Kitabı oku: «Wonderful Stories for Children», sayfa 2
THE DAISY
Now thou shalt hear! – Out in the country, close by the high road, there stood a pleasure-house, – thou hast, no doubt, seen it thyself. In the front is a little garden full of flowers, and this is fenced in with painted palisades. Close beside these, in a hollow, there grew, all among the loveliest green grass, a little tuft of daisies. The sun shone upon it just as warmly and as sweetly as upon the large and rich splendid flowers within the garden, and, therefore, it grew hour by hour. One morning it opened its little shining white flower-leaves, which looked just like rays of light all round the little yellow sun in the inside. It never once thought that nobody saw it down there in the grass, and that it was a poor, despised flower! No, nothing of the kind! It was so very happy; turned itself round towards the warm sun, looked up, and listened to the lark which sang in the blue air.
The little daisy was as happy as if it had been some great holiday, and yet it was only a Monday. All the children were in school, and while they sat upon the benches learning their lessons, it also sat upon its little green stalk, and learned from the warm sun and from every thing around it, how good God is. And it seemed to it quite right that the little lark sang so intelligibly and so beautifully every thing which it felt in stillness; and it looked up with a sort of reverence to the happy bird, which could sing and fly, but it was not at all vexed because it could not do the same.
"I see it and hear it," thought the daisy; "the sun shines upon me, and the winds kiss me! O, what a many gifts I enjoy!"
Inside the garden paling there were such a great many stiff, grand flowers; and all the less fragrance they had the more they seemed to swell themselves out. The pionies blew themselves out that they might be bigger than the roses; but it is not size which does every thing. The tulips had the most splendid colors, and they knew it too, and held themselves so upright on purpose that people should see them all the better. They never paid the least attention to the little daisy outside, but it looked at them all the more, and thought, "How rich they are, and how beautiful! Yes, to be sure, the charming bird up there must fly down and pay them a visit. Thank God! that I am so near that I can see all the glory!" And while she was thinking these thoughts – "Quirrevit!" down came the lark flying, – but not down to the pionies and the tulips: no! but down into the grass to the poor little daisy; which was so astonished by pure joy, that it did not know what it should think.
The little bird danced round about, and sang, "Nay, but the grass is in flower! and see, what a sweet little blossom, with a golden heart and a silver jerkin on!" – for the yellow middle of the daisy looked as if it were of gold, and the little leaves round about were shining and silver white.
So happy as the little daisy was it is quite impossible to describe! The bird kissed it with its beak, sang before it, and then flew up again into the blue air. It required a whole quarter of an hour before the daisy could come to itself again. Half bashfully, and yet with inward delight, it looked into the garden to the other flowers; they had actually seen the honor and the felicity which she had enjoyed; they could certainly understand, she thought, what a happiness it was. But the tulips stood yet just as stiffly as before, and their faces were so peaked and so red! – for they were quite vexed. The pionies were quite thick-headed, too! it was a good thing that they could not talk, or else the daisy would have been regularly scolded. The poor little flower, however, could see very plainly that they were not in a good humor, and that really distressed her. At that very moment there came a girl into the garden with a great knife in her hand, which was very sharp and shining, and she went all among the tulips, and she cut off first one and then another.
"Ah!" sighed the little daisy, "that was very horrible; now all is over with them!"
So the girl went away with the tulips. The daisy was glad that it grew in the grass, and was a little mean flower; it felt full of gratitude, and when the sun set, it folded its leaves, slept, and dreamed the whole night long about the sun and the little bird.
Next morning, the flower again, full of joy, spread out all its white leaves, like small arms, towards the air and the light; it recognised the bird's voice; but the song of the bird was very sorrowful. Yes, the poor little bird had good reason for being sad! it had been taken prisoner, and now sat in a cage close by the open window of the pleasure-house. It sang about flying wherever it would in freedom and bliss; it sang about the young green corn in the fields, and about the charming journeys which it used to make up in the blue air upon its hovering wings. The poor bird was heavy at heart, and was captive in a cage.
