THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES
BY OSCAR WILDE
The Happy Prince
The Nightingale and the Rose
The Devoted Friend
The Remarkable Rocket
THE HAPPY PRINCE
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy
Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold,
for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on
He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful
as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished
to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite
so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical,
which he really was not.
“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked
a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon.
“The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,”
muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children
as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and
their clean white pinafores.
“How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you
have never seen one.”
“Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children;
and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did
not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends
had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for
he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early
in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth,
and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to
talk to her.
“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come
to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew
round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver
ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the
“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other
Swallows; “she has no money, and far too many relations”;
and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn
came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.
“She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid
that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.”
And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful
curtseys. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued,
“but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love
“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her;
but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
“You have been trifling with me,” he cried. “I
am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city.
“Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town
has made preparations.”
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
“I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine
position, with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just
between the feet of the Happy Prince.
“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself
as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was
putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him.
“What a curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a
single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet
it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful.
The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”
Then another drop fell.
“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?”
he said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined
to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked
up, and saw—Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were
running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the
moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
“Who are you?” he said.
“I am the Happy Prince.”
“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you
have quite drenched me.”
“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the
statue, “I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace
of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime
I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led
the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty
wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about
me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince,
and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived,
and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here
so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city,
and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep.”
“What! is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to himself.
He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice,
“far away in a little street there is a poor house. One
of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a
table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands,
all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering
passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s
maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the
corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever,
and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him
but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,
will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet
are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My
friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers.
Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The
King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in
yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain
of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince,
“will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger?
The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.”
“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow.
“Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two
rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones
at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well
for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but
still, it was a mark of disrespect.”
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry.
“It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay
with you for one night, and be your messenger.”
“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s
sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were
sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing.
A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How
wonderful the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful
is the power of love!”
“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,”
she answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered
on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.”
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts
of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews
bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales.
At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing
feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so
tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside
the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed,
fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. “How cool
I feel,” said the boy, “I must be getting better”;
and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what
he had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but
I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.”
“That is because you have done a good action,” said the
Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell
asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What
a remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as
he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!”
And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every
one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
“To-night I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was
in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments,
and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he
went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “What a distinguished
stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. “Have
you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince,
“will you not stay with me one night longer?”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow.
“To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract.
The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite
throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars,
and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then
he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s
edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar
is louder than the roar of the cataract.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince,
“far away across the city I see a young man in a garret.
He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his
side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and
crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy
eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre,
but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the
grate, and hunger has made him faint.”
“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow,
who really had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”
“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my
eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires,
which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out
one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller,
and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.”
“Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that”;
and he began to weep.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince,
“do as I command you.”
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away
to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as
there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came
into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands,
so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he
looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
“I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this
is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and
he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on
the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests
out of the hold with ropes. “Heave a-hoy!” they shouted
as each chest came up. “I am going to Egypt”! cried
the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back
to the Happy Prince.
“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince,
“will you not stay with me one night longer?”
“It is winter,” answered the Swallow, “and the
chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the
green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily
about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of
Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing
to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never
forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels
in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder
than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”
“In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there
stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the
gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if
she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has
no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out
my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.”
“I will stay with you one night longer,” said the Swallow,
“but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince,
“do as I command you.”
So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with
it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into
the palm of her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass,”
cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind
now,” he said, “so I will stay with you always.”
“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you
must go away to Egypt.”
“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and
he slept at the Prince’s feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told
him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him
of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile,
and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as
the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of
the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry
amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon,
who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great
green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed
it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on
large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell
me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering
of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery.
Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.”
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making
merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the
gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving
children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the
archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s
arms to try and keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!”
they said. “You must not lie here,” shouted the Watchman,
and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you
must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always
think that gold can make them happy.”
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the
Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the
fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew
rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. “We
have bread now!” they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The
streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and
glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves
of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore
scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not
leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside
the baker’s door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep
himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength
to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye,
dear Prince!” he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”
“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,”
said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must
kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”
“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow.
