In the last room which I explored was the furniture which Andersen had used in his rooms in Copenhagen. The rocker was later used by Alexander Kielland, the Norwegian who has written such charming short stories; and the penholder lying upon the poet’s old desk was for a time the property of Edward Grieg, the Norwegian composer. Near the table were Andersen’s trunk and hat case, and upon it were his tall silk hat and his fat, clumsy umbrella, as if he had just returned from a jaunt about Europe. It seemed as if the quaint old man himself must appear, equipped with a new wonder story all ready for the telling.

The great number and variety of photographs of himself in evidence about the rooms were, in themselves, ample proof that the dear old chap was exceedingly vain. He had a childlike fondness for dress and decoration, and also for being photographed. Under one of the photographs he had written in Danish some words which must be translated, “Life itself is the best wonder story”; but the Danish for wonder story is “aventyr,” which comes from the same root as our work “adventure,” and consequently means much more of interest than the translation would lead one to suppose. And I heartily agree with the verdict; I would not miss being alive for anything!

Perhaps the most valuable treasure in the museum is the collection of the original lead-pencil drawings made by the Danish illustrator, Wilhelm Petersen, for Andersen’s fairy tales. Many of these pictures were old friends of mine, friends which I had not seen for many long years—soft, delicate drawings of round-faced children in quaint dress; tall, graceful lovers and their ladies; and old people with strong and gentle faces. It was a rare pleasure to renew their acquaintance in such an intimate way. And, for old times’ sake, before leaving Odense I bought a volume of Andersen’s wonder stories, illustrated by Petersen, taking care that “The Ugly Duckling” was included in the collection.

It is again morning. Since five o’clock when I left Odense, I have journeyed westward over Fünen, have been ferried across the Little Belt which separates Fünen from the peninsula of Jutland, and have started upon my southward way toward Antwerp and home. Now we are about to cross the southern boundary of Denmark and to enter the lost province of Schleswig. Therefore, it must be good-by to Denmark and to the whole pleasant Scandinavian land. It is a fond good-by, and were not love for my own dear Western country hurrying me on, it would be a most regretful one. No kind friends stand at the border to wave farewell, with “Hils hjemme” and “Komme igen”; but the Jutish landscape which smiles upon my right hand and my left does that. And I shall not forget the invitation and shall remember to deliver the greeting.