No More Learning

No one had noticed her when
she flew out at the open window, back to her own green woods.

"What strange conduct," said the emperor, when her flight had been
discovered; and all the courtiers blamed her, and said she was a
very ungrateful creature.

"But we have the best bird after all," said one, and then they
would have the bird sing again, although it was the thirty-fourth time
they had listened to the same piece, and even then they had not learnt
it, for it was rather difficult. But the music-master praised the bird
in the highest degree, and even asserted that it was better than a
real nightingale, not only in its dress and the beautiful diamonds,
but also in its musical power. "For you must perceive, my chief lord
and emperor, that with a real nightingale we can never tell what is
going to be sung, but with this bird everything is settled. It can
be opened and explained, so that people may understand how the waltzes
are formed, and why one note follows upon another. "

"This is exactly what we think," they all replied, and then the
music-master received permission to exhibit the bird to the people
on the following Sunday, and the emperor commanded that they should be
present to hear it sing. When they heard it they were like people
intoxicated; however it must have been with drinking tea, which is
quite a Chinese custom. They all said "Oh! " and held up their
forefingers and nodded, but a poor fisherman, who had heard the real
nightingale, said, "it sounds prettily enough, and the melodies are
all alike; yet there seems something wanting, I cannot exactly tell
what. "

And after this the real nightingale was banished from the
empire, and the artificial bird placed on a silk cushion close to
the emperor's bed. The presents of gold and precious stones which
had been received with it were round the bird, and it was now advanced
to the title of "Little Imperial Toilet Singer," and to the rank of
No. 1 on the left hand; for the emperor considered the left side, on
which the heart lies, as the most noble, and the heart of an emperor
is in the same place as that of other people.

The music-master wrote a work, in twenty-five volumes, about the
artificial bird, which was very learned and very long, and full of the
most difficult Chinese words; yet all the people said they had read
it, and understood it, for fear of being thought stupid and having
their bodies trampled upon.

So a year passed, and the emperor, the court, and all the other
Chinese knew every little turn in the artificial bird's song; and
for that same reason it pleased them better. They could sing with
the bird, which they often did. The street-boys sang, "Zi-zi-zi,
cluck, cluck, cluck," and the emperor himself could sing it also. It
was really most amusing.

One evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and
the emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird
sounded "whizz. " Then a spring cracked. "Whir-r-r-r" went all the
wheels, running round, and then the music stopped. The emperor
immediately sprang out of bed, and called for his physician; but
what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker; and, after a
great deal of talking and examination, the bird was put into something
like order; but he said that it must be used very carefully, as the
barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put in new ones
without injuring the music. Now there was great sorrow, as the bird
could only be allowed to play once a year; and even that was dangerous
for the works inside it. Then the music-master made a little speech,
full of hard words, and declared that the bird was as good as ever;
and, of course no one contradicted him.

Five years passed, and then a real grief came upon the land. The
Chinese really were fond of their emperor, and he now lay so ill
that he was not expected to live. Already a new emperor had been
chosen and the people who stood in the street asked the
lord-in-waiting how the old emperor was; but he only said, "Pooh! " and
shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the emperor in his royal bed; the whole court
thought he was dead, and every one ran away to pay homage to his
successor. The chamberlains went out to have a talk on the matter, and
the ladies'-maids invited company to take coffee. Cloth had been
laid down on the halls and passages, so that not a footstep should
be heard, and all was silent and still. But the emperor was not yet
dead, although he lay white and stiff on his gorgeous bed, with the
long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels. A window stood open,
and the moon shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird. The
poor emperor, finding he could scarcely breathe with a strange
weight on his chest, opened his eyes, and saw Death sitting there.
He had put on the emperor's golden crown, and held in one hand his
sword of state, and in the other his beautiful banner. All around
the bed and peeping through the long velvet curtains, were a number of
strange heads, some very ugly, and others lovely and gentle-looking.
These were the emperor's good and bad deeds, which stared him in the
face now Death sat at his heart.

"Do you remember this? " "Do you recollect that? " they asked one
after another, thus bringing to his remembrance circumstances that
made the perspiration stand on his brow.

"I know nothing about it," said the emperor. "Music! music! " he
cried; "the large Chinese drum! that I may not hear what they say. "
But they still went on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they
said. "Music! music! " shouted the emperor. "You little precious golden
bird, sing, pray sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I
have even hung my golden slipper round your neck. Sing! sing! " But the
bird remained silent. There was no one to wind it up, and therefore it
could not sing a note.

