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    Hans Christian Andersen Tales
    Hans Christian Andersen Tales
    Hans Christian Andersen Tales
    Ebook688 pages10 hours

    Hans Christian Andersen Tales

    By Hans Christian Andersen

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    “It doesn't matter if you're born in a duck yard, so long as you are hatched from a swan's egg!”—Hans Christian Andersen, “The Ugly Duckling.”

    Fairy tales are timeless treasures passed from generation to generation, and few are as beloved as those of Danish author, Hans Christian Andersen. From the princess so sensitive she is discomforted by a single pea beneath a tower of mattresses to the unfortunate-looking duckling who matures into a stunning swan, these are the stories that stay with us long after we leave childhood behind. First published in 1835, Andersen’s tales continue to delight the modern audience. Now part of the Word Cloud Classics series, Hans Christian Andersen Tales is a chic and affordable collection of these wonderful stories, complete with classics like “Thumbelina” and “The Little Mermaid,” plus some wonderful lesser-known gems to discover anew.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCanterbury Classics
    Release dateNov 1, 2014
    ISBN9781626862838
    Hans Christian Andersen Tales
    Author

    Hans Christian Andersen

    Hans Christian Andersen (1805–1875) was a Danish author, a prolific writer of plays, travelogues, novels, and poems. He is perhaps best remembered for his fairy tales, including 'The Emperor's New Clothes', 'The Little Mermaid', 'The Snow Queen', 'The Ugly Duckling', 'Thumbelina' and many others.

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    • 4/5
      Rated: B+Wonderful tales told with a child-like perspective. Many of Disney's classics owe a debt to Andersen.
    • 4/5
      Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales are world renowned. Endlessly inventive and quirky, they've sparked countless adaptations and retellings, from Disney animated films to stage plays to choral works to short stories. Some of the tales are better known than others, like "The Little Mermaid," "The Emperor's New Clothes," "The Little Match Girl," and "The Steadfast Tin Soldier." Others are less well known (and some understandably so!), like "The Marsh King's Daughter," "The Wood Nymph," "The Red Shoes," and "The Shadow," to name a few.I was struck by the harshness of some of the stories. I knew going in that Andersen's imagination was informed by a culture very different from our sanitized, politically correct world, back when children knew all about life's grimmer realities. But it's still a bit of a shock. Most of the stories don't end on an entirely happy note. Beyond "Thumbelina" I'm hard pressed to remember any that do, actually.Many of the stories deal with the theme of not being content with your position in life, like the pine tree that wasn't happy in the forest and then had one night of splendor as a Christmas tree before being tossed away to die, or the nymph who traded her natural lifespan for a day as a human. Mortality lurks everywhere in these stories, bittersweet around the edges. The china shepherdess and her china chimney-sweep lover are faithful to one another "until they break." In one story, a man's shadow eventually breaks free of him and arranges his execution... chilling. Always death is peering around the corner; always the good things are tinged with a sense of impermanence.But despite the dark themes, there is a pervasive humor throughout the stories that I found entirely engaging. Much of it comes from personifying household items, like a kitchen pot or gentleman's necktie and poking fun at the absurdity of human vanity. Relationships come in for their fair share of gentle mockery, too — Stork Father and Stork Mother have some amusing insights on one another, and Andersen isn't above wry observations in the narrative.As a Christian, I found the theological aspect of the stories fascinating. Sometimes Andersen gets it right and it's biblical and beautiful — and other times (well, most of the time) his conception of a works-based salvation ruins everything. "The Little Mermaid" was particularly bad in this regard; she's told she can gain an immortal soul if she does good deeds for three hundred years. The three hundred years' span just seemed so arbitrary, I laughed out loud. Maybe this conception of earned salvation is another reason why most of the stories end so sadly...I listened to this on audiobook from Listening Library and was familiar with the readers, Kate Reading and Robert Whitfield, from other audio productions. Both performed these stories admirably (even the tedious ones), alternating back and forth between tales. Though some of the stories dragged out, others were delightful, and I found the unpredictability an enjoyable listening experience. I've read that Tina Nunnally's translation from the Danish is the most accurate to date, and though I can't speak to that, the stories certainly do possess a distinctive tone that one hopes is Andersen's. I'm glad I picked this up, even if just to know these iconic stories as they were originally imagined.
    • 4/5
      Children's fairy tales but not what has been watered down and added with cutesy animals. Not as graphic as some versions of the old tales, but a good collection of the tales from this master storyteller.
    • 5/5
      Six-word review, nth reread of 1923 edition:Beloved childhood treasure still enchants me.
    • 4/5
      I love fairy tales and these are some of the best and are great classics.

    Book preview

    Hans Christian Andersen Tales - Hans Christian Andersen

    THE TALLOW CANDLE (1820s)

    There was sputtering and sizzling as the flames played under the pan. This was the tallow candle’s cradle, and out of the warm cradle slipped the candle—perfectly shaped, all of a piece, shiny white and slender. It was formed in a way that made everyone who laid eyes on it believe that it must promise a bright and glorious future. Indeed, it was destined to keep that promise and fulfill their expectations.

    The sheep—a pretty little sheep—was the candle’s mother, and the melting pot was its father. From its mother, it had inherited its dazzlingly white body and an intuitive understanding of life; but from its father, it had acquired the desire for the blazing fire that would eventually reach its very core and shine the light for it in life.

    That is how it had been made and how it cast itself, with the best and brightest of hopes, into life. Here it met an amazing number of fellow creatures with whom it had dealings, since it desired to get to know life and thus perhaps find the most suitable niche for itself. But the candle saw the world in too benevolent a light, while the world only cared about itself and not about the tallow candle at all. The world was unable to understand the true nature of the candle, so it tried to use it to its own advantage and handled the candle improperly. Black fingers made bigger and bigger spots on the white color of innocence, which little by little totally disappeared, to be covered with the filth of an outside world that had been far too harsh and come much closer than the candle could bear, since it had been unable to distinguish between the pure and the impure—but deep inside, it was still innocent and unspoiled.

