The Shilling Illustrated Edition. 
 
 THE WILL-O^-THE-WISPS 
 ARE IN TOWN 
 
 otljer ^ales 
 
 By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 
 
 ALEXANDER STRA|iAN, PUBLISHER 
 56 LUDGATE HILL, LONDON 
 "1867 
 
 
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THE WILL-O’-THE-WISPS ARE 
 IN TOWN 
 
 AND OTHER NEW TALES 
 
TRANSLATED FOR THE AUTHOR BY 
 
 AUGUSTA PLESNER AND S. RUGELEY-POWERS 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/willothewispsareOOande 
 
Trontispicco. 
 
 THE LITTLE \VILL-o’-THE-WISPS. 
 
 Page 42 , 
 
THE WILL-O’-THE-WISPS 
 ARE IN TOWN 
 
 otijer ^ales 
 
 By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 
 
 ALEXANDER STRAHAN, PUBLISHER 
 S6 LUDGATE HILL, LONDON 
 1867 
 
LONDON : 
 
 BRADBUKY, EVANS, AND CO,, IRINTERS, 
 WJUTEFRIAIg, 
 

 
 n 
 
 . t 
 
 
 <5 
 
 8 ^ 3 ^. ^ o 
 
 A<rv^W^£.f' 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 THE will-o’-the-wisps ABE IN TOWN . 1 
 
 Illustrated by F. Eltze 
 
 THE WINDMILL 57 
 
 Illustraied by B. Bradley 
 
 THE SILVER COIN 69 
 
 Illustrated by B. Bradley 
 
 THE BISHOP OF BOBGLUM AND HIS KINS- 
 MAN 89 
 
 Illustrated by B. Bradley 
 
 IN THE NURSERY 119 
 
 Illustrated by M. Ellen Edwards 
 
 THE GOLDEN TREASURE . . . .135 
 
 Illustrated by M. Ellen Edwards 
 
 THE STORM MOVES THE SIGN-BOARDS . 171 
 
 Ilhistrated by M. Ellen Edwards 
 
"THE WILL-O’-THE-WISPS AEE IN 
 TOWN,” 
 
 SAID THE MOOR-WIFE. 
 
“THE WILL-O’-THE-WISPS APE 
 IN TOWN,” 
 
 SAID THE MOOE-WIFE. 
 
 HERE was a man who once 
 knew so many fresh fairy- 
 tales, but now they had slipped away 
 from him, he said : Fairy-Tale, who 
 used to call upon him of her own 
 accord, no longer came knocking at 
 his door; and why did she not come % 
 It is true, indeed, the man had for a 
 
 B 2 
 
4 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Toivn. 
 
 year and six weeks not thought of her 
 — not expected she would come and 
 knock at his door ; and certainly she 
 had not been there either, for out- 
 doors was war, and in-doors were the 
 grief and distress which war has in 
 its train. 
 
 Storks and swallows returned from 
 their long journey; they thought of 
 no danger ; and then, when they 
 came, their nests were burned down, 
 men’s houses were burned down, “the 
 gate was out of order” — nay, it was 
 quite gone ; and the enemy’s horses 
 were trampling on the old graves. 
 
Will-d-ihe-Wisps are in Toion. 5 
 
 They were hard, gloomy times ; but 
 they, too, must have an end. 
 
 And now they had come to an end, 
 people said ; but still Fairy-Tale did 
 not knock, or let the man hear from 
 her. 
 
 “ She may perhaps be dead and 
 gone, with the many others,” said the 
 man. But Fairy-Tale never dies. 
 
 And more than a year had passed 
 away, and he was longing so sorely. 
 
 “ WiU Fairy-Tale, then, never come 
 again and knock, I wonder \” And 
 he remembered her so clearly in all 
 the many shapes wherein she had ap- 
 
6 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Toxon, 
 
 peared to him — now young and beau- 
 tiful like spring itself — a charming 
 little girl with a wreath of wood-roof 
 on her head, a beech-branch in her 
 hand, and eyes that shone like deep 
 forest-lakes in bright sunshine j and 
 again she had come as a pedlar, 
 and had opened her box, letting silk 
 ribbons with verses and inscriptions 
 from “ Auld lang syne ” flutter about; 
 most beautiful had it been, however, 
 when she came like a dear old mother, 
 with silver-white hair and eyes so 
 large and bright : then, truly, she 
 could tell of the most ancient times. 
 
Will-d-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 7 
 
 long before the princesses spun on 
 the golden spindle, while dragons 
 and serpents lay outside and guarded 
 them. Then she pictured things so 
 vividly that there came black spots 
 before the eyes of everyone who 
 heard her, and the floor grew black 
 with men’s blood : it was fearful to 
 see and fearful to listen, and yet, so 
 delightful, for aU took place so long- 
 ago. 
 
 “ Will she never come again and 
 knock, I wonder!” said the man; and 
 he stared at the door till there came 
 black spots before his eyes, and black 
 
8 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Toimi. 
 
 spots on the floor — ^whether they 
 were hlood, or mourning-crape from 
 the recent gloomy sad days, he did 
 not' know. 
 
 And while he sat thus, it came into 
 his mind that Fairy-Tale might per- 
 haps have hidden herself, like the 
 princess in the real old fairy-tales, 
 and now wished to be sought ; and 
 that if she were found, she Avould 
 shine in fresh splendour, more beau- 
 tiful than ever. 
 
 “ Who knows ! she may lie hidden 
 in that waste straw that is balancing 
 on the well’s brink. Pray be careful! 
 
Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 9 
 
 She may have hidden herself in some 
 withered flower laid in one of the 
 large books on the shelf.” 
 
 And the man went over and opened 
 one of those newest books that make 
 men wise; but no flower lay in it ; 
 there was written about Holger the 
 Dane ; and the man read that the 
 whole story had been invented and 
 put together by a monk in France — 
 that it was a romance which had 
 been “translated and printed into 
 the Danish tongue ” — that Holger 
 the Dane had never existed, and, 
 therefore, could by no means come 
 
lo Will-o'-the-Wis2)s are in Town. 
 
 again, as we had sung, and so fer- 
 vently wished to believe. It was 
 with Holger the Dane just as with 
 Wilhelm Tell : they were mere 
 names, not to be relied on ; and aU 
 this was written in the book, and put 
 together with great learning. 
 
 “ Well, what I believe, I stiU be- 
 lieve,” said the man : “ no plantain 
 grows where no foot has trodden.” 
 
 And he shut the book, placed it 
 again on the shelf, and turned to the 
 fresh flowers in the window : there, 
 perhaps, Fairy-Tale had hidden her- 
 self, in the red tulip with the golden 
 
Will-o’ -the- Wisps are in Town, ii 
 
 rim, or in the fresh rose, or in the 
 bright-coloured camellia. Sunshine 
 lay among the leaves, hut not Fairy- 
 Tale. 
 
 “ The flowers that stood here 
 during the time of sorrow were all 
 much prettier ; but they were cut off 
 — every one — and woven into 
 wreaths, and laid in the cofiins over 
 which the banner was spread. Per- 
 haps Fairy-Tale was buried with 
 those flowers ! But then the flowers 
 would have known it — the coflin 
 would have felt it — the earth would 
 have felt it — each little blade of 
 
1 2 Will-o’-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 grass that shot forth must have told 
 it. Fairy-Tale never dies. 
 
 “ Perhaps she has been here and 
 knocked ; but who had then an ear 
 or a thought for her ! Gloomily and 
 sadly — almost angrily — saw we the 
 sunny spring, with its twittering 
 birds and its pleasant verdure ; nay, 
 the tongue could not bring forth 
 even the old popular songs ; they 
 were laid in the coffin, with so many 
 other things dear to bur hearts. 
 Fairy-Tale may have knocked, in- 
 deed ; but she was not heard, not 
 welcomed, and so she has kept away. 
 
Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 13 
 
 “ I will go and seek her. 
 
 “Away in the country! Away 
 into the wood by the open strand ! ” 
 
 * -St * «- 
 
 Out there in the country, is an old 
 mansion, with red brick walls, point- 
 ed gables, and a waving banner on 
 its turret. Among the fine-fringed 
 beech leaves the nightingale sings, 
 while it looks at the blooming apple- 
 trees in the garden and thinks their 
 blossoms are roses. Here, while the 
 summer sun shines, bees are busy, 
 and with humming song they swarm 
 round their queen. The autumn 
 
14 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 wind tells its tale of the Wild Hun- 
 ter, and of generations that pass 
 away like the leaves of the forest. 
 At Christmas time, is heard the song 
 of the wild swans out from the open 
 sea ; while in-doors, in the old man- 
 sion, near the blazing fire, one feels 
 inclined to listen to songs and tales. 
 
 Down to the old part of the gar- 
 den, where the great avenue of wild 
 chestnuts allures with its twilight, 
 went the man who was seeking 
 Fairy-Tale : here had the Wind once 
 whispered to him about “Valdemar 
 Daa and his Daughters.” The Dryad 
 
Will-o'-the- Wisps are in Toivn. 1 5 
 
 of tlie tree, wlio was Fairy-Tale her- 
 self, had told him the “ Old Oak- 
 Tree’s Last Dream.” In grand- 
 mother’s time, trimmed hedges stood 
 here, but now there grew only nettles 
 and ferns, spreading over the remains 
 of old statues ; the moss grew in 
 their eyes, but still they could see 
 as well as before, and this, the man 
 who was seeking Fairy-Tale could 
 not, for he did not see her. Where 
 was she ? 
 
 Over him and the old trees, flew 
 the crows by hundreds, cawing, 
 “ Away ! Away ! ” 
 
1 6 Will-d-tlie-Wis2os are in Town. 
 
 And away from the garden he 
 went, over the bridge of the moat 
 into the grove of alders. There, 
 stood a little hexagonal house with 
 a poultry-yard and duck-yard. In 
 the middle of the room, sat the old 
 woman who managed the whole, and 
 knew exactly everything about each 
 egg that was laid, and about each 
 chicken that came out of the egg; 
 but she was not Fairy-Tale, whom 
 the man was seeking, and that, she 
 could prove, by the Christian certifi- 
 cates of baptism and vaccination 
 which lay in her chest of drawers. 
 
Will-o’-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 17 
 
 Outside tlie yard, not far from the 
 house, is a hill, with pink-thorn and 
 laburnum ; here lies an old tomb- 
 stone, brought thither many years 
 ago from the town-churchyard, as a 
 memorial of one of the town’s worthy 
 aldermen, who is chiselled in the stone, 
 with his wife and five daughters 
 all standing round him in ruffs 
 and with folded hands. One may 
 gaze at that stone so long that it 
 affects the thoughts, and they again 
 affect the stone till it tells of olden 
 times ; at least, such was the case 
 with the man who was seeking Fairy- 
 
1 8 Will-o’-the- Wisps are in Town. 
 
 Tale. As he now came there, he saw 
 a living butterfly sitting on the brow 
 of the alderman’s chiselled image; 
 it beat with its wings, flew a little 
 way, and settled again close by the 
 tomb-stone, as if to show what grew 
 there. There grew a fourdeaved 
 clover ; nay, seven there were, close 
 together. When luck comes, it 
 comes abundantly. He plucked the 
 clovers, and put them in his pocket. 
 Luck is as good as ready money ; 
 yet a new beautiful fauy-tale would 
 be still better, the man thought ; but 
 that, he did not find there. 
 
Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town, 19 
 
 The sun went down, red and large; 
 the meadow reeked — the Moor-wife 
 hrewed. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It was late in the evening, and the 
 man stood alone in his room, looking 
 away over the garden — over meadoAV, 
 moor, and sea. The moon shone 
 bright, but a mist lay over the 
 meadow, making it look like a large 
 lake ; once, indeed, it had been a 
 lake, tradition said ; and now in the 
 moonlight the tale was proved true. 
 Then the man came to think of what 
 he had read while in town — that 
 
20 Will-d-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 Holger the Dane and Wilhelm Tell 
 had never lived ; yet they exist in 
 the popular belief, and like the mist- 
 lake down yonder are living proofs 
 of the truth. Yes, Holger the Dane 
 will indeed come back ! 
 
 While thus he stood pondering, 
 something struck rather hard against 
 the window. Was it a bird, a bat, 
 or an owl ? Well, them we do not 
 let in, even if they do knock. The 
 window burst open of itself, and an 
 old woman looked in at the man. 
 
 “ Pray who are you 1 ” said he. 
 “ Straight into the first story, are 
 
Will-o’-the-wisps are in Town. 21 
 
 you looking ! Are you standing on 
 a ladder V’ 
 
 “ You’ve got a four-leaved clover 
 in your pocket,” said slie : “ nay, 
 seven you’ve got, and one of tliem’s 
 a six-leaved one.” 
 
 “ Who are you ?” asked the man. 
 
