No More Learning

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. Then two little boys came out of the garden;
one of them had a large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had
cut the tulips. They came straight towards the little daisy, which
could not understand what they wanted.

"Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark," said one of the boys,
and began to cut out a square round the daisy, so that it remained
in the centre of the grass.

"Pluck the flower off," said the other boy, and the daisy
trembled for fear, for to be pulled off meant death to it; and it
wished so much to live, as it was to go with the square of turf into
the poor captive lark's cage.

"No let it stay," said the other boy, "it looks so pretty. "

And so it stayed, and was brought into the lark's cage. The poor
bird was lamenting its lost liberty, and beating its wings against the
wires; and the little daisy could not speak or utter a consoling word,
much as it would have liked to do so. So the forenoon passed.

"I have no water," said the captive lark, "they have all gone out,
and forgotten to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and
burning. I feel as if I had fire and ice within me, and the air is
so oppressive. Alas! I must die, and part with the warm sunshine,
the fresh green meadows, and all the beauty that God has created. " And
it thrust its beak into the piece of grass, to refresh itself a
little. Then it noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed
it with its beak and said: "You must also fade in here, poor little
flower. You and the piece of grass are all they have given me in
exchange for the whole world, which I enjoyed outside. Each little
blade of grass shall be a green tree for me, each of your white petals
a fragrant flower. Alas! you only remind me of what I have lost. "

"I wish I could console the poor lark," thought the daisy. It
could not move one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its delicate
petals streamed forth, and was much stronger than such flowers usually
have: the bird noticed it, although it was dying with thirst, and in
its pain tore up the green blades of grass, but did not touch the
flower.

The evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a
drop of water; it opened its beautiful wings, and fluttered about in
its anguish; a faint and mournful "Tweet, tweet," was all it could
utter, then it bent its little head towards the flower, and its
heart broke for want and longing. The flower could not, as on the
previous evening, fold up its petals and sleep; it dropped
sorrowfully. The boys only came the next morning; when they saw the
dead bird, they began to cry bitterly, dug a nice grave for it, and
adorned it with flowers. The bird's body was placed in a pretty red
box; they wished to bury it with royal honours. While it was alive and
sang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage; now, they
cried over it and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf, with the
little daisy in it, was thrown out on the dusty highway. Nobody
thought of the flower which had felt so much for the bird and had so
greatly desired to comfort it.




THE DARNING-NEEDLE

There was once a darning-needle who thought herself so fine that
she fancied she must be fit for embroidery. "Hold me tight," she would
say to the fingers, when they took her up, "don't let me fall; if
you do I shall never be found again, I am so very fine. "

"That is your opinion, is it? " said the fingers, as they seized
her round the body.

"See, I am coming with a train," said the darning-needle,
drawing a long thread after her; but there was no knot in the thread.

The fingers then placed the point of the needle against the cook's
slipper. There was a crack in the upper leather, which had to be
sewn together.

"What coarse work! " said the darning-needle, "I shall never get
through. I shall break! --I am breaking! " and sure enough she broke.
"Did I not say so? " said the darning-needle, "I know I am too fine for
such work as that. "

"This needle is quite useless for sewing now," said the fingers;
but they still held it fast, and the cook dropped some sealing-wax
on the needle, and fastened her handkerchief with it in front.

"So now I am a breast-pin," said the darning-needle; "I knew
very well I should come to honor some day: merit is sure to rise;" and
she laughed, quietly to herself, for of course no one ever saw a
darning-needle laugh. And there she sat as proudly as if she were in a
state coach, and looked all around her. "May I be allowed to ask if
you are made of gold? " she inquired of her neighbor, a pin; "you
have a very pretty appearance, and a curious head, although you are
rather small. You must take pains to grow, for it is not every one who
has sealing-wax dropped upon him;" and as she spoke, the
darning-needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the
handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was cleaning. "Now
I am going on a journey," said the needle, as she floated away with
the dirty water, "I do hope I shall not be lost. " But she really was
lost in a gutter. "I am too fine for this world," said the
darning-needle, as she lay in the gutter; "but I know who I am, and
that is always some comfort. " So the darning-needle kept up her
proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor. Then there floated
over her all sorts of things,--chips and straws, and pieces of old
newspaper. "See how they sail," said the darning-needle; "they do
not know what is under them. I am here, and here I shall stick. See,
there goes a chip, thinking of nothing in the world but himself--only
a chip. There's a straw going by now; how he turns and twists
about! Don't be thinking too much of yourself, or you may chance to
run against a stone. There swims a piece of newspaper; what is written
upon it has been forgotten long ago, and yet it gives itself airs. I
sit here patiently and quietly. I know who I am, so I shall not move. "

One day something lying close to the darning-needle glittered so
splendidly that she thought it was a diamond; yet it was only a
piece of broken bottle. The darning-needle spoke to it, because it
sparkled, and represented herself as a breast-pin. "I suppose you
are really a diamond? " she said.

