Fairy Tales

Near the grass-blanketed rampart which encircles Copenhagen lies a extraordinary pink residence. Balsams and different flora greet us from the lengthy rows of windows in the house, whose interior is sufficiently poverty-afflicted; and negative and antique are the those who inhabit it. The constructing is the Warton Almshouse. Look! At the window there leans an antique maid. She plucks the withered leaf from the balsam, and appears on the grass-included rampart, on which many kids are gambling. What is the old maid contemplating? A entire life drama is unfolding itself before her inward gaze. "The terrible little kids, how happy they're—how merrily they play and romp together! What red cheeks and what angels' eyes! But they haven't any shoes nor stockings. They dance on the green rampart, just at the location where, in line with the vintage story, the floor always sank in, and where a sportive, frolicsome baby had been lured by means of flowers, toys and sweetmeats into an open grave geared up dug for it, and which turned into afterwards closed over the child; and from that moment, the oldstory says, the ground gave way not, the mound remained company and speedy, and turned into quick protected with the inexperienced turf. The little people who now play on that spot understand nothing of the old tale, else would they fancy they heard a child crying deep underneath the earth, and the dewdrops on each blade of grass would be to them tears of woe. Nor do they recognise some thing of the Danish King who here, inside the face of the approaching foe, took an oath earlier than all his trembling courtiers that he could maintain out with the residents of his capital, and die here in his nest; they know not anything of the guys who have fought here, or of the women who from right here have drenched with boiling water the enemy, clad in white, and 'biding in the snow to marvel the town. "No! The terrible infants are playing with mild, childish spirits. Play on, play on, thou little maiden! Soon the years will come— sure, the ones wonderful years. The priestly palms were laid at the candidates for affirmation; hand in hand they stroll at the inexperienced rampart. Thou hast a white frock on; it has fee thy mom an awful lot labor, and but it's far only reduce down for thee out of an vintage large dress! You may even wear a pink scarf; and what if it dangle too far down? People will handiest see how big, how very large it's miles. You are deliberating your get dressed, and of the Giver of all exact—so glorious is it to wander at the green rampart! "And the years roll by using; they have no loss of dark days, but you have your joyful young spirit, and you've got won a chum— you understand no longer how. You met, oh, how frequently! You walk collectively at the rampart in the fresh spring, at the excessive days and vacations, whilst all of the global pop out to stroll upon the ramparts, and all of the bells of the church steeples seem to be singing a track of praise for the coming spring. "Scarcely have the violets come forth, however there at the rampart, just opposite the stunning Castle of Rosenberg, there is a tree vivid with the primary green buds. Every year this tree sends forth fresh inexperienced shoots. Alas! It isn't always so with the human coronary heart! Dark mists, greater in quantity than those that cowl the northern skies, cloud the human coronary heart. Poor child! Thy friend's bridal chamber is a black coffin, and thou becomest an antique maid. From the almshouse window, in the back of the balsams, thou shalt appearance at the merry youngsters at play, and shalt see thine own records renewed." And this is the lifestyles drama that passes earlier than the vintage maid whilst she looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny rampart, in which the children, with their red cheeks and bare shoeless toes, are rejoicing merrily, just like the different unfastened little birds.