 “ The Moor-wife,” said she, — “ the 
 Moor- wife who brews ; that was just 
 Avhat I was about; the tap Avas in 
 the barrel, but one of the little 
 Moor-young-ones snatched it out in 
 mischief, and flung it straight up 
 towards the house here, and it struck 
 against the AvindoAV ; noAV the beer 
 
2 2 Will-d-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 will run out of tlie barrel, and that 
 won’t do.” 
 
 “ Pray tell me !” said the man. 
 
 “ Yes, but you must wait a little, 
 for now I’ve got other things to look 
 after.” And she was gone. 
 
 The man was going to shut the 
 window, but then she appeared there 
 again. 
 
 “ Now it’s done,” said she ; “ but 
 half the beer’s wasted, and I shall 
 have to brew again to-morrow if the 
 weather’s suitable. Well, what is it 
 you’ve got to ask me about? I came 
 back because I always keep my word. 
 
Will-o’-the- Wisjys are in Town. 23 
 
 and you’ve got in your pocket seven 
 four-leaved clovers, and one of them’s 
 a six-leaved clover ; that’s a thing 
 which makes one stand high ; it’s an 
 order that grows by the wayside ; 
 but it’s not to be found by every- 
 body. Well, what is it you’ve got 
 to ask me about 1 Don’t stand there 
 like a stick ; I must soon be off again 
 to my tap and barrel.” 
 
 And the man asked about Fairy- 
 Tale — asked whether the Moor- wife 
 had seen her on the way. 
 
 “ Why, my great brewing ! ” ex- 
 claimed the wife, “ haven’t you 
 
24 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 had enough of Fairy-Tale yet? 
 Most people now have had enough of 
 her, Fm sure. There are other things 
 now to care for — other things to look 
 after. Even the children are above 
 that. Give the little boys a cigar, 
 and the little girls a new crinoline — 
 those are the things they like better. 
 Hear fairy-tales ! No, indeed ! — 
 there really are other things to at- 
 tend to — more important things one 
 has to do ! ” 
 
 “ What do you mean by that ? ” 
 said the man. “And what do you 
 know of the world ? Why, you 
 
Will-o'-tlie-Wis2:>s are in Town. 25 
 
 only see frogs and Will-o’-the- 
 Wisps ! ” 
 
 “Well, do beware of the Will-o’- 
 the- Wisps,” said the wife; “they’re 
 about; they’ve got away; of them 
 we will talk. Only do come to me 
 on the moor, for there I’m wanted, 
 and then I’ll tell you the whole 
 affair; but pray make haste, while 
 your seven four-leaved clovers and 
 your six-leaved clover are fresh, and 
 the moon is still up.” 
 
 And the Moor-wife was gone. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The tower-clock struck twelve, and 
 
26 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 ere it had struck a quarter past, the 
 man was out in the yard, went 
 through the garden, and stood in 
 the meadow. The mist had vanished 
 — the Moor- wife had- ceased brew- 
 ing. 
 
 “You were a long while coming,” 
 said she. “ Troll-things are fleeter 
 than men, and I’m glad I was born a 
 troll-thing.” 
 
 “ Well, what now have you got to 
 tell me ? ” asked the man. “ Is it 
 anything about Fairy-Tale 1 ” 
 
 “ Why, can’t you ever get above 
 asking about her ? ” said the wife. 
 
Will-0- the-Wisps are in Town. 27 
 
 “ Is it, then, about the poetry of 
 future times, you can talk ? ” asked 
 the man. 
 
 “ Pray don’t be highflown ! ” said 
 the wife; “and then 111 be sure to 
 answer. You think of nothing but 
 your trumpery poetry ; and you ask 
 after Fairy-Tale as if she was the 
 mistress of the whole. Why, she’s 
 only the oldest one, I dare say ; but 
 she’s always taken for the youngest. I 
 know her well, indeed ! I, too, have 
 been young, and that’s no disease. 
 I was once a very nice elfin maid, 
 who danced with the others in the 
 
28 Will-o’-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 moonliglit, listened to the nightin- 
 gale, and went in the wood, where I 
 met Miss Fairy-Tale, who was always 
 out gadding. Sometimes she would 
 take her night’s lodging in a half- 
 opened tulip, or in a buttercup; 
 sometimes she would slip into the 
 church, and wrap herself in the 
 mourning-crape that hangs from the 
 tapers on the altar.” 
 
 “ You know pretty well about 
 things,” said the man. 
 
 “ I should think I know as much 
 as you do,” said the Moor-wife. 
 “Why, Fairy-Tale and Poetry are 
 
Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Tovm. 29 
 
 two yards off tlie same piece : let 
 them go wherever they like. All 
 their doings and sayings can be 
 imitated, and got much cheaper and 
 better. From me you may get them 
 for nothing. IVe got a whole cup- 
 board-full of poetry in bottles. It’s 
 the essence I keep — the finest part — 
 the sweet wort and the bitter hops 
 too. IVe got in bottle everything in 
 poetry that’s necessary for men, so 
 that they may have a little to put on 
 their handkerchiefs on holidays, for 
 the smell’s sake.” 
 
 “ What queer things you are say- 
 
30 Will-o'-ihe-Wisps are in Town 
 
 ing ! ” exclaimed the man. “ You’ve 
 got poetry in bottles 1 ” 
 
 “ More than you could stand,” said 
 the wife. “You know, I dare say, 
 the story about ‘the Girl who trod on 
 the Bread so as not to dirty her new 
 Shoes ■? ’ It has been both written 
 and printed.” 
 
 “ It was I myself who told it,” said 
 the man. 
 
 “Well, then, of course, you know 
 it,” said the wife ; “ and know, 
 
 too, that the girl sank straight down 
 into the earth to the Moor- wife, just 
 as the devil’s great-grandmother was 
 
Will-o’-tliQ-Wisps are in Town. 31 
 
 paying a visit to see the brewery. 
 She saw the ghi, and wanted to have 
 her for an ornament, in remembrance 
 of her visit ; and she had her, and I 
 got in return a present that’s of no use 
 to me — a traveller’s medicine- chest — 
 a perfect cupboard filled with poetry 
 in bottles. Great-grandmother told 
 me where the cupboard should stand, 
 and there it stands now. Only look ! 
 Why, you’ve got your seven four- 
 leaved clovers in your pocket, and one 
 of them is six-leaved ; and so you can 
 see it. I’m sure.” 
 
 And, actually, there, in the middle 
 
32 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 of the moor, lay what seemed to be a 
 large stump of an alder, but was in 
 reality great-grandmother’s cupboard. 
 It was open to the Moor-wife and to 
 everybody from any country at any 
 time, she said, if they only knew 
 where it stood. It could be opened 
 behind and in front, and at all sides 
 and corners ; a perfect master-piece 
 of art, it was, and yet it seemed 
 nothing but an old stump of an 
 alder. All poets of all countries 
 — especially those of our own 
 were here imitated; the essence of 
 them was distilled, analyzed, concen- 
 
Will-o’-the are in Toivn. 33 
 
 trated, and bottled. With great 
 instinct — as we call it, when we will 
 not say genius — great-grandmother 
 had taken those things in nature 
 which had a flavour of this or that 
 poet, and had added to them a bit 
 of devilry, and then she had his 
 poetry in bottle for all future time. 
 
 “Well, let me see,” said the man. 
 
 “Ay, but there are more import- 
 ant things to be heard,” answered the 
 Moor-wife. 
 
 “ But now we’re at the cupboard,” 
 said the man, looking into it. “In- 
 deed, here are bottles of all sizes. 
 
34 Will- 0 -tlie-Wisjps are in Town. 
 
 What is there in this ? And what in 
 this ? ” 
 
 “ Here’s what is called ‘ Odour of 
 May,”’ said the wife ; “ I haven’t 
 
 tried it, but I know if one only 
 throws a little drop of it on the floor, 
 there will be directly a beautiful 
 forest-lake, with water-lilies, flower- 
 ing-rush, and wild mint. If one only 
 pours two drops of it on an old copy- 
 book — even one from the lowest form 
 — the book becomes a complete 
 odour-comedy, quite fit for the stage, 
 and for falling asleep over — so strong 
 is its smell. I dare say it’s meant 
 
Will-d -the-Wisps are in Town. 35 
 
 for a compliment to me that they’ve 
 written on the bottle, ‘ Brewage of 
 the Moor-wife.’ 
 
 “Here stands the Scandal-bottle. 
 It looks as if there was nothing in it 
 but dirty water, and it is dirty water, 
 with an effervescent powder of town- 
 gossip added to it — three ounces of 
 lies and two grains of truth, stirred 
 round with a birch twig — not a rod 
 that has been put in brine and laid 
 on the sinner’s bleeding body, nor a 
 piece of the schoolmaster’s birch, but 
 one taken straight from the broom 
 that swept the gutter. 
 
 s 2 
 
36 Will-o'-tlie-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 “Here stands the bottle with pious 
 poetry to psalm-tunes. Every drop 
 has a sound like the bang of hell’s 
 gates, and is made of punishment’s 
 blood and sweat ; some people say it’s 
 only dove’s gall; but doves are the 
 gentlest of all creatures ; and folks 
 who don’t understand natural his- 
 tory say they have no gall.” 
 
 Here stood the bottle of bottles — 
 the bottle with “Everyday-Tales”; it 
 occupied half the cupboard ; and it 
 was tied over with both skin and 
 bladder, for it could not afford to lose 
 any of its flavour. Each nation 
 
Will-0 -the- Wisps are in Town. 3 7 
 
 could here have its own soup ; and 
 the different kinds came out as the 
 bottle was turned one way or the 
 other. There was old German blood- 
 soup, with robber-balls ; also, poor 
 farmer’s soup, with real Court-coun- 
 cillors lying in it like parsnips, while 
 over them floated philosophical 
 grease. There was English-gover- 
 ness-soup, and French Potage d la 
 Koch, made with cocks’ legs and 
 sparrows’ eggs — in Danish, called 
 Cancan-Bowg ; but the best of all 
 the soups was the Copenhagen-soup : 
 the family said so. 
 
38 Will-d -the- Wisps are in Town. 
 
 Here stood tragedy, in champagne- 
 bottles ; it could pop, and that was 
 just what it was wanted to do. Co- 
 medy was there — ^that is to say, the 
 higher Comedy — looking like dust to 
 be thrown in people’s eyes. Low 
 Comedy was also there in bottle; but 
 it consisted merely in future placards, 
 wherein the names of the pieces were 
 the most prominent thing. There 
 were excellent names of comedies : — 
 “Dare you spit in the Watch ?” “A 
 Slap on the Face “ The Pet Don- 
 key;” and “She’s dead-drunk.” 
 
 The man quite fell into a reverie 
 
Will-d -tlie-Wisps are in Town. 39 
 
 tlirough. all this ; but the Moor- wife’s 
 thoughts went onwards, and she 
 wished to make an end of it. 
 
 “Now, I hope you’ve had enough 
 of looking into that rubbish-box,” 
 said she, “ and know all that’s in it ; 
 but the more important things that 
 you ought to know, still you don’t 
 know. The Will-o’-the- Wisps are in 
 Town! That’s of more consequence 
 than Poetry and Fairy-Tale. I 
 should have held my tongue about 
 it, but there’s a Euling Power, Pm 
 • sure — a fate or something — that 
 overcomes me — that sends words up 
 
40 Will-d-the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 into my throat, and they will come 
 out. The Will-o'-the- Wisps are in 
 Town! they’ve got loose! beware, 
 you men ! ” 
 
 “ I don’t understand a single word 
 of all you’re saying,” said the 
 man. 
 
 “Please to sit down on the cup- 
 board ; but don’t tumble into it and 
 break the bottles — you know what’s 
 in them. Now, I’ll tell you about 
 the great event; it’s but of yester- 
 day ; but the same has happened 
 before. It has yet three-hundred- 
 and-sixty-five days to come and go 
 
Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town. 41 
 
 upon — you know, I suppose, how 
 many days there are in the year ? ” 
 
 W ^ ^ 
 
 And the Moor-wife told, — 
 “Yesterday, great things were 
 going on out here in the marsh. We 
 had a birth-feast : a little Wdl-o’-the- 
 Wisp was born ; nay, twelve were 
 born of that stock to whom is given 
 the power of appearing, if they 
 wish, like men, and of acting and 
 commanding among men as if they 
 were born men themselves. This is 
 a great event in the marsh, and so 
 there went dancing, like little lights. 
 