    That is when the false friends realized that they could not reach its innermost part. In anger, they threw away the candle, considering it a useless thing.

    The outer black layer kept away everybody good—they were afraid of becoming contaminated by the black color, of getting spots on themselves, so they kept a distance.

    Now, the poor tallow candle was lonely, abandoned, and at its wit’s end. It felt cast off by what was good and discovered that it had been nothing but a blind tool used to advance what was bad. It felt so terribly sad because it had lived its life without purpose—perhaps it had even tarnished some good things by its presence. It could not grasp why and to what end it had been created, why it was put on this Earth where it might destroy itself and even others.

    More and more, increasingly deeply, it pondered the situation, but the more it thought, the greater its despondency, since it could not find anything good at all, no real meaning for itself—or see the purpose it had been given at birth. It was as if the black layer had also thrown a veil over its eyes.

    That was when it met a small flame, a tinderbox. The tinderbox knew the light better than the tallow candle knew itself, for the tinderbox saw everything so clearly—right through the outer layer, and inside it found so much good. Therefore, it went closer, and bright hopes emerged in the candle. It lit up, and its heart melted.

    The flame shone brightly—like a wedding torch of joy. Everything became bright and clear, and it showed the way for those in its company, its true friends—and helped by the light, they could now successfully seek truth.

    The body, too, was strong enough to nurture and support the burning flame. Like the beginnings of new life, one round and plump drop after the other rolled down the candle, covering the filth of the past.

    This was not only the bodily, but also the spiritual gain of the marriage.

    The tallow candle had found its true place in life—and proved that a true light shone for a long time, spreading joy for itself and its fellow creatures.

    THE TINDERBOX (1835)

    There came a soldier marching down the high road—one, two! one, two! He had his knapsack on his back and his sword at his side as he came home from the wars. On the road, he met a witch, an ugly old witch, a witch whose lower lip dangled right down on her chest.

    Good evening, soldier, she said. What a fine sword you’ve got there, and what a big knapsack. Aren’t you every inch a soldier! And now you shall have money, as much as you please.

    That’s very kind, you old witch, said the soldier.

    See that big tree. The witch pointed to one nearby them. It’s hollow to the roots. Climb to the top of the trunk, and you’ll find a hole through which you can let yourself down deep under the tree. I’ll tie a rope around your middle, so that when you call me, I can pull you up again.

    What would I do deep down under that tree? the soldier wanted to know.

    Fetch money, the witch said. "Listen. When you touch bottom, you’ll find yourself in a great hall. It is very bright there, because more than a hundred lamps are burning. By their light, you will see three doors. Each door has a key in it, so you can open them all.

    "If you walk into the first room, you’ll see a large chest in the middle of the floor. On it sits a dog, and his eyes are as big as saucers. But don’t worry about that. I’ll give you my blue-checked apron to spread out on the floor. Snatch up that dog, and set him on my apron. Then you can open the chest and take out as many pieces of money as you please. They are all copper.

    "But if silver suits you better, then go into the next room. There sits a dog, and his eyes are as big as mill wheels. But don’t you care about that. Set the dog on my apron while you line your pockets with silver.

    Maybe you’d rather have gold. You can, you know. You can have all the gold you can carry if you go into the third room. The only hitch is that there on the money-chest sits a dog, and each of his eyes is as big as the Round Tower of Copenhagen. That’s the sort of dog he is. But never you mind how fierce he looks. Just set him on my apron and he’ll do you no harm as you help yourself from the chest to all the gold you want.

    That suits me, said the soldier. But what do you get out of all this, you old witch? I suppose that you want your share.

    No indeed, said the witch. I don’t want a penny of it. All I ask is for you to fetch me an old tinderbox that my grandmother forgot the last time she was down there.

    Good, said the soldier. Tie the rope around me.

    Here it is, said the witch, and here’s my blue-checked apron.

    The soldier climbed up to the hole in the tree and let himself slide through it, feet foremost down into the great hall where the hundreds of lamps were burning, just as the witch had said. Now he threw open the first door he came to. Ugh! There sat a dog glaring at him with eyes as big as saucers.

    You’re a nice fellow, the soldier said, as he shifted him to the witch’s apron and took all the coppers that his pockets would hold. He shut up the chest, set the dog back on it, and made for the second room. Alas and alack! There sat the dog with eyes as big as mill wheels.

    Don’t you look at me like that. The soldier set him on the witch’s apron. You’re apt to strain your eyesight. When he saw the chest brimful of silver, he threw away all his coppers and filled both his pockets and knapsack with silver alone. Then he went into the third room. Oh, what a horrible sight to see! The dog in there really did have eyes as big as the Round Tower, and when he rolled them, they spun like wheels.

    Good evening, the soldier said, and saluted, for such a dog he had never seen before. But on second glance, he thought to himself, This won’t do. So he lifted the dog down to the floor, and threw open the chest. What a sight! Here was gold and to spare. He could buy out all Copenhagen with it. He could buy all the cake-woman’s sugar pigs, and all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking horses there are in the world. Yes, there was really money!

    In short order, the soldier got rid of all the silver coins he had stuffed in his pockets and knapsack, to put gold in their place. Yes sir, he crammed all his pockets, his knapsack, his cap, and his boots so full that he scarcely could walk. Now he was made of money. Putting the dog back on the chest, he banged out the door and called up through the hollow tree:

    Pull me up now, you old witch.

    Have you got the tinderbox? asked the witch.

    Confound the tinderbox, the soldier shouted. I clean forgot it.

    When he fetched it, the witch hauled him up. There he stood on the high road again, with his pockets, boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold.

    What do you want with the tinderbox? he asked the old witch.

    None of your business, she told him. You’ve had your money, so hand over my tinderbox.

    Nonsense, said the soldier. I’ll take out my sword, and I’ll cut your head off if you don’t tell me at once what you want with it.

    I won’t, the witch screamed at him.

    So he cut her head off. There she lay! But he tied all his money in her apron, slung it over his shoulder, stuck the tinderbox in his pocket, and struck out for town.

