No More Learning

The balloon was already far
away, and very soon the bottle was far away also; for it fell upon a
roof, and broke in pieces. But the pieces had got such an impetus in
them, that they could not stop themselves. They went jumping and
rolling about, till at last they fell into the court-yard, and were
broken into still smaller pieces; only the neck of the bottle
managed to keep whole, and it was broken off as clean as if it had
been cut with a diamond.

"That would make a capital bird's glass," said one of the
cellar-men; but none of them had either a bird or a cage, and it was
not to be expected they would provide one just because they had
found a bottle neck that could be used as a glass. But the old maid
who lived in the garret had a bird, and it really might be useful to
her; so the bottle neck was provided with a cork, and taken up to her;
and, as it often happens in life, the part that had been uppermost was
now turned downwards, and it was filled with fresh water. Then they
hung it in the cage of the little bird, who sang and twittered more
merrily than ever.

"Ah, you have good reason to sing," said the bottle neck, which
was looked upon as something very remarkable, because it had been in a
balloon; nothing further was known of its history. As it hung there in
the bird's-cage, it could hear the noise and murmur of the people in
the street below, as well as the conversation of the old maid in the
room within. An old friend had just come to visit her, and they
talked, not about the bottle neck, but of the myrtle in the window.

"No, you must not spend a dollar for your daughter's bridal
bouquet," said the old maid; "you shall have a beautiful little
bunch for a nosegay, full of blossoms. Do you see how splendidly the
tree has grown? It has been raised from only a little sprig of
myrtle that you gave me on the day after my betrothal, and from
which I was to make my own bridal bouquet when a year had passed:
but that day never came; the eyes were closed which were to have
been my light and joy through life. In the depths of the sea my
beloved sleeps sweetly; the myrtle has become an old tree, and I am
a still older woman. Before the sprig you gave me faded, I took a
spray, and planted it in the earth; and now, as you see, it has become
a large tree, and a bunch of the blossoms shall at last appear at a
wedding festival, in the bouquet of your daughter. "

There were tears in the eyes of the old maid, as she spoke of
the beloved of her youth, and of their betrothal in the wood. Many
thoughts came into her mind; but the thought never came, that quite
close to her, in that very window, was a remembrance of those olden
times,--the neck of the bottle which had, as it were shouted for joy
when the cork flew out with a bang on the betrothal day. But the
bottle neck did not recognize the old maid; he had not been
listening to what she had related, perhaps because he was thinking
so much about her.




THE BUCKWHEAT

Very often, after a violent thunder-storm, a field of buckwheat
appears blackened and singed, as if a flame of fire had passed over
it. The country people say that this appearance is caused by
lightning; but I will tell you what the sparrow says, and the
sparrow heard it from an old willow-tree which grew near a field of
buckwheat, and is there still. It is a large venerable tree, though
a little crippled by age. The trunk has been split, and out of the
crevice grass and brambles grow. The tree bends for-ward slightly, and
the branches hang quite down to the ground just like green hair.
Corn grows in the surrounding fields, not only rye and barley, but
oats,-pretty oats that, when ripe, look like a number of little golden
canary-birds sitting on a bough. The corn has a smiling look and the
heaviest and richest ears bend their heads low as if in pious
humility. Once there was also a field of buckwheat, and this field was
exactly opposite to old willow-tree. The buckwheat did not bend like
the other grain, but erected its head proudly and stiffly on the stem.
"I am as valuable as any other corn," said he, "and I am much
handsomer; my flowers are as beautiful as the bloom of the apple
blossom, and it is a pleasure to look at us. Do you know of anything
prettier than we are, you old willow-tree? "

And the willow-tree nodded his head, as if he would say, "Indeed I
do. "

But the buckwheat spread itself out with pride, and said,
"Stupid tree; he is so old that grass grows out of his body. "

There arose a very terrible storm. All the field-flowers folded
their leaves together, or bowed their little heads, while the storm
passed over them, but the buckwheat stood erect in its pride. "Bend
your head as we do," said the flowers.