The little daisy wished so sincerely that it could be of any service; but it was difficult to tell how. In sympathizing with the lark, the daisy quite forgot how beautiful was every thing around it – how warmly the sun shone, and how beautifully white were its own flower-leaves. Ah! it could think of nothing but of the captive bird, for which it was not able to do any thing.
Just then came two little boys out of the garden; one of them had a knife in his hand, large and sharp, like that which the girl had, and with which she cut off the tulips. They went straight up to the little daisy, which could not think what they wanted.
"Here we can get a beautiful grass turf for the lark," said one of the boys; and began deeply to cut out a square around the daisy-root, so that it was just in the middle of the turf.
"Break off the flower!" said the other boy; and the daisy trembled for very fear of being broken off, and thus losing its life; when it would so gladly live and go with the turf into the cage of the captive lark.
"Nay, let it be where it is!" said the other boy; "it makes it look so pretty!"
And so it was left there, and was taken into the cage to the lark.
But the poor bird made loud lamentations over its lost freedom, and struck the wires of the cage with its wings. The little daisy could not speak, could not say one consoling word, however gladly it would have done so. Thus passed the forenoon.
"There is no water here," said the captive lark; "they are all gone out, and have forgotten to give me a drop to drink! my throat is dry and burning! it is fire and ice within me, and the air is so heavy! Ah! I shall die away from the warm sunshine, from the fresh green leaves, from all the glorious things which God has created!" and with that it bored its little beak down into the cool turf to refresh itself a little. At that moment it caught sight of the daisy, nodded to it, kissed it with its beak, and said, "Thou also must wither here, thou poor little flower! Thou and the little plot of grass, which they have given me for the whole world which I had out there! Every little blade of grass may be to me a green tree, every one of thy little white leaves a fragrant flower! Ah! you only tell me how much I have lost!"
"Ah! who can comfort him!" thought the daisy, but could not move a leaf; and yet the fragrance which was given forth from its delicate petals was much sweeter than is usual in such flowers. The bird remarked this, and when, overcome by the agony of thirst and misery, it tore up every green blade of grass, it touched not the little flower.
Evening came, and yet no one brought a single drop of water to the poor bird. It stretched out its beautiful wings, fluttered them convulsively, and its song was a melancholy wailing; its little head bowed down towards the flower, and its heart broke from thirst and longing. The little flower knew this not; before the evening was ended, it had folded its petals together and slept upon the earth, overcome with sickness and sorrow.
Not until the next morning came the boys, and when they saw that the bird was dead they wept, wept many tears, and dug for it a handsome grave, which they adorned with leaves of flowers. The corpse of the bird was laid in a beautiful red box. It was to be buried royally, the poor bird! which, when full of life and singing its glorious song, they forgot, and let it pine in a cage, and suffer thirst – and now they did him honor, and shed many tears over him!
But the sod of grass with the daisy, that they threw out into the dust of the highway; no one thought about it, though it had felt more than any of them for the little bird, and would so gladly have comforted it.
THE NAUGHTY BOY
There was once upon a time an old poet, such a really good old poet! One evening, he sat at home – it was dreadful weather out of doors – the rain poured down; but the old poet sat so comfortably, and in such a good humor, beside his stove, where the fire was burning brightly, and his apples were merrily roasting.
"There will not be a dry thread on the poor souls who are out in this weather!" said he; for he was such a good old poet.
"O let me in! I am freezing, and I am so wet!" cried the voice of a little child outside. It cried and knocked at the door, while the rain kept pouring down, and the wind rattled at all the windows.
"Poor little soul!" said the old poet, and got up to open the door. There stood a little boy; he had not any clothes on, and the rain ran off from his long yellow hair. He shook with the cold; if he had not been taken in, he would most surely have died of that bad weather.
"Thou poor little soul!" said the kind old poet, and took him by the hand; "come in, and I will warm thee! and thou shalt have some wine, and a nice roasted apple, for thou art a pretty little boy!"
And so he was. His eyes were like two bright stars, and, although the water ran down from his yellow hair, yet it curled so beautifully. He looked just like a little angel; but he was pale with the cold, and his little body trembled all over. In his hand he carried a pretty little bow; but it was quite spoiled with the rain, and all the colors of his beautiful little arrows ran one into another with the wet.