    It was a splendid town. He took the best rooms at the best inn, and ordered all the good things he liked to eat, for he was a rich man now because he had so much money. The servant who cleaned his boots may have thought them remarkably well worn for a man of such means, but that was before he went shopping. Next morning, he bought boots worthy of him, and the best clothes. Now that he had turned out to be such a fashionable gentleman, people told him all about the splendors of their town—all about their king, and what a pretty princess he had for a daughter.

    Where can I see her? the soldier inquired.

    You can’t see her at all, everyone said. She lives in a great copper castle inside all sorts of walls and towers. Only the king can come in or go out of it, for it’s been foretold that the princess will marry a common soldier. The king would much rather she didn’t.

    I’d like to see her just the same, the soldier thought. But there was no way to manage it.

    Now he lived a merry life. He went to the theater, drove about in the king’s garden, and gave away money to poor people. This was to his credit, for he remembered from the old days what it feels like to go without a penny in your pocket. Now that he was wealthy and well dressed, he had all too many who called him their friend and a genuine gentleman. That pleased him.

    But he spent money every day without making any, and wound up with only two coppers to his name. He had to quit his fine quarters to live in a garret, clean his own boots, and mend them himself with a darning needle. None of his friends came to see him, because there were too many stairs to climb.

    One evening when he sat in the dark without even enough money to buy a candle, he suddenly remembered there was a candle end in the tinderbox that he had picked up when the witch sent him down the hollow tree. He got out the tinderbox, and the moment he struck sparks from the flint of it, his door burst open, and there stood a dog from down under the tree. It was the one with eyes as big as saucers.

    What, said the dog, is my lord’s command?

    What’s this? said the soldier. Have I got the sort of tinderbox that will get me whatever I want? Go get me some money, he ordered the dog. Zip! The dog was gone. Zip! He was back again, with a bag full of copper in his mouth.

    Now the soldier knew what a remarkable tinderbox he had. Strike it once, and there was the dog from the chest of copper coins. Strike it twice, and here came the dog who had the silver. Three times brought the dog who guarded gold.

    Back went the soldier to his comfortable quarters. Out strode the soldier in fashionable clothes. Immediately his friends knew him again, because they liked him so much.

    Then the thought occurred to him, Isn’t it odd that no one ever gets to see the princess? They say she’s very pretty, but what’s the good of it as long as she stays locked up in that large copper castle with so many towers? Why can’t I see her? Where’s my tinderbox? He struck a light and, zip! came the dog with eyes as big as saucers.

    It certainly is late, said the soldier. Practically midnight. But I do want a glimpse of the princess, if only for a moment.

    Out the door went the dog, and before the soldier could believe it, here came the dog with the princess on his back. She was sound asleep, and so pretty that everyone could see she was a princess. The soldier couldn’t keep from kissing her, because he was every inch a soldier. Then the dog took the princess home.

    Next morning when the king and queen were drinking their tea, the princess told them about the strange dream she’d had—all about a dog and a soldier. She’d ridden on the dog’s back, and the soldier had kissed her.

    Now that was a fine story, said the queen. The next night, one of the old ladies of the court was under orders to sit by the princess’s bed, and see whether this was a dream or something else altogether. The soldier was longing to see the pretty princess again, so the dog came by night to take her up and away as fast as he could run. But the old lady pulled on her storm boots and ran right after them. When she saw them disappear into a large house, she thought, Now I know where it is, and drew a big cross on the door with a piece of chalk. Then she went home to bed, and before long the dog brought the princess home too. But when the dog saw that cross marked on the soldier’s front door, he got himself a piece of chalk and cross-marked every door in the town. This was a clever thing to do, because now the old lady couldn’t tell the right door from all the wrong doors he had marked.

    Early in the morning, along came the king and the queen, the old lady, and all the officers, to see where the princess had been.

    Here it is, said the king when he saw the first cross mark.

    No, my dear. There it is, said the queen, who was looking next door.

    Here’s one, there’s one, and yonder’s another one! said they all. Wherever they looked they saw chalk marks, so they gave up searching.

    The queen, though, was an uncommonly clever woman, who could do more than ride in a coach. She took her big gold scissors, cut out a piece of silk, and made a neat little bag. She filled it with fine buckwheat flour and tied it onto the princess’s back. Then she pricked a little hole in it so that the flour would sift out along the way, wherever the princess might go.

    Again the dog came in the night, took the princess on his back, and ran with her to the soldier, who loved her so much that he would have been glad to be a prince just so he could make her his wife.

    The dog didn’t notice how the flour made a trail from the castle right up to the soldier’s window, where he ran up the wall with the princess. So in the morning, it was all too plain to the king and queen just where their daughter had been.

    They took the soldier, and they put him in prison. There he sat. It was dark, and it was dismal, and they told him, Tomorrow is the day for you to hang. That didn’t cheer him up any, and as for his tinderbox, he’d left it behind at the inn. In the morning he could see through his narrow little window how the people all hurried out of town to see him hanged. He heard the drums beat, and he saw the soldiers march. In the crowd of running people, he saw a shoemaker’s boy in a leather apron and slippers. The boy galloped so fast that off flew one slipper, which hit the wall right where the soldier pressed his face to the iron bars.

    Hey there, you shoemaker’s boy, there’s no hurry, the soldier shouted. Nothing can happen till I get there. But if you run to where I live and bring me my tinderbox, I’ll give you four coppers. Put your best foot foremost.

    The shoemaker’s boy could use four coppers, so he rushed the tinderbox to the soldier, and—well, now we shall hear what happened!

    Outside the town, a high gallows had been built. Around it stood soldiers and many hundred thousand people. The king and queen sat on a splendid throne, opposite the judge and the whole council. The soldier already stood upon the ladder, but just as they were about to put the rope around his neck, he said the custom was to grant a poor criminal one last small favor. He wanted to smoke a pipe of tobacco—the last he’d be smoking in this world.

