The rose-bush in the garden is beautiful. But the naughty thorns which often pricked your fingers till they bled, when you wanted to pick a bud! “The horrid rose-bush!” I suppose you said, and perhaps even struck at it with a stick. Don’t say that, little girl. When you know why the rose-bush is covered with thorns from top to bottom, you will see that it is not horrid, but very good.

Do you remember how the nightingale sung during the May nights, when the moon was shining brightly, and the roses were so sweet, and the little glow-worms glittered in the grass? It sounded like a loud wail, often almost like sobbing, so that you felt very sorrowful, and asked us, “What is the matter with the little nightingale, that she sings so mournfully?”

Now I will tell you, as the evening will be long and we have plenty of time.

There was once a nightingale, the grandmamma of all the nightingales in the country. She came from a hot province in Africa, because it was too warm for her there, and she wanted to live here, where it is cool and shady. She looked about in the woods and meadows, and in the great gardens behind the houses, to find [4]a tree or bush where she could build her nest. All the trees were very kind, offered her a branch or a twig, and promised that she should be well taken care of with them. Every one would have been glad to have her for a guest, for she had sung merrily as she flew around, so that they all admired her beautiful voice and never wearied of listening to it.

The nightingale searched long and carefully, perched sometimes on one tree, sometimes on another, found one thing here, and something else there, which did not exactly suit her, and finally decided upon the rose-bush. It was not too high and it was not too low, its foliage was neither too thick nor too thin, no one lived there except a few neat and quiet golden beetles, and, above all, it was wonderfully adorned with its roses and completely surrounded by the most delicious fragrance. At that time it had no thorns. Its stem was perfectly smooth, so that you could have passed your hand up and down over it without scratching yourself in the least.

The nightingale was very much pleased with her choice, and, in her joy at having found such a beautiful, suitable dwelling, sang and trilled so clearly that all the buds on the rose-bush opened from delight, and it was covered in a single night with magnificent full-blown roses.

The nightingale at once began to build her nest, a beautiful little, round nest, under a shady roof of light-green [5]leaves, with big, pale pink roses in front of the little windows, and, after it was well lined with grass and soft down, she laid several tiny eggs, and brooded over them until the nightingale children were hatched out,—dear little soft things, with black eyes and yellow-gray rough little heads, and yellow beaks, which were always open and always wanted to eat.

Mamma Nightingale was so happy that she hardly knew what to do with herself, and nursed and fed her little ones—there were three of them—and sang the sweetest lullabies. The neighbor birds came flying from far and near, perched on the branches of the trees, listened to the young mother’s singing, and flapped their wings,—that’s the way the birds clap applause, because they haven’t any hands.

But the rose-bush stood near a house where a gray cat lived,—an ugly creature with green eyes, a long, bristling mustache, and big sharp claws. This cat was on bad terms with everybody on account of her stealing and evil tricks. She dared not be seen in the day, because the dogs would have chased her, and the washerwomen would have thrown hot water on her. She always stayed in a dark cellar, and came out only at night to do all sorts of mischief.

The wicked cat heard the nightingale singing and was angry, as wicked people always are when they hear or see anything beautiful. The squealing of the mice, before whose holes she watched for hours, seemed [6]to her much more musical than the joyous trilling and sweet lullabies of the bird-mother. Stealing out of her dark cellar, she crept through the grass and under the bushes to a place from which she could see the rose-bush, looked up with her green eyes, and when she discovered the nest and the three little birds with their busy mother, she said to herself: “Oh! that rabble! Those miserable vagabonds! Screaming and making a racket as if they were the only people in the world. Just wait; I’ll teach you to wake respectable folks out of their afternoon nap.” Waving the end of her tail to and fro, she crept back again to her cellar and waited until it grew dark. Then she came out, walked slowly and noiselessly to the rose-bush, and peered up at it.

The nightingale had just flown away for a short time, as was her custom, to bring her little ones their supper, that is, a few soft caterpillars, and little moths which only fly about after sunset. Meanwhile the nightingale children were left alone, twittering happily [7]to one another, and rejoicing that mamma would soon come back with something good to eat.

Suddenly over the edge of the nest appeared a terrible head, with fierce green eyes and a frightful mustache. It was the wicked cat, which, like a true thief, had climbed up the smooth stem of the rose-bush, and now fell upon the poor defenceless brood. The little downy birds were so frightened that they did not even find strength to utter a feeble cry for help. At least their mortal terror did not last long. Before one could count three, the wicked cat had seized the three sisters by the neck, one after another, and killed them with a single bite. She threw their little warm bodies out of the nest with her paws, and then leaped after them, to eat them at the foot of the rose-bush.

Only a few crows in a neighboring linden tree had witnessed the murder. It had been done so quickly that they could not prevent it. But now they rushed with loud cries upon the murderess, and pecked her so furiously with their beaks, that she left the little dead nightingales lying on the ground and ran back to her cellar, where the crows could not follow her.

