No More Learning

Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow!


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
1
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, anything that touches thee,
Nay, sandals for those airy feet –
Thus to be pressed by thee were sweet!
Moore's Translation.
1
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(1805-1875)
BY BENJAMIN W. WELLS
»
HE place of Hans Christian Andersen in literature is that of
the “Children's Poet,” though his best poetry is prose.
He was born in the ancient Danish city of Odense, on April
20, 1805, of poor and shiftless parents. He had little regular instruc-
tion, and few childish associates. His youthful imagination was first
stimulated by La Fontaine's Fables) and the Arabian Nights,' and
he showed very early a dramatic instinct, trying to act and even to
imitate Shakespeare, though, as he says, “hardly able to spell a single
word correctly. ” It was therefore natural that the visit of a dramatic
company to Odense, in 1818, should fire his fancy to seek his theatri-
cal fortune in Copenhagen; whither he went in September, 1819, with
fifteen dollars in his pocket and a letter of introduction to a danseuse
at the Royal Theatre, who not unnaturally took her strange visitor
for a lunatic, and showed him the door. For four years he labored
diligently, suffered acutely, and produced nothing of value; though
he gained some influential friends, who persuaded the king to grant
him a scholarship for three years, that he might prepare for the
university.
Though he was neither a brilliant nor a docile pupil, he did not
exhaust the generous patience of his friends, who in 1829 enabled
him to publish by subscription his first book, A Journey on Foot
from Holm Canal to the East Point of Amager): a fantastic ara-
besque, partly plagiarized and partly parodied from the German
romanticists, but with a naïveté that might have disarmed criticism.
In 1831 there followed a volume of poems, the sentimental and
rather mawkish Fantasies and Sketches,' product of a journey in
Jutland and of a silly love affair. This book was so harshly criti-
cized that he resolved to seek a refuge and new literary inspiration
in a tour to Germany; for all through his life, traveling was Ander-
sen's stimulus and distraction, so that he compares himself, later, to
1


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
501
a pendulum bound to go backward and forward, tic, toc, tic, toc,
till the clock stops, and down I lie. ”
This German tour inspired his first worthy book, Silhouettes,'
with some really admirable pages of description. His success encour-
aged him to attempt the drama again, where he failed once more,
and betook himself for relief to Paris and Italy, with a brief stay in
the Jura Mountains, which is delightfully described in his novel,
(O. T. '
Ital had n him much the ame clarifying effect that it had
on Goethe; and his next book, the novel Improvisatore' (1835),
achieved and deserved a European recognition. Within ten years
the book was translated into six languages. It bears the mark of its
date in its romantic sentiments. There is indeed no firm character-
drawing, here or in any of his novels; but the book still claims
attention for its exquisite descriptions of Italian life and scenery.
The year 1835 saw also Andersen's first essay in the Wonder
Stories, which were to give him his lasting title to grateful remem-
brance. He did not think highly of this work at the time, though
his little volume contained the now classic (Tinderbox,' and Big
Claus and Little Claus. Indeed, he always chafed a little at the
modest fame of a writer for children; but he continued for thirty-
seven years to publish those graceful fancies, which in their little
domain still hold the first rank, and certainly gave the freest scope
to Andersen's qualities, while they masked his faults and limitations.
He turned again from this “sleight of hand with Fancy's golden
apples,” to the novel, in the ‘O. T. ' (1836), which marks no advance
on the Improvisatore'; and in the next year he published his best
romance, Only a Fiddler,' which is still charming for its autobio-
graphical touches, its genuine humor, and its deep pathos. At the
time, this book assured his European reputation; though it has less
interest for us to-day than the “Tales,' or the Picture Book without
Pictures (1840), where, perhaps more than anywhere else in his work,
the child speaks with all the naïveté of his nature.
A journey to the East was reflected in A Poet's Bazaar' (1842);
and these years contain also his last unsuccessful dramatic efforts,
“The King Dreams' and 'The New Lying-in Room. In 1843 he was
in Paris, in 1844 in Germany, and in the next year he extended his
wanderings to Italy and England, where Mary Howitt's translations
had assured him a welcome. Ten years later he revisited England
as the guest of Dickens at Gadshill.
The failure of an epic, Ahasuerus’ (1847), and of a novel, “The
Two Baronesses' (1849), made him turn with more interest to wonder
tales and fairy dramas, which won a considerable success; and when
the political troubles of 1848 directed his wanderings toward Sweden,


