No More Learning

But we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk about
the old times. And we listen to this story:

By the open sea was a giant's grave; and on the grave-mound sat at
midnight the spirit of the buried hero, who had been a king. The
golden circlet gleamed on his brow, his hair fluttered in the wind,
and he was clad in steel and iron. He bent his head mournfully, and
sighed in deep sorrow, as an unquiet spirit might sigh.

And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered the
anchor and landed. Among them was a singer, and he approached the
royal spirit, and said,

"Why mournest thou, and wherefore dost thou suffer thus? "

And the dead man answered,

"No one has sung the deeds of my life; they are dead and
forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands, nor into the
hearts of men; therefore I have no rest and no peace. "

And he spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which his
contemporaries had known, but which had not been sung, because there
was no singer among his companions.

Then the old bard struck the strings of his harp, and sang of
the youthful courage of the hero, of the strength of the man, and of
the greatness of his good deeds. Then the face of the dead one gleamed
like the margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and of good
courage, the form arose in splendor and in majesty, and vanished
like the glancing of the northern light. Nought was to be seen but the
green turfy mound, with the stones on which no Runic record has been
graven; but at the last sound of the harp there soared over the
hill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little bird, a
charming singing-bird, with ringing voice of the thrush, with the
moving voice pathos of the human heart, with a voice that told of
home, like the voice that is heard by the bird of passage. The
singing-bird soared away, over mountain and valley, over field and
wood--he was the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies.

We hear his song--we hear it now in the room while the white
bees are swarming without, and the storm clutches the windows. The
bird sings not alone the requiem of heroes; he sings also sweet gentle
songs of love, so many and so warm, of Northern fidelity and truth. He
has stories in words and in tones; he has proverbs and snatches of
proverbs; songs which, like Runes laid under a dead man's tongue,
force him to speak; and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his
birth.

In the old heathen days, in the times of the Vikings, the
popular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.

In the days of knightly castles, when the strongest fist held
the scales of justice, when only might was right, and a peasant and
a dog were of equal importance, where did the Bird of Song find
shelter and protection? Neither violence nor stupidity gave him a
thought.

But in the gabled window of the knightly castle, the lady of the
castle sat with the parchment roll before her, and wrote down the
old recollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old
woman from the wood, and the travelling peddler who went wandering
through the country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around
them, with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never
dies so long as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.

And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night and
the snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we know the
land of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue, in the
voice of the Bird of Popular Song. The old remembrances awake, the
faded colors glow with a fresh lustre, and story and song pour us a
blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so that the
evening becomes as a Christmas festival.

The snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the storm
rules without, for he has the might, he is lord--but not the LORD OF
ALL.

It is winter time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the
snow-flakes chase each other; it seems as though it had been snowing
for days and weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the
whole town, like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on
the earth is hidden away, only the golden cross of the church, the
symbol of faith, arises over the snow grave, and gleams in the blue
air and in the bright sunshine.

And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the small and
the great; they twitter and they sing as best they may, each bird with
his beak.

First comes the band of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle in the
streets and lanes, in the nests and the houses; they have stories to
tell about the front buildings and the back buildings.

"We know the buried town," they say; "everything living in it is
piep! piep! piep! "

The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.

"Grub, grub! " they cried. "There's something to be got down there;
something to swallow, and that's most important. That's the opinion of
most of them down there, and the opinion is goo-goo-good! "

The wild swans come flying on whirring pinions, and sing of the
noble and the great, that will still sprout in the hearts of men, down
in the town which is resting beneath its snowy veil.

No death is there--life reigns yonder; we hear it on the notes
that swell onward like the tones of the church organ, which seize us
like sounds from the elf-hill, like the songs of Ossian, like the
rushing swoop of the wandering spirits' wings. What harmony! That
harmony speaks to our hearts, and lifts up our souls! It is the Bird
of Popular Song whom we hear.

And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the
sky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains, the sun shines into the
clefts; spring is coming, the birds are returning, and new races are
coming with the same home sounds in their hearts.

Hear the story of the year: "The night of the snow-storm, the
heavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved, all shall
rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song, who
never dies! "




THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS

Our scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called "wild
moor. " We hear what is called the "Wester-wow-wow"--the peculiar
roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of
Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for
miles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring. Before us
rises a great mound of sand--a mountain we have long seen, and towards
which we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep
sand. On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building--the convent of
Borglum. In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church.
And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the
weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can
range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath
and meadow, and far across the deep blue sea.

Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm
buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle
Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls, and,
sheltered from the wind and weather, grow so luxuriantly that their
twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.

We mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the
long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very
strangely here, both within and without. It is hardly known how, but
the people say--yes, people say a great many things when they are
frightened or want to frighten others--they say that the old dead
choir-men glide silently past us into the church, where mass is
sung. They can be heard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing
brings up strange thoughts in the hearers--thoughts of the old times
into which we are carried back.

On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are
there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes
away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls. The stranded
goods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here. The
sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the
convent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and
mead. There is plenty in the kitchen--dead game and poultry, hams
and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

The Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has great
possessions, but still he longs for more--everything must bow before
the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his
widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one
relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would
be? The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland, with the
exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In his
boyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see
foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no news
of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never
come back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.

"What has a woman to do with rule? " said the bishop.

He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain
thereby? The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was
strong in her just rights.

Bishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose? What writest
thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and
intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away,
to the city of the Pope?

It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
icy winter will come.

Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the
horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a
papal decree--a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to
offend the pious bishop. "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her.
Let her be expelled from the congregation and the Church. Let no man
stretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations
avoid her as a plague and a pestilence! "

"What will not bend must break," said the Bishop of Borglum

And all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God. He is
her helper and defender.

One servant only--an old maid--remained faithful to her; and
with the old servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the
crop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the
bishop.

"Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose! "
cried the Bishop of Borglum. "Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon
thee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee! "

Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her
to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and
travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a
stranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was
spoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she
journeyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine
clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her, and they look
anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an
attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor
women, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel
fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the
darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them
a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers. He
paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to
the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Then one
of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her
woes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed
it. For the stranger knight is the widow's son! He seized her hand, he
embraced her, and the mother wept. For years she had not been able
to weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.


It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
will icy winter come.

The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar.
In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At
Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold
winter raged without, when a piece of news was brought to the
bishop. "Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back, and his mother with
him. " Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop, and summoned
him before the temporal and the spiritual court.

"That will avail him little," said the bishop. "Best leave off thy
efforts, knight Jens. "


Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships. Icy
winter comes again, and the "white bees" are swarming, and sting the
traveller's face till they melt.

"Keen weather to-day! " say the people, as they step in.

Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he singes
the skirt of his wide garment.

"Thou Borglum bishop," he exclaims, "I shall subdue thee after
all! Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens
Glob shall reach thee! "

Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, in
Sallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve, at
mass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the
mass, and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland; and
this is known to Jens Glob.

Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. The marsh
will bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests and armed
men. They ride the shortest way, through the waving reeds, where the
wind moans sadly.

Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin! it
sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and
moorland--over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer,
though now icy, like all the country--towards the church of Widberg.

The wind is blowing his trumpet too--blowing it harder and harder.
He blows up a storm--a terrible storm--that increases more and more.
Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.
The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and
moorland, over land and sea.

Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce
do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on
the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,
now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of
the Highest.

The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.
The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads
out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor
and heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over
the bay in such weather as this.

Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his
warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives
them leave to ride home and greet his wife. He intends to risk his
life alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him
that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement
in the church at Widberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him,
but follow him out into the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away;
but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side. They
have still four miles to ride.

It is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated. The
church is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the
window-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has
long been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard
dropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase
arrives.

In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,

"I have just made an agreement with the bishop. "

"Sayest thou so? " replied Olaf Hase. "Then neither thou nor the
bishop shall quit this church alive. "

And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a
blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob
hastily closes between them, fly in fragments.

"Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I made. I
have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have
no word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the
wrong that my mother has endured. "

The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a
redder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven
skull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy
Christmas night.

And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the
convent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and
priests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra
decked with crape. There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought
with silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so
mighty. The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral
hymn. It sounds like a wail--it sounds like a sentence of wrath and
condemnation, that must be heard far over the land, carried by the
wind--sung by the wind--the wail that sometimes is silent, but never
dies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our own
time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It is
heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in
the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the
sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not
only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of
hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the
convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to
open, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the
fragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient
splendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop,
who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the
crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams
the red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and the
wicked thoughts.

Sink down into his grave--into oblivion--ye terrible shapes of the
times of old!


Hark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling
sea! A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives. The
sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a
horrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a
glassy mirror--even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep
sweetly, if thou canst sleep!