Meantime the nightingale came back with her beak full, and put her head through the roof of rose-leaves above her nest. She saw with terror that it was empty. Dropping the worms and moths, she called so that her voice echoed a long distance through the evening air: “My children! Where are you? My children!” [8]

The crows flew up sorrowfully, surrounded her, and told her as gently as they could what a misfortune had befallen her. Her little heart almost broke with despair. She let the crows take her to her children, and covering them with her wings, mourned over them, and would not leave them, until the beetles which are called grave-diggers carried them to the grave. It was a beautiful funeral procession; all the ants, many beetles, and most of the birds in the neighborhood followed in the train, all mourning and lamenting. But this did not console the poor mother, and when, after the burial, she sat alone in her deserted nest, she sobbed aloud and asked the rose-bush in a half-stifled voice, “Rose-bush, O Rose-bush, why did you allow it, why did you not guard my little ones better?”

The rose-bush said nothing, but it was so troubled that all the petals fell from its blossoms, and it thought and planned how in the future it could better protect the beloved guest and her family. And then it had a bright idea. All night long it worked softly, but busily, and when day came, it was set from top to bottom with thorns, as sharp and pointed and crooked as the claws of the wicked cat, and it said in a soothing voice to the grieving nightingale: “Cheer up, dear, lovely nightingale, lay more eggs, brood over them again, no harm will befall them: you see, no wicked cat can attack your little ones. My thorns will protect them and you.” The nightingale could not bear her solitude. She laid [9]more eggs, brooded over them, and when again several sweet little round creatures in gray down filled her nest, she began to sing once more, but the song was a different one. No joyous trilling, no gay melodies, but the mournful, sobbing tones, which almost always move you to tears. She cannot forget her first little ones, and she still remembers them with sweet sadness, though she is very happy with her new darlings.

Since that time the rose-bush has had thorns, and the nightingale sings her mournful lament, but at least the cats cannot attack her nest when she flies away for a little while, to get caterpillars and night-moths for her babies. [11]

You know what becomes of the flies in autumn. As soon as it begins to grow cold, they are weak, stay on the window-panes, don’t fly off even when you touch them with your finger, and some morning they stick motionless and are dead.

Now once upon a time there was a big brown fly, whose name was Buzz-Buzz. One warm summer day, when the window stood open, she had flown into the kitchen and did not leave it again; for it was a comfortable place, and suited her very well. There were always grains of sugar in the cupboard, and milk and dregs of coffee on the table, so that she had plenty to eat and drink. When she was not licking and nibbling, she was cleaning her wings and back with her fore-legs; and when she was not making herself beautiful, she was watching, curious to see what Marie was doing at the hearth, how she lighted the fire, put on the [14]pots, salted and spiced, stirred and beat, and tried to guess what nice things there would be to taste that day.

When Marie was not in the kitchen, she chatted with the cricket that lived in a crack of the chimney, with whom she had quickly made friends. The cricket was a very lively creature, and never grew tired of talking and gossiping, asking questions, and telling stories. There were plenty of visitors, too. As soon as Marie opened the window in the morning, whole swarms of flies flew in,—sisters, cousins, and neighbors,—who told Buzz-Buzz all the news, while she politely offered them coffee and cakes. She had them, and could easily do it. It was a perpetual feast, and, before she knew it, summer had passed and autumn came.

At first Buzz-Buzz did not notice it. She was too comfortable. Why should she care, if the frost fell night after night outside? It was pleasant in her warm kitchen. But she gradually found that some change had taken place in the world. Marie opened the window more and more seldom, and the relatives and acquaintances no longer came to call. If a friend flew in now and then, she seemed strangely dull, scarcely touched the dainties Buzz-Buzz offered, answered questions indifferently, and sometimes, to the horror of Buzz-Buzz, suddenly dropped down in the middle of a word and did not stir again. [16]

[14]

Buzz-Buzz asked the cricket what this meant, but [17]the cricket made no answer. When Buzz-Buzz crawled to the crack and peeped in, she saw the cricket lying stretched out, asleep. It slept all the time now, from morning till night, and from night till morning. Buzz-Buzz could not understand it and began to feel very uneasy. She waited till Marie went out, and flew out with her, to look about a little and perhaps discover why no more visitors came, and why the few who did were so dull and feeble, why they so often grew sick and died while they were sitting in the kitchen with her, drinking coffee.

Out of doors Buzz-Buzz came near faring very badly. She had scarcely had time to notice how different everything looked from usual, when the cold chilled every limb, her wings grew heavy, her legs became stiff, darkness surrounded her, and she had barely enough strength left to light on Marie’s cap, and let her carry her home. If Marie had not been there, Buzz-Buzz would never have reached her kitchen alive.

It was some time before Buzz-Buzz recovered entirely. By degrees the recollection of what she had and had not seen, during her brief flight, came back to her. Why did it look so dreary out of doors? True, there were no terrible swallows, always trying to kill the poor flies, but there were no flies, no gnats, no butterflies, no sign of the usual gay life of noonday. There was not even a patch of blue sky, not a sunbeam, not [18]a single green leaf. Bare trees, gray clouds, and an icy air, which pierced through the unprotected body like a knife. How fortunate that she had the warm kitchen! There the closed windows did not let the cold enter, and it was as comfortable by the hearth as on the most beautiful summer day, only one mustn’t go too near the fire. Buzz-Buzz took care not to do that.

