished so very much to have a little child that she went to a fairy and said: “I should so very much like to have a little child. Can you tell me where I can get one?”

“Oh, that can be easily managed,” said the fairy. “Here is a barleycorn; it is not of the same kind as those which grow in the farmers’ fields, and which the chickens eat. Put it in a flowerpot, and see what will happen.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said the woman; and she gave the fairy twelve shillings, which was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went home, and immediately there grew up a large, handsome flower, which looked like a tulip, except that its leaves were tightly closed as if it were still a bud.

“What a beautiful flower!” exclaimed the woman, and she kissed the red and yellow leaves; and as she kissed them the flower opened. It was a real tulip, but within the flower, upon the green velvety stamens, sat a very delicate and graceful tiny maiden. She was scarcely half as long as a thumb, so they called her Thumbelina.

A walnut shell, elegantly polished, served her for a cradle, blue violet petals were her mattress, and a rose leaf her counterpane.

Here she slept at night, but in the daytime she played upon the table, where the woman had put a bowl full of water. Round this bowl was a wreath of flowers with their stems in the water, and upon it floated a large tulip leaf, which served the little one for a boat. Here she sat and rowed herself from side to side with two white horsehairs for oars. It was a very pretty sight. Thumbelina could sing, too, so sweetly and softly that nothing like it had ever before been heard.

One night while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toad crept through a broken pane of glass in the window, and hopped down on the table where Thumbelina lay sleeping under the rose-leaf quilt.

“What a pretty little wife this would make for my son,” said the toad; and she took up the walnut shell in which Thumbelina lay asleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden.

On the marshy bank of a broad stream in the garden lived the toad with her son. He was as ugly as his mother; and when he saw the lovely little maiden in the walnut shell, all he could say was, “Croak, croak, croak!”

“Don’t speak so loud, or you will wake her,” said the old toad; “and then she might run away, for she is light as swan’s-down. We will take her out in the stream and put her on one of the water-lily leaves; it will be like an island to her, she is so light and small Then she can’t run away from us while we are preparing the apartments under the marsh, in which you are to live when you are married.”

Far out in the stream grew a number of water lilies, with broad green leaves which looked as if they were floating on the top of the water. The leaf that was farthest away was also the largest, and to this the old toad swam with the walnut shell in which Thumbelina lay still asleep. The tiny maiden woke very early in the morning, and began to cry bitterly when she saw where she was, for she could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf, and there was no way of reaching land.

Meanwhile the old toad was very busy down under the marsh, decking her room with rushes and yellow wild flowers to make it look pretty for her new daughter-in-law. Then she swam out with her ugly son to the leaf on which she had placed Thumbelina. She wanted to get the pretty bed that she might put it in the bridal chamber before Thumbelina herself came there. The old toad bowed low in the water and said, “Here is my son; he will be your husband, and you will live happily together in the marsh by the stream.”

“Croak, croak, croak!” was all the son could say for himself.

Then the toad took up the delicate little bed and swam away with it, leaving Thumbelina all alone on the green leaf, where she sat and wept. She could not bear to think of living with the old toad and having her ugly son for a husband.

The little fishes who swam about in the water beneath had seen the toad and heard what she said; so now they lifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden. As soon as they caught sight of her and saw how very pretty she was, they felt sorry that she must go to live with the ugly toads.

“No, that must never be!” they said to one another. So they crowded together in the water round the green stalk which held the leaf on which the little maiden stood, and gnawed it away at the root with their teeth. The leaf floated down the stream, carrying Thumbelina far away out of the reach of the toad.

Thumbelina sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushes saw her and sang, “What a lovely little creature!” So the leaf floated farther and farther away with her till it brought her to other lands.

A pretty little white butterfly fluttered round her for a long time and at last alighted on the leaf. The maiden pleased him, and she was glad she did, for she was lonely. Taking off her girdle she tied one end of it round the butterfly, fastening the other end to the leaf, which was now gliding on much faster than before.

Presently a large cockchafer flew by. The moment he caught sight of Thumbelina he seized her round her slender waist with his claws and flew with her to a tree. The green leaf floated away down the stream, and the butterfly with it, for he was fastened to the leaf and could not get away.

