That afternoon, when the old lady was told that Karen had worn red shoes at her confirmation, she was much vexed, and told Karen that they were quite unsuitable, and that, henceforward, whenever she went to church, she must wear black shoes, were they ever so old.

Next Sunday was the communion day. Karen looked first at the red shoes, then at the black ones, then at the red again, and—put them on.

It was beautiful sunshiny weather; Karen and the old lady walked to church through the corn-fields; the path was very dusty.

At the church door stood an old soldier; he was leaning on crutches, and had a marvellously long beard, not white, but reddish-hued, and he bowed almost to the earth, and asked the old lady if he might wipe the dust off her shoes. And Karen put out her little foot also. ‘Oh, what pretty dancing-shoes!’ quoth the old soldier; ‘take care, and mind you do not let them slip off when you dance’; and he passed his hands over them.

The old lady gave the soldier a halfpenny, and then went with Karen into church.

And every one looked at Karen’s red shoes; and all the carved figures, too, bent their gaze upon them; and when Karen knelt before the altar, the red shoes still floated before her eyes; she thought of them and of them only, and she forgot to join in the hymn of praise—she forgot to repeat ‘Our Father.’

At last all the people came out of church, and the old lady got into her carriage. Karen was just lifting her foot to follow her, when the old soldier standing in the porch exclaimed, ‘Only look, what pretty dancing-shoes!’ And Karen could not help it, she felt she must make a few of her dancing steps; and after she had once begun, her feet continued to move, just as though the shoes had received power over them; she danced round the church-yard, she could not stop. The coachman was obliged to run after her; he took hold of her and lifted her into the carriage, but the feet still continued to dance, so as to kick the good old lady most cruelly. At last the shoes were taken off, and the feet had rest.

And now the shoes were put away in a press, but Karen could not help going to look at them every now and then.

The old lady lay ill in bed; the doctor said she could not live much longer. She certainly needed careful nursing, and who should be her nurse and constant attendant but Karen? But there was to be a grand ball in the town. Karen was invited; she looked at the old lady who was almost dying—she looked at the red shoes—she put them on, there could be no harm in doing that, at least; she went to the ball, and began to dance. But when she wanted to move to the right, the shoes bore her to the left; and when she would dance up the room, the shoes danced down the room, danced down the stairs, through the streets, and through the gates of the town. Dance she did, and dance she must, straight out into the dark wood.

Something all at once shone through the trees. She thought at first it must be the moon’s bright face, shining blood-red through the night mists; but no, it was the old soldier with the red beard—he sat there, nodding at her, and repeating, ‘Only look, what pretty dancing-shoes!’

She was very much frightened, and tried to throw off her red shoes, but could not unclasp them. She hastily tore off her stockings; but the shoes she could not get rid of—they had, it seemed, grown on to her feet. Dance she did, and dance she must, over field and meadow, in rain and in sunshine, by night and by day. By night! that was most horrible! She danced into the lonely church-yard, but the dead there danced not, they were at rest. She would fain have sat down on the poor man’s grave, where the bitter tansy grew, but for her there was neither rest nor respite. She danced past the open church door; there she saw an angel, clad in long white robes, and with wings that reached from his shoulders to the earth; his countenance was grave and stern, and in his hand he held a broad glittering sword.

‘Dance thou shalt,’ said he; ‘dance on, in thy red shoes, till thou art pale and cold, and thy skin shrinks and crumples up like a skeleton’s! Dance thou shalt still, from door to door, and wherever proud, vain children live thou shalt knock, so that they may hear thee and fear! Dance shalt thou, dance on——’

‘Mercy!’ cried Karen; but she heard not the angel’s answer, for the shoes carried her through the gate, into the fields, along highways and by-ways, and still she must dance.

One morning she danced past a door she knew well; she heard psalm-singing from within, and presently a coffin, strewn with flowers, was borne out. Then Karen knew that the good old lady was dead, and she felt herself a thing forsaken by all mankind, and accursed by the Angel of God.

Dance she did, and dance she must, even through the dark night; the shoes bore her continually over thorns and briars, till her limbs were torn and bleeding. Away she danced over the heath to a little solitary house; she knew that the headsman dwelt there, and she tapped with her fingers against the panes, crying—

‘Come out! come out!—I cannot come in to you, I am dancing.’

And the headsman replied, ‘Surely thou knowest not who I am. I cut off the heads of wicked men, and my axe is very sharp and keen.’