She had escaped a great danger. This Buzz-Buzz knew very well. She rejoiced over it, and rubbed her fore-legs together with much satisfaction. But she did not think only of herself. She remembered the others,—the sisters, cousins, aunts, neighbors, friends, and acquaintances with whom, in fair weather, she had spent so many pleasant hours. They must all be dead. Otherwise, one or another would surely come to visit her. But no one called. This made Buzz-Buzz very sad, and though she herself was comfortable, she often sat still in a corner, sighing and grieving for the dead. Perhaps she often wept, too; but I can’t say so positively, because a fly’s tears are so small that we cannot see them unless we watch very carefully.

Buzz-Buzz ate and drank well, and she slept well, too, only a little too much, so that she grew fat and lazy, and would rather sit quiet or crawl a little on the wall or ceiling than to fly. Flying was growing too hard for her. She wondered why, after being so nimble, she was now such a clumsy person, but gradually became [19]used to it. People get used to everything—even to loneliness. True, that is the hardest of all. The winter was long and, though the days were short, Buzz-Buzz had more than time enough to think over everything. Especially whether there would ever again be flies in the world. To live all alone in the wide world is surely worse than death. It would be altogether too terrible, if she were always to be the only fly. True, she still had one dear friend, the cricket. But the cricket just slept and slept, and she could make nothing of it. Would the lively little creature ever wake up again? Even if it did, though a beloved friend, the cricket was no relation, and could not take the place of one’s own flesh and blood. When she pondered over these sad thoughts, her heart grew heavy, and even sugar cakes and coffee did not taste right. What is the use of wealth, if we can share it with no one?

At last the winter was over, spring came, the sun again shone brilliantly, and there was a shade of green on the dry branches of the two trees in the garden.

Then one morning a strange thing happened. Marie threw the kitchen window wide open, a cool, fragrant breeze blew in, which at first made Buzz-Buzz shiver, but soon gave her new strength and vigor. After some hesitation, she ventured to leave her corner between the wall and the ceiling and fly to the open window—and lo! almost before she reached it, she heard around her the beloved buzzing of her relatives, which she had [20]missed so long. A whole swarm of beautiful, glittering young flies were whirling, dancing, and playing in the sunshine, and Buzz-Buzz, wild with joy, rushed into the circle and, with outspread wings, darted from one to another that were nearest, trying to clasp and kiss them, exclaiming in a half-stifled voice: “Sisters, dear sisters! Oh, how glad I am that I have lived to see you again!”

But the flies scattered, circling around at a distance, and staring at her. Then one cried out, “Who is this scarecrow?” And another giggled, “Look at the fat pigeon,” while a third called, “Madam, your wings haven’t been brushed to-day.” Then they all laughed.

Buzz-Buzz was puzzled and offended. It was hard for her to stay in the air so long, and she rested on the window-sill, saying mournfully: “Do none of you know me? I am Buzz-Buzz.” And she named many sisters, cousins, and friends who had been young and enjoyed life with her the year before.

But the new generation of flies had no knowledge of these names, and the more poor Buzz-Buzz mentioned, the more suspicious and unfriendly the young flies became. They buzzed together, “Let us take care, she is a swindler.”

“Oh, come! Do believe me!” Buzz-Buzz coaxed anxiously. “I had so many sisters and friends last year. Then we were a great swarm, as you are now. And I was the gayest one of all. But the autumn came [21]and they all died, and then the winter followed and I was left all alone, and believed the world had gone to ruin. But now spring has returned and I see my relatives again, and they are just as merry as ever. I am so glad to see you, why are you so unkind, and keep away, and do not want to own me for your sister?”

The young flies had come nearer, and listened with greater and greater astonishment. They let her go on until her breath failed and she began to cough. Then one fly, with gold and ruby eyes, that seemed to be the sauciest of them all, answered: “Madam, you’re talking nonsense. You think us more stupid than we are. We are not to be fooled. What do you mean by last year? Every fly knows that the world began with us. There was nothing before us. And no one ever saw a fly die, unless a swallow or a sparrow ate it. Autumn and winter? Nobody ever heard of such things. As far as flies can remember, everything has always been just as it is now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to impose upon us.”

The others buzzed approvingly, and one called loudly: “Don’t you see that she is crazy? Let the silly chatterbox alone, and come back to our dance.” They all waved their gleaming mother-of-pearl wings, and buzzed away.

“Sisters! Dear sisters!” pleaded Buzz-Buzz, panting for breath, but not a fly listened and, in an instant, she was alone on the window-sill, and the others were [22]far away whirling about in the golden sunshine. Buzz-Buzz sat still a short time, as if she was dazed. She could not understand why her young sisters were so unkind to her, when she had been longing for them all winter. At last she determined to go back to her kitchen and see whether the cricket was awake, so that she could tell her adventures and bewail her troubles.

