No More Learning

" And as she finished speaking, she
touched her hand lightly with the nettle, and a pain, as of burning
fire, awoke Eliza.

It was broad daylight, and close by where she had been sleeping
lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream. She fell on her
knees and offered her thanks to God. Then she went forth from the cave
to begin her work with her delicate hands. She groped in amongst the
ugly nettles, which burnt great blisters on her hands and arms, but
she determined to bear it gladly if she could only release her dear
brothers. So she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the
flax. At sunset her brothers returned and were very much frightened
when they found her dumb. They believed it to be some new sorcery of
their wicked step-mother. But when they saw her hands they
understood what she was doing on their behalf, and the youngest
brother wept, and where his tears fell the pain ceased, and the
burning blisters vanished. She kept to her work all night, for she
could not rest till she had released her dear brothers. During the
whole of the following day, while her brothers were absent, she sat in
solitude, but never before had the time flown so quickly. One coat was
already finished and she had begun the second, when she heard the
huntsman's horn, and was struck with fear. The sound came nearer and
nearer, she heard the dogs barking, and fled with terror into the
cave. She hastily bound together the nettles she had gathered into a
bundle and sat upon them. Immediately a great dog came bounding
towards her out of the ravine, and then another and another; they
barked loudly, ran back, and then came again. In a very few minutes
all the huntsmen stood before the cave, and the handsomest of them was
the king of the country. He advanced towards her, for he had never
seen a more beautiful maiden.

"How did you come here, my sweet child? " he asked. But Eliza shook
her head. She dared not speak, at the cost of her brothers' lives. And
she hid her hands under her apron, so that the king might not see
how she must be suffering.

"Come with me," he said; "here you cannot remain. If you are as
good as you are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, I will
place a golden crown upon your head, and you shall dwell, and rule,
and make your home in my richest castle. " And then he lifted her on
his horse. She wept and wrung her hands, but the king said, "I wish
only for your happiness. A time will come when you will thank me for
this. " And then he galloped away over the mountains, holding her
before him on this horse, and the hunters followed behind them. As the
sun went down, they approached a fair royal city, with churches, and
cupolas. On arriving at the castle the king led her into marble halls,
where large fountains played, and where the walls and the ceilings
were covered with rich paintings. But she had no eyes for all these
glorious sights, she could only mourn and weep. Patiently she
allowed the women to array her in royal robes, to weave pearls in
her hair, and draw soft gloves over her blistered fingers. As she
stood before them in all her rich dress, she looked so dazzlingly
beautiful that the court bowed low in her presence. Then the king
declared his intention of making her his bride, but the archbishop
shook his head, and whispered that the fair young maiden was only a
witch who had blinded the king's eyes and bewitched his heart. But the
king would not listen to this; he ordered the music to sound, the
daintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance.
After-wards he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but
not a smile appeared on her lips or sparkled in her eyes. She looked
the very picture of grief. Then the king opened the door of a little
chamber in which she was to sleep; it was adorned with rich green
tapestry, and resembled the cave in which he had found her. On the
floor lay the bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles,
and under the ceiling hung the coat she had made. These things had
been brought away from the cave as curiosities by one of the huntsmen.

"Here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the
cave," said the king; "here is the work with which you employed
yourself. It will amuse you now in the midst of all this splendor to
think of that time. "

When Eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a
smile played around her mouth, and the crimson blood rushed to her
cheeks. She thought of her brothers, and their release made her so
joyful that she kissed the king's hand. Then he pressed her to his
heart. Very soon the joyous church bells announced the marriage feast,
and that the beautiful dumb girl out of the wood was to be made the
queen of the country. Then the archbishop whispered wicked words in
the king's ear, but they did not sink into his heart. The marriage was
still to take place, and the archbishop himself had to place the crown
on the bride's head; in his wicked spite, he pressed the narrow
circlet so tightly on her forehead that it caused her pain. But a
heavier weight encircled her heart--sorrow for her brothers. She
felt not bodily pain. Her mouth was closed; a single word would cost
the lives of her brothers. But she loved the kind, handsome king,
who did everything to make her happy more and more each day; she loved
him with all her heart, and her eyes beamed with the love she dared
not speak. Oh! if she had only been able to confide in him and tell
him of her grief. But dumb she must remain till her task was finished.
Therefore at night she crept away into her little chamber, which had
been decked out to look like the cave, and quickly wove one coat after
another. But when she began the seventh she found she had no more
flax. She knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew in the
churchyard, and that she must pluck them herself. How should she get
out there? "Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which my
heart endures? " said she. "I must venture, I shall not be denied
help from heaven. " Then with a trembling heart, as if she were about
to perform a wicked deed, she crept into the garden in the broad
moonlight, and passed through the narrow walks and the deserted
streets, till she reached the churchyard. Then she saw on one of the
broad tombstones a group of ghouls. These hideous creatures took off
their rags, as if they intended to bathe, and then clawing open the
fresh graves with their long, skinny fingers, pulled out the dead
bodies and ate the flesh! Eliza had to pass close by them, and they
fixed their wicked glances upon her, but she prayed silently, gathered
the burning nettles, and carried them home with her to the castle. One
person only had seen her, and that was the archbishop--he was awake
while everybody was asleep. Now he thought his opinion was evidently
correct. All was not right with the queen. She was a witch, and had
bewitched the king and all the people. Secretly he told the king
what he had seen and what he feared, and as the hard words came from
his tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads as if
they would say. "It is not so. Eliza is innocent. "

But the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that
they witnessed against her, and were shaking their heads at her
wickedness. Two large tears rolled down the king's cheeks, and he went
home with doubt in his heart, and at night he pretended to sleep,
but there came no real sleep to his eyes, for he saw Eliza get up
every night and disappear in her own chamber. From day to day his brow
became darker, and Eliza saw it and did not understand the reason, but
it alarmed her and made her heart tremble for her brothers. Her hot
tears glittered like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while
all who saw her were wishing they could be queens. In the mean time
she had almost finished her task; only one coat of mail was wanting,
but she had no flax left, and not a single nettle. Once more only, and
for the last time, must she venture to the churchyard and pluck a
few handfuls. She thought with terror of the solitary walk, and of the
horrible ghouls, but her will was firm, as well as her trust in
Providence. Eliza went, and the king and the archbishop followed
her. They saw her vanish through the wicket gate into the
churchyard, and when they came nearer they saw the ghouls sitting on
the tombstone, as Eliza had seen them, and the king turned away his
head, for he thought she was with them--she whose head had rested on
his breast that very evening. "The people must condemn her," said
he, and she was very quickly condemned by every one to suffer death by
fire. Away from the gorgeous regal halls was she led to a dark, dreary
cell, where the wind whistled through the iron bars. Instead of the
velvet and silk dresses, they gave her the coats of mail which she had
woven to cover her, and the bundle of nettles for a pillow; but
nothing they could give her would have pleased her more. She continued
her task with joy, and prayed for help, while the street-boys sang
jeering songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with a kind
word. Towards evening, she heard at the grating the flutter of a
swan's wing, it was her youngest brother--he had found his sister, and
she sobbed for joy, although she knew that very likely this would be
the last night she would have to live. But still she could hope, for
her task was almost finished, and her brothers were come. Then the
archbishop arrived, to be with her during her last hours, as he had
promised the king. But she shook her head, and begged him, by looks
and gestures, not to stay; for in this night she knew she must
finish her task, otherwise all her pain and tears and sleepless nights
would have been suffered in vain. The archbishop withdrew, uttering
bitter words against her; but poor Eliza knew that she was innocent,
and diligently continued her work.

The little mice ran about the floor, they dragged the nettles to
her feet, to help as well as they could; and the thrush sat outside
the grating of the window, and sang to her the whole night long, as
sweetly as possible, to keep up her spirits.

It was still twilight, and at least an hour before sunrise, when
the eleven brothers stood at the castle gate, and demanded to be
brought before the king. They were told it could not be, it was yet
almost night, and as the king slept they dared not disturb him. They
threatened, they entreated. Then the guard appeared, and even the king
himself, inquiring what all the noise meant. At this moment the sun
rose. The eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven wild swans
flew away over the castle.

And now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of
the city, to see the witch burnt. An old horse drew the cart on
which she sat. They had dressed her in a garment of coarse
sackcloth. Her lovely hair hung loose on her shoulders, her cheeks
were deadly pale, her lips moved silently, while her fingers still
worked at the green flax. Even on the way to death, she would not give
up her task. The ten coats of mail lay at her feet, she was working
hard at the eleventh, while the mob jeered her and said, "See the
witch, how she mutters! She has no hymn-book in her hand. She sits
there with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it in a thousand pieces. "

And then they pressed towards her, and would have destroyed the
coats of mail, but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her,
and alighted on the cart. Then they flapped their large wings, and the
crowd drew on one side in alarm.