"I have no occasion to do so," replied the buckwheat.

"Bend your head as we do," cried the ears of corn; "the angel of
the storm is coming; his wings spread from the sky above to the
earth beneath. He will strike you down before you can cry for mercy. "

"But I will not bend my head," said the buckwheat.

"Close your flowers and bend your leaves," said the old
willow-tree. "Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts; even
men cannot do that. In a flash of lightning heaven opens, and we can
look in; but the sight will strike even human beings blind. What
then must happen to us, who only grow out of the earth, and are so
inferior to them, if we venture to do so? "

"Inferior, indeed! " said the buckwheat. "Now I intend to have a
peep into heaven. " Proudly and boldly he looked up, while the
lightning flashed across the sky as if the whole world were in flames.

When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the corn
raised their drooping heads in the pure still air, refreshed by the
rain, but the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, burnt to
blackness by the lightning. The branches of the old willow-tree
rustled in the wind, and large water-drops fell from his green leaves
as if the old willow were weeping. Then the sparrows asked why he was
weeping, when all around him seemed so cheerful. "See," they said,
"how the sun shines, and the clouds float in the blue sky. Do you not
smell the sweet perfume from flower and bush? Wherefore do you weep,
old willow-tree? " Then the willow told them of the haughty pride of
the buckwheat, and of the punishment which followed in consequence.

This is the story told me by the sparrows one evening when I
begged them to relate some tale to me.




THE BUTTERFLY

There was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may
be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the
flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds,
and found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their
stalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; but
there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search
would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too
much trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French
call this flower "Marguerite," and they say that the little daisy
can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each
leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: "Does he or she
love me? --Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all? "
and so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The
butterfly came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off
her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there
was always more to be done by kindness.

"Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the wisest
woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall
choose for my wife. Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly
directly to her, and propose. "

But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should
call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great
difference. He asked her a second time, and then a third; but she
remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he would wait no
longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in the
early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.

"They are very pretty," thought the butterfly; "charming little
lasses; but they are rather formal. "

Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder
girls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his
taste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too
small, and besides, there was such a large family of them. The
apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but
might fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he
thought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a
time. The pea-blossom pleased him most of all; she was white and
red, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens
who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He
was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw
a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

"Who is that? " he asked.

"That is my sister," replied the pea-blossom.

"Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day," said he; and he
flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.

A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but
there were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow
complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did he like?

Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came;
but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most
gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant
air of youth. For the heart asks for fragrance, even when it is no
longer young; and there is very little of that to be found in the
dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to
the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is
sweetness all over,--full of fragrance from head to foot, with the
scent of a flower in every leaf.

"I will take her," said the butterfly; and he made her an offer.
But the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last
she said,--

"Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are
old, but we may live for each other just the same; as to marrying--no;
don't let us appear ridiculous at our age. "

And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had
been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the
butterfly became what is called an old bachelor.

It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold
wind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked
again. It was not the weather for flying about in summer clothes;
but fortunately the butterfly was not out in it. He had got a
shelter by chance. It was in a room heated by a stove, and as warm
as summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.

"But it is not enough merely to exist," said he, "I need
freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion. "

Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired
by those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box
of curiosities. They could not do more for him.

"Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers," said the
butterfly. "It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is
something like being married; for here I am stuck fast. " And with this
thought he consoled himself a little.

"That seems very poor consolation," said one of the plants in
the room, that grew in a pot.

"Ah," thought the butterfly, "one can't very well trust these
plants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind. "




A CHEERFUL TEMPER

From my father I received the best inheritance, namely a "good
temper. " "And who was my father? " That has nothing to do with the good
temper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat;
he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to
his profession. "And pray what was his profession and his standing
in respectable society? " Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a
book these were written and printed, many, when they read it, would
lay the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title, I
don't like things of this sort. " And yet my father was not a
skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employment
placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and it
was his place by right. He had to precede the bishop, and even the
princes of the blood; he always went first,--he was a hearse driver!
There, now, the truth is out. And I will own, that when people saw
my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in
his long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat
on his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as
the sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That face
said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think. " So
I have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of
going often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper
humor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used to
do.

