II
Years passed by, and the linen was so worn that it could hardly hold together.
"The end must come soon," said the flax.
At last the linen did fall into rags and tatters; it was torn into shreds and boiled in water. The flax thought the end had come.
But no, the end was not yet. After being made into pulp and dried, the flax became beautiful white paper.
"This is a surprise, a glorious surprise," it said. "I am finer than ever, and I shall have fine things written on me. How happy I am!"
And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and verses were written upon it. People read the stories and verses, and they were made wiser and better. Their children and their children's children read them, too, and so the song was not ended.
—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
[THE WONDERFUL WORLD]
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast,
World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree—
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the top of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,
I hardly can think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A whisper within me seemed to say,
"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
—William Brighty Rands.
[THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE]
As every one knows, fairies are always just. They are kind to others, and in return they expect others to be kind to them. In some countries across the sea there are fairies called Hillmen.
Now, there once lived a certain housewife who liked to make bargains. She gave away only those things for which she had no use, and then expected always to get something in return.
One day a Hillman knocked at her door.
"Can you lend us a saucepan?" he asked. "There's a wedding on the hill, and all the pots are in use."
"Is he to have one?" whispered the servant who opened the door.
"Aye, to be sure," answered the housewife; "one must be neighborly. Get the saucepan for him, lass."
The maid turned to take a good saucepan from the shelf, but the housewife stopped her.
"Not that, not that," she whispered. "Get the old one out of the cupboard. It leaks, but that doesn't matter. The Hillmen are so neat and are such nimble workers that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. I can oblige the fairies and save sixpence in tinkering, too."
The maid brought the old saucepan that had been laid by until the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the Hillman. He thanked her and went away.
When the saucepan was returned, it had been neatly mended, just as the housewife thought it would be.
At night the maid filled the pan with milk and set it on the fire to heat for the children's supper. In a few moments the milk was so smoked and burnt that no one would touch it. Even the pigs refused to drink it.
"Ah, you good-for-nothing!" cried the housewife. "There's a quart of milk wasted at once."
"And that's twopence," cried a queer little voice that seemed to come from the chimney.
The housewife filled the saucepan again and set it over the fire. It had not been there more than two minutes before it boiled over and was burnt and smoked as before.
"The pan must be dirty," muttered the woman, who was very much vexed. "Two full quarts of milk have been wasted."
"And that's fourpence!" added the queer little voice from the chimney.
The saucepan was scoured; then it was filled with milk the third time and set over the fire. Again the milk boiled over and was spoiled.
Now the housewife was quite vexed. "I have never had anything like this to happen since I first kept house," she exclaimed. "Three quarts of milk wasted!"
"And that's sixpence," cried the queer little voice from the chimney. "You didn't save the tinkering after all, mother!"
With that the Hillman himself came tumbling from the chimney and ran off laughing. But from that time, the saucepan was as good as any other.
—JULIANA H. EWING.
[THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE]
Under a toad stool
Crept a wee Elf,
Out of the rain
To shelter himself.
Under the toad stool
Sound asleep,
Sat a big Dormouse
All in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf
Frightened, and yet
Fearing to fly away
Lest he get wet.
To the next shelter—
Maybe a mile!
Sudden the wee Elf
Smiled a wee smile;
Tugged till the toad stool
Toppled in two;
Holding it over him,
Gayly he flew.
Soon he was safe home,
Dry as could be.
Soon woke the Dormouse—
"Good gracious me!
"Where is my toad stool?"
Loud he lamented.
And that's how umbrellas
First were invented.
—OLIVER HERFORD.
