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Do you know?" Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon therose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the roomwith its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all aroundher is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streamsthrough thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, acharming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, thosemild, saintly eyes, are the same,- they have been left to grandmother.At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose andshe smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she issmiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollectionsof the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose haswithered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again anold woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.
Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, shesaid she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We couldhear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieterand calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. Itwas as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, andthen people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, lookingmild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, thoughher eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hairlooked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who hadbeen such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rosestill lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; andthen they buried grandmother.
On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted arose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat amongthe flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the churchsounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which werewritten in the old book under the head of the dead one.
The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose fromthe tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who areliving. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strangething were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earthhas been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies withinit. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all itsrecollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave freshroses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and therestill lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours willonce again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, forthe first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust inthe grave.
THE END.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
HOLGER DANSKE
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close bythe Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, andPrussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castlewith cannons, "Boom, boom," which is as if they said, "Good-day."And the cannons of the old castle answer "Boom," which means "Manythanks." In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is coveredwith ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearanceof a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes andSwedes say, "Good-day," and "Thank you" to each other, not withcannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchangewhite bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articlestaste the best.
But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle ofKronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, intowhich no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head onhis strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table,into which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but inhis dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On eachChristmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he hasdreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, asDenmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come,then Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burstasunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in hisstrength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries ofthe world.
An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this aboutHolger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told himmust be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving animage in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prowof a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,one who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to thenames given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stoodthere erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand hisbroad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danishmen and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so thathe fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, afterall, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, hethought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against thecounterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had becomerooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work andcarving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. Andwhen he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of allhe had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to hislittle grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and putthem on, and said, "Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in mylifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live tosee him when the event really comes to pass." And the oldgrandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, themore satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. Itseemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like ironand steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; whilethe lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up. "Thatis the most beautiful coat of arms in the world," said the old man."The lions represent strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love."And as he gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute,who chained great England to Denmark's throne; and he looked at thesecond lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conqueredthe Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who unitedDenmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts,their colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memoryfollowed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison,in which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christianthe Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on herbosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of thisnoblest and best of all Danish women. "Ah, yes; that is indeed a nobleheart in the Danish arms," said the grandfather. and his spiritfollowed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannonsroared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heartattached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbonof an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in orderto save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland's wretchedhuts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every wordand action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added anotherheart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather's spirit followedthe next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In apeasant woman's humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing hisname with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and inhis heart, and it was in the peasant's room that his heart becameone for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for hehad known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blueeyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remainedfor some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it wasgetting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supperwas on the table.
"What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,"said she. "Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me asif I have seen the face somewhere."
"No, that is impossible," replied the old grandfather; "but I haveseen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained itin my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay inthe roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true,ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron;I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. Hesung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he weresomething more than a man. I still remember his face, but fromwhence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I haveoften thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swamdown to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. Thatwas my idea, and there stands his likeness."
The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even onpart of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stoodbehind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by theflame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-lawkissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by thetable; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man andthe father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper withhim. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danishhearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quiteclearly that there is another strength than that which lies in asword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,and amongst them a collection of Holberg's plays, which are muchread and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we haveknown the people of those days, who are described in them.
"He knew how to fight also," said the old man; "for he lashedthe follies and prejudices of people during his whole life."
Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,where hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower uponit, and said "Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, butnot one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of thestars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whosefather belonged to my calling,- yes, he, the son of the oldimage-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locksand his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;- yes, hewas a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appearin marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear ofthe strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel."
But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle ofKronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far downin the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming ofeverything that was passing above him.
And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which theimage-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded inhis dream, saying, "Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep mein your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need."
The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the windbrought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboringshores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom ofthe cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, "Boom, boom." Butthe roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only"Good morning," and "Thank you." They must fire in another fashionbefore he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet inHolger Danske.
THE END.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
IB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in NorthJutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clearstream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through thewood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and not far from theriver, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that the sandysoil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat whichgrow in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived herecultivated these fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen;in fact they maintained themselves very well, they had quite enough tolive upon, as people generally have who are content with their lot.They even could have afforded to keep two horses, but it was asaying among the farmers in those parts, "The horse eats himselfup;" that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Janscultivated his fields in summer, and in the winter he made woodenshoes. He also had an assistant, a lad who understood as well as hehimself did how to make wooden shoes strong, but light, and in thefashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well; therefore noone could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. LittleIb, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by,watching the workmen, or cutting a stick, and sometimes his fingerinstead of the stick. But one day Ib succeeded so well in hiscarving that he made two pieces of wood look really like two littlewooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to LittleChristina.
"And who was Little Christina?"
