THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER

HAVE you never seen an old-fashioned oaken-wood cabinet, quite black with age and covered with varnish and carving-work? Just such a piece of furniture, an old heir-loom that had been the property of its present mistress’s great-grandmother, once stood in a parlour. It was carved from top to bottom—roses, tulips, and little stags’ heads with long, branching antlers, peering forth from the curious scrolls and foliage surrounding them. Moreover, in the centre panel of the cabinet was carved the full-length figure of a man, who seemed to be perpetually grinning, perhaps at himself, for in truth he was a most ridiculous figure; he had crooked legs, small horns on his forehead, and a long beard. The children of the house used to call him ‘the crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant,’ for this was a long, hard name, and not many figures, whether carved in wood or in stone, could boast of such a title. There he stood, his eyes always fixed upon the table under the pier-glass, for on this table stood a pretty little porcelain shepherdess, her mantle gathered gracefully round her, and fastened with a red rose; her shoes and hat were gilt, her hand held a crook—oh, she was charming! Close by her stood a little chimney-sweeper, likewise of porcelain. He was as clean and neat as any of the other figures, indeed, the manufacturer might just as well have made a prince as a chimney-sweeper of him, for though elsewhere black as a coal, his face was as fresh and rosy as a girl’s, which was certainly a mistake,—it ought to have been black. His ladder in his hand, there he kept his station, close by the little shepherdess; they had been placed together from the first, had always remained on the same spot, and had thus plighted their troth to each other; they suited each other so well, they were both young people, both of the same kind of porcelain, both alike fragile and delicate.

Not far off stood a figure three times as large as the others. It was an old Chinese mandarin who could nod his head; he too was of porcelain, and declared that he was grandfather to the little shepherdess. He could not prove his assertion; however, he insisted that he had authority over her, and so, when ‘the crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant’ made proposals to the little shepherdess, he nodded his head in token of his consent.

‘Now, you will have a husband,’ said the old mandarin to her, ‘a husband who, I verily believe, is of mahogany-wood; you will be the wife of a Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant, of a man who has a whole cabinet full of silverplate, besides a store of no one knows what in the secret drawers!’

‘I will not go into that dismal cabinet!’ declared the little shepherdess. ‘I have heard say that eleven porcelain ladies are already imprisoned there.’

‘Then you shall be the twelfth, and you will be in good company!’ rejoined the mandarin. ‘This very night, when the old cabinet creaks, your nuptials shall be celebrated, as sure as I am a Chinese mandarin!’

Whereupon he nodded his head and fell asleep.

But the little shepherdess wept, and turned to the beloved of her heart, the porcelain chimney-sweep.

‘I believe I must ask you,’ said she, ‘to go out with me into the wide world, for here we cannot stay.’

‘I will do everything you wish,’ replied the little chimney-sweeper; ‘let us go at once. I think I can support you by my profession.’

‘If you could but get off the table!’ sighed she; ‘I shall never be happy till we are away, out in the wide world.’

And he comforted her, and showed her how to set her little foot on the carved edges and gilded foliage twining round the leg of the table, till at last they reached the floor. But turning to look at the old cabinet, they saw everything in a grand commotion, all the carved stags putting their little heads farther out, raising their antlers, and moving their throats, whilst ‘the crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant’ sprang up, and shouted out to the old Chinese mandarin, ‘Look, they are eloping! they are eloping!’ They were not a little frightened, and quickly jumped into an open drawer for protection.

In this drawer there were three or four incomplete packs of cards, and also a little puppet-theatre; a play was being performed, and all the queens, whether of diamonds, hearts, clubs, or spades, sat in the front row fanning themselves with the flowers they held in their hands; behind them stood the knaves, showing that they had each two heads, one above and one below, as most cards have. The play was about two persons who were crossed in love, and the shepherdess wept over it, for it was just like her own history.

‘I cannot bear this!’ said she. ‘Let us leave the drawer.’ But when they had again reached the floor, on looking up at the table, they saw that the old Chinese mandarin had awakened, and was rocking his whole body to and fro with rage.

