Chương Chương 7 · The Best That the Galoshes Gave（2）

The children's parents had large wooden boxes there, in which vegetables

for the kitchen were planted, and little rosetrees besides: there was a

rose in each box, and they grew splendidly. They now thought of placing

the boxes across the gutter, so that they nearly reached from one window

to the other, and looked just like two walls of flowers. The tendrils

of the peas hung down over the boxes; and the rose-trees shot up long

branches, twined round the windows, and then bent towards each other: it

was almost like a triumphant arch of foliage and flowers. The boxes were

very high, and the children knew that they must not creep over them; so

they often obtained permission to get out of the windows to each other,

and to sit on their little stools among the roses, where they could play

delightfully. In winter there was an end of this pleasure. The windows

were often frozen over; but then they heated copper farthings on the

stove, and laid the hot farthing on the windowpane, and then they had a

capital peep-hole, quite nicely rounded; and out of each peeped a gentle

friendly eye--it was the little boy and the little girl who were looking

out. His name was Kay, hers was Gerda. In summer, with one jump, they

could get to each other; but in winter they were obliged first to

go down the long stairs, and then up the long stairs again: and

out-of-doors there was quite a snow-storm.

“It is the white bees that are swarming,” said Kay's old grandmother.

“Do the white bees choose a queen?” asked the little boy; for he knew

that the honey-bees always have one.

“Yes,” said the grandmother, “she flies where the swarm hangs in the

thickest clusters. She is the largest of all; and she can never remain

quietly on the earth, but goes up again into the black clouds. Many a

winter's night she flies through the streets of the town, and peeps in

at the windows; and they then freeze in so wondrous a manner that they

look like flowers.”

“Yes, I have seen it,” said both the children; and so they knew that it

was true.

“Can the Snow Queen come in?” said the little girl.

“Only let her come in!” said the little boy. “Then I'd put her on the

stove, and she'd melt.”

And then his grandmother patted his head and told him other stories.

In the evening, when little Kay was at home, and half undressed, he

climbed up on the chair by the window, and peeped out of the little

hole. A few snow-flakes were falling, and one, the largest of all,

remained lying on the edge of a flower-pot.

The flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at last it was like a

young lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million little

flakes like stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she was of

ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly,

like two stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them. She

nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy

was frightened, and jumped down from the chair; it seemed to him as if,

at the same moment, a large bird flew past the window.

The next day it was a sharp frost--and then the spring came; the sun

shone, the green leaves appeared, the swallows built their nests, the

windows were opened, and the little children again sat in their pretty

garden, high up on the leads at the top of the house.

That summer the roses flowered in unwonted beauty. The little girl had

learned a hymn, in which there was something about roses; and then she

thought of her own flowers; and she sang the verse to the little boy,

who then sang it with her:

“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,

And angels descend there the children to greet.”

And the children held each other by the hand, kissed the roses, looked

up at the clear sunshine, and spoke as though they really saw angels

there. What lovely summer-days those were! How delightful to be out in

the air, near the fresh rose-bushes, that seem as if they would never

finish blossoming!

Kay and Gerda looked at the picture-book full of beasts and of birds;

and it was then--the clock in the church-tower was just striking

five--that Kay said, “Oh! I feel such a sharp pain in my heart; and now

something has got into my eye!”

The little girl put her arms around his neck. He winked his eyes; now

there was nothing to be seen.

“I think it is out now,” said he; but it was not. It was just one of

those pieces of glass from the magic mirror that had got into his eye;

and poor Kay had got another piece right in his heart. It will soon

become like ice. It did not hurt any longer, but there it was.

“What are you crying for?” asked he. “You look so ugly! There's nothing

the matter with me. Ah,” said he at once, “that rose is cankered! And

look, this one is quite crooked! After all, these roses are very ugly!

They are just like the box they are planted in!” And then he gave the

box a good kick with his foot, and pulled both the roses up.

“What are you doing?” cried the little girl; and as he perceived her

fright, he pulled up another rose, got in at the window, and hastened

off from dear little Gerda.