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
>
he made from them I Sverrig' (In Sweden: 1849), his most exquisite
book of travels. As Europe grew peaceful again he resumed his in-
defatigable wanderings, visiting Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland,
Spain, Bohemia, and England; printing between 1852 and 1862 nine
little volumes of stories, the mediocre but successful In Spain? (1860),
and his last novel, (To Be or Not To Be (1857), which reflects the
religious speculations of his later years.
He was now in comparatively easy circumstances, and passed the
last fifteen years of his life unharassed by criticism, and surrounded
with the “honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,” that should
accompany old age. It was not until 1866 that he made himself a
home; and even at sixty-one he said the idea “positively frightened
him — he knew he should run away from it as soon as ever the first
warm sunbeam struck him, like any other bird of passage. ”
In 1869 he celebrated his literary jubilee. In 1872 he finished his
last (Stories. That year he met with an accident in Innsbrück from
which he never recovered. Kind friends eased his invalid years; and
so general was the grief at his illness that the children of the United
States collected a sum of money for his supposed necessities, which
at his request took the form of books for his library. A few months
later, after a brief and painless illness, he died, August ist, 1875. His
admirers had already erected a statue in his honor, and the State gave
him a magnificent funeral; but his most enduring monument is that
which his Wonder Tales) are still building all around the world.
The character of Andersen is full of curious contrasts. Like the
French fabulist, La Fontaine, he was a child all his life, and often a
spoiled child; yet he joined to childlike simplicity no small share of
worldly wisdom. Constant travel made him a shrewd observer of
detail, but his self-absorption kept him from sympathy with the broad
political aspirations of his generation.
In the judgment of his friends and critics, his autobiographical
(Story of My Life is strangely unjust, and he never understood the
limitations of his genius. He was not fond of children, nor personally
attractive to them, though his letters to them are charming.
In personal appearance he was limp, ungainly, awkward, and odd,
with long lean limbs, broad flat hands, and feet of striking size.
His eyes were small and deep-set, his nose very large, his neck very
long; but he masked his defects by studied care in dress, and
always fancied he looked distinguished, delighting to display his
numerous decorations on his evening dress in complacent profusion.
On Andersen's style there is a remarkably acute study by his
fellow-countryman Brandes, in Kritiker og Portraiter' (Critiques and
Portraits), and a useful comment in Boyesen's Scandinavian Litera-
ture. When not perverted by his translators, it is perhaps better


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
503
suited than any other to the comprehension of children. His syntax
and rhetoric are often faulty; and in the “Tales' he does not hesitate
to take liberties even with German, if he can but catch the vivid,
darting imagery of juvenile fancy, the “ohs” and “ahs” of the nurs-
ery, its changing intonations, its fears, its smiles, its personal appeals,
and its venerable devices to spur attention and kindle sympathy.
Action, or imitation, takes the place of description. We hear the
trumpeter's taratantara and the pattering rain on the leaves, rum
dum dum, rum dum dum. ” The soldier «comes marching along, left,
right, left, right. ” No one puts himself so wholly in the child's place
and looks at nature so wholly with his eyes as Andersen. If you
hold one of those burdock leaves before your little body it's just like
an apron, and if you put it on your head it's almost as good as an
umbrella, it's so big. " Or he tells you that when the sun shone on
the flax, and the clouds watered it, "it was just as nice for it as it
is for the little children to be washed and then get a kiss from
mother: that makes them prettier; of course it does. ” And here, as
Brandes remarks, every right-minded mamma stops and kisses the
child, and their hearts are warmer for that day's tale.
The starting-point of this art is personification. To the child's
fancy the doll is as much alive as the cat, the broom as the bird,
and even the letters in the copy-book can stretch themselves. On
this foundation he builds myths that tease by a certain semblance of
rationality, — elegiac, more often sentimental, but at their best, like
normal children, without strained pathos or forced sympathy.
Such personification has obvious dramatic and lyric elements; but
Andersen lacked the technique of poetic and dramatic art, and
marred his prose descriptions, both in novels and books of travel, by
an intrusive egotism and lyric exaggeration. No doubt, therefore,
the most permanent part of his work is that which popular instinct
has selected, the Picture Book without Pictures,' the Tales and
Stories); and among these, those will last longest that have least of
the lyric and most of the dramatic element.
Nearly all of Andersen's books are translated in ten uniform but
unnumbered volumes, published by Houghton, Mifflin and Company.
Of the numerous translations of the “Tales,' Mary Howitt's (1846) and
Sommer's (1893) are the best, though far from faultless.
The Life of Hans Christian Andersen' by R. Nisbet Bain (New
York, 1895) is esteemed the best.
Bani hello