Oh, how frightened Thumbelina was when the cockchafer flew with her to the tree! But especially was she distressed for the beautiful white butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he could not free himself he would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did not trouble himself at all about that; he seated himself beside her on a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers to eat, and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like a cockchafer.

Before long all the cockchafers who lived in the tree came to pay Thumbelina a visit. They stared at her, and then the young lady cockchafers turned up their feelers and said, “Why, she has only two legs! How very ugly!”

“She has no feelers,” said one.

“Her waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is like a human being,” said another.

“How ugly she is!” said all the lady cockchafers.

Then the cockchafer who had run away with her began to wonder why he had thought her so pretty, and to believe that she was as ugly as the others said. He would have nothing more to say to her, but told her she might go where she liked. Then he flew down with her from the tree and placed her on a daisy. There she sat and wept at the thought that she was so ugly that the cockchafers would have nothing to do with her. And all the while she was really the loveliest little being that one could imagine, and as tender and delicate as a beautiful rose leaf.

During the whole summer poor little Thumbelina lived quite alone in the wide forest. She wove herself a bed with blades of grass, and hung it under a broad leaf to protect herself from the rain. She sucked honey from the flowers for food, and drank the dew from the leaves every morning.

So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter,—the long cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly had flown away, and the trees and flowers had withered. The large shamrock under the shelter of which she had lived shriveled up, leaving nothing but a yellow, withered stalk. She was dreadfully cold, for her clothes were thin and torn, and she was herself so frail and delicate that she nearly froze to death. It began to snow, too, and the snowflakes as they fell upon her were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for we are tall, but she was only an inch high. She wrapped herself in a dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and gave her no warmth, and she shivered with cold.

Close to the wood in which she was living was a large cornfield, but the corn had been cut a long time; nothing remained but the bare, dry stubble, standing up out of the frozen ground. It was to her like wandering about in a large wood. Oh, how she shivered with cold! All at once she came to the door of a field mouse who had a little den under the corn stubble. There lived the field mouse in warmth and comfort, with a storeroom full of corn and a splendid kitchen and dining room. Poor Thumbelina stood before the door just like a little beggar girl, and asked for a little piece of barleycorn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for two days.

“You poor little creature,” said the field mouse, for she was a good, kind-hearted old mouse; “come into my warm room and dine with me.”

Then she was pleased with Thumbelina; so she said, “You are quite welcome to stay with me all winter if you like; but you must keep my room clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I like very much to hear them.”

And Thumbelina did all that the field mouse asked her, and found herself very comfortable.

“To-night I expect a visitor,” said the field mouse one day. “My neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I am; he has large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If you could only have him for a husband, you would be well provided for indeed. But he is blind. You must tell him some of your prettiest stories.”

Thumbelina had no interest in this neighbor, for he was a mole. However, he came and paid them a visit, dressed in his black velvet coat.

“He is very rich and learned,” the field mouse told her, “and his house is twenty times as large as mine.”

He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly of the sun and the pretty flowers because he had never seen them. Thumbelina had to sing to him, “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,” and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her because she had so sweet a voice; but he said nothing yet, for he was very prudent and cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a long passage under the earth, which led from his house to that of the field mouse, and here he gave the field mouse and Thumbelina permission to walk whenever they liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at the sight of a dead bird that lay in the passage. It was a perfect bird with a beak and feathers and could not have been dead long. It was lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took in his mouth a piece of decaying wood, for that will often glow in the dark like fire, and went before them, lighting them through the long, dark passage. When they came to the spot where the dead bird lay, the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling, so that the earth gave way and daylight shone into the passage.

In the middle of the path lay a swallow, his pretty wings pressed close to his sides, his feet and head drawn up under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of cold. It made little Thumbelina very sad to see it, for she did so love the birds; all through the summer they had sung and twittered for her so beautifully. But the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs and said: “Now he can’t sing any more! How miserable it must be to be born a little bird! I am thankful that none of my children will ever be birds, for they can do nothing but cry ‘Tweet, tweet,’ and must always die of hunger in the winter.”

“Yes, you speak like a sensible man!” exclaimed the field mouse. “What is the use of his twittering if when winter comes he must either starve or be frozen to death? That may be high-bred, but it is certainly not pleasant.”