The cricket really was awake, but another cricket had called, and the two were chirping busily to each other, so, when Buzz-Buzz came to the chimney and put in her head, her friend called somewhat roughly: “What do you want here? Don’t you see I have a visitor? I’ve no time for you now!”

Buzz-Buzz, without saying a word, went back to her old corner between the wall and the ceiling, and sat there quietly with drooping wings.

Something had again changed in the world, and it was full of new life. But what did it avail poor Buzz-Buzz?

She had grown old and did not suit this new world. I ought to have died in the autumn, like all my sisters, she thought sorrowfully, staring at the thin column of smoke which rose from the fire, whirling upward through the chimney out above the roof, above the house, into the sunny air, to the blue sky. She gazed at the floating bluish pillar, and a great longing seized her to mount upward with the smoke, and be borne by its soft, warm breath out into the sunny air, to the [23]blue sky. She crept nearer and nearer. Suddenly she could resist no longer and, with one bound, leaped into the midst of the pillar of smoke and disappeared.

She did not know what had happened, she grew dazed, her senses failed, she sank down, and the next moment was a little heap of ashes on the burning coals. She had felt no pain, for she was senseless when she fell into the fire.

The cricket in the chimney chirped secrets to the visitor, and outside the open window danced the flies, sure that they would live forever, unless a swallow ate them. [25]

One birthday, a little girl, besides many other beautiful presents, received from an uncle who always had queer ideas, the gift of a white mouse. It was a dear little thing, with soft fur which shone like silver, eyes like rubies, and a fine stiff mustache. It lived in a pretty, roomy cage, where it had a soft, white cotton-wool bed, the very best food,—that is, large grains of wheat and peeled hazel nuts in two glass dishes,—and a wheel which could be turned from the inside or outside, and on whose spokes it could ride.

The little girl was very much pleased with the white mouse, for she loved all harmless animals. She was not even afraid of it, like other children, who scream when they see a poor little mouse run across the floor, but took it bravely in her hand and stroked it. The mouse was forced to permit this, but seemed to find no pleasure in it, for the little creature trembled in every limb, and its heart beat so quickly with fright that one could not count the throbs.

“Come, don’t be afraid,” said the little girl. “I’m not a cat, and I won’t eat you.” She put it back into the cage. “You are still shy, but you’ll get used to [28]me. I’ll love you dearly and treat you well; then you will love me, too, and be my grateful little friend.”

She insisted upon taking care of her little mouse herself. Every day she cleaned its cage, changed the cotton-wool, filled the glass dishes, and, during the warm hours of the day, placed the cage on the window-sill, covering the outside with a piece of green cloth so that the sunshine should not make the mouse’s red eyes ache. While doing this, she said all sorts of soothing words to it in a sweet, coaxing voice. “You are well off, my little mouse,” she told it. “You need not creep into small, dark holes, where it must be dirty and cold, and where bugs and roaches live. Brrr!” She shivered with fear at the bare thought. “You have a beautiful house; you are kept as warm and clean as a princess; I give you dainties which you could not have unless you stole them at the risk of your life—sweet grapes, raisins, nuts, milk-bread, and bits of bacon. No cat can harm you. You need not be afraid of any trap. You are a real favorite of fortune among the mice.” [29]

But the mouse did not think so. It remained sulky, and showed no gratitude for its mistress’s care and affection. When it thought no one was looking, it played happily enough with the wheel or the cotton-wool in its nest, or combed and brushed itself with its handlike fore paws as carefully as a soldier before parade. But as soon as the little girl went to its cage, it suddenly stopped its cleaning or its play, and crept under the cotton-wool. When its mistress put her hand in the cage to take it out and pet it, the mouse darted into every corner of its house to escape the searching hand, and when it was caught, uttered a terrified squeaking, and struggled as violently as its feeble strength would permit.

“Foolish thing,” said the little girl, but she did not lose patience. “You will see in time how kindly I mean by you.”

Whether the mouse really did see this, is hard to say. Perhaps it only found out that it was of no use to resist. It struggled less when its mistress touched it, and therefore seemed tamer. But it did not answer to the name of Snow-White which the little girl had given it, obeyed no call, and pressed close against the back of the cage if any one looked through the grating of its house. In time it even lost its appetite, so that it grew thin and miserable. At last it also gave up turning in its wheel, crouched sadly in one corner, and became so weak that it could scarcely drag itself about. [30]

This grieved the little girl to the heart. She ran to her mother, saying: “Oh, mamma, come and see what is the matter with Snow-White. It doesn’t eat, it doesn’t play, and it is always cross. I can’t cheer it up at all.”

Her mother smiled. “What do you do to cheer it up?”

“I stroke it, I talk to it, I even sing my prettiest songs, for which you all kiss me. But Snow-White doesn’t take any notice of them at all. The little thing is certainly ill. We must give it something.”

“That would do no good,” her mother answered. “I think your little mouse is tired because it is always alone.”