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER
From Collected Fairy Tales, newly translated
T"
HERE were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers,
for they were cast out of one old tin spoon. They held
their muskets, and their faces were turned to the enemy;
red and blue, ever so fine, were the uniforms. The first thing
they heard in this world, when the cover was taken from the
box where they lay, were the words, “Tin soldiers! ” A little
»
boy shouted it, and clapped his hands. He had got them because
it was his birthday, and now he set them up on the table. Each
soldier was just like the other, only one was a little different.
He had but one leg, for he had been cast last, and there was
not enough tin. But he stood on his one leg just as firm as the
others on two, so he was just the one to be famous.
On the table where they were set up stood a lot of other
playthings; but what caught your eye was a pretty castle of
paper. Through the little windows you could see right into the
halls. Little trees stood in front, around a bit of looking-glass
which was meant for a lake. Wax swans swam on it and were
reflected in it. That was all very pretty, but still the prettiest
thing was a little girl who stood right in the castle gate. She
was cut out of paper too, but she had a silk dress, and a little
narrow blue ribbon across her shoulders, on which was a spark-
ling star as big as her whole face. The little girl lifted her
arms gracefully in the air, for she was a dancer; and then she
lifted one leg so high that the tin soldier could not find it at all,
and thought that she had only one leg, just like himself.
“That would be the wife for me,” thought he, “but she is too
fine for me. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, which
I have to share with twenty-four. That is no house for her.
.
But I will see whether I can make her acquaintance. ” Then he
lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was
on the
table. From there he could watch the trig little lady who kept
standing on one leg without losing her balance. When evening
came, the other tin soldiers were all put in their box, and the
people in the house went to bed. Then the playthings began to
play, first at "visiting,” then at "war” and at "dancing. ” The
“
tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they would have liked to
join in it, but they could not get the cover off. The nutcracker
((
(
»
((


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505
turned somersaults, and the pencil scrawled over the slate.
There was such a racket that the canary-bird woke up and began
to sing, and that in verses. The only ones that did not stir were
the tin soldier and the little dancer. She stood straight on tip-
toe and stretched up both arms; he was just as steadfast on his
one leg. He did not take his eyes from her a moment.
Now it struck twelve, and bang! up went the cover of the
snuff-box, but it wasn't tobacco in it: no, but a little black Troll.
It was a trick box.
« Tin soldier! ” said the Troll, "will you stare your eyes out ? ”
But the tin soldier made believe he did not hear. “You wait
till morning! ” said the Troll.
When morning came, and the children got up, the tin soldier
was put on the window ledge; and whether it was the Troll, or
a gust of wind, all at once the window flew open and the tin
soldier fell head first from the third story. That was an awful
fall. He stretched his leg straight up, and stuck with his bay.
onet and cap right between the paving-stones.
The maid and the little boy came right down to hunt for
him, but they couldn't see him, though they came so near that
they almost trod on him. If the tin soldier had called “Here I
am,” they surely would have found him; but since he was in
uniform he did not think it proper to call aloud.
Now it began to rain. The drops chased one another. It
was a regular shower. When that was over, two street boy's
came along
“Hallo! ” said one, « There's a tin soldier. He must be off
and sail. ”
Then they made a boat out of a newspaper, put the tin sol.
dier in it, and made him sail down the gutter. Both boys ran
beside it, and clapped their hands. Preserve us! What waves
there were in the gutter, and what a current! It must have
rained torrents. The paper boat rocked up and down, and some-
times it whirled around so that the tin soldier shivered. But he
remained steadfast, did not lose color, looked straight ahead and
held his musket firm.
All at once the boat plunged under a long gutter-bridge. It
was as dark there as it had been in his box.
"Where am I going now? ” thought he. “Yes, yes, that is
the Troll's fault. Oh! if the little lady were only in the boat, I
would not care if it were twice as dark. ”