The good old poet seated himself by the stove, and took the little boy upon his knee; he wrung the rain out of his hair, warmed his little hands in his, and made some sweet wine warm for him; by this means the rosy color came back into his cheeks, he jumped down upon the floor, and danced round and round the old poet.
"Thou art a merry lad," said the poet; "what is thy name?"
"They call me Love," replied the boy; "dost thou not know me? There lies my bow; I shoot with it, thou mayst believe! See, now, the weather clears up; the moon shines!"
"But thy bow is spoiled," said the old poet.
"That would be sad!" said the little boy, and took it up to see if it were. "Oh, it is quite dry," said he; "it is not hurt at all! The string is quite firm: now I will try it!"
And with that he strung it, laid an arrow upon it, took his aim, and shot the good old poet right through the heart!
"Thou canst now see that my bow is not spoiled!" said he; and laughing as loud as he could, ran away. What a naughty boy! to shoot the good old poet who had taken him into the warm room; who had been so kind to him, and given him nice wine to drink, and the very best of his roasted apples!
The poor poet lay upon the floor and wept, for he was actually shot through the heart, and he said, "Fy! what a naughty boy that Love is! I will tell all good little children about him, that they may drive him away before he makes them some bad return!"
All good children, boys and girls, to whom he told this, drove away that naughty little lad; but for all that he has made fools of them all, for he is so artful! When students go from their lectures, he walks by their side with a book under his arm, and they fancy that he too is a student, and so he runs an arrow into their breasts. When young girls go to church, and when they stand in the aisle of the church, he too has followed them. Yes, he is always following people!
He sits in the great chandelier in the theatre, and burns with a bright flame, and so people think he is a lamp, but afterwards they find something else! He runs about the king's garden, and on the bowling-green! Yes! he once shot thy father and mother through the heart! Ask them about it, and then thou wilt hear what they say. Yes, indeed, he is a bad boy, that Love; do thou never have any thing to do with him! – he is always running after people! Only think! once upon a time, he even shot an arrow at thy good old grandmother! – but that is a long time ago, and it is past. But thus it is, he never forgets anybody!
Fy, for shame, naughty Love! But now thou knowest him, and knowest what a bad boy he is!
TOMMELISE
Once upon a time, a beggar woman went to the house of a poor peasant, and asked for something to eat. The peasant's wife gave her some bread and milk. When she had eaten it, she took a barley-corn out of her pocket, and said – "This will I give thee; set it in a flower-pot, and see what will come out of it."
The woman set the barley-corn in an old flower-pot, and the next day the most beautiful plant had shot up, which looked just like a tulip, but the leaves were shut close together, as if it still were in bud.
"What a pretty flower it is!" said the woman, and kissed the small red and yellow leaves; and just as she had kissed them, the flower gave a great crack, and opened itself. It was a real tulip, only one could see that in the middle of the flower there sat upon the pintail a little tiny girl, so delicate and lovely, and not half so big as my thumb, and, therefore, woman called her Tommelise.
A pretty polished walnut-shell was her cradle, blue violet leaves were her mattress, and a rose leaf was her coverlet; here she slept at night, but in the day she played upon the table, where the woman had set a plate, around which she placed quite a garland of flowers, the stalks of which were put in water. A large tulip-leaf floated on the water. Tommelise seated herself on this, and sailed from one end of the plate to the other; she had two white horse-hairs to row her little boat with. It looked quite lovely; and then she sang – Oh! so beautifully, as nobody ever had heard!
One night, as she lay in her nice little bed, there came a fat, yellow frog hopping in at the window, in which there was a broken pane. The frog was very large and heavy, but it hopped easily on the table where Tommelise lay and slept under the red rose leaf.
"This would be a beautiful wife for my son!" said the frog; and so she took up the walnut-shell in which Tommelise lay, and hopped away with it, through the broken pane, down into the garden.
Here there ran a large, broad river; but just at its banks it was marshy and muddy: the frog lived here, with her son. Uh! he also was all spotted with green and yellow, and was very like his mother. "Koax, koax, brekke-ke-kex!" that was all that he could say when he saw the pretty little maiden in the walnut-shell.