    The king couldn’t refuse him, so the soldier struck fire from his tinderbox, once, twice, and a third time. Zip! There stood all the dogs, one with eyes as big as saucers, one with eyes as big as mill wheels, one with eyes as big as the Round Tower of Copenhagen.

    Help me. Save me from hanging! said the soldier. Those dogs took the judges and all the council, some by the leg and some by the nose, and tossed them so high that they came down broken to bits.

    Don’t! cried the king, but the biggest dog took him and the queen too, and tossed them up after the others. Then the soldiers trembled, and the people shouted, Soldier, be our king and marry the pretty princess.

    So they put the soldier in the king’s carriage. All three of his dogs danced in front of it, and shouted Hurrah! The boys whistled through their fingers, and the soldiers saluted. The princess came out of the copper castle to be queen, and that suited her exactly. The wedding lasted all of a week, and the three dogs sat at the table, with their eyes opened wider than ever before.

    LITTLE CLAUS AND BIG CLAUS (1835)

    In a village there lived two men who had the self-same name. Both were named Claus. But one of them owned four horses, and the other owned only one horse; so to distinguish between them, people called the man who had four horses Big Claus, and the man who had only one horse Little Claus. Now I’ll tell you what happened to these two, for this is a true story.

    The whole week through, Little Claus had to plow for Big Claus and lend him his only horse. In return, Big Claus lent him all four of his horses, but only for one day a week, and that had to be Sunday.

    Each Sunday, how proudly Little Claus cracked his whip over all the five horses, which were as good as his own on that day. How brightly the sun shone. How merry were the church bells that rang in the steeple. How well dressed were all the people who passed him with hymnbooks tucked under their arms. And as they went their way to church, to hear the parson preach, how the people did stare to see Little Claus plowing with all five horses. This made him feel so proud that he would crack his whip and holler, Get up, all my horses.

    You must not say that, Big Claus told him. You know as well as I do that only one of those horses is yours. But no sooner did another bevy of churchgoers come by than Little Claus forgot he mustn’t say it, and hollered, Get up, all my horses.

    Don’t you say that again, Big Claus told him. If you do, I’ll knock your horse down dead in his traces, and that will be the end of him.

    You won’t catch me saying it again, Little Claus promised. But as soon as people came by, nodding to him and wishing him Good morning, he was so pleased and so proud of how grand it looked to have five horses plowing his field, that he hollered again, Get up, all my horses!

    I’ll get up your horse for you, Big Claus said, and he snatched up a tethering mallet, and he knocked Little Claus’s one and only horse on the head so hard that it fell down dead.

    Now I haven’t any horse at all, said Little Claus, and he began to cry. But by and by, he skinned his dead horse and hung the hide to dry in the wind. Then he crammed the dry skin in a sack, slung it up over his shoulder, and set out to sell it in the nearest town.

    It was a long way to go, and he had to pass through a dark, dismal forest. Suddenly a terrible storm came up, and he lost his way. Before he could find it again, evening overtook him. The town was still a long way off, and he had come too far to get back home before night.

    Not far from the road he saw a large farmhouse. The shutters were closed, but light showed through a crack at the top of the windows. Maybe they’ll let me spend the night here, Little Claus thought, as he went to the door and knocked.

    The farmer’s wife opened it, but when she heard what he wanted, she told him to go away. She said her husband wasn’t home, and she wouldn’t have any strangers in the house.

    Then I’ll have to sleep outside, Little Claus decided, as she slammed the door in his face.

    Near the farmhouse stood a large haystack, leading up to the thatched roof of a shed, which lay between it and the house. That’s where I’ll sleep, said Little Claus when he noticed the thatch. It will make a wonderful bed. All I hope is that the stork doesn’t fly down and bite my legs. For a stork was actually standing guard on the roof where it had a nest.

    So Little Claus climbed to the roof of the shed. As he turned over to make himself comfortable, he discovered that the farmhouse shutters didn’t come quite to the top of the windows, and he could see over them. He could see into a room where a big table was spread with wine and roast meat and a delicious fish. The farmer’s wife and the sexton were sitting there at the table, all by themselves. She kept helping him to wine, and he kept helping himself to fish. He must have loved fish.

    Oh, if only I could have some too, thought Little Claus. By craning his neck toward the window he caught sight of a great, appetizing cake. Why, they were feasting in there!

    Just then he heard someone riding down the road to the house. It was the farmer coming home. He was an excellent man except for just one thing. He could not stand the sight of a sexton. If he so much as caught a glimpse of one, he would fly into a furious rage, which was the reason why the sexton had gone to see the farmer’s wife while her husband was away from home, and the good woman could do no less than set before him all the good things to eat that she had in the house. When she heard the farmer coming, she trembled for the sexton, and begged him to creep into a big empty chest, which stood in one corner of the room. He lost no time about it, because he knew full well that her poor husband couldn’t stand the sight of a sexton. The woman quickly set aside the wine and hid the good food in her oven, because if her husband had seen the feast, he would have asked questions hard to answer.

    Oh dear! Up on the shed, Little Claus sighed to see all the good food disappearing.

    Who’s up there? the farmer peered at Little Claus. Whatever are you doing up there? Come into the house with me. So Little Claus came down. He told the farmer how he had lost his way, and asked if he could have shelter for the night.

    Of course, said the farmer, but first, let’s have something to eat.

    The farmer’s wife received them well, laid the whole table, and set before them a big bowl of porridge. The farmer was hungry and ate it with a good appetite, but Little Claus was thinking about the good roast meat, that fish and that cake in the oven. Beside his feet under the table lay his sack with the horsehide, for as we know, he was on his way to sell it in the town. Not liking the porridge at all, Little Claus trod on the sack, and the dry hide gave a loud squeak.

    Sh! Little Claus said to his sack, at the same time that he trod on it so hard that it squeaked even louder.

    What on Earth have you got in there? said the farmer.

    Oh, just a conjuror, said Little Claus. He tells me we don’t have to eat porridge, because he has conjured up a whole oven-full of roast meat, fish, and cake for us.