‘Oh, the old mandarin is coming!’ cried the little shepherdess, and down she fell on her porcelain knees in the greatest distress. ‘A sudden thought has struck me,’ said the chimney-sweeper: ‘suppose we creep into the large pot-pourri vase that stands in the corner; there we can rest upon roses and lavender, and throw salt in his eyes if he come near us.’

‘That will not do at all,’ said she; ‘besides, I know that the old mandarin was once betrothed to the pot-pourri vase, and no doubt there is still some slight friendship existing between them. No, there is no help for it, we must wander forth together into the wide world.’

‘Hast thou indeed the courage to go with me into the wide world?’ asked the chimney-sweeper. ‘Hast thou considered how large it is, and that we may never return home again?’

‘I have,’ replied she.

And the chimney-sweeper looked keenly at her, and then said, ‘My path leads through the chimney! hast thou indeed the courage to creep with me through the stove, through the flues and the tunnel? Well do I know the way! We shall mount up so high that they cannot come near us, and at the top there is a cavern that leads into the wide world.’

And he led her to the door of the stove.

‘Oh, how black it looks!’ sighed she; however, she went on with him, through the flues and through the tunnel, where it was dark, pitch dark.

‘Now we are in the chimney,’ said he; ‘and look, what a lovely star shines above us!’

And there was actually a star in the sky, shining right down upon them, as if to show them the way. And they crawled and crept—a fearful path was theirs—so high, so very high! but he guided and supported her, and showed her the best places whereon to plant her tiny porcelain feet, till they reached the edge of the chimney, where they sat down to rest, for they were very tired, and indeed not without reason.

Heaven with all its stars was above them, and the town with all its roofs lay beneath them; the wide, wide world surrounded them. The poor shepherdess had never imagined all this; she leant her little head on her chimney-sweeper’s arm, and wept so vehemently that the gilding broke off from her waistband.

‘This is too much!’ exclaimed she. ‘This can I not endure! The world is all too large! Oh that I were once more upon the little table under the pier-glass! I shall never be happy till I am there again. I have followed thee out into the wide world, surely thou canst follow me home again, if thou lovest me!’

And the chimney-sweeper talked very sensibly to her, reminding her of the old Chinese mandarin and ‘the crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant,’ but she wept so bitterly, and kissed her little chimney-sweep so fondly, that at last he could not but yield to her request, unreasonable as it was.

So with great difficulty they crawled down the chimney, crept through the flues and the tunnel, and at length found themselves once more in the dark stove; but they still lurked behind the door, listening, before they would venture to return into the room. Everything was quite still; they peeped out: alas! on the ground lay the old Chinese mandarin. In attempting to follow the runaways, he had fallen down off the table and had broken into three pieces; his head lay shaking in a corner; ‘the crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant’ stood where he had always stood, thinking over what had happened.

‘Oh, how shocking!’ exclaimed the little shepherdess; ‘old grandfather is broken in pieces, and we are the cause! I shall never survive it!’ and she wrung her delicate hands.

‘He can be put together again,’ replied the chimney-sweeper. ‘He can very easily be put together; only be not so impatient! If they glue his back together, and put a strong rivet in his neck, then he will be as good as new again, and will be able to say plenty of unpleasant things to us.’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked she. And then they climbed up the table to the place where they had stood before.

‘See how far we have been!’ observed the chimney-sweeper, ‘we might have spared ourselves all the trouble.’

‘If we could but have old grandfather put together!’ said the shepherdess. ‘Will it cost very much?’

And he was put together; the family had his back glued and his neck riveted; he was as good as new, but could no longer nod his head.

‘You have certainly grown very proud since you broke in pieces!’ remarked the crooked-legged Field-marshal-Major-General-Corporal-Sergeant, ‘but I must say, for my part, I do not see that there is anything to be proud of. Am I to have her or am I not? Just answer me that!’

And the chimney-sweeper and the little shepherdess looked imploringly at the old mandarin; they were so afraid lest he should nod his head. But nod he could not, and it was disagreeable to him to tell a stranger that he had a rivet in his neck: so the young porcelain people always remained together; they blessed the grandfather’s rivet, and loved each other till they broke in pieces.