Afterwards, when she brought her picture-book, he asked, “What horrid

beasts have you there?” And if his grandmother told them stories, he

always interrupted her; besides, if he could manage it, he would get

behind her, put on her spectacles, and imitate her way of speaking; he

copied all her ways, and then everybody laughed at him. He was soon able

to imitate the gait and manner of everyone in the street. Everything

that was peculiar and displeasing in them--that Kay knew how to imitate:

and at such times all the people said, “The boy is certainly very

clever!” But it was the glass he had got in his eye; the glass that was

sticking in his heart, which made him tease even little Gerda, whose

whole soul was devoted to him.

His games now were quite different to what they had formerly been, they

were so very knowing. One winter's day, when the flakes of snow were

flying about, he spread the skirts of his blue coat, and caught the snow

as it fell.

“Look through this glass, Gerda,” said he. And every flake seemed

larger, and appeared like a magnificent flower, or beautiful star; it

was splendid to look at!

“Look, how clever!” said Kay. “That's much more interesting than real

flowers! They are as exact as possible; there is not a fault in them, if

they did not melt!”

It was not long after this, that Kay came one day with large gloves on,

and his little sledge at his back, and bawled right into Gerda's ears,

“I have permission to go out into the square where the others are

playing”; and off he was in a moment.

There, in the market-place, some of the boldest of the boys used to tie

their sledges to the carts as they passed by, and so they were pulled

along, and got a good ride. It was so capital! Just as they were in the

very height of their amusement, a large sledge passed by: it was painted

quite white, and there was someone in it wrapped up in a rough white

mantle of fur, with a rough white fur cap on his head. The sledge drove

round the square twice, and Kay tied on his sledge as quickly as he

could, and off he drove with it. On they went quicker and quicker into

the next street; and the person who drove turned round to Kay, and

nodded to him in a friendly manner, just as if they knew each other.

Every time he was going to untie his sledge, the person nodded to him,

and then Kay sat quiet; and so on they went till they came outside

the gates of the town. Then the snow began to fall so thickly that the

little boy could not see an arm's length before him, but still on he

went: when suddenly he let go the string he held in his hand in order

to get loose from the sledge, but it was of no use; still the little

vehicle rushed on with the quickness of the wind. He then cried as loud

as he could, but no one heard him; the snow drifted and the sledge flew

on, and sometimes it gave a jerk as though they were driving over hedges

and ditches. He was quite frightened, and he tried to repeat the

Lord's Prayer; but all he could do, he was only able to remember the

multiplication table.

The snow-flakes grew larger and larger, till at last they looked just

like great white fowls. Suddenly they flew on one side; the large sledge

stopped, and the person who drove rose up. It was a lady; her cloak and

cap were of snow. She was tall and of slender figure, and of a dazzling

whiteness. It was the Snow Queen.

“We have travelled fast,” said she; “but it is freezingly cold. Come

under my bearskin.” And she put him in the sledge beside her,

wrapped the fur round him, and he felt as though he were sinking in a

snow-wreath.

“Are you still cold?” asked she; and then she kissed his forehead.

Ah! it was colder than ice; it penetrated to his very heart, which was

already almost a frozen lump; it seemed to him as if he were about to

die--but a moment more and it was quite congenial to him, and he did not

remark the cold that was around him.

“My sledge! Do not forget my sledge!” It was the first thing he thought

of. It was there tied to one of the white chickens, who flew along with

it on his back behind the large sledge. The Snow Queen kissed Kay once

more, and then he forgot little Gerda, grandmother, and all whom he had

left at his home.

“Now you will have no more kisses,” said she, “or else I should kiss you

to death!”

Kay looked at her. She was very beautiful; a more clever, or a more

lovely countenance he could not fancy to himself; and she no longer

appeared of ice as before, when she sat outside the window, and beckoned

to him; in his eyes she was perfect, he did not fear her at all, and

told her that he could calculate in his head and with fractions, even;

that he knew the number of square miles there were in the different

countries, and how many inhabitants they contained; and she smiled while

he spoke. It then seemed to him as if what he knew was not enough, and

he looked upwards in the large huge empty space above him, and on she

flew with him; flew high over the black clouds, while the storm moaned

and whistled as though it were singing some old tune. On they flew

over woods and lakes, over seas, and many lands; and beneath them the

chilling storm rushed fast, the wolves howled, the snow crackled; above

them flew large screaming crows, but higher up appeared the moon, quite

large and bright; and it was on it that Kay gazed during the long long

winter's night; while by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.

