No More Learning

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.

"What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,"
said she. "Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me as
if I have seen the face somewhere. "

"No, that is impossible," replied the old grandfather; "but I have
seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained it
in my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay in
the roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true,
ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron;
I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He
sung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were
something more than a man. I still remember his face, but from
whence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I have
often thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swam
down to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. That
was my idea, and there stands his likeness. "

The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even on
part of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stood
behind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by the
flame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-law
kissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by the
table; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man and
the father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper with
him. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish
hearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quite
clearly that there is another strength than that which lies in a
sword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,
and amongst them a collection of Holberg's plays, which are much
read and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we have
known the people of those days, who are described in them.

"He knew how to fight also," said the old man; "for he lashed
the follies and prejudices of people during his whole life. "

Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,
where hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower upon
it, and said "Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, but
not one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of the
stars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whose
father belonged to my calling,--yes, he, the son of the old
image-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks
and his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;--yes, he
was a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear
in marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear of
the strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel. "

But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of
Kronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far down
in the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming of
everything that was passing above him.

And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which the
image-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded in
his dream, saying, "Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep me
in your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need. "

The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the wind
brought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboring
shores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom of
the cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, "Boom, boom. " But
the roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only
"Good morning," and "Thank you. " They must fire in another fashion
before he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet in
Holger Danske.




IB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA

In the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North
Jutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clear
stream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through the
wood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and not far from the
river, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that the sandy
soil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat which
grow in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived here
cultivated these fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen;
in fact they maintained themselves very well, they had quite enough to
live upon, as people generally have who are content with their lot.
They even could have afforded to keep two horses, but it was a
saying among the farmers in those parts, "The horse eats himself
up;" that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Jans
cultivated his fields in summer, and in the winter he made wooden
shoes. He also had an assistant, a lad who understood as well as he
himself did how to make wooden shoes strong, but light, and in the
fashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well; therefore no
one could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. Little
Ib, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by,
watching the workmen, or cutting a stick, and sometimes his finger
instead of the stick. But one day Ib succeeded so well in his
carving that he made two pieces of wood look really like two little
wooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to Little
Christina.

"And who was Little Christina? " She was the boatman's daughter,
graceful and delicate as the child of a gentleman; had she been
dressed differently, no one would have believed that she lived in a
hut on the neighboring heath with her father. He was a widower, and
earned his living by carrying firewood in his large boat from the
forest to the eel-pond and eel-weir, on the estate of Silkborg, and
sometimes even to the distant town of Randers. There was no one
under whose care he could leave Little Christina; so she was almost
always with him in his boat, or playing in the wood among the
blossoming heath, or picking the ripe wild berries. Sometimes, when
her father had to go as far as the town, he would take Little
Christina, who was a year younger than Ib, across the heath to the
cottage of Jeppe Jans, and leave her there. Ib and Christina agreed
together in everything; they divided their bread and berries when they
were hungry; they were partners in digging their little gardens;
they ran, and crept, and played about everywhere. Once they wandered a
long way into the forest, and even ventured together to climb the high
ridge. Another time they found a few snipes' eggs in the wood, which
was a great event. Ib had never been on the heath where Christina's
father lived, nor on the river; but at last came an opportunity.
Christina's father invited him to go for a sail in his boat; and the
evening before, he accompanied the boatman across the heath to his
house. The next morning early, the two children were placed on the top
of a high pile of firewood in the boat, and sat eating bread and
wild strawberries, while Christina's father and his man drove the boat
forward with poles. They floated on swiftly, for the tide was in their
favor, passing over lakes, formed by the stream in its course;
sometimes they seemed quite enclosed by reeds and water-plants, yet
there was always room for them to pass out, although the old trees
overhung the water and the old oaks stretched out their bare branches,
as if they had turned up their sleeves and wished to show their
knotty, naked arms. Old alder-trees, whose roots were loosened from
the banks, clung with their fibres to the bottom of the stream, and
the tops of the branches above the water looked like little woody
islands. The water-lilies waved themselves to and fro on the river,
everything made the excursion beautiful, and at last they came to
the great eel-weir, where the water rushed through the flood-gates;
and the children thought this a beautiful sight. In those days there
was no factory nor any town house, nothing but the great farm, with
its scanty-bearing fields, in which could be seen a few herd of
cattle, and one or two farm laborers. The rushing of the water through
the sluices, and the scream of the wild ducks, were almost the only
signs of active life at Silkborg. After the firewood had been
unloaded, Christina's father bought a whole bundle of eels and a
sucking-pig, which were all placed in a basket in the stern of the
boat. Then they returned again up the stream; and as the wind was
favorable, two sails were hoisted, which carried the boat on as well
as if two horses had been harnessed to it. As they sailed on, they
came by chance to the place where the boatman's assistant lived, at
a little distance from the bank of the river. The boat was moored; and
the two men, after desiring the children to sit still, both went on
shore. They obeyed this order for a very short time, and then forgot
it altogether. First they peeped into the basket containing the eels
and the sucking-pig; then they must needs pull out the pig and take it
in their hands, and feel it, and touch it; and as they both wanted
to hold it at the same time, the consequence was that they let it fall
into the water, and the pig sailed away with the stream.