I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a
library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for
me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father. It
is of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know;
the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which
are published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions may
be obtained. And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and
what innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements,
all so plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in the
Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the
end of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can
lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his
resting-place. The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting
objects to me. My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my
good humor. Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come
with me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are
green, and let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a
closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title
of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great deal of
information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself.
I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure
a history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron
railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of
evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils,
and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet
while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He had
enough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his
refined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to
a theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite
annoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of
the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the scenes
when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree was
introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin,
or a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of
Norway. As if these things were of any consequence! Why did he not
leave them alone? Who would trouble themselves about such trifles?
especially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. Then
sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him.
"They are like wet wood," he would say, looking round to see what sort
of people were present, "this evening; nothing fires them. " Then he
would vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right
time, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted
and worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself
into the grave.

Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth and
position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have been
scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to observe how wisely nature
orders these things. He walked about in a coat embroidered all over,
and in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those rich
pearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind
them always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a
stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and
performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now, these
serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes. It is all so
wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.

Here rests,--ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him! --but
here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was never
remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope of
having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, that
he really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joy
at the thought of having at last caught an idea. Nobody got anything
by it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was. Now I can
imagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in
his grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is
necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can only
make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believed
generally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour,
and the man would have to carry it down again with him into the
grave--that must be a troubled grave.

The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that during
her life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighbors
might think she kept a cat. What a miser she was!

Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always make
her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi manca la voce,"[1]
it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.

Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged to be
married,--but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave her
to rest in the grave.

Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall in
her heart. She used to go round among the families near, and search
out their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and malice
of her nature. This is a family grave. The members of this family held
so firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in no
other. If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain
subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he had
learned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the only
true one, because he belonged to the family. And it is well known that
if the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow at
midnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman and
all the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve at
night.

The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, "may
be continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued.
I come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not my
friends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of ground
in which to bury him or her. Then I bury them, as it were; there
they lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and better
characters. Their lives and their deeds, looked at after my own
fashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do. Then,
if any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about
it. Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good
temper. They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper written
by the people, with their hands guided. When the time comes for the
history of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will write
upon it as my epitaph--

"The man with a cheerful temper. "

And this is my story.


[1] "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice. "




THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE

It was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt the
deepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years old, the
joy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters, the elder of
whom was going to be confirmed, still remained: they were both good,
charming girls; but the lost child always seems the dearest; and
when it is youngest, and a son, it makes the trial still more heavy.
The sisters mourned as young hearts can mourn, and were especially
grieved at the sight of their parents' sorrow. The father's heart
was bowed down, but the mother sunk completely under the deep grief.
Day and night she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying
it in her bosom, as a part of herself. She could not realize the
fact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin to rest
in the ground. She thought God could not take her darling little one
from her; and when it did happen notwithstanding her hopes and her
belief, and there could be no more doubt on the subject, she said in
her feverish agony, "God does not know it. He has hard-hearted
ministering spirits on earth, who do according to their own will,
and heed not a mother's prayers. " Thus in her great grief she fell
away from her faith in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind
respecting death and a future state. She tried to believe that man was
but dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these doubts
were no support to her, nothing on which she could rest, and she
sunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In her darkest hours she
ceased to weep, and thought not of the young daughters who were
still left to her. The tears of her husband fell on her forehead,
but she took no notice of him; her thoughts were with her dead
child; her whole existence seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of
the little one and of every innocent word it had uttered.