THIRD STORY. Of the Flower-Garden At the Old Woman's Who Understood

Witchcraft

But what became of little Gerda when Kay did not return? Where could he

be? Nobody knew; nobody could give any intelligence. All the boys knew

was, that they had seen him tie his sledge to another large and splendid

one, which drove down the street and out of the town. Nobody knew

where he was; many sad tears were shed, and little Gerda wept long and

bitterly; at last she said he must be dead; that he had been drowned in

the river which flowed close to the town. Oh! those were very long and

dismal winter evenings!

At last spring came, with its warm sunshine.

“Kay is dead and gone!” said little Gerda.

“That I don't believe,” said the Sunshine.

“Kay is dead and gone!” said she to the Swallows.

“That I don't believe,” said they: and at last little Gerda did not

think so any longer either.

“I'll put on my red shoes,” said she, one morning; “Kay has never seen

them, and then I'll go down to the river and ask there.”

It was quite early; she kissed her old grandmother, who was still

asleep, put on her red shoes, and went alone to the river.

“Is it true that you have taken my little playfellow? I will make you a

present of my red shoes, if you will give him back to me.”

And, as it seemed to her, the blue waves nodded in a strange manner;

then she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she possessed,

and threw them both into the river. But they fell close to the bank, and

the little waves bore them immediately to land; it was as if the stream

would not take what was dearest to her; for in reality it had not got

little Kay; but Gerda thought that she had not thrown the shoes out far

enough, so she clambered into a boat which lay among the rushes, went

to the farthest end, and threw out the shoes. But the boat was not

fastened, and the motion which she occasioned, made it drift from the

shore. She observed this, and hastened to get back; but before she could

do so, the boat was more than a yard from the land, and was gliding

quickly onward.

Little Gerda was very frightened, and began to cry; but no one heard her

except the sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but they flew

along the bank, and sang as if to comfort her, “Here we are! Here we

are!” The boat drifted with the stream, little Gerda sat quite still

without shoes, for they were swimming behind the boat, but she could not

reach them, because the boat went much faster than they did.

The banks on both sides were beautiful; lovely flowers, venerable trees,

and slopes with sheep and cows, but not a human being was to be seen.

“Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay,” said she; and then

she grew less sad. She rose, and looked for many hours at the beautiful

green banks. Presently she sailed by a large cherry-orchard, where was

a little cottage with curious red and blue windows; it was thatched,

and before it two wooden soldiers stood sentry, and presented arms when

anyone went past.

Gerda called to them, for she thought they were alive; but they, of

course, did not answer. She came close to them, for the stream drifted

the boat quite near the land.

Gerda called still louder, and an old woman then came out of the

cottage, leaning upon a crooked stick. She had a large broad-brimmed hat

on, painted with the most splendid flowers.

“Poor little child!” said the old woman. “How did you get upon the large

rapid river, to be driven about so in the wide world!” And then the

old woman went into the water, caught hold of the boat with her crooked

stick, drew it to the bank, and lifted little Gerda out.

And Gerda was so glad to be on dry land again; but she was rather afraid

of the strange old woman.

“But come and tell me who you are, and how you came here,” said she.

And Gerda told her all; and the old woman shook her head and said,

“A-hem! a-hem!” and when Gerda had told her everything, and asked her if

she had not seen little Kay, the woman answered that he had not passed

there, but he no doubt would come; and she told her not to be cast down,

but taste her cherries, and look at her flowers, which were finer than

any in a picture-book, each of which could tell a whole story. She then

took Gerda by the hand, led her into the little cottage, and locked the

door.

The windows were very high up; the glass was red, blue, and green, and

the sunlight shone through quite wondrously in all sorts of colors. On

the table stood the most exquisite cherries, and Gerda ate as many as

she chose, for she had permission to do so. While she was eating, the

old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled and

shone with a lovely golden color around that sweet little face, which

was so round and so like a rose.

“I have often longed for such a dear little girl,” said the old woman.