Here was a terrible disaster. Ib jumped ashore, and ran a little
distance from the boat.

"Oh, take me with you," cried Christina; and she sprang after him.
In a few minutes they found themselves deep in a thicket, and could no
longer see the boat or the shore. They ran on a little farther, and
then Christina fell down, and began to cry.

Ib helped her up, and said, "Never mind; follow me. Yonder is
the house. " But the house was not yonder; and they wandered still
farther, over the dry rustling leaves of the last year, and treading
on fallen branches that crackled under their little feet; then they
heard a loud, piercing cry, and they stood still to listen.
Presently the scream of an eagle sounded through the wood; it was an
ugly cry, and it frightened the children; but before them, in the
thickest part of the forest, grew the most beautiful blackberries,
in wonderful quantities. They looked so inviting that the children
could not help stopping; and they remained there so long eating,
that their mouths and cheeks became quite black with the juice.

Presently they heard the frightful scream again, and Christina
said, "We shall get into trouble about that pig. "

"Oh, never mind," said Ib; "we will go home to my father's
house. It is here in the wood. " So they went on, but the road led them
out of the way; no house could be seen, it grew dark, and the children
were afraid. The solemn stillness that reigned around them was now and
then broken by the shrill cries of the great horned owl and other
birds that they knew nothing of. At last they both lost themselves
in the thicket; Christina began to cry, and then Ib cried too; and,
after weeping and lamenting for some time, they stretched themselves
down on the dry leaves and fell asleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when the two children woke. They
felt cold; but not far from their resting-place, on a hill, the sun
was shining through the trees. They thought if they went there they
should be warm, and Ib fancied he should be able to see his father's
house from such a high spot. But they were far away from home now,
in quite another part of the forest. They clambered to the top of
the rising ground, and found themselves on the edge of a declivity,
which sloped down to a clear transparent lake. Great quantities of
fish could be seen through the clear water, sparkling in the sun's
rays; they were quite surprised when they came so suddenly upon such
an unexpected sight.

Close to where they stood grew a hazel-bush, covered with
beautiful nuts. They soon gathered some, cracked them, and ate the
fine young kernels, which were only just ripe. But there was another
surprise and fright in store for them. Out of the thicket stepped a
tall old woman, her face quite brown, and her hair of a deep shining
black; the whites of her eyes glittered like a Moor's; on her back she
carried a bundle, and in her hand a knotted stick. She was a gypsy.
The children did not at first understand what she said. She drew out
of her pocket three large nuts, in which she told them were hidden the
most beautiful and lovely things in the world, for they were wishing
nuts. Ib looked at her, and as she spoke so kindly, he took courage,
and asked her if she would give him the nuts; and the woman gave
them to him, and then gathered some more from the bushes for
herself, quite a pocket full. Ib and Christina looked at the wishing
nuts with wide open eyes.

"Is there in this nut a carriage, with a pair of horses? " asked
Ib.

"Yes, there is a golden carriage, with two golden horses," replied
the woman.

"Then give me that nut," said Christina; so Ib gave it to her, and
the strange woman tied up the nut for her in her handkerchief.

Ib held up another nut. "Is there, in this nut, a pretty little
neckerchief like the one Christina has on her neck? " asked Ib.

"There are ten neckerchiefs in it," she replied, "as well as
beautiful dresses, stockings, and a hat and veil. "

"Then I will have that one also," said Christina; "and it is a
pretty one too. " And then Ib gave her the second nut.