Now it is morning.

The new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps
up mightily. A wreck is announced--as in the old time.

During the night, down yonder by Lokken, the little fishing
village with the red-tiled roofs--we can see it up here from the
window--a ship has come ashore. It has struck, and is fast embedded in
the sand; but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board, and
formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board are
saved, and reach the land, and are wrapped in warm blankets; and
to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum. In
comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces.
They are addressed in the language of their country, and the piano
sounds for them with melodies of their native land; and before these
have died away, the chord has been struck, the wire of thought that
reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are
rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join
in the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Borglum.
Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and
melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.

Blessed be thou, new time! Speak thou of summer and of purer
gales! Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts! On thy
glowing canvas let them be painted--the dark legends of the rough hard
times that are past!




THE BOTTLE NECK

Close to the corner of a street, among other abodes of poverty,
stood an exceedingly tall, narrow house, which had been so knocked
about by time that it seemed out of joint in every direction. This
house was inhabited by poor people, but the deepest poverty was
apparent in the garret lodging in the gable. In front of the little
window, an old bent bird-cage hung in the sunshine, which had not even
a proper water-glass, but instead of it the broken neck of a bottle,
turned upside down, and a cork stuck in to make it hold the water with
which it was filled. An old maid stood at the window; she had hung
chickweed over the cage, and the little linnet which it contained
hopped from perch to perch and sang and twittered merrily.

"Yes, it's all very well for you to sing," said the bottle neck:
that is, he did not really speak the words as we do, for the neck of a
bottle cannot speak; but he thought them to himself in his own mind,
just as people sometimes talk quietly to themselves.

"Yes, you may sing very well, you have all your limbs uninjured;
you should feel what it is like to lose your body, and only have a
neck and a mouth left, with a cork stuck in it, as I have: you
wouldn't sing then, I know. After all, it is just as well that there
are some who can be happy. I have no reason to sing, nor could I
sing now if I were ever so happy; but when I was a whole bottle, and
they rubbed me with a cork, didn't I sing then? I used to be called
a complete lark.
I remember when I went out to a picnic with the
furrier's family, on the day his daughter was betrothed,--it seems
as if it only happened yesterday. I have gone through a great deal
in my time, when I come to recollect: I have been in the fire and in
the water, I have been deep in the earth, and have mounted higher in
the air than most other people, and now I am swinging here, outside
a bird-cage, in the air and the sunshine. Oh, indeed, it would be
worth while to hear my history; but I do not speak it aloud, for a
good reason--because I cannot. "

Then the bottle neck related his history, which was really
rather remarkable; he, in fact, related it to himself, or, at least,
thought it in his own mind. The little bird sang his own song merrily;
in the street below there was driving and running to and fro, every
one thought of his own affairs, or perhaps of nothing at all; but
the bottle neck thought deeply. He thought of the blazing furnace in
the factory, where he had been blown into life; he remembered how
hot it felt when he was placed in the heated oven, the home from which
he sprang, and that he had a strong inclination to leap out again
directly; but after a while it became cooler, and he found himself
very comfortable. He had been placed in a row, with a whole regiment
of his brothers and sisters all brought out of the same furnace;
some of them had certainly been blown into champagne bottles, and
others into beer bottles, which made a little difference between them.
In the world it often happens that a beer bottle may contain the
most precious wine, and a champagne bottle be filled with blacking,
but even in decay it may always be seen whether a man has been well
born. Nobility remains noble, as a champagne bottle remains the
same, even with blacking in its interior. When the bottles were packed
our bottle was packed amongst them; it little expected then to
finish its career as a bottle neck, or to be used as a water-glass
to a bird's-cage, which is, after all, a place of honor, for it is
to be of some use in the world. The bottle did not behold the light of
day again, until it was unpacked with the rest in the wine
merchant's cellar, and, for the first time, rinsed with water, which
caused some very curious sensations. There it lay empty, and without a
cork, and it had a peculiar feeling, as if it wanted something it knew
not what. At last it was filled with rich and costly wine, a cork
was placed in it, and sealed down. Then it was labelled "first
quality," as if it had carried off the first prize at an
examination; besides, the wine and the bottle were both good, and
while we are young is the time for poetry. There were sounds of song
within the bottle, of things it could not understand, of green sunny
mountains, where the vines grow and where the merry vine-dressers
laugh, sing, and are merry. "Ah, how beautiful is life. " All these
tones of joy and song in the bottle were like the working of a young
poet's brain, who often knows not the meaning of the tones which are
sounding within him. One morning the bottle found a purchaser in the
furrier's apprentice, who was told to bring one of the best bottles of
wine. It was placed in the provision basket with ham and cheese and
sausages. The sweetest fresh butter and the finest bread were put into
the basket by the furrier's daughter herself, for she packed it. She
was young and pretty; her brown eyes laughed, and a smile lingered
round her mouth as sweet as that in her eyes. She had delicate
hands, beautifully white, and her neck was whiter still. It could
easily be seen that she was a very lovely girl, and as yet she was not
engaged. The provision basket lay in the lap of the young girl as
the family drove out to the forest, and the neck of the bottle
peeped out from between the folds of the white napkin. There was the
red wax on the cork, and the bottle looked straight at the young
girl's face, and also at the face of the young sailor who sat near
her. He was a young friend, the son of a portrait painter. He had
lately passed his examination with honor, as mate, and the next
morning he was to sail in his ship to a distant coast. There had
been a great deal of talk on this subject while the basket was being
packed, and during this conversation the eyes and the mouth of the
furrier's daughter did not wear a very joyful expression. The young
people wandered away into the green wood, and talked together. What
did they talk about? The bottle could not say, for he was in the
provision basket. It remained there a long time; but when at last it
was brought forth it appeared as if something pleasant had happened,
for every one was laughing; the furrier's daughter laughed too, but
she said very little, and her cheeks were like two roses. Then her
father took the bottle and the cork-screw into his hands. What a
strange sensation it was to have the cork drawn for the first time!
The bottle could never after that forget the performance of that
moment; indeed there was quite a convulsion within him as the cork
flew out, and a gurgling sound as the wine was poured forth into the
glasses.