42 Will-d-the-Wisps are in Toion. 
 
 away over moor and meadow, all the 
 Will-o’-the-Wisps, male and female— 
 for there are females, too, but they’re 
 not spoken of. I was sitting just 
 there on the cupboard, and had on 
 my lap all the little new-born Will- 
 o’-the-Wisps ; they shone like glow- 
 worms, and began already jumping, 
 every moment getting bigger, so that 
 before a quarter of an hour had 
 gone, each of them looked as big as 
 his father or his uncle. Now, it’s 
 an old birthright law and privilege, 
 that if the moon stands just where 
 it stood yesterday, and the wind 
 
Will-d-the-Wisps are in Town. 43 
 
 blows as it blew yesterday, all the 
 WiU-o’-the-Wisps born at that hour 
 and at that minute can become men, 
 and use their powers out in the 
 world around all through a whole 
 year. The Wdl-o’-the-Wisp can run 
 over the whole country, even over 
 the whole world, if he isn’t afraid of 
 falling into the sea, or of being blown 
 out in a heavy gale. He can rush 
 straight into a man, and speak and 
 act instead of him. The Will-o’-the- 
 Wisp can assume any shape, either of 
 men or women, and act in their 
 spirit, only with his own eccentricity. 
 
44 Will-o’-the- Wisps are in Town. 
 
 so that all turns out as he will ; but 
 in one year he must contrive to lead 
 astray, out on the wrong road, three- 
 hundred-and-sixty-five human crea- 
 tures ; and this he must do in grand 
 style — must carry them clean away 
 from what’s true and right; and then 
 he reaches the highest rank a WiU-o’- 
 the-Wisp can rise to — ^he becomes 
 a runner before the devil’s state- 
 carriage, wears a fiery red suit, and 
 has the flames straight out of his 
 throat. After such things, a com- 
 mon Will-o’-the-Wisp may lick his 
 lips. But there’s also risk and a 
 
Will-d-the-Wisps are in Town. 45 
 
 great deal of trouble for an ambitious 
 Will-o’-the-Wisp wbo means to act a 
 part. If tbe man’s eyes get opened 
 to see whom he has to deal with, and 
 he can blow out the Will-o’-the- 
 Wisp, then it’s all over with him, 
 and he must go back into the marsh; 
 and if before the year ends, the Will- 
 o’-the-Wisp is overtaken by longing 
 to return to his kindred, and gives 
 way to it, then he’s also done for; he 
 can no longer burn clearly, and he’ll 
 soon go out, and can’t be lighted 
 again ; and if the year ends and he 
 has not yet led three-hundred-and- 
 
46 Will- 0 ^ -the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 sixty-five human creatures astray 
 from truth and what’s good and 
 beautiful, then he’s doomed to lie in 
 rotten wood, without having power 
 to move, and that’s a terrible punish- 
 ment to a lively Will-o’-the-Wisp. 
 All this I knew, and I told it all to 
 the twelve little Will-o’-the-Wisps I 
 had on my lap, and they were quite 
 wild with joy. I told them it was 
 safest and easiest to give up honour, 
 and not to do anything at all ; but 
 this the young flames wouldn’t agree 
 to : they already saw themselves 
 glowing and fiery-red, with flames 
 
Will-d -the-Wis'ps are in Town. 47 
 
 standing out of their throats. * Stay 
 with us/ said some of the older ones, 
 ‘ Play your tricks on men/ said the 
 others. ‘ Men dry up our meadows ; 
 they drain ! What will become of 
 our descendants ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ We swear by the flames, we’ll 
 flame ! ’ said the new-born Will-o’- 
 the-Wisps. 
 
 “ There was immediately a ball of 
 a minute’s length — shorter, it couldn’t 
 well be. The elfln-maidens spun 
 round thrice with everybody, so as 
 not to seem proud ; else they like 
 best to dance alone. Then christen- 
 
48 Will-0 -the-Wisps are in Town. 
 
 ing-presents were given — there was 
 ‘ playing at ducks and drakes/ as it’s 
 called. The presents flew like gun- 
 flints along the moor-water. Each 
 of the elfin-maidens gave a corner of 
 her veil : * Take this/ they said, 
 'and at once you know the higher 
 dancing — know the most difiicult 
 swingings and turnings when you 
 get into a scrape ; you’ll have the 
 correct carriage, and he fit to show 
 yourselves in the first company.’ 
 The Night-raven taught each of the 
 young Will-o’-the- Wisps to say, 
 ‘ Bra’, bra’, bravo 1 ’ and to say it in 
 
Will-d-the-Wisps are in Town. 49 
 
 tlie right places, and that’s indeed a 
 great gift, and pays well. The Owl 
 and the Stork also dropped some- 
 thing ; but it wasn’t worth mention- 
 ing, they said, and so we Avon’t 
 mention it. King Valdemar’s Wild 
 Hunt was just rushing over the 
 moor, and when the noble party 
 heard of the feast, they sent as a 
 present a brace of fine dogs that 
 hunt at the speed of the wind, and 
 can, I dare say, carry one, or, indeed, 
 three Will-o’-the- Wisps. Two old 
 Night-mares, Avho get their living by 
 
 riding, were at the feast ; and they 
 
 £ 
 
50 Will-0^ -the~Wisps are in Town. 
 
 directly gave lessons in the art of 
 slipping through a key-hole ; it’s 
 just as if all doors stood open to 
 one. They also offered to take the 
 young Will-o’-the-Wisps to Town, 
 where they knew about everything. 
 Generally, they ride through the air 
 on their own long hair, wherein they 
 make knots, so as to have a hard 
 seat; but now they seated them- 
 selves astride on the Wild Hunter’s 
 dogs, taking on their laps the young 
 WiU-o’-the-Wisps who were going to 
 bewilder men, and lead them astray 
 — whiz ! they were gone ! All that 
 
Will-d-the- Wisps are in Town. 5 1 
 
 happened last night. Now the Will- 
 o’-the-Wisps are in Town, and have 
 set to work, but where, and in what 
 way — well, you must tell me that. 
 Tve got a weather-string through my 
 big toe — ^that, at any rate, will tell 
 me something.” 
 
 “This is quite a fairy-tale,” said 
 the man. 
 
 “Nay; why, it’s only the beginning 
 
 of one,” said the wife. “ But can you 
 
 tell me where the Will-o’-the- Wisps 
 
 are tossing about, how they behave, 
 
 and in what shape they have appeared 
 
 to lead people the wrong way ? ” 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBRART 
 
 UNiVERSillf OF ILUMOlb 
 
5 2 Will-0 -the- Wisps are in Town. 
 
 “ I really think,” said the man, “ a 
 whole romance might be written 
 about the Will-o’-the-Wisps — a ro- 
 mance in twelve volumes — one about 
 each Will-o’-the-Wisp — or, better 
 still, perhaps, a popular play.” 
 
 “You might do it,” said the wife, 
 “ or, rather, leave it alone,” 
 
 “ Well, that’s easier and more com- 
 fortable, certainly,” said the man ; 
 “one then escapes being tethered in 
 the papers, which is often as hard as 
 it is to a Will-o’-the-Wisp to lie 
 in rotten wood and shine without 
 daring to utter a sound.” 
 
Will-d-the-Wisps are in Town. 53 
 
 “ It’s all the same to me,” said the 
 wife ; “ but you should rather leave 
 writing to other people — to those 
 who can do it and to those who 
 can’t. I’ll give an old tap out of my 
 barrel ; it opens the cupboard with 
 poetry in bottles, and there they can 
 get all they are themselves short of. 
 But you, my good man, have, I 
 think, by this time, inked your 
 fingers pretty well, and have now 
 come to an age when you oughtn’t 
 every year to go hunting after fairy- 
 tales — especially when there are 
 much more important things to be 
 
54 Will -0 -the- Wisps are in Town. 
 
 done. You know, I suppose, what’s 
 in the wind ? ” 
 
 “ The Will-o’-the-Wisps are in 
 Town,” said the man ; “ I have 
 
 heard it, and I have understood it; 
 hut what is it you wish me to do ? 
 I’m sure I shall be bemired all over 
 if I see one, and say to people, 
 ‘ Look, there’s a Will-o’-the-Wisp 
 going about in gentleman’s clothes! ’ ” 
 
 ‘‘ Sometimes they wear petticoats,” 
 said the wife. “The Will-o’-the- 
 Wisp can assume any shape, can 
 appear in any place. He goes to 
 church, but not for the sake of God 
 
Will-d-the-Wisps are in Town. 55 
 
 — perhaps he has rushed into the 
 clergyman. He speaks on election- 
 days; not for the sake of the people 
 and the country, but for his own. 
 He is an artist, both in the paint-pot 
 and the theatre-pot ; but if he gets 
 the upper hand, then all goes to pot. 
 I talk and I talk! I must let out 
 what’s sticking in my throat, though 
 I injure my own family ; but now I 
 must become the saving-woman of 
 human creatures. I don’t do it of 
 my own will, or to gain the medal. 
 I know I’m doing the maddest thing 
 I can do ; I’m telhng all this to a 
 
56 Will-d-thc-Wisips are in Town. 
 
 poet, and then soon the whole Town 
 will know.” 
 
 “ The Town won’t lay it to heart,” 
 said the man. “ Not a single person 
 will be affected by it ; they will all 
 think I’m telling a fairy-tale when, 
 with the most sincere earnestness, I 
 tell them, ‘The Moor- wife said, the 
 Will-o’-the-Wisps are in Town ! Be- 
 ware of them ! ’ ” 
 
THE AVINDMILL 
 
THE WINDMILL. 
 
 N tlie hill stood a Windmill, 
 looking and feeling proud. 
 
 “ I’m not at all proud,” said he ; 
 but I’m very enlightened, both out- 
 wardly and inwardly. I have sun 
 and moon for out -door use, and 
 for in-door too ; and then I have, 
 moreover, stearine candles, train-oil 
 lamps, and farthing candles : certainly, 
 I’m enlightened. I am a think- 
 
6o The Windmill. 
 
 ing being; and Fm so well-shaped 
 that it’s quite a pleasure. I have a 
 good grinder in my chest ; and I 
 have four wings, placed above on my 
 head, just under the ‘ cap ’ : the birds 
 have only two wings, and must carry 
 those on their back. I am by birth 
 a Dutchman, as one can see by my 
 build — a ‘ Flying Dutchman’ : he is 
 reckoned among supernatural things, 
 I know, and yet I’m quite natural. 
 I have a gallery round my stomach, 
 and dwelling-rooms in the lower part ; 
 there, live my thoughts. My strongest 
 thought — the one that directs and 
 
THE WINDMILL. 
 
 Page 6o. 
 
The Windmill. 
 
 6i 
 
 governs — is by the other thoughts 
 called the ‘ master of the mill.’ He 
 knows his own will, and he stands 
 high above flour and grit; yet he has 
 his match, and she’s called the mother. 
 She is the heart : she doesn’t go 
 wrong ; and she, too, has a will of 
 her own — knows what she’s capable 
 of — is mild as the summer-breeze — 
 strong as the wind ; she knows how 
 to manage gently, and yet to gain 
 her point. She is my softer part ; 
 father, my firmer : they are two, and 
 yet one, and they call each other, 
 ‘ my spouse.’ They have some little 
 
62 The Windmill. 
 
 ones, tliose two — ^little tliouglits that 
 may grow. Those little ones just do 
 kick up a racket ! The other day, 
 now, when I, full of deep thought, 
 let father and his ‘ hands ’ look after 
 the grinder and the wheels in my 
 chest, as I wanted to know what was 
 the matter — for there was something 
 the matter within me, and we ought 
 to examine ourselves — the little ones 
 kicked up a racket ; and that’s not 
 at all becoming when one like me 
 is standing aloft on the hill : one 
 must bear in mind one stands in 
 light : opinion is light, too. But, as 
 
The Windmill. 63 
 
 I was going to say, the little ones 
 made a dreadful hubbub. The 
 smallest one rushed straight up into 
 my ‘cap,’ singing till it thrilled all 
 through me. The little thoughts can 
 grow ; that, I have felt ; and from 
 outside, too, thoughts come — not 
 quite of my race, though, for of them 
 I see none save myself. But the 
 houses without wings, wherein no 
 grinder is heard, they, too, have 
 thoughts, which come to my thoughts, 
 and are betrothed to them, as they 
 call it. Very strange ! Yes — there 
 are many strange things. Some- 
 
64 Hie Windmill. 
 
 tiling has come over me, or within 
 me : some alteration has taken place 
 in the machinery : it is as if father 
 had married again, and got a still 
 kinder heart — a still more loving 
 mate — so young and tender, and yet 
 the same, only gentler and humbler 
 with the years. What was bitter 
 has evaporated, and all is very 
 sweet. Days pass away, and days 
 come — always onwards towards 
 brightness and gladness ; and then — 
 well, it is said and written, then a 
 day comes when it will be over with 
 me, and yet not at all over ! I shall 
 
The Windmill. 65 
 
 be broken down, to rise new and 
 better ; I shall cease to be, and yet 
 continue being — be quite another, 
 and yet the same ! This is hard to 
 believe — enlightened though I am by 
 sun and moon, stearine, train-oil, and 
 tallow. My old timber and brick- 
 work will rise again from their ruins. 
 I hope I shall keep my old thoughts 
 — father in the mill — mother — the 
 big and little ones — the family, what 
 I call the whole — one and yet so 
 many — the whole company of 
 thoughts ; for that, I can’t do with- 
 out. And I must also remain my- 
 
 F 
 
66 The Windmill. 
 
 self, with grinder in my chest, wings 
 on my head, and balcony round my 
 stomach ; else I shouldn’t know my- 
 self ; neither would the others be 
 able to know me, and to say, ‘ See, 
 there’s the Mill on the hill, grand to 
 behold, and yet not at all proud. 
 