"It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent," whispered many of
them; but they ventured not to say it aloud.

As the executioner seized her by the hand, to lift her out of
the cart, she hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans,
and they immediately became eleven handsome princes; but the
youngest had a swan's wing, instead of an arm; for she had not been
able to finish the last sleeve of the coat.

"Now I may speak," she exclaimed. "I am innocent. "

Then the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her, as before
a saint; but she sank lifeless in her brothers' arms, overcome with
suspense, anguish, and pain.

"Yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother; and then he
related all that had taken place; and while he spoke there rose in the
air a fragrance as from millions of roses. Every piece of faggot in
the pile had taken root, and threw out branches, and appeared a
thick hedge, large and high, covered with roses; while above all
bloomed a white and shining flower, that glittered like a star. This
flower the king plucked, and placed in Eliza's bosom, when she awoke
from her swoon, with peace and happiness in her heart. And all the
church bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great troops.
And a marriage procession returned to the castle, such as no king
had ever before seen.




THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN, SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN

There was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slipped
away from him--so he said. The Story that used to visit him of its own
accord no longer came and knocked at his door. And why did it come
no longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had not
thought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he had
expected it, it would certainly not have come; for without there was
war, and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it.

The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey,
for they thought of no danger; and, behold, when they arrived, the
nest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were all
in disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses were
stamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but they
came to an end.

And now they were past and gone--so people said; yet no Story came
and knocked at the door, or gave any tidings of its presence.

"I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many other
things," said the man.

But the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by,
and he longed--oh, so very much! --for the Story.

"I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock? "

And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in which
it had come to him, sometimes young and charming, like spring
itself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in her
hair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamed
like deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.

Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and had
opened its box and let silver ribbon come fluttering out, with
verses and inscriptions of old remembrances.

But it was most charming of all when it came as an old
grandmother, with silvery hair, and such large, sensible eyes. She
knew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before the
princesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay
outside the castles, guarding them. She told with such an air of
truth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her,
and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and to
hear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long time had passed
since it all happened.

"Will it ever knock at my door again? " said the man, and he
gazed at the door, so that black spots came before his eyes and upon
the floor; he did not know if it was blood, or mourning crape from the
dark heavy days.

And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story
might not have hidden itself, like the princess in the old tale. And
he would now go in search of it; if he found it, it would beam in
new splendor, lovelier than ever.

"Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that
balances on the margin of the well. Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it
lies hidden in a certain flower--that flower in one of the great books
on the book-shelf. "

And the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain
information on this point; but there was no flower to be found.
There he read about Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale
had been invented and put together by a monk in France, that it was
a romance, "translated into Danish and printed in that language;" that
Holger Danske had never really lived, and consequently could never
come again, as we have sung, and have been so glad to believe. And
William Tell was treated just like Holger Danske. These were all
only myths--nothing on which we could depend; and yet it is all
written in a very learned book.

"Well, I shall believe what I believe! " said the man. "There grows
no plantain where no foot has trod. "

And he closed the book and put it back in its place, and went to
the fresh flowers at the window. Perhaps the Story might have hidden
itself in the red tulips, with the golden yellow edges, or in the
fresh rose, or in the beaming camellia. The sunshine lay among the
flowers, but no Story.

The flowers which had been here in the dark troublous time had
been much more beautiful; but they had been cut off, one after
another, to be woven into wreaths and placed in coffins, and the
flag had waved over them! Perhaps the Story had been buried with the
flowers; but then the flowers would have known of it, and the coffin
would have heard it, and every little blade of grass that shot forth
would have told of it. The Story never dies.

Perhaps it has been here once, and has knocked; but who had eyes
or ears for it in those times? People looked darkly, gloomily, and
almost angrily at the sunshine of spring, at the twittering birds, and
all the cheerful green; the tongue could not even bear the old
merry, popular songs, and they were laid in the coffin with so much
that our heart held dear. The Story may have knocked without obtaining
a hearing; there was none to bid it welcome, and so it may have gone
away.

