 Yes, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam through the air over the ocean. The young inhabitants of America will become visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the monuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as we in our time make pilgrimages to the tottering splendours of southern Asia. In a thousand years they will come. The Thames, the Danube and the Rhine still roll their course. Mont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the northern lights gleam over the lands of the north. But generation after generation has become dust. Whole rows of the mighty of the moment are forgotten, like those who already slumber under the hill, on which the rich trader whose ground it is has built a bench, on which he can sit and look out across his waving cornfields. To Europe, cry the young sons of America, to the land of our ancestors, the glorious land of monuments and fancy, to Europe! The ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers, for the transit is quicker than by sea. The electromagnetic wire under the ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan. Europe is in sight. It is the coast of Ireland that they see. But the passengers are still asleep. They will not be called till they are exactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, in the land of Shakespeare as the educated call it, in the land of politics, the land of machines, as it is called by others. Here they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race can devote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journeys continue through the tunnel under the English Channel, to France, the land of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Molière is named. The learned men talk of the classic school of remote antiquity. There is rejoicing and shouting for the names of heroes, poets and men of science, whom our time does not know, but who will be born after our time in Paris, the crater of Europe. The air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went forth, where Cortes was born, where Calderon sang dramas in sounding verse, beautiful black-eyed women still live in the blooming valleys, and the oldest songs speak of the Sid in the Alhambra. Then through the air over the sea to Italy, where once lay old everlasting Rome, it has vanished, the campania lies desert, a single ruined wall is shown as the remains of St. Peter's, but there is a doubt if this ruin be genuine. Next, to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top of Mount Olympus, to say that they have been there, and the journey has continued to the Bosphorus, to rest there a few hours, and see the place where Byzantium lay, and where the legend tells that the harem stood in the time of the Turks, poor fishermen are now spreading their nets. Over the remains of mighty cities on the broad Danube, cities which we in our time know not, the travellers pass, but here and there, on the rich sights of those that time shall bring forth, the caravan sometimes descends and departs thence again. Down below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of railways and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe sang, and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony. Great names shine there, in science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day devoted to seeing Germany, and one for the north, the country of Ærsted and Linius, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and the young Normans. The giezers burn no more, Heckler is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is still fixed in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of legend and poetry. Ær is really a great deal to be seen in Europe, says the young American, and we have seen it in a week according to the directions of the great traveller, and here he mentions the name of one of his contemporaries, in his celebrated work, How to See All Europe in a Week. End of In a Thousand Years by Hans Christian Andersen, recording by Lucy Perry in Bath on July 6, 2009. The Tinderbox by Hans Christian Andersen. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Margaret Espayette. The Tinderbox by Hans Christian Andersen. There came a soldier marching along the high road, one, two, one, two. He had his knapsack on his back, and a sabre by his side, for he had been in the wars, and now he wanted to go home. And on the way he met with an old witch. She was very hideous, and her underlip hung down upon her breast. She said, Good evening, soldier! What a fine sword you have, and what a big knapsack! You're a proper soldier! Now you shall have as much money as you like to have! I thank you, you old witch, said the soldier. Do you see that great tree? Quote the witch, and she pointed to a tree which stood beside them. It's quite hollow inside. You must climb to the top, and then you'll see a hole through which you can let yourself down, and get deep into the tree. I'll tie a rope round your body, so that I can pull you up again when you call me. What am I to do down in the tree, asked the soldier. Get money, replied the witch. Listen to me. When you come down to the earth under the tree, you'll find yourself in a great hall. It is quite light, for above three hundred lamps are burning there. Then you will see three doors. These you can open, for the keys are hanging there. If you go into the first chamber, you'll see a great chest in the middle of the floor. On this chest sits a dog, and he's got a pair of eyes as big as two teacups. But you need not care for that. I'll give you my blue-checked apron, and you can spread it out upon the floor. Then go up quickly and take the dog, and set him on my apron, then open the chest, and take as many shillings as you like. Of copper, if you prefer silver, you must go to the second chamber. But there sits a dog with a pair of eyes as big as mill-wheels. But do not you care for that. Set him upon my apron, and take some of the money. And if you want gold, you can have that too. In fact, as much as you can carry if you go into the third chamber, but the dog that sits on the money-chest there has two eyes as big as round towers. He is a fierce dog, you may be sure, but you'd needn't be afraid for all that. Only set him on my apron, and he won't hurt you, and take out of the chest as much gold as you like. That's not so bad, said the soldier. But what am I to give you, you old witch, for you will not do it for nothing, I fancy. No, replied the witch. Not a single shilling will I have. You shall only bring me an old tinder-box, which my grandmother forgot when she was down there last. Then tie the rope around my body, cried the soldier. Here it is, said the witch, and here's my blue-checked apron. Then the soldier climbed up into the tree, let himself slip down into the hole, and stood, as the witch had said, in the great hall, where the three hundred lamps were burning. Now he opened the first door. Ugh! There sat the dog with the eyes as big as tea-cups staring at him. You're a nice fellow, exclaimed the soldier, and he set him on the witch's apron and took as many copper shillings as his pockets would hold, and then locked the chest, set the dog on it again, and went into the second chamber. Aha! There sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels. You should not stare so hard at me, said the soldier, you might strain your eyes. And he set the dog upon the witch's apron. And when he saw the silver money in the chest, he threw away all the copper money he had, and filled his pockets and his knapsack with silver only. Then he went into the third chamber. Oh! But that was horrid! The dog there really had eyes as big as towers, and they turned round and round in his head-like wheels. Good evening, said the soldier, and he touched his cap, for he had never seen such a dog as that before. When he had looked at him a little more closely, he thought, that will do, and lifted him down to the floor and opened the chest. Mercy! What a quantity of gold was there! He could buy with it the whole town, and the sugar-sucking pigs of the cake-woman, and all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking horses in the whole world. Yes, that was a quantity of money! Now the soldier threw away all the silver coin with which he had filled his pockets and his knapsack, and took gold instead. Yes, all his pockets, his knapsack, his boots, and cap were filled, so that he could scarcely walk. Now indeed he had plenty of money. He put the dog on the chest, shut the door, and then called up through the tree. Now pull me up, you old witch! Have you got the tinder-box? asked the witch. Plague on it! exclaimed the soldier. I had clean forgotten that. And he went and brought it. The witch drew him up, and he stood on the high road again with pockets, boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold. What are you going to do with the tinder-box? asked the soldier. That's nothing to you! retorted the witch. You've had your money. Just give me the tinder-box. Nonsense! said the soldier. Tell me directly what you're going to do with it, or I'll draw my sword and cut off your head. No! cried the witch. So the soldier cut off her head. There she lay. But he tied up all his money in her apron, took it on his back like a bundle, put the tinder-box in his pocket, and went straight off towards the town. That was a splendid town. And he put up at the very best inn, and asked for the finest rooms, and ordered his favorite dishes, for now he was rich as he had so much money. The servant who had to clean his boots certainly thought them a remarkably old pair for such a rich gentleman, but he had not bought any new ones yet. The next day he procured proper boots and handsome clothes. Now our soldier had become a fine gentleman, and the people told him of all the splendid things which were in their city, and about the king, and what a pretty princess the king's daughter was. Where can one get to see her, asked the soldier. She is not to be seen at all, said they all together. She lives in a great copper castle, with a great many walls and towers round about it. No one but the king may go in and out there, for it has been prophesied that she shall marry a common soldier, and the king can't bear that. I should like to see her, thought the soldier, but he could not get leave to do so. Now he lived merrily, went to the theater, drove in the king's garden, and gave much money to the poor, and this was very kind of him, for he knew from old times how hard it is when one has not a shilling. Now he was rich, had fine clothes, and gained many friends, who all said he was a rare one, a true cavalier, and that pleased the soldier well. But as he spent money every day and never earned