 Thus spoke the Mill, and he said 
 much more ; this, however, was the 
 most important. 
 
 And days came, and days went ; 
 and the last day came. 
 
 The Mill caught fire ; the flames 
 rose, rushed out and rushed in, licked 
 rafters and boards, and devoured 
 
The Windmill. 67 
 
 tliem. Tlie Mill fell, and only a 
 heap of ashes was left ; the smoke 
 swept over the place of fire, and the 
 wind carried it away. 
 
 All that had had life in the Mill 
 remained ; no harm came to it by 
 what had happened ; it only gained 
 by it. The Mill-family — one soul, 
 many thoughts, and yet but one — 
 got a new, a beautiful Mill, which 
 would do well for them : it was not 
 at all like the old one. People said, 
 “ Why, there stands the Mill on the 
 hill, grand to behold but this one 
 was better arranged, and suited to 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 The Windmill. 
 
 the more advanced times. The old 
 timber, which was worm-eaten and 
 fungous, lay in dust and ashes. That 
 Mill-bulk did not arise as it had 
 thought ; it took things just literally; 
 and everything we must not take just 
 literally. 
 
THE SILYEE COIN. 
 

 
 
 r 
 
 
THE SILVER COIN. 
 
 HERE was once a Coin that 
 came bright from the Mint, 
 jumping and ringing, “ Hurrah ! now 
 I’m going out into the wide world!” 
 And so he did. 
 
 The child held him with warm 
 hands, and the miser, with cold, 
 clammy ones ; Middle-age turned 
 him over and over many times, and 
 Youth at once let him run further. 
 
72 
 
 The Silver Coin. 
 
 The Coin was of silver with very 
 little copper in it ; and when he had 
 for a whole year been out in the 
 world — that is to say, about in the 
 country where he was minted — he 
 went on a journey into foreign parts, 
 and he was the last of the country’s 
 coinage which was left in his master’s 
 money-bag : indeed, his master hardly 
 knew he had him till he felt him 
 between his fingers. 
 
 “Why, there’s yet a Coin from 
 home!” said the master, “it shall 
 journey with me and the Coin 
 jumped and rang for joy when he 
 
The Silver Coin. 73 
 
 once more put Hm in his pocket. 
 There he lay among his foreign 
 comrades, who came and went, one 
 making room for another but he, 
 the Coin from home, was always left: 
 this was a distinction. 
 
 Now, already several weeks had 
 passed, and the Coin was far away in 
 the world, without knowing exactly 
 where ; he heard from the other 
 Coins that they were French or 
 Italian ; one said now they were in 
 this town, then another said they 
 were in that ; but he could not at 
 all understand how this could be ; for 
 
74 The Silver Coin. 
 
 one does not see mucli of the world 
 when one is always in a bag, as 
 he was. One day, however, while 
 lying there, he noticed the bag was 
 left open, and so he stole out just 
 to peep round a little. Now, this 
 he should not have done ; but he felt 
 curious ; and curiosity wrought its 
 own punishment : the Coin slipped 
 out in the breeches-pocket ; and when 
 in the evening the money-bag was laid 
 aside, he was left behind, and went 
 with the clothes out into the passage, 
 where he fell straight on the floor — 
 heard by nobody, seen by nobody. 
 
The Silver Coin. 
 
 IS 
 
 Next morning, tlie clothes were 
 brought in ; the gentleman put them 
 on, and went away, and the Coin did 
 not go with him : he was found by 
 somebody, had again to be useful, 
 and went out with three other Coins. 
 
 “It’s nice, though, to look about 
 one in the world,” he thought ; “ see 
 other people — learn other customs.” 
 
 What Coin’s that V’ was asked 
 just then. “It’s not a Coin of the 
 country; it’s false; it’s good for 
 nothing.” 
 
 Well, now begins the story of the 
 Coin, as told by himself afterwards. 
 
76 The Silver Coin. 
 
 _ “ ‘ False ! Good for nothing !’ it 
 darted right through me,” said the 
 Coin. “ I knew I was of good silver, 
 good ring and genuine stamp. Cer- 
 tainly, there must be a mistake : they 
 couldn’t mean me ; and yet they did 
 mean me, too. I, it was, they called 
 false ! I was good for nothing ! * I 
 
 must pay it away in the dark,’ said 
 the man who had me ; and in the 
 dark I was paid away, to be once 
 more abused by daylight. — ‘False! 
 Good for nothing I We must try to 
 get rid of it.’” 
 
 And the Coin trembled between 
 
The Silver Coin. 77 
 
 the fingers every time it had to be 
 slipped away by stealth and to pass 
 for a Coin of the country. 
 
 “ ‘ I, miserable Coin ! Of what avail 
 are my silver, my value, my stamp, 
 when all go for nothing! One’s 
 place in the world is just according 
 to what the world thinks one to be. 
 It must indeed be dreadful to have 
 a guilty conscience, and sneak along 
 on the bad way, when I, who am 
 quite innocent, can feel thus through 
 having only the appearance of evil.’ 
 — Each time I was taken out, I shud- 
 dered to think of the eyes that would 
 
78 The Silver Coin. 
 
 look at me : I knew I should be 
 pushed away, and flung across the 
 table as if I were a lie and a sham. 
 
 “ Once I went to a poor woman, 
 who got me as daily wages for her 
 drudgery ; but she could not by any 
 means get rid of me ; nobody would 
 take me ; I was quite a trouble to 
 her. 
 
 “ ‘ Eeally, I must cheat somebody 
 with it,’ said she. ‘ I can’t afford to 
 keep a false Coin : the rich baker 
 may have it ; he can better bear it ; 
 but still what I’m going to do is 
 wrong.’ 
 
The Silver Coin. 79 
 
 “ ‘ Now, I shall even burden this 
 woman’s conscience,'" said I to my- 
 self. ‘Have I, then, really become 
 so altered in my old age V 
 
 “ And the woman went to the rich 
 baker ; but he knew the current coin 
 too well : I was not permitted to 
 remain where 1 was laid, but was 
 flung in the woman’s face : she got 
 no bread for me ; and I felt deeply 
 grieved at being thus coined to do 
 harm to others — I, who in my youth 
 had been so happy and self-confiding, 
 so sure of my own value and my 
 genuine stamp. I grew so sad ; just 
 
8o 
 
 The Silver Coin. 
 
 as a poor Coin must become when 
 nobody will have him. But the 
 woman brought me home again ; 
 and, looking at me quite mildly and 
 kindly, she said, ‘Nay, I won’t cheat 
 anybody with you. I’ll bore a hole 
 through you, that everybody may see 
 you’re a false thing — and yet — it just 
 strikes me — ^p’raps you’re a lucky- 
 shiUing. Yes ; I believe you are — 
 that thought just strikes me. I’ll bore 
 a hole in the Coin, put a string through 
 it, and then give it to my neighbour’s 
 little child for a lucky-shiUing.’ 
 
 “And she bored a hole through me. 
 
F 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
Page 8 1, 
 
The Silver Coin. 8 1 
 
 It’s never pleasant to have a hole 
 made through one : if the intention’s 
 good, however, one can bear much. 
 I was strung, and became a sort of 
 medal to be worn; I was hung round 
 the child’s neck, and the little one 
 laughed at me, and kissed me, and I 
 rested for a whole night on its warm, 
 innocent breast. 
 
 “ In the morning, the mother took 
 me between her fingers and looked 
 at me ; meanwhile having her own 
 thoughts about me, as I soon had to 
 feel. She got out her scissors and 
 cut the string. 
 
 a 
 
82 The Silver Coin. 
 
 “ ‘ Lucky - shilling ? ’ she said. 
 ‘ Well, that well soon see.' And 
 she put me into vinegar till I be- 
 came green : then she puttied up the 
 hole, rubbed me a little, and went in 
 the twilight to the lottery-collector, 
 to buy a lottery-ticket, which was to 
 bring luck. 
 
 “ How uncomfortable I felt ! I had 
 a pain inside me, just as if I were 
 going to pieces. I knew I should be 
 called false, and be flung away in the 
 presence of lots of Shillings and other 
 Coins, lying there with inscriptions 
 and faces which they might be proud 
 
TJie Silver Coin, 83 
 
 of. X escaped, however — there were 
 so many people at the collector’s, and 
 he was so busy — and I fell ringing 
 into the drawer with the other Coins. 
 Whether the ticket afterwards won, I 
 don’t know ; only this 1 know, that 
 next day I was detected as a false 
 Coin, put apart, and once more sent 
 out to deceive, and always to deceive. 
 And really this is unbearable if one is 
 of a true character, which, 1 must 
 say, I am. 
 
 “For a year and six weeks, I went 
 from hand to hand, from house to 
 house ; always abused, never wel- 
 
 o 2 
 
84 The Silver Coin. 
 
 corned; nobody bad faith in me, 
 and I had no faith in myself, no 
 faith in the world : it was a hard 
 time. 
 
 “Then one day came a traveller; 
 and he, of course, had to be cheated 
 with me. He confidingly took me 
 for current coin ; but when he had 
 to spend me again, I once more heard 
 the cries, ‘ Good for nothing ! 
 False!’ 
 
 “ ‘ It was paid to me as good 
 money,’ said the man, examining me 
 very closely ; but then he smiled all 
 over his face ; this, nobody else used 
 
The Silver Coin. 
 
 85 
 
 to do when they looked nearer at me. 
 ‘ Nay, but what’s this, though ! ’ said 
 he. ‘ Why, it’s one of our country’s 
 Coins — a good honest Shilling from 
 home, that somebody has bored a 
 hole through, and now calls false. 
 How funny I I’ll keep you, though, 
 and take you home with me.’ 
 
 “Joy thrilled through me ! I was 
 called ‘ a good honest Shilling ; ’ and 
 I was to go home, where everybody 
 would acknowledge me, and know I 
 was of good silver and genuine 
 stamp ! Truly, I could have 
 sparkled for joy ; only it isn’t my 
 
86 The Silver Coin. 
 
 nature to sparkle; it’s steel whicli 
 does that — not silver. 
 
 “I was wrapped in fine white paper, 
 so as not to be mixed with other 
 Coins and be paid away ; and only on 
 festival occasions, when fellow-coun- 
 trymen met, 1 was shown and 
 praised. They said I was interest- 
 ing : it’s funny, indeed, that one can 
 be interesting without saying a single 
 word. 
 
 “ And then I went home. All my 
 troubles had an end, and my happi- 
 ness began. Why, I was of good 
 silver, after all : I had the genuine 
 
The Silver Coin. 
 
 87 
 
 stamp ; and it wasn’t at all to my 
 disadvantage that a hole had been 
 made in me to mark me as false : 
 when one is not, it doesn’t matter. 
 Only hold out : all will in time have 
 their right. This is now my 
 creed,” said the Coin. 
 
 I 
 
THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM 
 AND HIS KINSMAN. 
 
THE BISHOP OF BOEGLUM 
 AND HIS KINSMAN. 
 
 W we are in Jutland, far 
 beyond tbe Wild Moor ; we 
 can hear the roaring of the Western 
 “Wow-wow”;* we are quite near it, 
 but before us rises a large sand- 
 hill ; we have seen it long since, and 
 we are driving towards it, slowly we 
 
 * A name wliicli the Jutlanders often apply 
 to the North Sea, comparing its sound to the 
 deep baying of dogs. — Translators, 
 
gz The Bishop of Bdrglum. 
 
 drive througli the deep sand. Up on 
 the sand-hill stands a large old man- 
 sion ; it is Borglum Cloister, and the 
 largest wing of it is still a church. 
 It is late in the evening when 
 we arrive there, but it is yet clear 
 and light, and we see far around, 
 away over field and moor down to 
 Aalborg Fjord, over heath and mea- 
 dow, straight away over to the dark 
 blue sea. 
 
 Now we are up there; our car- 
 riage rattles on between barns and 
 stables, and turns through the gates 
 into the yard of the old manor-house, 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. 93 
 
 where the lime-trees stand in rows 
 along the walls ; there they have 
 shelter from wind and rough wea- 
 ther, and therefore they have groAvn 
 till their branches nearly cover the 
 windows. 
 
 We ascend the winding stone- 
 stairs, and walk through the long 
 passages under the timber-work ceil- 
 ing. The wind whistles here so 
 strangely — whether indoors or out- 
 side, one hardly knows ; and then 
 people tell — well, people tell so many 
 strange things, and one sees so many 
 thiiiP’s if one is afraid or wishes to 
 
94 The Bishop of Bdrglum. 
 
 frighten others. They tell how the 
 old Canons, dead long ago, glide 
 silently past into the church, where 
 the mass is sung ; it is heard in the 
 sighing wind; one feels strangely 
 influenced by it, and thinks of olden 
 times — thinks till one seems to live 
 in them. 
 