“Now you shall see how well we agree together”; and while she combed

little Gerda's hair, the child forgot her foster-brother Kay more and

more, for the old woman understood magic; but she was no evil being, she

only practised witchcraft a little for her own private amusement, and

now she wanted very much to keep little Gerda. She therefore went out

in the garden, stretched out her crooked stick towards the rose-bushes,

which, beautifully as they were blowing, all sank into the earth and no

one could tell where they had stood. The old woman feared that if Gerda

should see the roses, she would then think of her own, would remember

little Kay, and run away from her.

She now led Gerda into the flower-garden. Oh, what odour and what

loveliness was there! Every flower that one could think of, and of every

season, stood there in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be gayer or

more beautiful. Gerda jumped for joy, and played till the sun set behind

the tall cherry-tree; she then had a pretty bed, with a red silken

coverlet filled with blue violets. She fell asleep, and had as pleasant

dreams as ever a queen on her wedding-day.

The next morning she went to play with the flowers in the warm sunshine,

and thus passed away a day. Gerda knew every flower; and, numerous as

they were, it still seemed to Gerda that one was wanting, though she

did not know which. One day while she was looking at the hat of the old

woman painted with flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to her

to be a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat

when she made the others vanish in the earth. But so it is when one's

thoughts are not collected. “What!” said Gerda. “Are there no roses

here?” and she ran about amongst the flowerbeds, and looked, and looked,

but there was not one to be found. She then sat down and wept; but her

hot tears fell just where a rose-bush had sunk; and when her warm tears

watered the ground, the tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as

when it had been swallowed up. Gerda kissed the roses, thought of her

own dear roses at home, and with them of little Kay.

“Oh, how long I have stayed!” said the little girl. “I intended to look

for Kay! Don't you know where he is?” she asked of the roses. “Do you

think he is dead and gone?”

“Dead he certainly is not,” said the Roses. “We have been in the earth

where all the dead are, but Kay was not there.”

“Many thanks!” said little Gerda; and she went to the other flowers,

looked into their cups, and asked, “Don't you know where little Kay is?”

But every flower stood in the sunshine, and dreamed its own fairy tale

or its own story: and they all told her very many things, but not one

knew anything of Kay.

Well, what did the Tiger-Lily say?

“Hearest thou not the drum? Bum! Bum! Those are the only two tones.

Always bum! Bum! Hark to the plaintive song of the old woman, to the

call of the priests! The Hindoo woman in her long robe stands upon the

funeral pile; the flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the

Hindoo woman thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle; on him

whose eyes burn hotter than the flames--on him, the fire of whose eyes

pierces her heart more than the flames which soon will burn her body to

ashes. Can the heart's flame die in the flame of the funeral pile?”

“I don't understand that at all,” said little Gerda.

“That is my story,” said the Lily.

What did the Convolvulus say?

“Projecting over a narrow mountain-path there hangs an old feudal

castle. Thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls, and around the

altar, where a lovely maiden is standing: she bends over the railing and

looks out upon the rose. No fresher rose hangs on the branches than she;

no appleblossom carried away by the wind is more buoyant! How her silken

robe is rustling!

“'Is he not yet come?'”

“Is it Kay that you mean?” asked little Gerda.

“I am speaking about my story--about my dream,” answered the

Convolvulus.

What did the Snowdrops say?

“Between the trees a long board is hanging--it is a swing. Two little

girls are sitting in it, and swing themselves backwards and forwards;

their frocks are as white as snow, and long green silk ribands flutter

from their bonnets. Their brother, who is older than they are, stands up

in the swing; he twines his arms round the cords to hold himself fast,

for in one hand he has a little cup, and in the other a clay-pipe. He is

blowing soap-bubbles. The swing moves, and the bubbles float in charming

changing colors: the last is still hanging to the end of the pipe, and

rocks in the breeze. The swing moves. The little black dog, as light as

a soap-bubble, jumps up on his hind legs to try to get into the swing.

It moves, the dog falls down, barks, and is angry. They tease him; the

bubble bursts! A swing, a bursting bubble--such is my song!”

“What you relate may be very pretty, but you tell it in so melancholy a

manner, and do not mention Kay.”

What do the Hyacinths say?

