No More Learning

Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every corpse
is a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might
unveil its own mystery in the words which the living had himself
written two days before--

"Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;
Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.
Earth's garden reaper! from the grave's cold bed
The soul on Jacob's ladder takes her flight.

Man's greatest sorrows often are a part
Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,
Which press far heavier on the lonely heart
Than now the earth that on his coffin lies. "


Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was
the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent
over the dead.

"Look! " said Care; "what happiness have your goloshes brought to
mankind? "

"They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who
slumbers here," she said.

"Not so," said Care, "he went away of himself, he was not
summoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to discern the
treasures which he had been destined to discover. I will do him a
favor now. " And she drew the goloshes from his feet.

The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised
himself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she
looked upon them as her own property.




SHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING

The mayor stood at the open window. He looked smart, for his
shirt-frill, in which he had stuck a breast-pin, and his ruffles, were
very fine. He had shaved his chin uncommonly smooth, although he had
cut himself slightly, and had stuck a piece of newspaper over the
place. "Hark 'ee, youngster! " cried he.

The boy to whom he spoke was no other than the son of a poor
washer-woman, who was just going past the house. He stopped, and
respectfully took off his cap. The peak of this cap was broken in
the middle, so that he could easily roll it up and put it in his
pocket. He stood before the mayor in his poor but clean and
well-mended clothes, with heavy wooden shoes on his feet, looking as
humble as if it had been the king himself.

"You are a good and civil boy," said the mayor. "I suppose your
mother is busy washing the clothes down by the river, and you are
going to carry that thing to her that you have in your pocket. It is
very bad for your mother. How much have you got in it? "

"Only half a quartern," stammered the boy in a frightened voice.

"And she has had just as much this morning already? "

"No, it was yesterday," replied the boy.

"Two halves make a whole," said the mayor. "She's good for
nothing. What a sad thing it is with these people. Tell your mother
she ought to be ashamed of herself. Don't you become a drunkard, but I
expect you will though. Poor child! there, go now. "

The boy went on his way with his cap in his hand, while the wind
fluttered his golden hair till the locks stood up straight. He
turned round the corner of the street into the little lane that led to
the river, where his mother stood in the water by her washing bench,
beating the linen with a heavy wooden bar. The floodgates at the
mill had been drawn up, and as the water rolled rapidly on, the sheets
were dragged along by the stream, and nearly overturned the bench,
so that the washer-woman was obliged to lean against it to keep it
steady. "I have been very nearly carried away," she said; "it is a
good thing that you are come, for I want something to strengthen me.
It is cold in the water, and I have stood here six hours. Have you
brought anything for me? "

The boy drew the bottle from his pocket, and the mother put it
to her lips, and drank a little.

"Ah, how much good that does, and how it warms me," she said;
"it is as good as a hot meal, and not so dear. Drink a little, my boy;
you look quite pale; you are shivering in your thin clothes, and
autumn has really come. Oh, how cold the water is! I hope I shall
not be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of that. Give me a little
more, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you must not get
used to it, my poor, dear child. " She stepped up to the bridge on
which the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water dripped
from the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from her
gown. "I work hard and suffer pain with my poor hands," said she, "but
I do it willingly, that I may be able to bring you up honestly and
truthfully, my dear boy. "

At the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, came
towards them. She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, and
with a large false curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which was
blind. This curl was intended to conceal the blind eye, but it made
the defect only more visible. She was a friend of the laundress, and
was called, among the neighbors, "Lame Martha, with the curl. " "Oh,
you poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the water! " she
exclaimed. "You really do need something to give you a little
warmth, and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take. "
And then Martha repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes,
all that the mayor had said to her boy, which she had overheard; and
she felt very angry that any man could speak, as he had done, of a
mother to her own child, about the few drops she had taken; and she
was still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor was going to
have a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, rich
wine, drunk by the bottle. "Many will take more than they ought, but
they don't call that drinking! They are all right, you are good for
nothing indeed! " cried Martha indignantly.