‘Cut not off my head!’ said Karen; ‘for then I could not live to repent of my sin; but cut off my feet with the red shoes.’

And then she confessed to him all her sin, and the headsman cut off her feet with the red shoes on them; but even after this the shoes still danced away with those little feet over the fields, and into the deep forests.

And the headsman made her a pair of wooden feet and hewed down some boughs to serve her as crutches, and he taught her the psalm which is always repeated by criminals, and she kissed the hand that had guided the axe, and went her way over the heath. ‘Now I have certainly suffered quite enough through the red shoes,’ thought Karen, ‘I will go to church and let people see me once more!’ and she went as fast as she could to the church-porch, but as she approached it, the red shoes danced before her and she was frightened and turned her back.

All that week through she endured the keenest anguish and shed many bitter tears; however, when Sunday came, she said to herself, ‘Well, I must have suffered and striven enough by this time, I dare say I am quite as good as many of those who are holding their heads so high in church.’ So she took courage and went there, but she had not passed the churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes again dancing before her, and in great terror she again turned back, and more deeply than ever bewailed her sin.

She then went to the pastor’s house, and begged that some employment might be given her, promising to work diligently and do all she could; she did not wish for any wages, she said, she only wanted a roof to shelter her, and to dwell with good people. And the pastor’s wife had pity on her, and took her into her service. And Karen was grateful and industrious.

Every evening she sat silently listening to the pastor, while he read the Holy Scriptures aloud. All the children loved her, but when she heard them talk about dress and finery, and about being as beautiful as a queen, she would sorrowfully shake her head.

Again Sunday came, all the pastor’s household went to church, and they asked her if she would not go too, but she sighed and looked with tears in her eyes upon her crutches.

When they were all gone, she went into her own little, lowly chamber—it was but just large enough to contain a bed and chair—and there she sat down with her psalm-book in her hand, and whilst she was meekly and devoutly reading in it, the wind wafted the tones of the organ from the church into her room, and she lifted up her face to heaven and prayed, with tears, ‘O God, help me!’

Then the sun shone brightly, so brightly!—and behold! close before her stood the white-robed Angel of God, the same whom she had seen on that night of horror at the church-porch, but his hand wielded not now, as then, a sharp, threatening sword—he held a lovely green bough, full of roses. With this he touched the ceiling, which immediately rose to a great height, a bright gold star spangling in the spot where the Angel’s green bough had touched it. And he touched the walls, whereupon the room widened, and Karen saw the organ, the old monuments, and the congregation all sitting in their richly carved seats and singing from their psalm-books.

For the church had come home to the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or rather the chamber had grown, as it were, into the church; she sat with the rest of the pastor’s household, and, when the psalm was ended, they looked up and nodded to her, saying, ‘Thou didst well to come, Karen!’

‘This is mercy!’ said she.

And the organ played again, and the children’s voices in the choir mingled so sweetly and plaintively with it! The bright sunbeams streamed warmly through the windows upon Karen’s seat; her heart was so full of sunshine, of peace and gladness, that it broke; her soul flew upon a sunbeam to her Father in heaven, where not a look of reproach awaited her, not a word was breathed of the red shoes.

THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES

‘These must indeed be splendid clothes!’ thought the Emperor. ‘Had I such a suit, I might, at once, find out what men in my realms are unfit for their office, and also be able to distinguish the wise from the foolish! This stuff must be woven for me immediately.’ And he caused large sums of money to be given to both the weavers, in order that they might begin their work directly.

So the two pretended weavers set up two looms, and affected to work very busily, though in reality they did nothing at all. They asked for the most delicate silk and the purest gold thread, put both into their own knapsacks, and then continued their pretended work at the empty looms until late at night.

‘I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my cloth,’ said the Emperor to himself, after some little time had elapsed; he was, however, rather embarrassed, when he remembered that a simpleton, or one unfit for his office, would be unable to see the manufacture. ‘To be sure,’ he thought, ‘he had nothing to risk in his own person; but yet, he would prefer sending somebody else, to bring him intelligence about the weavers, and their work, before he troubled himself in the affair.’ All the people throughout the city had heard of the wonderful property the cloth was to possess; and all were anxious to learn how wise, or how ignorant, their neighbours might prove to be.

‘I will send my faithful old minister to the weavers,’ said the Emperor at last, after some deliberation, ‘he will be best able to see how the cloth looks; for he is a man of sense, and no one can be more suitable for his office than he is.’