“There were once upon a time three sisters, quite transparent, and very

beautiful. The robe of the one was red, that of the second blue, and

that of the third white. They danced hand in hand beside the calm

lake in the clear moonshine. They were not elfin maidens, but mortal

children. A sweet fragrance was smelt, and the maidens vanished in the

wood; the fragrance grew stronger--three coffins, and in them three

lovely maidens, glided out of the forest and across the lake: the

shining glow-worms flew around like little floating lights. Do the

dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The odour of the flowers says

they are corpses; the evening bell tolls for the dead!”

“You make me quite sad,” said little Gerda. “I cannot help thinking of

the dead maidens. Oh! is little Kay really dead? The Roses have been in

the earth, and they say no.”

“Ding, dong!” sounded the Hyacinth bells. “We do not toll for little

Kay; we do not know him. That is our way of singing, the only one we

have.”

And Gerda went to the Ranunculuses, that looked forth from among the

shining green leaves.

“You are a little bright sun!” said Gerda. “Tell me if you know where I

can find my playfellow.”

And the Ranunculus shone brightly, and looked again at Gerda. What

song could the Ranunculus sing? It was one that said nothing about Kay

either.

“In a small court the bright sun was shining in the first days of

spring. The beams glided down the white walls of a neighbor's house, and

close by the fresh yellow flowers were growing, shining like gold in

the warm sun-rays. An old grandmother was sitting in the air; her

grand-daughter, the poor and lovely servant just come for a short visit.

She knows her grandmother. There was gold, pure virgin gold in that

blessed kiss. There, that is my little story,” said the Ranunculus.

“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda. “Yes, she is longing for me,

no doubt: she is sorrowing for me, as she did for little Kay. But I

will soon come home, and then I will bring Kay with me. It is of no use

asking the flowers; they only know their own old rhymes, and can tell me

nothing.” And she tucked up her frock, to enable her to run quicker; but

the Narcissus gave her a knock on the leg, just as she was going to

jump over it. So she stood still, looked at the long yellow flower, and

asked, “You perhaps know something?” and she bent down to the Narcissus.

And what did it say?

“I can see myself--I can see myself! Oh, how odorous I am! Up in the

little garret there stands, half-dressed, a little Dancer. She stands

now on one leg, now on both; she despises the whole world; yet she lives

only in imagination. She pours water out of the teapot over a piece of

stuff which she holds in her hand; it is the bodice; cleanliness is a

fine thing. The white dress is hanging on the hook; it was washed in the

teapot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, ties a saffron-colored

kerchief round her neck, and then the gown looks whiter. I can see

myself--I can see myself!”

“That's nothing to me,” said little Gerda. “That does not concern me.”

And then off she ran to the further end of the garden.

The gate was locked, but she shook the rusted bolt till it was loosened,

and the gate opened; and little Gerda ran off barefooted into the wide

world. She looked round her thrice, but no one followed her. At last she

could run no longer; she sat down on a large stone, and when she looked

about her, she saw that the summer had passed; it was late in the

autumn, but that one could not remark in the beautiful garden, where

there was always sunshine, and where there were flowers the whole year

round.

“Dear me, how long I have staid!” said Gerda. “Autumn is come. I must

not rest any longer.” And she got up to go further.

Oh, how tender and wearied her little feet were! All around it looked

so cold and raw: the long willow-leaves were quite yellow, and the fog

dripped from them like water; one leaf fell after the other: the sloes

only stood full of fruit, which set one's teeth on edge. Oh, how dark

and comfortless it was in the dreary world!

FOURTH STORY. The Prince and Princess

Gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when, exactly opposite to her,

a large Raven came hopping over the white snow. He had long been looking

at Gerda and shaking his head; and now he said, “Caw! Caw!” Good day!

Good day! He could not say it better; but he felt a sympathy for the

little girl, and asked her where she was going all alone. The word

“alone” Gerda understood quite well, and felt how much was expressed

by it; so she told the Raven her whole history, and asked if he had not

seen Kay.

The Raven nodded very gravely, and said, “It may be--it may be!”

“What, do you really think so?” cried the little girl; and she nearly

squeezed the Raven to death, so much did she kiss him.

“Gently, gently,” said the Raven. “I think I know; I think that it may

be little Kay. But now he has forgotten you for the Princess.”

“Does he live with a Princess?” asked Gerda.