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At that instant there came a great water-rat who lived under
the gutter-bridge.
Have you a pass ? ” said the rat. « Show me your pass. ”
But the tin soldier kept still, and only held his musket the
firmer. The boat rushed on, and the rat behind. Oh! how he
gnashed his teeth, and called to the sticks and straws:-
"Stop him! Stop him! He has not paid toll. He has showed
no pass. ”
But the current got stronger and stronger. Before he got to
the end of the bridge the tin soldier could see daylight, but he
heard also a rushing noise that might frighten a brave man's
heart. Just think! at the end of the bridge the gutter emptied
into a great canal, which for him was as dangerous as for us to
sail down a great waterfall.
He was so near it already that he could not stop. The boat
went down. The poor tin soldier held himself as straight as he
could. No one should say of him that he had ever blinked his
eyes. The boat whirled three or four times and filled with
water. It had to sink. The tin soldier stood up to his neck in
water, and deeper, deeper sank the boat. The paper grew
weaker and weaker. Now the waves went over the soldier's
head. Then he thought of the pretty little dancer whom he
never was to see again, and there rang in the tin soldier's
ears:
«Farewell, warrior! farewell!
Death shalt thou suffer. ”
Now the paper burst in two, and the tin soldier fell through,
— but in that minute he was swallowed by a big fish.
Oh! wasn't it dark in there. It was worse even than under
the gutter-bridge, and besides, so cramped. But the tin soldier
was steadfast, and lay at full length, musket in hand.
The fish rushed around and made the most fearful jumps.
At last he was quite still, and something went through him like
a lightning flash. Then a bright light rushed in, and somebody
called aloud, « The tin soldier ! » The fish had been caught,
brought to market, sold, and been taken to the kitchen, where
the maid had slit it up with a big knife. She caught the soldier
around the body and carried him into the parlor, where everybody
wanted to see such a remarkable man who had traveled about
in a fish's belly. But the tin soldier was not a bit proud. They


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put him on the table, and there — well! what strange things do
happen in the world — the tin soldier was in the very same room
that he had been in before. He saw the same children, and the
same playthings were on the table, the splendid castle with the
pretty little dancer; she was still standing on one leg, and had
the other high in the air. She was steadfast, too.
. That touched
the tin soldier so that he could almost have wept tin tears, but
that would not have been proper. He looked at her and she
looked at him, but they said nothing at all.
Suddenly one of the little boys seized the tin soldier and
threw him right into the tile-stove, although he had no reason
to. It was surely the Troll in the box who was to blame.
The tin soldier stood in full light and felt a fearful heat; but
whether that came from the real fire, or from his glowing love,
he could not tell. All the color had faded from him; but
whether this had happened on the journey, or whether it came
from care, no one could say. He looked at the little girl and
she looked at him. He felt that he was melting, but still he
stood steadfast, musket in hand. Then a door opened. A whiff
of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the
tile-stove to the tin soldier, blazed up in flame, and was gone.
Then the tin soldier melted to a lump, and when the maid next
day took out the ashes, she found him as a little tin heart. But
of the dancer only the star was left, and that was burnt coal-
black.
TI
THE TEAPOT
From “Riverside Literature Series': copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
HERE was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of
its long spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something
before and behind — the spout before, the handle behind
and that was what it talked about. But it did not talk of its
lid — that was cracked, it was riveted, it had faults; and one does
not talk about one's faults- there are plenty of others to do
that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl, the whole tea-
service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness, and
talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable
spout. The Teapot knew it.
"I know you,” it said within itself, "I know well enough,
too, my fault; and I am well aware that in that very thing is


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HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
cil.
In my
>
seen my humility, my modesty. We all have faults, but then
one also has a talent. The cups get a handle, the sugar-bowl a
lid; I get both, and one thing besides in front which they never
got, - I get a spout, and that makes me
a queen on the tea-
table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving
maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in coun-
I spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind.
insides the Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, taste-
less water. ”
All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on
the table that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate
hand; but the very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell.
The spout snapped off, the handle snapped off; the lid was no
worse to speak of — the worst had been spoken of that. The
Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the boiling water ran
out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was that they
jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.
"I never shall lose the memory of that! ” said the Teapot,
when it afterward talked to itself of the course of its life. “I
was called an invalid, and placed in a corner, and the day after
was given away to a woman who begged victuals. I fell into
poverty, and stood dumb both outside and in; but there, as I
stood, began my better life. One is one thing and becomes quite
another. Earth was placed in me: for a Teapot that is the same
as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower bulb. Who
placed it there, who gave it, I know not; given it was, and it
took the place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, the
broken handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the
bulb lay in me, it became my heart, my living heart, such as I
never before had. There was life in me, power and might. My
pulses beat, the bulb put forth sprouts, it was the springing up
of thoughts and feelings; they burst forth in flower. I saw it, I
bore it, I forgot myself in its delight. Blessed is it to forget
one's self in another. The bulb gave me no thanks, it did not
think of me - it was admired and praised.
So glad at
that: how happy must it have been! One day I heard it said
that it ought to have a better pot. I was thumped on my
back that was rather hard to bear; but the flower was put in a
better pot — and I was thrown away in the yard, where I lie as
an old crock. But I have the memory: that I can never lose. ”
I was