 There is a wreck on the shore, and 
 the Bishop’s men are down at it ; 
 they did not spare those whom the sea 
 had spared : the waves wash away the 
 red blood that runs from the broken 
 skulls. Stranded goods belong to the 
 
The Bishop of Borglum. 95 
 
 Bishop, and here are many goods. 
 The sea dashes on shore, ankers and 
 barrels filled with costly wine for the 
 cellars of the Cloister, and plenty of 
 beer and mead is already there ; in 
 the kitchen is abundance of venison, 
 sausage and ham ; and outside in the 
 ponds, swim the fat carp and the 
 dainty crucian. The Bishop of 
 Borglum is a powerful man ; he 
 owns land, and he covets more ; all 
 must bend to Oluf Glob. A wealthy 
 kinsman of his died in Thy ; and the 
 widow had to own the truth of the 
 saying, “Kinsman is hardest upon 
 
96 The Bishop of Borglum. 
 
 kinsman.” Her husband was lord of all 
 the land around, save that belonging 
 to the Church. Her son is in foreign 
 countries ; while merely a boy he 
 was, according to his own wish, sent 
 abroad to see foreign customs. For 
 years no tidings have come from 
 him ; perhaps he is dead and laid in 
 his grave, and will never come back 
 to be master where his mother now 
 rules. 
 
 “ What ? Is a woman to rule? ” 
 says the Bishop ; and he sends her a 
 summons to appear at the Court; 
 but of what avail is that to him ? 
 
The Bishop of Borglum. 97 
 
 She has never swerved from the law ; 
 and her strength is in her righteous 
 cause. 
 
 Bishop Oluf, of Borglum, what art 
 thou brooding over 1 What art thou 
 writing on the glossy parchment ? 
 What art thou hiding behind seal 
 and tape, while thou givest it to 
 horseman and swain, who ride with 
 it out of the country far away to the 
 Pope’s city ? 
 
 It is the time of the falling leaves 
 — the time of shipwrecks; now comes 
 the icy-cold winter. 
 
 Twice it came, and the second 
 
 H 
 
98 The Bishop of Borglum. 
 
 time there were welcome greetings 
 for the horseman and swain, who 
 returned from Eome, bringing with 
 them a letter from the Pope — a buU 
 of excommunication for the widow 
 who dared to offend the pious 
 Bishop : “ Cursed be she and all that 
 is hers ! An outcast be she in the 
 Church and in the community ! Let 
 no one give her a helping hand ; let 
 kinsmen and friends shun her as the 
 plague and leprosy ! ” 
 
 “ That which will not bend shall be 
 broken,” says the Bishop of Borglum. 
 
 They all forsake her, but she does 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. 99 
 
 not forsake her God ; He is her Safe- 
 guard and Defender. 
 
 One servant only, an old maid, 
 continues faithful ; vdth her she goes 
 behind the plough ; and the crop 
 grows, though the land was cursed 
 by Pope and Bishop. 
 
 “Thou child of hell, yet I will 
 have my way,” says the Bishop of 
 Bbrglum : “ I touch thee now with 
 the Pope’s hand, and summon thee 
 to judgment.” 
 
 Then she puts to the carriage the 
 two last oxen she owns, sits up with 
 her maid, and drives along the heath 
 
 H 2 
 
lOo The Bishop of Borglum. 
 
 out of the Danish country. As a 
 stranger she goes to foreign countries, 
 where foreign languages are spoken 
 and foreign customs practised ; far 
 away she travels, where the green 
 hills rise to mountains and the vine 
 grows. Travelling merchants drive 
 along, looking fearfully from their 
 ware-laden waggons, lest they should 
 be attacked by the robber-baron’s 
 men ; but the two poor women in 
 that wretched vehicle, dragged by 
 the two black oxen, drive safely 
 through the infested ravines and the 
 thick forests. She comes to Franken. 
 
Pnge loo. 
 
: . ■■■ 
 
 ■ ■■ '•.■•. &H. 
 
 .: 'in 
 1 -1 
 
 
 • / 
 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. loi 
 
 Here she meets a stately knight, fol- 
 lowed by twelve harnessed swains. 
 He stops and looks at the strange 
 tnrn-ont, and asks the two women 
 what is the end of their jonrney, 
 and what is the coiintry whence they 
 come. Then the younger one names 
 Thy, in Denmark, and tells of her 
 sorrow and misery; but now that 
 comes to an end ; for so the Lord has 
 willed it. The foreign knight is 
 her son. He gives her his hand, and 
 clasps her to his breast ; and the 
 mother weeps ; this, she has not been 
 able to do for years, but only to bite 
 
102 The Bishop of Bor glum. 
 
 her lips till the warm blood-drops 
 trickled forth. 
 
 It is the time of the falling leaves; 
 it is the time of shipwrecks. The sea 
 rolls on shore casks of wine for the 
 Bishop’s cellar and kitchen ; over the 
 blazing fire the spitted game is roast- 
 ing ; and the Bishop’s rooms are cosy 
 and warm now the winter is biting 
 hard. Then news is heard : — lens 
 Glob, of Thy, has returned with his 
 mother : lens Glob summons the 
 Bishop before the Ecclesiastical 
 Council — before the Court and 
 Council of the Country. 
 
The Bishop of Borglum. 103 
 
 “ That will avail him much,” says 
 the Bishop. “ Better leave off thy 
 quarrelling, Sir lens.” 
 
 Another year has come, and once 
 more it is the time of the falling 
 leaves — the time of shipwrecks ; now 
 comes the icy-cold winter ; the white 
 bees swarm, and sting the face till 
 they melt themselves. 
 
 “It’s brisk weather to-day,” the 
 people say when they have been out- 
 doors, lens Glob stands so deep in 
 thought that he scorches his long 
 coat — nay, he burns a hole in it. 
 
 “ Thou Bishop of Borglum, I shall 
 
1 04 The Bisho'p of Borglum. 
 
 yet master thee. Under the Pope’s 
 cloak, the law cannot reach thee ; 
 lens Glob shall reach thee, how- 
 ever.” 
 
 Then he writes a letter to his 
 brother-in-law. Sir Olnf Hase, of 
 Sailing, summoning him to come on 
 Christmas Eve to vespers at Hvid- 
 berg church : there the Bishop will 
 read the mass ; for that purpose 
 he 'is going from Borglum to Thy, 
 and that, lens Glob well knows. 
 
 Meadows and moors are covered 
 with ice and snow which bear both 
 horse and rider — bear the whole 
 
The Bishop of Borglum. 105 
 
 train — ^the Bishop, with clerks and 
 footmen ; they ride the shortest way, 
 among the frail rushes, where the 
 wind whispers so mournfully. 
 
 Blow on thy brazen trumpet, thou 
 foxskin-clothed player I It sounds 
 well in the clear air. So they ride on 
 over heath and moor — that meadow- 
 garden of Fata-Morgana during the 
 warm summer-days — going south- 
 wards towards Hvidberg church. 
 
 The Wind blows harder on his 
 trumpet; he blows a storm, which 
 increases in violent rage. To God’s 
 house, the train goes onward in the 
 
io6 The Bisho'p of Bor glum. 
 
 midst of that Wind of God. God’s 
 house stands firmly ; but God’s Wind 
 sweeps away over field and moor, over 
 fjord and sea. Borglum’s Bishop 
 reaches the church ; but surely Sir Oluf 
 Hase can hardly get there, however 
 fast he may ride. He is coming with his 
 men on the other side, to help lorgen 
 Glob now the Bishop is to be sum- 
 moned to the judgment of the Highest. 
 
 God’s house is the Court of Judg- 
 ment ; the altar-table is the bar of 
 justice ; in the heavy brazen candle- 
 sticks the lights are lit. The Storm 
 reads charge and sentence, as it howls 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. 107 
 
 through the air over moor and heath 
 — away over the rolling sea. No 
 ferry crosses the Fjord in such fearful 
 weather. 
 
 Oluf Hase stands by Otte Sound ; 
 there he dismisses his men, leaves 
 them horse and harness, gives them 
 furlough to go home, and sends greet- 
 ings to his wife : alone he will risk 
 his life in the roaring water ; but his 
 men shall bear witness that it was 
 not his fault when lens Glob stood 
 without succour in Hvidberg church. 
 But his faithful men will not leave 
 him : they follow him into the deep 
 
io8 The Bishop of Bdrglum. 
 
 water. Ten of them are washed 
 away: Oluf Hase himself and two of 
 his hoys reach the opposite shore ; 
 hut they have still twenty miles to 
 ride. 
 
 It is past midnight; it is Christ- 
 mas Eve. The storm has subsided ; 
 the church is lit up, and the radiant 
 light shines through the windows, 
 away over meadow and heath. The 
 vesper-hymn has ceased long since; 
 in God’s house all is still ; one can 
 hear the dripping of the wax from 
 the candles on the flag-stones of the 
 floor. Now comes Oluf Hase. 
 
The Bishop of Barglum. 109 
 
 In the church-armoury, lens Glob 
 meets him with, Good-day ; now I 
 have made peace with the Bishop.” 
 
 “ That, hast thou done ? ” says 
 Oluf ; •' then neither thou nor the 
 Bishop shall go out of this church 
 Avith your lives ! 
 
 And Oluf Hase’s sword flashes 
 from the scabbard, and strikes and 
 splits the planks of the church-door, 
 Avhich lens Glob slammed betAveen 
 them. 
 
 “ Leave off, dear brother-in-law, 
 and wait to see hoAV I have made 
 peace ! I have slain the Bishop and 
 
I lo The Bishop of Bdrglum. 
 
 all his men. They will never speak 
 another word in the case; neither 
 shall I have any more to say about 
 all the harm done to my mother.” 
 
 The wicks of the tapers on the 
 altar glare so red, but something 
 redder glares from the floor ; there, 
 in his blood, lies the Bishop, with 
 broken skull ; his men are slain ; 
 and all is still on the holy Christmas- 
 night. 
 
 But on the third Christmas Eve, 
 the knell tolls out from Borglum 
 cloister ; and the murdered Bishop 
 and his slain men are laid in state, 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. 1 1 1 
 
 under a black canopy with crape- 
 covered candelabra. In a mantle of 
 silver tissue, with the crosier in his 
 powerless hand, lies the dead — he, 
 the once mighty lord. The incense 
 fumes and the monks sing ; it sounds 
 like wading, like words of doom and 
 wrath, as if it must be heard far 
 away over the country, sung by the 
 wind, borne on the wings of the 
 wind ; it may go to rest for a whde, 
 but it never dies, always it rises 
 again — that mournful song. It is 
 heard even in our time; up here it 
 tells of the Bishop of Borglum and 
 
1 1 2 The Bishop of Borglum. 
 
 his hard kinsman. The timid pea- 
 sant hears it in the dark night, when 
 he drives past Borglum cloister, along 
 the heavy, sandy road; he who lies 
 sleepless and listening in Borglum’s' 
 thick- walled rooms hears it ; and he 
 hears a rustling in the long resound- 
 ing passages leading to the church. 
 The entrance to it was locked and 
 walled up long ago, but to the eyes 
 of Superstition a door is still there ; 
 it opens, the lights beam from the 
 brazen chandeliers, the incense fumes, 
 and again the church shines in the 
 splendour of olden time, and the 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. 113 
 
 monks sing the mass over the mur- 
 dered Bishop, who lies there in the 
 mantle of silver tissue, with the 
 crosier in his powerless hand, while 
 from his proud pale brow glares the 
 bloody wound ; — it glares like fire — 
 it is the worldly mind and the evil 
 lusts that are being burned away. 
 
 Sink into the grave, sink into 
 night and forgetfulness, ye gloomy 
 memorials of olden times ! 
 
 Listen to the gusts of wind : the 
 roaring of the sea is drowned by 
 them. There is a storm, and lives 
 
1 1 4 The Bishop of Borglum. 
 
 will be lost ! The Sea has not 
 changed its mind with modern times. 
 To-night, it is all mouth for swal- 
 lowing up ; and to-morrow perhaps 
 it will be only a clear eye reflecting 
 one’s image — just as in those olden 
 times. Sleep quietly, if you can. 
 
 Now it is morning. 
 
 Modern Time shines sunnily into 
 the room ; but the wind takes hard 
 grasps yet ; and we hear tidings of a 
 wreck on the shore, just as in Olden 
 Time. 
 