“Yes--listen,” said the Raven; “but it will be difficult for me to

speak your language. If you understand the Raven language I can tell you

better.”

“No, I have not learnt it,” said Gerda; “but my grandmother understands

it, and she can speak gibberish too. I wish I had learnt it.”

“No matter,” said the Raven; “I will tell you as well as I can; however,

it will be bad enough.” And then he told all he knew.

“In the kingdom where we now are there lives a Princess, who is

extraordinarily clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the whole

world, and has forgotten them again--so clever is she. She was lately,

it is said, sitting on her throne--which is not very amusing after

all--when she began humming an old tune, and it was just, 'Oh, why

should I not be married?' 'That song is not without its meaning,' said

she, and so then she was determined to marry; but she would have a

husband who knew how to give an answer when he was spoken to--not

one who looked only as if he were a great personage, for that is so

tiresome. She then had all the ladies of the court drummed together; and

when they heard her intention, all were very pleased, and said, 'We are

very glad to hear it; it is the very thing we were thinking of.' You may

believe every word I say,” said the Raven; “for I have a tame sweetheart

that hops about in the palace quite free, and it was she who told me all

this.

“The newspapers appeared forthwith with a border of hearts and the

initials of the Princess; and therein you might read that every

good-looking young man was at liberty to come to the palace and speak to

the Princess; and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at

home there, that one the Princess would choose for her husband.

“Yes, Yes,” said the Raven, “you may believe it; it is as true as I am

sitting here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and a hurry, but

no one was successful either on the first or second day. They could all

talk well enough when they were out in the street; but as soon as

they came inside the palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed

in silver, and the lackeys in gold on the staircase, and the large

illuminated saloons, then they were abashed; and when they stood before

the throne on which the Princess was sitting, all they could do was

to repeat the last word they had uttered, and to hear it again did not

interest her very much. It was just as if the people within were under

a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the

street; for then--oh, then--they could chatter enough. There was a whole

row of them standing from the town-gates to the palace. I was there

myself to look,” said the Raven. “They grew hungry and thirsty; but from

the palace they got nothing whatever, not even a glass of water. Some

of the cleverest, it is true, had taken bread and butter with them:

but none shared it with his neighbor, for each thought, 'Let him look

hungry, and then the Princess won't have him.'”

“But Kay--little Kay,” said Gerda, “when did he come? Was he among the

number?”

“Patience, patience; we are just come to him. It was on the third day

when a little personage without horse or equipage, came marching right

boldly up to the palace; his eyes shone like yours, he had beautiful

long hair, but his clothes were very shabby.”

“That was Kay,” cried Gerda, with a voice of delight. “Oh, now I've

found him!” and she clapped her hands for joy.

“He had a little knapsack at his back,” said the Raven.

“No, that was certainly his sledge,” said Gerda; “for when he went away

he took his sledge with him.”

“That may be,” said the Raven; “I did not examine him so minutely; but

I know from my tame sweetheart, that when he came into the court-yard

of the palace, and saw the body-guard in silver, the lackeys on the

staircase, he was not the least abashed; he nodded, and said to them,

'It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs; for my part, I shall

go in.' The saloons were gleaming with lustres--privy councillors and

excellencies were walking about barefooted, and wore gold keys; it was

enough to make any one feel uncomfortable. His boots creaked, too, so

loudly, but still he was not at all afraid.”

“That's Kay for certain,” said Gerda. “I know he had on new boots; I

have heard them creaking in grandmama's room.”

“Yes, they creaked,” said the Raven. “And on he went boldly up to the

Princess, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a spinning-wheel.

All the ladies of the court, with their attendants and attendants'

attendants, and all the cavaliers, with their gentlemen and gentlemen's

gentlemen, stood round; and the nearer they stood to the door, the

prouder they looked. It was hardly possible to look at the gentleman's

gentleman, so very haughtily did he stand in the doorway.”

“It must have been terrible,” said little Gerda. “And did Kay get the

Princess?”

“Were I not a Raven, I should have taken the Princess myself, although

I am promised. It is said he spoke as well as I speak when I talk Raven

language; this I learned from my tame sweetheart. He was bold and nicely

behaved; he had not come to woo the Princess, but only to hear her

wisdom. She pleased him, and he pleased her.”