THE POOR DUCKLING WAS SCORNED BY ALL

THE UGLY DUCKLING

IT was beautiful in the country, it was summer-time; the wheat was yellow, the oats were green, the hay was stacked up in the green meadows, and the stork paraded about on his long red legs, discoursing in Egyptian, which language he had learned from his mother. The fields and meadows were skirted by thick woods, and a deep lake lay in the midst of the woods.—Yes, it was indeed beautiful in the country! The sunshine fell warmly on an old mansion, surrounded by deep canals, and from the walls down to the water’s edge there grew large burdock-leaves, so high that children could stand upright among them without being perceived. This place was as wild and unfrequented as the thickest part of the wood, and on that account a duck had chosen to make her nest there. She was sitting on her eggs; but the pleasure she had felt at first was now almost gone, because she had been there so long, and had so few visitors, for the other ducks preferred swimming on the canals to sitting among the burdock-leaves gossiping with her.

At last the eggs cracked one after another, ‘Tchick tchick!’ All the eggs were alive, and one little head after another appeared. ‘Quack, quack,’ said the duck, and all got up as well as they could; they peeped about from under the green leaves, and as green is good for the eyes, their mother let them look as long as they pleased.

‘How large the world is!’ said the little ones, for they found their present situation very different to their former confined one, while yet in the egg-shells.

‘Do you imagine this to be the whole of the world?’ said the mother; ‘it extends far beyond the other side of the garden, to the pastor’s field; but I have never been there. Are you all here?’ And then she got up. ‘No, I have not got you all, the largest egg is still here. How long will this last? I am so weary of it!’ And then she sat down again.

‘Well, and how are you getting on?’ asked an old duck, who had come to pay her a visit.

‘This one egg keeps me so long,’ said the mother, ‘it will not break. But you should see the others; they are the prettiest little ducklings I have seen in all my days; they are all like their father,—the good-for-nothing fellow! he has not been to visit me once.’

‘Let me see the egg that will not break,’ said the old duck; ‘depend upon it, it is a turkey’s egg. I was cheated in the same way once myself, and I had such trouble with the young ones; for they were afraid of the water, and I could not get them there. I called and scolded, but it was all of no use. But let me see the egg—ah yes! to be sure, that is a turkey’s egg. Leave it, and teach the other little ones to swim.’

‘I will sit on it a little longer,’ said the duck. ‘I have been sitting so long, that I may as well spend the harvest here.’

‘It is no business of mine,’ said the old duck, and away she waddled.

The great egg burst at last, ‘Tchick, tchick,’ said the little one, and out it tumbled—but oh, how large and ugly it was! The duck looked at it, ‘That is a great, strong creature,’ said she, ‘none of the others are at all like it; can it be a young turkey-cock? Well, we shall soon find out, it must go into the water, though I push it in myself!

The next day there was delightful weather, and the sun shone warmly upon all the green leaves when mother-duck with all her family went down to the canal; plump she went into the water, ‘Quack, quack,’ cried she, and one duckling after another jumped in. The water closed over their heads, but all came up again, and swam together in the pleasantest manner; their legs moved without effort. All were there, even the ugly grey one.

‘No! it is not a turkey,’ said the old duck; ‘only see how prettily it moves its legs, how upright it holds itself; it is my own child! it is also really very pretty when one looks more closely at it; quack, quack, now come with me, I will take you into the world, introduce you in the duck-yard; but keep close to me, or some one may tread on you, and beware of the cat.’

So they came into the duck-yard. There was a horrid noise; two families were quarrelling about the remains of an eel, which in the end was secured by the cat.

‘See, my children, such is the way of the world,’ said the mother-duck, wiping her beak, for she too was fond of roasted eels. ‘Now use your legs,’ said she, ‘keep together, and bow to the old duck you see yonder. She is the most distinguished of all the fowls present, and is of Spanish blood, which accounts for her dignified appearance and manners. And look, she has a red rag on her leg; that is considered extremely handsome, and is the greatest distinction a duck can have. Don’t turn your feet inwards; a well-educated duckling always keeps his legs far apart, like his father and mother, just so—look, now bow your necks, and say “quack.”’