The third was a little black thing. "You may keep that one,"
said Christina; "it is quite as pretty. "

"What is in it? " asked Ib.

"The best of all things for you," replied the gypsy. So Ib held
the nut very tight.

Then the woman promised to lead the children to the right path,
that they might find their way home: and they went forward certainly
in quite another direction to the one they meant to take; therefore no
one ought to speak against the woman, and say that she wanted to steal
the children. In the wild wood-path they met a forester who knew Ib,
and, by his help, Ib and Christina reached home, where they found
every one had been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and
forgiven, although they really had both done wrong, and deserved to
get into trouble; first, because they had let the sucking-pig fall
into the water; and, secondly, because they had run away. Christina
was taken back to her father's house on the heath, and Ib remained
in the farm-house on the borders of the wood, near the great land
ridge.

The first thing Ib did that evening was to take out of his
pocket the little black nut, in which the best thing of all was said
to be enclosed. He laid it carefully between the door and the
door-post, and then shut the door so that the nut cracked directly.
But there was not much kernel to be seen; it was what we should call
hollow or worm-eaten, and looked as if it had been filled with tobacco
or rich black earth.
"It is just what I expected! " exclaimed Ib.
"How should there be room in a little nut like this for the best thing
of all? Christina will find her two nuts just the same; there will
be neither fine clothes or a golden carriage in them. "

Winter came; and the new year, and indeed many years passed
away; until Ib was old enough to be confirmed, and, therefore, he went
during a whole winter to the clergyman of the nearest village to be
prepared.

One day, about this time, the boatman paid a visit to Ib's
parents, and told them that Christina was going to service, and that
she had been remarkably fortunate in obtaining a good place, with most
respectable people. "Only think," he said, "She is going to the rich
innkeeper's, at the hotel in Herning, many miles west from here. She
is to assist the landlady in the housekeeping; and, if afterwards
she behaves well and remains to be confirmed, the people will treat
her as their own daughter. "

So Ib and Christina took leave of each other. People already
called them "the betrothed," and at parting the girl showed Ib the two
nuts, which she had taken care of ever since the time that they lost
themselves in the wood; and she told him also that the little wooden
shoes he once carved for her when he was a boy, and gave her as a
present, had been carefully kept in a drawer ever since. And so they
parted.

After Ib's confirmation, he remained at home with his mother,
for he had become a clever shoemaker, and in summer managed the farm
for her quite alone. His father had been dead some time, and his
mother kept no farm servants. Sometimes, but very seldom, he heard
of Christina, through a postillion or eel-seller who was passing.
But she was well off with the rich innkeeper; and after being
confirmed she wrote a letter to her father, in which was a kind
message to Ib and his mother. In this letter, she mentioned that her
master and mistress had made her a present of a beautiful new dress,
and some nice under-clothes. This was, of course, pleasant news.

One day, in the following spring, there came a knock at the door
of the house where Ib's old mother lived; and when they opened it,
lo and behold, in stepped the boatman and Christina. She had come to
pay them a visit, and to spend the day. A carriage had to come from
the Herning hotel to the next village, and she had taken the
opportunity to see her friends once more. She looked as elegant as a
real lady, and wore a pretty dress, beautifully made on purpose for
her. There she stood, in full dress, while Ib wore only his working
clothes. He could not utter a word; he could only seize her hand and
hold it fast in his own, but he felt too happy and glad to open his
lips. Christina, however, was quite at her ease; she talked and
talked, and kissed him in the most friendly manner. Even afterwards,
when they were left alone, and she asked, "Did you know me again, Ib? "
he still stood holding her hand, and said at last, "You are become
quite a grand lady, Christina, and I am only a rough working man;
but I have often thought of you and of old times. " Then they
wandered up the great ridge, and looked across the stream to the
heath, where the little hills were covered with the flowering broom.
Ib said nothing; but before the time came for them to part, it
became quite clear to him that Christina must be his wife: had they
not even in childhood been called the betrothed? To him it seemed as
if they were really engaged to each other, although not a word had
been spoken on the subject. They had only a few more hours to remain
together, for Christina was obliged to return that evening to the
neighboring village, to be ready for the carriage which was to start
the next morning early for Herning. Ib and her father accompanied
her to the village. It was a fine moonlight evening; and when they
arrived, Ib stood holding Christina's hand in his, as if he could
not let her go. His eyes brightened, and the words he uttered came
with hesitation from his lips, but from the deepest recesses of his
heart: "Christina, if you have not become too grand, and if you can be
contented to live in my mother's house as my wife, we will be
married some day. But we can wait for a while. "

"Oh yes," she replied; "Let us wait a little longer, Ib. I can
trust you, for I believe that I do love you. But let me think it
over. " Then he kissed her lips; and so they parted.