Thumbelina said nothing, but when the two others had turned their backs on the bird she stooped down and stroked aside the soft feathers which covered the head, and kissed the closed eyelids.

“Perhaps it was he who sang to me so sweetly in the summer,” she said. “How much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird!”

The mole stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone and escorted the ladies home. But Thumbelina could not sleep that night for thinking of the cold bird; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful blanket of hay. She carried it out and spread it over the dead bird, and piled upon it thistledown which she had found in the field mouse’s room, so that he might lie warmly in the cold earth.

“Farewell, pretty bird!” she said; “farewell, and thank you for your beautiful songs in the summer, when all the trees were green and the sun shone down warmly upon us.”

Then she laid her head on the bird’s breast, but she was startled, for it seemed as if something inside the bird went “thump, thump.” It was the bird’s heart; for he was not really dead, only benumbed with the cold, and the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn all the swallows fly away to warmer countries; but if one happens to linger it becomes so stiff with cold that it drops down as if it were dead, and then the snow comes and covers it.

Thumbelina trembled very much; she was quite frightened, for the bird was large, a great deal larger than herself,—she was only an inch high. But she took courage, piled up the down more thickly over the poor swallow, and then took a leaf she had used for her own counterpane and laid it over his head.

The next night she stole out again to see him. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for a moment to look at Thumbelina, who stood by him with the piece of decayed wood in her hand, for she had no other lantern.

“Thank you, pretty little maiden,” said the sick swallow; “I have been so beautifully warmed that soon I shall regain my strength and be able to fly about again in the warm sunshine.”

“Oh, no!” said she; “it is very cold out of doors now; it snows and freezes. Stay in your warm bed; I will take care of you.”

She brought the swallow water in a flower leaf; and after he had drunk, he told her that he had torn one of his wings on a thorn bush and could not fly as fast as the others, who had flown far away to warm countries. At last he had fallen to the ground and could remember nothing more, nor how he came to be where she had found him.

All winter the swallow remained underground, and Thumbelina nursed and cared for him tenderly. Neither the mole nor the field mouse knew anything about it, for they could not bear swallows.

Very soon the springtime came, and the sun warmed the earth. Then the swallow bade farewell to Thumbelina and opened the hole in the roof which the mole had made. The sun shone in upon them so beautifully that the swallow asked her if she would go with him. She could sit on his back, he said, and he would fly away with her into the green woods. But she knew it would grieve the field mouse if she left her in that manner, so she said, “No, I cannot.”

“Farewell then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden,” said the swallow; and he flew out into the sunshine.

Thumbelina looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was very fond of the swallow.

“Tweet, tweet,” sang the bird as he flew out into the green woods, and Thumbelina felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into the warm sunshine. The corn which had been sown in the field over the house of the field mouse had grown up high in the air, and made a thick forest for Thumbelina, who was only an inch high.

“You are going to be married, little one,” said the field mouse. “My neighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like you! Now we will set to work at your wedding clothes. You must have woolen and linen. Nothing must be wanting if you are to become the wife of the mole.”

Thumbelina had to turn the spindle, and the field mouse hired four spiders to weave for her day and night. Every evening the mole visited her and talked of the time when the summer would be over. Then he would set the wedding day for Thumbelina; but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth and made it hard like stone. Yes, as soon as the summer was over the wedding should take place. But Thumbelina was not at all pleased, for she did not like the tiresome mole.

Every morning when the sun rose, and every evening when it went down, she would steal out of the door, and when the wind blew the ears of corn aside so that she could see the blue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright it seemed out there and wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he never came; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green forest.

When autumn came Thumbelina had her outfit all ready, and the field mouse said to her, “In four weeks the wedding must take place.”

But Thumbelina wept and said she would not marry the disagreeable mole.

“Nonsense,” replied the field mouse. “Now don’t be obstinate or I shall bite you with my white teeth. He is a very fine mole; the Queen herself has not such a beautiful velvet coat His kitchens and cellars are quite full. You ought to be very thankful for such good fortune.”

So the wedding day came, on which the mole was to take her away to live with him, deep under the earth, and never again to come out into the warm sunshine, because he did not like it. The poor child was very unhappy at the thought of saying farewell to the beautiful sun; she went to the door to look at it once more.