“But it has me,” cried the little girl.

“You are not enough, apparently. It wants another mouse for company.”

The eccentric uncle was told how matters stood, and he immediately brought a second mouse, which was put into little Snow-White’s house.

Snow-White received the newcomer in the most generous way. It made a broad, comfortable place for the stranger in the very middle of the cotton-wool nest, where it was softest and warmest, while mousie itself was content with the narrowest edge; brought out the most delicious dainties; and after the guest was rested and refreshed, went through the house, showing everything, even the wheel, on which it performed its tricks outside and inside; then, sitting down [31]by the visitor, nosed and licked it, as dogs nurse their puppies. Snow-White seemed completely changed, no longer dull, but excited, moving about as swiftly and busily as a housekeeper who suddenly receives a welcome guest.

The little girl watched the pair happily, and, after a while, wanted to join the two mice. As usual, she put her hand into the cage to catch them. But the newcomer leaped out of the nest with one bound and sought shelter in the wheel, and Snow-White was extremely angry, squeaked furiously, and snapped at the hand. If the little girl had not drawn it back quickly, the mouse would certainly have bitten her. At first the child wanted to punish Snow-White. She had already seized her penholder to beat the little creature’s white fur with it, but she controlled her temper, let the animal run, and put down the stick which she had already lifted for the first blow.

“Go, I’ll do you no harm,” she said. “You know no better. You are a naughty, ungrateful thing, but that is probably only your stupidity, so I’ll forgive you.”

She had scarcely uttered these words in a very low tone, when she suddenly saw a wonderfully beautiful woman with fair hair and blue eyes, in a light blue dress, on which glittered a great number of silver stars. She had no time to wonder how the lovely lady could have come in unseen, for she said to her in a voice like sweet music: “That was right, dear child. We must [32]always be kind and indulgent to the weak. As a reward, you shall understand the language of the white mice.”

“I suppose you are a fairy?” asked the little girl, timidly.

“Perhaps so,” replied the lovely lady, smiling. Then, bending down, she kissed the child gently on the forehead, and suddenly disappeared, though the little girl did not see her pass through the door. The child thought she had been dreaming, but a delicious fragrance of roses, which remained in the room, proved that she was awake, and really had talked with the fairy.

She turned quickly to the cage to find out whether she actually did understand the language of the mice. At first she heard nothing except a very low humming, like the distant buzzing of flies, in which she could catch no words. But when she listened longer and more intently, her ears became accustomed to the faint noise, and, yes—after a few minutes she heard more and more distinctly two little voices talking to each other.

“My poor, poor friend!” said one voice.

“You are right to pity me,” replied the other. “I have had a hard time, I can tell you; I’ve led a life here which I would not wish my worst enemy.”

“Yet the food and lodging seem to be very good,” answered the first voice.

“There is no reason to complain of them,” remarked the second, “if one could only enjoy one’s life. But how is that possible, when one is constantly tormented, and frightened, and abused?” [33]

The little girl listened intently. Who could have tortured and frightened and abused Snow-White?

The delicate little voice went on: “There is a frightful monster here, even more terrible than a cat. Whenever this horrible creature comes near my house, I think that my last hour has come. It is as big as a mountain. You can’t even imagine it. It has paws in which we two, and three or four sisters and cousins, would have plenty of room. Each toe is as long as I am from my nose to my tail. The claws are as wide and thick as the doors of a house. The monster grasps me with these huge toes, so that I grow faint, and cannot help screaming with pain and terror. But what is the use of my moaning? The monster has no heart. It enjoys my suffering. It passes its huge paw down my back, and then I feel as if a heavy wagon were rolling over me. I don’t understand how a single bone in my body remains whole under this cruel torture. The monster raises me to its head, which is misshapen,—round, and perfectly flat in front, without a sign of a muzzle. It has no mustache, either, only on the upper part of the skull a forest of thick yellow hair. Its eyes are as big as my head. I really don’t exaggerate. And when it has me close to these fierce, pitiless eyes, it opens a huge mouth, and utters such a terrible roar that I feel as if the world were going to ruin. After this torture, the monster puts me back in my house again, but then I am more dead than alive, as you may [34]suppose, and it is a long time before I can recover. In a little while, the bone-breaking, the thundering roar, and the terrible staring with the enormous eyes begin once more, and I spend my life, with aching limbs, remembering the last attack, and trembling at the thought of the next one.”

“But what does this monster want of you?” asked the first voice. “Does it want to eat you?”

“I don’t think so,” answered the other, “or it would have done it before now. It only wants to play with me. It takes a cruel pleasure in tormenting me, in killing me by slow torture.”

“Oh, sister, how you frighten me!” said the first voice. “Must this be my fate, too?”

“I don’t know,” replied the other; “but, at any rate, I now have you, and you have me, and we can bear our misery more easily together.”

The little girl wanted to hear no more. Deeply grieved, she ran to her mother, told her everything, complained of Snow-White’s ingratitude, and exclaimed, “If I am a monster, if my fingers are like posts, and my voice is a roar, I won’t trouble myself about her any longer.”