any, he had at last only two shillings left, and he was obliged to turn out of the fine rooms in which he had dwelt, and had to live in a little garret under the roof, and clean as boots for himself, and mend them with a darning needle. None of his friends came to see him, for there were too many stairs to climb. It was quite dark one evening, and he could not even buy himself a candle, when it occurred to him that there was a candle-end in the tinder-box which he had taken out of the hollow tree into which the witch had helped him. He brought out the tinder-box and the candle-end, but as soon as he struck fire and the sparks rose up from the flint, the door flew open, and the dog who had eyes as big as a couple of tea-cups and whom he had seen in the tree, stood before him and said, "'What are my Lord's commands?' "'What is this?' said the soldier. "'That's a famous tinder-box. If I can get everything with it that I want. "'Bring me some money,' said he to the dog, and whisk! The dog was gone, and whisk! He was back again, with a great bag full of shillings in his mouth. Now the soldier knew what a capital tinder-box this was. If he struck it once, the dog came who sat on the chest of copper money. If he struck it twice, the dog came who had the silver, and if he struck it three times, then appeared the dog who had the gold. Now the soldier moved back into the fine rooms and appeared again in handsome clothes, and all his friends knew him again and cared very much for him indeed. Once he thought to himself, it is a very strange thing that one cannot get to see the princess. They all say she's very beautiful, but what is the use of that if she has always to sit in the great copper castle with the many towers? Can I not get to see her at all? Where is my tinder-box? And so he struck a light, and whisk came the dog with eyes as big as tea-cups. "'It is midnight,' certainly,' said the soldier, but I should very much like to see the princess, only for one little moment. And the dog was outside the door directly, and before the soldier thought it came back with the princess. She sat upon the dog's back and slept, and everyone could see she was a real princess, for she was so lovely. The soldier could not refrain from kissing her, for he was a thorough soldier. Then the dog ran back again with the princess. But when morning came, and the king and queen were drinking tea, the princess said she had had a strange dream the night before, about a dog and a soldier that she had ridden upon the dog, and the soldier had kissed her. "'That would be a fine history,' said the queen. So one of the old court-ladies had to watch the next night by the princess's bed to see if this really was a dream, or what it might be. The soldier had a great longing to see the lovely princess again, so the dog came in the night, took her away, and ran as fast as he could. But the old lady put on water-boots and ran just as fast after him. When she saw that they both entered a great house, she thought, Now I know where it is, and with a bit of chalk she drew a great cross upon the door. Then she went home and lay down, and the dog came up with the princess, but when he saw that there was a cross drawn on the door where the soldier lived, he took a piece of chalk, too, and drew crosses on all the doors in the town. And that was cleverly done, for now the lady could not find the right door, because all the doors had crosses upon them. In the morning early came the king and queen, the old court-lady and all the officers, to see where it was the princess had been. Here it is, said the king, when he saw the first door with a cross upon it. No, my dear husband, it is there, said the queen, who described another door which also showed a cross. But there is one, and there is one, said all, for wherever they looked there were crosses on the doors. So they saw it would avail them nothing if they searched on. But the queen was an exceedingly clever woman who could do more than ride in a coach. She took her great gold scissors, cut a piece of silk into pieces, and made a neat little bag. This bag she filled with fine wheat flour and tied it on the princess's back, and when that was done she cut a little hole in the bag so that the flour would be scattered along all the way which the princess should take. In the night the dog came again, took the princess on his back, and ran with her to the soldier who loved her very much and would gladly have been a prince so that he might have her for his wife. The dog did not notice at all how the flour ran out in a stream from the castle to the windows of the soldier's house where he ran up the wall with the princess. In the morning the king and the queen saw well enough where their daughter had been, and they took the soldier and put him in prison. There he sat. Oh, but it was dark and disagreeable there. And they said to him, Tomorrow you shall be hanged. That was not amusing to hear, and he had left his tinder box at the inn. In the morning he could see, through the iron grating of the little window, how the people were hurrying out of the town to see him hanged. He heard the drums beat and saw the soldier's marching. All the people were running out, and among them was a shoemaker's boy with a leather apron and slippers, and he galloped so fast that one of his slippers flew off and came right against the wall where the soldier sat looking through the iron grating. Hello, you shoemaker's boy. You needn't be in such a hurry, cried the soldier to him. It will not begin till I come. But if you will run to where I lived and bring me my tinder box, you shall have four shillings, but you must put your best leg foremost. The shoemaker's boy wanted to get the four shillings, so he went and brought the tinder box, and, well, we shall hear now what happened. Outside the town a great gallows had been built, round it stood the soldiers and many hundred thousand people. The king and queen sat on a splendid throne opposite to the judges and the whole council. The soldier already stood upon the ladder, but as they were about to put the rope around his neck he said that before a poor criminal suffered his punishment an innocent request was always granted to him. He wanted very much to smoke a pipe of tobacco, and it would be the last pipe he should smoke in the world. The king would not say no to this, so the soldier took his tinder box and struck fire. One, two, three. And there suddenly stood all the dogs, the one with the eyes as big as teacups, the one with the eyes as large as mill wheels, and the one whose eyes were as big as round towers. Help me now so that I may not be hanged, said the soldier. And the dogs fell upon the judge and all the council, seized one by the leg and another by the nose, and tossed them all many feet into the air so that they fell down and were broken to pieces. I won't, cried the king, but the biggest dog took him and the queen and threw them after the others. Then the soldiers were afraid, and the people cried, Little soldier, you shall be our king, and marry the beautiful princess. So they put the soldier into the king's coach, and all the three dogs darted on in front and cried, Hurrah! And the boys whistled through their fingers, and the soldiers presented arms. The princess came out of the copper castle and became queen, and she liked that well enough. The wedding lasted a week, and the three dogs sat at the table, too, and opened their eyes wider than ever at all they saw. End of the Tinderbox by Hans Christian Andersen. The Little Match Cellar by Hans Christian Andersen. The Little Match Cellar by Hans Christian Andersen, translated by Mrs. H. P. Paul, it was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large indeed that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron, she carried a number of matches and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even a penny, shivering with cold and hunger. She crept along. Poor little child, she looked at the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not. Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of frost goose, for it was New Year's Eve. Yes, she remembered that. In a corner between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep of the cold. And she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her. Besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them, through which the winds howled, although the largest halls had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Her, perhaps a burning match, might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out. Scratch! How it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned, and seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them. When low, the flame of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burned match in her hand. She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall, it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white tablecloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her. She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchants. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches and colored pictures like those she had seen in the show windows looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out. The Christmas lights rose higher and higher till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a starfall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. Someone is dying, thought the little girl. For her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul is going up to God. She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her. In the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. Grandmother, cried the little one, oh, take me with you. I know you will go away when the match burns out. You will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large glorious Christmas tree. And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noonday. And her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy, far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God. In the dawn of mourning, there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall. She had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year. And the new year's sun rose and shone upon her little corpse. The child still sat in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. She tried to warm herself, said someone. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother on New Year's day. End of the little match-seller by Hans Christian Andersen, Using by Ezwa in Belgium in July 2009. There were once five and twenty tin soldiers, who were all brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon. They shouldered arms and looked straight before them, and wore a splendid uniform, red and blue. The first thing in the world they ever heard were the words, Tin Soldiers! Uttered by a little boy, who clapped his hands with delight when the lid of the box in which they lay was taken off. They were given to him for a birthday present, and he stood at the table to set them up. The soldiers were all exactly alike, except in one, who had only one leg. He had been left to the last, and then there was not enough of the melted tin to finish him, so they made him to stand firmly on one leg, and this caused him to be very remarkable. The table on which the tin soldiers stood was covered with other play-things, but the most attractive to the eye was a pretty little paper castle. Through the small windows the rooms could be seen. In front of the castle a number of little trees surrounded a piece of looking-glass, which was intended to represent a transparent lake. Swans made of wax swam on the lake, and were reflected in it. All this was very pretty, but the prettiest of all was a tiny little lady who stood at the open door of the castle. She also was made of paper, and she wore a dress of clear muslin with a narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders, just like a scarf. In front of these was fixed a glittering tinsel rose as large as her whole face. The little lady was a dancer, and she stretched out both her arms and raised one of her legs so high that the tin soldier could not see it at all, and he thought that she, like himself, had only one leg. That is the wife for me, he thought, but she is too grand, and lives in a castle, while I have only a box to live in—five and twenty of us all together. That is no place for her. Still I must try and make her acquaintance. Then he laid himself at full length on the table, behind a snuff-box that stood upon it, so that he could peep at the little delicate lady, who continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance. When evening came, the other tin soldiers were all placed in the box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the play-things began to have their own games together, to pay visits, to have sham fights, and to give balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their box. They wanted to get out and to join the amusements, but they could not open the lid. The nutcrackers played at leapfrog, and the pencil jumped about the table. There was such a noise that the canary woke up and began to talk, and in poetry, too. Only the tin soldier and the dancer remained in their places. She stood on tiptoe with her legs stretched out, as firmly as he did on his one leg. He never took his eyes from her, for even a moment. The clock struck twelve, and with a bounce up sprang the lid of the snuff-box. But instead of snuff, they jumped up a little black goblin, for the snuff-box was a toy puzzle. "'Tin soldier,' said the goblin, "'don't wish for what does not belong to you.' But the tin soldier pretended not to hear. "'Very well. Wait till to-morrow, then,' said the goblin. When the children came in the next morning, they placed the tin soldier in the window. Now whether it was the goblin who did it, or the draught, is not known, but the window flew open, and out fell the tin soldier, heels overhead, from the third story into the street below. It was a terrible fall, for he came head downwards. His helmet and his bayonet stuck in between the flagstones, and his one leg up in the air. The servant made, and the little boy went downstairs directly to look for him, but he was nowhere to be seen, although once they nearly trod on him. If he had called out, here I am, it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out for help while he wore a uniform. Presently it began to rain, and the drops fell faster and faster, till there was a heavy shower. When it was over, two boys happened to pass by, and one of them said, look, there is a tin soldier. He ought to have a boat to sail in, so they made a boat out of a newspaper, and placed the tin soldier in it, and sent him sailing down the gutter, while the two boys ran by the side of it and clapped their hands. Good gracious, what large waves arose in that gutter, and how fast the stream rolled on, for the rain had been very heavy. The paper boat rocked up and down, and turned itself round sometimes, so quickly that the tin soldier trembled, yet he remained firm. His countenance did not change. He looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket. Suddenly the boat shot under a bridge, which formed part of a drain, and then it was as dark as the tin soldier's box. Where am I going now? thought he. This is to Black Goblin's fault, I am sure. Oh, well, if the little lady were only here with me in the boat, I should not care for any darkness. Suddenly there appeared a great water rat who lived in the drain. Have you a passport? asked the rat. Give it to me at once. But the tin soldier remained silent, and held his musket tighter than ever. The boat sailed on, and the rat followed it. How he did gnash his teeth and cry out to the bits of wooden straw. Stop him! Stop him! He has not paid tall, and has not shown his pass. But the stream rushed on stronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already see daylight shining where the arch ended. Then he heard a roaring sound, quite terribly enough to frighten the bravest man. At the end of the tunnel, the drain fell into a large canal over a steep place, which made it as dangerous for him as a waterfall would be to us. He was too close to it to stop, so the boat rushed on and the poor tin soldier could only hold himself as stiffly as possible without moving an eyelid to show that he was not afraid. The boat whirled round three or four times, and then filled with water to the very edge. Nothing could save it from sinking. He now stood up to his neck in water, while deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became soft and loose with the wet, till at last the water closed over the soldier's head. He thought of the elegant little dancer whom he should never see again, and the words of the song sounded in his ears. Farewell, warrior, ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave. Then the paper boat fell to pieces, and the soldier sank into the water, and immediately afterwards was swallowed up by a great fish. Oh, how dark it was inside the fish! A great deal darker than in the tunnel, and narrower too, but the tin soldier continued firm, and lay at full length, shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro, making the most wonderful movements, but at last he became quite still. After a while a flash of lightning seemed to pass through him, and then the daylight approached, and a voice cried out, I declare, here is the tin soldier! The fish had been caught, taken to the market, and sold to the cook, who took him into the kitchen, and cut him open with a large knife. She picked up the soldier, and held him by the waist between her finger and thumb, and carried him into the room. They were all anxious to see this wonderful soldier, who had travelled about inside a fish, but he was not at all proud. They placed him on the table, and how many curious things do happen in the world! There he was in the very same room from the window of which he had fallen. There were the same children, the same playthings, standing on the table, and the pretty castle with the elegant little dancer at the door. She still balanced herself on one leg, and held up the other, so she was as firm as himself. It touched the tin soldier so much to see her, that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them back. He only looked at her, and they both remained silent. Presently, one of the little boys took up the tin soldier, and threw him into the stove. He had no reason for doing so, therefore it must have been the fault of the black goblin who lived in the snuffbox. The flames lighted up the tin soldier as he stood. The heat was very terrible, but whether it proceeded from the real fire, or from the fire of love, he could not tell. Then he could see that the bright colours were faded from his uniform, but whether they had been washed off during his journey, or from the effects of his sorrow. No one could say. He looked at the little lady, and she looked at him. He felt himself melting away, but he still remained firm with his gun on his shoulder. Suddenly the door of the room flew open, and the draft of air caught up the little dancer. She fluttered like a silt right into the stove, by the side of the tin soldier, and was instantly in flames, and was gone. The tin soldier melted down into a lump, and the next morning, when the maid's servant took the ashes out of the stove, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer, nothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a cinder. The end of the brave tin soldier, by Hans Christian Anderson. The princess and the pea, by Hans Christian Anderson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess, but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one. But nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess. One evening, a terrible storm came on. There was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly, a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it. It was a princess standing out there in the front of the gate. But good gracious, what a sight the rain in the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes. It ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess. Well, we'll soon find that out, thought the old queen. But she said nothing. Then into the bedroom, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pee on the bottom. Then she took 20 mattresses and laid them on the pee, and then 20 idered down beds on the top of the mattresses. On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning, she was asked how she had slept. Oh, very badly, said she. I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard. So that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible. Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pee right through the 20 mattresses and the 20 idered down beds. Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that. So the prince took her for his wife. For now he knew that he had a real princess, and the pee was put into the museum, where it may still be seen if no one has stolen it. There, that is a true story. End of The Princess and the Pea by Hans Christian Anderson. The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Anderson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Anderson. It was so glorious out in the country. It was summer. The cornfields were yellow. The oats were green. The hay had been put up in stacks in the green meadows. And the stork went about on his long red legs and chattered Egyptian, for this was the language he had learned from his good mother. All around the fields and meadows were great forests. And in the midst of these forests lay deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious out in the country. In the midst of the sunshine, there lay an old farm with deep canals about it. And from the wall down to the water grew great bird oaks so high that little children could stand upright under the loftiest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest wood. And here set a duck upon her nest. She had to hatch her ducklings. But she was almost tired out before the little ones came. And then she so seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit down under a bird ock and cackle with her. At last one egg shell after another burst open. It cried. And in all the eggs there were little creatures that stuck out their heads. They said. And they all came quacking out as fast as they could, looking all around them under the green leaves. And the mother let them look as much as they chose, for green is good for the eye. How wide the world is, said all the young ones, for they certainly had much more room now than when they were in the eggs. Do you think this is all the world, said the mother? That stretch is far across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's field. But I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together. And she stood up. No, I have not all. The largest egg still lies there. How long is it to last? I am really tired of it. And she sat down again. Well, how goes it? Asked an old duck who had come to pay her a visit. It lasts a long time without one egg, said the duck who said there. It will not burst. Now only look at the others. Are they not the prettiest little ducks one could possibly see? They are all like their father, the rogue. He never comes to see me. Let me see the egg which will not burst, said the old visitor. You may be sure it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in that way, and had much anxiety and trouble with the young ones, for they are afraid of the water. Must I say it to you? I could not get them to venture in. I quacked and I clacked, but it was no use. Let me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's egg. Let it lie there and teach the other children to swim. I think I will sit on it a little longer, said the duck. I've sat so long now that I can sit a few days more. Just as you please, said the old duck, and she went away. At last the gray tag burst, said the little one, and crept forth. It was very large and very ugly. The duck looked at it. It's a very large duckling, said she. None of the others look like that. Can it really be a turkey chick? Well, we shall soon find out. It must go into the water, even if I have to thrust it in myself. The next day it was bright, beautiful weather. The sun shone on all the green trees. The mother duck went down to the canal with all her family. Splash! She jumped into the water. She said, and one duckling after another plunged in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up in an instant and swam capitely. Their legs went of themselves, and they were all in the water. The ugly gray duckling swam with them. No, it's not a turkey, said she. Look how well it can use its legs, and how straight it holds itself. It is my own child. On the whole it's quite pretty if one looks at it rightly. Come with me, and I'll lead you out into the great world and present you in the duckyard. But keep close to me so that no one may tread on you and take care of the cats. And so they came into the duckyard. There was a terrible riot going on in there, for two families were quarreling about an eel's head, and the cat got it after all. See, that's how it goes in the world, said the mother duck. And she whetted her beak, for she, too, wanted the eel's head. Only use your legs, she said. See that you can bustle about and bow your heads before the old duck yonder. She's the grandest of all here. She's of Spanish blood. That's why she's so fat. And you see, she has a red rag round her leg. That's something particularly fine, and the greatest distinction a duck can enjoy. It signifies that one does not want to lose her, and that she's to be known by the animals and by men, too. Shake yourselves. Don't turn in your toes. A well-brought-up duck turns its toes quite out, just like father and mother. So, now bend your necks and say, And they did so. But the other ducks round about looked at them, and said quite boldly, Look there, now we're to have these hanging on, as if there were not enough of us already. And fie, how that duckling yonder looks, we won't stand that. And one duck flew up at it, and bit it in the neck. Let it alone, said the mother. It does no harm to anyone. Yes, but it's too large and peculiar, said the duck who had bitten it. And therefore it must be put down. Those are pretty children that the mother has there, said the old duck with the rag round her leg. They are all pretty, but that one, that was rather unlucky. I wish she could bear it over again. That cannot be done, my lady, replied the mother duck. It is not pretty, but it has a really good disposition and swims as well as any other. Yes, I may even say it, swims better. I think it will grow up pretty and become smaller in time. It has lain too long in the egg, and therefore it's not properly shaped. And then she pinched it in the neck and smoothed its feathers. Moreover, it is a drake, she said, and therefore it is not of so much consequence. I think it will be very strong, he makes his way already. The other ducklings are graceful enough, said the old duck. Make yourself at home, and if you find a nail's head, you may bring it to me. And now they were at home. But the poor duckling which had crept last out of the egg and looked so ugly was beaten and pushed and jeered as much by the ducks as by the chickens. It is too big, they all said. And the turkey-cock who had been born with a spurs and therefore thought himself an emperor blew himself up like a ship in full sail and bore straight down upon it. Then he gobbled and grew quite red in the face. The poor duckling did not know where it should stand or walk. It was quite melancholy because it looked ugly and was the butt of the whole duckyard. So it went on the first day. And afterwards it became worse and worse. The poor duckling was hunted about by everyone. Even its brothers and sisters were quite angry with it and said, If the cat would only catch you, you ugly creature. And the mother said, If you were only far away. And the ducks bit it, and the chickens beat it, and the girl who had to feed the poultry kicked at it with her foot. Then it ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the bushes flew up in fear. That is because I am so ugly, thought the duckling. And it shut its eyes, but flew on further. And so it came out into the great moor where the wild ducks lived. Here it lay the whole night long, and it was weary and downcast. The next morning the wild ducks flew up and looked at their new companion. What sort of a one are you? They asked, and the duckling turned in every direction and bowed as well as it could. You are remarkably ugly, said the wild ducks. But that is nothing to us so long as you do not marry into our family. Poor thing. It certainly did not think of marrying, and only hoped to obtain leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the swamp water. Thus it lay two whole days. Then came either two wild geese, or, properly speaking, two wild ganders. It was not long since each had crept out of an egg, and that's why they were so saucy. Listen, comrade, said one of them, you are so ugly that I like you. Will you go with us and become a bird of passage? Near here, in another moor, there are a few sweet, lovely wild geese, all unmarried, and all able to say rap. You have a chance of making your fortune ugly as you are. Piss, puff! resounded through the air, and the two ganders fell down dead in the swamp, and the water became blood-red. Piss, puff! It sounded again, and the whole flock of wild geese rose up from the reeds. And then there was another report. A great hunt was going on. The sportsmen were lying in wait all round the moor, and some were even sitting up in the branches of the trees, which spread far over the reeds. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the dark trees, and was wafted far away across the water. And the hunting dogs came, splash, splash, into the swamp, and the rushes and the reeds bent down on every side. That was a fright for the poor duckling. It turned its head and put it under its wing. But at that moment a frightful great dog stood close by the duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth, and his eyes gleamed horrible and ugly. He thrust out his nose close against the duckling, showed his sharp teeth, and, splash, splash, on he went, without seizing it. Oh, heaven be thanked, sighed the duckling. I am so ugly that even the dog does not like to bite me. And so it lay quite quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds, and gun after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, all was still. It waited several hours before it looked round, and then hastened away out of the moor as fast as it could. It ran on overfield and meadow, there was such a storm raging that it was difficult to get from one place to another. That evening the duck came to a little miserable peasant's hut. This hut was so dilapidated that it did not itself know on which side it should fall. And that's why it remained standing. The storm whistled round the duckling in such a way that the poor creature was obliged to sit down to stand against it. And the wind blew worse and worse. Then the duckling noticed that one of the hinges of the door had given way, and the door hung so slanting that the duckling could slip through the crack into the room. And that is what it did. Here lived a woman with her cat and her hen. And the cat, whom she called Sonny, could arch his back and purr. He could even give out sparks. But for that one had to stroke his fur the wrong way. The hen had quite little short legs, and therefore she was called Chikabiti short shanks. She laid good eggs, and the woman loved her as her own child. In the morning the strange duckling was at once noticed, and the cat began to purr, and the hen took luck. What's this? said the woman, and looked all round, but she could not see well, and therefore she thought the duckling was a fat duck that had strayed. This is a rare prize, she said. Now I shall have duck's hags. I hope it is not a drake. We must try that. And so the duckling was admitted on trial for three weeks, but no hags came. And the cat was master of the house, and the hen was the lady, and always said, We and the world. For she thought they were half the world, and by far the better half. The duckling thought one might have a different opinion, but the hen would not allow it. Can you lay eggs? She asked. No. Then will you hold your tongue? And the cat said, Can you curve your back and purr and give out sparks? No. Then you will please have no opinion of your own when sensible folks are speaking. And the duckling sat in a corner and was melancholy. Then the fresh air and the sunshine streamed in, and it was seized with such a strange longing to swim on the water, that it could not help telling the hen of it. What are you thinking of? cried the hen. You have nothing to do, that's why you have these fences. Lay eggs or purr, and they will pass over. But it is so charming to swim on the water, said the duckling, so refreshing to let it close above one's head and to dive down to the bottom. Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure, truly, quoth the hen. I fancy you must have gone crazy. Ask the cat about it, he's the cleverest animal I know. Ask him if he likes to swim on the water or to dive down. I won't speak about myself. Ask how mistress the old woman. No one in the world is cleverer than she. Do you think she has any desire to swim and to let the water close above her head? You don't understand me, said the duckling. We don't understand you. Then pray, who is to understand you? You surely don't pretend to be cleverer than the cat and the woman. I won't say anything of myself. Don't be conceited, child, and thank your maker for all the kindness you have received. Did you not get into a warm room, and have you not fallen into company from which you may learn something? But you are a chatterer, and it is not pleasant to associate with you. You may believe me. I speak for your good. I tell you disagreeable things, and by that one may always know one's true friends. Only take care that you learn to lay eggs or to purr and give out sparks. I think I will go out into the wide world, said the duckling. Yes, do go, replied the hen. And so the duckling went away. He swam on the water and dived, but it was slighted by every creature because of its ugliness. Now came the autumn. The leaves in the forest turned yellow and brown. The wind caught them so that they danced about, and up in the air it was very cold. The clouds hung low, heavy with hail and snowflakes, and on the fence stood the raven crying, Croak croak, for mere cold. Yes, it was enough to make one feel cold to think of this. The poor little duckling certainly had not a good time. One evening the sun was just setting in his beauty. There came a whole flock of great, handsome birds out of the bushes. They were dazzlingly white, with long, flexible necks. They were swans. They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so high, and the ugly duckling felt quite strangely as it watched them. It turned round and round in the water like a wheel, stretched out its neck towards them, and uttered such a strange loud cry as frightened itself. Oh, it could not forget those beautiful, happy birds, and so soon as it could see them no longer, it dived down to the very bottom, and when it came up again, it was quite beside itself. It knew not the name of those birds, and knew not whither they were flying, but it loved them more than it had ever loved anyone. It was not at all envious of them. How could it think of wishing to possess such loveliness as they had? It would have been glad if only the ducks would have endured its company, the poor, ugly creature. And the winter grew cold, very cold. The duckling was forced to swim about in the water, to prevent the surface from freezing entirely. But every night the hole in which it swam about became smaller and smaller. It froze so hard that the icy covering crackled again, and the duckling was obliged to use its leg continually to prevent the hole from freezing up. At last it became exhausted and lay quite still, and thus froze fast into the ice. Early in the morning a peasant came by, and when he saw what had happened, he took his wooden shoe, broke the ice-crust to pieces, and carried the duckling home to his wife. Then it came to itself again. The children wanted to play with it, but the duckling thought they wanted to hurt it, and in its terror fluttered up into the milk-pan, so that the milks purred it down into the room. The woman clasped her hands at which the duckling flew down into the butter-tub, and then into the meal-barrel and out again. How it looked then! The woman screamed and struck at it with the fire-tongues. The children tumbled over one another in their efforts to catch the duckling, and they laughed, and they screamed. While it was that the doors stood open, and the poor creature was able to slip out between the shrubs into the newly fallen snow, there it lay quite exhausted. But it would be too melancholy if I were to tell you all the misery and care which the duckling had to endure in the hard winter. It lay out on the moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine again, and the larks to sing. It was a beautiful spring. Then all at once the duckling could flap its wings. They beat the air more strongly than before, and bore it strongly away. And before it well knew how all this happened, it found itself in a great garden where the elder trees smelt sweet, and bent their long green branches down to the canal that wound through the region. Oh, here it was so beautiful, such a gladness of string! And from the thickets came three glorious white swans. They rustled their wings, and swam lightly on the water. The duckling knew the splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by a peculiar sadness. I will fly away to them, to the royal birds, and they will beat me, because I, that I am so ugly, dare to come near them. But it is all the same, better be killed by them, than to be perched by ducks and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the poultry-yard, and to suffer hunger in the winter. And it flew out into the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans. These looked at it, and came sailing down upon it without spread wings. Kill me, said the poor creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting nothing but death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld its own image, and lo, it was no longer clumsy-dark graybird, ugly and hateful to look at, but a swan! It matters nothing if one is born in a duckyard, if one has only lain in a swan's egg. It felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune it had suffered, now it realized its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded it. And the great swans swam round it, and stroked it with their beaks. Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn into the water, and the youngest cried, There is a new one! And the other children shouted joyously, Yes, a new one has arrived! And they clapped their hands, and danced about, and ran to their father and mother. And bread and cake were thrown into the water, and they all said, The new one is the most beautiful of all, so young and handsome! And the old swans bowed their heads before him. Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings, for he did not know what to do. He was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He thought how he had been persecuted and despised, and now he heard them saying that he was the most beautiful of all birds. Even the elder tree bent its branches straight down into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and mild. Then his wings rustled. He lifted his slender neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of his heart. I never dreamt of so much happiness when I was the ugly duckling. End of the ugly duckling by Hans Christian Andersen, recording by Iswa in Belgium in July 2009. The Emperor's New Suit by Hans Christian Andersen, read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Patinama. Many many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money in order to obtain them. His only ambition was to be always well dressed. He did not care for his soldiers, and the theatre did not amuse him. The only thing, in fact, he thought anything of, was to drive out and show a new suit of clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and as one would say of a king he is in his cabinet, so one could say of him, the emperor is in his dressing room. The great city where he resided was very gay. Every day many strangers from all parts of the globe arrived. One day two swindlers came to the city. They made people believe that they were weavers, and declared they could manufacture the finest cloth to be imagined. The colours and patterns they said were not only exceptionally beautiful, but the clothes made of their material possessed the wonderful quality of being invisible to any man who was unfit for his office, or unpartnerably stupid. That must be wonderful cloth, thought the emperor. If I were to be dressed in a suit made of this cloth, I should be able to find out which men in my empire were unfit for their places, and I could distinguish the clever from the stupid. I must have this cloth woven for me without delay. And he gave a large sum of money to the swindlers, in advance, that they should set to work without any loss of time. They set up two looms, and pretended to be very hard at work, but they did nothing whatever on the looms. They asked for the finest silk and the most precious gold cloth, all they got they did away with, and worked at the empty looms till late at night. I should very much like to know how they are getting on with the cloth, thought the emperor, but he felt rather uneasy when he remembered that he who was not fit for his office could not see it. Personally he was of opinion that he had nothing to fear, yet he thought it advisable to send somebody else first to see how matters stood. Everybody in the town knew what a remarkable quality the stuff possessed, and all were anxious to see how bad or stupid the neighbours were. I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers, thought the emperor. He can judge best how the stuff looks, for he is intelligent, and nobody understands his office better than he. The good old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat before the empty looms. Heaven preserve us, he thought, and opened his eyes wide. I cannot see anything at all, but he did not say so. Both swindlers requested him to come near, and asked him if he did not admire the exquisite pattern and the beautiful colours pointing to the empty looms. The poor old minister tried his very best, but he could see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. Oh dear, he thought, can I be so stupid? I should never have thought so, and nobody must know it. Is it possible that I am not fit for my office? No, no, I cannot say that I was unable to see the cloth. Now, have you got nothing to say, said one of the swindlers, while he pretended to be busily waving. Oh, it is very pretty, exceedingly beautiful, replied the old minister, looking through his glasses. What a beautiful pattern, what brilliant colours! I shall tell the emperor that I like the cloth very much. We are pleased to hear that, said the two weavers, and described to him the colours and explained a curious pattern. The old minister listened attentively that he might relate to the emperor what they said, and so he did. Now the swindlers asked for more money, silk and gold cloth, which they required for weaving. They kept everything for themselves, and not a thread came near the loom, but they continued, as hitherto, to work at the empty looms. Then afterwards he imprisoned another honest courtier to the weavers, to see how they were getting on, and if the cloth was nearly finished. Like the old minister, he looked and looked, but could see nothing, as there was nothing to be seen. Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth, asked the two swindlers, showing and explaining the magnificent pattern, which, however, did not exist? I am not stupid, said the man. It is therefore my good appointment for which I am not fit. It is very strange, but I must not let anyone know it. And he praised the cloth, which he did not see, and expressed his joy in the beautiful colours and the fine pattern. It is very excellent, he said to the emperor. Everybody in the whole town talked about the precious cloth. At last the emperor wished to see it himself, while it was still on the loom. With the number of courtiers, including the two who had already been there, he went to the two clever swindlers, who now worked as hard as they could, but without using any thread. Is it not magnificent, said the two old statesmen who had been there before? Your majesty must admire the colours and the pattern. And then they pointed to the empty looms, for they imagined the others could see the cloth. What is this, thought the emperor? I do not see anything at all. That is terrible. Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor? That would indeed be the most dreadful thing that could happen to me. Really, he said, turning to the weavers, your cloth has our most gracious approval, and not incontentately he looked at the empty loom, for he did not like to say that he saw nothing. All his attendants who were with him looked and looked, and although they could not see anything more than the others, they said, like the emperor, it is very beautiful, and all advised him to wear the new magnificent clothes at a great procession which was soon to take place. It is magnificent, beautiful, excellent. One heard them say, everybody seemed to be delighted. And the emperor appointed the two swindlers, imperial court weavers. The whole night, previous to the day on which the procession was to take place, the swindlers pretended to work and burned more than sixteen candles. People should see that they were busy to finish the emperor's new suit. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom and worked about in the air with big scissors and sewed with needles without thread, and said at last, the emperor's new suit is ready now. The emperor and all his barons then came to the hall. The swindlers held their arms up as if they held something in their hands, and said, these are the trousers, this is the coat, and here is the cloak, and so on. They are all as light as a cobweb, and one must feel as if one had nothing at all upon the body, but that is just the beauty of them. Indeed, said all the courtiers, but they could not see anything, for there was nothing to be seen. Does it please your majesty now to graciously undress, said the swindlers, that we may assist your majesty in putting on the new suit before the large looking glass? The emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put a new suit upon him, one piece after another, and the emperor looked at himself in the glass from every side. How well they look, how well they fit, said all, what a beautiful pattern, what fine colours, that is a magnificent suit of clothes. The master of the ceremonies announced that the bearers of the canopy, which was to be carried into the procession, were ready. I am ready, said the emperor, does not my suit fit me marvelously. Then he turned once more to the looking glass that people should think he admired his garments. The chamberlains, who were to carry the train, stretched their hands to the ground, as if they lifted up a train, and pretended to hold something in their hands. They did not like people to know, that they could not see anything. The emperor marched into procession on the beautiful canopy, and all who saw him in the street and out of the windows exclaimed, Indeed, the emperor's new suit is incomparable. What a long train he has, how well it fits him. Nobody wished to let others know he saw nothing, for then he would have been unfit for his office, or too stupid. Never emperor's clothes were more admired. But he has nothing on at all, said a little child at last. Good heavens, listen to the voice of an innocent child, said the father, and one whispered to the other what the child had said. But he has nothing on at all, cried at last the whole people. That made a deep impression upon the emperor, for it seemed to him that they were right. But he thought to himself, Now I must bear up to the end. And the chamberlains walked with still great dignity, as if they carried a train, which did not exist. End of the emperor's new suit. This recording is in the public domain. The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Andersen This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alex Eating The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Andersen There once was a little girl who was very pretty and delicate, but in summer she was forced to run about with bare feet. She was so poor and in winter wore very large wooden shoes, which made her little insteps quite red, and that looked so dangerous. In the middle of the village lived old dame shoemaker. She sat and sewed together as well as she could a little pair of shoes out of old red strips of cloth. They were very clumsy, but it was a kind thought. They were meant for the little girl. The little girl was called Karen. On the very day her mother was buried, Karen received the red shoes and wore them for the first time. They were certainly not intended for mourning, but she had no others, and with stockingless feet, she followed the poor straw coffin in them. Suddenly a large old carriage drove up and a large old lady sat in it. She looked at the little girl, felt compassion for her, and then said to the clergyman, Here give me the little girl, I will adopt her. And Karen believed all this happened on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought they were horrible and they were burnt. But Karen herself was cleanly and nicely dressed. She must learn to read and sew, and people said she was a nice little thing, but the looking-glass said, Thou art more than nice, Thou art beautiful. Now the queen once traveled through the land, and she had her little daughter with her. And this little daughter was a princess, and people streamed to the castle, and Karen was there also. And the little princess stood in her fine white dress in a window and let herself be stared at. She had neither a train nor a golden crown, but splendid red Morocco shoes. They were certainly far handsomer than those Dame Shoemaker had made for little Karen. Nothing in the world can be compared with red shoes. Now Karen was old enough to be confirmed. She had new clothes and was to have new shoes also. The rich shoemaker in the city took the measure of her little foot. This took place at his house in his room, where stood large glass cases filled with elegant shoes and brilliant boots. All this looked charming, but the old lady could not see well, and so had no pleasure in them. In the midst of the shoes stood a pair of red ones, just like those the princess had worn. How beautiful they were, the shoemaker said. Also they had been made for the child of account, but had not fitted. That must be patent leather, said the old lady. They shine so. Yes, they shine, said Karen, and they fitted and were bought, but the old lady knew nothing about their being red. Else she would never have allowed Karen to have gone in red shoes to be confirmed. Yet such was the case. Everybody looked at her feet, and when she stepped through the chanceled door on the church pavement, it seemed to her as if the old figures on the tombs, those portraits of old preachers and preachers' wives with their stiff ruffs and long black dresses, fixed their eyes on her red shoes. And she thought only of them as the clergyman laid his hand upon her head, and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and how she should now be a matured Christian. And the organ peeled so solemnly the sweet children's voices sang, and the old music directors sang, but Karen only thought of her red shoes. In the afternoon, the old lady heard from everyone that the shoes had been red, and she said that it was very wrong of Karen, that it was not at all becoming, and that in the future, Karen should only go in black shoes to church, even when she should be older. The next Sunday, there was a sacrament, and Karen looked at the black shoes, looked at the red ones, looked at them again, and put on the red shoes. The sun shone gloriously, Karen and the old lady walked along the path through the corn, it was rather dusty there. At the church door stood an old soldier with a crutch, and with a wonderfully long beard which was more red than white, and he bowed to the ground and asked the old lady whether he might dust her shoes, and Karen stretched out her little foot. See what beautiful dancing shoes said the soldier. Sit firm when you dance, and he put his hand out towards the souls, and the old lady gave the old soldier alms and went into the church with Karen. And all the people in the church looked at Karen's red shoes, and all the pictures, and as Karen knelt before the altar, and raised the cup to her lips, she only thought of the red shoes, and they seemed to swim in it, and she forgot to sing her psalm, and she forgot to pray, our Father in Heaven. Now all the people went out of the church, and the old lady got into her carriage. Karen raised her foot to get in after her, when the old soldier said, Look what beautiful dancing