“Farewell, bright sun,” she cried, stretching out her arms towards it; and then she walked a short distance from the house, for the corn had been cut and only the dry stubble remained in the fields.

“Farewell, farewell,” she repeated, and threw her arms round a little red flower that grew just by her side. “Greet the little swallow for me if you should see him again.”

“Tweet, tweet,” sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up and there was the swallow flying close by. He was delighted to see Thumbelina. She told him how unwilling she was to marry the ugly mole and to live always deep under the earth where the sun never shone. And as she told him she wept.

“The cold winter is coming,” said the swallow, “and I am going to fly away into warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my back and fasten yourself on with your sash. Then we can fly away from the ugly mole and his dark rooms,—far away over the mountains into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly than here, where it is always summer, and there are beautiful flowers. Do come with me, dear little Thumbelina; you saved my life when I lay frozen in that dark, dreary passage.”

“Yes, I will go with you,” said Thumbelina, and she seated herself on the bird’s back with her feet on his outstretched wings, and bound her sash to one of his strongest feathers.

Up he flew into the air and far away, over forest and over sea, high above the highest mountains where the snow never melts. Thumbelina would have frozen in the cold air had she not crept under the bird’s warm feathers, keeping only her little head out so that she might admire the beautiful things in the world beneath. At length they reached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly and the sky seems so much higher above the earth. Here on hedges grew the finest green, purple, and white grapes; lemons and oranges hung from the trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant with myrtles and orange blossoms. Beautiful children ran along the roads playing with gay butterflies. And as the swallow flew farther and farther south, everything became more and more beautiful.

At last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded by magnificent trees, stood a palace of dazzling white marble, built in olden times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, and at the top were many swallows’ nests, and one of these was the home of the swallow who carried Thumbelina.

“That is my house,” said the swallow, “but it would not do for you to live there; you would not be comfortable. Choose for yourself one of those lovely flowers and I will put you down on it, and then you shall have everything you wish to make you happy.”

“That will be delightful,” she said, and clapped her little hands for joy.

On the ground lay a large marble pillar, which in falling had broken into three pieces. Between these fragments grew the most beautiful great white flowers. So the swallow flew down with Thumbelina and set her on one of the broad leaves. But how surprised he was to see, sitting in the middle of the flower, a tiny little man, as white and transparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had the prettiest gold crown on his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was no bigger than Thumbelina. He was the fairy of the flower; for in every flower dwelt a tiny man or woman, and this was the King over them all.

“Oh, how beautiful he is!” whispered Thumbelina to the swallow.

The little Prince was very much frightened at the swallow, who was like a giant compared to such a tiny little being as he; but when he saw Thumbelina he was delighted, for he thought her the prettiest little maiden he had ever seen. He took the gold crown from his head and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she would be his wife and Queen over all the flowers.

This was certainly a very different kind of husband from the son of the toad or the mole with his black velvet coat; so she said Yes to the handsome Prince. Then out of each flower came a little lady or a tiny lord, all so pretty that it was a pleasure to look at them. Each brought Thumbelina a present; but the best gift of all was a pair of beautiful white wings, which were fastened to her shoulders, and now she, too, could fly from flower to flower.

Then there was much rejoicing, and the swallow sat in his nest above and sang the wedding song as well as he could; but in his heart he felt sad, for he was very fond of Thumbelina and would have liked never to part with her.

“You must not be called Thumbelina any more,” said the Prince to her; “for that is an ugly name, and you are so very lovely. We will call you Maia.”

“Farewell, farewell,” sang the swallow with a heavy heart as he left the warm countries to fly back again to Denmark. There he had a nest over the window of a man who wrote fairy tales. The swallow sang his “Tweet, tweet,” and from his song we have the whole story.

CLEVER ALICE

There was once a man who had a daughter called Clever Alice. When she was grown up her father said, “We must get her married.”

“Yes,” said her mother; “if only some one would come who would have her.”

At last a young man named Hans came from a distance and wooed her; but he made one condition,—that Clever Alice should be as clever as she was said to be.

“Oh,” said her father, “she’s sharp enough.”

