Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into a tub that stood in the washhouse.
“After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper, “and a very good opportunity this is to collect one’s thoughts. Now I am able, for the first time, to think of my real condition; and to know one’s self is true progress. What will be done with me now I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”
Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they wanted to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind. They called it “seeing the children come out of school,” and the last spark was the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had come; and one would cry, “There goes the schoolmaster;” but the next moment another spark would appear, shining so beautifully. How they would like to know where the sparks all went to! Perhaps we shall find out some day, but we don’t know now.
The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon alight. “Ugh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame; “ugh!” It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and they glistened as the white linen never could have glistened. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts turned into fire.
“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames; and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Then a number of tiny beings, as many in number as the flowers on the flax had been, and invisible to mortal eyes, floated above them. They were even lighter and more delicate than the flowers from which they were born; and as the flames were extinguished, and nothing remained of the paper but black ashes, these little things danced upon it; and whenever they touched it, bright red sparks appeared.
LIII.—THE FRENCH AT RATISBON.
Robert Browning.