And they did as they were told. But the other ducks who were in the yard looked at them and said aloud, ‘Only see, now we have another brood, as if there were not enough of us already. And fie! how ugly that one is! We will not endure it’; and immediately one of the ducks flew at him, and bit him in the neck.

‘Leave him alone,’ said the mother, ‘he is doing no one any harm.’

‘Yes, but he is so large, and so strange-looking, and therefore he shall be teased.’

‘Those are fine children that our good mother has,’ said the old duck with the red rag on her leg. ‘All are pretty except one, and that has not turned out well; I almost wish it could be hatched over again.’

‘That cannot be, please your highness,’ said the mother. ‘Certainly he is not handsome, but he is a very good child, and swims as well as the others, indeed rather better. I think he will grow like the others all in good time, and perhaps will look smaller. He stayed so long in the egg-shell, that is the cause of the difference,’ and she scratched the duckling’s neck, and stroked his whole body. ‘Besides,’ added she, ‘he is a drake; I think he will be very strong, therefore it does not matter so much; he will fight his way through.’

‘The other ducks are very pretty,’ said the old duck, ‘pray make yourselves at home, and if you find an eel’s head you can bring it to me.’

And accordingly they made themselves at home.

But the poor little duckling, who had come last out of its egg-shell, and who was so ugly, was bitten, pecked, and teased by both ducks and hens. ‘It is so large,’ said they all. And the turkey-cock, who had come into the world with spurs on, and therefore fancied he was an emperor, puffed himself up like a ship in full sail, and marched up to the duckling quite red with passion. The poor little thing scarcely knew what to do; he was quite distressed, because he was so ugly, and because he was the jest of the poultry-yard.

HE CAME TO A WIDE MOOR

So passed the first day, and afterwards matters grew worse and worse; the poor duckling was scorned by all. Even his brothers and sisters behaved unkindly, and were constantly saying, ‘The cat fetch thee, thou nasty creature!’ The mother said, ‘Ah, if thou wert only far away!’ The ducks bit him, the hens pecked him, and the girl who fed the poultry kicked him. He ran over the hedge; the little birds in the bushes were terrified. ‘That is because I am so ugly,’ thought the duckling, shutting his eyes, but he ran on. At last he came to a wide moor, where lived some wild ducks; here he lay the whole night, so tired and so comfortless. In the morning the wild ducks flew up, and perceived their new companion. ‘Pray, who are you?’ asked they; and our little duckling turned himself in all directions, and greeted them as politely as possible.

‘You are really uncommonly ugly,’ said the wild ducks; ‘however that does not matter to us, provided you do not marry into our families.’ Poor thing! he had never thought of marrying; he only begged permission to lie among the reeds, and drink the water of the moor.

There he lay for two whole days—on the third day there came two wild geese, or rather ganders, who had not been long out of their egg-shells, which accounts for their impertinence.

‘Hark ye,’ said they, ‘you are so ugly that we like you infinitely well; will you come with us, and be a bird of passage? On another moor, not far from this, are some dear, sweet, wild geese, as lovely creatures as have ever said “hiss, hiss.” You are truly in the way to make your fortune, ugly as you are.’

Bang! a gun went off all at once, and both wild geese were stretched dead among the reeds; the water became red with blood;—bang! a gun went off again, whole flocks of wild geese flew up from among the reeds, and another report followed.

There was a grand hunting party: the hunters lay in ambush all around; some were even sitting in the trees, whose huge branches stretched far over the moor. The blue smoke rose through the thick trees like a mist, and was dispersed as it fell over the water; the hounds splashed about in the mud, the reeds and rushes bent in all directions. How frightened the poor little duck was! He turned his head, thinking to hide it under his wings, and in a moment a most formidable-looking dog stood close to him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes sparkling fearfully. He opened wide his jaws at the sight of our duckling, showed him his sharp white teeth, and, splash, splash! he was gone, gone without hurting him.