The day of the little child's funeral came. For nights
previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning twilight of
this day she sunk from weariness into a deep sleep; in the mean time
the coffin was carried into a distant room, and there nailed down,
that she might not hear the blows of the hammer. When she awoke, and
wanted to see her child, the husband, with tears, said, "We have
closed the coffin; it was necessary to do so. "

"When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be better? "
she said with groans and tears.

The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate mother
sat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but she saw them
not; for her thoughts were far away from the domestic hearth. She gave
herself up to her grief, and it tossed her to and fro, as the sea
tosses a ship without compass or rudder.
So the day of the funeral
passed away, and similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain.
With tearful eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and
the afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their words
of comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could they speak,
when they were themselves so full of grief? It seemed as if she
would never again know sleep, and yet it would have been her best
friend, one who would have strengthened her body and poured peace into
her soul. They at last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would
lie as still as if she slept.

One night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to her
breathing, he quite believed that she had at length found rest and
relief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and soon sunk
himself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not notice that his
wife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided silently from the
house, to go where her thoughts constantly lingered--to the grave of
her child. She passed through the garden, to a path across a field
that led to the churchyard. No one saw her as she walked, nor did
she see any one; for her eyes were fixed upon the one object of her
wanderings. It was a lovely starlight night in the beginning of
September, and the air was mild and still. She entered the
churchyard, and stood by the little grave, which looked like a large
nosegay of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over
the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth that
covered him--her little boy, whose smile was so vividly before her,
and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on his sick-bed, she
could not forget. How full of meaning that glance had been, as she
leaned over him, holding in hers the pale hand which he had no longer
strength to raise! As she had sat by his little cot, so now she sat
by his grave; and here she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon
it.

"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said a
voice quite close to her,--a voice that sounded so deep and clear,
that it went to her heart.

She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a black
cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her keen glance
could distinguish the face under the hood. It was stern, yet
awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with youthful radiance.

"Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and
entreaty sounded in the words.

"Darest thou to follow me? " asked the form. "I am Death. "

She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it appeared
as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon on
the many-colored flowers that decked the grave. The earth that covered
it was drawn back like a floating drapery. She sunk down, and the
spectre covered her with a black cloak; night closed around her, the
night of death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could
penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then the cloak
was removed, and she found herself in a large hall, of wide-spreading
dimensions, in which there was a subdued light, like twilight,
reigning, and in a moment her child appeared before her, smiling,
and more beautiful than ever; with a silent cry she pressed him
to her heart. A glorious strain of music sounded--now distant, now
near. Never had she listened to such tones as these; they came from
beyond a large dark curtain which separated the regions of death
from the land of eternity.

"My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It was the
well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in boundless
delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain. "There is nothing
so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother, do you not see them
all? Oh, it is happiness indeed. "

But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out, only the
dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the
child saw,--he whom God has called to be with Himself. She could
hear the sounds of music, but she heard not the words, the Word in
which she was to trust.

"I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with other
happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly
away now; but if you weep for me as you are weeping now, you may never
see me again. And yet I would go so gladly. May I not fly away? And
you will come to me soon, will you not, dear mother? "

"Oh, stay, stay! " implored the mother; "only one moment more; only
once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss thee, and press thee to
my heart. "

Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name was
called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in a plaintive
voice.

"Hearest thou? " said the child. "It is my father who calls
thee. " And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of children
weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child. "Mother, surely you
have not forgotten them. "

And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great
terror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night. Dim
forms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as they
floated through the regions of death towards the dark curtain, where
they vanished. Would her husband and her daughters flit past? No;
their sighs and lamentations still sounded from above; and she had
nearly forgotten them, for the sake of him who was dead.

"Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing," said the child;
"mother, the sun is going to rise. "

An overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had
vanished, and she was being borne upwards. All around her became cold;
she lifted her head, and saw that she was lying in the churchyard,
on the grave of her child. The Lord, in a dream, had been a guide to
her feet and a light to her spirit. She bowed her knees, and prayed
for forgiveness. She had wished to keep back a soul from its
immortal flight; she had forgotten her duties towards the living who
were left her. And when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt
lighter. The sun burst forth, over her head a little bird carolled his
song, and the church-bells sounded for the early service. Everything
around her seemed holy, and her heart was chastened. She
acknowledged the goodness of God, she acknowledged the duties she
had to perform, and eagerly she returned home. She bent over her
husband, who still slept; her warm, devoted kiss awakened him, and
words of heartfelt love fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle
and strong as a wife can be; and from her lips came the words of
faith: "Whatever He doeth is right and best. "

Then her husband asked, "From whence hast thou all at once derived
such strength and comforting faith? "

And as she kissed him and her children, she said, "It came from
God, through my child in the grave. "




CHILDREN'S PRATTLE

At a rich merchant's house there was a children's party, and the
children of rich and great people were there. The merchant was a
learned man, for his father had sent him to college, and he had passed
his examination. His father had been at first only a cattle dealer,
but always honest and industrious, so that he had made money, and
his son, the merchant, had managed to increase his store. Clever as he
was, he had also a heart; but there was less said of his heart than of
his money. All descriptions of people visited at the merchant's house,
well born, as well as intellectual, and some who possessed neither
of these recommendations.

Now it was a children's party, and there was children's prattle,
which always is spoken freely from the heart. Among them was a
beautiful little girl, who was terribly proud; but this had been
taught her by the servants, and not by her parents, who were far too
sensible people.

Her father was groom of the Chambers, which is a high office at
court, and she knew it. "I am a child of the court," she said; now she
might just as well have been a child of the cellar, for no one can
help his birth; and then she told the other children that she was
well-born, and said that no one who was not well-born could rise in
the world. It was no use to read and be industrious, for if a person
was not well-born, he could never achieve anything. "And those whose
names end with 'sen,'" said she, "can never be anything at all. We
must put our arms akimbo, and make the elbow quite pointed, so as to
keep these 'sen' people at a great distance. " And then she stuck out
her pretty little arms, and made the elbows quite pointed, to show how
it was to be done; and her little arms were very pretty, for she was a
sweet-looking child.

But the little daughter of the merchant became very angry at
this speech, for her father's name was Petersen, and she knew that the
name ended in "sen," and therefore she said as proudly as she could,
"But my papa can buy a hundred dollars' worth of bonbons, and give
them away to children. Can your papa do that? "

"Yes; and my papa," said the little daughter of the editor of a
paper, "my papa can put your papa and everybody's papa into the
newspaper. All sorts of people are afraid of him, my mamma says, for
he can do as he likes with the paper. " And the little maiden looked
exceedingly proud, as if she had been a real princess, who may be
expected to look proud.

But outside the door, which stood ajar, was a poor boy, peeping
through the crack of the door. He was of such a lowly station that
he had not been allowed even to enter the room. He had been turning
the spit for the cook, and she had given him permission to stand
behind the door and peep in at the well-dressed children, who were
having such a merry time within; and for him that was a great deal.
"Oh, if I could be one of them," thought he, and then he heard what
was said about names, which was quite enough to make him more unhappy.
His parents at home had not even a penny to spare to buy a
newspaper, much less could they write in one; and worse than all,
his father's name, and of course his own, ended in "sen," and
therefore he could never turn out well, which was a very sad
thought. But after all, he had been born into the world, and the
station of life had been chosen for him, therefore he must be content.

And this is what happened on that evening.


Many years passed, and most of the children became grown-up
persons.

There stood a splendid house in the town, filled with all kinds of
beautiful and valuable objects. Everybody wished to see it, and people
even came in from the country round to be permitted to view the
treasures it contained.

Which of the children whose prattle we have described, could
call this house his own? One would suppose it very easy to guess.
No, no; it is not so very easy. The house belonged to the poor
little boy who had stood on that night behind the door. He had
really become something great, although his name ended in "sen,"--for
it was Thorwaldsen.