“Yes, indeed!” said her mother; “she can see the wind coming up the street, and hear the flies coughing.”

“Very well,” replied Hans; “but if she is not really clever, I won’t have her.”

When they were all sitting together at dinner the mother said, “Alice, go down into the cellar and draw some beer.”

So Clever Alice took the jug from the nail on the wall, and went into the cellar, tapping the lid up and down as she went to pass away the time. When she reached the cellar she fetched a chair and put it in front of the cask so that she need not stoop and hurt her back. Then she held the jug in her hand and turned the tap. While the beer was running, as she did not wish to be idle, she let her eyes wander all over the wall, looking first this way and then that. All at once she saw just above her head a pickax, which the masons had accidentally left there.

Then Clever Alice began to cry, saying, “If I marry Hans, and we have a child, and he grows up, and we send him into the cellar here to draw beer, then the pickax will fall on his head and kill him.”

So she sat and wept and cried with all her might over the misfortune which lay before her.

The people upstairs waited for the beer, but still Clever Alice did not come. At last her mother said to the maid, “Go down into the cellar and see why Clever Alice is staying so long.”

The maid went and found her sitting before the cask, crying bitterly.

“Alice, what are you crying about?” she asked.

“Alas!” she answered, “have I not reason to weep? If I marry Hans, and we have a child, and he grows up and has to draw beer here, perhaps that pickax will fall on his head and kill him.”

Then the maid said, “What a clever Alice we have!” and she, too, sat down by Alice and began to weep over this misfortune.

After a while, as the maid did not come back and the people upstairs were getting very thirsty, the husband said to the boy, “Go down cellar and see what has become of Alice and the maid.”

The boy went down, and there sat Alice and the maid weeping together. So he said, “What are you crying for?”

“Alas!” said Alice, “have I not reason to cry? If I marry Hans, and we have a child, and he grows up and has to draw beer here, that pickax will fall on his head and kill him.”

Then the boy said, “What a clever Alice we have!” and he sat down by Alice and began to howl lustily.

Upstairs they waited for the boy, but when he did not come the husband said, “Do go down cellar, wife, and see why Alice does not come back.”

The wife went downstairs and found the three in the midst of their lamentations. She asked the reason, and Alice told her, also, how her future child, when it grew up and was sent to draw beer, would be killed by the pickax which would fall down. Then the mother likewise exclaimed, “What a clever Alice we have!” and sat down and wept with them.

The husband upstairs waited a short time, but at last, as his wife did not return and his thirst grew greater, he said, “I must go down into the cellar myself and see what has become of Alice.”

But when he entered the cellar and found them all sitting there together crying, and heard the reason, how Alice’s child was the cause of it all, because she might possibly have a child, who might be killed by the pickax, if he should happen to be sitting beneath it drawing beer just at the moment when the pickax fell down, then he, too, said, “What a clever Alice we have!” and sat down and wept with them.

The bridegroom waited upstairs alone for a long time; then, as nobody came, he said: “They must be waiting downstairs for me. I will go down and see what they are about.” When he got downstairs there sat all five, weeping and lamenting in a heartrending way, each a little louder than the others.

“What misfortune can possibly have happened?” he asked.

“Alas! dear Hans,” said Alice, “if we marry and have a child, and he grows up, and we happen to send him into the cellar here to draw beer, then that pickax which has been hanging up there might kill him if it were to fall down upon his head; so have we not reason to weep?”

“Well,” said Hans, “more cleverness than that is not needed to keep house for me; and as you are such a clever Alice I will have you for my wife.” So he took her by the hand, led her upstairs with him, and married her.

When they had been married some time, Hans said, “Wife, I am going out to work and earn some money for us; do you go into the field and cut the corn, so that we may have some bread.”

“Yes, my dear Hans, I will do so.”

After Hans went away Alice cooked some nice broth for herself and took it into the field with her. When she got there she said to herself: “Now which shall I do? Shall I reap first, or eat first? I will eat first.”

So she emptied her bowl of broth, and when she was satisfied she said again: “Now which shall I do? Shall I reap first, or sleep first? I will sleep first.”

Then she lay down in the corn and fell asleep.

Meanwhile Hans had been at home some time, but Alice did not come.