“I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother
of Sleep, is he not?”
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something
had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right
in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below
in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column
he looked up at the statue: “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince
looks!” he said.
“How shabby indeed!” cried the Town Councillors, who
always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and
he is golden no longer,” said the Mayor in fact, “he is
litttle beter than a beggar!”
“Little better than a beggar,” said the Town Councillors.
“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued
the Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds
are not to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made
a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As
he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art
Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting
of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal.
“We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and
it shall be a statue of myself.”
“Of myself,” said each of the Town Councillors, and they
quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen
at the foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in
the furnace. We must throw it away.” So they threw
it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,”
said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden
heart and the dead bird.
“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my
garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in
my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE
“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red
roses,” cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there
is no red rose.”
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and
she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful
eyes filled with tears. “Ah, on what little things does
happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written,
and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose
is my life made wretched.”
“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale.
“Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not:
night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see
him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are
red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale
ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
“The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the
young Student, “and my love will be of the company. If I
bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring
her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head
upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there
is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass
me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.”
“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale.
“What I sing of, he suffers—what is joy to me, to him is
pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious
than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates
cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may
not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the
balance for gold.”
“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young
Student, “and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love
will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance
so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers
in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will
not dance, for I have no red rose to give her”; and he flung himself
down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as
he ran past him with his tail in the air.
“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about
after a sunbeam.
“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in
a soft, low voice.
“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!”
and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s
sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the
air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow
she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing
you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as
the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain.
But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he
will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round
the old sun-dial.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing
you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow
as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower
than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with
his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s
window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath
the Student’s window.
“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing
you my sweetest song.”
But the Tree shook its head.
“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the
feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave
and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins,
and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches,
and I shall have no roses at all this year.”
“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale,
“only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?”
“There is away,” answered the Tree; “but it is
so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.”
“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not
“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must
build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood.
You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night
long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and
your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”
“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried
the Nightingale, “and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant
to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold,
and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the
hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the
heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life,
and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed
through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left
him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you
shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight,
and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of
you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than
Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is
mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame
is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could
not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew
the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of
the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall
feel very lonely when you are gone.”
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water
bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book
and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away
through the grove—“that cannot be denied to her; but has
she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most
artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not
sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and
everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted
that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it
is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.”
And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and
began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long
she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon
leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn
went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous
rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it,
at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet
of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow
of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool,
so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the
Tree, “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul
of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like
the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the
bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s
heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood
can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the
Tree, “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn
touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her.
Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for
she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies
not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern
sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was
But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings
began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter
grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard
it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red
rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its
petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern
in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message
to the sea.
“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished
now”; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead
in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here
is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life.
It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name”; and
he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house
with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding
blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red
rose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose
in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and
as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.”
But the girl frowned.
“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered;
“and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some
real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the
Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell
into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you
what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student.
Why, I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your
shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has”; and she got up from
her chair and went into the house.
“What I a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he
walked away. “It is not half as useful as Logic, for it
does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that
are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not
true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to
be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and
began to read.
THE SELFISH GIANT
Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used
to go and play in the Giant’s garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and
there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were
twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms
of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds
sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop
their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are
here!” they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend
the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After
the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his
conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle.
When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice,
and the children ran away.
“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any
one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.”
So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play
on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and
they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall
when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.
“How happy we were there,” they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little
blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant
it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there
were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful
flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board
it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground
again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased
were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this
garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year
round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white
cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited
the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped
in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots
down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we
must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every
day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke
most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast
as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like
“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,”
said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his
cold white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave
golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave
none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was
always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost,
and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely
music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must
be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a
little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he
had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the
most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing
over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume
came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring
has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the
wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches
of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little
child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again
that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their
arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying
about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through
the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one
corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the
garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that
he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering
all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered
with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above
it. “Climb up! little boy,” said the Tree, and it
bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How
selfish I have been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring
would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top
of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall
be the children’s playground for ever and ever.” He
was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and
went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were
so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.
Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears
that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind
him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree.
And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang
on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them
round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children,
when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running
back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden
now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe
and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market
at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children
in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant
to bid him good-bye.
“But where is your little companion?” he said: “the
boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because
he had kissed him.
“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he
has gone away.”
“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,”
said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where
he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played
with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never
seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he
longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. “How
I would like to see him!” he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He
could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched
the children at their games, and admired his garden. “I
have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children
are the most beautiful flowers of all.”
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing.
He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring
asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked.
It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of
the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms.
Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them,
and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden.
He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And
when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said,
“Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of
the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints
of two nails were on the little feet.
“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell
me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”
“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds
“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell
on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let
me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden,
which is Paradise.”
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant
lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
THE DEVOTED FRIEND
One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole.
He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like
a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming
about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their
mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them
how to stand on their heads in the water.
“You will never be in the best society unless you can stand
on your heads,” she kept saying to them; and every now and then
she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no
attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what
an advantage it is to be in society at all.
“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat;
“they really deserve to be drowned.”
“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck, “every
one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient.”
“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said
the Water-rat; “I am not a family man. In fact, I have never
been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well
in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing
in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.”
“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?”
asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and
had overheard the conversation.
“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck;
and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in
order to give her children a good example.
“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I
should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course.”
“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird,
swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.
“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.
“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.
“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If
so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction.”
“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he
flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted
“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was
an honest little fellow named Hans.”
“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.
“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t think
he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny
round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself,
and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side
there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there,
and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds’-purses, and Fair-maids of France.
There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold,
purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and
Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the
Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months
went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there
were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.
“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted
friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was
the rich Miller to little Hans, that be would never go by his garden
without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful
of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it
was the fruit season.
“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’
the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt
very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.
“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that
the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he
had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch
cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his
head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than
to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the
unselfishness of true friendship.
“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the
spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter
came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered
a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without
any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter,
also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.
“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans as
long as the snow lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for
when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered
by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I
am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and
then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large
basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.’
“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’
answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big
pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat
to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself
could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in
a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.’
“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’ said
the Miller’s youngest son. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble
I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.’
“‘What a silly boy you are’! cried the Miller;
‘I really don’t know what is the use of sending you to school.
You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here,
and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red
wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would
spoil anybody’s nature. I certainly will not allow Hans’
nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always
watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations.
Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour
on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship
is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are
spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody
can see that.’
“‘How well you talk’! said the Miller’s Wife,
pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; ‘really I feel
quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.’
“‘Lots of people act well,’ answered the Miller;
‘but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much
the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also’;
and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so
ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet,
and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you
must excuse him.”
“Is that the end of the story?” asked the Water-rat.
“Certainly not,” answered the Linnet, “that is
“Then you are quite behind the age,” said the Water-rat.
“Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then
goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That
is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic
who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the
matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he
had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made
any remark, he always answered ‘Pooh!’ But pray go
on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have
all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy
“Well,” said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now
on the other, “as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses
began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that
he would go down and see little Hans.
“‘Why, what a good heart you have’! cried his Wife;
‘you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the
big basket with you for the flowers.’
“So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with
a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.
“‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the Miller.
“‘Good morning,’ said Hans, leaning on his spade,
and smiling from ear to ear.
“‘And how have you been all the winter?’ said the
“‘Well, really,’ cried Hans, ‘it is very
good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather
a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy,
and all my flowers are doing well.’
“‘We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,’
said the Miller, ‘and wondered how you were getting on.’
“‘That was kind of you,’ said Hans; ‘I was
half afraid you had forgotten me.’
“‘Hans, I am surprised at you,’ said the Miller;
‘friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about
it, but I am afraid you don’t understand the poetry of life.
How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye”!
“‘They are certainly very lovely,’ said Hans, ‘and
it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going
to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster’s
daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.’