And the three other children--the children of good birth, of
money, and of intellectual pride,--well, they were respected and
honored in the world, for they had been well provided for by birth and
position, and they had no cause to reproach themselves with what
they had thought and spoken on that evening long ago, for, after
all, it was mere "children's prattle. "




THE FARM-YARD COCK AND THE WEATHER-COCK

There were two cocks--one on the dung-hill, the other on the roof.
They were both arrogant, but which of the two rendered most service?
Tell us your opinion--we'll keep to ours just the same though.

The poultry yard was divided by some planks from another yard in
which there was a dung-hill, and on the dung-hill lay and grew a large
cucumber which was conscious of being a hot-bed plant.

"One is born to that," said the cucumber to itself. "Not all can
be born cucumbers; there must be other things, too. The hens, the
ducks, and all the animals in the next yard are creatures too. Now I
have a great opinion of the yard cock on the plank; he is certainly of
much more importance than the weather-cock who is placed so high and
can't even creak, much less crow. The latter has neither hens nor
chicks, and only thinks of himself and perspires verdigris. No, the
yard cock is really a cock! His step is a dance! His crowing is music,
and wherever he goes one knows what a trumpeter is like! If he would
only come in here! Even if he ate me up stump, stalk, and all, and I
had to dissolve in his body, it would be a happy death," said the
cucumber.

In the night there was a terrible storm. The hens, chicks, and
even the cock sought shelter; the wind tore down the planks between
the two yards with a crash; the tiles came tumbling down, but the
weather-cock sat firm. He did not even turn round, for he could not;
and yet he was young and freshly cast, but prudent and sedate. He
had been born old, and did not at all resemble the birds flying in the
air--the sparrows, and the swallows; no, he despised them, these
mean little piping birds, these common whistlers. He admitted that the
pigeons, large and white and shining like mother-o'-pearl, looked like
a kind of weather-cock; but they were fat and stupid, and all their
thoughts and endeavours were directed to filling themselves with food,
and besides, they were tiresome things to converse with. The birds
of passage had also paid the weather-cock a visit and told him of
foreign countries, of airy caravans and robber stories that made one's
hair stand on end. All this was new and interesting; that is, for
the first time, but afterwards, as the weather-cock found out, they
repeated themselves and always told the same stories, and that's
very tedious, and there was no one with whom one could associate,
for one and all were stale and small-minded.

"The world is no good! " he said. "Everything in it is so stupid. "

The weather-cock was puffed up, and that quality would have made
him interesting in the eyes of the cucumber if it had known it, but it
had eyes only for the yard cock, who was now in the yard with it.

The wind had blown the planks, but the storm was over.

"What do you think of that crowing? " said the yard cock to the
hens and chickens. "It was a little rough--it wanted elegance. "

And the hens and chickens came up on the dung-hill, and the cock
strutted about like a lord.

"Garden plant! " he said to the cucumber, and in that one word
his deep learning showed itself, and it forgot that he was pecking
at her and eating it up. "A happy death! "

The hens and the chickens came, for where one runs the others
run too; they clucked, and chirped, and looked at the cock, and were
proud that he was of their kind.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo! " he crowed, "the chickens will grow up into
great hens at once, if I cry it out in the poultry-yard of the world! "

And hens and chicks clucked and chirped, and the cock announced
a great piece of news.

"A cock can lay an egg! And do you know what's in that egg? A
basilisk. No one can stand the sight of such a thing; people know
that, and now you know it too--you know what is in me, and what a
champion of all cocks I am! "

With that the yard cock flapped his wings, made his comb swell up,
and crowed again; and they all shuddered, the hens and the little
chicks--but they were very proud that one of their number was such a
champion of all cocks. They clucked and chirped till the
weather-cock heard; he heard it; but he did not stir.