‘Well! let me be thankful,’ sighed he, ‘I am so ugly, that even the dog will not eat me.’

And now he lay still, though the shooting continued among the reeds, shot following shot.

The noise did not cease till late in the day, and even then the poor little thing dared not stir; he waited several hours before he looked around him, and then hastened away from the moor as fast as he could. He ran over fields and meadows, though the wind was so high that he had some difficulty in proceeding.

Towards evening he reached a wretched little hut, so wretched that it knew not on which side to fall, and therefore remained standing. The wind blew violently, so that our poor little duckling was obliged to support himself on his tail, in order to stand against it; but it became worse and worse. He then remarked that the door had lost one of its hinges, and hung so much awry that he could creep through the crevice into the room, which he did.

In this room lived an old woman, with her tom-cat and her hen; and the cat, whom she called her little son, knew how to set up his back and purr; indeed he could even emit sparks when stroked the wrong way. The hen had very short legs, and was therefore called ‘Cuckoo Shortlegs’; she laid very good eggs, and the old woman loved her as her own child.

The next morning the new guest was perceived; the cat began to mew, and the hen to cackle.

‘What is the matter?’ asked the old woman, looking round; however, her eyes were not good, so she took the young duckling to be a fat duck who had lost her way. ‘This is a capital catch,’ said she, ‘I shall now have duck’s eggs, if it be not a drake: we must try.’

And so the duckling was put to the proof for three weeks, but no eggs made their appearance.

Now the cat was the master of the house, and the hen was the mistress, and they used always to say, ‘We and the World,’ for they imagined themselves to be not only the half of the world, but also by far the better half. The duckling thought it was possible to be of a different opinion, but that the hen would not allow.

‘Can you lay eggs?’ asked she.

‘No.’

‘Well, then, hold your tongue.’

And the cat said, ‘Can you set up your back? can you purr?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, you should have no opinion when reasonable persons are speaking.’

So the duckling sat alone in a corner, and was in a very bad humour; however, he happened to think of the fresh air and bright sunshine, and these thoughts gave him such a strong desire to swim again that he could not help telling it to the hen.

‘What ails you?’ said the hen. ‘You have nothing to do, and, therefore, brood over these fancies; either lay eggs, or purr, then you will forget them.’

‘But it is so delicious to swim,’ said the duckling, ‘so delicious when the waters close over your head, and you plunge to the bottom.’

‘Well, that is a queer sort of a pleasure,’ said the hen; ‘I think you must be crazy. Not to speak of myself, ask the cat—he is the most sensible animal I know—whether he would like to swim or to plunge to the bottom of the water. Ask our mistress, the old woman—there is no one in the world wiser than she—do you think she would take pleasure in swimming, and in the waters closing over her head?’

‘You do not understand me,’ said the duckling.

‘What, we do not understand you! so you think yourself wiser than the cat, and the old woman, not to speak of myself. Do not fancy any such thing, child, but be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown you. Are you not lodged in a warm room, and have you not the advantage of society from which you can learn something? But you are a simpleton, and it is wearisome to have anything to do with you. Believe me, I wish you well. I tell you unpleasant truths, but it is thus that real friendship is shown. Come, for once give yourself the trouble to learn to purr, or to lay eggs.’

‘I think I will go out into the wide world again,’ said the duckling.

‘Well, go,’ answered the hen.

So the duckling went. He swam on the surface of the water, he plunged beneath, but all animals passed him by, on account of his ugliness. And the autumn came, the leaves turned yellow and brown, the wind caught them and danced them about, the air was very cold, the clouds were heavy with hail or snow, and the raven sat on the hedge and croaked:—the poor duckling was certainly not very comfortable!