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509
THE UGLY DUCKLING
From (Riverside Literature Series): copyright 1891, by Houghton, Miffin & Co.
I — THE DUCKLING IS BORN
1
T WAS glorious in the country. It was summer; the cornfields
were yellow, the oats were green, the hay had been put up
in stacks in the green meadows; and the stork went about
on his long red legs, and chattered Egyptian, for this was the
language he had learned from his mother. All around the fields
and meadows were great woods, and in the midst of these woods
deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious in the country.
In the midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, with deep
canals about it; and from the wall down to the water grew great
burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright under
the tallest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest
wood, and here sat a Duck upon her nest. She had to hatch her
ducklings, but she was almost tired out before the little ones
came; and she seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better
to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit under a bur-
dock and gabble with her.
At last one egg-shell after another burst open. “Pip! pip! "
each cried, and in all the eggs there were little things that stuck
out their heads.
Quack! quack! ” said the Duck, and they all came quacking
out as fast as they could, looking all around them under the
green leaves; and the mother let them look as much as they
liked, for green is good for the eye.
«How wide the world is! ” said all the young ones; for they
certainly had much more room now than when they were inside
the eggs.
( That
(
I am
“D'ye think this is all the world ? ” said the mother.
stretches far across the other side of the garden, quite into the
parson's field; but I have never been there yet. I hope you are
all together, and she stood up. “No, I have not all. The
largest egg still lies there. How long is that to last ?
really tired of it. ” And so she sat down again.
“Well, how goes it ? ” asked an old Duck who had come to
pay her a visit.
"It lasts a long time with this one egg,” said the Duck who
sat there.
“It will not open.
Now, only look at the others!
((


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510
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
use.
They are the prettiest little ducks I ever saw. They are all like
their father: the rogue, he never comes to see me. ”
"Let me see the egg which will not burst," said the old Duck.
“You may be sure it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in
that way, and had much care and trouble with the young ones,
for they are afraid of the water. Must I say it to you? I could
not make them go in. I quacked, and I clacked, but it was no
Let me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's egg. Let it lie
there, and do you teach the other children to swim. ”
"I think I will sit on it a little longer,” said the Duck. I've
sat so long now that I can sit a few days more. ”
"Just as you please,” said the old Duck; and she went away.
At last the great egg burst. "Pip! pip! ” said the little one,
and crept forth. He was so big and ugly. The Duck looked at
him.
"It's a very large Duckling,” said she. “None of the others
looks like that: it really must be a turkey chick! Well, we shall
soon find out.
Into the water shall he go, even if I have to
push him in. ”
II - HOW THE DUCKLING WAS TREATED AT HOME
The next day it was bright, beautiful weather; the sun shone
on all the green burdocks. The Mother-Duck, with all her family,
went down to the canal. Splash! she jumped into the water.
“Quack! quack! ” she said, and one duckling after another plumped
in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up in an
instant, and swam off finely; their legs went of themselves, and
they were all in the water; even the ugly gray Duckling swam
with them.
“No, it's not a turkey,” said she: “look how well he uses his
legs, how straight he holds himself. It is my own child! On the
whole he's quite pretty, when one looks at him rightly. Quack!
quack! come now with me, and I'll lead you out into the world,
and present you in the duck-yard; but keep close to me all the
time, so that no one may tread on you, and look out for the cats. ”
And so they came into the duck-yard. There was a terrible
row going on in there, for two families were fighting about an
eel's head, and so the cat got it.
See, that's the way it goes in the world! ” said the Mother-
Duck; and she whetted her beak, for she too wanted the eel's
head. '
"Only use your legs,” she said. «See that you can bustle
((