"Don't make such a noise, or else you will waken her," said the old frog; "and if you frighten her, she may run away from us, for she is as light as swan's down! We will take her out on the river, and set her on a waterlily leaf; to her who is so light, it will be like an island; she cannot get away from us there, and we will then go and get ready the house in the mud, where you two shall live together."
There grew a great many waterlilies in the river, with their broad green leaves, which seemed to float upon the water. The old frog swam to the leaf which was the farthest out in the river, and which was the largest also, and there she set the walnut-shell, with little Tommelise.
The poor little tiny thing awoke quite early in the morning, and when she saw where she was she began to cry bitterly, for there was water on every side of the large green leaf, and she could not get to land.
The old frog sat down in the mud, and decked her house with sedge and yellow water-reeds, that it might be regularly beautiful when her new daughter-in-law came. After this was done, she and her fat son swam away to the lily leaf, where Tommelise stood, that they might fetch her pretty little bed, and so have every thing ready before she herself came to the house.
The old frog courtesied to her in the water, and said, – "Allow me to introduce my son to you, who is to be your husband, and you shall live together, so charmingly, down in the mud!"
"Koax, koax, brekke-ke-kex!" that was all that the son could say.
So they took the pretty little bed, and swam away with it; but Tommelise sat, quite alone, and wept, upon the green leaf, for she did not wish to live with the queer-looking, yellow frog, nor to have her ugly son for her husband. The little fishes which swam down in the water had seen the frog, and had heard what she said; they put up, therefore, their heads, to look at the little girl. The moment they saw her they thought her very pretty; and they felt very sorry that she should have to go down into the mud and live with the frog. No, never should it be! They therefore went down into the water in a great shoal, and gathered round the green stalk of the leaf upon which she stood; they gnawed the stalk in two with their teeth, and thus the leaf floated down the river. Slowly and quietly it floated away, a long way off, where the frog could not come to it.
Tommelise sailed past a great many places, and the little birds sat in the bushes, looked at her, and sang, – "What a pretty little maiden!" The leaf on which she stood floated away farther and farther, and, at last, she came to a foreign land.
A pretty little white butterfly stayed with her, and flew round about her, and, at length, seated itself upon the leaf; for it knew little Tommelise so well and she was so pleased, for she knew that now the frog could not come near her, and the land to which she had come was very beautiful. The sun shone upon the water, and it was like the most lovely gold. She took off her girdle, therefore, and bound one end of it to the butterfly, and the other end of it to the leaf, and thus she glided on more swiftly than ever, and she stood upon the leaf as it went.
As she was thus sailing on charmingly, a large stag-beetle came flying towards her; it paused for a moment to look at her, then clasped its claws around her slender waist, and flew up into a tree with her, but the green lily leaf floated down the stream, and the white butterfly with it, because it was fastened to it, and could not get loose.
Poor Tommelise! how frightened she was when the stag-beetle flew away with her up into the tree! but she was most of all distressed for the lovely white butterfly which she had fastened to the leaf. But that did not trouble the stag-beetle at all. It seated itself upon one of the largest green leaves of the tree, gave her the honey of the flowers to eat, and said that she was very pretty, although she was not at all like a stag-beetle. Before long, all the other stag-beetles that lived in the tree came to pay her a visit; they looked at Tommelise; and the misses stag-beetle, they examined her with their antennæ, and said, – "Why, she has only two legs, that is very extraordinary!" "She has no antennæ!" said the others. "She has such a thin body! Why she looks just like a human being!" "How ugly she is!" said all the lady stag-beetles; and yet Tommelise was exceedingly pretty.
The stag-beetle which had carried her away had thought so himself, at first; but now, as all the others said that she was ugly, he fancied, at last, that she was so, and would not have her, and she could now go where she would. They flew down with her out of the tree, and set her upon a daisy. Here she wept, because she was so ugly, and the stag-beetles would have nothing to do with her; and yet she really was so very lovely as nobody could imagine, as delicate and bright as the most beautiful rose leaf!