“‘Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don’t mean
to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do’!
“‘Well, the fact is,’ said Hans, ‘that I
was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me,
and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first
sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver
chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow.
But I am going to buy them all back again now.’
“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give you
my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side
is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in
spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous
of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for
parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think
that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got
a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease,
I will give you my wheelbarrow.’
“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’ said
little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure.
‘I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the
“‘A plank of wood’! said the Miller; ‘why,
that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very
large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don’t stop
it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable
how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my
wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course,
the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true, friendship
never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will
set to work at my barn this very day.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran into
the shed and dragged the plank out.
“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the Miller,
looking at it, ‘and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof
there won’t be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with;
but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given
you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers
in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.’
“‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather sorrowfully,
for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it
he would have no flowers left for the market and he was very anxious
to get his silver buttons back.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘as
I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don’t think that it is much
to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have
thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness
of any kind.’
“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little
Hans, ‘you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden.
I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any
day’; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled
the Miller’s basket.
“‘Good-bye, little Hans,’ said the Miller, as he
went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket
in his hand.
“‘Good-bye,’ said little Hans, and he began to
dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.
“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the
porch, when he heard the Miller’s voice calling to him from the
road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and
looked over the wall.
“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘would
you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?’
“‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but I am
really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to nail up,
and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.’
“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I think
that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is
rather unfriendly of you to refuse.’
“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little Hans,
‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for the whole world’; and
he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.
“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and
before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he
had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and as
last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time,
he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned
home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might
meet some robbers on the way.
“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ said little
Hans to himself as he was going to bed, ‘but I am glad I did not
refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going
to give me his wheelbarrow.’
“Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money
for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still
“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you are
very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my
wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great
sin, and I certainly don’t like any of my friends to be idle or
sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you.
Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend.
But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one
means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to
flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not
mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers
it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ said little Hans, rubbing his
eyes and pulling off his night-cap, ‘but I was so tired that I
thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds
singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the
“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller, clapping
little Hans on the back, ‘for I want you to come up to the mill
as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.’
“Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden,
for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like
to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.
“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said
I was busy?’ he inquired in a shy and timid voice.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘I
do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to
give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do
“‘Oh! on no account,’ cried little Hans and he
jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.
“He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the
Miller came to see how he was getting on.
“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?’
cried the Miller in a cheery voice.
“‘It is quite mended,’ answered little Hans, coming
down the ladder.
“‘Ah’! said the Miller, ‘there is no work
so delightful as the work one does for others.’
“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’
answered little Hans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, ‘a
very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such
beautiful ideas as you have.’
“‘Oh! they will come to you,’ said the Miller,
‘but you must take more pains. At present you have only
the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.’
“‘Do you really think I shall?’ asked little Hans.
“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the Miller,
‘but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home
and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.’
“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early
the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage,
and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the
whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired
that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it
was broad daylight.
“‘What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,’
he said, and he went to work at once.
“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at
all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him
off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little
Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers
would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection
that the Miller was his best friend. ‘Besides,’ he
used to say, ‘he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that
is an act of pure generosity.’
“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller
said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took
down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very
“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by
his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild
night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly
that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second
rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others.
“‘It is some poor traveller,’ said little Hans
to himself, and he ran to the door.
“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big
stick in the other.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller, ‘I
am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and
hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far
away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that
it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I
am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you
should do something for me in return.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, ‘I take
it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at
once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark
that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller, ‘but
it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything
happened to it.’
“‘Well, never mind, I will do without it,’ cried
little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet
cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off.
“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black
that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he
could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after
he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor’s
house, and knocked at the door.
“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting his
head out of his bedroom window.
“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’
“’What do you want, little Hans?’
“‘The Miller’s son has fallen from a ladder, and
has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.’
“‘All right!’ said the Doctor; and he ordered his
horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and
rode off in the direction of the Miller’s house, little Hans trudging
“But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents,
and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the
horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor,
which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and
there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next
day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought
back by them to the cottage.