"I will go forth and seek it. Out in the country! out in the wood!
and on the open sea beach! "

Out in the country lies an old manor house, with red walls,
pointed gables, and a red flag that floats on the tower. The
nightingale sings among the finely-fringed beech-leaves, looking at
the blooming apple trees of the garden, and thinking that they bear
roses. Here the bees are mightily busy in the summer-time, and hover
round their queen with their humming song. The autumn has much to tell
of the wild chase, of the leaves of the trees, and of the races of men
that are passing away together. The wild swans sing at Christmas-time
on the open water, while in the old hall the guests by the fireside
gladly listen to songs and to old legends.

Down into the old part of the garden, where the great avenue of
wild chestnut trees lures the wanderer to tread its shades, went the
man who was in search of the Story; for here the wind had once
murmured something to him of "Waldemar Daa and his Daughters. " The
Dryad in the tree, who was the Story-mother herself, had here told him
the "Dream of the Old Oak Tree. " Here, in the time of the ancestral
mother, had stood clipped hedges, but now only ferns and stinging
nettles grew there, hiding the scattered fragments of old sculptured
figures; the moss is growing in their eyes, but they can see as well
as ever, which was more than the man could do who was in search of the
Story, for he could not find that. Where could it be?

The crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees, and
screamed, "Krah! da! --Krah! da! "

And he went out of the garden and over the grass-plot of the yard,
into the alder grove; there stood a little six-sided house, with a
poultry-yard and a duck-yard. In the middle of the room sat the old
woman who had the management of the whole, and who knew accurately
about every egg that was laid, and about every chicken that could
creep out of an egg. But she was not the Story of which the man was in
search; that she could attest with a Christian certificate of
baptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer.

Without, not far from the house, is a hill covered with
red-thorn and broom. Here lies an old grave-stone, which was brought
here many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial town, a
remembrance of one of the most honored councillors of the place; his
wife and his five daughters, all with folded hands and stiff ruffs,
stand round him. One could look at them so long, that it had an effect
upon the thoughts, and these reacted upon the stones, as if they
were telling of old times; at least it had been so with the man who
was in search of the Story.

As he came nearer, he noticed a living butterfly sitting on the
forehead of the sculptured councillor. The butterfly flapped its
wings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned fatigued to
sit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.
Four-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were seven specimens close
to each other. When fortune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked
the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.

"Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be
better still," thought the man; but he could not find it here.

And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered
with vapor. The moor-woman was at her brewing.


It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon
the sea, over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone
bright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look like a great
lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells--and in the
moonlight the eye realizes these myths.

Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that
William Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in
popular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths.
Yes, Holger Danske will return again!

As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly
against the window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not
let in, even when they knock. The window flew open of itself, and an
old woman looked in at the man.
"What's your pleasure? " said he. "Who are you? You're looking in
at the first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder? "

"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket," she replied.
"Indeed, you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one. "

"Who are you? " asked the man again.

"The Moor-woman," she replied. "The Moor-woman who brews. I was at
it. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled
it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat
against the window; and now the beer's running out of the cask, and
that won't do good to anybody. "

"Pray tell me some more! " said the man.

"Yes, wait a little," answered the Moor-woman. "I've something
else to do just now. " And she was gone.

The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood
before him again.

"Now it's done," she said; "but I shall have half the beer to brew
over again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have
you to ask me? I've come back, for I always keep my word, and you have
seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a
six-leaved one. That inspires respect, for that's an order that
grows beside the sandy way; but that every one does not find. What
have you to ask me? Don't stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for I
must go back again directly to my bung and my cask. "

And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the
Moor-woman had met it in her journeyings.

"By the big brewing-vat! " exclaimed the woman, "haven't you got
stories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.
Here are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even
the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and
the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen
to stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done
here, and other things to notice! "

"What do you mean by that? " asked the man, "and what do you know
of the world? You don't see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps! "

"Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps," said the Moor-woman,
"for they're out--they're let loose--that's what we must talk about!
Come to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will
tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your
seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still
fresh, and the moon stands high! "

And the Moor-woman was gone.

It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had
died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood
in the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her
brewing.

"You've been a long time coming! " said the Moor-woman. "Witches
get forward faster than men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch
folk! "

"What have you to say to me now? " asked the man. "Is it anything
about the Story? "

"Can you never get beyond asking about that? " retorted the woman.

