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Hjalmar had one piece, and the princess the other, but
Hjalmar's was the largest. At each castle stood little princes
acting as sentinels. They presented arms, and had golden swords, and
made it rain plums and tin soldiers, so that they must have been
real princes.
Hjalmar continued to sail, sometimes through woods, sometimes as
it were through large halls, and then by large cities. At last he came
to the town where his nurse lived, who had carried him in her arms
when he was a very little boy, and had always been kind to him.
She
nodded and beckoned to him, and then sang the little verses she had
herself composed and set to him,-
"How oft my memory turns to thee,
My own Hjalmar, ever dear!
When I could watch thy infant glee,
Or kiss away a pearly tear.
'Twas in my arms thy lisping tongue
First spoke the half-remembered word,
While o'er thy tottering steps I hung,
My fond protection to afford.
Farewell! I pray the Heavenly Power
To keep thee till thy dying hour."
And all the birds sang the same tune, the flowers danced on their
stems, and the old trees nodded as if Ole-Luk-Oie had been telling
them stories as well.
WEDNESDAY
WEDNESDAY
How the rain did pour down! Hjalmar could hear it in his sleep;.
and when Ole-Luk-Oie opened the window, the water flowed quite up to
the window-sill. It had the appearance of a large lake outside, and
a beautiful ship lay close to the house.
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My
father has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will
free you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!"
Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain
and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.
"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly
rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.
"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.
The robbers were hanged.
There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.
"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.
The robbers were hanged.
There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.
We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt
knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the
water, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow
roses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she
beams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide
world, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.
Delaying is not forgetting!
Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the
field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little
room looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only
see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But
to-day the sun shines here- the warm, beautiful sun of God is within
the little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where
formerly the wall was.
The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the
wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and
only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.
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"My sweet child, my golden treasure!" cried the mother, and she
wept; but the Fire-drum sang, not out loud, but inwardly.
"Charlotte's gone! Charlotte's gone! and now the song is done."
But the song was not done; there were many more verses in it, long
verses, the most beautiful verses, the golden treasures of a life.
"She behaves like a mad woman," said the neighbor's wife. "All the
world is to see the letters she gets from her golden treasure, and
to read the words that are written in the papers about his violin
playing.
And he sends her money too, and that's very useful to her
since she has been a widow."
"He plays before emperors and kings," said the town musician. "I
never had that fortune, but he's my pupil, and he does not forget
his old master."
And his mother said,
"His father dreamt that Peter came home from the war with a silver
cross. He did not gain one in the war, but it is still more
difficult to gain one in this way. Now he has the cross of honor. If
his father had only lived to see it!"
"He's grown famous!" said the Fire-drum, and all his native town
said the same thing, for the drummer's son, Peter with the red hair-
Peter whom they had known as a little boy, running about in wooden
shoes, and then as a drummer, playing for the dancers- was become
famous!
"He played at our house before he played in the presence of
kings," said the burgomaster's wife.
Now he has the cross of honor. If
his father had only lived to see it!"
"He's grown famous!" said the Fire-drum, and all his native town
said the same thing, for the drummer's son, Peter with the red hair-
Peter whom they had known as a little boy, running about in wooden
shoes, and then as a drummer, playing for the dancers- was become
famous!
"He played at our house before he played in the presence of
kings," said the burgomaster's wife. "At that time he was quite
smitten with Charlotte.
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