Death continued to stare at the emperor with his cold, hollow
eyes, and the room was fearfully still. Suddenly there came through
the open window the sound of sweet music. Outside, on the bough of a
tree, sat the living nightingale. She had heard of the emperor's
illness, and was therefore come to sing to him of hope and trust.
And as she sung, the shadows grew paler and paler; the blood in the
emperor's veins flowed more rapidly, and gave life to his weak
limbs; and even Death himself listened, and said, "Go on, little
nightingale, go on. "

"Then will you give me the beautiful golden sword and that rich
banner? and will you give me the emperor's crown? " said the bird.

So Death gave up each of these treasures for a song; and the
nightingale continued her singing. She sung of the quiet churchyard,
where the white roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume
on the breeze, and the fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the
mourners' tears. Then Death longed to go and see his garden, and
floated out through the window in the form of a cold, white mist.

"Thanks, thanks, you heavenly little bird. I know you well. I
banished you from my kingdom once, and yet you have charmed away the
evil faces from my bed, and banished Death from my heart, with your
sweet song. How can I reward you? "

"You have already rewarded me," said the nightingale. "I shall
never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to
you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now
sleep, and grow strong and well again. I will sing to you again. "

And as she sung, the emperor fell into a sweet sleep; and how mild
and refreshing that slumber was! When he awoke, strengthened and
restored, the sun shone brightly through the window; but not one of
his servants had returned--they all believed he was dead; only the
nightingale still sat beside him, and sang.

"You must always remain with me," said the emperor. "You shall
sing only when it pleases you; and I will break the artificial bird
into a thousand pieces. "

"No; do not do that," replied the nightingale; "the bird did
very well as long as it could. Keep it here still. I cannot live in
the palace, and build my nest; but let me come when I like. I will sit
on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you, so
that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to
you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and
the evil, who are hidden around you. The little singing bird flies far
from you and your court to the home of the fisherman and the peasant's
cot. I love your heart better than your crown; and yet something
holy lingers round that also. I will come, I will sing to you; but you
must promise me one thing. "

"Everything," said the emperor, who, having dressed himself in his
imperial robes, stood with the hand that held the heavy golden sword
pressed to his heart.

"I only ask one thing," she replied; "let no one know that you
have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be best to
conceal it. " So saying, the nightingale flew away.

The servants now came in to look after the dead emperor; when, lo!
there he stood, and, to their astonishment, said, "Good morning. "




THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT

"That was a terrible affair! " said a hen, and in a quarter of the
town, too, where it had not taken place. "That was a terrible affair
in a hen-roost. I cannot sleep alone to-night. It is a good thing that
many of us sit on the roost together. " And then she told a story
that made the feathers on the other hens bristle up, and the cock's
comb fall. There was no doubt about it.

But we will begin at the beginning, and that is to be found in a
hen-roost in another part of the town. The sun was setting, and the
fowls were flying on to their roost; one hen, with white feathers
and short legs, used to lay her eggs according to the regulations, and
was, as a hen, respectable in every way. As she was flying upon the
roost, she plucked herself with her beak, and a little feather came
out.

"There it goes," she said; "the more I pluck, the more beautiful
do I get. " She said this merrily, for she was the best of the hens,
and, moreover, as had been said, very respectable. With that she
went to sleep.

It was dark all around, and hen sat close to hen, but the one
who sat nearest to her merry neighbour did not sleep. She had heard
and yet not heard, as we are often obliged to do in this world, in
order to live at peace; but she could not keep it from her neighbour
on the other side any longer. "Did you hear what was said? I mention
no names, but there is a hen here who intends to pluck herself in
order to look well. If I were a cock, I should despise her. "

Just over the fowls sat the owl, with father owl and the little
owls. The family has sharp ears, and they all heard every word that
their neighbour had said. They rolled their eyes, and mother owl,
beating her wings, said: "Don't listen to her! But I suppose you heard
what was said? I heard it with my own ears, and one has to hear a
great deal before they fall off. There is one among the fowls who
has so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen that she plucks out all
her feathers and lets the cock see it. "

"Prenez garde aux enfants! " said father owl; "children should
not hear such things. "

"But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an
estimable owl to talk to. " And with that she flew away.