"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future? " resumed
the man.

"Don't get on your stilts," said the crone, "and I'll answer
you. You think of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story,
as if she were the lady of the whole troop. She's the oldest of us
all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I've
been young, too, and she's no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty
elf-maiden, and have danced in my time with the others in the
moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the
forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there,
running about. Sometimes she took up her night's lodging in a
half-blown tulip, or in a field flower; sometimes she would slip
into the church, and wrap herself in the mourning crape that hung down
from the candles on the altar. "

"You are capitally well-informed," said the man.

"I ought at least to know as much as you," answered the
Moor-woman. "Stories and poetry--yes, they're like two yards of the
same piece of stuff; they can go and lie down where they like, and one
can brew all their prattle, and have it all the better and cheaper.
You shall have it from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard-full of
poetry in bottles. It makes essences; and that's the best of
it--bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people want of
poetry, in bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief,
on holidays, to smell. "

"Why, these are wonderful things that you're telling! " said the
man. "You have poetry in bottles? "

"More than you can require," said the woman. "I suppose you know
the history of 'the Girl who Trod on the Loaf, so that she might not
soil her shoes'? That has been written, and printed too. "

"I told that story myself," said the man.

"Yes, then you must know it; and you must know also that the
girl sank into the earth directly, to the Moor-woman, just as Old
Bogey's grandmother was paying her morning visit to inspect the
brewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and asked to have her as a
remembrance of her visit, and got her too; while I received a
present that's of no use to me--a travelling druggist's shop--a
whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grandmother told me where
the cupboard was to be placed, and there it's standing still. Just
look! You've your seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, one of
which is a six-leaved one, and so you will be able to see it. "

And really in the midst of the moor lay something like a great
knotted block of alder, and that was the old grandmother's cupboard.
The Moor-woman said that this was always open to her and to every
one in the land, if they only knew where the cupboard stood. It
could be opened either at the front or at the back, and at every
side and corner--a perfect work of art, and yet only an old alder
stump in appearance. The poets of all lands, and especially those of
our own country, had been arranged here; the spirit of them had been
extracted, refined, criticised and renovated, and then stored up in
bottles. With what may be called great aptitude, if it was not
genius the grandmother had taken as it were the flavor of this and
of that poet, and had added a little devilry, and then corked up the
bottles for use during all future times.

"Pray let me see," said the man.

"Yes, but there are more important things to hear," replied the
Moor-woman.

"But now we are at the cupboard! " said the man. And he looked
in. "Here are bottles of all sizes. What is in this one? and what in
that one yonder? "

"Here is what they call may-balm," replied the woman. "I have
not tried it myself. But I have not yet told you the 'more
important' thing you were to hear. THE WILL-O'-THE-WISP'S IN THE TOWN!
That's of much more consequence than poetry and stories. I ought,
indeed, to hold my tongue; but there must be a necessity--a fate--a
something that sticks in my throat, and that wants to come out. Take
care, you mortals! "

"I don't understand a word of all this! " cried the man.

"Be kind enough to seat yourself on that cupboard," she retorted,
"but take care you don't fall through and break the bottles--you know
what's inside of them. I must tell of the great event. It occurred no
longer ago than the day before yesterday. It did not happen earlier.
It has now three hundred and sixty-three days to run about. I suppose
you know how many days there are in a year? "

And this is what the Moor-woman told:

"There was a great commotion yesterday out here in the marsh!
There was a christening feast! A little Will-o'-the-Wisp was born
here--in fact, twelve of them were born all together; and they have
permission, if they choose to use it, to go abroad among men, and to
move about and command among them, just as if they were born
mortals. That was a great event in the marsh, and accordingly all
the Will-o'-the-Wisps, male and female, went dancing like little
lights across the moor. There are some of them of the dog species, but
those are not worth mentioning. I sat there on the cupboard, and had
all the twelve little new-born Will-o'-the-Wisps upon my lap. They
shone like glow-worms; they already began to hop, and increased in
size every moment, so that before a quarter of an hour had elapsed,
each of them looked just as large as his father or his uncle. Now,
it's an old-established regulation and favor, that when the moon
stands just as it did yesterday, and the wind blows just as it blew
then, it is allowed and accorded to all Will-o'-the-Wisps--that is, to
all those who are born at that minute of time--to become mortals,
and individually to exert their power for the space of one year.