    What do you say? said the farmer. He made haste to open the oven, where he found all the good dishes. His wife had hidden them there, but he quite believed that they had been conjured up by the wizard in the sack. His wife didn’t dare open her mouth as she helped them to their fill of meat, fish, and cake.

    Then Little Claus trod upon the sack to make it squeak again.

    What does he say now? asked the farmer.

    He says, Little Claus answered, that there are three bottles of wine for us in the corner by the oven.

    So the woman had to bring out the wine she had hidden. The farmer drank it till he grew merry, and wanted to get himself a conjuror just like the one Little Claus carried in his sack.

    Can he conjure up the devil? the farmer wondered. I’m in just the mood to meet him.

    Oh, yes, said Little Claus. My conjuror can do anything I tell him. Can’t you? he asked and trod upon the sack till it squeaked. Did you hear him answer? He said ‘Yes.’ He can conjure up the devil, but he’s afraid we won’t like the look of him.

    Oh, I’m not afraid. What’s he like?

    Well, he looks an awful lot like a sexton.

    Ho, said the farmer, as ugly as that? I can’t bear the sight of a sexton. But don’t let that stop us. Now that I know it’s just the devil, I shan’t mind it so much. I’ll face him, provided he doesn’t come near me.

    Wait, while I talk with my conjuror. Little Claus trod on the sack and stooped down to listen.

    What does he say?

    He says for you to go and open that big chest in the corner, and there you’ll find the devil doubled up inside it. But you must hold fast to the lid, so he doesn’t pop out.

    Will you help me hold it? said the farmer. He went to the chest in which his wife had hidden the sexton—once frightened, now terrified. The farmer lifted the lid a little, and peeped in.

    Ho! he sprang back. I saw him, and he’s the image of our sexton, a horrible sight! After that, they needed another drink, and sat there drinking far into the night.

    You must sell me your conjuror, said the farmer. You can fix your own price. I’d pay you a bushel of money right away.

    Oh, I couldn’t do that, Little Claus said. Just think how useful my conjuror is.

    But I’d so like to have him. The farmer kept begging to buy it.

    Well, said Little Claus at last, you’ve been kind enough to give me a night’s lodging, so I can’t say no. You shall have my sack for a bushel of money, but it must be full to the brim.

    You shall have it, said the farmer. But you must take that chest along with you, too. I won’t have it in the house another hour. He might still be inside it. You never can tell.

    So Little Claus sold his sack with the dried horsehide in it, and was paid a bushel of money, measured up to the brim. The farmer gave him a wheelbarrow, too, in which to wheel away the money and the chest.

    Fare you well, said Little Claus, and off he went with his money and his chest with the sexton in it. On the further side of the forest was a deep, wide river, where the current ran so strong that it was almost impossible to swim against it. A big new bridge had been built across the river, and when Little Claus came to the middle of it, he said, very loud so the sexton could hear him:

    Now what would I be doing with this silly chest? It’s as heavy as stone, and I’m too tired to wheel it any further. So I’ll throw it in the river, and if it drifts down to my house, well and good, but if it sinks, I haven’t lost much. Then he tilted the chest a little, as if he were about to tip it into the river.

    Stop! Don’t! the sexton shouted inside. Let me get out first.

    Oh, said Little Claus, pretending to be frightened, is he still there? Then I’d better throw him into the river and drown him.

    Oh no, don’t do that to me! the sexton shouted. I’d give a bushel of money to get out of this.

    Why, that’s altogether different, said Little Claus, opening the chest. The sexton popped out at once, pushed the empty chest into the water, and hurried home to give Little Claus a bushel of money. What with the farmer’s bushel and the sexton’s bushel, Little Claus had his wheelbarrow quite full.

    I got a good price for my horse, he said when he got home and emptied all the money in a heap on the floor of his room. How Big Claus will fret when he finds out that my one horse has made me so rich, but I won’t tell him how I managed it. Then he sent a boy to borrow a bushel measure from Big Claus.

    Whatever would he want with it? Big Claus wondered, and smeared pitch on the bottom of the bushel so that a little of what he measured would stick to it. And so it happened that when he got his measure back, he found three newly minted pieces of silver stuck to it.

    What’s this? Big Claus ran to see Little Claus. Where did you get so much money?

    Oh, that’s what I got for the horsehide I sold last night.

    Heavens above! How the price of hides must have gone up. Big Claus ran home, took an ax, and knocked all four of his horses on the head. Then he ripped their hides off, and set out to town with them.

    Hides, hides! Who’ll buy hides? he bawled, up and down the streets. All the shoemakers and tanners came running to ask what their price was. A bushel of money apiece, he told them.

    Are you crazy? they asked. Do you think we spend money by the bushel?

    Hides, hides! Who’ll buy hides? he kept on shouting, and to those who asked how much, he said, A bushel of money.

    He takes us for fools, they said. The shoemakers took their straps, and the tanners their leather aprons, and they beat Big Claus through the town.

    Hides, hides! they mocked him. We’ll tan your hide for you if you don’t get out of town. Big Claus had to run as fast as he could. He had never been beaten so badly.

    Little Claus will pay for this, he said when he got back home. I’ll kill him for it.

    Now it so happened that Little Claus’s old grandmother had just died. She had been as cross as could be—never a kind word did she have for him—but he was sorry to see her die. He put the dead woman in his own warm bed, just in case she came to life again, and let her lie there all night while he napped in a chair in the corner, as he had done so often before.

    As he sat there in the night, the door opened, and in came Big Claus with an ax. He knew exactly where Little Claus’s bed was, so he went straight to it and knocked the dead grandmother on the head, under the impression that she was Little Claus.

    There, he said, You won’t fool me again. Then he went home.

    What a wicked man, said Little Claus. Why, he would have killed me. It’s lucky for my grandmother that she was already dead, or he’d have been the death of her.

    He dressed up his old grandmother in her Sunday best, borrowed a neighbor’s horse, and hitched up his cart. On the back seat, he propped up his grandmother, wedged in so that the jolts would not topple her over, and away they went through the forest.