"And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child? " said the
washer-woman, and her lips trembled as she spoke. "He says you have
a mother who is good for nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but he
should not have said it to my child. How much has happened to me
from that house! "

"Yes," said Martha; "I remember you were in service there, and
lived in the house when the mayor's parents were alive; how many years
ago that is. Bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and people
may well be thirsty," and Martha smiled. "The mayor's great
dinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but the news came
too late. The footman told me the dinner was already cooked, when a
letter came to say that the mayor's younger brother in Copenhagen is
dead. "

"Dead! " cried the laundress, turning pale as death.

"Yes, certainly," replied Martha; "but why do you take it so
much to heart? I suppose you knew him years ago, when you were in
service there? "

"Is he dead? " she exclaimed. "Oh, he was such a kind, good-hearted
man, there are not many like him," and the tears rolled down her
cheeks as she spoke. Then she cried, "Oh, dear me; I feel quite ill:
everything is going round me, I cannot bear it. Is the bottle
empty? " and she leaned against the plank.

"Dear me, you are ill indeed," said the other woman. "Come,
cheer up; perhaps it will pass off. No, indeed, I see you are really
ill; the best thing for me to do is to lead you home. "

"But my washing yonder? "

"I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can
stay here and take care of the linen, and I'll come back and finish
the washing; it is but a trifle. "

The limbs of the laundress shook under her, and she said, "I
have stood too long in the cold water, and I have had nothing to eat
the whole day since the morning. O kind Heaven, help me to get home; I
am in a burning fever. Oh, my poor child," and she burst into tears.
And he, poor boy, wept also, as he sat alone by the river, near to and
watching the damp linen.

The two women walked very slowly. The laundress slipped and
tottered through the lane, and round the corner, into the street where
the mayor lived; and just as she reached the front of his house, she
sank down upon the pavement. Many persons came round her, and Lame
Martha ran into the house for help. The mayor and his guests came to
the window.

"Oh, it is the laundress," said he; "she has had a little drop too
much. She is good for nothing. It is a sad thing for her pretty little
son. I like the boy very well; but the mother is good for nothing. "

After a while the laundress recovered herself, and they led her to
her poor dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha warmed a mug of
beer for her, with butter and sugar--she considered this the best
medicine--and then hastened to the river, washed and rinsed, badly
enough, to be sure, but she did her best. Then she drew the linen
ashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket. Before evening, she
was sitting in the poor little room with the laundress. The mayor's
cook had given her some roasted potatoes and a beautiful piece of
fat for the sick woman. Martha and the boy enjoyed these good things
very much; but the sick woman could only say that the smell was very
nourishing, she thought. By-and-by the boy was put to bed, in the same
bed as the one in which his mother lay; but he slept at her feet,
covered with an old quilt made of blue and white patchwork. The
laundress felt a little better by this time. The warm beer had
strengthened her, and the smell of the good food had been pleasant
to her.