"Too-whoo! Too-whoo! " they both hooted into the neighbour's
dove-cot to the doves inside. "Have you heard? Have you heard?
Too-whoo! There is a hen who has plucked out all her feathers for
the sake of the cock; she will freeze to death, if she is not frozen
already. Too-whoo! "

"Where? where? " cooed the doves.

"In the neighbour's yard. I have as good as seen it myself. It
is almost unbecoming to tell the story, but there is no doubt about
it. "

"Believe every word of what we tell you," said the doves, and
cooed down into their poultry-yard. "There is a hen--nay, some say
that there are two--who have plucked out all their feathers, in
order not to look like the others, and to attract the attention of the
cock. It is a dangerous game, for one can easily catch cold and die
from fever, and both of these are dead already. "

"Wake up! wake up! " crowed the cock, and flew upon his board.
Sleep was still in his eyes, but yet he crowed out: "Three hens have
died of their unfortunate love for a cock. They had plucked out all
their feathers. It is a horrible story: I will not keep it to
myself, but let it go farther. "

"Let it go farther," shrieked the bats, and the hens clucked and
the cocks crowed, "Let it go farther! Let it go farther! " In this
way the story travelled from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last
came back to the place from which it had really started.

"Five hens," it now ran, "have plucked out all their feathers to
show which of them had grown leanest for love of the cock, and then
they all pecked at each other till the blood ran down and they fell
down dead, to the derision and shame of their family, and to the great
loss of their owner. "

The hen who had lost the loose little feather naturally did not
recognise her own story, and being a respectable hen, said: "I despise
those fowls; but there are more of that kind. Such things ought not to
be concealed, and I will do my best to get the story into the
papers, so that it becomes known throughout the land; the hens have
richly deserved it, and their family too. "

It got into the papers, it was printed; and there is no doubt
about it, one little feather may easily grow into five hens.




IN THE NURSERY

Father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters, were gone to the
play; only little Anna and her grandpapa were left at home.

"We'll have a play too," he said, "and it may begin immediately. "

"But we have no theatre," cried little Anna, "and we have no one
to act for us; my old doll cannot, for she is a fright, and my new one
cannot, for she must not rumple her new clothes. "

"One can always get actors if one makes use of what one has,"
observed grandpapa.

"Now we'll go into the theatre. Here we will put up a book,
there another, and there a third, in a sloping row. Now three on the
other side; so, now we have the side scenes. The old box that lies
yonder may be the back stairs; and we'll lay the flooring on top of
it. The stage represents a room, as every one may see. Now we want the
actors. Let us see what we can find in the plaything-box. First the
personages, and then we will get the play ready. One after the
other; that will be capital! Here's a pipe-head, and yonder an odd
glove; they will do very well for father and daughter. "

"But those are only two characters," said little Anna. "Here's
my brother's old waistcoat--could not that play in our piece, too? "

"It's big enough, certainly," replied grandpapa. "It shall be
the lover. There's nothing in the pockets, and that's very
interesting, for that's half of an unfortunate attachment. And here we
have the nut-cracker's boots, with spurs to them. Row, dow, dow! how
they can stamp and strut! They shall represent the unwelcome wooer,
whom the lady does not like. What kind of a play will you have now?
Shall it be a tragedy, or a domestic drama? "

"A domestic drama, please," said little Anna, "for the others
are so fond of that. Do you know one? "

"I know a hundred," said grandpapa. "Those that are most in
favor are from the French, but they are not good for little girls.
In the meantime, we may take one of the prettiest, for inside
they're all very much alike. Now I shake the pen! Cock-a-lorum! So
now, here's the play, brin-bran-span new! Now listen to the
play-bill. "

And grandpapa took a newspaper, and read as if he were reading
from it:

THE PIPE-HEAD AND THE GOOD HEAD
A Family Drama in One Act
CHARACTERS

MR. PIPE-HEAD, a father. MR. WAISTCOAT, a lover.
MISS GLOVE, a daughter. MR. DE BOOTS, a suitor.