“Everybody went to little Hans’ funeral, as he was so
popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner.
“‘As I was his best friend,’ said the Miller, ‘it
is only fair that I should have the best place’; so he walked
at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and
then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief.
“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,’
said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated
comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.
“‘A great loss to me at any rate,’ answered the
Miller; ‘why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now
I really don’t know what to do with it. It is very much
in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get
anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to
give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.’”
“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long pause.
“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.
“But what became of the Miller?” asked the Water-rat.
“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the Linnet;
“and I am sure that I don’t care.”
“It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your
nature,” said the Water-rat.
“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,”
remarked the Linnet.
“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.
“Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”
“Certainly,” said the Linnet.
“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner,
“I think you should have told me that before you began.
If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact,
I should have said ‘Pooh,’ like the critic. However,
I can say it now”; so he shouted out “Pooh” at the
top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his
“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the Duck,
who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. “He has a
great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother’s
feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears
coming into my eyes.”
“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered
the Linnet. “The fact is, that I told him a story with a
“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said
And I quite agree with her.
THE REMARKABLE ROCKET
The King’s son was going to be married, so there were general
rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last
she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all
the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge
was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan’s wings
lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine-cloak reached
right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue,
and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived.
So pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people
wondered. “She is like a white rose!” they cried,
and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.
At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her.
He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When
he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.
“Your picture was beautiful,” he murmured, “but
you are more beautiful than your picture”; and the little Princess
“She was like a white rose before,” said a young Page
to his neighbour, “but she is like a red rose now”; and
the whole Court was delighted.
For the next three days everybody went about saying, “White
rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose”; and the King gave orders
that the Page’s salary was to be doubled. As he received
no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered
a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.
When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated.
It was a magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand
in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls.
Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The
Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of
a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this
cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.
“It’s quite clear that they love each other,” said
the little Page, “as clear as crystal!” and the King doubled
his salary a second time. “What an honour!” cried
all the courtiers.
After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom
were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to
play the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared
to tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only
two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but
it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, “Charming!
The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks,
to be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never
seen a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal
Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.
“What are fireworks like?” she had asked the Prince,
one morning, as she was walking on the terrace.
“They are like the Aurora Borealis,” said the King, who
always answered questions that were addressed to other people, “only
much more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always
know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my
own flute-playing. You must certainly see them.”
So at the end of the King’s garden a great stand had been set
up, and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its
proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other.
“The world is certainly very beautiful,” cried a little
Squib. “Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if
they were real crackers they could not be lovelier. I am very
glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and
does away with all one’s prejudices.”
“The King’s garden is not the world, you foolish squib,”
said a big Roman Candle; “the world is an enormous place, and
it would take you three days to see it thoroughly.”
“Any place you love is the world to you,” exclaimed a
pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in
early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; “but love
is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote
so much about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised.
True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once—But
it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.”
“Nonsense!” said the Roman Candle, “Romance never
dies. It is like the moon, and lives for ever. The bride
and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly. I heard
all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened
to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest Court
But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. “Romance is dead,
Romance is dead, Romance is dead,” she murmured. She was
one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and
over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.
Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.
It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to
the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any
observation, so as to attract attention.
“Ahem! ahem!” he said, and everybody listened except
the poor Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring,
“Romance is dead.”
“Order! order!” cried out a Cracker. He was something
of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local
elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.
“Quite dead,” whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she
went off to sleep.
As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third
time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as
if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder
of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished
“How fortunate it is for the King’s son,” he remarked,
“that he is to be married on the very day on which I am to be
let off. Really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could
not have turned out better for him; but, Princes are always lucky.”
“Dear me!” said the little Squib, “I thought it
was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince’s
“It may be so with you,” he answered; “indeed,
I have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different. I am
a very remarkable Rocket, and come of remarkable parents. My mother
was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned
for her graceful dancing. When she made her great public appearance
she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that
she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three
feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder.
My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction.
He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come
down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition,
and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain.
The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms.
Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art.”
“Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean,” said a Bengal Light;
“I know it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister.”