So the faithful old minister went into the hall, where the knaves were working with all their might at their empty looms. ‘What can be the meaning of this?’ thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide. ‘I cannot discover the least bit of thread on the looms!’ However, he did not express his thoughts aloud.

The impostors requested him very courteously to be so good as to come nearer their looms; and then asked him whether the design pleased him, and whether the colours were not very beautiful, at the same time pointing to the empty frames. The poor old minister looked and looked, he could not discover anything on the looms, for a very good reason, viz. there was nothing there. ‘What!’ thought he again, ‘is it possible that I am a simpleton? I have never thought so myself; and no one must know it now if I am so. Can it be that I am unfit for my office? No, that must not be said either. I will never confess that I could not see the stuff.’

‘Well, Sir Minister,’ said one of the knaves, still pretending to work, ‘you do not say whether the stuff pleases you.’

‘Oh, it is excellent!’ replied the old minister, looking at the loom through his spectacles. ‘This pattern, and the colours—yes, I will tell the Emperor without delay how very beautiful I think them.’

‘We shall be much obliged to you,’ said the impostors, and then they named the different colours and described the pattern of the pretended stuff. The old minister listened attentively to their words, in order that he might repeat them to the Emperor; and then the knaves asked for more silk and gold, saying that it was necessary to complete what they had begun. However, they put all that was given them into their knapsacks, and continued to work with as much apparent diligence as before at their empty looms.

The Emperor now sent another officer of his court to see how the men were getting on, and to ascertain whether the cloth would soon be ready. It was just the same with this gentleman as with the minister; he surveyed the looms on all sides, but could see nothing at all but the empty frames.

‘Does not the stuff appear as beautiful to you as it did to my lord the minister?’ asked the impostors of the Emperor’s second ambassador; at the same time making the same gestures as before, and talking of the design and colours which were not there.

‘I certainly am not stupid!’ thought the messenger. ‘It must be that I am not fit for my good, profitable office! That is very odd; however, no one shall know anything about it.’ And accordingly he praised the stuff he could not see, and declared that he was delighted with both colours and patterns. ‘Indeed, please your Imperial Majesty,’ said he to his sovereign, when he returned, ‘the cloth which the weavers are preparing is extraordinarily magnificent.’

The whole city was talking of the splendid cloth which the Emperor had ordered to be woven at his own expense.

And now the Emperor himself wished to see the costly manufacture whilst it was still on the loom. Accompanied by a select number of officers of the court, among whom were the two honest men who had already admired the cloth, he went to the crafty impostors, who, as soon as they were aware of the Emperor’s approach, went on working more diligently than ever, although they still did not pass a single thread through the looms.

‘Is not the work absolutely magnificent?’ said the two officers of the Crown, already mentioned. ‘If your Majesty will only be pleased to look at it! what a splendid design! what glorious colours!’ and, at the same time, they pointed to the empty frames; for they imagined that every one else could see this exquisite piece of workmanship.

‘How is this?’ said the Emperor to himself, ‘I can see nothing! this is indeed a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an Emperor? that would be the worst thing that could happen. Oh! the cloth is charming,’ said he aloud. ‘It has my complete approbation.’ And he smiled most graciously, and looked closely at the empty looms; for on no account would he say that he could not see what two of the officers of his court had praised so much. All his retinue now strained their eyes, hoping to discover something on the looms, but they could see no more than the others; nevertheless, they all exclaimed, ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ and advised his Majesty to have some new clothes made from this splendid material, for the approaching procession. ‘Magnificent! charming! excellent!’ resounded on all sides; and every one was uncommonly gay. The Emperor shared in the general satisfaction; and presented the impostors with the riband of an order of knighthood, to be worn in their button-holes, and the title of ‘Gentlemen Weavers.’

The rogues sat up the whole of the night before the day on which the procession was to take place, and had sixteen lights burning, so that every one might see how anxious they were to finish the Emperor’s new suit. They pretended to roll the cloth off the looms; cut the air with their scissors; and sewed with needles without any thread in them. ‘See!’ cried they at last, ‘the Emperor’s new clothes are ready!’

And now the Emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the weavers; and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up, saying, ‘Here are your Majesty’s trousers! here is the scarf! here is the mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one might fancy one has nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that, however, is the great virtue of this delicate cloth.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ said all the courtiers, although not one of them could see anything of this exquisite manufacture.

‘If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes, we will fit on the new suit in front of the looking-glass.’

The Emperor was accordingly undressed, and the rogues pretended to array him in his new suit; the Emperor turning round, from side to side, before the looking-glass.