One evening, just as the sun was setting with unusual brilliancy, a flock of large beautiful birds rose from out of the brushwood; the duckling had never seen anything so beautiful before; their plumage was of a dazzling white, and they had long, slender necks. They were swans; they uttered a singular cry, spread out their long, splendid wings, and flew away from these cold regions to warmer countries, across the open sea. They flew so high, so very high! and the little ugly duckling’s feelings were so strange; he turned round and round in the water like a mill-wheel, strained his neck to look after them, and sent forth such a loud and strange cry, that it almost frightened himself.—Ah! he could not forget them, those noble

AND THE CAT SAID, ‘CAN YOU PURR?’

birds! those happy birds! When he could see them no longer, he plunged to the bottom of the water, and when he rose again was almost beside himself. The duckling knew not what the birds were called, knew not whither they were flying, yet he loved them as he had never before loved anything; he envied them not, it would never have occurred to him to wish such beauty for himself; he would have been quite contented if the duck in the duck-yard had but endured his company—the poor ugly animal!

And the winter was so cold, so cold! The duckling was obliged to swim round and round in the water, to keep it from freezing; but every night the opening in which he swam became smaller and smaller; it froze so that the crust of ice crackled; the duckling was obliged to make good use of his legs to prevent the water from freezing entirely; at last, wearied out, he lay stiff and cold in the ice.

Early in the morning there passed by a peasant, who saw him, broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and brought him home to his wife.

He now revived; the children would have played with him, but our duckling thought they wished to tease him, and in his terror jumped into the milk-pail, so that the milk was spilled about the room: the good woman screamed and clapped her hands; he flew thence into the pan where the butter was kept, and thence into the meal-barrel, and out again, and then how strange he looked!

The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs; the children ran races with each other trying to catch him, and laughed and screamed likewise. It was well for him that the door stood open; he jumped out among the bushes into the new-fallen snow—he lay there as in a dream.

But it would be too melancholy to relate all the trouble and misery that he was obliged to suffer during the severity of the winter—he was lying on a moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine warmly again, the larks sang, and beautiful spring had returned.

And once more he shook his wings. They were stronger than formerly, and bore him forwards quickly, and before he was well aware of it, he was in a large garden where the apple-trees stood in full bloom, where the syringas sent forth their fragrance and hung their long green branches down into the winding canal. Oh, everything was so lovely, so full of the freshness of spring! And out of the thicket came three beautiful white swans. They displayed their feathers so proudly, and swam so lightly, so lightly! The duckling knew the glorious creatures, and was seized with a strange melancholy.

‘I will fly to them, those kingly birds!’ said he. ‘They will kill me, because I, ugly as I am, have presumed to approach them; but it matters not, better to be killed by them than to be bitten by the ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the girl who feeds the poultry, and to have so much to suffer during the winter!’ He flew into the water, and swam towards the beautiful creatures—they saw him and shot forward to meet him. ‘Only kill me,’ said the poor animal, and he bowed his head low, expecting death,—but what did he see in the water?—he saw beneath him his own form, no longer that of a plump, ugly, grey bird—it was that of a swan.

It matters not to have been born in a duck-yard, if one has been hatched from a swan’s egg.

The good creature felt himself really elevated by all the troubles and adversities he had experienced. He could now rightly estimate his own happiness, and the larger swans swam round him, and stroked him with their beaks.

Some little children were running about in the garden;

AND EVERY ONE SAID, ‘THE NEW ONE IS THE BEST’

they threw grain and bread into the water, and the youngest exclaimed, ‘There is a new one!’—the others also cried out, ‘Yes, there is a new swan come!’ and they clapped their hands, and danced around. They ran to their father and mother, bread and cake were thrown into the water, and every one said, ‘The new one is the best, so young, and so beautiful!’ and the old swans bowed before him. The young swan felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings; he scarcely knew what to do, he was all too happy, but still not proud, for a good heart is never proud.

He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided, and he now heard every one say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. The syringas bent down their branches towards him low into the water, and the sun shone so warmly and brightly—he shook his feathers, stretched his slender neck, and in the joy of his heart said, ‘How little did I dream of so much happiness when I was the ugly, despised duckling!’

THE NAUGHTY BOY

THERE was once an old poet, such a good, honest old poet! He was sitting alone in his own little room on a very stormy evening; the wind was roaring without, and the rain poured down in torrents. But the old man sat cosily by his warm stove, the fire was blazing brightly, and some apples were roasting in front of it.