shoes, and Karen could not help dancing a step or two. And when she began her feet continued to dance. It was just as though the shoes had power over them. She danced around the church corner. She could not leave off. The coachman was obliged to run after her and catch hold of her. And he lifted her in the carriage, but her feet continued to dance so that she trod on the old lady dreadfully. At length she took the shoes off, and then her legs had peace. The shoes were placed in the closet at home, but Karen could not avoid looking at them. Now the old lady was sick, and it was said that she could not recover. She must be nursed and waited upon, and there was no one whose duty it was so much as Karen's. But there was a great ball in the city to which Karen was invited. She looked at the old lady, who could not recover. She looked at the red shoes, and she thought there could be no sin in it. She put on the red shoes. She might do that also, she thought. But then she went to the ball and began to dance. When she wanted to dance to the right, the shoes would dance to the left. And when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced back again down the steps into the street and out of the city gate. She danced and was forced to dance straight out into the gloomy wood. Then it was suddenly light up among the trees, and she fancied it must be the moon. For there was a face, but it was the old soldier with the red beard. He sat there, nodded his head, and said, Look what beautiful dancing shoes. Then she was terrified and wanted to fling off the red shoes, but they clung fast. And she pulled down her stockings, but the shoes seemed to have grown to her feet. And she danced and must dance over the fields and meadows in rain and sunshine by night and day, but at night it was the most fearful. She danced over the churchyard, but the dead did not dance. They had something better to do than dance. She wished to seat herself on a poor man's grave, where the bitter tansy grew. But for her there was neither peace nor rest. And when she danced towards the open church door, she saw an angel standing there. He wore long, white garments. He had wings, which reached from his shoulders to the earth. His countenance was severe and grave. And in his hand he held a sword, broad and glittering. Dance, shalt thou, said he. Dance in thy red shoes till thou art pale and cold, Till thy skin shrivels up, and thou art a skeleton. Dance, shalt thou, from door to door, And where proud vain children dwell, Thou shalt knock, that they may hear thee and tremble. Dance, shalt thou. Mercy cried, Karen, but she did not hear the angel's reply, for the shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, across roads and bridges, and she must keep ever dancing. One morning she danced path a door, which she well knew. Within sounded a psalm. A coffin decked with flowers was borne forth. Then she knew that the old lady was dead, and felt that she was abandoned by all, and condemned by the angel of God. She danced and was forced to dance through the gloomy night. The shoes carried her over stack and stone. She was torn till she bled. She danced over the heath till she came to a little house. Here she knew, dwelt the executioner. And she tapped with her fingers at the window and said, Come out, come out. I cannot come in, for I am forced to dance. And the executioner said, Thou dost not know who I am, I fancy. I strike bad people's heads off, and I hear that my axe rings. Don't strike my head off, said Karen. Then I can't repent of my sins, but strike off my feet in the red shoes. And then she confessed her entire sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes, but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep wood. And he carved out little wooden feet for her and crutches, taught her the psalm criminals always sing, and she kissed the hand which had wielded the axe and went over the heath. Now I have suffered enough for the red shoes, said she. Now I will go into the church that people may see me, and she hastened towards the church door. But when she was near it, the red shoes danced before her, and she was terrified and turned round. The whole week she was unhappy and whipped many bitter tears, but when Sunday returned she said, well, now I have suffered and struggled enough. I really believe I am as good as many a one who sits in the church and holds her head so high. And away she went boldly, but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes dancing before her, and she was frightened and turned back and repented of her sin from her heart. And she went to the parsonage and begged that they would take her into service. She would be very industrious, she said, and would do everything she could. She did not care about the wages. Only she wished to have a home and be with good people. And the clergyman's wife was sorry for her and took her into service. And she was industrious and thoughtful. She sat still and listened when the clergyman read the Bible in the evenings. All the children thought a great deal of her, but when they spoke of dress and grandeur and beauty, she shook her head. The following Sunday when the family was going to church, they asked her whether she would not go with them. But she glanced sorrowfully with tears in her eyes at her crutches. The family went to hear the word of God, but she went alone into her little chamber. There was only room for a bed and chair to stand in it. And here she sat down with her prayer-book. And while she read with a pious mind, the wind bore the strains of the organ towards her. And she raised her tearful countenance and said, Oh God, help me! And the sun shone so clearly, and straight before her stood the angel of God in white garments, the same she had seen the night at church at the door. But he no longer carried the sharp sword, but in its stead of splendid green spray full of roses. And he touched the ceiling with the spray, and the ceiling rose so high, and where he had touched it, there gleamed a golden star. And he touched the walls, and they widened out. And she saw the organ which was playing. She saw the old pictures of their preachers and the preacher's wives. The congregation sat in cushioned seats and sang out of their prayer-books. For the church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or else she had come into the church. She sat in a pew with the clergyman's family, and when they had ended the psalm and looked up they nodded and said, It is right that thou art come. It was through mercy, she said, and the organ peeled, and the children's voices in the choir sounded so sweet and soft, the clear sunshine streamed so warmly through the window in the pew where Karen sat. Her heart was so full of sunshine, peace and joy that it broke. Her soul flew on the sunshine to God, and there no one asked after the red shoes. End of The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Andersen Recording by Alex Eding Two Maidens by Hans Christian Andersen This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Miriam Esther Goldman Two Maidens by Hans Christian Andersen Translated by HP Paul Have you ever seen a maiden? I mean what our pavers call a maiden, a thing with which they ram down the paving stones in the roads. A maiden of this kind is made altogether of wood, broad below, and girt round with iron rings. At the top she is narrow and has a stick passed across through her waist, and this stick forms the arms of the maiden. In the shed stood two maidens of this kind. They had their place among shovels, hand carts, wheel barrows, and measuring tapes, and to all this company the news had come that the maidens were no longer to be called maidens, but hand-rammers. Which word was the newest and the only correct designation among the pavers for the thing we all know from the old times by the name of the maiden? Now there are among us human creatures certain individuals who are known as emancipated women, as for instance, principles of institution, dancers who stand professionally on one leg, milleners and sick nurses, and with this class of emancipated women the two maidens in the shed associated themselves. They were maidens among the paver folk, and determined not to give up this honorable appellation and let themselves be miscalled rammers. Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a thing, and we won't be called beings, that's insulting us. My lover would be ready to give up his engagement, said the youngest, who was betrothed to a paver's hammer, and the hammer is the thing which drives great piles into the earth, like a machine, and therefore does on a large scale what ten maidens affect in a similar way. He wants to marry me as a maiden, but whether he would have me were I a hand-rammer as a question, so I won't have my name changed. And I, said the elder one, would rather have both my arms broken off. But the wheel-barrow was of a different opinion, and the wheel-barrow was looked upon as of some consequence, for he considered himself a quarter of a coach because he went about on one wheel. I must submit to your notice, he said, that the name Maiden is calm and enough, and not nearly so refined as hand-rammer, or stamper, which latter has also been proposed, and through which you would be introduced into the category of seals, and only think of the great stamp of state which impresses the royal seal that gives effect to the laws. No, in your case I would surrender my maiden name. No, certainly not, exclaimed the elder. I am too old for that. I presume you have never heard of what is called European necessity. Observed the honest measuring tape. One must be able to adapt oneself to time and circumstances, and if there is a law that the maiden is to be called hand-rammer, why she must be called hand-rammer, and no pouting will avail for everything has its measure. No, if there must be a change, said the younger, I should prefer to be called missy, for that reminds one a little of maidens. But I would rather be chopped to chips, said the elder. At last they all went to work, the maiden's road, that is, they were put in a wheel barrow, and that was a distinction, but still they were called hand-rammers. May, they said as they were bumped upon the pavement, may! And they were very nearly pronouncing the whole word maiden, but they broke off short and swallowed the last syllable, for after mature deliberation they considered it beneath their dignity to protest. But they always called each other maiden and praised the good old days, in which everything had been called by its right name, and those who were maidens were called maidens. And they remained as they were, for the hammer really broke off his engagement with the younger one, for nothing would suit