“That will be the best way,” said her mother. “Content yourself with feeding the little creature. A mouse, even if it is a white one, cares nothing for your society and your love. A mouse is always a mouse, and people can be happy only with their equals.” [35]

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Aennchen. She was very pretty and good-natured, but a little spoiled, and therefore capricious and quick-tempered; for she was the only child of wealthy people, and her parents gave her her own way in everything. From the time Aennchen was a year old, she had been loaded with presents of all kinds at every opportunity. First there were india-rubber animals, then little houses and gardens with green trees, then small pails, sieves, cake shapes, and shovels to work in the sand, then rocking-horses and big donkeys on wheels, and finally dolls, small and large, fair and dark, unbreakable wooden ones and very fragile china ones, simply and richly dressed. But the one which was given to her by her aunt, on her fifth birthday, was more beautiful than any she had ever had before.

This was a very aristocratic lady, almost as large as Aennchen herself, and dressed like a princess. She had a satin cloak, a silk gown with several flounces, gold buckles at her little waist, white leather shoes, embroidered underclothes, and a magnificent velvet and lace hat, with an ostrich plume. A mother-of-pearl fan hung from her belt, and she carried in her [38]hand a dainty sunshade. She wore bracelets, a necklace, and earrings, the only things which Aennchen did not like; for her mother had told her that only savages bore holes in the ears, nose, and lips to hang jewels in them. The doll had long, silky light hair, which was waved, braided, and artistically arranged with hairpins and little tortoise-shell combs. When she was laid down, she instantly shut her big blue eyes, and fell asleep. [39]When she was lifted up, she opened her eyes and was awake again at once. She could say Papa, Mamma, and many other things distinctly, but usually maintained a well-bred silence, and spoke only when she was invited to do so by a pressure on her body. She did not come to Aennchen like a person who has nothing except what she carries on her back, but brought with her a magnificent outfit, a chest of clothes, a bureau full of under linen, a sideboard supplied with china, glass, and metal dishes, and table damask. At first Aennchen felt really embarrassed when her new playmate was introduced to her. She could not take her in her arms and carry her about, she was too large and too heavy. She was told that she must not undress and dress her, lest she should spoil her beautiful clothes, and undressing and dressing her doll is the greatest pleasure a little girl takes in it. Aennchen admired her, but she did not really love her, and did not grow intimate enough with her to speak to her familiarly. When she first became better acquainted with her, she discovered a very serious fault—the new doll was extremely proud.

Aennchen had wanted to call her Minna. This was the name of her nurse, whom her parents had kept in the house after the child outgrew milk, and to whom Aennchen was deeply attached. But the doll would not have the name. She did not hear it. She did not turn her head, when Aennchen called her by it, but [40]remained sitting as stiffly as if she was made of wood. And yet she had been manufactured of the finest, most pliable kid and china, and her limbs moved at every joint. This obstinacy provoked Aennchen so much that she struck the doll. Then the latter said dryly: “Pardon me. People do not strike me.”

“If you don’t want to be struck,” replied Aennchen, angrily, “answer when you are called by name.”

“Minna is no name for me,” replied the doll, coldly.

“What do you want to be called, then?” asked Aennchen, bewildered.

“At least Kunigunde,” answered the haughty doll.

At first Aennchen was greatly inclined to box her ears, and say: “A name that is good enough for my dear nurse is far too good for a stupid, puffed-up thing like you,” but the doll’s cool audacity awed her. She yielded, and the doll received the name of Kunigunde.

Aennchen had trouble with Kunigunde in another way. She had three favorite dolls. They were small and easily handled, simply dressed, and very dear to the little girl, because she had had them a long time, and because she was allowed to dress and undress them as much as she wished. Their clothes were no longer perfectly fresh, and showed here and there a ripped seam, a loose button, or even a rent, and their faces and hands could not be considered exactly models of cleanliness, though Aennchen, who was very fond of splashing in the water, often scrubbed them with soap, sponge, and brushes. [41]

She wanted to make Kunigunde acquainted with these three older dolls, and invited her to a coffee party. She put Kunigunde’s handsomest table-cloth on the table, set out her beautiful dishes, and brought out the three dolls. When Kunigunde saw the little shabby figures, she sat up as straight as a dart, and stared into vacancy with her big blue eyes, taking no more notice of the three dolls than if they had been empty air. Aennchen put her three friends into little chairs, and was going to do the same for Kunigunde. But the latter refused to take the place. “I am not used to sitting at the same table with common people,” she said.

“May I at least have the honor of drinking coffee in your lofty society?” asked Aennchen, scornfully.

“Yes,” replied Kunigunde, condescendingly, pretending not to notice the jeer.

This was too much for Aennchen. Seizing Kunigunde violently, she was going to press her by force into the chair. The conceited doll made herself perfectly rigid, and said in a defiant, rattling voice, “You can break me, if you are strong enough, but you cannot compel me to sit at the same table with these people.”

“We will not force our company upon the lady,” said the three modest dolls, rising at the same moment.