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511
about, and bend your necks before the old Duck yonder. She's
the grandest of all here; she's of Spanish blood -- that's why
she's so fat; and do you see? she has a red rag around her leg;
that's something very, very fine, and the greatest mark of honor
a duck can have: it means that one does not want to lose her,
and that she's known by the animals and by men too. Hurry!
hurry! - don't turn in your toes, a well brought-up duck turns
it's toes quite out, just like father and mother,--so! Now bend
your necks and say “Quack! »»
And they did so; but the other ducks round about looked at
them, and said quite boldly,– "Look there! now we're to have
this crowd too! as if there were not enough of us already! And
-- fie! -how that Duckling yonder looks: we won't stand that!
And at once one Duck flew at him, and bit him in the neck.
“Let him alone,” said the mother: "he is not doing anything
to any one. ”
“Yes, but he's too large and odd,” said the Duck who had
bitten him, “and so he must be put down.
« Those are pretty children the mother has," said the old Duck
with the rag round her leg. “They're all pretty but that one;
that is rather unlucky. I wish she could have that one over again. ”
“That cannot be done, my lady,” said the Mother-Duck. "He
is not pretty, but he has a really good temper, and swims as well
as any of the others; yes, I may even say it, a little better. I
think he will grow up pretty, perhaps in time he will grow a lit-
tle smaller; he lay too long in the egg, and therefore he has not
quite the right shape. ” And she pinched him in the neck, and
smoothed his feathers. "Besides, he is a drake,” she said, "and
so it does not matter much. I think he will be very strong: he
makes his way already. ”
« The other ducklings are graceful enough,” said the old Duck.
“Make yourself at home; and if you find an eel's head, you may
bring it to me. ”
And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling who
had crept last out of the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten
and pushed and made fun of, as much by the ducks as by the
chickens.
“ He is too big! ” they all said. And the turkey-cock, who
had been born with spurs, and so thought he was an emperor,
blew himself up, like a ship in full sail, and bore straight down
upon him; then he gobbled and grew quite red in the face. The


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poor Duckling did not know where he dared stand or walk; he
was quite unhappy because he looked ugly, and was the sport of
the whole duck-yard.
So it went on the first day; and then it grew worse and
worse. The poor Duckling was hunted about by every one; even
his brothers and sisters were quite angry with him, and said,
“If the cat would only catch you, you ugly creature! ” And the
ducks bit him, and the chickens beat him, and the girl who had
to feed the poultry kicked at him with her foot.
III - OUT ON THE MOOR
Then he ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in
the bushes flew up in fear.
“That is because I am so ugly! ” thought the Duckling; and
he shut his eyes, but flew on further; and so he came out into
the great moor, where the wild ducks lived. Here he lay the
whole night long, he was so tired and sad.
Toward morning the wild ducks flew up, and looked at their
new mate.
"What sort of a one are you? ” they asked; and the Duckling
turned about to each, and bowed as well as he could. “You are
really very ugly! ” said the Wild Ducks. “But that is all the
same to us, so long as you do not marry into our family. ”
Poor thing! he certainly did not think of marrying, and only
dared ask leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the
swamp water.
There he lay two whole days; then came thither two wild
geese, or, more truly, two wild ganders. It was not long since
each had crept out of an egg, and that's why they were so saucy.
“Listen, comrade,” said one of them. “You're so ugly that I
like you. Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage ?
Near here is another moor, where are a few sweet lovely wild
geese, all unmarried, and all able to say Quack! You've a
chance of making your fortune, ugly as you are. ”
“Piff! paff! ” sounded through the air; and both the ganders
fell down dead in the reeds, and the water became blood-red.
Piff! paff! ” it sounded again, and the whole flock of wild geese
flew up from the reeds. And then there was another report. A
great hunt was going on. The gunners lay around in the moor,
and some even sitting up in the branches of the trees,
were


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513
which spread far over the reeds. The blue smoke rose like
clouds in among the dark trees, and hung over the water; and
the hunting dogs came-splash, splash! - into the mud, and the
rushes and reeds bent down on every side. That was a fright
for the poor Duckling! He turned his head to put it under his
wing; and at that very moment a frightful great dog stood close
by the Duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth, and
his eyes glared horribly. He put his nose close to the Duckling,
showed his sharp teeth, and-splash, splash!