"Many thanks, you good soul," she said to Martha. "Now the boy
is asleep, I will tell you all. He is soon asleep. How gentle and
sweet he looks as he lies there with his eyes closed! He does not know
how his mother has suffered; and Heaven grant he never may know it.
I was in service at the counsellor's, the father of the mayor, and
it happened that the youngest of his sons, the student, came home. I
was a young wild girl then, but honest; that I can declare in the
sight of Heaven. The student was merry and gay, brave and
affectionate; every drop of blood in him was good and honorable; a
better man never lived on earth. He was the son of the house, and I
was only a maid; but he loved me truly and honorably, and he told
his mother of it. She was to him as an angel upon earth; she was so
wise and loving. He went to travel, and before he started he placed
a gold ring on my finger; and as soon as he was out of the house, my
mistress sent for me. Gently and earnestly she drew me to her, and
spake as if an angel were speaking. She showed me clearly, in spirit
and in truth, the difference there was between him and me. 'He is
pleased now,' she said, 'with your pretty face; but good looks do
not last long. You have not been educated like he has. You are not
equals in mind and rank, and therein lies the misfortune. I esteem the
poor,' she added. 'In the sight of God, they may occupy a higher place
than many of the rich; but here upon earth we must beware of
entering upon a false track, lest we are overturned in our plans, like
a carriage that travels by a dangerous road. I know a worthy man, an
artisan, who wishes to marry you. I mean Eric, the glovemaker. He is a
widower, without children, and in a good position. Will you think it
over? ' Every word she said pierced my heart like a knife; but I knew
she was right, and the thought pressed heavily upon me. I kissed her
hand, and wept bitter tears, and I wept still more when I went to my
room, and threw myself on the bed. I passed through a dreadful
night; God knows what I suffered, and how I struggled. The following
Sunday I went to the house of God to pray for light to direct my path.
It seemed like a providence that as I stepped out of church Eric
came towards me; and then there remained not a doubt in my mind. We
were suited to each other in rank and circumstances. He was, even
then, a man of good means. I went up to him, and took his hand, and
said, 'Do you still feel the same for me? ' 'Yes; ever and always,'
said he. 'Will you, then, marry a maiden who honors and esteems you,
although she cannot offer you her love? but that may come. ' 'Yes, it
will come,' said he; and we joined our hands together, and I went home
to my mistress. The gold ring which her son had given me I wore next
to my heart. I could not place it on my finger during the daytime, but
only in the evening, when I went to bed. I kissed the ring till my
lips almost bled, and then I gave it to my mistress, and told her that
the banns were to be put up for me and the glovemaker the following
week. Then my mistress threw her arms round me, and kissed me. She did
not say that I was 'good for nothing;' very likely I was better then
than I am now; but the misfortunes of this world, were unknown to me
then. At Michaelmas we were married, and for the first year everything
went well with us. We had a journeyman and an apprentice, and you were
our servant, Martha. "

"Ah, yes, and you were a dear, good mistress," said Martha, "I
shall never forget how kind you and your husband were to me. "

"Yes, those were happy years when you were with us, although we
had no children at first. The student I never met again. Yet I saw him
once, although he did not see me. He came to his mother's funeral. I
saw him, looking pale as death, and deeply troubled, standing at her
grave; for she was his mother. Sometime after, when his father died,
he was in foreign lands, and did not come home. I know that he never
married, I believe he became a lawyer. He had forgotten me, and even
had we met he would not have known me, for I have lost all my good
looks, and perhaps that is all for the best. " And then she spoke of
the dark days of trial, when misfortune had fallen upon them.

"We had five hundred dollars," she said, "and there was a house in
the street to be sold for two hundred, so we thought it would be worth
our while to pull it down and build a new one in its place; so it
was bought. The builder and carpenter made an estimate that the new
house would cost ten hundred and twenty dollars to build. Eric had
credit, so he borrowed the money in the chief town. But the captain,
who was bringing it to him, was shipwrecked, and the money lost.
Just about this time, my dear sweet boy, who lies sleeping there,
was born, and my husband was attacked with a severe lingering illness.
For three quarters of a year I was obliged to dress and undress him.
We were backward in our payments, we borrowed more money, and all that
we had was lost and sold, and then my husband died. Since then I
have worked, toiled, and striven for the sake of the child. I have
scrubbed and washed both coarse and fine linen, but I have not been
able to make myself better off; and it was God's will. In His own time
He will take me to Himself, but I know He will never forsake my
boy. " Then she fell asleep. In the morning she felt much refreshed,
and strong enough, as she thought, to go on with her work. But as soon
as she stepped into the cold water, a sudden faintness seized her; she
clutched at the air convulsively with her hand, took one step forward,
and fell. Her head rested on dry land, but her feet were in the water;
her wooden shoes, which were only tied on by a wisp of straw, were
carried away by the stream, and thus she was found by Martha when
she came to bring her some coffee.

In the meantime a messenger had been sent to her house by the
mayor, to say that she must come to him immediately, as he had
something to tell her. It was too late; a surgeon had been sent for to
open a vein in her arm, but the poor woman was dead.

"She has drunk herself to death," said the cruel mayor. In the
letter, containing the news of his brother's death, it was stated that
he had left in his will a legacy of six hundred dollars to the
glovemaker's widow, who had been his mother's maid, to be paid with
discretion, in large or small sums to the widow or her child.