"And now we're going to begin. The curtain rises. We have no
curtain, so it has risen already. All the characters are there, and so
we have them at hand. Now I speak as Papa Pipe-head! He's angry
to-day. One can see that he's a colored meerschaum.
"'Snik, snak, snurre, bassellurre! I'm master of this house! I'm
the father of my daughter! Will you hear what I have to say? Mr. de
Boots is a person in whom one may see one's face; his upper part is of
morocco, and he has spurs into the bargain. Snikke, snakke, snak! He
shall have my daughter! "

"Now listen to what the Waistcoat says, little Anna," said
grandpapa. "Now the Waistcoat's speaking. The Waistcoat has a
laydown collar, and is very modest; but he knows his own value, and
has quite a right to say what he says:

"'I haven't a spot on me! Goodness of material ought to be
appreciated. I am of real silk, and have strings to me. '

"'--On the wedding day, but no longer; you don't keep your color
in the wash. ' This is Mr. Pipe-head who is speaking. 'Mr. de Boots
is water-tight, of strong leather, and yet very delicate; he can
creak, and clank with his spurs, and has an Italian physiognomy-'"

"But they ought to speak in verses," said Anna, "for I've heard
that's the most charming way of all. "

"They can do that too," replied grandpapa; "and if the public
demands it, they will talk in that way. Just look at little Miss
Glove, how she's pointing her fingers!

"'Could I but have my love,
Who then so happy as Glove!
Ah!
If I from him must part,
I'm sure 'twill break my heart! '
'Bah! '

The last word was spoken by Mr. Pipe-head; and now it's Mr.
Waistcoat's turn:

"'O Glove, my own dear,
Though it cost thee a tear,
Thou must be mine,
For Holger Danske has sworn it! '


"Mr. de Boots, hearing this, kicks up, jingles his spurs, and
knocks down three of the side-scenes. "

"That's exceedingly charming! " cried little Anna.

"Silence! silence! " said grandpapa. "Silent approbation will
show that you are the educated public in the stalls. Now Miss Glove
sings her great song with startling effects:

"'I can't see, heigho!
And therefore I'll crow!
Kikkeriki, in the lofty hall! '


"Now comes the exciting part, little Anna. This is the most
important in all the play. Mr. Waistcoat undoes himself, and addresses
his speech to you, that you may applaud; but leave it alone,--that's
considered more genteel.

"'I am driven to extremities! Take care of yourself! Now comes the
plot! You are the Pipe-head, and I am the good head--snap! there you
go! "

"Do you notice this, little Anna? " asked grandpapa. "That's a most
charming comedy. Mr. Waistcoat seized the old Pipe-head and put him in
his pocket; there he lies, and the Waistcoat says:

"'You are in my pocket; you can't come out till you promise to
unite me to your daughter Glove on the left. I hold out my right
hand. '"

"That's awfully pretty," said little Anna.

"And now the old Pipe-head replies:

"'Though I'm all ear,
Very stupid I appear:
Where's my humor? Gone, I fear,
And I feel my hollow stick's not here,
Ah! never, my dear,
Did I feel so queer.
Oh! pray let me out,
And like a lamb led to slaughter
I'll betroth you, no doubt,
To my daughter. '"


"Is the play over already? " asked little Anna.

"By no means," replied grandpapa. "It's only all over with Mr.
de Boots. Now the lovers kneel down, and one of them sings:

"'Father! '

and the other,

'Come, do as you ought to do,--
Bless your son and daughter. '

And they receive his blessing, and celebrate their wedding, and all
the pieces of furniture sing in chorus,

"'Klink! clanks!
A thousand thanks;
And now the play is over! '


"And now we'll applaud," said grandpapa. "We'll call them all out,
and the pieces of furniture too, for they are of mahogany. "

"And is not our play just as good as those which the others have
in the real theatre? "

"Our play is much better," said grandpapa. "It is shorter, the
performers are natural, and it has passed away the interval before
tea-time. "




THE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP

There is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is
called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is
very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the
Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," not "Hysken. "
"Hauschen," means a little house; and for many years it consisted only
of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden
booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a
little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or
bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in
every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our
grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days
as "olden times;" indeed, many centuries have passed since then.

The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in
Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their
clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and
sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were
many sorts--from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick--and quantities of all
sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper;
indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it
happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their
nickname of "pepper gentry. " It had been made a condition with these
clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old
had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and
even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of
them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and
eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a
certain age, are called, in Denmark, "pepper gentry;" and this must be
remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These
"pepper gentlemen," or, as they are called in England, "old
bachelors," are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on
their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The
boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:--

"Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
Such a nightcap was never seen;
Who would think it was ever clean?
Go to sleep, it will do you good. "


So they sing about the "pepper gentleman;" so do they make sport
of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really
know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or
laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.

In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers
would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in
unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths
leaning against each other were so close together, that in the
summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth
to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron,
and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a
rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys;
but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men
represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat
and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of
our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the "pepper gentlemen"
had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of
them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken
as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or
on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed
hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his.
The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close
jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over
it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the
clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon
in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to
themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.