 Last night, down by Lokken — that 
 little fishing-town, with red-roofed 
 
» Tlie Bishop of Bdrglum. 115 
 
 houses, we can see from the windows 
 — a ship was wrecked. It ran aground 
 some distance from the shore, but the 
 rocket from the life-boat made a 
 bridge between the wreck and the 
 firm land, and all on board were 
 saved; they came ashore and were 
 put to bed, and now to-day they are 
 invited to Bdrglum Cloister. In the 
 cosy rooms they find hospitality, 
 kindly eyes greet them, and they are 
 welcomed in their native tongue ; 
 tunes of their home-land sound from 
 the piano ; and ere these have died 
 
 away another chord is vibrating — 
 
 1 2 
 
1 1 6 The Bishop of Bor glum. 
 
 soundless, and yet so full-toned and 
 firm : the messenger of thoughts 
 goes to the home of the shipwrecked 
 men in the foreign land, and tells 
 they are saved ; then the heart feels 
 light, and there will be dancing at 
 the feast this evening in the ser- 
 vants’ hall at Bdrgluml We will 
 have waltz and country-dance; and 
 we will sing of Denmark and 
 “the Brave Soldiers” of Modern 
 Time. 
 
 Blessed be thou, Modern Time ! 
 Bide with summer into town on the 
 purified air-streams ! Let thy sun- 
 
The Bishop of Bdrglum. 1 17 
 
 beams shine into hearts and thoughts, 
 while on thy radiant surface float 
 away the gloomy traditions from 
 those harsh stern times ! 
 
IN THE NUESEEY. 
 
IN THE NUESEEY. 
 
 — * — 
 
 father and mother and all 
 } sisters and brothers had 
 gone to the theatre, and only little 
 Anna and her godfather were sitting 
 at home. 
 
 “ We, too, will have a play,” said 
 he; “and it may begin at once,” 
 
 “ But we have no stage,” said 
 Anna, “ and we have nobody who 
 can act : my old doll can’t, for she’s 
 
122 In the Nursery. 
 
 so nasty, and my new one mustn’t 
 liave her smart clothes crumpled.” 
 
 “ One can always find actors if one 
 will only take those at hand,” said 
 Godfather. “ Now, we’ll raise the 
 stage. Here, we set up a book, there, 
 another, and there, one more. Now, 
 three on the other side ; there we 
 have the scene : the old box that 
 stands here will do for the drop-scene 
 — we turn the bottom of it outwards. 
 The scene represents a room, as 
 everybody may see, of course. Now, 
 we must have the actors. Let’s see 
 what we can find in the toy-drawer. 
 
Paf^e T22. 
 
In the Nursery. 123 
 
 First comes the actor; next we can 
 make the piece : the one will then 
 hold np the other, and all will he 
 capital, Here’s a pipe-bowl, and 
 here’s an odd glove ; they’ll do very 
 nicely for a father and daughter.” 
 
 “ But they make only two persons,” 
 said little Anna. “Here’s my bro- 
 ther’s old waistcoat — couldn’t that 
 take a part V’ 
 
 “ It’s big enough, certainly,” said 
 Godfather. “It shall be the lover. 
 It has empty pockets ; and to 
 have these, is to be half unfortunate 
 in love ; which is always interesting. 
 
1 24 In the Nursery. 
 
 And here we have the nut-cracker’s 
 boot, with spurs on it. Lightning, 
 thunder, and Mazurka ! how he can 
 stamp and hold up his head ! He 
 shall be the troublesome suitor, 
 whom the young lady doesn’t like. 
 Now, what sort of play would you 
 like to have'? — a tragedy, or a do- 
 mestic play ■?” 
 
 “A domestic play,” said little 
 Anna ; “the others are all so fond of 
 those. Do you know one ?” 
 
 “ I know hundreds,” said God- 
 father. “ Those best liked are from 
 the French ; but they’re not proper 
 
In the Nursery. 125 
 
 for little girls to see. We may take 
 one of the nicest of them, however, 
 though at bottom they’re all alike. 
 Now I shake the box. Hocus-pocus ! 
 change ! brand-new ! Now they are 
 brand-new. Now, listen ; here’s the 
 play-bill.” And Godfather took up a 
 newspaper, and pretended to read 
 from it : — 
 
 “ < PIPE-BOWL AND CLEVEE-HEAD ; 
 
 A DOMESTIC PLAY, IN ONE ACT. 
 
 Fersons rejpresented, 
 
 Mr. Pipe-bowl. 
 
 Miss Glove — Mr. Fipe-hoivVs daughter. 
 
 Mr. Waistcoat — Miss Glove's lover. 
 
 Yon Boot — Miss Glove's suitor.' 
 
 “And now we begin. The curtain 
 
126 In the Nursery. 
 
 rises — ^we have no curtain ; but well 
 suppose it’s raised already. All 
 the persons are on the stage, so we 
 have them at once. Now 111 
 speak as Mr. Pipe-bowl. He’s cross 
 to-day; one can see he is smoked 
 meerschaum. 
 
 “ ‘Bosh ! trash ! stuff ! I’m master 
 in my own house ! I’m the father of 
 my daughter I Please listen to what 
 I say! Von Boot’s a person one may 
 look upon as a model ; his upper part 
 is morocco, and he has spurs on his 
 lower part. Stuff and nonsense ! He 
 shall have my daughter.’ 
 
In the Nursery. 
 
 127 
 
 “ Now you must pay attention to 
 Mr. Waistcoat, Anna, clear ; now Mr. 
 Waistcoat’s going to speak. He has 
 a turned-doAvn collar, and is very 
 modest ; he knows his own worth, 
 however, and has quite a right to say 
 what he’s going to say. 
 
 “ ‘ I am quite spotless. My quality, 
 too, must be taken into consideration : 
 I am real silk, and I wear cords.’ 
 
 “ ‘ On the wedding-day, and no 
 longer ; they won’t Avash.’ It’s Mr. 
 Pipe-bowl who is speaking now. 
 ‘Von Boot’s water-proof, strong- 
 skinned, and yet so soft; he can 
 
In the Nursery. 
 
 1 28 
 
 creak, clatter with his spurs, and has 
 Italian features/” 
 
 “ But I wish they would speak in 
 verses,” said little Anna ; “ Fve heard 
 it’s so beautiful.” 
 
 “ Well, they can do so,” said God- 
 father : “ it is the actor’s task to do 
 what the audience ask. There, look 
 at little Miss Glove — how she stretches 
 her fingers, 
 
 ‘ Par better to be a lonely glove 
 
 Por ever and ever than have to love 
 Such a one as be ! 
 
 I cannot endure a life so accursed ! 
 
 My leather, alas ! is beginning to burst ! ’ — 
 
 ‘ Wbat foolery ! ’ 
 
In the Nursery. 129 
 
 It was Mr. Pipe-bowl who spoke 
 last ; now Mr. Waistcoat speaks, — 
 
 ‘ Beloved, though. I should see 
 Each finger burst in thee, 
 
 I sw^ear by mighty Holger 
 My bride thou still shalt bo 1 ’ 
 
 Von Boot kicks, stamps on tbe floor, 
 clatters with his spurs, and knocks 
 down three of the coulisses.” 
 
 “ Eeally, it’s beautiful ! ” said little 
 Anna. 
 
 “ Hush ! hush !” said Godfather ; 
 “ silent approbation shows that 
 one belongs to the fashionable au- 
 dience in the dress-circle. Now, 
 
 31 
 
ijo In the Nursery. 
 
 Miss Glove sings her bravura with 
 cracks, — 
 
 ‘ I cannot speak my mighty woe, 
 
 And so I now mnst squeal and crow, 
 Kuckle-ah-keelah ! Kuckle-ah-keelah-ko I ’ 
 
 Now comes the exciting part, Anna, 
 dear ; and that’s what is most im 
 portant in a play. Now, look ! Mr. 
 Waistcoat unbuttons himself, and 
 directs his speech straight at you, to 
 make you clap ; but pray don’t ; it’s 
 not fashionable. Hark, how his silk 
 rustles! We have come to the 
 climax ! Look ! Now comes the in- 
 trigue ! ‘ You are Pipe-bowl ; I am 
 
In the Nursery. 13 1 
 
 Clever-liead — Quick ! now you’re 
 done for!’ Did you see it, Anna, 
 dear ? It’s excellent — both scenery 
 and acting : Mr. Waistcoat took hold 
 on old Pipe-boAvl, and put him in his 
 pocket ; there he lies, and Waistcoat 
 speaks : 
 
 “ ‘ You’re in my pocket I — in my 
 deepest pocket ! Never shall you 
 come out again till you have pro- 
 mised to unite me to your daughter 
 — Glove, to the left hand ; I give 
 my right hand. ’ ” 
 
 “ It’s awfully pretty,” said little 
 Anna. 
 
 k2 
 
132. In the Nursery. 
 
 “And now old Pipe-bowl answers : 
 
 ‘ My brain is turning o’er and o’er ! 
 
 Wbicb is the ceiling ? wbicb the floor ? 
 
 My senses, -will ye come no more ? 
 
 Dear tube, for thee I long so sore ! 
 
 I never felt so strangely weak ! 
 
 Alas ! I know not how to speak ! 
 
 Oh ! take again my head 
 Out of thy pocket drear. 
 
 And thou shalt surely wed 
 My only daughter dear ! ’” 
 
 “ Is the play already o ver ?” asked 
 Anna. 
 
 “Ob dear! no,” said Godfather; 
 “ it’s only over with Mr. Boot. The 
 lovers kneel ; and then one of them 
 sings, — 
 
 ‘Patiier!’ 
 
In the Nursery. ■ 133 
 
 And tlie other one, 
 
 ‘ Oil ! take again tky liead, 
 
 And give thy blessing ere we wed ! ’ 
 
 They get his blessing, and are 
 married ; and the Furniture sings in 
 chorus, — 
 
 ‘ Crack, creak ! we must say 
 Many thanks for the play ! 
 
 All’s over for to-day 1 ’ 
 
 And then we clap, and call them 
 before the curtain all together — the 
 Furniture, too ; it’s mahogany,” 
 
 “ Is our play now as good as the 
 one the others have seen in the real 
 theatre ? ” 
 
134 Nursery. 
 
 “Our play is rauch better,” replied 
 Godfather; “it’s shorter, it’s trans- 
 lated freely, and it has passed the 
 evening till tea-time.” 
 
THE GOLDEN TEEASUEE. 
 

 ' T’.'X ' I f ' rr^ 
 
 »vlji J /i i 
 
 ■ ■- ■ _* -iiM 
 
 
 
 
THE GOLDEN TREASUEE. 
 
 drummer’s wife went to 
 urcli, and saw the new 
 altar with pictures and carved angels; 
 they were so pretty — both those on 
 the canvas in colours and glory, and 
 those carved in wood and painted 
 and gilded. Their ham shone like 
 gold and sunshine, beautiful to look 
 at ; but God’s sunshine was still more 
 beautiful ; it shone brighter and 
 
138 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 redder between the dark trees when 
 the sun went down. Beautiful it 
 was to look into God’s face ! and she 
 looked into the red sun, and had 
 such heart-felt thoughts as she did so 
 — ^thoughts of the little one the stork 
 was going to bring her, and she felt 
 so happy ; she looked and looked, 
 wishing the child might take beauty 
 from it, and be like one of the 
 shining angels in the altar-piece. 
 
 And when she now really held in 
 her arms her little child, and lifted it 
 up to the father, it was to behold 
 like one of the angels in the church ; 
 
The Golden Treasure. 139 
 
 tlie hair was like gold ; the tinge of 
 the setting sun was spread over it. 
 
 “My golden treasure, niy wealth, 
 my sunny day ! ” said the mother, 
 kissing the shining curls ; and it 
 sounded like music and song in the 
 drummer’s room ; there were joy 
 and life and stir. The drummer 
 beat a roll — a roll of joy : the 
 Drum was beaten — the Fire-drum 
 was beaten ; — 
 
 “Eed hair! The baby has red 
 hair ! trust the drum-skin, and not 
 what your mother says! drummelom! 
 drummelom ! ” 
 
140 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 And the Town talked as the Fire- 
 drum talked. 
 
 The boy was taken to church and 
 baptized. As to his name, no objec- 
 tion could be made : Peter, he was 
 called. The whole Town and the 
 Drum too called him Peter — ^the 
 drummers boy with the red hair; but 
 his mother kissed him on his red 
 hair, and called him “ Golden- 
 treasure.” 
 
 On the clayey walls of the ravine, 
 many had traced their names, that 
 they might be remembered. 
 
The Golden Treasure. 141 
 
 “ Fame,” said tlie drummer, 
 “ that’s something, too ; ” and so he 
 traced his own name and that of his 
 little son there. 
 
 And the swallows came. They 
 had on their long journeys seen more 
 lasting inscriptions cut in the clilf- 
 side on the temple’s wall in Hindoo- 
 stan — great achievements of mighty 
 kings — immortal names, so old that 
 nobody now can read or pronounce 
 them. 
 
 Nominal value, celebrity ! 
 
 In the ravine built the sand- 
 martins ; they bored holes into the 
 
142 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 walls ; and the rain and drizzle 
 crumbled and washed away the 
 names — those of the drummer and 
 his little son among the rest. 
 
 “ Peter’s name, however, remained 
 there a year and a half,” said the 
 father. 
 
