So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet, that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day, and nobody had even given her a penny.
She crept along, shivering with cold and hunger, a perfect picture of misery—poor little thing!
The snowflakes covered her long, flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls round her throat; but she heeded them not.
Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory smell of roast goose; for it was St. Sylvester's evening.
She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she felt colder than ever; yet she dared not return home, for she had not sold a match, and could not bring back a penny.
Her father would certainly beat her; and it was cold enough at home, besides,—for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags.
Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold.
Alas! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers.
So at last she drew one out. Whist! how it shed sparks, and how it burned! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it,—truly, it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so blessedly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo! the flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where it shown upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room.