On the way home, Ib told the boatman that he and Christina were as
good as engaged to each other; and the boatman found out that he had
always expected it would be so, and went home with Ib that evening,
and remained the night in the farmhouse; but nothing further was
said of the engagement. During the next year, two letters passed
between Ib and Christina. They were signed, "Faithful till death;" but
at the end of that time, one day the boatman came over to see Ib, with
a kind greeting from Christina. He had something else to say, which
made him hesitate in a strange manner. At last it came out that
Christina, who had grown a very pretty girl, was more lucky than ever.
She was courted and admired by every one; but her master's son, who
had been home on a visit, was so much pleased with Christina that he
wished to marry her. He had a very good situation in an office at
Copenhagen, and as she had also taken a liking for him, his parents
were not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart, often
thought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt
inclined to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib
said not a word, but he became as white as the wall, and shook his
head gently, and then he spoke,--"Christina must not refuse this
good fortune. "

"Then will you write a few words to her? " said the boatman.

Ib sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words
were not what he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The
following morning, however, a letter lay ready to be sent to
Christina, and the following is what he wrote:--

"The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see
from it that you are prosperous in everything, and that still better
fortune is in store for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and
think over carefully what awaits you if you take me for your
husband, for I possess very little in the world. Do not think of me or
of my position; think only of your own welfare. You are bound to me by
no promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release you
from it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you,
Christina. Heaven will give me the heart's consolation. "

"Ever your sincere friend, IB. "


This letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In
the course of the following November, her banns were published in
the church on the heath, and also in Copenhagen, where the
bridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen under the protection
of her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not spare
time from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into
Jutland. On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the
villages through which they passed, and here he took leave of her.
Very little was said about the matter to Ib, and he did not refer to
it; his mother, however, noticed that he had grown very silent and
pensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the three nuts
came into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child,
and of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts,
after all, had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded
carriage and noble horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of
these Christina would now have in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part
had come true. And for him the nut had contained only black earth. The
gypsy woman had said it was the best for him. Perhaps it was, and this
also would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman's meaning
now. The black earth--the dark grave--was the best thing for him now.

Again years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to
Ib. The old innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the
whole of their property, many thousand dollars, was inherited by their
son. Christina could have the golden carriage now, and plenty of
fine clothes. During the two long years which followed, no letter came
from Christina to her father; and when at last her father received one
from her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor Christina!
Neither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save, and
the riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked
for it.

Years passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with
bloom; in winter the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew
across the ridge under which stood Ib's sheltered home. One spring day
the sun shone brightly, and he was guiding the plough across his
field. The ploughshare struck against something which he fancied was a
firestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a splinter of
shining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed
brightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet
of superior workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had
disturbed a Hun's grave. He searched further, and found more
valuable treasures, which Ib showed to the clergyman, who explained
their value to him. Then he went to the magistrate, who informed the
president of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to take the
treasures himself to the president.

"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,"
said the magistrate.

"The best thing," thought Ib; "the very best thing for me,--and
found in the earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was
right in her prophecy. "

So Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who
had only sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this
seemed like a voyage on the ocean; and at length he arrived at
Copenhagen. The value of the gold he had found was paid to him; it was
a large sum--six hundred dollars. Then Ib of the heath went out, and
wandered about in the great city.

On the evening before the day he had settled to return with the
captain of the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and
took quite a different turning to the one he wished to follow. He
wandered on till he found himself in a poor street of the suburb
called Christian's Haven. Not a creature could be seen. At last a very
little girl came out of one of the wretched-looking houses, and Ib
asked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked up
timidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the
matter; but what she said he could not understand. So he went along
the street with her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell
on the little girl's face. A strange sensation came over Ib, as he
caught sight of it. The living, breathing embodiment of Little
Christina stood before him, just as he remembered her in the days of
her childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in
the roof. The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was
burning, and from one corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It
was the mother of the child who lay there on a miserable bed. With the
help of a match, Ib struck a light, and approached her.