‘How splendid his Majesty looks in his new clothes! and how well they fit!’ every one cried out. ‘What a design! what colours! these are indeed royal robes!’

‘The canopy which is to be borne over your Majesty in the procession is waiting,’ announced the chief master of the ceremonies.

‘I am quite ready,’ answered the Emperor. ‘Do my new clothes fit well?’ asked he, turning himself round again before the looking-glass, in order that he might appear to be examining his handsome suit.

The lords of the bed-chamber, who were to carry his Majesty’s train, felt about on the ground, as if they were lifting up the ends of the mantle, and pretending to be carrying something; for they would by no means betray anything like simplicity or unfitness for their office.

So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, ‘Oh! how beautiful are our Emperor’s new clothes! what a magnificent train there is to the mantle! and how gracefully the scarf hangs!’ in short, no one would allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit for his office. Certainly, none of the Emperor’s various suits had ever made so great an impression as these invisible ones.

‘But the Emperor has nothing at all on!’ said a little child. ‘Listen to the voice of innocence!’ exclaimed his father; and what the child had said was whispered from one to another.

‘But he has nothing at all on!’ at last cried out all the people. The Emperor was vexed, for he knew that the people were right; but he thought the procession must go on now! And the lords of the bed-chamber took greater pains than ever to appear holding up a train, although, in reality, there was no train to hold.

THE SWINEHERD

‘Ah, if it were but a little pussy-cat!’ said she—but the rose-tree with its beautiful rose came to view.

‘Oh, how prettily it is made!’ said all the court ladies.

‘It is more than pretty,’ said the Emperor, ‘it is charming!’

But the Princess touched it, and was almost ready to cry.

‘Fie, papa!’ said she, ‘it is not made at all, it is natural!’

‘Let us see what is in the other casket, before we get into a bad humour,’ said the Emperor. So the nightingale came forth, and sang so delightfully that at first no one could say anything ill-humoured of her.

‘Superbe! charmant!’ exclaimed the ladies; for they all used to chatter French, each one worse than her neighbour.

‘How much the bird reminds me of the musical box that belonged to our blessed Empress,’ said an old knight. ‘Oh yes! these are the same tones, the same execution.’

‘Yes! yes!’ said the Emperor, and he wept like a child at the remembrance.

‘I will still hope that it is not a real bird,’ said the Princess.

‘Yes, it is a real bird,’ said those who had brought it. ‘Well, then, let the bird fly,’ said the Princess; and she positively refused to see the Prince.

However, he was not to be discouraged; he daubed his face over brown and black, pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door.

‘Good day to my lord the Emperor!’ said he. ‘Can I have employment at the palace?’

‘Why, yes,’ said the Emperor, ‘I want some one to take care of the pigs, for we have a great many of them.’

So the Prince was appointed ‘Imperial Swineherd.’ He had a dirty little room close by the pig-sty; and there he sat the whole day, and worked. By the evening he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot. Little bells were hung all round it; and when the pot was boiling, these bells tinkled in the most charming manner, and played the old melody,

But what was still more curious, whoever held his finger in the smoke of the kitchen-pot, immediately smelt all the dishes that were cooking on every hearth in the city.—This, you see, was something quite different from the rose.

Now the Princess happened to walk that way; and when she heard the tune, she stood quite still, and seemed pleased; for she could play ‘Lieber Augustin’; it was the only piece she knew; and she played it with one finger.

‘Why, there is my piece,’ said the Princess; ‘that swineherd must certainly have been well educated! Go in and ask him the price of the instrument.’

So one of the court ladies must run in; however, she drew on wooden slippers first.

‘What will you take for the kitchen-pot?’ said the lady.

‘I will have ten kisses from the Princess,’ said the swineherd.

‘Yes, indeed!’ said the lady.

‘I cannot sell it for less,’ rejoined the swineherd.

‘He is an impudent fellow!’ said the Princess, and she walked on; but when she had gone a little way, the bells tinkled so prettily,

‘Stay,’ said the Princess. ‘Ask him if he will have ten kisses from the ladies of my court.’

‘No, thank you!’ said the swineherd, ‘ten kisses from the Princess, or I keep the kitchen-pot myself.’

‘That must not be either!’ said the Princess; ‘but do you all stand before me that no one may see us.’

And the court-ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread out their dresses: the swineherd got ten kisses, and the Princess—the kitchen-pot.