"Long life to the betrothed," cried the papa, and every glass
was emptied to the dregs, while the young sailor kissed his
beautiful bride.

"Happiness and blessing to you both," said the old people-father
and mother, and the young man filled the glasses again.

"Safe return, and a wedding this day next year," he cried; and
when the glasses were empty he took the bottle, raised it on high, and
said, "Thou hast been present here on the happiest day of my life;
thou shalt never be used by others! " So saying, he hurled it high in
the air.

The furrier's daughter thought she should never see it again,
but she was mistaken. It fell among the rushes on the borders of a
little woodland lake. The bottle neck remembered well how long it
lay there unseen. "I gave them wine, and they gave me muddy water," he
had said to himself, "but I suppose it was all well meant. " He could
no longer see the betrothed couple, nor the cheerful old people; but
for a long time he could hear them rejoicing and singing. At length
there came by two peasant boys, who peeped in among the reeds and
spied out the bottle. Then they took it up and carried it home with
them, so that once more it was provided for. At home in their wooden
cottage these boys had an elder brother, a sailor, who was about to
start on a long voyage. He had been there the day before to say
farewell, and his mother was now very busy packing up various things
for him to take with him on his voyage. In the evening his father
was going to carry the parcel to the town to see his son once more,
and take him a farewell greeting from his mother. A small bottle had
already been filled with herb tea, mixed with brandy, and wrapped in a
parcel; but when the boys came in they brought with them a larger
and stronger bottle, which they had found. This bottle would hold so
much more than the little one, and they all said the brandy would be
so good for complaints of the stomach, especially as it was mixed with
medical herbs. The liquid which they now poured into the bottle was
not like the red wine with which it had once been filled; these were
bitter drops, but they are of great use sometimes-for the stomach. The
new large bottle was to go, not the little one: so the bottle once
more started on its travels. It was taken on board (for Peter Jensen
was one of the crew) the very same ship in which the young mate was to
sail. But the mate did not see the bottle: indeed, if he had he
would not have known it, or supposed it was the one out of which
they had drunk to the felicity of the betrothed and to the prospect of
a marriage on his own happy return. Certainly the bottle no longer
poured forth wine, but it contained something quite as good; and so it
happened that whenever Peter Jensen brought it out, his messmates gave
it the name of "the apothecary," for it contained the best medicine to
cure the stomach, and he gave it out quite willingly as long as a drop
remained. Those were happy days, and the bottle would sing when rubbed
with a cork, and it was called a great lark, "Peter Jensen's lark. "