Poor Tommelise lived all that long summer, though quite alone, in the great wood. She wove herself a bed of grass, and hung it under a large plantain leaf, so that the rain could not come to her; she fed from the honey of the flowers, and drank of the dew which stood in glittering drops every morning on the grass. Thus passed the summer and the autumn; but now came winter, the cold, long winter. All the birds which had sung so sweetly to her were flown away; the trees and the flowers withered; the large plantain leaf under which she had dwelt shrunk together, and became nothing but a dry, yellow stalk; and she was so cold, for her clothes were in rags; and she herself was so delicate and small! – poor Tommelise, she was almost frozen to death! It began to snow, and every snow-flake which fell upon her was just as if a whole drawer-full had been thrown upon us, for we are strong, and she was so very, very small! She crept, therefore, into a withered leaf, but that could not keep her warm; she shook with the cold.
Close beside the wood in which she now was, lay a large cornfield; but the corn had long been carried; nothing remained but dry stubble, which stood up on the frozen ground. It was, to her, like going into a bare wood – Oh! how she shivered with cold! Before long she came to the fieldmouse's door. The fieldmouse had a little cave down below the roots of the corn-stubble, and here she dwelt warm and comfortable, and had whole rooms full of corn, and a beautiful kitchen and a store-closet. Poor Tommelise stood before the door, like any other little beggar-child, and prayed for a little bit of a barley-corn, for she had now been two whole days without having eaten the least morsel.
"Thou poor little thing!" said the fieldmouse, for she was at heart a good old fieldmouse; "come into my warm parlor, and have a bit of dinner with me."
How kind that seemed to Tommelise!
"Thou canst stop with me the whole winter," said the old fieldmouse; "but then thou must be my little maid, and keep my parlor neat and clean, and tell me tales to amuse me, for I am very fond of them!" And Tommelise did all that the good old fieldmouse desired of her, and was very comfortable.
"Before long we shall have a visitor," said the fieldmouse, soon after Tommelise was settled in her place; "my neighbor is accustomed to visit me once a week. He is much better off in the world than I am; he has a large house, and always wears such a splendid velvet dress! If thou couldst only manage to get him for thy husband, thou wouldst be lucky, – but then he is blind. Thou canst tell him the very prettiest story thou knowest."
But Tommelise gave herself no trouble about him; she did not wish to have the neighbor, for he was only a mole. He came and paid his visits in his black velvet dress; he was very rich and learned, the fieldmouse said, and his dwelling-house was twenty times larger than hers; and he had such a deal of earning, although he made but little of the sum and the beautiful flowers; he laughed at them; but then he had never seen them!
The fieldmouse insisted on Tommelise singing, so she sang. She sang both "Fly, stag-beetle, fly!" and "The green moss grows by the water side;" and the mole fell deeply in love with her, for the sake of her sweet voice, but he did not say any thing, for he was a very discreet gentleman.
He had lately dug a long passage through the earth, between his house and theirs; and in this he gave Tommelise and the fieldmouse leave to walk whenever they liked. But he told them not to be afraid of a dead bird which lay in the passage, for it was an entire bird, with feathers and a beak; which certainly was dead just lately, at the beginning of winter, and had been buried exactly where he began his passage.
The mole took a piece of touchwood in his mouth, for it shines just like fire in the dark, and went before them, to light them in the long, dark passage. When they were come where the dead bird lay, the mole set his broad nose to the ground, and ploughed up the earth, so that there was a large hole, through which the daylight could shine. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, with its beautiful wings pressed close to its sides. Its legs and head were drawn up under the feathers; the poor bird had certainly died of cold. Tommelise was very sorry for it, for she was so fond of little birds; they had, through the whole summer, sung and twittered so beautifully to her; but the mole stood beside it, with his short legs, and said, – "Now it will tweedle no more! It must be a shocking thing to be born a little bird; thank goodness that none of my children have been such; for a bird has nothing at all but its singing; and it may be starved to death in winter!"
"Yes, that you, who are a sensible man, may well say," said the fieldmouse; "what has the bird, with all its piping and singing, when winter comes? It may be famished or frozen!"