 “ Fools ! ” thought the Fire-drum ; 
 hut he said only, “ drummelom, 
 drum! ” 
 
 He was a bright, cheerful hoy 
 — “that drummer’s boy with the 
 red hair.” A fine voice he 
 had, too, and sing he could, and 
 sing he did, like the birds in the 
 
The Golden Treasure. 143 
 
 forest ; there was tune and yet no 
 tune. 
 
 “ He must be a chorister,” said the 
 mother, — “ sing in the church, and 
 stand under those beautiful gilded 
 angels whom he’s like.” 
 
 “ Carroty-poll ! ” said the witty 
 fellows of the town. The Drum 
 heard it from the women in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 “Don’t go home, Peter,” cried the 
 street-boys. “ When you sleep in 
 the attic, there’s a fire in the upper 
 story, and then the fire-drum will be 
 beaten.” 
 
144 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 “ Beware of the drum-sticks ! ” 
 answered Peter ; and, little though 
 he was, he boldly attacked the boys, 
 and struck his fist straight into the 
 chest of the nearest one till he lost 
 his standing ; and then the other 
 boys stirred their sticks — their own 
 sticks. 
 
 The town-musician was a person 
 of rank — the son of a royal plate- 
 keeper, and quite a great man. He 
 liked Peter, took him home for hours 
 together, gave him a violin, and 
 taught him music : the boy seemed 
 to have it at his finger-ends : he 
 
The Golden Treasure, 145 
 
 might become more than a drummer; 
 he might become a town-musician. 
 
 “ ril be a soldier,” said Peter ; for 
 he was yet only a little fellow, and 
 thought it was the finest thing in the 
 world to carry a gun and march thus, 
 “ One, two ! one, two 1 ” and wear 
 uniform and sabre. 
 
 “ You shall learn to obey the drum- 
 skin ! drummelom ! come, come ! ” 
 said the Drum. 
 
 “Yes, if he could march upwards 
 and become a General,” said the 
 father; “but then there must be 
 war.” 
 
 ii 
 
146 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 “ From that, may God keep us ! ” 
 said the mother. 
 
 “We shouldn’t have anything to 
 lose,” said the father. 
 
 “Well, we have my boy, at any 
 rate.” 
 
 “ But when he came home a Gene- 
 ral?” 
 
 “ Without arms and legs ; nay, 
 leave me my Golden Treasure with 
 whole limbs.” 
 
 “ Drum ! drum ! drum ! ” The 
 Fire-drum was beaten. There was a 
 war. The soldiers went away, and 
 the drummer’s boy went with them. 
 
The Golden Treasure. 147 
 
 “ Carroty-poll ! Golden Treasure ! ” 
 The mother wept ; the father already 
 saw him “famous;” and the town- 
 musician thought he ought not to 
 have gone to the war, but to have 
 stayed at home with the band. 
 
 “ Carroty-poll,” said the soldiers, 
 and Peter laughed ; but when some- 
 body or other said, “ Sly Fox,” he 
 pressed his lips together and looked 
 forwards into the wide world : that 
 nickname did not strike home to 
 him. 
 
 The boy was clever, his spirit 
 
 L 2 
 
148 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 dauntless, and his temper good ; and 
 this is the best camp-bottle, his old 
 comrades said. 
 
 In rain and drizzle, wet to the 
 skin, he had for many a night to lie 
 in the open air under the canopy of 
 the sky ; but his good temper stayed 
 with him, and the drum-sticks beat, 
 “ Drummelom ! Every man get up ! ” 
 Yes, he was indeed born a drummer. 
 
 It was a battle-day ; the sun had 
 not yet risen, but it was morning ; 
 the air was cold and the battle hot ; 
 there was a mist in the air, but still 
 more vapour from the gunpowder. 
 
The Golden Treasure. 
 
 149 
 
 Bullets and grenades flew away over 
 heads and into heads, bodies, and 
 limbs; but onwards the brave men 
 went. One after another dropped 
 on his knees with bloody temples and 
 deadly pale face ; but the little 
 drummer still kept his fresh colour, 
 and with a bright, happy face he 
 looked at the dog of the regiment, 
 which was bounding before him quite 
 merrily, as if all were fun and the 
 bullets were falling only for him to 
 play with, 
 
 “ March ! forwards, march ! ” were 
 the words of command arranged for 
 
1 50 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 the drum ; and those words were not 
 to he recalled ; stiU they can be re- 
 called, and there may be great wis- 
 dom in recalling them; and now, 
 “Backwards,” was the order. But 
 the little drummer beat, “ March, for- 
 wards ! ” for thus he understood the 
 command; and the soldiers obeyed 
 the drum-skin. They were good 
 drum-beats : they became beats of 
 victory to those who would have 
 retreated. 
 
 Lives and limbs were lost in that 
 battle. The grenade tears off the 
 flesh in bloody pieces ; the grenade 
 
The Golden Treasure. 15 1 
 
 sets fire to the bundle of straw where 
 the wounded soldier has crept, to lie 
 forsaken for many hours — forsaken, 
 perhaps, for life. Well, it is of no 
 use thinking of it ! And yet one 
 does think of it, even far away from 
 the battle-field, in the quiet town ; 
 there the drummer and his wife 
 thought of it ; for was not Peter in 
 the war ? 
 
 “Now, I’m tired of that whimper- 
 ing,” said the Fire-drum. 
 
 It was a battle-day ; the sun had not 
 yet risen, but it was morning. The 
 drummer and his wife slept, which 
 
152 The Golden Treasure, 
 
 they had hardly done during the 
 whole night ; they had been talking 
 of their son ; for was he not away out 
 there, “ in God’s hands ? ” And the 
 father dreamed the war was ended, 
 the soldiers had come home, and 
 Peter had the Silver Cross on his 
 breast ; but the mother dreamed that 
 she went into the church, and saw 
 the pictures and the carved angels 
 with golden hair ; and her own dear 
 boy, her heart’s golden treasure, stood 
 in white robes among the angels, 
 singing so sweetly, as surely none but 
 angels can sing, and with them he 
 
The Golden Treasure. 153 
 
 arose in the sunshine and looked 
 lovingly down on his mother. 
 
 “ My Golden Treasure ! ” she ex- 
 claimed, and at the same moment 
 awoke. “Now, our Lord has taken 
 him ! ” she said ; and she leaned her 
 head against the chintz curtains of 
 the bed, folded her hands, and wept. 
 “Where does he now rest, among 
 those many in the large grave they 
 dig for the dead ? Perhaps down 
 in the deep water of the marsh ! 
 No one knows his grave ! God’s 
 words are not read over it!” And 
 our Lord’s prayer passed silently over 
 
154 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 her lips ; her head bent down — she 
 was so weary — and she slept. 
 
 Days fly away, in life and in 
 dreams. 
 
 It drew towards evening; and over 
 the battle-field a rainbow rose, 
 touching the outskirts of the wood 
 and the deep marsh. It is said, and 
 kept in the popular belief, that where 
 a rainbow touches the earth a trea- 
 sure is buried — a golden treasure. 
 Here, too, one was lying ; but no- 
 body thought of the little drummer 
 save his mother, and so that dream 
 came to her. 
 
The Golden Treasure. 155 
 
 And days fly away, in life and in 
 dreams. 
 
 Not one hair of his head was hurt 
 — not one golden hair. “ Drum- 
 merom, drummerom, it is he ! it is 
 he ! ” the Drum might have said and 
 his mother have sung, if she had 
 known or dreamed it. 
 
 With the wreaths of victory, and 
 with singing and hurrahs, the soldiers 
 went homewards when the war was 
 over and peace was made. The dog of 
 the regiment gamboUed before them 
 in great circles, as if he wanted to 
 make the way thrice as long as it was. 
 
156 The Golden Treamre. 
 
 And days passed away, and weeks, 
 too, and Peter stepped into his 
 parents’ room ; he was as brown as 
 an Indian, his eyes were bright, 
 and his face beamed like sunshine. 
 And the mother clasped him in her 
 arms, kissing his lips, his eyes, and 
 his red hair. She had her boy once 
 more ; he had no Silver Cross, as the 
 father had dreamed, but he had 
 whole limbs, as the mother did not 
 dream. And there was joy ; they 
 laughed and they wept ; and Peter 
 embraced the old Fire-drum. 
 
 « Why, there’s still the old Drum ! ” 
 
The Golden Treasure. 157 
 
 said he; and the father heat a roll 
 on it. 
 
 “ It’s just as if there were a great 
 fire,” said the Fire-drum — “fire in 
 the roof, fire in the hearts. Golden 
 Treasure ! drum ! rum ! rum ! ” 
 
 And then ? Well, what then ? 
 Only ask the town-musician. 
 
 “ Peter quite outgrows the Drum,” 
 said he ; “ Peter wiU become greater 
 than I and yet he was the son of 
 a royal plate-keeper ; but all that he 
 had learned in his whole life, Peter 
 had learned in half a year. 
 
158 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 There was something about him so 
 confiding, so truly good. His eyes 
 shone, and his hair shone — that can- 
 not be denied. 
 
 “ Why doesn’t he have his hair 
 dyed ? ” said a neighbour’s wife. 
 “ The policeman’s daughter had hers 
 done, and it came out beautifully; 
 and she got engaged.” 
 
 “ But her hair turned as green as 
 duck-weed directly afterwards, and 
 has always to be dyed again.” 
 
 “ She can afford it,” replied the 
 neighbour’s wife ; “ and so can Peter. 
 He visits at the first houses — even at 
 
y. 
 
 
THE DRUMMER AND MISS LOTTE. 
 
 Page 159 . 
 
The Golden Treasure. 159 
 
 the Burgomaster’s, and teaches Miss 
 Lotte to play the piano.” 
 
 And how he could play! Ay, 
 play out of his own heart the most 
 beautiful pieces, that had never been 
 written on any music-paper. He 
 played in the light nights and in the 
 dark ones, too. It was unbearable, 
 said the neighbours and the Fire- 
 drum. 
 
 Peter played till his thoughts were 
 lifted up, and great plans for the 
 future rose within him : fame ! 
 
 And the Burgomaster’s Lotte was 
 sitting by the piano ; her slender 
 
i6o The Golden Treasure. 
 
 fingers danced away over the keys 
 till the music sounded straight into 
 Peter’s heart ; and it seemed to swell 
 and grow too large, and this hap- 
 pened, not once, but many times. 
 Then one day, he seized those slender 
 fingers and that finely-formed hand, 
 and pressed them to his lips, and 
 looked into her large brown eyes : 
 God knows what he said ; we others 
 are permitted to guess it. Lotte 
 turned crimson all over her neck and 
 shoulders, but not one word did she 
 answer ; there came just then a 
 visitor into the room — the son of the 
 
The Golden Treasure. i6i 
 
 Councillor, who had a high shiny 
 forehead and a bald pate. And Peter 
 stayed with them a long while, and 
 Lotte’s kindest looks were for him. 
 
 In the evening, when he was at 
 home, he talked of the wide world, 
 and the golden treasure laid up for 
 him in his violin. 
 
 Fame! 
 
 “ Drummelom, fool, fool, fool ! ” 
 said the Fire-drum. “Now Peters 
 quite out of his mind ! there’s a fire 
 in the house, I think.” 
 
 The mother went to the market 
 next day. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 “ Have you heard the news, Peter ? ” 
 she asked when she came back — 
 “ pleasant news ? The Burgomaster s 
 Lotte is engaged to the Councillor’s 
 son ; ’twas settled last evening.” 
 
 “ No ! ” exclaimed Peter, jumping 
 up from his chair. The mother said. 
 Yes, however; and she had it from 
 the barber’s wife, whose husband 
 heard it straight from the Burgo- 
 master’s own mouth. 
 
 And Peter grew deadly pale, and 
 sat down again. 
 
 “ God in heaven ! what’s the 
 matter 1” asked the mother. 
 
The Golden Treasure. 163 
 
 “Nothing! nothing! only leave 
 me alone ! ” he answered, while tears 
 rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 “ My own child ! my Golden 
 Treasure ! ” said the mother, weep- 
 ing; but the Fire- drum sang, though 
 not aloud — only to himself, 
 
 “ 'Lotte ist todt ! Lotte ist todt!^ 
 
 Well, now that song’s come to an 
 end.” 
 
 The song had not come to an 
 end, however ; there were many long 
 verses left^ — the most beautiful ones 
 — life’s golden treasure. 
 
164 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 “She makes quite a fool of her- 
 self,” said the neighbour’s wife ; 
 “she will have everybody read the 
 letters she gets from her ‘ Golden 
 Treasure,’ and hear what the pa- 
 pers tell about him and his violin. 
 Money, he sends her, too ; and 
 that, she needs, now she’s left a 
 widow.” 
 
 “ He plays before Emperors and 
 Kings,” said the town-musician. 
 “ That didn’t fall to my lot ; but he’s 
 my pupil, and won’t forget his old 
 master.” 
 