    When the sun came up, they drew abreast of a large inn, where Little Claus halted and went in to get him some breakfast. The innkeeper was a wealthy man, and a good enough fellow in his way, but his temper was as fiery as if he were made of pepper and snuff.

    Good morning, he said to Little Claus. You’re up and dressed mighty early.

    Yes, said Little Claus. I am bound for the town with my old grandmother, who is sitting out there in the cart. I can’t get her to come in, but you might take her a glass of mead. You’ll have to shout to make her hear you, for she’s deaf as a post.

    I’ll take it right out. The innkeeper poured a glass full of mead and took it to the dead grandmother, who sat stiffly on the cart.

    Your grandson sent you a glass of mead, said the innkeeper, but the dead woman said never a word. She just sat there.

    Don’t you hear me? the innkeeper shouted his loudest. Here’s a glass of mead from your grandson.

    Time after time he shouted it, but she didn’t budge. He flew into such a rage that he threw the glass in her face. The mead splashed all over her as she fell over backward, for she was just propped up, not tied in place.

    Confound it! Little Claus rushed out the door and took the innkeeper by the throat. You’ve gone and killed my grandmother. Look! There’s a big hole in her forehead.

    Oh, what a calamity! The innkeeper wrung his hands. And all because of my fiery temper. Dear Little Claus, I’ll give you a bushel of money, and I’ll bury your grandmother as if she were my very own. But you must hush this thing up for me, or they’ll chop off my head—how I’d hate it.

    So it came about that Little Claus got another bushel of money, and the landlord buried the old grandmother as if she’d been his own.

    Just as soon as Little Claus got home, he sent a boy to borrow a bushel measure from Big Claus.

    Little Claus wants to borrow it? Big Claus asked. Didn’t I kill him? I’ll go and see about that. So he himself took the measure over to Little Claus.

    Where did you get all that money? he asked when he saw the height of the money pile.

    When you killed my grandmother instead of me, Little Claus told him, I sold her for a bushel of money.

    Heavens above! That was indeed a good price, said Big Claus. He hurried home, took an ax, and knocked his old grandmother on the head. Then he put her in a cart, drove off to town, and asked the apothecary if he wanted to buy a dead body.

    Whose dead body? asked the apothecary. Where’d you get it?

    It’s my grandmother’s dead body. I killed her for a bushel of money, Big Claus told him.

    Lord, said the apothecary. Man, you must be crazy. Don’t talk like that, or they’ll chop off your head. Then he told him straight he had done a wicked deed, that he was a terrible fellow, and that the worst of punishments was much too good for him. Big Claus got frightened. He jumped in his cart, whipped up the horses, and drove home as fast as they would take him. The apothecary and everyone else thought he must be a madman, so they didn’t stand in his way.

    I’ll see that you pay for this, said Big Claus when he reached the high road. Oh, won’t I make you pay for this, Little Claus! The moment he got home, he took the biggest sack he could find, went to see Little Claus, and said:

    You’ve deceived me again. First, I killed my four horses. Then I killed my old grandmother, and it’s all your fault. But I’ll make sure you don’t make a fool of me again. Then he caught Little Claus and put him in the sack, slung it up over his back and told him, Now I shall take you and drown you.

    It was a long way to the river, and Little Claus was no light load. The road went by the church, and as they passed, they could hear the organ playing and the people singing very beautifully. Big Claus set down his sack just outside the church door. He thought the best thing for him to do was to go in to hear a hymn before he went any further. Little Claus was securely tied in the sack, and all the people were inside the church. So Big Claus went in too.

    Oh dear, oh dear! Little Claus sighed in the sack. Twist and turn as he might, he could not loosen the knot. Then a white-haired old cattle drover came by, leaning heavily on his staff. The herd of bulls and cows he was driving bumped against the sack Little Claus was in and overturned it.

    Oh dear, Little Claus sighed, I’m so young to be going to Heaven.

    While I, said the cattle drover, am too old for this Earth, yet Heaven will not send for me.

    Open the sack! Little Claus shouted. Get in and take my place. You’ll go straight to Heaven.

    That’s where I want to be, said the drover, as he undid the sack. Little Claus jumped out at once. You must look after my cattle, the old man said as he crawled in. As soon as Little Claus fastened the sack, he walked away from there with all the bulls and cows.

    Presently, Big Claus came out of church. He took the sack on his back and found it light, for the old drover was no more than half as heavy as Little Claus.

    How light my burden is, all because I’ve been listening to a hymn, said Big Claus. He went on to the deep wide river, and threw the sack with the old cattle drover into the water.

    You’ll never trick me again, Big Claus said, for he thought he had seen the last splash of Little Claus.

    He started home, but when he came to the crossroads, he met Little Claus and all his cattle.

    Where did you come from? Big Claus exclaimed. Didn’t I just drown you?

    Yes, said Little Claus. You threw me in the river half an hour ago.

    Then how did you come by such a fine herd of cattle? Big Claus wanted to know.

    Oh, they’re sea cattle, said Little Claus. "I’ll tell you how I got them, because I’m obliged to you for drowning me. I’m a made man now. I can’t begin to tell you how rich I am.

    "But when I was in the sack, with the wind whistling in my ears as you dropped me off the bridge into the cold water, I was frightened enough. I went straight to the bottom, but it didn’t hurt me because of all the fine soft grass down there. Someone opened the sack, and a beautiful maiden took my hand. Her clothes were white as snow, and she had a green wreath in her floating hair. She said, ‘So you’ve come, Little Claus. Here’s a herd of cattle for you, but they are just the beginning of my presents. A mile further up the road, another herd awaits you.’

    Then I saw that the river is a great highway for the people who live in the sea. Down on the bottom of the river, they walked and drove their cattle straight in from the sea to the land where the rivers end. The flowers down there are fragrant. The grass is fresh, and fish flit by as birds do up here. The people are fine, and so are the cattle that come grazing along the roadside.

    Then why are you back so soon? Big Claus asked. If it’s all so beautiful, I’d have stayed there.