“Oh, nonsense,” cried Aennchen, “stay quietly here, children, we won’t trouble ourselves any further about this puffed-up creature.” Grasping Kunigunde by the [42]arm, she threw her into the corner so hard that she bounced.

“I thank you for your courteous treatment,” Kunigunde’s voice was heard saying, after she had recovered a little from the fall. “I beg you not to feel under the slightest restraint, but to use my coffee set just as if it belonged to you.”

This was strong, so strong that it almost took away the three modest dolls’ breath. No doll had ever before ventured to speak to her mistress in such a way. Aennchen could not allow such lack of respect. She hastened to Kunigunde, screaming: “Now my patience is gone. Your coffee set belongs to me, and you belong to me, and if you don’t keep quiet at once, you’ll fly out of the window. Then you can hunt in the gutter for society that is good enough for you.”

Kunigunde now remained silent, but though she did not speak, she shut her eyes to show that she wished to have nothing to do with anything that was going on around her. Aennchen did not take any notice of her defiant sulking, left her lying in the corner, and entertained the three modest dolls with coffee and cakes, which they enjoyed, while Kunigunde received neither drop nor crumb.

Just at that time Aennchen’s foster sister, her old nurse’s daughter, had been very ill and was beginning to recover. While the sickness was serious, Aennchen had not been allowed to see her. Now, after several [43]weeks, she was permitted to go into the sick room for the first time. The two little girls threw their arms around each other’s necks, and rejoiced that they could be together again.

The foster sister had heard, from her mother, that Aennchen had had a wonderful doll on her birthday, and she was very curious to see it. Aennchen instantly ran to her room and, with some difficulty, dragged Kunigunde to the bedside. At the sight of her, the foster sister uttered a little cry, exclaiming: “Oh, she really is too beautiful! I never thought there were such lovely dolls.”

“Do you admire her so much?” asked Aennchen.

“More than I can tell,” replied her foster sister, her eyes wandering from Kunigunde’s velvet and lace hat to her satin cloak, and from her silk gown to her necklace.

“Would you like to have her?” Aennchen went on.

The foster sister did not dare to answer.

“Say whether you want her,” Aennchen urged.

“Oh,” replied the child in the bed softly, “surely you are not in earnest. She is too elegant for me. And your mother will not let you.”

“My mamma lets me do everything I ask her,” cried Aennchen, and ran off as fast as she could go to her mother, to tell her that she wanted to give Kunigunde to her foster sister for a present on her recovery.

She received permission and, highly delighted, returned [44]to the little girl to give her the beautiful doll for her very own.

“You know,” she said, “she can open and shut her eyes, and say Papa and Mamma, and all sorts of other things.” And she wanted to show her the doll’s skill. But Kunigunde kept her eyes obstinately shut, and did not utter a sound.

“Have you suddenly grown deaf and dumb?” cried Aennchen, impatiently, after she had vainly laid her down and sat her up again, shaken and jerked her, squeezed and thumped her.

Kunigunde groaned under this rough treatment, and at last made up her mind to utter the words, “I am not to be given to any servant’s child.”

This provoking answer made Aennchen furious. “I’ll teach you to insult my foster sister,” she cried, and threw the haughty doll on the floor with all her strength. There was a rattling sound, the child in bed screamed, Kunigunde squeaked, “Mamma!” The worst had happened. The doll’s head was broken; small pieces, to which her beautiful fair hair still clung, were lying on the floor, and the back of Kunigunde’s head showed a large, gaping hole.

Aennchen was obliged to tell her mother of the misfortune. Her mother was very angry and scolded her little daughter for her quick temper. As a punishment, she should have no dessert that evening. Aennchen cried, and was still more enraged against Kunigunde, [45]on whose account she was now punished. Her mother spoke of sending the severely wounded doll to a doll surgeon for treatment, and having a new head put on. But Aennchen would not hear of it. “Throw her away,” she said; “I don’t want to see her any more.”

“It will be better so,” muttered Kunigunde, who, though stunned, had heard everything. “I have nothing to expect here except vulgar abuse.”

Aennchen perceived that even the hole in her head had not yet taught Kunigunde modesty. Instead of answering, she took her up, stripped off her ornaments, her hat, her rich garments, and her underclothes and, when the doll lay perfectly naked, she called her nurse and said, “Throw this thing into the garbage can.”

The nurse hesitated, but Aennchen stamped her feet and screamed, “Throw her into the garbage can, I tell you.” Then the nurse yielded to her foster child’s whim and carried the doll out of her sight.

When Kunigunde again opened her eyes, which until then she had obstinately kept closed, she found herself in a corner of the kitchen, in the deep garbage can, among bones, refuse, and sweepings. This humiliation [46]gave her more pain than the hole in her head, and filled her with great bitterness. She was certain that sharp injustice, a terrible wrong, had been done her. She had been severely injured, robbed of all her property, and thrown into the dirt. And why? Because she would not give up her self-respect. “Very well,” she murmured, “you can commit every violence and every crime upon me, for you are stronger than I; but you have not yet been able to force me to associate with people who are beneath me in rank.”