“Well, I said Pylotechnic,” answered the Rocket, in a
severe tone of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began
at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still
a person of some importance.
“I was saying,” continued the Rocket, “I was saying—What
was I saying?”
“You were talking about yourself,” replied the Roman
“Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject
when I was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners
of every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole
world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that.”
“What is a sensitive person?” said the Cracker to the
“A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads
on other people’s toes,” answered the Roman Candle in a
low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.
“Pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the Rocket;
“I am not laughing.”
“I am laughing because I am happy,” replied the Cracker.
“That is a very selfish reason,” said the Rocket angrily.
“What right have you to be happy? You should be thinking
about others. In fact, you should be thinking about me.
I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody else to do
the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful
virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance,
anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for
every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again,
their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know
he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the
importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears.”
“If you want to give pleasure to others,” cried the Roman
Candle, “you had better keep yourself dry.”
“Certainly,” exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now
in better spirits; “that is only common sense.”
“Common sense, indeed!” said the Rocket indignantly;
“you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable.
Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination.
But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are;
I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping
myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate
an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don’t care.
The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of
the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that
I have always cultivated. But none of you have any hearts.
Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess
had not just been married.”
“Well, really,” exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, “why
not? It is a most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the
air I intend to tell the stars all about it. You will see them
twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride.”
“Ah! what a trivial view of life!” said the Rocket; “but
it is only what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow
and empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live
in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have
one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince
himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse;
and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and
perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned.
What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son!
It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it.”
“But they have not lost their only son,” said the Roman
Candle; “no misfortune has happened to them at all.”
“I never said that they had,” replied the Rocket; “I
said that they might. If they had lost their only son there would
be no use in saying anything more about the matter. I hate people
who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose
their only son, I certainly am very much affected.”
“You certainly are!” cried the Bengal Light. “In
fact, you are the most affected person I ever met.”
“You are the rudest person I ever met,” said the Rocket,
“and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince.”
“Why, you don’t even know him,” growled the Roman
“I never said I knew him,” answered the Rocket.
“I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all.
It is a very dangerous thing to know one’s friends.”
“You had really better keep yourself dry,” said the Fire-balloon.
“That is the important thing.”
“Very important for you, I have no doubt,” answered the
Rocket, “but I shall weep if I choose”; and he actually
burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like rain-drops,
and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting
up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in.
“He must have a truly romantic nature,” said the Catherine
Wheel, “for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about”;
and she heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box.
But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and
kept saying, “Humbug! humbug!” at the top of their voices.
They were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything
they called it humbug.
Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars
began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.
The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced
so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and
watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat
Then ten o’clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve,
and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace,
and the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.
“Let the fireworks begin,” said the King; and the Royal
Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden.
He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch
at the end of a long pole.
It was certainly a magnificent display.
Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round.
Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced
all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet.
“Good-bye,” cried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping
tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were
enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success except
the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he could
not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder, and
that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor
relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up
into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire.
Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess laughed with
“I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion,”
said the Rocket; “no doubt that is what it means,” and he
looked more supercilious than ever.
The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. “This
is evidently a deputation,” said the Rocket; “I will receive
them with becoming dignity” so he put his nose in the air, and
began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important
subject. But they took no notice of him at all till they were
just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. “Hallo!”
he cried, “what a bad rocket!” and he threw him over the
wall into the ditch.
“BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?” he said, as he whirled
through the air; “impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what
the man said. BAD and GRAND sound very much the same, indeed they
often are the same”; and he fell into the mud.
“It is not comfortable here,” he remarked, “but
no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me
away to recruit my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered,
and I require rest.”
Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled
coat, swam up to him.
“A new arrival, I see!” said the Frog. “Well,
after all there is nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and
a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon?
I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless.
What a pity!”
“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket, and he began to cough.
“What a delightful voice you have!” cried the Frog.
“Really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the
most musical sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this
evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer’s
house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing
that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only
yesterday that I heard the farmer’s wife say to her mother that
she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It
is most gratifying to find oneself so popular.”