"Can I be of any service to you? " he asked. "This little girl
brought me up here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no
neighbors or any one whom I can call? "

Then he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her
pillow. He started as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one
had mentioned her name to Ib for years; it would have disturbed his
peace of mind, especially as the reports respecting her were not good.
The wealth which her husband had inherited from his parents had made
him proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment, and
travelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had
lived in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had
trembled on the high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till
at last he toppled over, and ruin came. His numerous merry companions,
and the visitors at his table, said it served him right, for he had
kept house like a madman. One morning his corpse was found in the
canal. The cold hand of death had already touched the heart of
Christina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of
prosperity, had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and
at last Christina herself became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken
and dying, in a miserable room, amid poverty she might have borne in
her younger days, but which was now more painful to her from the
luxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her eldest
child, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home,
where she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.

"It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor
child," sighed she. "Oh, what will become of her? " She could say no
more.

Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle
which he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the
wretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of
Christina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love this
child, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dying
woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He
never knew; for not another word escaped her lips.

* * * * *

In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and
beneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and
whitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the
heath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the
boatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood
safely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turf
blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the
sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones
from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All
was life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to her
both father and mother; her own parents had vanished from her
memory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib's
house was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man
now, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at
Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now--money
which had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina for
his own, after all.




THE ICE MAIDEN

I. LITTLE RUDY

We will pay a visit to Switzerland, and wander through that
country of mountains, whose steep and rocky sides are overgrown with
forest trees. Let us climb to the dazzling snow-fields at their
summits, and descend again to the green meadows beneath, through which
rivers and brooks rush along as if they could not quickly enough reach
the sea and vanish. Fiercely shines the sun over those deep valleys,
as well as upon the heavy masses of snow which lie on the mountains.

During the year these accumulations thaw or fall in the rolling
avalance, or are piled up in shining glaciers. Two of these glaciers
lie in the broad, rocky cliffs, between the Schreckhorn and the
Wetterhorn, near the little town of Grindelwald. They are wonderful to
behold, and therefore in the summer time strangers come here from
all parts of the world to see them. They cross snow-covered mountains,
and travel through the deep valleys, or ascend for hours, higher and
still higher, the valleys appearing to sink lower and lower as they
proceed, and become as small as if seen from an air balloon. Over
the lofty summits of these mountains the clouds often hang like a dark
veil; while beneath in the valley, where many brown, wooden houses are
scattered about, the bright rays of the sun may be shining upon a
little brilliant patch of green, making it appear almost
transparent. The waters foam and dash along in the valleys beneath;
the streams from above trickle and murmur as they fall down the
rocky mountain's side, looking like glittering silver bands.

On both sides of the mountain-path stand these little wooden
houses; and, as within, there are many children and many mouths to
feed, each house has its own little potato garden. These children rush
out in swarms, and surround travellers, whether on foot or in
carriages. They are all clever at making a bargain. They offer for
sale the sweetest little toy-houses, models of the mountain cottages
in Switzerland. Whether it be rain or sunshine, these crowds of
children are always to be seen with their wares.

About twenty years ago, there might be seen occasionally, standing
at a short distance from the other children, a little boy, who was
also anxious to sell his curious wares. He had an earnest,
expressive countenance, and held the box containing his carved toys
tightly with both hands, as if unwilling to part with it. His
earnest look, and being also a very little boy, made him noticed by
the strangers; so that he often sold the most, without knowing why. An
hour's walk farther up the ascent lived his grandfather, who cut and
carved the pretty little toy-houses; and in the old man's room stood a
large press, full of all sorts of carved things--nut-crackers,
knives and forks, boxes with beautifully carved foliage, leaping
chamois. It contained everything that could delight the eyes of a
child. But the boy, who was named Rudy, looked with still greater
pleasure and longing at some old fire-arms which hung upon the
rafters, under the ceiling of the room. His grandfather promised him
that he should have them some day, but that he must first grow big and
strong, and learn how to use them. Small as he was, the goats were
placed in his care, and a good goat-keeper should also be a good
climber, and such Rudy was; he sometimes, indeed, climbed higher
than the goats, for he was fond of seeking for birds'-nests at the top
of high trees; he was bold and daring, but was seldom seen to smile,
excepting when he stood by the roaring cataract, or heard the
descending roll of the avalanche. He never played with the other
children, and was not seen with them, unless his grandfather sent
him down to sell his curious workmanship. Rudy did not much like
trade; he loved to climb the mountains, or to sit by his grandfather
and listen to his tales of olden times, or of the people in Meyringen,
the place of his birth.