 “ His father dreamed, indeed,” 
 
The Golden Treasure. 165 
 
 said the mother, “that Peter came 
 home from the war with the Silver 
 Cross on his breast; but he didn’t 
 get it in the war ; there, I daresay 
 it’s harder to get. Now he has 
 got the Cross of Knighthood. If 
 his father had but lived to see 
 that ! ” 
 
 “ Famous ! ” said the Fire-drum, 
 and the Town said so, too : the drum- 
 mer’s son — Peter they had seen as a 
 little one with wooden shoes — seen 
 as a drummer, playing at dancing- 
 parties — famous ! 
 
 “ He played before us ere he 
 
1 66 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 played before Kings,” said the Burgo- 
 master’s lady. “ Then he was quite 
 smitten with Lotte — ^he always 
 looked high — at that time, it seemed 
 quite impudent and absurd. My 
 husband laughed when he heard that 
 nonsense. Now, Lotte is a Coun- 
 cillor’s wife.” 
 
 A golden treasure had been laid in 
 the heart and soul of the poor child 
 who when a little drummer beat, 
 “ March, forwards ! ” — ^beats of vic- 
 tory to those who would have re- 
 treated. There lay in his breast a 
 golden treasure — ^the fount of melo- 
 
The Golden Treasure. 167 
 
 dies ; it sounded fortli from the violin 
 as if an organ were within it — as if 
 all the fairies of a midsummer-night 
 were dancing along the strings ; one 
 seemed to hear the warbling of the 
 thrush and the full clear tones of the 
 human voice. His music enraptured 
 every heart, and his name was borne 
 over all lands, 
 
 “And then he’s so handsome,” 
 said the young ladies, and the 
 old ones, too : nay, the oldest of all 
 got an album for locks of famous 
 people’s hair, only to have an oppor- 
 tunity of asking the young vdolinist 
 
i68 The Golden Treasure. 
 
 to give her one of his rich beauti- 
 ful curls — a treasure — a golden trea- 
 sure. 
 
 And into the drummer s poor room 
 stepped the son — fine as a prince 
 and happier than a king. His eyes 
 shone, and his face was bright like 
 sunshine. And he held his mother 
 in his arms, and she kissed his 
 warm lips and wept for joy; and 
 he nodded to each old piece of 
 furniture in the room — to the chest 
 of drawers with its china and flower- 
 vases ; he nodded to the turn-up- 
 bedstead wherein he had slept while 
 
Tlie Golden Treasure. 169 
 
 a little one ; but the old Fire- 
 dram he fetched, and placed in the 
 middle of the room, and, addressing 
 both the mother and the Dram, he 
 said, 
 
 “What a roll father would have 
 beaten to-day ! Well, now I shall 
 have to do it.” 
 
 And he beat a perfect thunder- 
 storm; and the Drum felt so honoured 
 that his skin actually burst. 
 
 “He has a fine fist for beating,” 
 said the Drum. “Now, I shall 
 always have something to remember 
 him by; I expect mother, too, is 
 
lyo The Golden Treasure. 
 
 going to burst for joy over her ‘ Gol- 
 den Treasure.’ ” 
 
 This is the tale of the “ Golden 
 Treasure.” 
 
THE STOEM MOVES THE SIGN- 
 BOAEDS. 
 
^^018 Km mm Msoia ?[iit 
 ; .eaiiAoa 
 
THE STORM MOVES THE SIGNBOARDS. 
 
 Page 173 . 
 
THE STORM MOVES THE 
 SIGN-BOARDS. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 |N olden times, when Grand- 
 father was quite a little hoy 
 and wore red trousers and a red 
 jacket, with a sash round his waist, 
 and a feather in his cap — for thus in 
 his childhood little boys were dressed 
 when they were very smart — so many 
 things were different from what they 
 are now. There were often pageants 
 
174 The Storm Moves 
 
 in the street — such ones as we do 
 not see now-a-days, for these things 
 are abolished : they became so old- 
 fashioned; but pleasant it is to hear 
 Grandfather tell of them. 
 
 It must indeed have been a show 
 when the shoemakers moved sign- 
 boards, when they changed Corpo- 
 ration-hall. On their waving silk 
 banner were painted a large boot 
 and a two-headed eagle ; the younger 
 journeymen, with red and white 
 ribbons fluttering down from their 
 shirt-sleeves, carried the welcome-cup 
 and the box; the older ones wore 
 
the Sign-hoards. 175 
 
 drawn swords with lemons on the 
 points. There was a full band, but 
 the finest of all the instruments was 
 “the Bird,” as Grandfather called 
 the long pole with the half-moon, 
 with all its ringing, tinkling and 
 dangling things— real Turkish music. 
 It was lifted and swung, and it 
 almost hurt the eyes to look at it 
 when the sun shone upon all that 
 gold, silver and brass. 
 
 Before the procession ran Harle- 
 quin, in clothes made of patches of 
 every possible colour, and with black 
 face, and bells on his head just like a 
 
176 The Storm Moves 
 
 sledge-liorse ; and he beat the people 
 with his wand, that smacked without 
 hurting, and they squeezed each 
 other to get onwards ; little boys and 
 girls fell over their own legs straight 
 down into the gutters ; while old 
 dames elbowed their way, looking 
 cross and scolding. Some laughed, 
 others chatted ; there were people on 
 the steps and in the windows — nay, 
 even on the roofs. The sun shone; 
 now and then, indeed, a little rain 
 fell, but that was a good thing for 
 the farmer; and even if enough fell 
 to make the people wringing-wet. 
 
the Sign-hoards. 177 
 
 why, that was a true blessing to the 
 land. 
 
 Ah! Avhat things Grandfather could 
 tell! He had, when a little boy, 
 seen all that grand show in its fullest 
 splendour. The oldest journeyman 
 of the Corporation delivered a speech 
 from the scaffold where the sign- 
 board was hung out ; the speech ran 
 in verses just like a piece of poetry, 
 which, indeed, it was; there had been 
 three about it, and before making it 
 they had drunk a whole bowl of 
 punch, so that it might be really 
 good. And the people gave cheers 
 
 N 
 
178 The Storm Moves 
 
 for the speech, but still more cheers 
 for the Harlequin when he appeared 
 on the scaffold and mimicked the 
 speaker. The fool did his foolery so 
 capitally, and drank mead from 
 dram-glasses, which he then flung 
 out among the people, who grasped 
 them in the air. Grandfather had 
 one of them, which the mortar-mixer 
 had caught and given him. It was 
 fun, indeed. And the sign-board 
 hung, with flowers and wreaths, on 
 the new Corporation-hall. 
 
 Such a sight, one never forgets, 
 however old one becomes, Grand- 
 
the Sign-hoards. 179 
 
 father said ; and he, indeed, never 
 forgot it, though afterwards he saw 
 much show and grandeur, and knew 
 how to tell about it ; but funniest of 
 all it was, when he told of the moving 
 of the sign-boards in the great city. 
 
 Grandfather had been there with 
 his parents while he was a little 
 boy ; and that was the first time 
 he saw the largest town of the 
 country. 
 
 Such a number of people were in 
 the streets, that he thought the 
 “Moving of the Sign-boards” was 
 just then going on ; and there were 
 
 K 2 
 
1 8o The Storm Moves 
 
 many sign-boards to be moved : one 
 might have filled hundreds of rooms 
 with these pictures if they had been 
 hung up inside instead of out-doors. 
 Thus, there were all kinds of gar- 
 ments painted where the tailors 
 lived ; they could change people till 
 they became genteel instead of vul- 
 gar. There were tobacconists’ sign- 
 boards with the most charming little 
 boys, smoking cigars just as- they do 
 in reality ; there were sign-boards 
 with butter and red herrings, clergy- 
 men’s ruffs, and coffins ; and besides 
 there were other sign-boards with 
 
the Sign-hoards. 1 8 1 
 
 inscriptions and annonncemeiits. In- 
 deed, one miglit go for a wliole day 
 up and down the streets and be 
 gratified by looking at pictures ; and 
 then at the same time one learned 
 what people those were who lived 
 inside : they had themselves hung 
 their signs outside; and this is a very 
 good thing, Grandfather said : in a 
 large town it is so instructive to 
 know what is indoors. 
 
 Well, then, that funny affair with 
 the sign-boards happened just as 
 Grandfather came to town; he said so 
 himself, and he was not then thinking 
 
1 8 2 The Storm Moves 
 
 of any mischief, as mother used to say 
 he was when he wanted to make a fool 
 of me — he looked quite trustworthy. 
 
 The first night after he had come 
 to the great town, there was as awful 
 weather as has ever been told about in 
 the papers — such weather as there had 
 not been within the memory of man. 
 All the air was filled with tiles ; old 
 wooden fences were overturned ; nay, 
 there was a wheel-barrow that ran by 
 itself along the street to save its life. 
 There was a howling in the air, and a 
 wailing and shaking ; it was, indeed, 
 a terrible storm. The water in the 
 
the Sign-hoards. 1 83 
 
 canal ran quite over the banks, not 
 knowing where it dared be. The 
 Storm went swooping over the town, 
 taking the chimneys with him ; more 
 than one grand old church-spire had 
 to bend, and has never been quite 
 right since. 
 
 There stood a Sentry-box before 
 the house of the honest old captain 
 of the fire-men — he who was always 
 the last with his engine ; the Storm 
 grudged him that little Box, and it 
 was flung down the steps, and rolled 
 along the street ; and then — strange 
 to say — it arose and remained stand- 
 
184 The Storm Moves 
 
 ing before tbe house where lived the 
 poor carpenter’s apprentice who saved 
 the lives of three persons the last time 
 there was a fire ; but the Sentry-box 
 did not mean anything by this. The 
 barber’s sign-board — a large brazen 
 dish — ^was pulled down and moved 
 straight into the Councillor’s win- 
 dow-recess; and this seemed almost 
 like malice, said all the neighbours, 
 who, with the most intimate lady- 
 friends of the family, called the 
 mistress “ the Eazor ’’—she was so 
 sharp, and knew more about people 
 than they knew themselves. 
 
the Sign-hoards. 185 
 
 A sign-board with a rough-drawn 
 dry stock-fish flew straight on till 
 it stood over the door of a house 
 where lived a man who edited a 
 newspaper. That was a poor joke 
 of the Storm-wind ; he did not re- 
 member, I dare say, that a man who 
 edits newspapers is not at all a 
 person to be joked with : he is a 
 king in his own paper and in his 
 own opinion. 
 
 The Weather-cock flew over to the 
 roof of the opposite neighbour s house, 
 and stayed there — in the blackest 
 malice, the other neighbours said. 
 
i86 The Storm Moves 
 
 The cooper’s cask got hung just 
 under the sign for “ Ladies’ out- 
 fits.” 
 
 The eating-house’s bill of fare, 
 which hung near the door in a heavy 
 frame, was placed by the Storm just 
 over the entrance to the theatre, 
 where people never went ; it was a 
 funny bill : — “ Horseradish-soup and 
 Farced Cabbage ; ” but then the 
 people came. 
 
 The furrier’s fox-skin, which is his 
 honest sign, was removed to the beU- 
 wire of the young man who always 
 went to the early morning service. 
 
the Sign-hoards. 187 
 
 looking like an umbrella let down; 
 followed the truth, and was “ a 
 pattern,” his aunt said. 
 
 The inscription, “ Establishment for 
 Higher Education,” was removed to 
 the billiard-club ; and the establish- 
 ment itself got the board inscribed, 
 “ Babies brought up by hand here 
 this was not at all witty — only 
 naughty ; but the Storm did it, and 
 him we cannot control. 
 
 It was a terrible night ; and — only 
 think — in the morning almost all the 
 sign-boards in the town were moved ; 
 and in some cases it was done with 
 
1 8 8 The Storm Moves 
 
 so much malice, that Grandfather 
 would not talk about them ; but he 
 laughed inwardly — that, I well saw, 
 and perhaps he had then some mis- 
 chievous thought. 
 
 The poor folks in the large town 
 — especially those that were stran- 
 gers- — were quite puzzled to know 
 “ who was who and it could not be 
 otherwise when they judged accord- 
 ing to the sign-boards. Some folks 
 who thought they were coming into 
 a very grave meeting of elders, 
 assembled to discuss the most im- 
 portant matters, came instead into 
 
the Sign-hoards. 189 
 
 a school, full of noisy boys, nearly 
 jumping upon the desks. 
 
 There were folks who mistook the 
 church for the theatre; and that is 
 indeed dreadful ! 
 
 Such a Storm has never blown in 
 our time ; it is only Grandfather who 
 lived to witness it, and then he was 
 quite a little one ; such a Storm per- 
 haps never will come in our time, but 
 in our grandchildren’s ; and then 
 we must indeed hope and pray that 
 they may keep quiet while “the 
 Storm moves the Sign-boards.” 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, 
 WHITEFRIARS. 
 

 A V