"There was something between my brother and her, I remember," said
the mayor; "it is a good thing that she is out of the way, for now the
boy will have the whole. I will place him with honest people to
bring him up, that he may become a respectable working man. " And the
blessing of God rested upon these words. The mayor sent for the boy to
come to him, and promised to take care of him, but most cruelly
added that it was a good thing that his mother was dead, for "she
was good for nothing. " They carried her to the churchyard, the
churchyard in which the poor were buried. Martha strewed sand on the
grave and planted a rose-tree upon it, and the boy stood by her side.

"Oh, my poor mother! " he cried, while the tears rolled down his
cheeks. "Is it true what they say, that she was good for nothing? "

"No, indeed, it is not true," replied the old servant, raising her
eyes to heaven; "she was worth a great deal; I knew it years ago,
and since the last night of her life I am more certain of it than
ever. I say she was a good and worthy woman, and God, who is in
heaven, knows I am speaking the truth, though the world may say,
even now she was good for nothing. "




GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is
quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild,
gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you
good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked
on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most
wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive
before father and mother--that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book
with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book,
between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so
pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she
smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes.
"I
wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book
that way? Do you know? " Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the
rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room
with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around
her is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a
charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,
bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those
mild, 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 and
she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections
of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has
withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an
old 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, she
said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could
hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter
and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It
was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and
then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking
mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though
her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
looked 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 had
been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose
still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and
then they buried grandmother.

On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among
the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church
sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were
written 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 from
the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are
living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange
thing 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 earth
has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within
it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh
roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there
still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,
gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will
once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for
the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in
the grave.




A GREAT GRIEF

This story really consists of two parts. The first part might be
left out, but it gives us a few particulars, and these are useful.

We were staying in the country at a gentleman's seat, where it
happened that the master was absent for a few days. In the meantime,
there arrived from the next town a lady; she had a pug dog with her,
and came, she said, to dispose of shares in her tan-yard. She had
her papers with her, and we advised her to put them in an envelope,
and to write thereon the address of the proprietor of the estate,
"General War-Commissary Knight," &c.

She listened to us attentively, seized the pen, paused, and begged
us to repeat the direction slowly. We complied, and she wrote; but
in the midst of the "General War-" she struck fast, sighed deeply, and
said, "I am only a woman! " Her Puggie had seated itself on the
ground while she wrote, and growled; for the dog had come with her for
amusement and for the sake of its health; and then the bare floor
ought not to be offered to a visitor. His outward appearance was
characterized by a snub nose and a very fat back.

"He doesn't bite," said the lady; "he has no teeth. He is like one
of the family, faithful and grumpy; but the latter is my
grandchildren's fault, for they have teased him; they play at wedding,
and want to give him the part of the bridesmaid, and that's too much
for him, poor old fellow. "

And she delivered her papers, and took Puggie upon her arm. And
this is the first part of the story which might have been left out.

PUGGIE DIED! ! That's the second part.

It was about a week afterwards we arrived in the town, and put
up at the inn. Our windows looked into the tan-yard, which was divided
into two parts by a partition of planks; in one half were many skins
and hides, raw and tanned. Here was all the apparatus necessary to
carry on a tannery, and it belonged to the widow. Puggie had died in
the morning, and was to be buried in this part of the yard; the
grandchildren of the widow (that is, of the tanner's widow, for Puggie
had never been married) filled up the grave, and it was a beautiful
grave--it must have been quite pleasant to lie there.

The grave was bordered with pieces of flower-pots and strewn
over with sand; quite at the top they had stuck up half a beer bottle,
with the neck upwards, and that was not at all allegorical.

The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys
among them, a practical youngster of seven years, made the proposition
that there should be an exhibition of Puggie's burial-place for all
who lived in the lane; the price of admission was to be a trouser
button, for every boy would be sure to have one, and each might also
give one for a little girl. This proposal was adopted by acclamation.

And all the children out of the lane--yes, even out of the
little lane at the back--flocked to the place, and each gave a button.
Many were noticed to go about on that afternoon with only one
suspender; but then they had seen Puggie's grave, and the sight was
worth much more.