"In the early ages of the world," said the old man, "these
people could not be found in Switzerland. They are a colony from the
north, where their ancestors still dwell, and are called Swedes. "

This was something for Rudy to know, but he learnt more from other
sources, particularly from the domestic animals who belonged to the
house. One was a large dog, called Ajola, which had belonged to his
father; and the other was a tom-cat. This cat stood very high in
Rudy's favor, for he had taught him to climb.

"Come out on the roof with me," said the cat; and Rudy quite
understood him, for the language of fowls, ducks, cats, and dogs, is
as easily understood by a young child as his own native tongue. But it
must be at the age when grandfather's stick becomes a neighing
horse, with head, legs, and tail. Some children retain these ideas
later than others, and they are considered backwards and childish
for their age. People say so; but is it so?

"Come out on the roof with me, little Rudy," was the first thing
he heard the cat say, and Rudy understood him. "What people say
about falling down is all nonsense," continued the cat; "you will
not fall, unless you are afraid. Come, now, set one foot here and
another there, and feel your way with your fore-feet. Keep your eyes
wide open, and move softly, and if you come to a hole jump over it,
and cling fast as I do. " And this was just what Rudy did. He was often
on the sloping roof with the cat, or on the tops of high trees. But,
more frequently, higher still on the ridges of the rocks where puss
never came.

"Higher, higher! " cried the trees and the bushes, "see to what
height we have grown, and how fast we hold, even to the narrow edges
of the rocks. "

Rudy often reached the top of the mountain before the sunrise, and
there inhaled his morning draught of the fresh, invigorating
mountain air,--God's own gift, which men call the sweet fragrance of
plant and herb on the mountain-side, and the mint and wild thyme in
the valleys. The overhanging clouds absorb all heaviness from the air,
and the winds convey them away over the pine-tree summits. The
spirit of fragrance, light and fresh, remained behind, and this was
Rudy's morning draught. The sunbeams--those blessing-bringing
daughters of the sun--kissed his cheeks. Vertigo might be lurking on
the watch, but he dared not approach him. The swallows, who had not
less than seven nests in his grandfather's house, flew up to him and
his goats, singing, "We and you, you and we. " They brought him
greetings from his grandfather's house, even from two hens, the only
birds of the household; but Rudy was not intimate with them.

Although so young and such a little fellow, Rudy had travelled a
great deal. He was born in the canton of Valais, and brought to his
grandfather over the mountains. He had walked to Staubbach--a little
town that seems to flutter in the air like a silver veil--the
glittering, snow-clad mountain Jungfrau. He had also been to the great
glaciers; but this is connected with a sad story, for here his
mother met her death, and his grandfather used to say that all
Rudy's childish merriment was lost from that time. His mother had
written in a letter, that before he was a year old he had laughed more
than he cried; but after his fall into the snow-covered crevasse,
his disposition had completely changed. The grandfather seldom spoke
of this, but the fact was generally known. Rudy's father had been a
postilion, and the large dog which now lived in his grandfather's
cottage had always followed him on his journeys over the Simplon to
the lake of Geneva. Rudy's relations, on his father's side, lived in
the canton of Valais, in the valley of the Rhone. His uncle was a
chamois hunter, and a well-known guide. Rudy was only a year old
when his father died, and his mother was anxious to return with her
child to her own relations, who lived in the Bernese Oberland. Her
father dwelt at a few hours' distance from Grindelwald; he was a
carver in wood, and gained so much by it that he had plenty to live
upon. She set out homewards in the month of June, carrying her
infant in her arms, and, accompanied by two chamois hunters, crossed
the Gemmi on her way to Grindelwald. They had already left more than
half the journey behind them. They had crossed high ridges, and
traversed snow-fields; they could even see her native valley, with its
familiar wooden cottages. They had only one more glacier to climb.