him, but he must have a maiden for his bride. End of Two Maidens by Hans Christian Andersen Recording by Miriam Esther Goldman Reading by Bologna Times A Leaf from Heaven From Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen High up in the clear, pure air, flew an angel, with a flower plucked from the garden of heaven. As he was kissing the flower, a very little leaf fell from it, and sunk down into the soft earth in the middle of a wood. It immediately took root, sprouted, and sent out shoots among the other plants. What a ridiculous little shoot! said one. No one will recognize it, not even the thistle, nor the stinging nettle. It must be a kind of garden-plant, said another, and so they sneered, and despised the plant as a thing from a garden. Where are you coming? said the tall thistles, whose leaves were all armed with thorns. It is stupid nonsense to allow yourself to shoot out in this way. We are not here to support you. Winter came, and the plant was covered with snow, but the snow glittered over it, as if it had sunshine beneath as well as above. When spring came, the plant appeared in full bloom, a more beautiful object than any other plant in the forest. And now the professor of botany presented himself, one who could explain his knowledge in black and white. He examined and tested the plant, but it did not belong to his system of botany, nor could he possibly find out to what class it did belong. It must be some degenerate species, said he. I do not know it, and it is not mentioned in any system. Not known in any system, repeated the thistles and the nettles. The large trees which grew round it saw the plant and heard the remarks, but they said not a word, either good or bad, which is the wisest plant, for those who are ignorant. There passed through the forest a poor innocent girl. Her heart was pure, and her understanding increased by her faith. Her chief inheritance had been an old Bible, which she read and valued. From its pages she heard the voice of God speaking to her, and telling her to remember what was said of Joseph's brethren when persons wished to enter her. They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it to good. If we suffer wrongfully, if we are misunderstood or despised, we must think of him who was pure and holy, and who prayed for those who nailed him to the cross. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. The girl stood still before the wonderful plant, for the green leaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and the flowers glittered and sparkled, and the sunshine like colored flames and the harmony of sweet sounds lingered round them, as if each concealed within itself a deep font of melody which thousands of years could not exhaust. With pious gratitude the girl looked upon this glorious work of God, and bent down over one of the branches that she might examine the flower and inhale the sweet perfume. Then a light broke in on her mind, and her heart expanded. Gladly would she have plucked a flower, but she could not overcome her reluctance to break one off. She knew it would so soon fade, so she took only a single green leaf, carried it home, and laid it in her Bible, where it remained evergreen, fresh, and unfading. Between the pages of the Bible it still lay when, a few weeks afterwards, that Bible was laid under the young girl's head in her coffin. A holy calm rested on her face, as if the earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she now stood in the presence of God. In the forest the wonderful plant still continued to bloom till it grew and became almost a tree, and all the birds of passage bowed themselves before it. That plant is a foreigner, no doubt, said the thistles and the bird-aucks. We can never conduct ourselves like that in this country. And the black forest snails actually spat at the flower. Then came the swineherd. He was collecting thistles and shrubs to burn them for the ashes. He pulled up the wonderful plant, roots and all, and placed it in his bundle. This will be as useful as any, he said, so the plant was carried away. Not long after the king of the country suffered from the deepest melancholy. He was diligent and industrious, but employment did him no good. They read deep and learned books to him, and then the lightest and most trifling that could be found, but all to no purpose. Then they applied for advice to one of the wise men of the world, and he sent them a message to say that there was one remedy which would relieve and cure him, and that it was a plant of heavenly origin which grew in the forest in the king's own dominions. The messenger described the flower so that its appearance could not be mistaken. Then said the swineherd, I am afraid I carried this plant away from the forest in my bundle, and it has been burnt to ashes long ago, but I did not know any better. You did not know any better ignorance upon ignorance indeed. The poor swineherd took these words to heart, for they were addressed to him. He knew not that there were others who were equally ignorant. Not even a leaf of the plant could be found. There was one, but it lay in the coffin of the dead. No one knew anything about it. Then the king and his melancholy wandered out to the spot in the wood. Here is where the plant stood, he said. It is a sacred place. Then he ordered that the place should be surrounded with a golden railing and a sentry station near it. The botanical professor wrote a long treatise about the heavenly plant, and for this he was loaded with gold which improved the position of himself and his family. And this part is really the most pleasant part of the story, for the plant had disappeared, and the king remained as melancholy and sad as ever, but the sentry said he had always been so. End of Elite from Heaven by Hans Christian Andersen Recording by Miriam Esther Goldman In the uttermost parts of the sea by Hans Christian Andersen, translated by H.P. Paul, some years ago large ships were sent toward the North Pole to explore the distant coasts and to try how far men could penetrate into those unknown regions. For more than a year one of these ships had been pushing its way northward amid snow and ice, and the sailors had endured many hardships till at length winter set in and the sun entirely disappeared. For many weeks there would be constant night. All around as far as the eye could reach nothing could be seen but fields of ice in which the ship remained stuck fast. The snow lay piled up in great heaps, and of these the sailors made huts in the form of beehives, some of them as large and spacious as one of the Hans graves, and others only containing room enough to hold three or four men. It was not quite dark, the northern lights shot forth red and blue flames like continuous fireworks, and the snow glittered and reflected back the light so that the night here was one long twilight. When the moon was brightest the natives came in crowds to see the sailors. They had a very singular appearance in their rough, hairy dresses of fur and riding in sludges over the ice. They brought with them furs and skins in great abundance so that the snow houses were soon provided with warm carpets, and the furs also served for the sailors to wrap themselves in when they slept under the roofs of snow, while outside it was freezing with a cold far more severe than in the winter with us. In our country it was still autumn, though late in the season, and they thought of that in their distant exile, and often pictured to themselves the yellow leaves on the trees at home. Their watches pointed to the hours of evening, and time to go to sleep, although in these regions it was now always night. In one of the huts two of the men laid themselves down to rest. The younger of these men had brought with him from home his best—his dearest treasure, a Bible which his grandmother had given him on his departure. Every night the sacred volume rested under his head, and he had known from his childhood what was written in it. Every day he read in the book, and while stretched on his cold couch the holy words he had learnt would come into his mind. If I take the wings of the morning and fly to the uttermost parts of the sea, even there thou art with me, and thy right hand shall uphold me. And under the influence of that faith which these holy words inspired, sleep came upon him, and dreams which are the manifestation of God to the Spirit. The soul lives and acts while the body is at rest. He felt this life in him, and it was as if he heard the sound of dear well-known melodies as if the breezes of summer floated around him, and over his couch shone a ray of brightness as if it were shining through the covering of his snow-roof. He lifted his head and saw that the bright gleaming was not the reflection of the glittering snow, but the dazzling brightness of the pinions of a mighty angel into whose beaming face he was gazing. As from the cup of a lily the angel rose from amidst the leaves of the Bible, and stretching out his arm the walls of the hut sunk down, as though they had been formed of a light, airy veil of mist, and the green hills and meadows of home with its ruddy woods they spread around him in the quiet sunshine of a lovely autumn day. The nest of the stork was empty, but ripe fruit still hung on the wild apple tree, although the leaves had fallen. The red hips gleamed on the hedges, and the starling, which hung in the green cage outside the window of the peasant's hut which was his home, whistled the tune which he had taught him. His grandmother hung green birds-food around the cage. As he, her grandson, had been accustomed to do, the daughter of the village blacksmith, who was young and fair, stood at the well drawing water. She nodded to the grandmother, and the old woman nodded to her, and pointed to a letter which had come from a long way off. That very morning the letter had arrived from the cold regions of the north, there where the absent one was sweetly sleeping under the protecting hand of God. They laughed and wept over the letter, and he, far away, amid ice and snow, under the shadow of the angel's wings, wept and smiled with them in spirit, for he saw and heard it all in his dream. From the letter they read aloud the words of holy writ, in the uttermost parts of the sea thy right hand shall uphold me, and as the angel spread his wings like a veil over the sleeper, there was the sound of beautiful music and a hymn. Then the vision fled. It was dark again in the snow hut, but the Bible still rested beneath his head, and faith and hope dwelt in his heart. God was with him, and he carried home in his heart, even in the uttermost parts of the sea, and of, in the uttermost parts of the sea, by Hans Christian Andersen. Recording by Miriam Esther Goldman.