But in front of the tan-yard, close to the entrance, stood a
little girl clothed in rags, very pretty to look at, with curly
hair, and eyes so blue and clear that it was a pleasure to look into
them. The child said not a word, nor did she cry; but each time the
little door was opened she gave a long, long look into the yard. She
had not a button--that she knew right well, and therefore she remained
standing sorrowfully outside, till all the others had seen the grave
and had gone away; then she sat down, held her little brown hands
before her eyes, and burst into tears; this girl alone had not seen
Puggie's grave. It was a grief as great to her as any grown person can
experience.

We saw this from above; and looked at from above, how many a grief
of our own and of others can make us smile! That is the story, and
whoever does not understand it may go and purchase a share in the
tan-yard from the window.




THE HAPPY FAMILY

The largest green leaf in this country is certainly the
burdock-leaf. If you hold it in front of you, it is large enough for
an apron; and if you hold it over your head, it is almost as good as
an umbrella, it is so wonderfully large. A burdock never grows
alone; where it grows, there are many more, and it is a splendid
sight; and all this splendor is good for snails. The great white
snails, which grand people in olden times used to have made into
fricassees; and when they had eaten them, they would say, "O, what a
delicious dish! " for these people really thought them good; and
these snails lived on burdock-leaves, and for them the burdock was
planted.

There was once an old estate where no one now lived to require
snails; indeed, the owners had all died out, but the burdock still
flourished; it grew over all the beds and walks of the garden--its
growth had no check--till it became at last quite a forest of
burdocks. Here and there stood an apple or a plum-tree; but for
this, nobody would have thought the place had ever been a garden. It
was burdock from one end to the other; and here lived the last two
surviving snails. They knew not themselves how old they were; but they
could remember the time when there were a great many more of them, and
that they were descended from a family which came from foreign
lands, and that the whole forest had been planted for them and theirs.
They had never been away from the garden; but they knew that another
place once existed in the world, called the Duke's Palace Castle, in
which some of their relations had been boiled till they became
black, and were then laid on a silver dish; but what was done
afterwards they did not know. Besides, they could not imagine
exactly how it felt to be boiled and placed on a silver dish; but no
doubt it was something very fine and highly genteel. Neither the
cockchafer, nor the toad, nor the earth-worm, whom they questioned
about it, would give them the least information; for none of their
relations had ever been cooked or served on a silver dish. The old
white snails were the most aristocratic race in the world,--they
knew that. The forest had been planted for them, and the nobleman's
castle had been built entirely that they might be cooked and laid on
silver dishes.

They lived quite retired and very happily; and as they had no
children of their own, they had adopted a little common snail, which
they brought up as their own child. The little one would not grow, for
he was only a common snail; but the old people, particularly the
mother-snail, declared that she could easily see how he grew; and when
the father said he could not perceive it, she begged him to feel the
little snail's shell, and he did so, and found that the mother was
right.

One day it rained very fast. "Listen, what a drumming there is
on the burdock-leaves; turn, turn, turn; turn, turn, turn," said the
father-snail.

"There come the drops," said the mother; "they are trickling
down the stalks. We shall have it very wet here presently. I am very
glad we have such good houses, and that the little one has one of
his own. There has been really more done for us than for any other
creature; it is quite plain that we are the most noble people in the
world. We have houses from our birth, and the burdock forest has
been planted for us. I should very much like to know how far it
extends, and what lies beyond it. "

"There can be nothing better than we have here," said the
father-snail; "I wish for nothing more. "

"Yes, but I do," said the mother; "I should like to be taken to
the palace, and boiled, and laid upon a silver dish, as was done to
all our ancestors; and you may be sure it must be something very
uncommon. "

"The nobleman's castle, perhaps, has fallen to decay," said the
snail-father, "or the burdock wood may have grown out. You need not
be in a hurry; you are always so impatient, and the youngster is
getting just the same. He has been three days creeping to the top of
that stalk. I feel quite giddy when I look at him. "

"You must not scold him," said the mother-snail; "he creeps so
very carefully. He will be the joy of our home; and we old folks
have nothing else to live for. But have you ever thought where we
are to get a wife for him? Do you think that farther out in the wood
there may be others of our race? "