    Well, said Little Claus, I’m being particularly clever. You remember I said the sea maiden told me to go one mile up the road and I’d find another herd of cattle. By ‘road’ she meant the river, for that’s the only way she travels. But I know how the river turns and twists, and it seemed too roundabout a way of getting there. By coming up on land, I took a shortcut that saves me half a mile. So I get my cattle that much sooner.

    "You are a lucky man, said Big Claus. Do you think I would get me some cattle too if I went down to the bottom of the river?"

    Oh, I’m sure you would, said Little Claus. Don’t expect me to carry you there in a sack, because you’re too heavy for me, but if you walk to the river and crawl into the sack, I’ll throw you in with the greatest of pleasure.

    Thank you, said Big Claus, but remember, if I don’t get a herd of sea cattle down there, I’ll give you a thrashing, believe me.

    Would you really? said Little Claus.

    As they came to the river, the thirsty cattle saw the water and rushed to drink it. Little Claus said, See what a hurry they are in to get back to the bottom of the river.

    Help me get there first, Big Claus commanded, or I’ll give you that beating right now. He struggled into the big sack, which had been lying across the back of one of the cattle. Put a stone in, or I’m afraid I shan’t sink, said Big Claus.

    No fear of that, said Little Claus, but he put a big stone in the sack, tied it tightly, and pushed it into the river.

    Splash! Up flew the water, and down to the bottom sank Big Claus.

    I’m afraid he won’t find what I found! said Little Claus as he herded all his cattle home.

    THE PRINCESS ON THE PEA (1835)

    Once there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess. Only a real one would do. So he traveled through all the world to find her, and everywhere things went wrong. There were princesses aplenty, but how was he to know whether they were real princesses? There was something not quite right about them all. So he came home again and was unhappy, because he did so want to have a real princess.

    One evening, a terrible storm blew up. It lightninged and thundered and rained. It was really frightful! In the midst of it all came a knocking at the town gate. The old king went to open it.

    Who should be standing outside but a princess, and what a sight she was in all that rain and wind. Water streamed from her hair down her clothes into her shoes, and ran out at the heels. Yet she claimed to be a real princess.

    We’ll soon find that out, the old queen thought to herself. Without saying a word about it, she went to the bedchamber, stripped back the bedclothes, and put just one pea in the bottom of the bed. Then she took twenty mattresses and piled them on the pea. Then she took twenty eiderdown feather beds and piled them on the mattresses. Up on top of all these the princess was to spend the night.

    In the morning they asked her, Did you sleep well?

    Oh! said the princess. No. I scarcely slept at all. Heaven knows what’s in that bed. I lay on something so hard that I’m black and blue all over. It was simply terrible.

    They could see she was a real princess and no question about it, now that she had felt one pea all the way through twenty mattresses and twenty more feather beds. Nobody but a princess could be so delicate. So the prince made haste to marry her, because he knew he had found a real princess.

    As for the pea, they put it in the museum. There it’s still to be seen, unless somebody has taken it.

    There, that’s a true story.

    LITTLE IDA’S FLOWERS (1835)

    My poor flowers are quite dead, said little Ida. They were so pretty last evening, but now every leaf has withered and drooped. Why do they do that?" she asked the student who sat on the sofa.

    She was very fond of him because he told such good stories and could cut such amusing figures out of paperhearts with dancing ladies inside them, flowers of all sorts, and castles with doors that you could open and close. He was a rollicking fellow.

    Why do my flowers look so ill today? she asked him again, and showed him her withered bouquet.

    Don’t you know what’s the matter with them? the student said. They were at the ball last night, that’s why they can scarcely hold up their heads.

    Flowers can’t dance, said little Ida.

    Oh, indeed they can, said the student. As soon as it gets dark and we go to sleep, they frolic about in a fine fashion. Almost every night, they give a ball.

    Can’t children go to the ball?

    Little daisies can go. So can lilies of the valley.

    Where do the prettiest flowers dance? Ida asked.

    Haven’t you often visited the beautiful flower garden just outside of town, around the castle where the king lives in the summertime? You remember—the place where swans swim close when you offer them bread crumbs. Believe me! That’s where the prettiest flowers dance.

    Yesterday I was there with my mother, said Ida, but there wasn’t a leaf on the trees, or a flower left. Where are they? Last summer, I saw ever so many.

    They are inside the castle, of course, said the student. Confidentially, just as soon as the king comes back to town with all of his court, the flowers run from the garden into the castle and enjoy themselves. You should see them. The two loveliest roses climb up on the throne, where they are the king and the queen. All the red coxcombs line up on either side, to stand and bow like grooms of the bedchamber. Then all the best-dressed flowers come, and the grand ball starts. The blue violets are the naval cadets. Their partners, whom they call ‘Miss,’ are hyacinths and crocuses. The tulips and tiger lilies are the old chaperones who see to it that the dancing is done well and that everyone behaves properly.

    But, said little Ida, doesn’t anybody punish the flowers for dancing in the king’s own castle?

    Nobody knows a thing about it, said the student. To be sure, there’s the old castle keeper, who is there to watch over things. Sometimes, he comes in the night with his enormous bunch of keys. But as soon as the flowers hear the keys jangle, they keep quiet, and hide, with only their heads peeking out from behind the curtains. Then the old castle keeper says, ‘I smell flowers in here.’ But he can’t see any.

    What fun! little Ida clapped her hands. But couldn’t I see the flowers either?

    Oh easily, said the student. The very next time you go there, remember to peep in the windows. There you will see them, as I did today. A tall yellow lily lay stretched on the sofa, pretending to be a lady-in-waiting.

    Can the flowers who live in the botanical gardens visit the castle? Can they go that far?

