'You wrote it wrongly,' she said on such occasions; 'you must alter it thus and thus.'
And indeed the father altered until she said it was all right.
One morning a little boy came to visit our little girl, his great friend. They ran about and played together all the forenoon; but in the afternoon, when her father lay down on a couch to take a moment's rest, he was struck by the general stillness which was reigning in the house. To tell you the truth, the boy was a real mischievous monkey, and there was little hope to have any peace in the house as long as he was in it. Still, the fact was that everything was quiet, and only in the neighbouring room the star-eyed girl's voice sounded in an even, moderate tone.
The father got up, and went on tiptoe to the next room to look what all this meant. He saw his little girl sitting on a footstool; her visitor was beside her on a box, and was all attention.
... 'A-a-a! yawned the Little Old Man, ...' related the little hostess, showing to the boy how the old man did yawn....
At this moment she perceived her father on the threshold.
'I am telling him your fairy tale about the little old men, you know,' she said to her father, and then there was a pause, with a lingering smile on her face.
'Well, go on,' said the boy, pulling her by the sleeve.
The father returned to his couch, and there was a smile on his face too. He saw clearly that there was something in his stories which made little folk breathe with indignation, compassion, or joy, when they heard them. He well knew what it was. He put a good deal of his soul into his tales, and this soul, coming into contact with those little souls of his readers, made them bound with delight, or long for redress of some injustice. Was it not a joy for him too? And if the little girl with a pair of stars instead of eyes, and the boy, her friend, found pleasure in his fairy tales, should not the other children have an opportunity to try the same pleasure? Why should he not print his stories?