"The Will-o'-the-Wisp may run about in the country and through the
world, if it is not afraid of falling into the sea, or of being
blown out by a heavy storm. It can enter into a person and speak for
him, and make all the movements it pleases. The Will-o'-the-Wisp may
take whatever form he likes, of man or woman, and can act in their
spirit and in their disguise in such a way that he can effect whatever
he wishes to do. But he must manage, in the course of the year, to
lead three hundred and sixty-five people into a bad way, and in a
grand style, too. To lead them away from the right and the truth;
and then he reaches the highest point. Such a Will-o'-the-Wisp can
attain to the honor of being a runner before the devil's state
coach; and then he'll wear clothes of fiery yellow, and breathe
forth flames out of his throat. That's enough to make a simple
Will-o'-the-Wisp smack his lips. But there's some danger in this,
and a great deal of work for a Will-o'-the-Wisp who aspires to play so
distinguished a part. If the eyes of the man are opened to what he is,
and if the man can then blow him away, it's all over with him, and
he must come back into the marsh; or if, before the year is up, the
Will-o'-the-Wisp is seized with a longing to see his family, and so
returns to it and gives the matter up, it is over with him likewise,
and he can no longer burn clear, and soon becomes extinguished, and
cannot be lit up again; and when the year has elapsed, and he has
not led three hundred and sixty-five people away from the truth and
from all that is grand and noble, he is condemned to be imprisoned
in decayed wood, and to lie glimmering there, without being able to
move; and that's the most terrible punishment that can be inflicted on
a lively Will-o'-the-Wisp.

"Now, all this I know, and all this I told to the twelve little
Will-o'-the-Wisps whom I had on my lap, and who seemed quite crazy
with joy.

"I told them that the safest and most convenient course was to
give up the honor, and do nothing at all; but the little flames
would not agree to this, and already fancied themselves clad in
fiery yellow clothes, breathing flames from their throats.

"'Stay with us,' said some of the older ones.

"'Carry on your sport with mortals,' said the others.

"'The mortals are drying up our meadows; they've taken to
draining. What will our successors do? '

"'We want to flame; we will flame--flame! ' cried the new-born
Will-o'the-Wisps.

"And thus the affair was settled.

"And now a ball was given, a minute long; it could not well be
shorter. The little elf-maidens whirled round three times with the
rest, that they might not appear proud, but they preferred dancing
with one another.

"And now the sponsors' gifts were presented, and presents were
thrown them. These presents flew like pebbles across the sea-water.
Each of the elf-maidens gave a little piece of her veil.

"'Take that,' they said, 'and then you'll know the higher dance,
the most difficult turns and twists--that is to say, if you should
find them necessary. You'll know the proper deportment, and then you
can show yourself in the very pick of society. '

"The night raven taught each of the young Will-o'-the-Wisps to
say, 'Goo-goo-good,' and to say it in the right place; and that's a
great gift which brings its own reward.

"The owl and the stork--but they said it was not worth mentioning,
and so we won't mention it.

"King Waldemar's wild chase was just then rushing over the moor,
and when the great lords heard of the festivities that were going
on, they sent a couple of handsome dogs, which hunt on the spoor of
the wind, as a present; and these might carry two or three of the
Will-o'-the-Wisps. A couple of old Alpas, spirits who occupy
themselves with Alp-pressing, were also at the feast; and from these
the young Will-o'-the-Wisps learned the art of slipping through
every key-hole, as if the door stood open before them. These Alpas
offered to carry the youngsters to the town, with which they were well
acquainted. They usually rode through the atmosphere on their own back
hair, which is fastened into a knot, for they love a hard seat; but
now they sat sideways on the wild hunting dogs, took the young
Will-o'-the-Wisps in their laps, who wanted to go into the town to
mislead and entice mortals, and, whisk! away they were. Now, this is
what happened last night. To-day the Will-o'-the-Wisps are in the
town, and have taken the matter in hand--but where and how? Ah, can
you tell me that? Still, I've a lightning conductor in my great toe,
and that will always tell me something. "

"Why, this is a complete story," exclaimed the man.