"Why yes, something of the kind," he replied; and so each believed
the other to be very valuable, and then they began to talk about the
world, and the conceited people in it.

"I have been in a lady's work-box," said the darning-needle,
"and this lady was the cook. She had on each hand five fingers, and
anything so conceited as these five fingers I have never seen; and yet
they were only employed to take me out of the box and to put me back
again. "

"Were they not high-born? "

"High-born! " said the darning-needle, "no indeed, but so
haughty. They were five brothers, all born fingers; they kept very
proudly together, though they were of different lengths. The one who
stood first in the rank was named the thumb, he was short and thick,
and had only one joint in his back, and could therefore make but one
bow; but he said that if he were cut off from a man's hand, that man
would be unfit for a soldier. Sweet-tooth, his neighbor, dipped
himself into sweet or sour, pointed to the sun and moon, and formed
the letters when the fingers wrote. Longman, the middle finger, looked
over the heads of all the others. Gold-band, the next finger, wore a
golden circle round his waist. And little Playman did nothing at
all, and seemed proud of it. They were boasters, and boasters they
will remain; and therefore I left them. "

"And now we sit here and glitter," said the piece of broken
bottle.

At the same moment more water streamed into the gutter, so that it
overflowed, and the piece of bottle was carried away.

"So he is promoted," said the darning-needle, "while I remain
here; I am too fine, but that is my pride, and what do I care? " And so
she sat there in her pride, and had many such thoughts as these,--"I
could almost fancy that I came from a sunbeam, I am so fine. It
seems as if the sunbeams were always looking for me under the water.
Ah! I am so fine that even my mother cannot find me. Had I still my
old eye, which was broken off, I believe I should weep; but no, I
would not do that, it is not genteel to cry. "

One day a couple of street boys were paddling in the gutter, for
they sometimes found old nails, farthings, and other treasures. It was
dirty work, but they took great pleasure in it. "Hallo! " cried one, as
he pricked himself with the darning-needle, "here's a fellow for you. "

"I am not a fellow, I am a young lady," said the darning-needle;
but no one heard her.

The sealing-wax had come off, and she was quite black; but black
makes a person look slender, so she thought herself even finer than
before.

"Here comes an egg-shell sailing along," said one of the boys;
so they stuck the darning-needle into the egg-shell.

"White walls, and I am black myself," said the darning-needle,
"that looks well; now I can be seen, but I hope I shall not be
sea-sick, or I shall break again. " She was not sea-sick, and she did
not break. "It is a good thing against sea-sickness to have a steel
stomach, and not to forget one's own importance. Now my sea-sickness
has past: delicate people can bear a great deal. "

Crack went the egg-shell, as a waggon passed over it. "Good
heavens, how it crushes! " said the darning-needle. "I shall be sick
now. I am breaking! " but she did not break, though the waggon went
over her as she lay at full length; and there let her lie.




DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING

There was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a
drawbridge which was but seldom let down:--not all guests are good
people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour
down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he
approach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings
of beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke
which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood
smouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and
proud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about
alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house,
to her belonged the castle.

Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her
people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennel
by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and
drank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was now
on the chain, she could not even bark.

But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;
they must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.

"Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember how
my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on the
wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride
until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as I
steal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of his
feet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretended
not to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. My
father has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will
free you, Mrs. Meta Mogen! "

Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain
and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.

"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly
rewarded! " said Meta Mogen.

"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.

The robbers were hanged.


There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs.
Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.

We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt
knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the
water, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow
roses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she
beams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide
world, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.
Delaying is not forgetting!

Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the
field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little
room looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only
see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But
to-day the sun shines here--the warm, beautiful sun of God is within
the little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where
formerly the wall was.

The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the
wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and
only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.

"The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the joy it
afforded me was infinitely great and sweet! "

And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in the
humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are also
afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forget
it. Delayed is not forgotten!


An old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busy
traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, we
remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; the
copper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;
the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single
servant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go
to church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifies
mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,
neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day she
was engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.

One day he came to her and said:

"We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basement
has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in my
heart; what do you advise me to do? "

"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your
happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but remember
this; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again. "

Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart
in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not help
asking him, "How are you? "

"Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the woman is
brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,
it will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now until
we meet before God! "

A week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,
that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old sweetheart is
dead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;
it sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.

The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points to the
same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and will
never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!


These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.
Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbook
are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!




THE DROP OF WATER

Of course you know what is meant by a magnifying glass--one of
those round spectacle-glasses that make everything look a hundred
times bigger than it is? When any one takes one of these and holds
it to his eye, and looks at a drop of water from the pond yonder, he
sees above a thousand wonderful creatures that are otherwise never
discerned in the water. But there they are, and it is no delusion.
It almost looks like a great plateful of spiders jumping about in a
crowd. And how fierce they are! They tear off each other's legs and
arms and bodies, before and behind; and yet they are merry and
joyful in their way.

Now, there once was an old man whom all the people called
Kribble-Krabble, for that was his name. He always wanted the best of
everything, and when he could not manage it otherwise, he did it by
magic.