    Why, certainly. They can fly all the way if it suits them. Haven’t you seen lovely butterflies—white, yellow, and red ones? They almost look like flowers, and that’s really what they used to be. They are flowers who have jumped up off their stems, high into the air. They beat the air with their petals, as though these were little wings, and so they manage to fly. If they behave themselves nicely, they get permission to fly all day long, instead of having to go home and sit on their stems. In time, their petals turn into real wings. You’ve seen them yourself. However, it’s quite possible that the botanical garden flowers have never been to the king’s castle and don’t know anything about the fun that goes on there almost every night. Therefore, I’ll tell you how to arrange a surprise for the botanical professor. You know the one I mean—he lives quite near here. Well, the next time you go to the garden, tell one of his flowers that they are having a great ball in the castle. One flower will tell the others, and off they’ll fly. When the professor comes out in the garden, not one flower will he find, and where they’ve all gone, he will never be able to guess.

    How can a flower tell the others? You know flowers can’t speak.

    They can’t speak, the student agreed, but they can signal. Haven’t you noticed that whenever the breeze blows, the flowers nod to one another, and make signs with their leaves. Why, it’s as plain as talk.

    Can the professor understand their signs?

    Certainly he can. One morning, he came into his garden and saw a big stinging nettle leaf signaling to a glorious red carnation, ‘You are so beautiful, and I love you so much.’ But the professor didn’t like that kind of thing, so he slapped the nettle’s leaves, for they are its fingers. He was stung so badly that he hasn’t laid hands on a stinging nettle since.

    Oh, how jolly! little Ida laughed.

    How can anyone stuff a child’s head with such nonsense? said the prosy councillor, who had come to call and sit on the sofa too. He didn’t like the student a bit. He always grumbled when he saw the student cut out those strange, amusing pictures—sometimes a man hanging from the gallows and holding a heart in his hand to show that he had stolen people’s hearts away; sometimes an old witch riding a broomstick and balancing her husband on her nose. The councillor highly disapproved of those, and he would say as he said now, How can anyone stuff a child’s head with such nonsense—such stupid fantasy?

    But to little Ida, what the student told her about flowers was marvelously amusing, and she kept right on thinking about it. Her flowers couldn’t hold their heads up, because they were tired out from dancing all night. Why, they must be ill. She took them to where she kept her toys on a nice little table, with a whole drawer full of pretty things. Her doll, Sophie, lay asleep in the doll’s bed, but little Ida told her:

    Sophie, you’ll really have to get up, and be satisfied to sleep in the drawer tonight, because my poor flowers are ill. Maybe, if I let them sleep in your bed tonight, they will get well again.

    When she took the doll up, Sophie looked as cross as could be, and didn’t say a word. She was sulky because she couldn’t keep her own bed.

    Ida put the flowers to bed, and tucked the little covers around them. She told them to be good and lie still, while she made them some tea, so that they would get well and be up and about tomorrow. She carefully drew the curtains around the little bed, so the morning sun would not shine in their faces.

    All evening long, she kept thinking of what the student had said, before she climbed into bed herself. She peeped through the window curtains at the fine potted plants that belonged to her mother—hyacinths and tulips, too. She whispered very softly, I know you are going to the ball tonight.

    But the flowers pretended not to understand her. They didn’t move a leaf. But little Ida knew all about them.

    After she was in bed, she lay there for a long while thinking how pleasant it must be to see the flowers dance in the king’s castle. Were my flowers really there? she wondered. Then she fell asleep. When she woke up again in the night, she had been dreaming of the flowers, and of the student, and of the prosy councillor who had scolded him and had said it was all silly nonsense. It was very still in the bedroom where Ida was. The night lamp glowed on the table, and Ida’s mother and father were asleep.

    Are my flowers still asleep in Sophie’s bed? Ida wondered. That’s what I’d like to know.

    She lifted herself a little higher on her pillow and looked toward the door that stood half open. In there were her flowers and all her toys. She listened, and it seemed to her that someone was playing the piano, very softly and more beautifully than she had ever heard it played.

    I’m perfectly sure that those flowers are all dancing, she said to herself. Oh, my goodness, wouldn’t I love to see them. But she did not dare get up, because that might awaken her father and mother.

    I do wish the flowers would come in here! she thought. But they didn’t. The music kept playing, and it sounded so lovely that she couldn’t stay in bed another minute. She tiptoed to the door, and peeped into the next room. Oh, how funny—what a sight she saw there!

    No night lamp burned in the next room, but it was well lighted just the same. The moonlight streamed through the window, upon the middle of the floor, and it was almost as bright as day. The hyacinths and the tulips lined up in two long rows across the floor. Not one was left by the window. The flowerpots stood there empty, while the flowers danced gracefully around the room, making a complete chain and holding each other by their long green leaves as they swung around.

    At the piano sat a tall yellow lily. Little Ida remembered it from last summer, because the student had said, Doesn’t that lily look just like Miss Line? Everyone had laughed at the time, but now little Ida noticed that there was a most striking resemblance. When the lily played, it had the very same mannerisms as the young lady, sometimes bending its long, yellow face to one side, sometimes to the other, and nodding in time with the lovely music.

    No one suspected that little Ida was there. She saw a nimble blue crocus jump up on the table where her toys were, go straight to the doll’s bed, and throw back the curtains. The sick flowers lay there, but they got up at once, and nodded down to the others that they also wanted to dance. The old chimney sweep doll, whose lower lip was broken, rose and made a bow to the pretty flowers. They looked quite themselves again as they jumped down to join the others and have a good time.

    It seemed as if something clattered off the table. Little Ida looked and saw that the birch wand, that had been left over from Mardi Gras time was jumping down as if he thought he were a flower, too. The wand did cut quite a flowery figure with his paper rosettes and, to top him off, a little wax figure who had a broad trimmed hat just like the one that the councillor wore.

    The wand skipped about on his three red wooden legs, and stamped them as hard as he could, for he was dancing the mazurka. The flowers could not dance it, because they were too light to stamp as he did.

    All of a sudden, the wax figure grew tall and important. He whirled around to the paper flowers beside him and said, How can anyone stuff a child’s head with such nonsense—such stupid fantasy? At that moment, he was a perfect image of the big-hatted councillor, just as sallow and quite as cross. But the paper flowers hit back. They struck his thin shanks until he crumpled up into a very small wax mannequin. The change was so ridiculous that little

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