‘Those poor people who have no roof to shelter them to-night will, most assuredly, not have a dry thread left on their skin,’ said the kind-hearted old man.

‘Oh, open the door! open the door! I am so cold, and quite wet through besides—open the door!’ cried a voice from without. The voice was like a child’s, and seemed half-choked with sobs. ‘Rap, rap, rap!’ it went on knocking at the door, whilst the rain still kept streaming down from the clouds, and the wind rattled among the window-panes.

‘Poor thing!’ said the old poet; and he arose and opened the door. There stood a little boy, almost naked; the water trickled down from his long flaxen hair; he was shivering with cold, and had he been left much longer out in the street, he must certainly have perished in the storm.

‘Poor boy!’ said the old poet again, taking him by the hand, and leading him into his room. ‘Come to me, and we’ll soon make thee warm again, and I will give thee some wine, and some roasted apples for thy supper, my pretty child!’

And, of a truth, the boy was exceedingly pretty. His eyes

shone as bright as stars, and his hair, although dripping with water, curled in beautiful ringlets. He looked quite like a little cherub, but he was very pale, and trembled in every limb with cold. In his hand he held a pretty little cross-bow, but it seemed entirely spoilt by the rain, and the colours painted on the arrows all ran one into another.

The old poet sat down again beside the stove, and took the little boy in his lap; he wrung the water out of his streaming hair, warmed the child’s hands within his own, and gave him mulled wine to drink. The boy soon became himself again, the rosy colour returned to his cheeks, he jumped down from the old man’s lap, and danced around him on the floor.

‘Thou art a merry fellow!’ said the poet. ‘Thou must tell me thy name.’

‘They call me Cupid,’ replied the boy. ‘Don’t you know me? There lies my bow; ah, you can’t think how capitally I can shoot! See, the weather is fine again now; the moon is shining bright.’

‘But thy bow is spoilt,’ said the old man.

‘That would be a sad disaster, indeed,’ remarked the boy, as he took the bow in his hand and examined it closely. ‘Oh, it is quite dry by this time, and it is not a bit damaged; the string, too, is quite strong enough, I think. However, I may as well try it!’ He then drew his bow, placed an arrow before the string, took his aim, and shot direct into the old poet’s heart. ‘Now you may be sure that my cross-bow is not spoilt!’ cried he, as, with a loud laugh, he ran away.

The naughty boy! This was, indeed, ungrateful of him, to shoot to the heart the good old man who had so kindly taken him in, warmed him, and dried his clothes, given him sweet wine, and nice roasted apples for supper!

The poor poet lay groaning on the ground, for the arrow had wounded him sorely. ‘Fie, for shame, Cupid!’ cried he, ‘thou art a wicked boy! I will tell all good children how thou hast treated me, and bid them take heed and never play with thee, for thou wilt assuredly do them a mischief, as thou hast done to me.’

All the good boys and girls to whom he related this story were on their guard against the wicked boy, Cupid; but, notwithstanding, he made fools of them again and again, he is so terribly cunning! When the students are returning home from lecture, he walks by their side, dressed in a black gown, and with a book under his arm. They take him to be a fellow-student, and so they suffer him to walk arm-in-arm with them, just as if he were one of their intimate friends. But whilst they are thus familiar with him, all of a sudden he thrusts his arrows into their bosoms. Even when young girls are going to church, he will follow and watch for his opportunity: he is always waylaying people. In the theatre, he sits in the great chandelier, and kindles such a bright, hot flame, men fancy it a lamp, but they are soon undeceived. He wanders about in the royal gardens and all the public walks, making mischief everywhere; nay, once he even shot thy father and mother to the heart! Only ask them, dear child, and they will certainly tell thee all about it. In fine, this fellow, this Cupid, is a very wicked boy! Do not play with him! He waylays everybody, boys and girls, youths and maidens, men and women, rich and poor, old and young. Only think of this: he once shot an arrow into thy good old grandmother’s heart! It happened a long time ago, and she has recovered from the wound, but she will never forget him, depend upon it.

Fie, for shame! wicked Cupid! Is he not a mischievous boy?

Beware of him, beware of him, dear child!

THE END

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press