Long days and months rolled by, during which the bottle stood
empty in a corner, when a storm arose--whether on the passage out or
home it could not tell, for it had never been ashore. It was a
terrible storm, great waves arose, darkly heaving and tossing the
vessel to and fro. The main mast was split asunder, the ship sprang
a leak, and the pumps became useless, while all around was black as
night. At the last moment, when the ship was sinking, the young mate
wrote on a piece of paper, "We are going down: God's will be done. "
Then he wrote the name of his betrothed, his own name, and that of the
ship. Then he put the leaf in an empty bottle that happened to be at
hand, corked it down tightly, and threw it into the foaming sea. He
knew not that it was the very same bottle from which the goblet of joy
and hope had once been filled for him, and now it was tossing on the
waves with his last greeting, and a message from the dead. The ship
sank, and the crew sank with her; but the bottle flew on like a
bird, for it bore within it a loving letter from a loving heart. And
as the sun rose and set, the bottle felt as at the time of its first
existence, when in the heated glowing stove it had a longing to fly
away. It outlived the storms and the calm, it struck against no rocks,
was not devoured by sharks, but drifted on for more than a year,
sometimes towards the north, sometimes towards the south, just as
the current carried it. It was in all other ways its own master, but
even of that one may get tired. The written leaf, the last farewell of
the bridegroom to his bride, would only bring sorrow when once it
reached her hands; but where were those hands, so soft and delicate,
which had once spread the table-cloth on the fresh grass in the
green wood, on the day of her betrothal? Ah, yes! where was the
furrier's daughter? and where was the land which might lie nearest
to her home?

The bottle knew not, it travelled onward and onward, and at last
all this wandering about became wearisome; at all events it was not
its usual occupation. But it had to travel, till at length it
reached land--a foreign country. Not a word spoken in this country
could the bottle understand; it was a language it had never before
heard, and it is a great loss not to be able to understand a language.
The bottle was fished out of the water, and examined on all sides. The
little letter contained within it was discovered, taken out, and
turned and twisted in every direction; but the people could not
understand what was written upon it. They could be quite sure that the
bottle had been thrown overboard from a vessel, and that something
about it was written on this paper: but what was written? that was the
question,--so the paper was put back into the bottle, and then both
were put away in a large cupboard of one of the great houses of the
town. Whenever any strangers arrived, the paper was taken out and
turned over and over, so that the address, which was only written in
pencil, became almost illegible, and at last no one could
distinguish any letters on it at all. For a whole year the bottle
remained standing in the cupboard, and then it was taken up to the
loft, where it soon became covered with dust and cobwebs. Ah! how
often then it thought of those better days--of the times when in the
fresh, green wood, it had poured forth rich wine; or, while rocked
by the swelling waves, it had carried in its bosom a secret, a letter,
a last parting sigh. For full twenty years it stood in the loft, and
it might have stayed there longer but that the house was going to be
rebuilt. The bottle was discovered when the roof was taken off; they
talked about it, but the bottle did not understand what they said--a
language is not to be learnt by living in a loft, even for twenty
years. "If I had been down stairs in the room," thought the bottle, "I
might have learnt it. " It was now washed and rinsed, which process was
really quite necessary, and afterwards it looked clean and
transparent, and felt young again in its old age; but the paper
which it had carried so faithfully was destroyed in the washing.
They filled the bottle with seeds, though it scarcely knew what had
been placed in it. Then they corked it down tightly, and carefully
wrapped it up. There not even the light of a torch or lantern could
reach it, much less the brightness of the sun or moon. "And yet,"
thought the bottle, "men go on a journey that they may see as much
as possible, and I can see nothing. " However, it did something quite
as important; it travelled to the place of its destination, and was
unpacked.

"What trouble they have taken with that bottle over yonder! "
said one, "and very likely it is broken after all. " But the bottle
was not broken, and, better still, it understood every word that was
said: this language it had heard at the furnaces and at the wine
merchant's; in the forest and on the ship,--it was the only good old
language it could understand. It had returned home, and the language
was as a welcome greeting. For very joy, it felt ready to jump out
of people's hands, and scarcely noticed that its cork had been
drawn, and its contents emptied out, till it found itself carried to a
cellar, to be left there and forgotten. "There's no place like home,
even if it's a cellar. " It never occurred to him to think that he
might lie there for years, he felt so comfortable. For many long years
he remained in the cellar, till at last some people came to carry away
the bottles, and ours amongst the number.