That was delightful! the pot was boiling the whole evening, and the whole of the following day. They knew perfectly well what was cooking at every fire throughout the city, from the chamberlain’s to the cobbler’s: the court ladies danced, and clapped their hands.

‘We know who has soup, and who has pancakes for dinner to-day; who has cutlets, and who has eggs. How interesting!’

‘Yes, but keep my secret, for I am an Emperor’s daughter.’

The swineherd—that is to say, the Prince, for no one knew that he was other than an ill-favoured swineherd—let not a day pass without working at something; he at last constructed a rattle, which, when it was swung round, played all the waltzes and jig-tunes which have ever been heard since the creation of the world.

‘Ah, that is superbe!’ said the Princess when she passed by. ‘I have never heard prettier compositions! Go in and ask him the price of the instrument; but mind, he shall have no more kisses!’

‘He will have a hundred kisses from the Princess!’ said the lady who had been to ask.

‘I think he is not in his right senses!’ said the Princess, and walked on; but when she had gone a little way, she stopped again. ‘One must encourage art,’ said she. ‘I am the Emperor’s daughter. Tell him he shall, as on yesterday, have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from the ladies of the court.’

‘Oh!—but we should not like that at all!’ said they. ‘What are you muttering?’ asked the Princess; ‘if I can kiss him, surely you can! Remember that you owe everything to me.’ So the ladies were obliged to go to him again.

‘A hundred kisses from the Princess!’ said he, ‘or else let every one keep his own.’

‘Stand round!’ said she; and all the ladies stood round her whilst the kissing was going on.

‘What can be the reason for such a crowd close by the pig-sty?’ said the Emperor, who happened just then to step out on the balcony; he rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles. ‘They are the ladies of the court; I must go down and see what they are about!’ So he pulled up his slippers at the heel, for he had trodden them down.

As soon as he had got into the court-yard, he moved very softly, and the ladies were so much engrossed with counting the kisses that all might go on fairly, that they did not perceive the Emperor. He rose on his tiptoes.

‘What is all this?’ said he, when he saw what was going on, and he boxed the Princess’s ears with his slipper, just as the swineherd was taking the eighty-sixth kiss.

‘March out!’ said the Emperor, for he was very angry; and both Princess and swineherd were thrust out of the city.

The Princess now stood and wept, the swineherd scolded, and the rain poured down.

‘Alas! unhappy creature that I am!’ said the Princess. ‘If I had but married the handsome young Prince! Ah, how unfortunate I am!’

And the swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown colour from his face, threw off his dirty clothes, and stepped forth in his princely robes; he looked so noble that the Princess could not help bowing before him.

‘I am come to despise thee,’ said he. ‘Thou wouldst not have an honourable prince! thou couldst not prize the rose and the nightingale, but thou wast ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a trumpery plaything. Thou art rightly served.’

He then went back to his own little kingdom, and shut the door of his palace in her face. Now she might well sing

THE FLYING TRUNK

However, it descended safely, and he found himself in Turkey. He hid the trunk under a heap of dry leaves in a wood, and walked into the next town: he could do so very well, for among the Turks everybody goes about clad as he was, in dressing-gown and slippers. He met a nurse, carrying a little child in her arms. ‘Hark ye, Turkish nurse,’ quoth he; ‘what palace is that with the high windows close by the town?’

‘The King’s daughter dwells there,’ replied the nurse; ‘it has been prophesied of her that she shall be made very unhappy by a lover, and therefore no one may visit her, except when the King and Queen are with her.’

‘Thank you,’ said the merchant’s son, and he immediately went back into the wood, sat down in his trunk, flew up to the roof of the palace, and crept through the window into the Princess’s apartment.

She was lying asleep on the sofa. She was so beautiful that the merchant’s son could not help kneeling down to kiss her hand, whereupon she awoke, and was not a little frightened at the sight of this unexpected visitor; but he told her, however, that he was the Turkish prophet, and had come down from the sky on purpose to woo her, and on hearing this she was well pleased. So they sat down side by side, and he talked to her about her eyes, how that they were beautiful dark-blue seas, and that thoughts and feelings floated like mermaidens therein; and he spoke of her brow, how that it was a fair snowy mountain, with splendid halls and pictures, and many other such like things he told her.

Oh, these were charming stories! and thus he wooed the Princess, and she immediately said ‘Yes!’

‘But you must come here on Saturday,’ said she; ‘the King and Queen have promised to drink tea with me that evening; they will be so proud and so pleased when they hear that I am to marry the Turkish prophet! And mind you tell them a very pretty story, for they are exceedingly fond of stories; my mother likes them to be very moral and aristocratic, and my father likes them to be merry, so as to make him laugh.’