"Yes, but it is only the beginning," replied the woman. "Can you
tell me how the Will-o'-the-Wisps deport themselves, and how they
behave? and in what shapes they have aforetime appeared and led people
into crooked paths? "

"I believe," replied the man, "that one could tell quite a romance
about the Will-o'-the-Wisps, in twelve parts; or, better still, one
might make quite a popular play of them. "

"You might write that," said the woman, "but it's best let alone. "

"Yes, that's better and more agreeable," the man replied, "for
then we shall escape from the newspapers, and not be tied up by
them, which is just as uncomfortable as for a Will-o'-the-Wisp to
lie in decaying wood, to have to gleam, and not to be able to stir. "

"I don't care about it either way," cried the woman. "Let the rest
write, those who can, and those who cannot likewise. I'll grant you an
old bung from my cask that will open the cupboard where poetry's
kept in bottles, and you may take from that whatever may be wanting.
But you, my good man, seem to have blotted your hands sufficiently
with ink, and to have come to that age of satiety that you need not be
running about every year for stories, especially as there are much
more important things to be done. You must have understood what is
going on? "

"The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in town," said the man. "I've heard it,
and I have understood it. But what do you think I ought to do? I
should be thrashed if I were to go to the people and say, 'Look,
yonder goes a Will-o'-the-Wisp in his best clothes! '

"They also go in undress," replied the woman. "The
Will-o'-the-Wisp can assume all kinds of forms, and appear in every
place. He goes into the church, but not for the sake of the service;
and perhaps he may enter into one or other of the priests. He speaks
in the Parliament, not for the benefit of the country, but only for
himself. He's an artist with the color-pot as well as in the
theatre; but when he gets all the power into his own hands, then the
pot's empty! I chatter and chatter, but it must come out, what's
sticking in my throat, to the disadvantage of my own family. But I
must now be the woman that will save a good many people. It is not
done with my good will, or for the sake of a medal. I do the most
insane things I possibly can, and then I tell a poet about it, and
thus the whole town gets to know of it directly. "

"The town will not take that to heart," observed the man; "that
will not disturb a single person; for they will all think I'm only
telling them a story if I say, 'The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the town,
says the Moor-woman. Take care of yourselves! '"




THE STORY OF THE WIND

"Near the shores of the great Belt, which is one of the straits
that connect the Cattegat with the Baltic, stands an old mansion
with thick red walls. I know every stone of it," says the Wind. "I saw
it when it was part of the castle of Marck Stig on the promontory. But
the castle was obliged to be pulled down, and the stone was used again
for the walls of a new mansion on another spot--the baronial residence
of Borreby, which still stands near the coast. I knew them well, those
noble lords and ladies, the successive generations that dwelt there;
and now I'm going to tell you of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. How
proud was his bearing, for he was of royal blood, and could boast of
more noble deeds than merely hunting the stag and emptying the
wine-cup. His rule was despotic: 'It shall be,' he was accustomed to
say. His wife, in garments embroidered with gold, stepped proudly over
the polished marble floors. The tapestries were gorgeous, and the
furniture of costly and artistic taste. She had brought gold and plate
with her into the house. The cellars were full of wine. Black, fiery
horses, neighed in the stables. There was a look of wealth about the
house of Borreby at that time. They had three children, daughters,
fair and delicate maidens--Ida, Joanna, and Anna Dorothea; I have
never forgotten their names. They were a rich, noble family, born in
affluence and nurtured in luxury.

"Whir-r-r, whir-r-r! " roared the Wind, and went on, "I did not see
in this house, as in other great houses, the high-born lady sitting
among her women, turning the spinning-wheel. She could sweep the
sounding chords of the guitar, and sing to the music, not always
Danish melodies, but the songs of a strange land. It was 'Live and let
live,' here. Stranger guests came from far and near, music sounded,
goblets clashed, and I," said the Wind, "was not able to drown the
noise. Ostentation, pride, splendor, and display ruled, but not the
fear of the Lord.

"It was on the evening of the first day of May," the Wind
continued, "I came from the west, and had seen the ships overpowered
with the waves, when all on board persisted or were cast shipwrecked
on the coast of Jutland. I had hurried across the heath and over
Jutland's wood-girt eastern coast, and over the island of Funen, and
then I drove across the great belt, sighing and moaning. At length I
lay down to rest on the shores of Zeeland, near to the great house
of Borreby, where the splendid forest of oaks still flourished.