The next morning, before the garbage wagon drove by, the rag-picker and his wife came, as usual, to rummage in the can. “Look here!” he exclaimed, when he saw the big doll; “she is dirty and broken, it is true, but the dealer will give something for her.”

His wife turned Kunigunde round, and then said: “What we can get for her isn’t worth talking about. We’ll take the thing to our little one.” They did so. Kunigunde was quickly thrown into the sack which the woman carried on her back, and taken to the rag-picker’s hut. The bag, as usual, was emptied on the floor, and the little daughter peeped curiously at the contents. Kunigunde, it is true, felt the deepest aversion to the people who had picked her out of the garbage can, the horribly dirty hut in which she found herself, and the ragged, greasy child, to whom she was now to be given; yet in her conceit she imagined that the little girl would be so astonished and delighted at the sight of [49]her that she would not dare to come near her, and this thought flattered her. So she was deeply offended and humbled, when she was soon forced to see that she made no impression on the rag-picker’s child at all. The little girl picked her up, turned her over and over, noticed the hole in her head and the sweepings in the tangled hair which still remained, and only said contemptuously, “I don’t care,” when her mother asked if she would like to have the doll. [48]

[49]

The child owned one doll, which she had made herself, certainly a very odd one. It was a long cork from a claret bottle, which the little girl had dressed in several pieces of cotton rags and scraps of newspaper, tied on with a bit of string. On the piece which appeared above the paper and the rags she had marked, with a lead pencil, two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. This little monster she loved and petted, talked tenderly to it, and pressed it to her heart. When she retired with Kunigunde to a corner of the hut, she laid her on the floor, took out her own cork-stopper doll, kissed it, and said: “Look at this long string of a doll! How much prettier you are! I love you far, far better. I’ll tell you what, I’ll give her to you for a servant. She is big and strong. She shall carry you out to walk, and do everything that you order her.”

She put Kunigunde down, and laid the little scarecrow in her arms. But now it did not suit her that her darling’s servant should be naked, and she prepared to [50]dress her. She searched for rags and paper, but all the scraps she found were far too small for the huge Kunigunde. After she had worked in vain for a long time, she grew impatient and cried, “There’s nothing to be done with the stupid thing.” As she spoke, she struck her so violently against the wall that she broke both of her legs. The child stared at her a moment, then she said: “Now she is dead. We will bury her.”

Kunigunde thought that her last hour had come, and she was glad. “I would rather lie under the ground than to be the maid of a horrible cork-stopper,” she said to herself. She closed her eyes, that she might not see the dirt and wretchedness surrounding her, and sought consolation for her terrible fate in the remembrance of her former beauty, the wealth of which she had been robbed, and her aristocratic origin, which had really destined her to be the playmate of a princess.

Meantime, the rag-picker’s cruel child was preparing to dig a hole in a heap of rubbish behind the hut with the sharp edge of an old sardine box. Her older brother found her busy at this work, and when, in reply to his question, he learned that she was making a grave for the ill-treated doll, which lay with closed eyes and broken limbs, he said: “You can’t dig so large a grave as this big creature needs. Come, we’ll throw the ugly wretch into the water.”

They at once set off together for the bridge which crossed the river near by. “One, two, three,” cried [51]the boy, and flung Kunigunde far over the railing. The little girl looked after her, pressed her cork-stopper doll to her heart, and said lovingly, “I don’t want any doll except you.”

Kunigunde had considered it a last happiness that she was not to be buried alive, but drowned, for this seemed to her a quicker and painless end. “Now all will be over. These good-for-nothing human beings were not worthy to possess so noble a creature as I,” she thought, as she fell into the water and sank nearly to the bottom.

But all was not over. She did not drown, but was borne to the surface again and floated gently down the stream. She opened her eyes and, in spite of the hole in her head, in spite of her broken limbs, in spite of her beggary, her courage revived. Then she suddenly felt sharp teeth seize her. A large water rat caught her by one foot and dragged her to its nest, which was on the shore, close beside the water. In it was a litter of young rats, who wanted to play with the doll drifting in the river. They all came out of the hole and swarmed around the doll which their mother had brought. The thought darted through Kunigunde’s broken head, “I would not play with a servant’s child, and now I must serve these vermin for a toy!” This thought gave her such anguish that she grew unconscious and died.

Death came at the right time to spare her the worst [52]suffering. The young rats wanted to drag her into their hole, the entrance was too small, and when the horrible animals had pulled her to and fro a long time in vain, they grew angry and began to tear her to pieces with their teeth. They ate all the parts of her which were made of kid and filled with bran, and the china portions found their last resting place on the bottom of the river.

This was the sorrowful end of the proud Kunigunde. Aennchen’s three modest dolls, on the contrary, fared well with their friend. They stayed with her until Aennchen became a tall, beautiful young lady, and when she married and had a little girl herself, she gave her her three faithful playmates, that they might afford the child as much pleasure as they had the mother. [53]