“Ahem! ahem!” said the Rocket angrily. He was very
much annoyed that he could not get a word in.
“A delightful voice, certainly,” continued the Frog;
“I hope you will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to
look for my daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am
so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and
would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye:
I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you.”
“Conversation, indeed!” said the Rocket. “You
have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation.”
“Somebody must listen,” answered the Frog, “and
I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents
“But I like arguments,” said the Rocket.
“I hope not,” said the Frog complacently. “Arguments
are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the
same opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the
distance and the little Frog swam away.
“You are a very irritating person,” said the Rocket,
“and very ill-bred. I hate people who talk about themselves,
as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is
what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing,
especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my
sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you
could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the
chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court
almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact,
the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour. Of
course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial.”
“There is no good talking to him,” said a Dragon-fly,
who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; “no good
at all, for he has gone away.”
“Well, that is his loss, not mine,” answered the Rocket.
“I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays
no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my
greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself,
and I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single
word of what I am saying.”
“Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy,” said
the Dragon-fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared
away into the sky.
“How very silly of him not to stay here!” said the Rocket.
“I am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving
his mind. However, I don’t care a bit. Genius like
mine is sure to be appreciated some day”; and he sank down a little
deeper into the mud.
After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had
yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account
of her waddle.
“Quack, quack, quack,” she said. “What a
curious shape you are! May I ask were you born like that, or is
it the result of an accident?”
“It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,”
answered the Rocket, “otherwise you would know who I am.
However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect
other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt
be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in
a shower of golden rain.”
“I don’t think much of that,” said the Duck, “as
I cannot see what use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough
the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after
the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something.”
“My good creature,” cried the Rocket in a very haughty
tone of voice, “I see that you belong to the lower orders.
A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments,
and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with
industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem
to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard
work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.”
“Well, well,” said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable
disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, “everybody has
different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take
up your residence here.”
“Oh! dear no,” cried the Rocket. “I am merely
a visitor, a distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this
place rather tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude.
In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back
to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world.”
“I had thoughts of entering public life once myself,”
remarked the Duck; “there are so many things that need reforming.
Indeed, I took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions
condemning everything that we did not like. However, they did
not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and
look after my family.”
“I am made for public life,” said the Rocket, “and
so are all my relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we
appear we excite great attention. I have not actually appeared
myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for
domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one’s mind from
“Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!” said
the Duck; “and that reminds me how hungry I feel”: and she
swam away down the stream, saying, “Quack, quack, quack.”
“Come back! come back!” screamed the Rocket, “I
have a great deal to say to you”; but the Duck paid no attention
to him. “I am glad that she has gone,” he said to
himself, “she has a decidedly middle-class mind”; and he
sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the
loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks
came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.
“This must be the deputation,” said the Rocket, and he
tried to look very dignified.
“Hallo!” cried one of the boys, “look at this old
stick! I wonder how it came here”; and he picked the rocket
out of the ditch.
“OLD Stick!” said the Rocket, “impossible!
GOLD Stick, that is what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary.
In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!”
“Let us put it into the fire!” said the other boy, “it
will help to boil the kettle.”
So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and
lit the fire.
“This is magnificent,” cried the Rocket, “they
are going to let me off in broad day-light, so that every one can see
“We will go to sleep now,” they said, “and when
we wake up the kettle will be boiled”; and they lay down on the
grass, and shut their eyes.
The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At
last, however, the fire caught him.
“Now I am going off!” he cried, and he made himself very
stiff and straight. “I know I shall go much higher than
the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun.
In fact, I shall go so high that—”
Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.
“Delightful!” he cried, “I shall go on like this
for ever. What a success I am!”
But nobody saw him.
Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.
“Now I am going to explode,” he cried. “I
shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody
will talk about anything else for a whole year.” And he
certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder.
There was no doubt about it.
But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were
Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on
the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.
“Good heavens!” cried the Goose. “It is going
to rain sticks”; and she rushed into the water.
“I knew I should create a great sensation,” gasped the
Rocket, and he went out.