“Have you taken my little playfellow?” she asked. “I will give you these if you will bring him back to me,” and she flung her little shoes into the river.
They fell close to the bank and the little waves tossed them back on to the dry pebbles at her feet. “We do not want you, we will keep Kay,” they seemed to say.
“Perhaps I did not throw them far enough,” thought Gerda; and, stepping into a boat that lay among the rushes, she flung the red shoes with all her might into the middle of the river.
But the boat was not fastened and it glided out from among the rushes. Soon it was drifting faster and faster down the river. The little shoes floated behind.
“Perhaps I am going to little Kay,” thought Gerda, as she was carried farther and farther down the river. How pretty it was! Trees waved and flowers nodded on its banks. Sheep grazed and cattle browsed, but not one soul, big or little, was to be seen.
After a long time Gerda came to a cherry-garden which stretched down to the river-bank. At the end of this garden stood a tiny cottage with a thatched roof, and with red, blue, and yellow glass windows.
On either side of the door stood a wooden soldier. Gerda thought the soldiers were alive, and shouted to them.
The wooden soldiers, of course, did not hear, but an old, old woman, who lived in the tiny house, wondered who it could be that called. She hobbled out, leaning on her hooked stick. On her head she wore a big sun-hat, and on it were painted beautiful flowers.
“You poor child,” said the old, old woman, walking straight into the river, and catching hold of the boat with her hooked stick; “you poor dear!” And she pulled the boat ashore and lifted out little Gerda on to the green grass.
Gerda was delighted to be on dry land again, but she was a little bit afraid of the old, old woman, who now asked her who she was and where she came from.