neitherviolencenorstupiditygavehimathought.

butinthegabledwindowoftheknightlycastle,theladyofthecastlesatwiththeparchmentrollbeforeher,andwrotedowntheoldrecollectionsinsongandlegend,whilenearherstoodtheoldwomanfromthewood,andthetravellingpeddlerwhowentwanderingthroughthecountry.asthesetoldtheirtales,thereflutteredaroundthem,withtwitteringandsong,thebirdofpopularsong,whoneverdiessolongastheearthhasahilluponwhichhisfootmayrest.

andnowhelooksinuponusandsings.withoutarethenightandthesnow-storm.helaystherunesbeneathourtongues,andweknowthelandofourhome.heavenspeakstousinournativetongue,inthevoiceofthebirdofpopularsong.theoldremembrancesawake,thefadedcolorsglowwithafreshlustre,andstoryandsongpourusablesseddraughtwhichliftsupourmindsandourthoughts,sothattheeveningbecomesasachristmasfestival.

thesnow-flakeschaseeachother,theicecracks,thestormruleswithout,forhehasthemight,heislord-butnotthelordofall.

itiswintertime.thewindissharpasatwo-edgedsword,thesnow-flakeschaseeachother;itseemsasthoughithadbeensnowingfordaysandweeks,andthesnowlieslikeagreatmountainoverthewholetown,likeaheavydreamofthewinternight.everythingontheearthishiddenaway,onlythegoldencrossofthechurch,thesymboloffaith,arisesoverthesnowgrave,andgleamsintheblueairandinthebrightsunshine.

andovertheburiedtownflythebirdsofheaven,thesmallandthegreat;theytwitterandtheysingasbesttheymay,eachbirdwithhisbeak.

firstcomesthebandofsparrows:theypipeateverytrifleinthestreetsandlanes,inthenestsandthehouses;theyhavestoriestotellaboutthefrontbuildingsandthebackbuildings.

"weknowtheburiedtown,"theysay;"everythinglivinginitispiep!piep!piep!"

theblackravensandcrowsflewonoverthewhitesnow.

"grub,grub!"theycried."there'ssomethingtobegotdownthere;somethingtoswallow,andthat'smostimportant.that'stheopinionofmostofthemdownthere,andtheopinionisgoo-goo-good!"

thewildswanscomeflyingonwhirringpinions,andsingofthenobleandthegreat,thatwillstillsproutintheheartsofmen,downinthetownwhichisrestingbeneathitssnowyveil.

nodeathisthere-lifereignsyonder;wehearitonthenotesthatswellonwardlikethetonesofthechurchorgan,whichseizeuslikesoundsfromtheelf-hill,likethesongsofossian,liketherushingswoopofthewanderingspirits'wings.whatharmony!thatharmonyspeakstoourhearts,andliftsupoursouls!itisthebirdofpopularsongwhomwehear.

andatthismomentthewarmbreathofheavenblowsdownfromthesky.therearegapsinthesnowymountains,thesunshinesintotheclefts;springiscoming,thebirdsarereturning,andnewracesarecomingwiththesamehomesoundsintheirhearts.

hearthestoryoftheyear:"thenightofthesnow-storm,theheavydreamofthewinternight,allshallbedissolved,allshallriseagaininthebeauteousnotesofthebirdofpopularsong,whoneverdies!"

theend.

1872

fairytalesofhanschristianandersen

thebishopofborglumandhiswarriors

byhanschristianandersen

oursceneislaidinnorthernjutland,intheso-called"wildmoor."wehearwhatiscalledthe"wester-wow-wow"-thepeculiarroarofthenorthseaasitbreaksagainstthewesterncoastofjutland.itrollsandthunderswithasoundthatpenetratesformilesintotheland;andwearequiteneartheroaring.beforeusrisesagreatmoundofsand-amountainwehavelongseen,andtowardswhichwearewendingourway,drivingslowlyalongthroughthedeepsand.onthismountainofsandisaloftyoldbuilding-theconventofborglum.inoneofitswings(thelargerone)thereisstilladatthisconventwenowarriveinthelateeveninghour;buttheweatherisclearinthebrightjunenightaroundus,andtheeyecanrangefar,faroverfieldandmoortothebayofaalborg,overheathandmeadow,andfaracrossthedeepbluesea.

nowwearethere,androllpastbetweenbarnsandotherfarmbuildings;andattheleftofthegateweturnasidetotheoldcastlefarm,wherethelimetreesstandinlinesalongthewalls,and,shelteredfromthewindandweather,growsoluxuriantlythattheirtwigsandleavesalmostconcealthewindows.

wemountthewindingstaircaseofstone,andmarchthroughthelongpassagesundertheheavyroof-beams.thewindmoansverystrangelyhere,bothwithinandwithout.itishardlyknownhow,butthepeoplesay-yes,peoplesayagreatmanythingswhentheyarefrightenedorwanttofrightenothers-theysaythattheolddeadchoir-menglidesilentlypastusintothechurch,wheremassissung.theycanbeheardintherushingofthestorm,andtheirsingingbringsupstrangethoughtsinthehearers-thoughtsoftheoldtimesintowhichwearecarriedback.

onthecoastashipisstranded;andthebishop'swarriorsarethere,andsparenotthosewhomtheseahasspared.theseawashesawaythebloodthathasflowedfromtheclovenskulls.thestrandedgoodsbelongtothebishop,andthereisastoreofgoodshere.theseacastsuptubsandbarrelsfilledwithcostlywinefortheconventcellar,andintheconventisalreadygoodstoreofbeerandmead.thereisplentyinthekitchen-deadgameandpoultry,hamsandsausages;andfatfishswiminthepondswithout.

thebishopofborglumisamightylord.hehasgreatpossessions,butstillhelongsformore-everythingmustbowbeforethemightyolafglob.hisrichcousinatthylandisdead,andhiswidowistohavetherichinheritance.buthowcomesitthatonerelationisalwayshardertowardsanotherthanevenstrangerswouldbe?