"There may be black snails, no doubt," said the old snail;
"black snails without houses; but they are so vulgar and conceited
too. But we can give the ants a commission; they run here and there,
as if they all had so much business to get through. They, most likely,
will know of a wife for our youngster. "

"I certainly know a most beautiful bride," said one of the ants;
"but I fear it would not do, for she is a queen. "

"That does not matter," said the old snail; "has she a house? "

"She has a palace," replied the ant,--"a most beautiful ant-palace
with seven hundred passages. "

"Thank-you," said the mother-snail; "but our boy shall not go to
live in an ant-hill. If you know of nothing better, we will give the
commission to the white gnats; they fly about in rain and sunshine;
they know the burdock wood from one end to the other. "

"We have a wife for him," said the gnats; "a hundred man-steps
from here there is a little snail with a house, sitting on a
gooseberry-bush; she is quite alone, and old enough to be married.
It is only a hundred man-steps from here. "

"Then let her come to him," said the old people. "He has the whole
burdock forest; she has only a bush. "

So they brought the little lady-snail. She took eight days to
perform the journey; but that was just as it ought to be; for it
showed her to be one of the right breeding. And then they had a
wedding. Six glow-worms gave as much light as they could; but in other
respects it was all very quiet; for the old snails could not bear
festivities or a crowd. But a beautiful speech was made by the
mother-snail. The father could not speak; he was too much overcome.
Then they gave the whole burdock forest to the young snails as an
inheritance, and repeated what they had so often said, that it was the
finest place in the world, and that if they led upright and
honorable lives, and their family increased, they and their children
might some day be taken to the nobleman's palace, to be boiled
black, and laid on a silver dish. And when they had finished speaking,
the old couple crept into their houses, and came out no more; for they
slept.

The young snail pair now ruled in the forest, and had a numerous
progeny. But as the young ones were never boiled or laid in silver
dishes, they concluded that the castle had fallen into decay, and that
all the people in the world were dead; and as nobody contradicted
them, they thought they must be right. And the rain fell upon the
burdock-leaves, to play the drum for them, and the sun shone to
paint colors on the burdock forest for them, and they were very happy;
the whole family were entirely and perfectly happy.




A LEAF FROM HEAVEN

High up in the clear, pure air flew an angel, with a flower
plucked from the garden of heaven. As he was kissing the flower a very
little leaf fell from it and sunk down into the soft earth in the
middle of a wood. It immediately took root, sprouted, and sent out
shoots among the other plants.

"What a ridiculous little shoot! " said one. "No one will recognize
it; not even the thistle nor the stinging-nettle. "

"It must be a kind of garden plant," said another; and so they
sneered and despised the plant as a thing from a garden.

"Where are you coming? " said the tall thistles whose leaves were
all armed with thorns. "It is stupid nonsense to allow yourself to
shoot out in this way; we are not here to support you. "

Winter came, and the plant was covered with snow, but the snow
glittered over it as if it had sunshine beneath as well as above.

When spring came, the plant appeared in full bloom: a more
beautiful object than any other plant in the forest. And now the
professor of botany presented himself, one who could explain his
knowledge in black and white. He examined and tested the plant, but it
did not belong to his system of botany, nor could he possibly find out
to what class it did belong. "It must be some degenerate species,"
said he; "I do not know it, and it is not mentioned in any system. "

"Not known in any system! " repeated the thistles and the nettles.

The large trees which grew round it saw the plant and heard the
remarks, but they said not a word either good or bad, which is the
wisest plan for those who are ignorant.

There passed through the forest a poor innocent girl; her heart
was pure, and her understanding increased by her faith. Her chief
inheritance had been an old Bible, which she read and valued. From its
pages she heard the voice of God speaking to her, and telling her to
remember what was said of Joseph's brethren when persons wished to
injure her. "They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it
to good. " If we suffer wrongfully, if we are misunderstood or
despised, we must think of Him who was pure and holy, and who prayed
for those who nailed Him to the cross, "Father forgive them, for
they know not what they do. "