‘Yes, I shall bring no other bridal present than a tale,’ replied the merchant’s son; and here they parted, but not before the Princess had given her lover a sabre all covered with gold. He knew excellently well what use to make of this present.

So he flew away, bought a new dressing-gown, and then sat down in the wood to compose the tale which was to be ready by Saturday, and certainly he found composition not the easiest thing in the world.

At last he was ready, and at last Saturday came.

The King, the Queen, and the whole court were waiting tea for him at the Princess’s palace. The suitor was received with much ceremony.

‘Will you not tell us a story?’ asked the Queen; ‘a story that is instructive and full of deep meaning.’

‘But let it make us laugh,’ said the King.

‘With pleasure,’ replied the merchant’s son; and now you must hear his story:—

There was once a bundle of matches, who were all extremely proud of their high descent, for their genealogical tree, that is to say, the tall fir-tree, from which each of them was a splinter, had been a tree of great antiquity, and distinguished by his height from all the other trees of the forest. The matches were now lying on the mantlepiece, between a tinder-box and an old iron saucepan, and to these two they often talked about their youth. ‘Ah, when we were upon the green branches,’ said they; ‘when we really lived upon green branches—that was a happy time! Every morning and evening we had diamond-tea—that is, dew; the whole day long we had sunshine, at least whenever the sun shone, and all the little birds used to tell stories to us. It might easily be seen, too, that we were rich, for the other trees were clothed with leaves only during the summer, whereas our family could afford to wear green clothes both summer and winter. But at last came the wood-cutters: then was the great revolution, and our family was dispersed. The paternal trunk obtained a situation as mainmast to a magnificent ship, which could sail round the world if it chose; the boughs were transported to various places, and our vocation was henceforth to kindle lights for low, common people. Now you will understand how it comes to pass that persons of such high descent as we are should be living in a kitchen.’

‘To be sure, mine is a very different history,’ remarked the iron saucepan, near which the matches were lying. ‘From the moment I came into the world until now, I have been rubbed and scrubbed, and boiled over and over again—oh, how many times! I love to have to do with what is solidly good, and am really of the first importance in this house. My only recreation is to stand clean and bright upon this mantlepiece after dinner, and hold some rational conversation with my companions. However, excepting the water-pail, who now and then goes out into the court, we all of us lead a very quiet domestic life here. Our only newsmonger is the turf-basket, but he talks in such a democratic way about “government” and the “people”—why, I assure you, not long ago, there was an old jar standing here, who was so much shocked by what he heard said that he fell down from the mantlepiece and broke into a thousand pieces! That turf-basket is a Liberal, that’s the fact.’

‘Now, you talk too much,’ interrupted the tinder-box, and the steel struck the flint, so that the sparks flew out. ‘Why should we not spend a pleasant evening?’

‘Yes, let us settle who is of highest rank among us!’ proposed the matches.

‘Oh no; for my part I would rather not speak of myself,’ objected the earthenware pitcher. ‘Suppose we have an intellectual entertainment? I will begin; I will relate something of everyday life, such as we have all experienced; one can easily transport oneself into it, and that is so interesting! Near the Baltic, among the Danish beech-groves——’

‘That is a capital beginning!’ cried all the plates at once; ‘it will certainly be just the sort of story for me!’

‘Yes, there I spent my youth in a very quiet family; the furniture was rubbed, the floors were washed, clean curtains were hung up every fortnight.’

‘How very interesting! what a charming way you have of describing things!’ said the hair-broom. ‘Any one might guess immediately that it is a lady who is speaking; the tale breathes such a spirit of cleanliness!’

‘Very true; so it does!’ exclaimed the water-pail, and in the excess of his delight he gave a little jump, so that some of the water splashed upon the floor.

And the pitcher went on with her tale, and the end proved as good as the beginning.

All the plates clattered applause, and the hair-broom took some green parsley out of the sand-hole and crowned the pitcher, for he knew that this would vex the others; and, thought he, ‘If I crown her to-day, she will crown me to-morrow.’

‘Now I will dance,’ said the fire-tongs, and accordingly she did dance, and oh! it was wonderful to see how high she threw one of her legs up into the air; the old chair-cover in the corner tore with horror at seeing her. ‘Am not I to be crowned too?’ asked the tongs, and she was crowned forthwith.

‘These are the vulgar rabble!’ thought the matches.