There he sat one day, and held his magnifying-glass to his eye,
and looked at a drop of water that had been taken out of a puddle by
the ditch. But what a kribbling and krabbling was there! All the
thousands of little creatures hopped and sprang and tugged at one
another, and ate each other up.

"That is horrible! " said old Kribble-Krabble. "Can one not
persuade them to live in peace and quietness, so that each one may
mind his own business? "

And he thought it over and over, but it would not do, and so he
had recourse to magic.

"I must give them color, that they may be seen more plainly," said
he; and he poured something like a little drop of red wine into the
drop of water, but it was witches' blood from the lobes of the ear,
the finest kind, at ninepence a drop. And now the wonderful little
creatures were pink all over. It looked like a whole town of naked
wild men.

"What have you there? " asked another old magician, who had no
name--and that was the best thing about him.

"Yes, if you can guess what it is," said Kribble-Krabble, "I'll
make you a present of it. "

But it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.

And the magician who had no name looked through the
magnifying-glass.

It looked really like a great town reflected there, in which all
the people were running about without clothes. It was terrible! But it
was still more terrible to see how one beat and pushed the other,
and bit and hacked, and tugged and mauled him. Those at the top were
being pulled down, and those at the bottom were struggling upwards.

"Look! look! his leg is longer than mine! Bah! Away with it! There
is one who has a little bruise. It hurts him, but it shall hurt him
still more. "

And they hacked away at him, and they pulled at him, and ate him
up, because of the little bruise. And there was one sitting as still
as any little maiden, and wishing only for peace and quietness. But
now she had to come out, and they tugged at her, and pulled her about,
and ate her up.

"That's funny! " said the magician.

"Yes; but what do you think it is? " said Kribble-Krabble. "Can you
find that out? "

"Why, one can see that easily enough," said the other. "That's Paris,
or some other great city, for they're all alike. It's a great city! "

"It's a drop of puddle water! " said Kribble-Krabble.




THE DRYAD

We are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We
flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land.

Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers
ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door
we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come
to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the
shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly
opened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all
the other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck
out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots
exposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be
planted, and to flourish.

It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has
brought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For
years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree,
under which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children
listening to his stories.

The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for
the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time
when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above
the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever
be; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the
sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also,
as it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a
part of education.

The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine,
and the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human
voices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood
that of animals.

Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could
fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the
village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its
parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living
beings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one
place to another--beings with knowledge and delineation. They said
nothing at all; they were so clever!

And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little
goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The
swallow could describe all that very well, but, "Self is the man," she
said. "One ought to see these things one's self. " But how was the
Dryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with
being able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy
industry of men.

It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman
sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of
her sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with
admiration through all time.

Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of
Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the
First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.

The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less
attentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds
that went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that
she heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.

She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of
genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting
remained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much
better off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the
world, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.

France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look
across a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide,
with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the
most splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she,
never!

Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a
pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and
twining red flowers in her black hair.

"Don't go to Paris! " the old clergyman warned her. "Poor child! if
you go there, it will be your ruin. "

But she went for all that.

The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish, and
felt the same longing for the great city.


The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; the
birds were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.
Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a
grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat
a little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and
the old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw
her, and said:

"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor Mary! "

"That one poor? " thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress fit for
a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). "Oh, if
I were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up
into the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what
direction the town lies. "

Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw
in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear
moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her
pictures of the city and pictures from history.

The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the
cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a
blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before
her.

It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the
glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were
torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the
gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris. "

The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,
hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the
whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over
one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.

"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergyman
had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a
lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of
rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old
venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were
stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.

No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal
child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain
streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,
and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman
spoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a
drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.

"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like a
cloud, and never comes back! "

The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his
school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did
not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In
all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where,
at night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.

Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train,
whistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening,
towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the
trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the
country of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them
to Paris.

In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

"A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has
unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose
petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as
wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and
poetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands. "

"A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored
lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet
over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer
will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it
away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain. "


In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena
of war--a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe,
as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her
wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars,
however, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in
the East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into
reality.

"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it was said.
"Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor. "

The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master
Bloodless" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great
circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in
Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in
every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of flowers, everything that
mind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been
placed here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old
graves and turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.

The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small
portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if it is to be
understood and described.

Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a
wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this knickknacks from
all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale, for every
nation found some remembrance of home.

Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of
the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his sunny country, and
hastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the
fiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple
straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish peasant, with the Dannebrog
flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's wooden house from Dalarne, with its
wonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions,
kiosks, theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the
fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes, rare
trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self transported into
the tropical forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming
under one roof. What colors, what fragrance!

Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water,
and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the visitor seemed
to wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.

"All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and around
the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings moves like a
busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all feet
are equal to such a fatiguing journey.

Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer
after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the Seine. The
number of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm of
people on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages
and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All
these tributary streams flow in one direction--towards the Exhibition.
On every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the
world's bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a
murmuring from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of
the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the churches
mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the East.