Out in the garden there was a great festival. Brilliant lamps hung
in festoons from tree to tree; and paper lanterns, through which the
light shone till they looked like transparent tulips. It was a
beautiful evening, and the weather mild and clear. The stars twinkled;
and the new moon, in the form of a crescent, was surrounded by the
shadowy disc of the whole moon, and looked like a gray globe with a
golden rim: it was a beautiful sight for those who had good eyes.
The illumination extended even to the most retired of the garden
walks, at least not so retired that any one need lose himself there.
In the borders were placed bottles, each containing a light, and among
them the bottle with which we are acquainted, and whose fate it was,
one day, to be only a bottle neck, and to serve as a water-glass to
a bird's-cage. Everything here appeared lovely to our bottle, for it
was again in the green wood, amid joy and feasting; again it heard
music and song, and the noise and murmur of a crowd, especially in
that part of the garden where the lamps blazed, and the paper lanterns
displayed their brilliant colors. It stood in a distant walk
certainly, but a place pleasant for contemplation; and it carried a
light; and was at once useful and ornamental. In such an hour it is
easy to forget that one has spent twenty years in a loft, and a good
thing it is to be able to do so. Close before the bottle passed a
single pair, like the bridal pair--the mate and the furrier's
daughter--who had so long ago wandered in the wood. It seemed to the
bottle as if he were living that time over again. Not only the
guests but other people were walking in the garden, who were allowed
to witness the splendor and the festivities. Among the latter came
an old maid, who seemed to be quite alone in the world. She was
thinking, like the bottle, of the green wood, and of a young betrothed
pair, who were closely connected with herself; she was thinking of
that hour, the happiest of her life, in which she had taken part, when
she had herself been one of that betrothed pair; such hours are
never to be forgotten, let a maiden be as old as she may. But she
did not recognize the bottle, neither did the bottle notice the old
maid. And so we often pass each other in the world when we meet, as
did these two, even while together in the same town.

The bottle was taken from the garden, and again sent to a wine
merchant, where it was once more filled with wine, and sold to an
aeronaut, who was to make an ascent in his balloon on the following
Sunday. A great crowd assembled to witness the sight; military music
had been engaged, and many other preparations made. The bottle saw
it all from the basket in which he lay close to a live rabbit. The
rabbit was quite excited because he knew that he was to be taken up,
and let down again in a parachute. The bottle, however, knew nothing
of the "up," or the "down;" he saw only that the balloon was
swelling larger and larger till it could swell no more, and began to
rise and be restless. Then the ropes which held it were cut through,
and the aerial ship rose in the air with the aeronaut and the basket
containing the bottle and the rabbit, while the music sounded and
all the people shouted "Hurrah. "

"This is a wonderful journey up into the air," thought the bottle;
"it is a new way of sailing, and here, at least, there is no fear of
striking against anything. "

Thousands of people gazed at the balloon, and the old maid who was
in the garden saw it also; for she stood at the open window of the
garret, by which hung the cage containing the linnet, who then had
no water-glass, but was obliged to be contented with an old cup. In
the window-sill stood a myrtle in a pot, and this had been pushed a
little on one side, that it might not fall out; for the old maid was
leaning out of the window, that she might see. And she did see
distinctly the aeronaut in the balloon, and how he let down the rabbit
in the parachute, and then drank to the health of all the spectators
in the wine from the bottle. After doing this, he hurled it high
into the air. How little she thought that this was the very same
bottle which her friend had thrown aloft in her honor, on that happy
day of rejoicing, in the green wood, in her youthful days. The
bottle had no time to think, when raised so suddenly; and before it
was aware, it reached the highest point it had ever attained in its
life. Steeples and roofs lay far, far beneath it, and the people
looked as tiny as possible. Then it began to descend much more rapidly
than the rabbit had done, made somersaults in the air, and felt itself
quite young and unfettered, although it was half full of wine. But
this did not last long. What a journey it was! All the people could
see the bottle; for the sun shone upon it. The balloon was already far
away, and very soon the bottle was far away also; for it fell upon a
roof, and broke in pieces. But the pieces had got such an impetus in
them, that they could not stop themselves. They went jumping and
rolling about, till at last they fell into the court-yard, and were
broken into still smaller pieces; only the neck of the bottle
managed to keep whole, and it was broken off as clean as if it had
been cut with a diamond.

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

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

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

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




THE BUCKWHEAT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE BUTTERFLY

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

"Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the wisest
woman of all the flowers.