The girl stood still before the wonderful plant, for the green
leaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and the flowers
glittered and sparkled in the sunshine like colored flames, and the
harmony of sweet sounds lingered round them as if each concealed
within itself a deep fount of melody, which thousands of years could
not exhaust. With pious gratitude the girl looked upon this glorious
work of God, and bent down over one of the branches, that she might
examine the flower and inhale the sweet perfume. Then a light broke in
on her mind, and her heart expanded. Gladly would she have plucked a
flower, but she could not overcome her reluctance to break one off.
She knew it would so soon fade; so she took only a single green
leaf, carried it home, and laid it in her Bible, where it remained
ever green, fresh, and unfading. Between the pages of the Bible it
still lay when, a few weeks afterwards, that Bible was laid under
the young girl's head in her coffin. A holy calm rested on her face,
as if the earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she now
stood in the presence of God.

In the forest the wonderful plant still continued to bloom till it
grew and became almost a tree, and all the birds of passage bowed
themselves before it.

"That plant is a foreigner, no doubt," said the thistles and the
burdocks. "We can never conduct ourselves like that in this
country. " And the black forest snails actually spat at the flower.

Then came the swineherd; he was collecting thistles and shrubs
to burn them for the ashes. He pulled up the wonderful plant, roots
and all, and placed it in his bundle. "This will be as useful as any,"
he said; so the plant was carried away.

Not long after, the king of the country suffered from the
deepest melancholy. He was diligent and industrious, but employment
did him no good. They read deep and learned books to him, and then the
lightest and most trifling that could be found, but all to no purpose.
Then they applied for advice to one of the wise men of the world,
and he sent them a message to say that there was one remedy which
would relieve and cure him, and that it was a plant of heavenly origin
which grew in the forest in the king's own dominions. The messenger
described the flower so that is appearance could not be mistaken.

Then said the swineherd, "I am afraid I carried this plant away
from the forest in my bundle, and it has been burnt to ashes long ago.
But I did not know any better. "

"You did not know, any better! Ignorance upon ignorance indeed! "

The poor swineherd took these words to heart, for they were
addressed to him; he knew not that there were others who were
equally ignorant. Not even a leaf of the plant could be found. There
was one, but it lay in the coffin of the dead; no one knew anything
about it.

Then the king, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot in
the wood. "Here is where the plant stood," he said; "it is a sacred
place. " Then he ordered that the place should be surrounded with a
golden railing, and a sentry stationed near it.

The botanical professor wrote a long treatise about the heavenly
plant, and for this he was loaded with gold, which improved the
position of himself and his family.

And this part is really the most pleasant part of the story. For
the plant had disappeared, and the king remained as melancholy and sad
as ever, but the sentry said he had always been so.




HOLGER DANSKE

In Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close by
the Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, and
Prussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castle
with cannons, "Boom, boom," which is as if they said, "Good-day. "
And the cannons of the old castle answer "Boom," which means "Many
thanks. " In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered
with ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance
of a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes and
Swedes say, "Good-day," and "Thank you" to each other, not with
cannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchange
white bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articles
taste the best.

But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of
Kronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, into
which no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head on
his strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table,
into which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but in
his dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On each
Christmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he has
dreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, as
Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come,
then Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst
asunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his
strength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries of
the world.

An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this about
Holger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told him
must be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving an
image in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prow
of a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,
one who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to the
names given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood
there erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his
broad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.
The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danish
men and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so that
he fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, after
all, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, he
thought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against the
counterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had become
rooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and
carving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. And
when he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of all
he had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to his
little grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and put
them on, and said, "Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my
lifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live to
see him when the event really comes to pass. " And the old
grandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the
more satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It
seemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like iron
and steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; while
the lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up. "That
is 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 the
second lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conquered
the Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who united
Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts,
their colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memory
followed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison,
in which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christian
the Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her
bosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this
noblest and best of all Danish women. "Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble
heart in the Danish arms," said the grandfather, and his spirit
followed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannons
roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heart
attached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbon
of an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in order
to save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland's wretched
huts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every word
and action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added another
heart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather's spirit followed
the next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In a
peasant woman's humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing his
name with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and in
his heart, and it was in the peasant's room that his heart became
one for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he
had known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blue
eyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remained
for some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it was
getting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supper
was on the table.