"Everything is very stupid," the weather-cock said to himself.
"The yard cock lays no eggs, and I am too lazy to do so; if I liked, I
could lay a wind-egg. But the world is not worth even a wind-egg.
Everything is so stupid! I don't want to sit here any longer. "

With that the weather-cock broke off; but he did not kill the yard
cock, although the hens said that had been his intention. And what
is the moral? "Better to crow than to be puffed up and break off! "




THE DAISY

Now listen! In the country, close by the high road, stood a
farmhouse; perhaps you have passed by and seen it yourself. There
was a little flower garden with painted wooden palings in front of it;
close by was a ditch, on its fresh green bank grew a little daisy; the
sun shone as warmly and brightly upon it as on the magnificent
garden flowers, and therefore it thrived well. One morning it had
quite opened, and its little snow-white petals stood round the
yellow centre, like the rays of the sun. It did not mind that nobody
saw it in the grass, and that it was a poor despised flower; on the
contrary, it was quite happy, and turned towards the sun, looking
upward and listening to the song of the lark high up in the air.

The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great
holiday, but it was only Monday. All the children were at school,
and while they were sitting on the forms and learning their lessons,
it sat on its thin green stalk and learnt from the sun and from its
surroundings how kind God is, and it rejoiced that the song of the
little lark expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own feelings. With
a sort of reverence the daisy looked up to the bird that could fly and
sing, but it did not feel envious. "I can see and hear," it thought;
"the sun shines upon me, and the forest kisses me. How rich I am! "

In the garden close by grew many large and magnificent flowers,
and, strange to say, the less fragrance they had the haughtier and
prouder they were. The peonies puffed themselves up in order to be
larger than the roses, but size is not everything! The tulips had
the finest colours, and they knew it well, too, for they were standing
bolt upright like candles, that one might see them the better. In
their pride they did not see the little daisy, which looked over to
them and thought, "How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the
pretty bird will fly down and call upon them. Thank God, that I
stand so near and can at least see all the splendour. " And while the
daisy was still thinking, the lark came flying down, crying "Tweet,"
but not to the peonies and tulips--no, into the grass to the poor
daisy. Its joy was so great that it did not know what to think. The
little bird hopped round it and sang, "How beautifully soft the
grass is, and what a lovely little flower with its golden heart and
silver dress is growing here. " The yellow centre in the daisy did
indeed look like gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as
silver.

How happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea. The bird
kissed it with its beak, sang to it, and then rose again up to the
blue sky. It was certainly more than a quarter of an hour before the
daisy recovered its senses. Half ashamed, yet glad at heart, it looked
over to the other flowers in the garden; surely they had witnessed its
pleasure and the honour that had been done to it; they understood
its joy. But the tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces were
pointed and red, because they were vexed. The peonies were sulky; it
was well that they could not speak, otherwise they would have given
the daisy a good lecture. The little flower could very well see that
they were ill at ease, and pitied them sincerely.

Shortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a large sharp
knife. She went to the tulips and began cutting them off, one after
another. "Ugh! " sighed the daisy, "that is terrible; now they are done
for. "

The girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad that it was
outside, and only a small flower--it felt very grateful. At sunset
it folded its petals, and fell asleep, and dreamt all night of the sun
and the little bird.

On the following morning, when the flower once more stretched
forth its tender petals, like little arms, towards the air and
light, the daisy recognised the bird's voice, but what it sang sounded
so sad. Indeed the poor bird had good reason to be sad, for it had
been caught and put into a cage close by the open window. It sang of
the happy days when it could merrily fly about, of fresh green corn in
the fields, and of the time when it could soar almost up to the
clouds. The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage. The
little daisy would have liked so much to help it, but what could be
done? Indeed, that was very difficult for such a small flower to
find out. It entirely forgot how beautiful everything around it was,
how warmly the sun was shining, and how splendidly white its own
petals were. It could only think of the poor captive bird, for which
it could do nothing.