After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and
festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a
kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to
which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two,
nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the
clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a
lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers,
bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair,
which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very
remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly
his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from
Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg.
Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the
more.

The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each
one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the
evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only
a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the
little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally
on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be
moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in
many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a
stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you
unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night
outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted
and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very
small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of
the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the
water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be
heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find
something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things
to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to
be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and
patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,--his nightcap,
which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had
only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon,
however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was
properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at
last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other
side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether
every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop
below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to
something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed,
creep down the ladder--for it could scarcely be called a flight of
stairs--and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so
he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half
way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not
properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And
when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth
chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him,
pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from
trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was
scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories
raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart
with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking
eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like
pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the
floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken.
Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life
which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his
nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the
source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The
pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances
they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would
come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they
had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.

The beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be
very beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony
were the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and
venerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial castle,
where the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the rocks;
sweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in all the
land of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a
glittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play--a
boy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear,
blue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was himself.
The little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was clever and
courageous; she was the mayor's daughter, Molly. The children were
playing with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard the pips
rattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them took half.
They also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the little
girl proposed should be placed in the ground.

"You will see what will come out," she said; "something you
don't expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly. "
Then they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both
very busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with
his finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then
they both covered it over with earth.

"Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken
root," said Molly; "no one ever should do that. I did so with my
flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I
didn't know any better then, and the flowers all died. "

Little Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the
whole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but
black earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm
again, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the pot.

"They are Molly and me," said the boy. "How wonderful they are,
and so beautiful! "

Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.

"Who does that stand for? " thought he, and then came another and
another. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became
quite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to
old Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and
disappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the
old man.

In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony
mountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself
above the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits.
It is called the "Venus Mountain," and the story goes that the "Lady
Venus," one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also
called "Lady Halle," as every child round Eisenach well knows. She
it was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from
the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.

Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day
Molly said, "Do you dare to knock and say, 'Lady Halle, Lady Halle,
open the door: Tannhauser is here! '" But Anthony did not dare.
Molly, however, did, though she only said the words, "Lady Halle, Lady
Halle," loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her
breath that Anthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and
yet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did sometimes when
she was in the garden with a number of other little girls; they
would all stand round him together, and want to kiss him, because he
did not like to be kissed, and pushed them away. Then Molly was the
only one who dared to resist him. "I may kiss him," she would say
proudly, as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain of her
power over Anthony, for he would submit quietly and think nothing of
it. Molly was very charming, but rather bold; and how she did tease!

They said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a
tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the
pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized
in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty
and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by
silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.

The apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year
after year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted
into the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And
there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand
the cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it
seemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the
cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for
Molly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after
this grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh
as an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for
long. All things change; Molly's father left his old home, and Molly
went with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a
few hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so
far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the
borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears
all flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy.
Molly had told him that she loved him--loved him more than all the
splendors of Weimar.

One, two, three years went by, and during the whole time he
received only two letters. One came by the carrier, and the other a
traveller brought. The way was very long and difficult, with many
turnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had
Anthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda, and Anthony
had thought the story applied to him, although Tristan means born in
sorrow, which Anthony certainly was not; nor was it likely he would
ever say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda, "She has forgotten me. "
But in truth, Isolda had not forgotten him, her faithful friend; and
when both were laid in their graves, one, on each side of the
church, the linden-trees that grew by each grave spread over the roof,
and, bending towards each other, mingled their blossoms together.
Anthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never
feared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly, as he passed the
spot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter,
called the "Willow bird," beginning--

"Under the linden-trees,
Out on the heath. "


One stanza pleased him exceedingly--

"Through the forest, and in the vale,
Sweetly warbles the nightingale.


This song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on
a moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow
way, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive
unexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty
welcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where
overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed
were provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had
expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own
feelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a
person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one
of them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse
with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know
nothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one
another, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something
of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.

"I am a straightforward girl," she said, "and I will tell you
myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children
together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We
cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force
of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you
when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes
in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for
another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to
this. Farewell, Anthony. "

Anthony also said, "Farewell. " Not a tear came into his eye; he
felt he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike
take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss
either; and Anthony's kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had
once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was
back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely
ruined.

"What matters it?